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#ts writing
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“Virgil loses his memories of joining the core sides” fic EXCEPT that after he loses his memories, Virgil doesn’t say anything or let on that he lost them because from his perspective he woke up and the Core sides were just being nice to him for once, and Hell if he isn’t taking full advantage of it. He doesn’t say anything lest bringing it up will make the kindness and gentleness and understanding end, so it takes a while for the rest of them to realize somethings off
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brunettemermaid · 2 years
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Taylor Swift explaining the quill writing, which is the one that is inspired by Charlotte Bronté, Emily Dickenson, and in period films she watches and gives IVY as an example brings me so much joy!!!! I already knew but I wanted her to actually said it. Does this means willow is about Anna Karenina? Yes it does.
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natashaaromanova · 1 month
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all's fair in l o v e and p o e t r y.
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callileonn · 7 months
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reunion post-tragedy
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highttowers · 9 months
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Hello i am requesting for Carmen from the Bear!! Something sweet and heart warming about Carmen being worried about the reader and just the whole kitchen seeing how in love he is ❤️ thank you
yes to heaven.
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pairing(s); carmen “carmy” berzatto x gn!reader
fandom; the bear (fx on hulu)
w/c; 758 words
trigger/content warnings; brief sexual implications, brief mention of past injuries, language, richie (he’s a warning all by himself), tina n richie being mean to carmy lol, tina and reader chisme together, is this another fic with an ldr song title????, brief touches on carmy’s trauma (not in-depth cuz this is a fluff fic), not-proof read, lmk if i missed anything.
stella speaks! i need him biblically. at first, i was like “mmm, jeremy allen white” as a joke. but bro. i don’t think it’s a joke anymore…
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Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto who’s always watching you. Who has his eye on you, if you will ;)
Carmy, whose eyes are trailing your figure when you first meet. Not in a sexual way, just taking in every detail. The way you stand, the way you move your hands when you talk. Any time you wear a shirt more than once, the nervous tics you have while he tries your food, if you have any visible tattoos, freckles, or birthmark. His eyes snag on every little thing you do for a split second.
Carmy, whose gaze is locked in your hands while you demonstrate your abilities. He’s taking in every scar, every cut, every tear, every burn that was once fresh in the skin of your hands and committing it to memory. He doesn’t know why, he just is.
Carmy, whose eyes will flicker to your face every so often as you cook, lingering in the scrunch of your brow, the purse of your lip, the muttering under you breath, every curve and divet on your cheeks.
Carmy, whose brain short-circuits the first time he sees you in anything other than your lose white tee, black pants and blue apron. Logically, he knows your body has always been shaped that way, so why is heat crawling up his neck in the biting Chicago air?
Carmy, whose new favorite thing is watching you cook. Especially the recipes you know by heart, when every lovely movement your body makes is muscle memory. Seamless and smooth.
Carmy who appreciates the habit you have of cleaning your station as you cook. Those pale blue eyes locked in you as he exits his office, watching you dumping veggies in a crock pot before scooping up the cutting board, knife, and any food waste and making short work of it.
Carmy who is personally offended by Richie watching you cook. Richie and his Richie-esque comments making him roll his eyes, or warning a scoff. “Makes you wanna know what other moves they can do, eh?” “Shut the fuck up, cousin.”
Carmy, whose habit of paying microscopically close attention to you has whispers from Marcus to Tina to Sydney to you. He appreciates the way you wave them off, using the new kid excuse.
Carmy, who’s been reduced to a stuttering mess when you confront him privately about it. He’s spilling out excuses, until you quietly ask him if he wants to grab coffee with you sometime.
Carmy who, the more and more he arrives to work either with you or with a dumb smile on his face, is getting endless teasing from Richie and Tina. Sydney quietly smiles at him, but mainly sticks to talking about the nature of y’all’s relationship with you.
Carmy, who admittedly fears anytime you let sitting with Tina, exchanging words that have her yelling curses or exclamations in Spanish.
Carmy, who has a retort ready for Richie when he asks you if that means he has a chance now, only to clamp his mouth shut when you wordlessly flip Richie off, bringing another soft look into Carmy’s eyes and a dumb grin on his lips.
Carmy who has to kiss every scar, every mark, every little thing in your body when given the chance. It’s a love language, remembering and worshipping every little thing about you.
Carmy who has his eyes on you so much, regulars at The Beef are silently questioning if there’s anything going on. (there is, but Carmy would sooner be Richie’s personal chef than admit it to customers.)
Carmy whose new greates comfort is you. Any fleeting fragment of you. Maybe you washed his clothes once and now they smell like you. Maybe you hugged him so much your scent lingers in his nose. Maybe he’s got a small piece of jewelry from you or reminiscent of you. Anything that has to do with you can bring him out of the deepest panic.
Carmy who swears up and down and to the ends of the Earth that he’s never gonna lose you. It’s not even an option anymore. He would actually just fall to pieces on the floor.
Carmy who shows the uglier parts of him slowly. You actually have to peel back the first layer and stare it directly in the face without fear before he shows you more. He’s just so scared.
Carmy who’s so so grateful you don’t try to fix him. You just leave him as he is, just giving extra love to those broken bits.
Carmy who used to hate love songs before you arrived.
Carmy who was losing faith in the very idea of love until you arrived.
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wri0thesley · 5 months
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legally binding - neuvillette x reader (8.4k)
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monsieur neuvillette will ensure that he finds your brother not guilty at trial. for a price.
cw: not sfw, minors dni. DARK CONTENT. extremely dubious consent/non-consent. clothed neuvillette, naked reader. cunnilingus, threats of caning, blackmail, fingering, piv sex, coming inside. neuvillette refers to reader as "little one". reader is afab and is described using language such as 'breasts' and 'cunt'.
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“If the terms of our arrangement are not agreeable to you,” the honorary Iudex says to you, his gloved hands steepled before him as he sits calmly behind his desk, “you do, of course, have the right to say ‘no’ at any time. I shan’t hold it against you. It merely means that the particulars of our little entente need not be fulfilled on my end, either.” 
You press your lips together as frustration and anger war within you. You would like to explode at him; you would like to pull the books lining his office walls down and use them as projectiles to hit him straight in his infuriatingly calm and peaceful face. 
That he has the nerve to keep talking to you like this - his voice perfectly even, almost calm, his tone soothing and bordering on paternal (like you’re a little child who he’s telling the ways of the world to), when his proffered ‘agreement’ is so heinous . . .
“You’re utterly abhorrent,” you seethe to him, but the Iudex does not react to being called such a thing - merely tilts his head to one side.
“So you’ve said,” he agrees mildly. “But it does not change your position, does it?”
He is right in that. You stand there awkwardly for one moment more, debating if this is really the hill you are willing to die on; if you are indeed ready to trade away your dignity for the price of your brother’s freedom.
He seems to take pity on your floundering. 
“You agreed to this,” he reminds you, his tone unerringly gentle and patient. “But it does not mean you have to go through with it. I will keep the terms of our pact, my dear, as long as you uphold your own - but I will not hold it against you if you decide you are not . . . brave enough to follow through.”
You wince despite yourself at the deliberate emphasis of the word. You know that this is not bravery; you know, too, that what Monsieur Neuvillette is asking you to do is nothing short of corruption of the highest order. 
And too you know that the only person ranked higher than him you could conceivably go to is Lady Furina herself. 
“I’m sure that a guilty verdict for your brother would not be so bad,” Monsieur Neuvillette continues, and despite the mild tone he uses he must know that he is hitting you exactly where it hurts. “Incarceration is not the be-all and end-all, nowadays - why, many enjoy the Fortress so much they choose not to leave even once their sentence has been finished--”
“Don’t,” you squeak out, and Neuvillette stops speaking. You take a slow breath to steady yourself, and when your voice comes out this time it sounds far more certain than before. You’re proud of yourself, even, for the way that it quavers for only an instant at the end of your next sentence. “I’ll follow through on our agreement.”
“Lovely,” Neuvillette lowers his chin so that it rests atop of the steeple of his gloved fingertips. “I’m glad that you understand the position we’re both in. Well, then, shall we begin?”
You give him a jerky little nod, and he smiles at you like an Archon receiving a prayer of benediction. You stand there awkwardly for a moment more, before Neuvillette lets out a soft chuckle.
“Oh, you poor thing,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “You really haven’t done any of this before, have you? Let me make it easier for you. Why don’t you disrobe and show me what you have on under your clothing, hmm?” 
You take a slow, calming breath. This is not so bad; you had known you would have to take off your clothes for this bargain. You suppose, if you had been a different kind of person, you might even have felt a thrill at the thought that it would be Monsieur Neuvillette who would be the first man to see you bared - but instead, there is just a cold thumping terror as you work at the buttons and catches of your outfit. 
You are dressed smartly but not prettily. You have never had much time for the fripperies that many Fontaine citizens prefer to indulge in - and especially for your meetings as a desperate petitioner with the Iudex, you had thought sombre was the way to go. This has carried through even to your undergarments - the chemise you wear is plain, without even a trimming of lace. Your brassiere is equally simple, as are the plain cotton bloomers that hide your most intimate place from his inquisitive eyes. 
You swallow as your thumb and forefingers fasten about the hem of your chemise - and then, thinking it better to rip off the bandage from the wound rather than pussyfoot about it, you pull it off and drop it in an unruly pile with the rest of your outer clothes by the Iudex’s desk. 
He sits there in silence for a moment that seems to stretch out for an hour.
“Not much for decoration, hmm?” He asks, after what seems like forever. You shift there awkwardly from foot to foot. You have never been looked at before like this by a man - and though you do not want him to find you attractive, the idea that he’s disappointed in what’s before him is equally horrible. He chuckles softly beneath your breath at the expression that must flit across your face. “Ah, please don’t mistake me as unappreciative. There is very little as lovely as simplicity, I find.” Your cheeks heat. “On that note - I think we ought to lose this layer too. Let me see you as nature intended, my dear.” 
You had thought that once the first layer of your clothing had been stripped, it would get easier, but you find now that it is much the opposite. Your hands tremble as you reach behind you for the clasp of your brassiere. It is cool in his office, but a bead of sweat rolls down the nape of your neck and sets your palm sticky and wet, and it takes you three attempts to unclip. 
You have never been shy before - you had certainly not been shy when you had barrelled up to the Iudex in public and demanded an audience with him, much to the distaste of all around him - but this is enough to make you feel awkward. 
The fabric falls away from the swell of your chest, and Monsieur Neuvillette makes a pleased little noise almost like a purr in the back of his throat.
“Ah,” he says. “Very nice. The underwear too, if you please.” 
Your nipples stiffen in the cool air of his office, the buds puckering and hardening under the twin problems of the temperature and Neuvillette’s stare. It is even harder to convince yourself to hook your thumbs into your underwear, but eventually your body agrees to your demands and you find yourself rolling the plain cotton down past your thighs and your knees and down to your ankles--
You fuss for a moment, putting them with the rest of your clothes, if only to delay the inevitable for a moment longer - that time when you will have to stand and display yourself in your full nakedness for the Iudex. But there is only so long you can conceivably push his patience, and sooner than you like you straighten your spine and try and jut your chin out and pretend that there isn’t a wash of humiliation drowning you as you wait for his next pronouncement. 
You’re surprised when he stands, leaving his cane leaning against his desk, and strides towards you with purpose writ clear in his eyes. Surprised enough that a soft, startled noise falls from your mouth as he reaches for you, and suddenly his gloved hands are palming the weight of your breasts. He lets out a slow, measured breath as his fingertips dig into the soft flesh there. You squeak again as his thumbs brush over the hard nubs of your nipples, and this time he laughs.
“Don’t be so surprised,” he murmurs. “Our agreement involved touching, did it not?”
“I-it involved more than touching,” you whisper, as poisonously as you can manage - but his thumbs are still slowly swirling about your nipples and the sensation of it is making you feel dizzy, little electric shocks of surprise zapping through your synapses. 
“Mm,” Neuvillette agrees. “But I am not so much of a villain that I would simply have my way with you without ensuring you were properly prepared, my dear.” 
You don’t know if this is worse, actually. If he had chosen the latter option, perhaps it would have been easier to close your eyes and grit your teeth and pretend to be somewhere else. But the way he is looking at you, the way he is touching you . . . those things make it far more difficult to separate what is going on from yourself. 
“I’m going to kiss you,” Neuvillette says to you - and you almost protest, until you remember the terms of the agreement once more. 
(“You will give yourself to me intimately,” Neuvillette had said. “I will have my fill of your body, and in return I will find your brother not guilty in court. Is this agreeable to you, little one?”
You had wanted to scream and shout and spit. It was certainly not agreeable to you; Neuvillette was a corrupt pervert, taking advantage of his position. How many other desperate petitioners had done this for him? 
“Oh,” Neuvillette had said, when you’d been unable to stop yourself biting out the last thing. “None at all. I’ve never been quite so intrigued by any of them or wanted to have any of them bent over my desk quite so much. I suppose that makes you special - and isn’t that nice?”)
You feel at his mercy like this, bare in his office, when he hasn’t so much as taken off his gloves - and indeed, the cool silk of those gloves against your heated cheek as he pulls you up into a kiss reminds you of who exactly has the power. He sighs softly into your mouth, teeth nipping at your lower lip. They’re sharp, and you gasp in surprise and win a low growl from Neuvillette himself. His kiss is wet and messy, and he seems almost disappointed when he pulls back from you with his eyes half-lidded. 
“Mm,” he says, “How many others have kissed you like that, little one?”
You press your lips together in a show of defiance, and he chuckles.
“As I thought,” he murmurs, lowering his head again - this time, the kiss he gives you is pressed to the top of your cheekbone. Slowly, carefully, peppered down your jawline. “Ah, don’t worry - you did perfectly well.”
You let out a noise of wordless disbelief and embarrassment that he could tell, which is quickly cut off when he tugs at your earlobe with his teeth instead. It is his canines that are sharp; you give a hot intake of breath at the scratch of them on your sensitive lobe that in turn makes him shudder. 
You hate the shivery feeling of pleasure that the bite sends zipping down your spine; a heat that settles firmly between your thighs, that mixes with the pounding of your heart. 
“Give in,” Neuvillette says softly. “You have no choice if you want me to uphold my word; you may as well enjoy it. I have no wish to be cruel to you, little one. If you like it too, so much the better.”
“I--I won’t--”
Your voice is reedy; it wobbles and shakes in the air. Both you and Neuvillette know that it is a stubborn and hopeless task, when his kisses and his tugging at your nipples and his soft nipping bites against your most vulnerable parts have already made a slick drip between your thighs you do not want to admit to. 
“A pity.” Neuvillette pulls back, and your body misses him - you find yourself making a soft noise of displeasure as his weight moves from in front of you and beside you, before he goes to stand beside his desk and takes his cane back into his hands, leaning on it almost casually. “Come here, little one. Bend over my desk.”
You flounder there, unsure now if you really are willing to go through with things the way that you had agreed to. Your throat feels dry. Disrobing had all been very well, letting him touch your chest had all been very well, but . . .
He taps his cane gently on the ground and makes a soft chiding noise with his tongue. 
“Come now, little one,” he murmurs, his voice perfectly agreeable. “It’s not so large a thing, is it? For the price of your brother’s reputation?”
You shake your head and take a slow, nervous step towards his desk - a large, terrifying presence in the room. How many people has he held the fates of in his hand as he sat here in the Palais Mermonia and read their files?
The reminder that you are indeed in the Palais Mermonia - that only down a hallway is a whole group of gestionnaires utterly unknowing of what their honourable Iudex is doing with the young citizen he has an appointment with - makes your heart beat faster, nervousness rise up in your throat like a tidal wave. One foot in front of the other.
You wish the walk to his desk was shorter at the same time as you wish that you would never make it to the end. 
It is not to be. Your bare hip bumps against the desk’s edge and you let out a slow, steadying breath. 
“That’s it,” Neuvillette says agreeably, and his cane taps on the ground as he comes to stand behind you. “Brace yourself on the table now; palms down. I’m not going to hurt you. Bend over and show me what I shall have the pleasure of conquering, hmm?”
You burn with humiliation as you do exactly what he asks; place your hot palms down directly upon the table and bend at the waist. Neuvillette sighs as if he’s terribly pleased with what he’s seeing. You start as you feel a gentle nudge against your bare ankle, and you realise that he’s touching you with his cane.
“Spread these apart a bit further,” he murmurs, and you comply despite the way you feel utterly debased by the treatment. “Ah. Very nice. Lovely, in fact.”
If you have one thing to be grateful for, it is that he does not mention what you both know; you are wet. The way he had touched and palmed at your chest, the kisses . . . you can feel the beads of slick on your inner thighs, the dampness of the folds of your cunt. The position he has put you in means, too, that you can feel the cool air on your exposed clit - the little button swollen and standing to attention. 
Neuvillette’s gloved hand gently comes to rest upon the back of your thigh. Slowly, slowly, he maps a path over your bared skin; the round curve of your ass where it’s presented to him, down and--
A hiccup of surprise escapes you and you almost rock back into him, but manage to stop yourself at the last moment, as those silken gloved fingers brush feather-light over the soft mound of your cunt. He does not press down yet; merely lets himself get accustomed to the shape of you. Your hips cant forward against your will as his fingertip brushes against the sensitive bud of your clit, a whimpering gasp falling from your lips. 
You have never been touched by anyone before - and the fact it is Monsieur Neuvillette doing it, under these circumstances--
You squeeze your eyes closed, willing yourself not to cry. You are grateful at least that he cannot see you; in fact, he seems rather preoccupied now, those long silken fingers spreading the plump lips of your labia further apart so that he can see your entrance.
“My,” he says, a smile apparent in his voice. “We’re going to have to do rather a lot of preparation, aren’t we? Sweet little thing, you look tight as a vice.” 
“I don’t . . .” You don’t understand quite what he means by preparation, but the soft rustle of his clothing still sets your teeth on edge. You’d known that he would disrobe too, of course you had, but it somehow all seems to be happening so quickly--
A strangled gasp escapes you.
The rustling was not him disrobing. Instead, he has knelt down - and his mouth is hot when he presses it to the sensitive places on the backs of your knees, his tongue wet as he trails it up the back of your thighs.
“Th-this isn’t what we agreed!” You say, panicked, as his mouth inches ever closer to the place between your thighs. Despite the heat of his tongue, the puffs of breath that escape him with his dry little laugh are cool. 
“Isn’t it, little one?” He murmurs, in between the wet kisses; you keen softly as he digs teeth into sensitive flesh of your inner thighs, fangs sending confused shockwaves of both pain and pleasure directly to your sex. “Let me see . . . Did I not use the terms ‘have my fill’? Why, little one - whyever did you think that would begin and end with my cock?” 
It’s too intimate. You have to be too present for it all, and the tears that have been threatening to spill out do so at the same time as his tongue oh-so-gently prods against your folds in interest. If Neuvillette notices that you’re crying, he doesn’t say anything - and you are grateful for that, as he presses his mouth fully against your cunt with a horrifically wanton wet noise and you realise that you are crying in no small part because his mouth against your heated core feels good. 
He merely mouths against you for a moment, his tongue delicate as it travels across your folds and drinks in your wetness. You shudder as he finds your clit, and his tongue flicks against it playfully. Despite what he had said about not having done this to any other desperate citizens, the way he works his mouth against you belies that he has at least some experience--
You know absolutely nothing about the Iudex’s private life, much like the rest of Fontaine. 
He pulls back from you to murmur against your thigh.
“You’re so wet, little one. It’s very charming. I think I shall use my mouth on you until you are glad to have the desk to keep you standing. It would be a hard-hearted creature indeed who would not want to feel you come on his face, under his tongue--”
You whimper out some kind of horribly embarrassing noise, as he returns hungrily to his former task; he licks at you and suckles at you like a man starved, and your body reacts with hot little shivers and shudders and jolts of pleasure. You make an attempt to curtail the pleasure - try to tell your body that it ought not to be enjoying this - but pure animal instinct wins out, and you are bent double over the desk whimpering helplessly, tilting your ass up to give him more room, and grinding your cunt into Neuvillette’s face despite all of it.
Neuvillette does not seem to mind at all. He groans into you instead, using the flat of his tongue to stroke as much of your cunt as possible, to work through your folds and suckle on your clit until your entire body feels aflame with strange new feelings. Every so often, he teases his tongue over your entrance, the tip circling the ring of muscle - but he does not push into it yet. 
His grip on your thighs is iron-tight. You don’t know when he let go of his cane, but both hands dig into the soft pudge of your inner thighs now, keeping you spread for him despite how the twists of pleasure make you want to squeeze your thighs together. 
You don’t know how you’re still breathing, as Neuvillette’s tongue continues to lay claim to you. You can feel your inner muscles clenching around nothing; slick accumulating around your entrance, just begging for something to be inside of you (though, in truth, you’ve never had anything more than your own finger and even then had felt hot and unsure of it). He growls, tongue flicking out against your clit in a rhythmic drumming that makes you whine.
“O-oh,” you manage, through the lump in your throat. “Archons--”
He gives your inner thigh a warning pinch, just enough to make you stutter, as he pulls his soaking wet mouth away from you and murmurs;
“No, little one. No archons here. Remember who it is, who's here with you.”
You are almost tempted to throw his own words back into his face; to tell him that you’d made no such bargain that you had to acknowledge that he was there. That, according to the legalities of the agreement you’d both made, you only had to let him use your body - not your voice, not your head, not your heart. But the lack of his mouth on you now feels like a peculiar kind of torture. You want him to stop. You want him to carry on. The whimper falls out of your mouth to a groaning purr of satisfaction from Neuvillette himself;
“M-monsieur--”
“That’s better.”
His mouth is back on you, hungrily working his tongue between your folds. Hungrily suckling and stroking and working you over until you feel hot and boneless, trembling on the edge of something - your entire body is a taut string, pulled to the point of snapping. Your cunt is wet and messy with drool and fluid and slick, sliding down your thighs - you cannot see Monsieur Neuvillette, but you’d wager that his cheeks are wet and shiny with the same, if only due to the utter eagerness he was still displaying. 
It’s too much. 
With a whine and pitiful jerk of your hips, you feel yourself slide down into some dark abyss; the thread that’s been threatening to snap finally does exactly as it was always going to do, and a wash of shameful pleasure crashes over you like a stormy sea. Neuvillette lets out a pleased groan as you feel yourself let another gush of arousal out, hungrily drinking you in with lewd, wet noises that have your face as hot as any Natlan springs. 
He carries on using his tongue on you; licking, sucking, lapping like a man parched for water - just to the point where your over-sensitive body begins to complain that you are still too raw for such hunger, and then he pulls his mouth off of you. You stay there, bent double over his table, wheezing softly as you hear him dust off his clothes and the click of his reclaimed cane as he comes around to the other side of the desk so that he can look you in the eye. 
He really hasn’t disrobed at all. 
It’s a callback to the power imbalance between you both; a reminder that, no matter what, you are entirely at Neuvillette’s mercy. You are glad, at least, that he has a reputation for being honourable in his agreements - you have only the very vaguest flutter of a fear that giving him your body will be for naught and he will go back on his word. Everybody knows that the Chief Justice values that same standard he is entitled to embody. 
“You were crying,” he says, leaning forward and cupping his hand about your cheek, a thumb sliding over the apple of your cheek. “It suits you. I’ve never quite understood this human urge not to cry - you look terribly pretty with those diamonds on your cheeks.”
He leans in closer and closer, closing his eyes - and you go stock-still as he kisses the tears from your cheeks and pulls back, licking his lips as if he is savouring the taste of something special. 
“I-is that all?” You ask, a hopeful tone to your voice - but Neuvillette simply smiles at you kindly, as if you’re silly for even asking. 
“Of course not, little one,” he murmurs. “That was merely a precursor to the main event, to ensure you’re . . . sufficiently ready. As I have already said; I am no villain, and I have no desire to hurt you physically. I want to ensure your body is primed to accept me, for the sake of both of our pleasure. And it was pleasurable, wasn’t it?” 
You press your lips together, hot shame rising up your neck.
“No need to get shy,” he says to you, that soft, kind smile not leaving his face. “By the way you were grinding against my face, and how prettily you came for me . . . Mm, I’d wager you enjoyed it very much. But it’s alright if you are not ready to admit it; your body doesn’t lie, sweet one, and I know it will accept my fingers and my cock far more readily than you’d like it to.”
. . . You had enjoyed it. You had felt that pleasure that he was so willing to give to you, and the thought that you were actually deriving some enjoyment from this thing that was supposed to merely be about procuring assistance for your brother . . . You don’t quite know how to feel, as Neuvillette presses a paternal kiss to your forehead and you hear the slow click of his footsteps as he returns to the other side of the desk, where your nakedness and your readiness for him are far more pronounced.
“You really are quite lovely, you know,” he murmurs, letting his gloved fingers slide down the arch of your back, from the nape of your neck and down your spine. “Ordinarily, I’m not too fond of ostentation - but ah, you . . . You could benefit from a little more ornamentation.”
A palm, cupping your ass - giving it a slow, considering squeeze, almost too hard to be painful but not quite. 
“This, for example,” he murmurs, “would be lovely with some discipline. Imagine; how pretty you would be with welts from my cane.”
“Monsieur Neuvillette--!” It comes out in a panicked little gasp, but Neuvillette merely chuckles.
“Now, now, little one - settle down. As sweet as it would be - I am still aware of the legal terms of our arrangement. I won’t force you to give me any extra - and whilst caning you would be terribly satisfying for me . . . it doesn’t count as satiating my desire in that legal sense that is so important to us both.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. Somewhere inside of you, your heart pounds at the thought of letting him do as he wishes with you - but you squash it down, holding to the comforting lie that you are getting absolutely nothing out of the arrangement you had made with Neuvillette. 
His hand curves over your ass and slips between your thighs.
“A-aren’t you even going to take your gloves off?” You seethe at him, through clenched teeth, as a fingertip slides between the plump lips of your sex once more, to find the wet mess that he had left there earlier. 
“I fear it would be most unprofessional of me to undress in my office,” he says, and you hear the smile in his voice. “Forgive me, little one. I think I will stay as entirely clothed as I am able.”
His tone does not broker any argument, and you bite your tongue as he - slowly, maddeningly slowly - slides his finger through the valley of your cunt, approaching your clit with a near-torturous pace. Your breath stutters in your chest as his silk-gloved finger finally brushes over the delicate nub, and he increases his pressure from feather-light to something firmer as he begins to make slow, small circles on the pleasure point.
Your hips don’t know whether to shy away from the certainty of his manipulations or to lean into them, so you do the only thing you can think of and let loose a soft whine into the charged air of his office. 
After he has played with your swollen clit for a few more agonising moments, his fingers drag back through the soaking wet valley to toy with your entrance. You feel yourself flex as he comes near, as if your cunt is begging him to finally put something inside of you - and though he gives a soft chuckle, he does not tease you any further.
“I’m going to put a finger inside of you now,” he murmurs - again, you are not sure if it would be worse if he had not told you. With this knowledge, you have just enough time to catch your breath before he slides his finger into you with one quick movement.
It punches the air out of you. If you had not been bent over the desk already, you’re sure you would have lost your footing - but as it is, Neuvillette goes about opening you up with a kind of determined certainty. The finger inside of you gives a few lone pumps, working your tight insides open - you are wet and pliable enough that it does not hurt near as much as you had thought it would. 
“Good,” Neuvillette murmurs, “Are you ready for me to add another?”
Again, you want to whimper and scream and bite - but as he continues to pump his finger in and out of you, you realise with that same shame that the feeling of him inside of you is good and could only be improved if he filled you more thoroughly.
“Yes, please,” you whisper, your throat dry - and you are rewarded with another low murmur of praise, and the feel of a finger joining the first at your entrance. You take another steady breath, but you do not need to; two fingers fit inside of you with only the barest modicum of resistance, your body silky wet and tight and welcoming. The silk of his gloves rubs against your inner walls curiously, making you feel utterly dizzy with sensation. 
There is a purpose to this that there hadn’t seemed to be when he was using his mouth on you. When he was using his mouth, though he had said it was in order to make the final result easier on you both, you had gotten the distinct impression he had rather enjoyed the process - the sucking, the wet noises, the lewd sound of his tongue against your soaking cunt. But here, Neuvillette crooks his fingers inside of you and pumps them in and out and scissors them slightly in a way that leaves no doubt that he is ensuring you will be able to take something even bigger and wider than his fingers when we have done. 
He still does it all with a trademark thoroughness; he rests his other hand on the small of your back to keep you still as those digits plunge in and out of you. You dread to think how soaked through with your slick his gloves will be when he is done--
But he does not use his fingers upon you to completion. 
You feel it building up inside of you with the way he curls them just so, rubbing against a spongy spot inside of you that makes your thighs tremble - but he doesn’t follow through on the promise that begins to build, dizzying, between your legs. 
He pulls out his fingers with a slick pop and a wet clicking noise, giving your cunt a gentle pat on his way out.
“There, my dear,” he says. “It will still be a tight fit, of course . . . but I should cause you no undue pain. And, if I may be so bold, little one - I’m absolutely certain you’ll feel exquisite.”
This time, there is no question that the rustling noise you hear behind you is him partly undressing; that the soft pop is the sound of buttons being freed from the confines of his placket. He lets out a pleased sigh - you assume at the feel of his hand on his own cock. 
“I’ve been longing to touch you,” he murmurs, as he slots himself between your hips. “I had to prepare you, naturally - oh, but little one, I’ve been hard since the moment you walked all trembling and righteous into my office.” 
“D-do you say that to all of the poor hopeful people who come into your office hoping you’ll grant them justice, Monsieur?” You manage, and he chuckles. His hips fit neatly in between your own spread thighs, and you feel the heavy, silky, hot weight of something as it slaps against the meat of your inner thigh and leaves a sticky wet trail upon the skin there. His cock. His pre-come, on you--
“As I’ve said before, little one,” he murmurs, and he readjusts himself and you hiss yourself as his cock presses softly against the pudge of your outer lips. He doesn’t move it yet; merely lets it rest there, letting you get used to the size of him and the knowledge that he is going to put it inside you. “I have never been so intrigued by any of them to want to. But you . . . ah, this human quality of resilience! You’re utterly darling. There’s even still fire in you now, when I have you naked and at my mercy. Tell me, little one . . . what would you do if I went back on our agreement now and still fucked you?”
You half rear up, and the way your body moves has his cock nudging at your clit, against you - you find yourself half-enveloping the thick shaft of his cock with your labia. It makes you breathless that it doesn’t even come close to disappearing inside you; indeed, the stretch of it reminds you of just how big he is.
“You wouldn’t!” You say, a tone of petulant fury edging your words - Neuvillette makes a hum of agreement even as his gloved hands travel up, over the curve of your hips and then your waist, until he is cupping the weight of your breasts in them and your nipples are once more trapped between the silken pinch of of his thumbs.
“You’re right,” he says, calmly. “I value justice too much for that - but oh, you’re quite something when you’re full of moral fury, aren’t you? Justice . . . a funny thing, isn’t it? One might say that having you right here, in my office, naked and hot and wet and exactly where I want you is a just reward for my years of service, wouldn’t they?”
You don’t respond, and he chuckles; nips a bite into the sensitive part of your throat where the curve of shoulder and neck meet that sends another electric zip down your spine.
“I’m going to put it inside of you now,” he says, still as calm as a placid lake. “And then I’m going to fuck you, little one. Are you quite ready?”
He tilts his hips forward as an urge for you to do the same; to lower yourself back down over the desk. You hiss as his cock slips and slides between the folds of your cunt, but it is nothing compared to how it feels when he pulls back and the wet head of his cock nudges almost impatiently against your entrance. He does not let go of where he is still pinching and rolling at the buds of your nipples, sending light-headed little thrills right down to between your legs - your sex clenching at the emptiness, missing his fingers.
“As ready as I think I’ll be, Monsieur,” you manage, hoping the title comes out as barbed as you want it to - but then he is pressing inside of you, his cock opening you up, and you bump against the table and go utterly blank of thought at the sensation of being claimed.
It feels like all of the air inside of you deflates as Neuvillette pushes himself into you. He had been correct on one count - he had prepared you well enough that there is only a light sting, the feeling that is to be expected when something large fits itself into a tight hole. You wheeze over his desk, your eyes rolling into the back of your head, as he seems to keep pushing and pushing and pushing--
You don’t think you’ll possibly take all of him, and then he stops and you feel his pelvis pressing against your ass, and you realise he is fully inside of you now.
“There,” even Neuvillette sounds a touch breathless. “Didn’t you do well, little one? Are you ready for me to begin moving?”
His only answer from you is a huff, as he pinches your nipples again and you feel yourself clench around the cock buried inside of you. He laughs softly, and with a wet drag you feel him pull out of you - and then drive back inside again with a wet pap, the sound indecently loud in the quiet office. Neuvillette had already established when he had made it clear he expected you to fulfil this arrangement in his work chambers that the walls were thick enough no gestionnaires would come running no matter what, but you still have a vision of it happening.
Some poor underpaid Palais Mermonia worker, coming in to ask the Honourable Chief Justice some question or another, only to find him bent over a shivering whining citizen, naked on his desk. The thought of someone seeing you, at such a powerful man’s mercy--
You clench around Neuvillette again, whining softly into the polished wood of the desk, your body wanting to welcome his cock inside and keep it for yourself. It feels so good - you can barely stand knowing how right and full and warm you feel, how you know that if Neuvillette stopped fucking you that you would have no choice but to beg him to carry on and let you come. 
“Good,” he murmurs, as he finds himself a rhythm that makes you quake. Every drag of his hips sets your body aflame, every twitch of his cock makes you huff and whimper. You’re moaning, you realise, as if you are somewhere very far away. “There now, little one - doesn’t that feel good?”
You don’t reply, but you do not need to. The sound of him fucking in and out of you - the wet sticky slap of his cock as his hips bounce against your spread thighs, the obscene feeling of your own arousal drooling out of you, and the noises that keep escaping your mouth unbidden all do that for you. Your body does not even try to push him out; merely pull him in tighter. 
He stops pinching your nipple with one hand, dragging it back down the curve of your body to curl around your thigh, sneaking between you and the wooden drawers of his desk - and you keen a high-pitched little noise as instead of your nipple, he roughly pinches at your clit instead.
The sensation of that silken fabric, sodden already with your slick, and the mean little pinch pushes you over a precipice that you didn’t realise you’d been hovering on. You cry out this time, a moan that you feel certain that everyone in the whole building must hear - but that doesn’t matter, as you spasm helplessly on Neuvillette’s cock and you give him your second orgasm of the night. 
He fucks you through it, even as you feel your cunt flex and flutter around him. You feel dizzy, panting, whining - but Neuvillette’s thrusts have more purpose now, and a low groan that sounds almost inhuman comes out of him as you weakly try and push your body back at him to hurry it along. 
“I’ll come when I’m ready,” he practically growls, and you whine as his teeth fasten into the meat of your shoulder so that he is utterly bent over you - the rasp of his silken clothes against you, fine fabrics and adornments. The satiny brush of his hair over your heated skin. “And you will take every drop, little one - as you agreed to do--”
You nod helplessly, and he groans - and then his cock is twitching inside of you wildly, and he’s biting at you again and huffing and groaning and the plunge of his hips seems to hit deeper inside of you with every thrust.
You had never imagined the Chief Justice like this in all of your life, but there is something animal to him now; some latent kind of primal instinct you had never realised that the kind, fatherly Monsieur Neuvillette possessed. You know now he is not as kind as you had once supposed, but it is still something else entirely to see him and feel him fuck you like a man possessed.
He snaps, his hips wildly gyrating into you, slapping against your ass so hard you fear you will bruise - and then you feel his cock jump and he comes inside of you, thick ropes of his release shooting directly into your insides and coating you, viscous and full of him.
He gives another almost animalistic growl against your skin, letting his cock judder and shoot out a few final spurts of his own seed - and then, there is a brief moment of quiet. You can hear yourself and your own shuddering breaths, your heart pounding in your ears - and then, the slick, wet noise of him pulling out of you. He catches hold of his own breath, and when he speaks again his voice is smooth and kind as ever as if nothing more has transpired here than a meeting of minds.
“Marvellous, little one. You did so terribly well. Of course,” Neuvillette murmurs against your ear, his breath a cool brush against your heated skin. There’s the faintest scent of saltwater in it; you shiver despite yourself. “You do realise that the final decision does not lie with me, do you not?”
“Wh-what do you mean?” You’re too breathless to speak, still - laid out across Monsieur Neuvillette’s desk, on display like the most wanton of creatures. You can still feel his come rolling down your thighs, spilling out of you with every pant of your breath - you were so utterly filled and claimed by him that you fancy you can feel his come inside of you even now, in thick ropes and dripping pearls. 
“Well,” Neuvillette moves away, and you  turn your head, cheek cold on the desk, to watch as he re-fastens the placket of his trousers, the tails of his coat swishing about him. You remain utterly debased; your clothes still in a haphazard pile to the side of his desk. You do not yet think your trembling legs could even hold you up, and you have no choice but to let Neuvillette continue to drink in the sight of you akimbo over his office furniture. “Surely you understand it is the Oratrice who will make the final decision, my dear?”
Your heart beats double time in your chest. Your breath comes out in a panicked little gasp, and you rear up before you’re quite ready for it, staggering towards him to clutch at his lapels.
“But it always sides with you,” you say to him, hating that your voice rises in pitch pathetically. “You’re always in agreement--”
“Yes,” Neuvillette agrees with a low hum, and you hate him as one of his thumbs gently comes up to caress your cheek like a lover. “It will be greatly novel for Lady Furina to witness the disagreement, I’m sure. Still - the Oratrice does have the final word, as it always has.”
“But you promised!” You don’t care about dignity now, as you feel the hot splash of tears across your cheeks. Neuvillette takes in a shuddering breath, far too reminiscent of the noise he’d made when he’d pressed himself inside of you. His thumb slides under a tear now, to catch it upon the pad; you watch in mute agonies as he lifts it to his mouth and his tongue flicks out to taste you.
“Really, my dear,” Neuvillette says, with a sigh of satisfaction. “I thought you were better educated than this; you were so very charmingly certain when you first came to see me after accosting me in public. All of those carefully laid out little plans and charts as to why your criminal brother couldn’t possibly have committed the felony that everybody knows he did--”
“But you agreed!” You’re desperate now. He hums again, and one of his arms settles around your waist, keeping you pinned against him. “You said you would find him not guilty! You said he’d be freed!”
“I said one of those things,” he corrects you - and then he sees that you’re very much hovering on the edge of hysteria, and he sighs. “You poor little creature. When I asked you if you were certain and that you’d thought everything through properly . . . you hadn’t really, had you?”
“I . . . I thought . . .” You sniffle desperately, trying to grasp onto the threads of your righteous anger as the cool sting of foresight settles over you once more. Monsieur Neuvillette is correct; he promised that he would find your brother not guilty, and you had taken it for granted that the ruling of the mighty Iudex would be enough to see your brother free.
Not a word about the Oratrice had passed his lips.  
You’re shaking. It is only Monsieur Neuvillette’s arm around your waist that stops you from falling to the ground. You fear if that grounding limb left, you would drop to your knees and hug at his legs and rub your sobbing face against his knee and beg. The fact that you had . . . that you’d given yourself to him, and he must have known that he could not truly give what you were asking for . . .
“And what then?” You whisper, your throat dry. Neuvillette makes a considering noise in the back of his throat; a throaty hum. A hand gently scoops your chin up to force you to look him in the eyes.
Neuvillette’s eyes are blue-grey-violet, boring down into you. There is something ancient and terrifying that lies behind them, but as they look into your own they seem to almost flash possessive. 
“I happen to know the administrator of the Fortress of Meropide,” he says, after a long moment. “Of course, I’m sure you understand that it is not the most . . . welcoming of places. Your brother’s confinement will lack creature comforts. But . . . it doesn’t have to be quite so dreary.”
Against your will, hope rises like a soft flame in your chest. 
“You would do that?” You ask the Iudex. “Make sure that he’s . . . that it’s not so bad?”
“You misunderstand,” Neuvillette tells you, with a small smile. “I have fulfilled my end of our agreement now. I will find your brother not guilty. Legally, there’s nothing else that you need of me.”
“I could tell someone--” You start to say, but Neuvillette only lets out a soft little huff of laughter.
“Poor thing,” he says, “do you truly believe that anybody would take your word - the sibling of some no-good criminal, desperate to save him - over mine? You must understand that I have, as Iudex, a long history of doing only the best for Fontaine.” He lets go of your waist, and you are thankful that you manage to keep your balance even as he turns and sweeps away towards his desk. “I am also aware that I’m the subject of some . . . romantic fantasy, in the hearts of the ever-theatrical people of our homeland.” He seats himself in the great chair behind his desk, and looks back up at you with that damnable smile playing around his lips - small enough you could not call it mocking, soft enough you could argue it was an attempt at sympathy. “Why would I give that up, just to tumble some know-nothing worth-nothing young upstart in my office?”
Your mouth opens and closes a few times in speechless anger, before that cool foresight settles over you once more.
Because he’s right.
Why would he? Why would anyone believe you? 
“. . . How can I ask for your aid again?” You manage to grit out, through clenched teeth.
“You could fill out a form from the Palais Mermonia,” he says, rifling through the paperwork on his desk as if you have already left the room. “Talk to one of the gestionnaires about aid for those incarcerated, once your brother has officially been sentenced. The working time for a response is currently . . .” He tilts his head to the side again, as if thinking. “Ah, yes. Only a year and six months. I’m sure nothing untoward could befall your poor brother in that time--”
“Monsieur,” you step towards him imploringly. “Please--”
You remember your nakedness only when Neuvillette looks up from his desk and lets his eyes critically sweep you again. Your nipples, stiff and sore from his pinching fingers. Your thighs, wet with his release and your own slick. The bite marks from his fangs that litter your bared skin. 
His eyes narrow; the face of a man taking in something that already belongs to him. A dragon considering his latest addition to the hoard. 
You realise exactly what he is going to ask you for, in return for his continued aid, before he opens his mouth. 
“Well,” he says, with a small smile upon his generous mouth. It is a mouth many would describe as kind; at this moment in time, you cannot think of it as anything other than dangerous. “You did such a good job of convincing me to aid you today . . . why, we could make these little meetings more regular, don’t you think?”
You swallow thickly. 
The Fortress of Meropide. Under the sea, with no sunlight, for who knows how long. Who knows where he would sleep, or what he would eat, or what other comforts would be denied to him in his imprisonment? 
“Yes, Monsieur,” you whisper, your throat bone dry. 
“Excellent,” he smiles at you in clear dismissal. You feel . . . used. Cheated. Hollow. Utterly owned and laid claim to and conquered, your spirit deadened inside as you look at the corrupt official you had once held in such high regard. “Next week, then. Wear something prettier, please. I’m partial to blue. Now - you don’t mind, do you? I have cases to review.”
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delizbin · 4 months
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I wanna be defined by the things that I love
Not the things I hate
Not the things that I'm afraid of
Not the things that haunt me in the middle of the night
I, I just think that
You are what you love
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slugesh · 2 months
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I am not immune to men with hard nips 😙
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goldnskyart · 4 months
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We’re simply meant to be~
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Prinxiety Jack and Sally>>>
I just wanted to redraw the one I made last year but I decided to do the kiss scene too and it accidentally turned out better-
Close ups and last years under the cut
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the way Roman started off as a proper prince; regal accent, poetic catchphrases and all. and then that accent started disappearing as he started speaking more and more like just a normal guy, disguising his pain with cringy jokes, trying desperately to get everyone's attention, no longer self-assured and prideful, because he's no longer Thomas's hero.
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wintrwinchestr · 2 months
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listen for the sound
the killer & the sound - chapter 1
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summary: your all time favorite rock band, Death’s Head, is going on tour, and you’re a last minute replacement for their opening act. working with cocky and confident frontman Joel Miller proves to be more challenging than expected when he insists on flirting with and flustering you as much as you’ll let him. and if you’re being honest, you’d let him do just about anything he wanted with you.
warnings: 18+, smut, no outbreak au, no use of y/n, rockstar!joel, aspiring rockstar!reader, d/s dynamics but nothing crazy yet, f & m masturbation (separately), daddy & mommy issues, allusion to daddy kink (buckle in for chapter 2), religious trauma, age gap (reader is early-mid 20’s, joel is early-mid 50’s), heavy flirting, pet names (darlin’, sweetheart, baby, etc), some joel pov, shy/anxious reader, reader is shorter than joel and has at least shoulder-length hair, winter’s limited knowledge of how band rehearsal/touring works, let me know if i missed any!!
word count: 9.9k
a/n: the first chapter of rockstar!joel is here!! he’s been haunting mine and kiers’ dreams for 2 months or so, and i’m so happy to release him into the world. thanks for writing him with me pookie :) thank you for reading, nice comments/reblogs appreciated if you enjoyed!!
series masterlist
divider by @saradika-graphics
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The first time you’d heard his voice, it was through the crackling waves of your little pink radio, sitting on the sticker-covered nightstand of your childhood bedroom. Late at night, after your mother had gone to bed, you’d tune it from Christian pop to the rock ‘n roll station, keeping the volume low so as to maintain your little secret. The newest release from Austin-based rock band Death’s Head, the DJ had announced when he introduced the track.
Your mother had called songs of their genre “the devil’s music”, specifically saying that “those gentlemen need to get right with Jesus. I can’t believe their mothers would allow them to ruin their bodies with all those… tattoos.” Good thing she had never seen the little moth you had permanently inked on your upper thigh, a shoddy recreation of the band’s logo done in the basement of a friend’s birthday party sophomore year of high school. Another one of your little secrets.
Your passion for music had begun with them, on that sweltering Texas evening. The breeze from your open window had carried his gravelly baritone, their deafening drums and shrieking guitar riffs, through the damp air and directly into your very soul, it seemed. Nothing had ever spoken to you before quite like their music, the way they seemed to create it as if they had never been held back from it. Unlike you.
Despite your pleading with your mother to let you pursue music in college, she never gave in. She had disapproved from the very beginning, said it was an impractical dream, that writing and playing music could never be a real job. You weren’t willing to compromise with her, or to compromise on who you were. And so, she kicked you out the day after your high school graduation. You’ve never looked back, and she never bothered to check up on you. You had always suspected she never liked you very much, anyway. It had been just you and her since you were a toddler, when your father had decided he loved pretty young waitresses and booze more than he ever loved the two of you. She needed someone to take her resentment out on, you suppose.
The first time you’d seen his face, it was through the staticky screen of the square little TV you had purchased for your shabby pre-furnished apartment. He was featured on a late night  interview to promote the band’s newest album. You had finally learned his name that night, Joel Miller, and that everything about him was captivating and completely mesmerizing. Even through the fuzzy quality of the broadcast, you could see him, clear as day: the silver that streaked his shaggy hair and scruffy beard, the rugged scar across the bridge of his nose, the silver jewelry that pierced through his left brow and bottom lip, the dark black ink painted across the surface of both arms and hands… including the gothic letters that spelled out DADDY across the knuckles of his left one.
Joel’s legs were spread, head thrown back in laughter as he recounted a story to the late night host. His charming banter and dazzling smile sent an instant swarm of butterflies to your tummy, and you couldn’t help but form a girlish crush on him. To put a face, a body, to the voice that kept you company when it felt like you had no one else in the world who understood you, it felt life-altering. And maybe it was.
After spending 4 years writing songs and performing small gigs instead of 4 years at college, you had finally begun to make a name for yourself as a solo artist. You had secured yourself a deal with a local indie label, and recently returned from a small regional tour after the debut of your first album. Bars, community centers, and even small theaters had felt more like home to you than the house you grew up in ever did. After so many years of feeling isolated and misunderstood by your surroundings, you felt rejuvenated after finding your place among Texas’ rock music scene. You like to think that many of the people you played for had found a place of belonging within you, too, in the handful of songs you wrote about your complicated adolescence, your parents, your hometown.
You weren’t a huge star by any means, but you had amassed a small group of fans, and even had a few local record stores selling your album. You hadn’t pursued this passion of yours for fame or money, of course not, who does? But, you couldn’t ignore the little tug on your heart, some inward longing to become the badass rock and roll darling that you had needed in your childhood. To win awards for your craft, to be recognized, to be valued… To prove your mother wrong? Maybe. But that wasn’t the whole of it.
On a lazy day off in your little studio apartment, a few weeks after returning from your last performance, you get a call from your manager, Cat, saying that she wants to meet with you at your label’s offices to talk about next moves for your career. You’re in the middle of giving yourself a much-needed manicure, but you oblige anyway, driving downtown in your beat-up sedan and trying not to smudge your still-wet polish on the wheel.
She meets you at the door, and you make your way into her office to discuss her plans for you. You’re grateful to have Cat on your team, and you find comfort in your relationship with her. The rock and roll scene is still heavily male-dominated, even with female superstars breaking down barriers at every opportunity. You aspire to be like them, and Cat has always known that about you. You’ve always trusted that she has your best interests at heart.
“So, I know you’ve really only just started to recover from your first tour, but… I have something else for you. I wanted to tell you in person just so I could see your reaction.”
A small pause while she looks at you as you sit down across from her, letting you stew in anticipation. 
“Well, are you gonna tell me or what?”
“Not yet, I like making you sweat a little… Tell me, if you could work with any artist in the world, who would it be?”
“What does that have to do with–?” She gives you an exasperated look, and you decide to play along. “Fine, but you already know my answer. Death’s Head, duh.”
“Uh huh…” She struggles to contain her smile while she waits for you to make the connection.
“Wait, no way. You’re not saying–I swear to God, if you’re messing with me right now–”
“Their tour manager called me this morning, he said the band is in the middle of rehearsing for their upcoming tour, and their opener backed out at the last minute. Apparently, he was at one of your shows last month and picked up your album. He thinks you’d be a perfect fill-in, thinks you’d really click with the band and said you’ve got a great sound. Even told me they’re excited to meet you, he played your record for them and they think you’re killer.”
“No way… no FUCKING way! He did NOT say that!” Your heart slams against your ribcage as you spring up from your seat. 
“He absolutely did say that, babe! So… I’m assuming I can call him back and tell him you’ll do it?” She asks playfully.
“Of-fucking-course you can!” 
“Alright, alright, I’ll give him a call back this afternoon. I’m so happy, seriously, this is gonna be huge for you,” she tells you sincerely, still laughing at your animated fit of excitement. 
“Oh my god, I can’t fucking believe it…” you reclaim your seat and hold your face in your hands for a moment, before taking a deep breath and smoothing your hair back. “How the fuck am I gonna talk to Joel Miller in person? Perform in front of him? I had, like, the world’s biggest crush on him in high school. He basically changed my life.”
“I’ll be sure to tell his manager that, I’m sure he doesn’t hear that nearly enough,” Cat jokes, an obviously sarcastic tone to her quip. 
“So, wait.” Suddenly coming out of your exhilarated daze, you realize: “You said they’ve been rehearsing already, and I’m a last minute replacement? How much time do I have?”
“Their manager told me on the phone that if you agreed, you’d have to be in rehearsal with them all morning tomorrow. It’s all the time they have left before the tour kicks off next week. He figured you wouldn’t need much time, since you’ve only got the one album so far and you’ve basically been rehearsing your set all across the state for the past 2 months.”
“Okay, I can work with that… It’ll be fine, right? But wait, what about–” You look to Cat for reassurance, already starting to pick at your freshly dried nail polish and bouncing your leg out of view from where she sits behind her desk.
“Your band?” She cuts you off, knowing exactly where your mind is headed before it even gets there. “I’ll get them all on the phone today, make sure they’ll be there tomorrow, too. And it’ll be great, I promise. You know how much I believe in you. This is what you’ve been working for, right?”
You nod, averting your eyes to the abstract pattern of the carpet while you try to center yourself. 
“And for what it’s worth, some other people I know in the business have all said they’re really nice guys. Never said anything about humble, especially a certain frontman of theirs, but they’re nothing to be scared of.”
They’re fucking rock music legends, but yeah, nothing to be scared of.
When you still don’t reply, fully tucked away inside your own head now, she continues. “You’ll be amazing, I know you will. Why don’t you go home, enjoy the rest of your day off, and I’ll call their tour manager back and tell him you and the band will be at rehearsal tomorrow. He said they’ll have cars come pick you up individually, so just be ready around 8AM with your guitar, and wear something cute,” she tosses you a wink on the last bit of her sentence.
“Oh my god, stop,” you giggle, heat rising to your cheeks at the implication of her teasing words. “Thank you, Cat. I couldn’t do this without you.”
“Hey, you’ve got the talent and the pretty face, I’m just here to watch you take over the world.” 
You both get up from your seats to share a hug, and she embraces you tightly. “Knock ‘em dead, babe,” she says close to your ear before releasing you.
As you practically skip back out to your drab little car, you have a certain adrenaline coursing through your bloodstream, feeling that you’re finally on the precipice of something monumental.
The next morning, you’re standing on the curb outside your building with your guitar case in one hand, the fingers of the other occupied by your teeth as they nervously bite at what’s left of your polish. You’ve put together an outfit that you think Cat would approve of without looking like you’re trying too hard: the black leather jacket and Doc Martens that you pair with practically everything, a simple white t-shirt, and loose-fitting black jeans, cuffed at the ankles. You’ve accessorized with a western-style belt and your silver crucifix necklace. It functions more as another thing for you to fidget with than any kind of meaningful symbol, but something compels you to keep wearing it, anyway. It doesn’t feel right to get rid of such a thing, and even though you’re not much of a believer anymore, you still feel a pang of guilt in your stomach every time you consider it.
A few minutes before eight, a black full-size SUV with darkened windows pulls up next to where you’re standing on the sidewalk, and the driver rolls down his window to confirm your name. He helps you load your guitar into the trunk, and when he opens the street-side door to the backseat for you, you’re surprised to find that the space opposite the one you’re about to climb into is already occupied. You were under the impression that it would just be you and the driver this morning, but you’re a little relieved at the idea of not having to make awkward conversation by yourself.
That relief turns to terror in a second when you clock the intricate shading of a moth on the back of the other person’s large hand, and the legendary capital letters adorning the knuckles below it. 
It’s Joel.
You’re getting into a fucking car with Joel Miller.
You thought you’d at least have the ride to rehearsal to prepare yourself for meeting him, for what you’d say to him without making a complete fool of yourself. You hear Cat’s encouraging words echoing around your skull as you position yourself on the cool black leather and buckle your seatbelt, trying to avoid eye contact.
God, you haven’t even fully looked at him yet, but you can see in your peripheral vision how fucking big he is.
Even sitting down, he seems taller in person, legs so long he can’t help but to spread them a little to make himself comfortable. When you take a deep breath in an effort to slow your racing heart, you can smell him: cigarettes, leather, and teakwood. Fuck, he even smells gorgeous.
“Mornin’, darlin’,” he greets you casually, as if his presence isn’t sending you careening to the edge of having a heart attack. He extends a calloused, tattooed hand across his body for you to take.
“H– hi, mornin’.” You take his hand in your smaller one and give it a soft shake as the driver begins the journey to the rehearsal space. You finally work up the courage to look at his face in the brief moment that your hands are touching, and lord, he’s fucking beautiful. The tanned skin that forms into delicate lines around his mossy amber eyes, the tantalizing pink blush of his lips, the glittering silver that streaks his dark hair, he practically looks like a painting. It’s hard to believe that he really exists in front of you now, when you had previously only seen him through hazy television screens and crinkled posters. 
“‘S a cool jacket, looks good on you.” He flashes that superstar grin as he compliments you, returning his hand to its previous resting position against the worn denim covering his muscled thigh.
“Oh, uh… thank you,” you answer quietly, giving him a meek little smile as you avert your gaze again. You swear you catch him giving you a once-over as you look away, probably enjoying the effect he’s having on you.
“You’re welcome, baby. I’m Joel, by the way, not sure if you figured that one out yet or not.”
“Y– yeah, I know. It’s really nice to meet you, I– I’m a huge fan, actually.”
Why did you fucking say that? 
“Oh, are ya, now? Tha’s cute, I appreciate it, darlin’.” 
His close proximity, the charming southern twang in his voice and the names he calls you, the way he looks, the way he smells, it makes you want to crawl out of your own skin, the way it all sets you aflame. You almost wish the driver would start up some uncomfortable small talk with you, just to save you from embarrassing yourself any more in front of the man whose songs you know every word to, could recite them all back to him now if he asked.
You don’t say anything in response to him, just fumble through a smile and nod while you fiddle with your necklace. 
Joel lets a few minutes of silence pass while you look out the window, watching downtown Austin come into view. Taking a moment to look you over proper, he tries to absorb all of your little details and file them away for safekeeping. He notices the cross-shaped piece of silver between your fingers, and wonders what it might say about you. He rakes his eyes over your figure, covered by your baggy clothes, and curses them for hiding what he’s sure is a body made up of pretty curves and soft skin. He hopes he’ll get to see them sooner rather than later.
In the meantime, he continues to make conversation. “S’ what kinda guitar you got back there?”
“Huh?” Snapped out of your trance, you whip your head around to face him again.
“Saw you loadin’ your guitar into the back. Whaddya play?”
“Oh, um… Fender Stratocaster. She’s all white, I call her Angel.” 
He smiles to himself, releasing a light chuckle through his nose. Shy girl with a crucifix and a guitar she named Angel... “Good choice. ‘S a pretty guitar for a pretty girl.”
Surprised by his compliment, you release a girlish giggle in response. “Th– thank you.”
He’s flirting with you, right? Is Joel Miller fucking flirting with you right now?
You wonder if he can feel the scorching heat radiating off your skin, if he’s doing this on purpose, or if this is just how frustratingly charming he is all the time.
“Sweet lil’ thing…” he mumbles to himself under his breath, head turned towards his own window as the car comes to a stop in front of the downtown warehouse.
Joel opens his own door to get out and the driver opens yours, and as soon as your lace-up boots touch the pavement, Joel is handing you your guitar case from the trunk. You offer him a flustered “thank you”, and he returns it with a confident “welcome, darlin’”. The brief brushing of the both of your fingers during the transfer of the case has your knees threatening to buckle.
Once the two of you are safely on the sidewalk, the driver pulls away, and Joel places a large hand on your lower back as he guides you to the building’s entrance. He opens the door for you, of course he does, and you can feel his stare on your ass as you walk inside. When the door shuts behind you, his hand is on your back again, leading you across the concrete floor of the industrial structure to another set of doors.
“Your guys are already here, and the rest o’ mine are, too. They’re real excited to meet you, sweetheart.”
You give him a light laugh in reply, unable to really formulate any kind of coherent sentence with his hand on you. His touch feels like it might burn straight through your thick leather jacket, brand the imprint of his fingers and palm into your skin forever. 
“‘M serious, baby. We were just blown away by your record, really. Y’ got a beautiful voice, sound like a goddamn angel… You sound that pretty in person, too?”
The question almost makes you choke on your own spit, which prompts him to smirk in response and give a little huff through his nose. Jesus, he’s fucking forward. Is this how it’s going to be all morning, for the next few months? Joel uses his cocky bastard rockstar charisma to get you all flustered and nervous, and then gets off on watching you stumble over yourself?
“Oh, um… I like to think so. Guess we’ll find out in a bit, won’t we?” 
You’re trying your damnedest to get better at his game. He’s your coworker now, for fuck’s sake, and you’ll have to think of him as such if you’re gonna make it through this whole thing alive. Not the man whose voice kept you company when it felt like nobody gave a shit about you, not the man whose posters you had ripped from stolen magazines and hidden under your bed, and certainly not the man who you had dreamt for years of meeting someday, wondering if he’d think you were pretty or interesting or cool. You have a job to do, and you’re gonna show everyone what you’re made of, charming pet names and killer smiles be damned.
He removes his hand from its place on your back to open the next set of doors for you, revealing a large rehearsal space already set up with lighting rigs, a sound system, and a dark backdrop with that familiar moth logo spread out across the expanse of the material. You quickly spot Eugene’s signature drum set perched on a platform towards the back of the makeshift stage, sporting that same illustration of the band’s namesake on the kickdrum. Jesse’s rhythm guitar and Tommy’s bass are set on their stands on either side of what you conclude to be Joel’s mic stand, adjusted for his towering height. His own red-trimmed black Cort is propped up behind it, the same signature guitar you’ve seen him play in countless music videos and recordings of live performances.
Your own three supporting band members are sitting together around a small card table in the corner of the space, and you feel much more at ease already knowing you’re not totally alone in this. Before you can make your way over to them, your name is being called in a familiar charming drawl, and you turn to find Tommy making his way towards you with Eugene and Jesse in tow. 
The men each take their turns introducing themselves to you and extending their hands for you to shake, offering friendly smiles and a kind word about your music, or how grateful they are that you agreed to fill in for their previous flaky opener.
“She was just tellin’ me in the car all about how huge of a fan she is, weren’t you, baby?” Joel teases.
“Oh! Well, y’know–” you stall, looking for something to say while trying to play off your embarrassment.
“Don’t let him pick on ya, sweetheart,” Tommy interrupts. “Hope he didn’t hassle ya too much on the ride over, guy practically insisted on seein’ that you got here okay. You’ll catch on real quick that my older brother don’t typically take ‘no’ for an answer.” He claps Joel on the shoulder as he banters, who seems to stiffen next to you. When you chance a look up at his face, his hard expression is difficult to read. You swear that his hand, now returned to its previous resting position on your back, pulls you just a bit closer to his side at Tommy’s words.
You attempt to break the awkward tension with a friendly giggle. “Well, I appreciated the thought. And he’s right, y’all are pretty much the reason I’m even here right now, so… I’m real excited to be playing with you guys.”
“We’re excited to have ya, sugar, that’s for goddamn sure,” Tommy compliments, and the other men hum in agreement.
“Ready whenever you are, gentlemen!” The sound engineer calls out, and you step back from Joel as the other three band members leave your little group to take their places on the rehearsal stage. 
“Why don’t you pull up a chair, baby, gimme somethin’ pretty to look at, yeah?” Joel says, voice low enough for only you to hear. He flashes you a wink as he makes his way to his awaiting guitar, the instrument almost as devilish as he is.
His head stays turned to watch you even as he walks, stare lingering until he sees you reach for a nearby unoccupied plastic chair. Though his request had once again sent a flustered heat to your cheeks, you can’t help but obey him, remembering Tommy’s remark about Joel not liking to take “no” for an answer. You wonder what he meant by that, why Joel didn’t seem to like that aspect of his personality being the punchline of what you thought to be a relatively harmless joke. For now, you do as he asks, and he seems to like that.
A disjointed assortment of cymbal crashes and rapid-fire plucks of tuning guitar strings converge at once when Joel gives a permissive nod back to Eugene, who counts him in to kick off the runthrough of their set.
The confidence you’d been trying to muster as a defense against Joel’s cocky teasing (flirting?) quickly dissipates as the sound of one of their more recent hits floods the room, completely consuming your senses. In all of your reasons to be anxious about the premise of meeting Death’s Head, performing with them, touring with them, you had somehow forgotten that the experience would include watching them play live and in person, in front of your own two fucking eyes.
The front-and-center position of the chair that you’re perched on makes you feel like you’re at your own personal concert, like you’re the only one in the room with them right now, the only person in the whole world aside from them. 
You bring a shaky hand up to hide your dopey grin that’s formed of its own volition, reminding yourself that you’re a professional, god dammit. You wish you could get up to dance and sing along the way you’ve done on a few too many whiskey-tipsy nights alone in your apartment, but you keep your limbs still, anyway.
A certain pair of hazel eyes, you’ve just noticed, are attempting to burn a hole straight through your skull. Your stomach lurches at the split second of eye contact, the focused look on his face now seared onto the backs of your eyelids as you try to blink it away. You flit your gaze onto Joel’s tattooed hands instead, the way they expertly strum out the chords that accompany the notes he sings. God, his voice, you had forgotten about that, too. The way it might sound in person, the way it might infiltrate your entire body and soul, the way its vibrating quality is currently snaking its way into your jeans.
Over the course of the next three minutes, it all begins to culminate in an effect you hadn’t thought to anticipate, one that has you crossing your legs and subtly shifting your hips in your seat. Biting a nail, you snap your eyes back up to Joel’s face again, the lyrics he sings now coated in the satisfied grin he wears. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the smug bastard. He quickly raises his brows, a gesture that communicates a wordless that’s what I thought, and lets the final chord of the opener ring out for a few seconds before cutting it off with a sharp slide of his calloused hand.
You shrug off your leather jacket, the room having become entirely too warm to need it anymore, and the movement causes you to feel the dampness that had formed in your panties over the course of the song. Joel finally removes his eyes from you to take a swig of water, and you take the opportunity to collect yourself. Inhaling a centering breath, you adjust your top and brush your hair off your neck, trying not to think about how thoroughly fucked you are.
The next hour and a half of their rehearsal continues to play out in a similar fashion: you attempt to hide your girlish excitement as you get to bear witness to another live performance of a song you’ve memorized all the words to, while Joel acts like he’s playing each and every one of them specifically for you. He shows off, it gets you flustered, and you repeat this little call and response of yours until their set ends, and suddenly it’s your turn. The band’s tour manager materializes among the four of them, clapping each member on the back and bestowing his permission for them to call it a day. 
Your shoulders release some tension at the prospect of not having Joel’s eyes on you while you rehearse, until you tune back into the conversation happening just a few feet in front of you.
“Y’all are welcome to stick around if you want, but I’m sure you boys would probably like to get some rest,” the manager says, to which three of the men grumble some affirming response as they begin to pack up their equipment. The remaining member, the one whose personal mission it is to get under your skin, voices his plan for the rest of the day.
“Think I just might take y’ up on that… Lil’ lady was such an attentive audience member for us, only feels right for me to return the favor. That okay with you, darlin’?”
He’s looking at you now, and you do your best to suppress the fresh wave of nerves that just plummeted into your stomach at his words. In the steadiest voice you can muster, you reply, “Sure, fine by me,” and offer him a sweet little smile for good measure. As if he really needs your permission. 
You can still feel Joel’s stare on you as you retrieve Angel from her case and swing the strap around your body, adorned with a pattern of embroidered moths. Joel is still positioned behind the mic stand as you make your way over to him, and you pretend to fuss with a loose thread in hopes that he’ll spare you from whatever smartass comment you’re sure he’s got at the ready.
Of course, he isn’t so merciful.
“Like the moths, real pretty. You pick that one out cause o’ me?” He comments as he eyes you up and helps to lower the mic stand to your shorter height.
You can’t lie to him, because he’s right. How is he always fucking right? On your sixteenth birthday, when your mother had given in to your only wish to let you pick out a guitar from the music store downtown, you had chosen the strap with the glass green luna moths because it had reminded you of him, of Death’s Head. You opt to answer him with the abridged version of that story.
“Um, not really. Mostly just thought it was pretty.”
He hums, “Sure, baby,” and lets you have this one. 
He locks the stand into place as your own band members begin to warm up behind you, and rubs a hand across your upper back. “All set, gimme a good show, yeah?” He throws another wink your way as he crosses the room in long strides to lean against the back wall, tanned arms crossed in front of his broad chest and lips pulled into an anticipatory smirk.
He’s gonna be the fucking end of you, you’re sure of it. 
Joel watches your delicate hands as they unfold the setlist you had stored in your back pocket and place it on the ground in front of you. Your chest rises and falls against your white t-shirt, slowly, and he’s certain that the calming technique is a result of his doing. He lets out a light chuckle at that, satisfied in the way he’s been able to rile you up all morning. It’s cute, he thinks, how you struggle to play it off, trying so desperately to get him to take you seriously. This has gotta be some kind of karmic repayment for a good deed he did without his own knowledge, the way the universe has dropped this malleable little thing right into his lap. He’s gonna enjoy playing with you, in more ways than one. 
A sharp chord suddenly pierces the silence of the rehearsal room, and the siren-like tone of your voice follows shortly after. He’s gotta admit, you’ve got a set of pipes on you, that’s for damn sure. Your voice is strong, a little more rasp to it than expected, as it emanates from somewhere deep within you. For how meek and mild you’ve been all morning, doing your best impression of a professional musician, you seem to perform as if you’ve been one all your life. It’s probably helping that you’ve got your eyes closed so as not to be distracted by the way he’s staring at you, at your hands, as they pluck at the strings and dance across the fretboard.
Fuck, what those little fingers would look like wrapped around his cock, the shaft of him so thick that they wouldn’t be able to meet each other. It’s his turn now to adjust himself in an attempt to hide the effect you’re having on him. Maybe he’s grateful that your eyes are closed, after all.
It’s then, as you run through your set, that Joel begins to feel a certain pull towards you. Something magnetic, exciting, something that makes his dick begin to swell and his pupils blow wide. He thought he might have felt it when you got into the car with him earlier this morning, but he’s sure of it now.
He wants you to be his. He wants to touch you, taste you, take care of you.
Poor lil’ thing, he thinks to himself, this industry is gonna chew you up and spit you out, and you got no idea.
You need a guiding hand, maybe a firm one, from time to time, he doesn’t know yet. What he does know is that you’re pretty, it’s easy to make you squirm, and you idolize him. He likes that, even if he shouldn’t, the fact that he’s been playing sold out shows since before you were even born, and he’s got the decades worth of framed tour posters and platinum records hung up on the walls of his house to prove it. It feels like he’s spent a hundred lifetimes in this business, but your time is only just beginning. So fresh-faced and inexperienced, this shy girl with a crucifix and a guitar she named Angel.
Your eyes remain closed throughout most of the next 45 minutes. Every once in a while, you flutter them open, your big doe eyes stealing a glance at his face. You flit them across his expression a few times, quickly, as if you’re seeking some kind of approval in the quirk of his lips, in the way he observes you from underneath his brows. Not wanting to lose focus for too long, you always close them again, and quietly scold yourself for even caring what he thinks. He likes to be a little unreadable, just to see if he can get you to work for it, to beg for it.
He’s getting ahead of himself now. 
When the last lyric of your closing song has finished echoing around the space, he watches as you blink your eyelids open and become the same shrinking violet that he had first introduced himself to not long ago. It’s like you had only just remembered that there were people in the room with you that entire time, this modest little flower who had picked up a guitar some time ago and accidentally became a budding rockstar. 
When you catch his stare again, he does grant you the satisfaction of an impressed smile. He shifts his jaw in an effort to conceal it, but it’s there. It ignites a warmth low in your belly, and you step back from the microphone, your fingers finding that cross-shaped charm around your neck once more as your gaze finds the floor.
“Was that, um… was that okay? I mean, should I run it through again?” you ask the tour manager, who had been only half paying attention the entire time, the papers spread out in front of him evidently much more interesting than watching you play.
“Huh? Oh, sounded pretty good to me but, if you wanna, go ahead.”
Joel notices how dejected the half-assed answer makes you, how you shift your feet as you look back at your band for direction. He pushes himself off the wall, rolling his eyes and muttering a “Jesus, man,” as he stalks past the guy, making his way up to you.
“Well, I was right, y’ do sound that pretty in person. Just like I thought you would… got one suggestion for ya though, ‘fore you give it another go.”
You nod up at him, eager to accept his critique.
“Eyes on me this time, yeah? Will you do that for me?”
“Y-yeah, sure, I’ll try,” you answer, unable to form a more intelligent response, his close proximity and the low tone of his voice causing your own to catch in your throat.
“You’ll try? Or you will? Jus’ want you to be confident up there, darlin’, tha’s all.”
“I-I will.”
“Good girl.” He swipes at your chin with his thumb and pointer, and doesn’t miss the hitch of your breath and the way your lashes flutter at the small bit of praise. He adds them to his running list of things to make note of for later.
You finally exhale when he turns to resume his position against the back wall, and the movement of his shoulders as he walks reminds you of the strut of a lion, all shifting muscle and dominance. Combined with the yellow-green glint of his eye and the flash of his canines when he smiles, he truly does resemble a predator, and you’ve never felt more like prey. You’ve known him only a couple of hours at this point, yet you feel ensnared by him, trapped beneath his paws, ready to surrender to anything he asks of you. Especially if he’ll call you a good girl for doing so.
You haven’t had much (favorable) experience with boys, let alone men, having grown up under your conservative mother’s watchful eye. But something about the cocky way he teases you, the way he acts as if you’re already his, has you feeling hazy and far away. You find yourself suddenly having to suppress rapidfire thoughts of what else he might command of you, then follow with that coveted praise. On your knees for me, or show me those pretty tits, or lemme feel that soaked pussy, followed by good girl, good girl, good girl when you obey without question. 
Blinking yourself out of your daze, you find that you’ve been staring at him for at least a few seconds now. He holds eye contact with you like it’s the easiest thing in the world for him, like it doesn’t make you want to jump out of your skin.
“Whenever you’re ready, darlin’,” he permits, and you take a steadying breath before beginning your set again.
You do your best to keep your gaze fixed onto his this time, but you can’t help it when you have to let it stray every once in a while when it gets to be too much. About halfway through your set, when you accidentally examine the expanse of his chest for a measure too long, he gives a quick snap of his fingers before pointing two of them up at his face. When you flick your eyes back to where he wants them, his expression is stern. He raises his brows and juts his chin to the side–What’d I just say? You nod in response–I’m sorry–which seems to soften him, and you continue playing.
When you finish your closer, you feel a bit more heated and out of breath than you did the first time, undoubtedly owing some of it to Joel’s little challenge. He saunters back up to you, grabbing a bottle of water from a cooler on his way, and offers it to you, cap already loosened so your tired fingers don’t have to struggle.
“How’d it feel that time, hm? Better?” He watches your lips as you take a swig, then locks onto the smooth column of your throat as you swallow.
“Was a little harder, but… Yeah, better. Thank you, Joel.”
“You’re welcome, darlin’... See what happens when y’ listen to me? Suggest you make it a habit.” He says that last part a little playfully, but there’s something hidden in his voice that tells you he isn’t entirely kidding. 
“Y-yeah, I will.”
“Good… Well, I think your set’s ready for openin’ night, ‘less you feel like runnin’ it through some more. ‘S up to you, though, sweetheart.” You take another sip of water as he speaks, licking your lips of the moisture afterward. A muscle in his jaw ticks at the flick of your tongue, like he’s holding himself back from pouncing.
“I mean, if you think it’s okay, then–”
“‘S more than okay, darlin’,” he interrupts. “Sound pretty fuckin’ perfect to me... You’re really somethin’ else, y’know that?” Joel takes a step forward, closing the space between you by a couple of inches. He reaches a hand towards you, and for a brief moment, you think he’s going for a lock of your hair. His fingers change direction at the last second, sliding your guitar strap between his thumb and forefinger instead, admiring it. 
“Oh, well, I dunno about that–” you quietly half-chuckle, looking at where his thick fingers are rubbing the silky embroidery between them.
He cuts you off again, gently nudging your chin back up to him with a hooked pointer. “I do… Prettiest goddamn voice I heard in a long time. Play like a fuckin’ pro, too.” He sounds serious, and it might be the first instance all day where he’s trying to be sincere instead of toying with you.
“Th-thank you…” you breathe out, accepting his compliment. The corner of his mouth twitches, pleased that you’ve given into him.
Tha’s right, be good for me, lemme praise you.
“Ready to call it a day, then, darlin’?”
“Uh huh, sure,” you agree. And it’s becoming easy, second nature, saying yes to him.
“A’right, then. I’ll let y’all wrap it up here, I’ll be waitin’ for ya in the car out front when you’re ready, ‘kay?”
Your band is more than happy to end the day earlier than expected, all of you feeling good about your sound, the songs you’ll be playing, how everything flows together. They’re all good guys, a few years older than you, kind of like the big brothers you never had. The group of you are a well-oiled machine at this point, having played your regional tour and recorded your album together. You know you have nothing to worry about for the tour’s opening night, not really, even after only two run throughs. 
But as you place Angel back into her case, closing the top and clicking the locks shut, you realize how the morning is ending the same way it began. In a car with Joel Miller, his wolfish gaze swallowing you whole while you try and fail to maintain some of your dignity. It’s hard to tell if the heavy weight in your stomach is because he makes you feel eager or afraid. You think it might be both, and that he might want it to be. He excites you, scares you, makes you want desperately to impress him and not give a fuck about what he thinks all at the same time. It all begins to feel a little too much, too real, as you try desperately to recall Cat’s soothing reassurances from the day before that everything would be okay.
When everyone has finished packing up their equipment and exchanging “see ya later”s, you pull your jacket back over your shoulders and find your way to the front entrance, where Joel is waiting for you once again in the black Suburban with the tinted windows. The driver takes Angel from you and opens your door just like he did this morning, and you shimmy into your seat. 
“There she is, the lil’ rockstar…” Joel muses as you finish situating yourself. He leans further back in his seat, adjusting his hips to accommodate for those long legs. All you do in response is  force a giggle and roll your eyes, picking at your nails in your lap. Your worried mind is quickly beginning to drift elsewhere as the car starts the journey back to your apartment.
“Hey now, don’t you roll your eyes at me, darlin’. Or we’re gonna have a real problem on our hands.” He chuckles, continuing his little game with you, where his prize is your shy smile and stuttering words. But you can’t bring yourself to play along, not with the way you’re struggling to even out your breath, your nerves winning their battle to get the best of you.
“Hey… y’ alright? Wha’s the matter, thought we were havin’ fun, hm?” He places an inked hand on your thigh as a comforting gesture, but it makes those nerves jump into your throat more than anything.
“I just, um… Guess I’m just a lil’ anxious, is all. For the tour and everything,” you manage, focusing on the back of his hand. He doesn’t press you to look at him, this time.
“Yeah, gathered as much… ‘S funny, the difference between how y’ act around me and how y’ act up there. ‘Specially durin’ that one song you played in the middle, got real passionate about it, kinda fiery... Y’ know the one?”
“Y-yeah, I think so…” You’re hesitant to answer, unsure of where he’s going with this.
“Phew, lemme tell ya. Second time around, thought you were tryin’ to kill me with that stare, all that anger in your voice. Could feel it rattlin’ my damn chest. Was real impressive, baby. Hate to be the fucker you wrote that one about, tha’s for damn sure.”
“Yeah,” is all you offer. 
He can tell it might be a sore subject, but he wants to know you. Needs to know you, if he’s gonna be taking care of you like he wants to. He presses on, “So, uh… who is he? The guy you wrote it about? Shitty boyfriend or somethin’?”
You huff through your nose at that. “My dad, actually.”
“Shit… your daddy, huh?” He whistles low, rubs a hand over his beard. “Tha’s tough.”
The nickname he uses sends a pang of heat down your spine, and you’re reminded of the letters adorning the knuckles of Joel’s left hand, still lightly clasped around your upper thigh. You swear it’s placed a bit higher up your leg now than it was a few moments ago.
You only give him a nod and hum in response, your lips pulled into a line around your teeth.
“Message received... Well, fuck ‘im. He ever comes around again, you let me know. Take care of ‘im for ya, hit him where the sun don’t shine.”
Your pursed expression breaks into a grin, and you giggle at the imagery of his threat. You finally settle your eyes on his face, and find that he’s smiling at you, the silver ring piercing through his bottom lip glinting in the late-morning light.
“Oh, she likes the sound o’ that huh? Yeah, I’ll bet… Well, anyway, what I was tryin’ to say is, you got nothin’ to be nervous about, sweetheart. I can promise you that. You’re a force o’ nature, you are. ‘N I don’t wanna hear nothin’ from you sayin’ otherwise, we clear?”
His complimentary words and joking conversation set you a little more at ease, and it’s the most comfortable you’ve felt with him all day. But it’s making you dizzy, all the back and forth between teasing you then being sweet on you, flirting with you then getting serious again. It’s hard to know what he truly wants from you, or what you want from him.
“Thank you, Joel. It means a lot.”
He makes an accepting noise, bows his head and gives your thigh a pat before removing his hand from you. You miss it as soon as it’s gone. 
He lets the rest of the ride pass in relative silence, save for his occasional hum of a few bars from one of your other songs, his fingers drumming on his thigh to accompany it. You keep your head turned to face the window so he doesn’t see you struggle to hide your proud grin, in utter disbelief that your teenage dreams have led you to Joel Miller getting one of your own songs stuck in his head.
You don’t want him to stop, so you don’t let on that you’ve even caught it. There’s something about you having wormed your way into his brain that you enjoy. It makes you feel closer to him, like maybe you’re affecting him the same way he’s affecting you. But you’re probably reading too far into things, trying to convince yourself that he’ll ever think of you as anything more than something fun to for him to poke and prod and play with. 
Your fantasies aren’t too dissimilar from that sentiment later that night, try as you might to push them away. Spread out on your tummy in your lonely double bed, your sheets are askew and your blankets have been thrown onto the floor thanks to this insufferable late autumn heat wave. The temperature had started rocketing up earlier this afternoon, and had only gotten worse as the evening progressed. You’ve tossed and turned for what must be hours now, sleep shorts now long discarded and tank top hiked halfway up your stomach. You’ve experimented with a million and one different positions in an effort to get comfortable, but they’ve all been useless, your ceiling fan’s incessant whirring making a pitiful attempt to keep up with the heat. 
As you shift your hips one last time, thinking that this next try will surely be the one that lulls you to sleep, you finally catch on to the dampness that hasn’t really left your core all day. Maybe that’s part of what’s making it impossible to get any rest: you need some relief.
You flip yourself onto your back, trailing a hand delicately down your abdomen, fingers skipping over the band of your panties until they reach the wet spot blooming in the gusset of them. With two fingers pressed firmly into your clothed clit, you buck your hips a few times and shudder at the sensation. You live alone, but your years of shame living under your mother’s roof still prompt you to stifle your needy whimpers. You’re already so sensitive, have been all day, and you can’t help when your mind immediately drifts to him.
It’s always been Joel, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not. He’s someone you’ve always looked up to as a musician, but you’d be lying if you said you’ve never thought about looking up to him in the literal sense, knelt at his feet.
The dominant charm he possesses is so natural you almost hate him for it. The way he takes up space, commands a room, broad shoulders and long legs and wide chest. Everything about him is big, even the parts you haven’t seen yet. His big hands, fuck, what they would feel like pressing against your aching cunt instead of your own slender ones. The thought makes your fingers rub faster, the movement of your pelvis becoming more frantic.
You hastily pull your panties to the side and slip one finger in, then two, pumping them in and out as the wet squelch of your juices bounce off the walls of your bedroom. You can never quite reach that sacred spot deep inside on your own, but there’s not a doubt in your mind that Joel would be able to without even trying.
You imagine the feeling of his expert fingers scissoring you open in place of yours, stretching you wide in preparation for what you’re certain is a well above average cock. You tried not to stare too obviously today, but if the sizable bulge he was sporting while watching you play was any indication, he’d be a struggle to fit inside. 
As you feel the knot in your belly grow tighter with every thrust of your fingers and cant of your hips, you find yourself thinking that you want him to make it fit, want him to tease you for having such a tight little cunt and praise you for being so eager to take all of him. Ever since he slipped you that good girl this morning, you had found yourself chasing after his praise for the rest of your time with him. You want him to tell you how good, how pretty, how special you are, while he pushes his length inside and gives you the first satisfying fuck of your life.
Despite your shyness and your modest clothing and that little charm around your neck, you aren’t a virgin, truth be told. You had lost it a year ago now, when you decided to say “fuck it” and took some scrawny bartender back to your apartment just to get it over with. He lasted all of thirty seconds, and the whole thing was entirely underwhelming, to say the least. You had kicked him out shortly after he had the nerve to ask if you came, and got yourself off thinking of someone bigger, older, with more tattoos and a deadlier charm and a dirtier mouth.
A few more shuddering breaths and desperate movements of your fingers later, you’re coming with Joel’s name on your lips, trying to conjure his voice in your mind saying there ya go, good girl, comin’ so pretty just for me.
As you float down from your high, you feel a little filthy for having such thoughts about someone you now had to work with for the next couple of months. But it’s not like you would ever actually act on them, everything would be fine if they just stayed locked away in the dark recesses of your mind. You’re sure he doesn’t see you that way, anyway. He was flirty today, sure, but that’s just how he is, it can’t possibly mean anything. It’s all just some big power trip, an ego boost, getting you worked up just to remind himself that he’s still got it. 
You find your way to the bathroom in the dark of night, cleaning yourself up with a damp cloth and splashing some cool water onto your face. Your apartment still feels like a sauna, and you’re now covered in an additional layer of sweat, but feeling too exhausted to do anything about it at this hour. You fall back onto your rumpled sheets and close your eyes, trying desperately not to think of what Joel might be doing right now.
As chance would have it, Joel is much in the same position as you were just moments ago. The silk sheets on his king size bed do a better job of keeping him cool than your shitty Walmart bedding, but his skin is still scorching as he fucks into his fist and tugs on his heavy balls. His face is screwed up in concentration, eyes shut tightly as he imagines it’s your hands instead of his, working him over while you look up at him through your long lashes. He thinks about your glossy lips formed into a pout, eyebrows knit as you ask him if it feels good, if you’re doing okay, so that he can whisper doin’ so well for me, such a good job, pretty girl, those lil’ hands fuckin’ made to be wrapped around my cock.
Even shut away in the spacious main bedroom of his million dollar home, platinum records and Grammys lining the shelves, all that’s on his mind now is the sexy little wannabe rockstar he’s going on tour with. His tattooed chest heaves as he gets closer to his release, grunting incoherent praises as his tip gets wetter and angrier.
God, how bad he had wanted rip those baggy jeans from your body so he could drink from you, suck hard on your clit like a piece of candy so he could make you forget all about your nerves and doubts, tear that crucifix from your delicate neck and have you worship him as your new deity. Don’t gotta worry ‘bout a thing, baby, just lemme take care of you, lemme make you mine. You pray to me now.
He wonders if you’ve ever sucked a cock before, if he’d get to be the one to walk you through it, train your lips and your throat to open wide and take him inside. He spits on his hand once, twice, three times, using it to simulate the feeling of your warm wet mouth on his dick, so inexperienced but so fucking eager to make him proud. He wonders if you’d let him come in your mouth, then decides you’d probably do just about anything he asks, because it’s him doing the asking. 
The thought is too much to bear, and he explodes all over his fist, his belly, his sheets, groaning your name and a disjointed string of expletives. 
Unlike you, he’s wide awake now, and takes a cold shower to rinse himself of his spend and to bring his body temperature back down from boiling. Even in the freezing water, his cock hangs long and heavy between his legs, aching for something tight and hot to sink into. 
You’re gonna ruin him, fuck.
He decides he’s had enough of the cold when it starts to make him shiver, and he steps out, rubbing a towel messily over his hair and body, just to dry himself enough so that he won’t drip all over the expensive marble tiling of his bathroom floor. He pulls on a clean pair of briefs and pads back to his bedroom, yanking the ruined sheets off the bed and collapsing onto his mattress, now covered only by a black silk fitted sheet. He’ll deal with them tomorrow, or rather, his housekeepers will. The ones he’s able to pay for thanks to the millions of records he’s sold. 
Letting the air conditioning dry the moisture from his skin, he adjusts the positioning of his head on the pillow a few times until his eyes land on something gold on the shelf, shining in the moonlight: Death’s Head’s Grammy for Best Rock Song, or one of them, anyway. Etched in gold on the award’s black pedestal are letters that spell out “Kiss it Better”, one of the band’s first hit singles, the one that launched them into the rock n’ roll limelight. He owes the success of that song to its distinctive intro, and he’s proud to have come up with the idea for it himself. He recorded it years ago now in some forgettable venue’s filthy excuse for a dressing room with an aspiring groupie whose name has long been ejected from his memory, replaced with yours.
He gets the idea then, begins his plot for how he’s going to get you on your knees for him, begging and whining. He knows that you’re familiar with the song already, if you’re as big of a fan as you claim to be. And when he asks on the first night of the tour if you’ll perform their last-minute opener with them, help him out with the intro, he knows you’ll say yes. So good, so eager, so desperate to make a good impression and prove yourself to him. 
His spent dick starts to kick up again at the mere thought, but he ignores it for now. He’ll have plenty of opportunity to get what he wants after he shows you what it’s like to hand yourself over to him, to surrender to Daddy.
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tag list: @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie @rebel-held @dilfgestivo @zliteraturehoe @joeldjarin @kamcrazy123
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loganslowdown4 · 2 months
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Roman: You’re going to do fine with this big presentation, Specs.
Logan: *stressed out* You’re only saying that because you love me. Love has made you dumb.
Roman: On the contrary, I think being in love with you has made me smarter than ever. Remember last week when I boiled that egg?
Logan: That was big. I was really proud of you.
@loginceweek2024
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anna-scribbles · 1 year
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congrats dr. swift on the new lovesquare album 
(lyrics from labyrinth by taylor swift) 
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yoyo-s-coffee · 2 months
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a break from the murder
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highttowers · 10 months
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i would like to point out the RATTLE OF COINS in jamie’s pocket when he gets to roy’s party. he knew he was going to swear, and my man came PREPARED for phoebe. i just know he pays his taxes ON TIME
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wri0thesley · 1 month
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Diluc and L, pretty please!
L - Lily (purity): “I shouldn’t taint you like this. Not when you’re so pure.”
cw: injury, dub-con, captive reader
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You're trembling. Diluc is blood-stained, his jaw set stubbornly, his clothes a mess of blood and charred carbon and mud and Archon-knows what else. You shouldn't have done this, you think, as his hand grasps your chin in his, as his fingers sink into the soft flesh of your cheek. He takes a slow, shuddering breath.
"You want to clean me up?" He asks you again, and you curse yourself for your own stupidity. He is your captor, not your lover. It can be hard to remember, wrapped in luxury, brought breakfast in bed by maids and dressed in pretty morning gowns of fabric you could never have afforded before Diluc's attentions - those days when Diluc is not here, and you can imagine Dawn Winery is yours.
But you are, at the heart of it, his captive.
When he is at home, he broods through the house; tells you shortly that you're not to leave this room, you're not to go onto the balcony without anyone with you, you're not to eat that, or say this, or forget your manners again. He sleeps beside you, arms like vices around your waist.
But he has not been home for two weeks, and when you had seen him at the door to your shared chambers, his face bruised and his lip swollen and bloody and his entire body bowed with exhaustion . . . you had forgotten all of it in a moment of weakness, and the memory of who you were before Diluc had made this your life had come rushing to the forefront.
You had seen to plenty of men and women injured like this, when you were in the employ of the Church of Favonius, running their clinics. You had patched up children's knees and sewn shut the wounds of the Knights with the same sweet smile and gentle disposition. You had learnt what to say to men like Diluc, who gritted their teeth and insisted it did not hurt and they did not need your assistance even as they fell to their knees on the marble floor of the cathedral and you had to ask some of the sisters to help carry them into the infirmary room.
You could backtrack. Slink back into bed, shake your head, say something about the mess and the scent of the blood--
But you couldn't really, could you? Diluc had - at least, he says - fallen in love with you in those little backroom infirmaries, elbow deep in blood and medicines and bandages. He had looked at your soft smile and heard your gentle voice and, he says, thought you far too sweet and precious a thing to languish there, at the mercy of any rogue who could walk into the Cathedral and ask for sanctuary. He would know you were lying.
You give him a wordless little nod instead, your face still cradled in his gloved hand. A look flits across his own visage; something so sweet and adoring and disbelieving it makes your stomach twist.
"I don't deserve you," he rumbles, and truer words have never been spoken, as he lets you take him gently by the arm and tug him towards the adjoining bathroom. You ignore the muddy boot-prints on the floor; you try and will yourself to imagine the Cathedral around you. Nothing more than Master Diluc Ragnvindr, needing your aid - you think, as your fingers reach for the fastening of his shredded, tattered jacket and push it off the broadness of his shoulders.
He lets out a hot breath that reminds you that this is not just an ordinary day at the Cathedral; looks at you through half-lidded eyes as you busy yourself with running warm water into the basin, searching for cloths and sponges. There is nothing untoward kept in this bathroom - Diluc does not even shave in here, lest you get the wrong idea about something sharp - but there are, thankfully, enough cloths and a tiny bottle of antiseptic, so that you can clean the wounds on his already scarred chest even as he hisses.
He . . . isn't often undressed around you.
That, he tells you, he will wait for - big soulful crimson eyes trained on you. Until you're ready. Until you realise just how hard he is working to take care of you and you return to him the affection he knows you have in your heart. He would never, he promises, hand on his heart, force you to do anything--
He says, as if you are not forced to play house like a pretty little spouse in his luxurious winery already. He says, as if you are not forced to bite down your growls and hisses and sharp words about the life he has stolen you from. He says, as if you are not forced to pretend you are someone else lest you simply go mad.
His breath is coming out in pants as you work your fingers through the matted crimson strands of his hair. His cheeks have flushed beneath your careful, slow attempts to clean him and his wounds. He groans, chest-deep, as you swallow and reach for his trousers, where you can already see that a gash on his thigh has stuck the fabric to his skin.
"This is how I fell in love with you," he grunts, as you manage to undo it, as your cheeks burn with humiliation as you undress him and he sits there, placid and silent. "So . . . lovely. So . . . caring. Even to those who don't deserve it." You kneel before him, so you can check over the wound to make sure there is nothing stuck in it--
And your mouth goes dry and fear and disgust war in the pit of your stomach as you realise he's hard, the stiff outline of his cock pressing against his underwear. Diluc reaches out for you, one hand curling around your shoulder, another soft groan falling from his mouth as he looks down at you.
You freeze where you are. The moment shimmers between you, charged with possibility, and you find yourself reciting a prayer to Barbatos in your head over and over again, muddling over the words in a fever pitch that Diluc will keep his word--
But he's been off ever since he limped into the Winery. Muddled. A blow to the head? Whopperflower nectar? Some creature's venom, some spell from the Abyss? You don't know what it is, only that Diluc is looking down at you and there is a hot, burning kind of hunger that he usually tries to hide written clear in his crimson gaze.
"You're so pretty down there," He says, voice low and dark and husky. "I . . . I shouldn't taint you like this. Not when you're so pure."
"Diluc?" Your voice comes out thready and reedy, your body trembling like a harp-string. "Let me patch you up--"
"No," Diluc says, more to himself than to you. "I've waited so long--"
The hand on your shoulder curves upwards, thumb brushing your collarbone, your jawline. You curse the thin little morning gown you'd let Adelinde dress you in this morning, the square neckline a little risque - giving Diluc unfettered access to the soft, vulnerable skin of your throat and your collar.
He's not interested in those, though. His thumb presses against the seam of your lips, instead. With a strength that an injured man should not possess, he uses his other hand to pull you closer at the same time as he hooks his thumb into your mouth, forcing it to open up.
Panic flaring in your mind. Diluc pulls your mouth open as wide as he can, uncaring that you're drooling - his eyes are somewhere far away now, as he mutters to himself--
"It's not so bad," he's saying, "I'm not . . . it's just your mouth, and I've been so calm, and you're so beautiful-- it won't . . . ruin you--"
"--'iluc--" You can't speak for his thumb in your mouth, for the saliva filling it, for the fear that runs through you as his other hand slowly goes to unbutton his placket as if in a trance.
"Shh," he says to you, and you have never heard a less reassuring hush. "It's alright, sweetheart. I would never hurt you. You offered, remember? I would never . . . force you to do anything--"
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