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#-no matter if it's pantomimed
blueiight · 11 months
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all of the charas in the vc show adaptation was physically aged up it wasnt just selectively aging up& down physical appearances. theres a whole premise of a second interview that wasnt there. daniel molloy was a young man in the modern times , but hes an old man in the modern times. claudia who was 5 at turning was 14, armand who was 17 was ~26-27, louis who was 25 was 33, lestat who was 21 is now ~36-37 at turning. funnily enough in terms of literal ages, lestat and armand were turned in the same time period as their book counterparts. as a result of altering the timeline tho, claudia & louis now are much younger in a literal sense, despite their older appearances. theyre now entering ww2 & a post ww2 europe as mere 30-40+ and 60-70+ yrs old to their book counterparts who were 60-70+ and ~100 entering a different , older europe.
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streimiv · 5 months
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I am having a bad streak with romance books
i desperately desperately need writers to understand the importance of showing and not telling when it comes to romance. the whole point of romance is the lingering, the adoration, the self indulgent voyeurism of intimacy- if you don't let the reader partake in moments of emotional vulnerability then they won't find themselves emotionally invested in the romance
you can' t just write "they woke up in one another's arms, fumbling into one another's embrace the day before" and assume that will carry the weight of the connection being made between the two characters, especially if they've been awkward and near hostile to one another for TWENTY chapters!!!! SHOW ME their fumbling, their awkward conversation. Show me how we got from "oh god he hates me" to "i woke up in his arms"!
similarly, don't fucking have a non-involved third party character intrude midway through a moment of intimacy and give them nothing of value to say about it. "I walked in on him holding her in his arms"- and what do you think about it? Don't just observe, this is an active participant in the romance, what does THIS love interest feel about what is happening? How does that complicate things for him? Is he jealous? Afraid? Confused? Expound on that, I'm fucking begging you.
Or, tell it from one of the active participants pov!!! That would be even MORE compelling!!! Why did he do this? What made this stoic and cold and uncaring character WANT to hold the heroine in his arms? What is HE feeling in this moment???
Like I get there's a plot going on and that's all well and good- but this is a romance novel. The goal isn't just to get from point A to point B, but to give me moments in between that make me think that point B is worth reaching at all!!! Plot does not happen via a character telling me "this happened" plot happens via things actively occurring! If there is an important conversation, let us be part of it! Don't just tell us the aftermath!!! I am begging you!!!
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system-to-the-madness · 2 months
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お米 Okome - Inumaki Toge x Reader
Pairing: Inumaki Toge x Reader (can be read as any gender, no pronouns used) Genre: hurt/comfort, fluff Word Count: 4 532 Warnings: mentions of blood and injury Summary: Inumaki hates that he can’t use his voice to express his feelings towards you
Masterlist
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Inumaki Toge doesn’t usually struggle with his fate. If there’s a situation he doesn’t like, he prefers action over lament and puts his mind to work to find a way to change it. Sure, there are situations he can’t change, his cursed speech for example, then he works around those things, finds a way to deal with it somehow. He talks in onigiri ingredients, occasionally uses a notebook or his phone’s note app to communicate more difficult matters. Inumaki Toge doesn’t usually struggle with his fate.
Except now he does. His eyes fall on Yuuta and you, sitting on a bench underneath the Momiji, red leaves sparkling in the autumn sun. Even from the distance where Toge just stepped out of the building across the yard, he can tell how hard you’re laughing, can tell that Yuuta has the biggest grin on his face. He stops, several different thoughts shooting through his head all at once. He loves your laugh. He wants to make you laugh too. He can’t, because of his cursed speech. He envies Yuuta for being able to tell you joke and making you laugh like that. And suddenly he remembers this thing he read in a magazine, that said that girls like boys who can make them laugh, and his stomach sinks.
 Toge already knows you like Yuuta. Its’s obvious. Do you like him because he can make you laugh? Toge stops in his steps where he was about to walk over to join the two of you, his heart suddenly thrumming almost painfully in his chest. Do you like Yuuta? He watches his black-haired friend, watches as he lifts his hand and leans a little closer to you. You stop laughing and lean in too. For a terrifying moment Toge thinks he’s about to witness you, the classmate he may or may not have had the biggest crush on since your first one-on-one training session, kiss his friend. But you don’t. Instead, you listen to something Yuuta says that Toge can’t make out over the distance and burst into another fit of laughter.
Suddenly Toge feels like crying. He could never make you laugh like that. Not by whispering a few words into the narrow space between you, not by letting words roll over his tongue. He can write them down, or pantomime them, or fool around to make you laugh, but he can never whisper them.
He wants to talk to you about normal things too, about the stupid weather, or how pretty you look with that new hoodie, or how clever your answers in class were, or how annoying Gojo and this new homework is. He doesn’t want to have to use his notebook for every slightly more complicated conversation, but he can’t be sure you would understand him if he didn’t. It doesn’t stop him from wishing he could use his voice to talk to you. Ever since he really, truly understood his cursed technique, he’s realized just how powerful and yet intimate voice is.
It’s something he’ll never be able to use to communicate his feelings.
Once, not long after Yuuta had joined the school, they, together with Panda, had talked about it. Or rather Yuuta and Panda had talked about his cursed technique, and he had listened. Panda had joked that if he ever wanted someone to kiss him, he could just use his cursed technique, which Yuuta had disagreed on, saying he’d need the other person’s permission to use his technique on them, otherwise it’d be harassment. Panda, who hadn’t thought about that, had quickly agreed, and the two had joked around a bit longer about the possibilities this offered. Toge thought about their words a lot. But there was something inside him, that wholly refused to use his technique for these purposes. It just wouldn’t feel right. Even if the other person agreed, or even asked him to do it, it would be like he’d take their will from them. He’d never do that for his own pleasure.
Toge gets pulled back into the moment by your voice calling for him. He blinks and looks up, finding you and Yuuta had turned to face him, waving him over. As much as he appreciates Yuuta, and as much as he likes you, he doesn’t feel like going over. He doesn’t want to hear the way your voice probably rises in pitch when talking to the special grade sorcerer, doesn’t want to watch Yuuta subtly touch you, doesn’t want to feel like he’s intruding on this moment between you, doesn’t want to burden himself with more heartbreak than he already signed up for.
He swallows thickly before he crosses his arm like an X in front of his chest.
“Okaka,” he denies, continuing his way as if he had planned on moving towards the dojo, instead of towards his friends.
He doesn’t dare to glance over to see your reaction. Are you disappointed? If you were, he’d feel guilty. If you weren’t, he’d be disappointed. If he’s being honest, he can understand that you like Yuuta. The guy is sensitive, and quiet, a good listener, great at giving advice. He’s funny and overall great company. And he’s crazy powerful. Otherwise he wouldn’t be a special grade sorcerer. And he saved your life when Toge himself was of absolutely no help whatsoever, instead almost throwing up from the taste of his own blood.
Toge is nothing in comparison to Yuuta. Sure, he has a strong technique. A strong technique he can use two to three times before his throat is bleeding. And he can be funny, or at least he’s good at making a fool of himself. And he can listen, but he never knows what to answer, worried that whichever advice he gives, it might not actually be helpful, or only make everything worse. So, if you like Yuuta, he gets it. If he were in your place, he’d also prefer Yuuta over himself. Not that you have to choose between the two of them, you could also be interested in neither of them. But the point stands: Yuuta is the better fit for you, and as much as Toge wants you to be happy, it breaks his heart.
-
“What was that,” asks Yuuta, tearing his eyes away from his retreating friend and looking at you instead.
You’re still watching Inumaki leave, his posture somewhat sunken in, hands buried in his pockets. He looks defeated and somehow you want to run after him, ask him what’s wrong. But that would be too pushy, too clingy, wouldn’t it? So instead, you swallow and turn back to Yuuta.
“I don’t know,” you sigh. “He’s been… weird lately.”
Yuuta nodded. “I know, right? And ever since that last mission…”
That last mission, on which Gojo sent the three of you. That last mission where Inumaki’s voice gave out before he could finish the command, which lead to the curse injuring you. That last mission where Yuuta had been the one who had finished the short fight in just a single blow. You knew better than to assume that Inumaki was jealous of Yuuta’s power. You knew he wasn’t. But still something seemed to have dimmed his formerly good relationship with Yuuta. And with you too. He avoided you, texted you less throughout the day, reduced his already limited vocabulary to the equivalents of agreement and disagreement. You feel like you’ve made a mistake somehow, said or done something that hurt him.
“Do you think he’d talk to me about it,” you wonder, your voice small, nothing left of the breathless laughter from a moment ago.
Yuuta chews on his lip as he considers your question, and you know he’s considering a few things he officially doesn’t even know about. For example that you like Inumaki, that you make an active effort to spend time with him, have conversations with him. You’re the one who understands him the best, understands his language the best, even without the notebook.
What you don’t know, is that Yuuta also knows the other side of the story. He knows that Inumaki uses his notebook with you the most, because he wants you to understand his mind. He knows that Inumaki spends a lot of time considering each and every conversation he’s had with you. Sometimes, it’s late at night, and Yuuta gets a text from Inumaki, telling him about a conversation he’s had with you and if he should have replied something else. It’s not hard to tell that Inumaki is absolutely enamoured with you, and you with him. At least it’s not hard to tell from Yuuta’s perspective. But the way Inumaki and you never seem to understand the affection the other is harbouring, Yuuta begins to think that it’s actually very hard to tell from either of your perspectives. Or you’re both just idiots. Which, honestly, as much as he likes the two of you, is more likely.
“I’m not sure,” Yuuta eventually answers your question. There’s a lot Inumaki is bottling up, a lot he doesn’t even tell Yuuta about, stuff Yuuta can only assume. “But I think he’d probably appreciate it if you asked. Maybe he won’t tell you what’s going on, but I think he’d be glad to know you care.” This is as much as he can do to be honest without giving his friend’s secret away to you. A secret, Yuuta doesn’t even know officially.
“Don’t you think he’d get annoyed? He looked pretty upset just now,” you ask. You’re torn between wanting to show Inumaki that you cared, and scared of getting sent away or even worse, him getting angry at you.
“I mean, if you’re worried about it, you can always give him an hour or two. But I don’t think he’d mind if it were you, checking up on him.”
You don’t question Yuuta’s phrasing. Everyone knows you and Inumaki understand each other on a different level, the speed at which you sometimes communicate in single words thrown back and forth leaving the others out of their wits and completely clueless what the conversation was about.
“I’ll give him five,” you decide, leaning your back against the wooden table and glancing up at the red leaves overhead. “If he gets mad at me, it’s on you.”
Yuuta laughs, knowing you’re not serious. You’re not the kind of person who blames others for the outcome of your actions.
“He’d never get mad at you.”
“He looked pretty mad at me for getting injured on that last mission,” you disagree with Yuuta.
“He wasn’t mad at you. He was mad at himself. He blamed your injury on himself, when he couldn’t stop that curse because his voice gave out.”
You winced at the memory of blood trickling down from the corner of Inumaki’s mouth. He had once told you that he sometimes got sick from the taste, and after the curse was taken care of by Yuuta, it had been easier to focus on Inumaki than your own state. You remembered how awful the bright red blood had looked against his unusually pale skin.
“It wasn’t his fault, and he knows that.”
“Rationally yes,” Yuuta agreed. “But he still blames himself.”
“I’m surprised he talked to you about that,” you admit, closing your eyes in the sun. Behind your eyelids the picture of Inumaki’s bloody and scared face haunts your memory. You open your eyes again. “He never mentioned anything like that to me.”
“He didn’t, but it’s obvious,” Yuuta said.
“Is it?”
He just hummed in agreement.
“What else is obvious?”
“A lot. But that’s not mine to talk about.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you and Inumaki really should talk about some stuff,” Yuuta answers, “Like for example that you like him.” He almost feels bad at the way you freeze up beside him.
“I don’t,” you deny, but there is no force in your voice.
“Just saying,” Yuuta shrugs. “A lot of stuff is obvious. Just not to you and him.”
There’s a moment of silence and you have a feeling Yuuta knows what you’re about to ask, your cheeks burning with shame, but you ask anyway.
“Does he like me too?”
Yuuta turns to you then, his big eyes studying you for a moment intensely. “You don’t have to ask me that. You have to ask him.”
You exhale with a sigh a glance at your wristwatch: “Fine… maybe not today, tho.”
Yuuta chuckles, knowing that that’s going to be your response for every day to come, but he doesn’t call you out for it. He doesn’t know if he’d have the courage to confess his feelings if he were in your position either.
“Welp, his five minutes are up. I’m gonna see if he’s okay,” you declare, and stand up from the bench you had been lounging on. “Just-” you glance down at your classmate. “Just don’t tell him about this conversation, will you?”
Yuuta nods. “I can keep a secret,” he smiles, and you’re satisfied, before you head into the same direction Inumaki ran off to a few minutes prior.
He wasn’t in the dojo where you expected him to be after he had wandered off there, so left a little helpless, you began searching for him. After checking all the usual places, you finally spied him sitting hunched over on a bench next to the koi pond in one of the small, traditional gardens squeezed between the buildings. He looked lost in thought, so you made an effort to not walk too quietly as not to startle him. But when you reached the bench and he still hadn’t turned to look up you, you furrowed your brows in confusion. Was he mad at you?
“Inumaki-san,” you asked quietly, sitting down next to him with a safe distance. He wasn’t wearing his full uniform, instead of the black jacket he had pulled a warm, green vest over the white shirt sleeved shirt with the high collar that hid his curse marks. “Toge?”
At the use of his given name, he finally looked up at you.
Your breath stopped when you saw the sadness in his purple eyes. He quickly blinked it away, but you knew what you had seen, your heart hurting at the way he had seemed so lost. Maybe even worse was that he didn’t want to show his feelings to you, instead masking them up.
“What’s wrong.”
“Okaka.” Nothing. Why?
“Don’t,” you warned him, “Don’t lie to me. Please don’t.”
“Okaka, okaka!” I’m not lying!  He said it with amusement in his voice, but when you failed to smile, his eyes grew serious again. “Okaka.” Nothing’s wrong.
“You know you can talk to me, right?”
“Shake, shake.” Yeah, yeah, I know.
“Do you want to talk to me?”
This time his answer took longer, and it was only quietly spoke when he answered with another “Shake.”
Instead of saying anything else, he began reaching for the notebook he always carried with him, but before his fingertips had even grazed the cover, you caught his hand.
“You can talk to me. I’ll understand you. No notebook needed.”
Toge looked up at you then, his eyes widened. What did you mean, you didn’t need the notebook? Would you really understand him?
“Tuna,” he mumbled, averting his gaze from yours, but from the corner of his eyes he saw you tilt your head. How the hell was he supposed to communicate his feelings with onigiri ingredients? He had words to agree and disagree, words to catch attention and swear, but how was he supposed to tell you his greatest wish was to talk to you without having to use this damn notebook, that he wanted to just use normal language, like everyone else? How was he supposed to tell you how much it hurt to see you liking Yuuta? “Okaka.” It won’t work.
“You can try. And if it doesn’t work, you can still write it down, okay?”
“Shake.” Okay. He reached his hand up, absentmindedly running his fingers over his curse marks peeking out from under his high collar. “Ikura.” I hate them.
He had more mumbled that to himself, but you nodded. “They don’t make life very easy, do they?”
“Shake.” No, they don’t. Toge focused on what he wanted you to know, that he wished he could talk to you without risking cursing you. “Furikake… saamon.”
Okay, this was new. Not just one, but two new ingredients. Rice spice and the other word for salmon. You furrowed your brows. “Can you say that again?”
“Furikake saamon,” Toge repeated, slowly, trying to convey his feelings through just these two words. This was never gonna work.
“You want to talk about your thoughts?”
His eyes widened at your correct interpretation of his words.
“Shake, shake!” Enthusiastically he nodded his head. “Furikake saamon! Nori nai!”
“Nori nai, nori na- you don’t want to use…”
“Nori!” He motioned to his mouth, then to the notebook in his pocket.
“Onigiri ingredients and the notebook? You don’t want to use them?”
“Shake, shake!”
He nodded again, and you could see how excited he was, his eyes shining with disbelief that he had managed to communicate something so out of context to you. Quickly he reached up and pulled the zipper of his collar down, so he could additionally use his mimic to tell you what he was thinking.
“Tarago Furikake.” His lilac eyes were widened expectantly, as he waited for you to decipher his words.
“You want to talk?”
He nodded, then pointed at you. “Tarago furikake,” he repeated, underlining his words with stabbing his finger into your direction.
“You want to talk to me?”
“Shake. Nori nai furikake tamago. Okaka.”
“I know. I know it’s difficult without the notebook,” you sighed. “But we’re managing. Right? It might take me a while to get used to it, but I we’re having a normal conversation right now, right? A bit like talking with someone in a foreign language, but not much different than that.”
Toge smiled, the sight making your breath hitch. You were used to seeing his eyes squeeze together when he smiled, but his mouth usually was covered by his collar. You couldn’t help but think that he was one of the most beautiful people you knew.
“Furikake nai, tamago, maguro, nori” he continued.
“Maguro,” you repeated the second last word, thinking what he might have meant. Quietly you mumbled the phrase he had just uttered, your eyes skipping away from his face and over the koi pond instead, as if the translation were written in the ripples on the water surface. Without talking, having to write everything down, he felt bad… like an outsider. Your eyes widened. Was this really what he had wanted to say? That he felt like an outsider? You looked back at him, seeing the shock on his face as he took in your expression.
“We’re making you feel like an outsider because you can’t talk to us? Toge-“
“Okaka, Okaka!” He quickly waved his hands around, signalling you had misunderstood. “Tamago. Maguro.” He pointed to himself.
“You feel like an outsider?”
“Shake!”
“Because you can’t talk to us?”
“Shake.” This time his voice was quieter, and he averted his gaze.
You exhaled quietly. You knew there was not much you could do to change the way he felt, nothing you weren’t doing already anyway. But to deny his feelings wouldn’t be right, even if you wanted to convince him that he wasn’t an outsider.
“I’m sorry,” you started. “I promise you, to us, you’re an integral part of the group, even if you don’t feel like you always are. Do you… do you have any ideas how we could help you feel more included?”
Toge shook his head. “Okaka,” he denied, and then pointing at himself: “Tamago.” It’s my negative feeling. “Tanaka-zuku mentaiko.” You’re doing everything right. There’s nothing you can do to change that. He hesitated for a moment before he added: “Furikake.”HHe hesitated for a moment before he added.
“Of course, we’ll keep talking to you. And you see that you can talk to us too. If I can learn to understand you, so can the others.”
Toge seriously doubted that, but he didn’t voice his thought, instead focusing back on what you had been talking about. “Tarago furikake mayo. Tuna-mayo furikake, saamon tamago, shiisamu. Takana-zuke tarago tuna-mayo shiisamu.”
You stared at him intensely, making his heart race. There was no way you had understood what he had just said. Was there? He was using words he had never used with you, or anyone at jujutsu high, before. He had sometimes used them when he had been younger, when he had talked to his toys as a little kid, finding ingredients for almost anything he could think of. That he still remembered them was a surprise. But there was no way you’d understand him like this, not even when he tried to embed the sentimental meaning of each word into his voice. Your eyes skipped over his face, as you were thinking hard, and Toge waited for the “Sorry, I don’t know what you mean, please write it down.” But it didn’t come. Instead, you answered him.
“I want you to be able to talk openly too. And I’d love to hear about the bad things you think and feel as much as about the good things. Because they’re part of you. Even when they’re hard, even when they’re painful and difficult to admit. But that’s why we have each other, right? So we’re not alone, so the difficult times aren’t quite as difficult. And you already make me laugh, you already make me feel happy. I’m always the happiest when I’m with you.”
You hadn’t used the word friend. The thought rang in Toge’s mind, and together with your last sentence it accumulated to the next words that spilled over his lips, words he had been certain he’d never actually say out loud. Words, which’s meaning he had thought he’d never communicate to you in any form or way.
“Tarago tuna-mayo furikake okome. Tarago tanaka-zuke okome.”I want to use my voice to tell you that I’m in love with you. I want you to be in love with me too.
The moment the words had left his lips, he wanted to make it all undone. What if you had understood him and didn’t feel the same way? All this time he wished you’d understand him, and now he hoped you hadn’t understood a word of what he had just uttered. The way you stared at him wide eyed was a good sign that you really hadn’t.
“Okome,” you asked, your heart beating in your throat. If you had thought rationally about the way he was listing food, you wouldn’t have had the faintest idea of what he had wanted to express, but somehow his emotions were swinging in his words, like the sounds accumulated to a meaning that wasn’t transported by words.
“Mentaiko,” he began, wanting to lift his hands to wave it off, to tell you that it wasn’t important.
But before he had completed the gesture, you caught his wrist with your dominant hand, raising the other between you, pointing at him.
“Okome,” you asked before pointing to yourself. Your voice was shaky, and you could see the moment Toge realized you had understood him.
His eyes widened and he paled a little, swallowing hard. You could see the fear in his eyes. He was afraid you’d turn him down, you realized, and your heart broke a little.
So, what did you do, when your best friend, who you had liked for far too long without acting on it, accidentally confessed his love to you? Using the word for “rice” nonetheless, the base ingredient for onigiri. Because just like one couldn’t make rice balls without rice, humans couldn’t live without love.
You repeated the gesture towards yourself, pointing at you again. “Okome,” you said, voice just as shaky as before, before pointing at Toge.
His eyes followed your finger, the way it was pointing right at his chest, where his heart was stuttering in excitement, and then doing cartwheels, as the realization began settling in.
“Okome,” he asked in disbelieve.
But you just nodded. “Okome.”
He acted quicker than you could really perceive. Your one hand was still holding onto his wrist, to stop him from gesticulating, his skin warm underneath yours, but with the other he grabbed the hand with which you had pointed between you and him. His fingers wrapped around yours tightly, pulling you towards him, pressing your hand right over his heart, while he leant in at the same time, connecting his lips to yours.
A shiver went through you, at the feeling of his warm body underneath his clothes, at his soft lips pressed to yours, at the strange tingling of cursed energy that radiated from his cursed mark. And then you abandoned all thoughts, and just acted on instinct, moving closer to him, wrapping your hand into the fabric of his vest, and kissing him like you had wanted to kiss him for such a long time already.
A sound of appreciative surprise erupted from Toge’s throat and you could feel him smile as he met your kiss with equal fervour, running the tip of his tongue over the seam of your lips. When you parted them just the smallest fraction, he didn’t hesitate to slip his tongue past them, exploring your mouth until both of you had to pull away for breath. You were breathing heavily, your mind foggy, fingers wrapped into his vest, holding on to something, otherwise it felt like the world would just slip away.
When you opened your eyes, you found he was already looking at you. His beautiful eyes were scanning over your face as if searching for any sign of discomfort, as if he expected you to scold him for kissing you. Honestly, at this point the only scolding he’d get was that he had stopped kissing you.
Unwrapping one of your hands from where you had clung to him, you brushed a strand of his bright hair out of his forehead, the curl soft against your fingertips. With a smile you leant forward, and pressed your lips to his left cheek, then the curse mark there, feeling the cursed energy sizzle through them. You moved on to his right cheek, then his forehead, the tip of his nose, his chin, peppering small kisses all over his face until he was full on laughing and took hold of your face with both of his hands, pulling you only far enough away from him to be able to look into your eyes. His were still crinkled in joy, but his voice was serious and heavy with how much he meant this single word phrase that left his lips without hesitation.
“Okome.” And then he kissed you again, slower this time, just to make sure you understood each little detail of what he felt for you. Inumaki Toge sometimes struggled with his fate, but as long as he had you to understand him, what else could he really ask for?
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Tags: @nnasv @ashy-akuma @delzinrowe
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cardentist · 5 months
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"yes trans mascs experience transphobia, but there's no such thing as trans mascs experiencing bigotry Specifically Related to them being men/from being related to men"
my mom, after some time sorting her feelings and sifting through trans resources, was accepting of my being a trans person. it took work, but it happened. she sought out trans media from trans people, she took initiative to inform other family members and put herself between me and them.
and she completely refused to even start the process of Maybe getting me on testosterone for 10 years, until I aged out of being covered by her health insurance and couldn't afford to do it myself.
Specifically And Entirely because she was terrified that testosterone was going to make me an angry, violent person. that it was going to, in her own word, "give me roid rage."
for years she made vague pantomimes about eventually seeing about transitioning, but That reasoning would still come up no matter how I tried to explain it to her otherwise.
I am not a particularly violent person, if maybe stubborn. but that didn't matter. what Mattered is that my mother had a preconceived notion of what testosterone does, what Masculinity Does, and that notion was an inherently negative, scary one.
and Because Of That I was denied access to resources That I Need for Years. something that has carried over into the rest of my adult life.
and I see sentiments like hers online, even and sometimes Especially in trans spaces, all the time.
this vision of men as inherently violent, of masculinity as inherently dangerous, and the onus placed in the laps of Trans Men (and often, on Trans Boys) to diminish and shrink themselves to Prove that they're non-threatening enough to be tolerated.
and it bares pointing out that this Isn't just something that affects trans men. trans Women are just as affected by this association with maleness as an inherently corrupting factor. and so to are butch women and nonbinary people presented as violent and scary.
likewise, I see Similar sentiments pushed at butches and trans mascs that it's their job to Protect other people within the queer community, that image of violence and anger filtered through a softer light designating their Use. you're Allowed to be a Scary Masculine Creature as long as you dedicate yourself to protecting the weaker frailer other (which is, you know. Sexist And Weird).
but it's like. people don't Want to think about different kinds of trans and gnc people having overlapping experiences, so instead people like to decide which Kind of people are allowed to have this experience and cut other sorts of people out of those conversations.
it's not about what a particular person's gender or presentation Is, it's how that person Is Perceived and the way that they're treated Because Of that perception. sometimes this transphobia that fears masculinity looks like a perception of scary men trying to pretend to be women, sometimes it looks like a perception of women Becoming scary men, and everything that lies in between (with combinations therein).
finding a term that is used to describe this is Useful not just for giving trans mascs a way to talk about their experiences without encroaching on other conversations about transness. but Also in giving us words to describe a specific phenomenon that Can affect All trans people (and gnc people, and genderqueer people, etc), but that is difficult for us to recognize as a shared experience because people seem to think that sharing experiences is either impossible or a bad thing.
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jleijl · 3 months
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ALL MINE
summary: your admonishments of not drinking fall on deaf ears. unlucky for you, satoru happens to be the clingiest drunk, and always ends up in your arms.
warnings: drunk gojo, clingy possessive gojo, he’s annoying and whiney, i dont watch or read jjk
A/N: bro i said i was writing this and ellie said watch it come out in a year FAWK U ITS HERE. anyways i still havent watched jjk i am the biggest fraud but i know that gojo doesnt drink….but who gaf
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“what’s with you?”
you stop in place of the doorway, stood on one foot while the other dangles a shoe. you stare at the boy in front of you—slumped over the kitchen counter with an almost pantomimic grimace on his face. his lips purse, pouted and glossy.
“well pardon me for feeling a little glum after my best friend ditches me for some, low life.. losers!” he’s stumbling over his own words at the end as he raises his voice. you pinch the bridge of your nose before ridding the rest of your shoes and striding over to where he’s sulking.
“a little is an understatement,” you muse. your fingers make way through his tussled white locks, scratching his scalp. the boy physically relaxes at your touch but contradicts it with an even deeper scowl. “and for the last time, it was a last minute group meetup! we forgot to add citations on the board and—” he’s giving you that piercing stare. it’s useless to explain yourself; you sigh.
“oh, don’t be such a baby.” you ruffle his hair before getting up to open the fridge. not two seconds go by before his voice suddenly sounds from behind you again.
“pour me a shot,” satoru edges his words with a whine. “i wasn’t going to drink tonight but damn, i missed you like a motherfucker,” you’re only snorting at his antics.
“you don’t drink satoru. you can’t drink.”
“that’s not true!”
when he stands up, satoru towers over you, though, that fact isn’t exclusive to you. and if he wants something, there’s no stopping him either.
the ordeal unfolds into you tugging on his sleeve uselessly, scolding him away from your nice wines. to that you’re met with a mischievous grin and he pulls you to the side with one arm while the other grabs the liquor.
“you’re not gonna drink that if you know what’s good for you.”
the tables have flipped completely, your face now the one being adorned with a scowl. you’re pliant in his arms despite this—there’s zero point in fighting against satoru’s hold on you, something you’ve come to learn the hard way.
“doesn’t matter what happens, i’ve got you to take care of me,” his chirps before taking a swig. you grimace.
“i’ll leave you here on the kitchen floor.”
he pulls you closer to his body and just kisses your nose. “you wouldn’t,” his breath tickles you.
just as predicted, the situation soon presented itself with satoru’s long limbs tangled in your own as he clings to you relentlessly. his pale skin is flushed hot and rosy, the high points of his face gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. it’s warm inside due to your (you’d argue worthwhile) investment in heating, and to make matters worse, satoru’s body runs on the hot end.
right now, you’re undoubtedly stuck sweating in his grasps.
“y/n..”
“yeah, yeah,” your hand moves to push his face away from yours; you feel him smile into your palm. he had been whining your name for the past five minutes with no foreseeable conclusion to his nonsense. “i heard you the first 50 times.”
the boy leans into your hand.
“so cute,” he hiccups. “so, so cute.”
he follows that by burying your face into his chest.
aside from the main technical concerns regarding infinity, satoru get painstakingly clingy and—if it were even possible—a thousand times more whiny under the influence. and unfortunately, his person of choice to clean up after him is you.
“y/n…” he drawls out once more. his speech is slow and thick, each sentence coated honey sweet. you feel his face press against the top of your head. “…all mine,” it’s muffled but you can hear the stupid smile in his voice. so giddy and happy around you, always.
“alright buddy,” you make a move to pull away but that quickly fails as he tightens his hold. “let’s, ugh, get you some water.”
voice still muffled against your hair, satoru mumbles out a no.
“i’ll start yelling if you leave,” he slurs. you can’t help but to scoff at his childish threat, though you of all people know better than to go against satoru’s demands. he presses a kiss against your forehead as if to mediate his response and to convince you. “stay.”
he hums contently when you sigh and relax into his arms.
“all mine, like you were made to be.”
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shirefantasies · 4 months
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Can I ask for a request?
For the fellowship men? So they get wounded and their crush have to nurse them? And she is total calm with that like "Hun your leg is bleeding you have to take off your pants so I can treat the wound" and she's total obvious and didn't get the longing looks she get oder when he ist flustered and shiver because she touch his skin. ("Sry for the cold hands")
I’ll do my best! Tried to vary up the scenarios a bit 😉 thank you so much for requesting 😌 Warnings: some blood & injury mentions, minor language, some suggestive jokes!
The Fellowship When Their Crush Cares For Their Wound
Aragorn
"Won't you please sit down?"
The tender urgency of your words finally ran a shock through Aragorn, who complied. Perhaps it truly was no good to continue pressing on at the detriment of the group.
"Very well. We rest!"
"That was not so hard, was it?" You asked him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Now, if you please." Pantomiming removing your shirt, you nodded his way.
Aragorn's brows furrowed, blue eyes fixing you with concern, questioning, as he sat and tightened his bootstraps.
"I saw that slash you took," you breathed, "let yourself be cared for."
Inhaling, he nodded, unlacing and shrugging down his tunic. Never had you made such a request before, but giving as you were, it made sense. Such nature was what inevitably drew Aragorn to you. Your touch was soft as you reached out to caress the skin above where he had been injured. Cleaned it just as gently.
"What?" You suddenly broke the silence, tilting your head and fixing Aragorn with an innocent bat of your eyes. You truly had no idea.
He shook his head, a smile playing upon his lips to swallow the wince of pain as you began wrapping his cut flesh in bandages. "Nothing. Only gratitude at the care of your heart and the ease of your hands."
You smiled back, sending Aragorn's chest leaping somewhere far deeper than the pain could reach.
Legolas
"You're bleeding."
"It is nothing, really," the elven prince tried to brush you off, but shaking your head, you stepped in front of him.
"Keep not your pride so tight about you," you chastised, hands upon your hips and a teasing look upon your face, "the dwarf can't see you. Come. Let me at least wrap it up for you."
Legolas's expression softened at your words, and with a slight nod, he followed. Wordlessly he removed his layers when you reached a spot off to the side, dark eyes never leaving you as he revealed the entirety of the wound, a slash near his collarbone. Unthinkingly, your hands went right to the area around it.
"Oh, Legolas, it's worse than I..." You paused, feeling him shiver. "I'm sorry, are my hands cold?"
"A bit," he replied with a bit of a smile, resting both of his hands over yours.
Flushing, you shake your head. "I am supposed to be caring for you."
Legolas just smiled at you. "Can we not have both? This is the least I can do."
"True," you teased, "I suppose it benefits us both, does it not?"
"Indeed," he nodded, "but mostly yet I know no other way to show my heart's gratitude."
Boromir
"I can hardly believe you!"
"Believe what? We are safe again," Boromir replied, a hand tightly clasping your shoulder.
"You are well aware what, you hero of a man," you shot back, waving a hand up and down his form, "now go and lie down for me already!"
"Oh?" His brows shot up at your words. "Is that how you like it?"
"No matter me, you've been wounded! Being surrounded upon all sides and grazed with arrows does that to a man. I saw the one that caught your side and while I'd like to hold you up as much as you need, first we'd best patch you up."
"Oh," Boromir said again, this time a bit dumbly as he lowered to the ground with a nod. His teasing tone quickly returned, however, "Yes, indeed, whatever you say. I forget what a great healer you are."
"Well, I certainly may not be the best, but there is no reason to burden oneself with wounds already inflicted. Not to mention it mostly got your back."
The moment Boromir exposed himself, he glanced back at you, catching the trace of your eyes over his skin. Your hands soon fell upon it, working quickly to clean and wrap up the bloody graze nice and tight. What surprised him, though, was the work of your hands after this, your fingers kneading the skin around it. Pleasure and pain rolled in equal waves through him as you did so.
"My apologies, does this hurt too much? I felt you start a bit just now. My brother just told me that we heal better if we're relaxed."
"And I believe that wholeheartedly," Boromir agreed with a smile, "please continue. I must confess I have never received such fine treatment before."
Giggling at his comment and eliciting a chuckle from him in return, you continued with a smile of your own.
Gimli
“Sit still!”
“I can still fight!”
“Like hell you will,” you shot back, stopping Gimli again with a hand across his chest, “I don’t care what you think you can do, you just could have been killed! Now stay there, please. I’m worried about you.”
Spoken considerably softer, those last four words were what halted Gimli’s protest the most, a glow of warmth and hope ringing out in his chest. His lips parted a bit in surprise. “Oh. Alright, then, do what you need.” For all his bravado, it had been a nasty case, his body slammed down so hard and his now-pounding head taking the brunt of the force.
“Thank you.” Reaching your hands up, you slid his helmet off first, tucking his hair behind his ears. You could feel the way he tensed up at your actions as you pulled one hand away to fetch your cloth. "Sorry, did that sting?"
He had to get out his head- all you were doing was taking care of him. "Not at all. Please-please continue." Perhaps his words sounded desperate, but Gimli barely cared when your hands were on him like that.
Speaking of which... You took firmer hold, tilting him by the chin to get a better angle with which to dab the warm fabric over the wound.
"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"
Frodo
"Would you not like to do something about this?"
Frodo simply peered up into your eyes with his glistening blue stare, tilting his head inquisitively and tugging at his sleeves, which you then took a hold of.
"No, no, take this all off is what I meant."
"Take- take it all...?"
Hand crossing over your shoulders, you drew lines down in an impression of the chain Frodo wore, the impossibly heavy burden he bore burning into his skin at all times. "Surely you feel it. You must. Keep it on, I won't touch it, but please let me ease the pain."
Blinking, Frodo inhaled, nodded. "Very well. What will you do, then?"
"Just put some salve up there around where the chain is. Here, just take your shirt off a bit," you told him, fussing with his jacket but allowing Frodo himself to undo the top buttons of his shirt.
He glanced up, followed your gaze and saw it lie not upon the ring, but upon his, and visibly relaxed, a smile finally working its way to his soft lips. Nodding again, he sat back as your hand pushed the metal chain up from its place, spreading your healing concoction upon the opened skin. When your hand got lower, you could feel how rapid his heartbeat was thumping beneath skin and bone.
"Don't worry, really. All I care about is you." Did it pick up again?
"I am at ease, the first of such I've felt in some time. I cannot thank you enough," he replies with a shake of his head and a kiss to the hand you weren't using.
Sam
"Alright, Sam, open up your shirt."
"I beg your pardon?"
Shaking your head, you chuckled at his wide eyes. "I heard you got a nasty scrape, and if so, I've got just the thing for it."
Shock still swam in his green eyes, his fingers hovering over the buttons hesitantly as he glanced between them and you.
Flushing, you spoke once more, much more hastily as you held up the jar of medicine in question. "Oh! Er, well, if you'd rather someone else take a look, I can give this to Aragorn and he can-"
"No!" Sam cut you off, shaking his head. "No, no let's not trouble Strider, you're all right. Here we go."
Glancing back and forth, he sat down upon a rock and undid the top three buttons of his shirt, wiggling the fabric loose to reveal the wound you'd been told of. Your eyes wandered a bit before guiltily returning to Sam's; he smiled faintly as you dipped your fingers into the cool contents of the jar and reached back up to smear some on. Sam, surprisingly, did not flinch but he did shiver a bit.
"Oh, my apologies, I should have warmed it up a bit better first, shouldn't I?"
He sat up a bit straighter at your words. "Not at all, I can take it. Just...just startled me a bit is all. Don't worry your pretty head."
Merry
"Trousers off. Let's see it."
"Right now?" Merry loudly whispered, eyes going round.
"Yes, right now," you fussed, "or else you'll bleed out! Come on."
"Oh. Oh, the wound, yes. Bit of a close one there, wasn't it?"
You put a hand on your hip as Merry lowered into a seated position and undid his belt. "Had Boromir not been there with his shield, you could have lost your leg. What were you thinking?"
"Well, if you really must know," Merry shot back, shimmying his outer garments down to reveal a glistening red gash upon his right leg, "thought charging in might impress you."
He shuddered under the cleansing water you pressed against it, likely due to the cold. Your brow furrowed equally at the wound as it was at him, your eyes darting up to search his. "Impress me?" You replied incredulously.
"Yes," he agreed with a crooked, devious smile, "and with that first line of yours, I thought it'd worked."
Pippin
“Alright, take off your trousers.”
Pippin’s eyebrows shot up as his hands slid to his belt. “Is that what we’re doing? Well, all right then…”
Head tilted and brows furrowed in confusion, you fixed him with a look. “Of course we are, you got a huge gash above the knee. Lucky for you Aragorn harvested us a whole lot of poultice herbs the other day.” Your gaze slid between Pippin and your work of crushing the leaves as he sheepishly loosened his garments.
“Right, right, I knew that, yes. So the leaves are going to go down first, then?”
“Indeed,” you nodded, dabbing at the remaining dribble of blood before you began gently dabbing the poultice on.
Your eyes traveled back up to meet his, their deep green sheen bringing a shy smile to your face. Beneath your hand, he shuddered faintly.
“Sorry, does that sting?” You asked him, glancing again between your work and him.
Puffing out his chest a bit, Pippin shook his head. “Not at all. Not when I have the best nurse in all of Middle Earth to take care of me. Feels a bit good, in fact.”
Flushing, you gave a full smile at his words as you tied off his bandage. “Well, having the best patient helps, too.” Feeling a bit bold, you reached up and patted his cheek. “Let me know if you need anything else, alright?”
A wide grin spread across Pippin’s face. “Oh, I can think of something."
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smhalltheurlsaretaken · 6 months
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One thing I do like about TOTJ's take on Dooku's fall is that it really highlights that the Dark Side makes you absolutely masochistic. (Mega long post ahead).
One thing TOTJ establishes is that Qui-Gon's death is absolutely on Dooku (no matter if the show itself doesn't seem to be aware of it).
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His tone is concerned and his attitude sympathetic and supportive, but he knows. He knows it's a Sith Lord (he even knows Maul's name). He knows Qui-Gon almost died and is marching right into another trap, but he asks questions anyway and affects ignorance.
"I've been warning them about the coming darkness for years," he says, "never to be taken seriously." Using the Council's skepticism as an occasion to complain about how they didn't believe him while lying by omission is a great case of that hypocrisy Dooku loves denouncing in others. Dooku would rather Qui-Gon share his disillusionment with the Jedi than actually do anything to help Qui-Gon. The Council don't believe him? Okay, Dooku, but YOU DO. You can just tell him what's going on.
But he doesn't.
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On some level, Dooku has to be aware of what's about to happen. Qui-Gon is walking into grave danger, and Dooku's response to that - before it happens, when there is still time to stop it - is to put the blame on the people who don't know shit while not doing shit himself. (Why can't Dooku be there to protect Qui-Gon, other than because he's already slavishly loyal to Sidious' plans?)
And this moment puts every subsequent action of Dooku's throughout the Prequels in perspective - particularly his relationships with Obi-Wan, Ventress and Yoda.
Dooku is a glutton for punishment.
I've written here about why I think the 'Box' from TCW 4x17 is meant to parallel Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon's mission on Naboo. The dioxis, ventilation shafts, the catwalks and lightsabers, the ray shields, the fire pit... Dooku's idea of a test to find the best mercenaries around is to have them survive what killed Qui-Gon (what he allowed to happen).
During the challenge, it's pretty obvious he starts to suspect Hardeen is Obi-Wan.
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Or at the very least, he's taking an interest in the man who supposedly killed Qui-Gon's own apprentice - Dooku's spiritual grandson (see RotS novelization), whom he's been trying very hard to either recruit or kill himself. And what does he do with that interest? Tries to push "Hardeen" to kill Eval in anger.
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Dooku, who still mourns the Padawan he knowingly let walk away to his death, watches a pantomime of his Padawan's death, while putting in mortal danger all he has left of said apprentice. If he knows Hardeen is Obi-Wan (and it's pretty obvious that he does), he tries to get Obi-Wan to Fall (or potentially die) in a scenario reenacting Qui-Gon's death. If he doesn't know for sure, then he's encouraging his all but grandson's killer to win the tournament because he admires him (for killing someone Dooku wanted by his side).
Whatever the outcome, Dooku chooses to relive his guilt and chooses to make the same choice to kill his loved one all over again, even though we know he hates that he made this choice:
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He misses Qui-Gon and needs him but tries to kill or destroy Obi-Wan, whom he needs and wants by his side. (I haven't counted just how many time he does try killing Obi-Wan in TCW while still expressing his indefectible admiration for him - it's frequent, the Box just stands out to me as one of the most noteworthy occasions.)
And he keeps doing stuff like that!! He keeps choosing the path that causes him the most pain. He does it with Sifo-Dyas, he does it with Yaddle, he does it with Yoda and he does it with Ventress.
Just look at him confronting Sidious about Qui-Gon's death:
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He KNOWS following Sidious got Qui-Gon murdered and he KNOWS Sidious will continue to kill or order him to kill people close to him. And yet he's quick to reassure Sidious that this doesn't change anything. Securing his position with Sidious matters more than his rage and grief. The ONLY WAY this behavior makes sense is if Dooku is fully aware that he had a choice about Qui-Gon's fate, and decides that this is the path he's on now: Sidious might make him kill everyone he cares about, but he's going to do it. Every time, things will play out the same.
Sidious tells him to kill Ventress, his new apprentice? Sure, why not!
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(And it's not even out of true loyalty for Sidious, because he constantly tries to double-cross him later on. It's pure self-destruction:)
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He hates it, Sidious promises him more of it, and he goes along with it!
This is why Yaddle's attempts at bringing him back don't work, in my opinion:
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"Whatever lies he's told you, whatever you have done, you can make up for it now by bringing him to justice." This might convince a man who is looking for atonement, except Dooku isn't. He is looking for punishment.
Killing or harming those close to him leaves him broken, furious or in pain? He'll just keep doing it.
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Sidious offers him nothing more than agonizing slavery? He'll keep on kneeling.
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That's when Yaddle literally offers him the Light - the light that is so much more powerful than the Dark that it has Sidious cowering, the light that can save him if he wants - Dooku just strikes her down, even though he was heartbroken over thinking he had killed her just a moment ago.
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He chooses to kill her, regrets it and hates himself for it, and chooses to kill her again. HE KEEPS MAKING THE CHOICE THAT HE KNOWS WILL HURT.
His remedy to guilt is to pick a shovel, because by God if he hasn't hit rock bottom yet he's going to dig!
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pursuitseternal · 4 months
Text
“Persuade Me,” Ascended Astarion tells you, a sub!Astarion, all tied up for you in “The Rogue You Were”
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Ascended Astarion x F!Reader | E | 3.9K persuasive dom/sub bdsm smut
Summary: He’s so terribly stubborn, it will take a lot of persuasion to get him to come around. All tied up, it should be easy, but no matter how *hard* it is, it will be… delicious for you both…
CW: bondage, sub!Astarion, tender confessions, possessive and stubborn Ascended behavior, persuasive bedroom techniques so effective, he tells you the reason he can’t let you out of his sight, why you are not just… some… spawn…
Based on “Just A Drop🩸”
Read on AO3 | Astarion fic Masterlist
How will you persuade him…
🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen Lord Astarion all morning,” you give your most convincing look of worry, of concern and confusion. Eyes wide and brows furrowed, painted lips pouting as you close your dressing gown tightly around your body. “Perhaps try the grounds? Everyone knows he enjoys a good stroll in the dawn…”
And with that you shut the door in the poor trembling servants face. A brief flash of relief on their fearful countenance that dismissing them and shutting the door on them was the worst you did. You hear their poor feet skitter away. And then, you turn with a deep, contented breath to view the sight stretched in your bed.
Yours. And his.
He’s waiting. Patiently. Spread wide and tethered to the four posts of your bed frame, and most of all, your mouth waters to see that hardened, twitching, eager cock proudly erect.
Just as you left him.
Only now, his eyes are drawn, half-lidded, his tongue licking his lips.
“They will get suspicious eventually, darling,” he croons, all the tones of confidence as you draw alongside the bed, dropping your thin, little dressing gown to reveal you pale figure again.
“Let them,” you purr right back. “They wouldn’t dare enter without my permission,” you cock your head flirtatiously, “or yours. But since you are… tied up with other matters…”
“Puns, darling,” he groans, face twisting in a sour show of distaste.
“…they will just have to take my word for it.” You laugh slowly, sitting yourself beside his hip, a single finger tracing through the ridges of his stomach. Ignoring his little taunt, savoring his submission as your willing plaything for now.
“Liar,” he croons rolling his body to press against your ass, where you are perched almost out of reach. “You said Lord Astarion isn’t here,” he’s growling. Provoking. Straining against his binds that are restraining both him and his ever-growing magic.
You give him that wide-eyed innocent look, scanning the room, a show of searching, a pantomime that only makes him sneer playfully and shake his head. “All I see is my lover, my Vampire Rogue, who is being rather stubborn about all this,” you sigh as you swiftly roll to brace yourself above him, perched on your hands and knees to hover over his taught form. Tantalizingly close.
He groans, trying to lift himself to touch any part of you. But you are clever, you’ve played enough games on the receiving end of such pleasurable punishments to know just what you wish to do.
“I am allowed to be stubborn when what you ask for is reckless… painful… dangerous…” he’s snarling below you, his chin jutting up to make his shining fangs all the more fearsome.
“It has been months since the end of our adventures,” you reply in calm and steady tones, “months of solidifying our power, of eliminating the traces of our enemies and assuring alliances, even with old friends…” you think of Wyll, new Duke Ravenguard, and the tenuous agreement to turn his literal blind eye on most of what Astarion does. Trusting you to be the one to keep him in check from anything horribly nefarious.
“You think my consort… my queen… should wander the streets of Baldur’s Gate alone? Unguarded? Like some….”
“Adventurer and hero?” you interject.
“I was going to say commoner…” he sniffs, disgruntled.. “You’re so much more than that now, my love. Let me free and I’ll show you just how special you are… how regal and unique…”
You skate your fingers down the hard lines of his stomach, barely ghosting their way towards his straining erection. “Mmmmm my love, you’re always so good at persuading with your body, I’d like to give it a try.”
“You can try, darling…” he swallows his grunt as you finally touch him, just the pads of your fingers tracing up the underside of his cock. “But you’ll find my tongue is better suited to other… pursuits… than merely trying to give you my word.”
“I’ll take my chances,” you simper, you pout, lowering your head to place a gentle kiss at the joint of his hip. “I think all you need is the correct incentive… the sweetest persuasion…”
“What you ask will certainly take a lot to persuade me, darling,” he groans. “If you think I’m about to allow you to go without an escort around the streets of Baldur’s… hngf…”
You suck him hard, taking in as much of his straining, painful erection as you can until it jabs at the back of your throat and makes you gag. But that’s it. You release him with a deafening, sloppy pop. Meeting his eyes, they are glassy, his teeth bared in a grimace of pain. Or pleasure.
“Hells,” he whines, bucking his hips erratically off the bed, even with his legs tethered and spread as they are.
“You want to rethink that assertion, my love?” you preen, crouched beside him, nested in the bedcovers.
“Never,” he growls, a playful smile on his full and pouting lips. “But I’ll join in your game all you want, darling. You’re burning for my cock as much as I am for you and all your deliciousness.”
“Is that so?” You simper, slowly lowering your mouth back down to hover above his aching erection. The closer you get, the more he betrays his anticipation as it twitches. You barely run the tip of your tongue around that ridge of its head. “Just a simple acquiescence to the little thing I ask of you… just to walk beyond our palace…”
“Not without me,” Astarion’s eyes flash, his fangs glinting in the morning light that seeps through the window. “Never alone, my pet…”
You take him in mouth lips again, loose and sloppy, just a bit of wet and warmth to tease him before you dodge away, avoiding the thrust he attempts to make for some relief. “Ah, ah,” you scold with a simpering pout, “we ask first before we start fucking faces, my love.”
“May… I…” he clenches his beautiful white teeth, forcing his words through them, “fuck… you?”
“No, but thank you for asking,” you taunt, running your tongue up that grooved underside, letting it linger along the intricate map of veins that weave around that hard, throbbing length. “Once you agree, then I’ll be more than happy to let you in… somewhere…”
He lets out a ferocious growl, a smile still playing around his lips, eyes craning above his head to inspect your bindings. Even as they tingle with a little magic, a little extra assurance against all his mighty vampiric powers now. “I swear, if I could shift into my newest form…”
“Your cute little bat?” you grin, laughing loudly as you take him deep enough into your throat to feel the vibrations of your throat. Then, you release another strong suck with a pop. “What would you do, make a nest in my hair?”
He laughed at that, low, dark, and rolling. “Tempting,” he hissed back, “nothing short of what you would deserve, darling.”
“To wander without needing to wait for you to be free from your rule… your duties?” you return your attention to that glistening cock with a hungry grin, “I’ll take my chances again.”
He squirms as you barely graze it with your lips again, just little nipples of that smooth, stretched skin up and down its shaft. “Please, darling, please,” his voice grows desperate, edged with need, “give me just a little of your body.”
“And in exchange?” you croon, gracing him with one last lingering suck and swirl around that blunted tip.
“I will take you where you wish to go,” he groans at the continued release, your little reward of rhythmic bobbing over his length as you take him satisfyingly deeper. “To hells with duties, if that is your wish.” Tone softening, he bucks into your mouth, his timing as always impeccable, jamming that slick hardness down your throat as you lower. You sputter and gag, your throat closing around him before you can lift away.
“Naughty,” you chide him gently, frowning with a hint of a smile as you creep to dangle your body over him, all hands and knees and swinging breasts. Breasts he’s licking his lips for as you draw nearer.
“Just a taste, darling,” he flashes those wide, pleading eyes up at you, “I swear I only need a little…”
“Mmmm, I’ve heard such beautiful lies before,” you raise yourself onto your knees, straddling those clenching muscles of his belly. A single one of your finger slips inside your own folds, and you let him hear just how wet you are. It squelches, sloppy and thick as you tease yourself. You ride over his belly, locking your half-closed eyes with his, wide and burning and dilated as they are. “Good rogues get the spoils,” you pant, letting yourself thrust those fingers into your dripping folds harder, faster. You spasm, riding your own hand, feeling his belly rise and fall against your thighs and cunt as you pleasure yourself.
You can hear the bed groaning, the wooden frame creaking loudly as he pulls at every binding. It makes you lick your lips, eyes fluttered shut to savor the way he’s writhing between your thighs, shaking as he comes undone to watch you panting. Always watching as you begin to come, trembling and moaning as you shatter, your arousal pooling over his belly. As you try to catch your breath, you let him look into your gaze, that feral, barely-bridled glow of red in his eyes. You feel his cock throbbing against your ass, twitching as you make the slightest of contact with where his is in deepest agony.
It makes you smile wickedly, leaning forward to proffer your slick and dripping fingers for his lips. You need not say a word, not when he opens, straining against his tethers to suck you clean. Every lap and lick of his tongue, he feasts on your cum, little noises of feeding in his throat, the same he has always made, lips bruising your neck in the wee hours of night.
You tug them roughly from his mouth. “Enough of that from you,” you chide, smiling. Taunting. “I give you a little, and you still have yet to give me my due, my love.”
He grins, licking the corner of his lip. “You still haven’t figured it out yet, have you, my darling… my treasure…? Have you stopped and thought, perhaps, why I won’t let you wander aimlessly into the open, outside of my protection?”
“Because you just can’t bear to be without me…” you tease him, a wicked smile on your face as you place a quick kiss on his insolent lips. He fights for you not to break away, his teeth biting into the swell of your lower lip. “Selfish lover that you are…” you mumble as he tries to devour you all the more.
“Naturally, my little love,” he pants as you raise up, a hand firmly pushed on the base of his throat. “Has it not always been so, darling? Your ferocious rogue always at your side? But now, my sweet consort, have you ever wondered why I can’t resist being just oh.. so… possessive of you?”
You pause, tilting your head, considering. You wait for an answer, but those full, smirking lips of his just press silently together.
“Oh, you wish for me to draw out your answer,” you needle him, an edge of irritation in your voice now.
“Isn’t that the point of your charming, little game?” he presses, tugging at his bonds to make them snap with tension.
“Then let’s play,” you smirk, neck taut as you cock your chin, posturing with all the dominance you can muster.
“Anything to get some wet part of you on my cock, my love…” he arches his body as you slide off his belly. “If you please,” he adds, extra silken temptation in his tone.
“You haven’t been good, but I suppose you require more persuasion,” you hum, “and perhaps you could use a more convincing sight. Until you tell me exactly why you insist on being my constant escort, at least.”
“You’re clever,” he hisses as you begin to turn your back to him, hand gripping that throbbing shaft, his pulse pounding beneath that smooth skin. “If you can defeat the Absolute, the Netherbrain, it should be easy for you to puzzle out why your vampiric lover can’t let his consort out of his sight for a moment…” He groans as you straddle those narrow hips of his, one hand sweeping his cock through your drenched folds. “No matter how powerful… or insolent she may be…” he adds, a deep-throated growl on every word, a snap as he taunts you.
You let him dip slowly inside you, barely taking more than the ridge of his tip between your thighs. Hands gripped on his knees, you feel his legs shaking, trembling to finally find some relief as you fuck him leisurely. A gentle sway, an agonizingly slow riding. And never enough to let him sheath inside you fully.
A mischievous smirk on your lips, you glance over your shoulder. His teeth are grit, his eyes darkened with lust and wide as he cranes to watch your ass, the gradual, rhythmic rise and fall as you pleasure him with total control. “Powerful, am I?” you gloat, taking him just a little deeper.
It makes him hiss, his eyes shutting as sweat begins to dampen his forehead.
“More than you realize,” he gasps, voice grating as he forces his eyes open to drink in the sight of you. “More than I have ever admitted to anyone… to you.”
“Tch,” you suck your teeth in that way he always has, “how sweet, my love. Is that why you keep me here, keep me at your side always? For my power?”
“Don’t forget your beauty that would launch nations into battles for you, my treasure…”
That makes you smile, makes your stomach flutter in expectation, and for your own sake, you take him in, all the way, until you feel the slap of his thighs between your legs.
He roars, pulling on his binds on this hands and feet to make the wood of your bed groan almost as loudly. “Please,” he spits, “do that again, darling.”
“Tell me more reasons, and I just might,” you toss over your shoulder at him, making him feel only the tip of his cock piercing you again.
“Why don’t you think, clever girl?” he hisses, trying to buck into your cunt, to reclaim that little hint of wet and pressure you gave him.
“Because I am your equal?” you grind with every thrust, letting your walls clench as you take him just a bit deeper.
“Yes…” he pants.
“Because you just can’t bear to be so far you can’t smell just how aroused you make me…” you giggle, splaying a hand behind you, over his navel, pressing against those hardened muscles of his belly as you sink all the way down.
“Gods, yes…” he’s groaning, licking his lips as you let him fill you at last.
“Because you’ve given me your power, extended your blessings…” you cant your hips slowly, still drawing him along, but he can only sigh, at last feeling the tightness, the wetness he’s sought for so long now.
“Not just my blessings and power, darling,” he cranes his head back into the bed with a sated sigh as you ride him. Even slowly.
But you pause. Clambering over his hips you spin around to face him, cock still sunk inside you, a hand gripped around the lines of his jaw, his chin, to make him look at you. “What do you mean?” you bite.
“Don’t you recall, clever girl?” He’s laughing under your hold. “That night, your final night… what more did I give you?”
Your mind races, your hips grinding, that need now built inside you too, finally feeling filled to bursting, his cock twitching as it drags right over that perfect, secret spot between your walls.
“Free me, if you please, so I may remind you…” he’s crooning, purring as you fuck him. “Please,” he adds, a little extra seductively, his face twisting in that way that makes your stomach knot as it always has. You spread your hands beside his head, eyes narrowed to see him gloating so smugly under you. His little order sends ripples of anticipation down your spine to pool even hotter where your bodies join.
Your hand shakes, your body now riding him of its own accord, even as you reach for the binding around one wrist to slip it off his pale skin. Instantly, his hand grabs your wrist, pulling it to his mouth as he sinks his fangs into your flesh. You groan, the wave of painful pleasure tearing through you hard enough to make you come. All you feel is his lips drinking you in, his cock throbbing as you spasm and ride him still through the clenches of your orgasm. You’re so full, so taken, so overwhelmed.
And he’s laughing, swirling his tongue over your dripping blood.
“Blood,” you breathe through your climax.
“Not yours,” he growls before biting into his own wrist in the same way. Then, he proffers that flow of his blood for your own lips to taste. “I gave you mine… I made you mine.”
You suck your fill, the tingle of his power, the rush of all that he is, all that he has always been, filling your belly.
“You are not some spawn, darling,” he smirks, that secret dancing over the full pout of his lips. “Your vampire lord gave you his own blood.” His words reach your ear through the euphoria of drinking him in. Suddenly, his hand pulls from your hungry mouth, fingers clawing around your throat. He presses, just enough to make your eyes wide as you swallow under his strength, his hold pulling you down so close to his handsome face. “Even a drop given to you, to turn you, it makes you mine… my consort, my bride, my vampire lover forever, beyond the touch of time itself.”
“Not spawn?” you rasp through his hold on you, a pleased, pleasured smile flickering around your lips as he stares with such longing and adoration up at you.
“No,” he purrs, “but it means I will never let you out of my sight, my power, my protection, so long as we walk this earth. I would rather burn the world to keep you with me forever than risk losing my bride for an instant….” You tremble, you gasp at the ferocity in his gaze as he pulls you down by your throat until your lips crash into his. He feasts on your mouth, groaning at the taste of how your bloods mix and mingle into an intoxicating flavor. Rich. Powerful. United.
Inseparable.
“What a good, good master,” you simper into his kiss. “You shall be rewarded…” You touch the binds again, they all go limp as he shakes them off. He growls his pleasure. He touches you everywhere, fingers sliding from your neck to claw into the hairs at the nape of your neck, nails grabbing for your hips. Legs now liberated, the muscles of his thighs bunch as he starts to fuck hard into you from beneath, feet planted firmly on the bed at last.
“Thank you, my dearest love,” he grins widely, wickedly at you. “I hope I need not persuade you to trust me. Never again forget what it means to be mine…”
“Your bride,” you simper, tasting the title on your tongue, face quirking in a slight and knowing smile. “And that makes you my hus-”
“Your master,” he lifts his head, the weight of his hand at your nape pressing your mouth back down, barely brushing his taunting smirk. “Your lover… your mate or spouse or what have you behind closed doors only.” Then he bites into your neck, fangs piercing like the razors they are. A loud moan slips from your lips as you shiver and shudder in orgasm again from the pain and pleasure. His voice cuts through just as sharply, “And you may only call me husband… three times… for all eternity…” His tongue laps the blood that spills from your veins and down your shoulder now. “Choose wisely, my dearest darling.”
You fight the pull of your pleasure, the need to go limp and just let him fuck you. Not after your hard won victory. So you pull from his mouth, pushing that controlling hand at your neck back down to the bed. “Of course, darling,” you give a naughty smirk, a defiant rake of your brows and flutter of your lips as you press to whisper against his neck instead. “Whatever you say, husband,” you hiss with pure, delightful insolence before you bite him back. Now it’s your mouth that makes him squirm, your control that makes his shudder and hitch as he chases his climax, seeking with reckless abandon the thing that you have kept just tantalizingly out of reach.
“You fuck me like this, my love, and you just might persuade me to get used to it…” he rasps, hands grasped at your hips to keep you steady so he can pummel you mercilessly.
“Ah ah,” you tut your tongue to chide him. “Remember, good masters ask before they come inside their brides,” you gloat, feeling that truth, that connection of your blood and your undead hearts beating all the stronger for it.
“Please,” he begs harshly through gritted teeth, his fucking undeterred as he waits for your word.
He slams up into you with all the more force, his face already screwing and twisting with how close he is.
“Yes, my love,” you acquiesce with a dramatic lilt. It doesn’t take long, not after he watches you smile and feels you clench your walls around him with all your strength. He roars, writhing and spasming as he empties inside you. Buried so deep you feel the tip of his cock twitching against the end of your channel.
You gasp, your sweat dripping down your temple as you watch him begin to still and relax beneath you. But you stay, cock deep and warm inside you, his thighs beneath you soaked with your mingled juices.
“So,” you pant, letting your own body respond with its own basking in the glow of your pleasure, as you slowly lower your body to blanket him. His hand strays absentmindedly through your hair, fingertips softly brushing your cheek with each pass. “You must have lots of ruling to attend to now that you’ve persuaded me,” you murmur, nestled against the hard bone of his jaw, tracing your finger through the pooling of his blood from your bite. You bring that finger to your mouth to suck it clean. “I’ll wait for you before I wish to venture out for the day.”
“Oh,” he grips into your hair, raising your head to look at him again, and your smile widens to see the intensity, the possessive glint in his crimson eyes. “I think all that can wait. Right now, you can choose, venture out and then fuck again until you’re begging me for more? Or fuck first and then venture out into the day, my love?”
You giggle, a grind of your hips to drag over his still hardened cock inside you. “Hmm, a tough choice,” you grin, scoring your own fingers through his hair, “perhaps you need to persuade me this time…”
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unlikelyjapan · 9 months
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Full disclosure: I wasn't a Syd/Carmy shipper until two weeks ago. Hell, I don't think I've ever been a shipper of anything up until this moment - but I've been happily married to my slow-burn best friend for eons, so this all struck a deep, nostalgic chord for me. Consider this post my coming-out party:
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This whole thing came about from that well-worn Freud quote that "friendship is the art of distance while love is the art of intimacy" that I recalled from a crude psychology class.
From the most shallow, birds-eye POV, Carmy achieved intimacy with Claire (while maintaining distance/friendship with Syd) by disclosing details of his family situation, his panic attacks, expressing romantic affection, and establishing physical intimacy with someone.
He even seemed more eager to relay and express these experiences to his friends (see the cannoli conversation with Syd and Marcus) as he went deeper into the relationship. From this perspective, I empathize with people when they say they see his relationship with Claire as real personal growth, followed by a steep regression.
Claire seems to pantomime someone who is secure, but is actually pretty anxious in matters of the heart - the idealized projections she places on Carmy based on her proximity to him a decade ago, her unwillingness to walk away from the red flag of the 'wrong number' fiasco, and her unrelenting insistence to know why he tried to dodge her in the first place. I'll say nothing of the constant placating.
Claire is a sort of a faux 'sword of destiny' for Carmy - he yearned for her attention in his youth, it was loudly proclaimed to be "the good thing" by his abusive family, and so it's the only logical choice in Carmy's mind once he's beaten over the head with it for the umpteenth time - it's the love chosen for him by his family and his past self before he pieced together ways to partially escape, it's fatalism, it's the end of the weary search for "fun" and happiness.
He's never truly happy or having "fun" (as he doesn't know how to define that in his mind - that's why we're tortured with 5 grueling minutes of Logan), but he feels cared for and is going through the motions of being "that guy who is fun and in love".
Love even had to be defined for him by his inherited family friend/handyman who he didn't even know was his "best friend" until Claire relayed it to him - he blindingly accepted both assertions from Fak, falling back into his family's narrative that he can't survive or be normal without their collective help.
By contrast, Sydney is probably the first thing Carmy has ever chosen for himself without outside influence from family or employers. She was his first hired employee, his first true friend who wasn't a blood relative, and probably the first person he feels mirrors his passions without a need to compete with her over them.
Sydney is a choice - she is happiness (in whatever shape or form that you choose to define it, it can be aromantic if you'd like) that Carmy found all by himself, without the narrative being driven by outside influences. They have fun together on their own frequency, but Carmy's black-and-white thinking can't recognize it for what it is - he's still reaching for a sense of "fun" that was repeatedly sold to him as his family tried to push him along the path of normalcy (an impossible feat for a Berzatto).
Syd and Carmy share a brand of maternal grief/strife and a profound love of service that breeds a slow intimacy. By saying "you deserve my full focus" Carmen is saying that Sydney's happiness is more important than his own, which can sound abysmal in type, but is also a natural pre-req for love when given willingly - which I think he is giving willingly for her, just not willingly for the anxiety and minutiae that comes with actually running a fine dining restaurant. He needs someone he can have absolute trust in to hold his hand through that part.
That's why he could only create The Bear with her, and why he says he wouldn't want to do it without her.
They're both fearful and avoidant, which is a fatally-wounding powder keg if they were to connect this instant, but with ever-growing intimacy and self-work (which Claire - however insufferable her dialogue - probably planted seedlings in with Carmy, and his openness and absolute trust in Sydney could drive her towards, too) their coming together could heal many of their longstanding wounds.
This was more of a meandering walk than I hoped, but I think it all comes down to actively choosing happiness vs. passively chosen happiness - Sydney is the first thing Carmy has ever chosen for himself, and we were beaten over the head with depictions of how much he cherishes that agency and Syd this season. I really hope S3 is a big mess of mirroring and sharing for them.
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arcticlutra · 8 months
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Janet Lynn Drake struggled through labour with all the dignity that good breeding, and incredibly distilled and refined spite, could muster.
She had endured a Catholic wedding for her husband, Jack Fuckboy Drake. And she had endured making pleasantries with Jack Mediocre Drake's College Boys. She'd even managed to stomach the fact that Jack New-Money-Zero-Class Drake had thought profiteroles were a suitable dessert options.
New money and all the options it entailed, and they always forgot class.
But Janet had been born with a Crowne, so she endured it all with the dignity and decorum expected of her.
And then she had seen an opportunity and had taken it. Taken a not-as-drunk-as-he-pretended Bruce Wayne, slipped him an extra glass of champagne for a toast. Cajoled him into a sip or several and waited for Isley's cocktail to do its work. After all, if that brute Falcone could be mostly successful with such a gambit, then so could she. And besides, her aims were nowhere near as obvious.
Nine months later, and a few choreographed nights with Jack, and here she was. July the Nineteenth, and she had been graced with her little Prince, a black haired boy with her ice blue eyes.
Her Little Owl.
"What a good looking son, Jannie!" Her insipid cover crowed. "We should call him Jackson! He looks so much like me."
Insipid. Garish. And seemingly blind. His fortune was at least something of a comfort.
"Jack, darling, that would be crass. Jackson as his middle name perhaps?" Janet told him, at least as a middle name it would help the pantomime for a while at least.
"You're totally right Jannie." Jack readily agreed.
Janet smiled and imagined pulling the pathetic man's tongue out through his severed throat. Maybe a belated Christmas present to herself.
"How about Timothy for a first name?" Janet asked.
"Timothy?" Her second choice asked.
"It comes from Greek: Τιμοθεοσ. It means 'honoured by God'". Janet informed him, "And he is surely blessed by the Gods in many ways."
"Timothy... I like it, Jannie."
Good, not that it mattered what Jack Outlived-his-usefulness Drake thought.
Timothy Drake, her Little Owl.
Janet Drake would never see her Little Owl crowned. But she had left him a Court, and her son would one day sit on its throne, having been crowned by his own beloved.
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muzzleroars · 8 months
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Michael, the Ruined Prince
Michael, having used all of his power to seek out God, had failed as the Prince of Heaven. He had abandoned his people, absent for centuries on a fruitless search filled with unheard, increasingly desperate prayers and an unrelenting, bone-deep exhaustion that is now permanent. His grief grew day by day, and an angel in isolation begins to wither, to warp – they must be with one another lest they twist into their extremes, retreating into their divine purpose until it becomes self-destructive parody. And Michael had already been scarred long ago by his role in banishing Lucifer, by God’s own ever-mounting wrath that ate away at the mercy he was meant to feel alongside it. Michael had already been insular, something had already pulled at the seams of his soul, and now centuries of failure consume him. He would return to Heaven with nothing for his people. Nothing for the siblings he swore to protect.
So his final thought in a deeply troubled mind urged him to try one last time. That if he could not find God, then he must bring God to himself. He must sin, he must beg for punishment, and then God will come to deliver it onto him. Just as He once did to Lucifer. It disgusted him, to think he had to debase himself to be as the sinners he held nothing but vile contempt for ever since he couldn’t cope with the guilt of the first fallen angels. But his prayers have failed, his days of weeping have failed, he moved Heaven, Earth, and all of Hell to come up with empty hands. Less than that. Not even a feeling. So Michael, even as a Cherub who could not, did everything he could to replicate his memories of when he had witnessed God Himself tear the light from His angels. Michael had seen it every time, it was he that had to bind any fallen angel that survived it to their place in Hell. He knew, implicitly, what the ritual was even if God seemed to enact it in one beautiful, elegant motion. And he did just that. Imperfect pantomiming, flawed execution, but the same ritual as best as Michael could copy it. All to himself.
But only God and the high Seraphim can sever an angel from their light.
His soul was rent from his body. His light was torn to shreds by his inexperienced hands. The agony that it screeched resounded all the way back to Heaven in unintelligible, muted whispers of nauseous grief no one could understand. Michael felt himself die, but it was incomplete. He was left in a corpse, a body destroyed and succumbing to all it meant but with him still inside of it. God did not come, and Michael was trapped a ruined body, bereft of a soul, of his light, giving way to rot and deterioration yet fully functional. He could do nothing but take this as a sign from God, one that he will not be punished no matter his crime for being such a loyal servant. Even as his body falls apart, as plants begin to burst from his remains, he believes himself to be blessed – see how he grows God’s garden. See how his crown remains pristine. He adorns his exposed bones with gems and finery, ostensibly as thanks to God for keeping him alive, keeping him sinless when he had so despised his impending fall from grace. But. Michael is, in the back of his mind, highly aware of what he’s become. He knows he is rotting, he knows he is in a dead body, he knows, somewhere, God had nothing to do with it. It was just a mistake, it was just his own foolishness with catastrophic consequence. He is more noxious than a fallen angel now, a botch job shambling numbly back to Heaven when he feels the death of Gabriel.
Upon his return, he largely attempts to hide the rot of his body, at least from the citizenry – he cannot hide it from Raphael or Uriel, nor does he try. To Michael, it proves his devotion, it shows God’s still present love for him, and it is a testimony to how he cannot fall, that he can never lose his place in Heaven. Raphael begs for him to be healed, Uriel pleads reason to him, but neither had ever been as strong as Michael and ultimately, he is their leader. No matter the state he returns in, he is the Prince of the Archangels and truthfully...they both fear him now. He is not the Michael they loved, not the one that had been quiet and stoic yet still loving in return. The Michael that would have done anything for them, that never wanted to lose another like he lost Lucifer. He commands them now to join him in binding Gabriel, his tangible grief the only thing that seems to be left of who he had once been.
Internally, Michael sees their fear, he feels the crushing guilt of Gabriel’s fall, he is violently ill with one true look at himself. He had gone wrong a long, long time ago, when he lost Lucifer, and now all of that was being made manifest, but he can’t face it. As flesh falls away, he covers it more and more with jewels as if that could hide the decay he can feel spreading night and day, the only thing he feels now. He must retreat into his purpose, he must not allow such devastating failure to be his legacy. So he turns on Gabriel. Gabriel, whose light had been severed. Who walks freely in an abandoned Hell. Who still has a living, breathing body. Michael’s vitriol toward the damned hones in on Gabriel, consumed with being sure he is left nailed to the lowest pit in Hell for his treachery. All the love he once had turns to hatred and in it, the other three can see that Michael has been left shattered, that nothing in him truly believes God made him this way. God’s most loyal, left to rot.
Additional information:
Michael now always exudes the Odor of Sanctity, but there is a distinct undertone of mold to it
The opalescent webbing that runs through his body is the angelic brain - normally it is iridescent and transparent with a strange glow, but Michael's is opaque and dull
Michael now prefers walking, something noted as unusual when he returned to Heaven, but it's simply due to the fact that his body has been left entirely numb and so it's difficult to maneuver in the air properly
He is very protective of his crown and dragon-skin bag, as they seem to be the only things left uncorrupted on him
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chrissy-kaos · 1 year
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If we're too masculine then we're disgusting freaks. They collect the most masculine of us - innocent women minding their own business trying to live a life that was denied to them - and mock us, openly discussing how nobody could ever love us, how nobody could be fooled that we're women.
If we're too feminine then we're stupid men. They find the most tone deaf quotes from trans girls, usually those who have been out for only months if they're out at all. They find these quotes of girls still learning how to be women, post them everywhere as proof that we are just pantomime caricatures of women.
If we are too strong then we are violent and dangerous. We are an unfair factor in sport, evil men just trying to steal victories from real women. We could lose our temper at any moment. We are a risk that cannot be tolerated. If we're too weak then we are to be mocked. They call us failed men who ran to womanhood because we couldn't take it. We're victims of our own masculinity. Poor feminine men to be saved... In the same way that Republicans want to save those 'poor unborn babies.'
If we lose our temper we're back to dangerous men. But if we cry, if our shoulders buckle under the weight of endless, endless, ENDLESS, ENDLESS, ABUSE. Then they mock us again. They share pictures of trans women crying and laugh over it. Of course they make sure to find the pictures where our stubble is showing, our makeup has already run. It's not the way that women are mocked for weakness; it's the way men are. They find videos where are lips are trembling. Where our voice has gone deep because we don't have the energy to keep it at its heightened octave.
If we find ourselves ugly they mock us. But if we're happy with ourselves then we're disgusting degenerates. "Autogynephilic." Medicalized. They find the tweets of newly out girls who said something improper in their tiny moment of not guarding themselves. An awkward, amateurish attempt at roleplay or dirty talk becomes a meme. A woman who likely spent years growing the courage to begin sexual exploration, probably for the first time in her life, sees herself come up every so often in their replies, their threads, their gifs. What happens to these people? Is it even possible for them to ever resume that exploration?
We're trying to trick everyone into dating us. We should be required to show visible identification on us at all times; to be trans without the people around you knowing is deceit. But also, nobody would ever date us, everyone can tell, immediately, always. Everyone knows, the terfs say GLEEFULLY. Reveling in the idea that our subconscious is constantly telling us this. Basking in the thought of our depression and anxiety eating our minds until there's nothing left.
Even the terfs never stay the same for long. One moment it's a wall of 'concerned mothers' with all the passive-aggressive venom of a white woman calling the police because she doesn't want to put a leash on her dog; make ABSOLUTELY NO MISTAKE that these are the same people. The next it's anime-avatar alt righters. The next it's puritanical Christians claiming we are the natural result of the "rainbow agenda." It's lesbians saying that we're destroying lesbianism, following right on the heels of a pastor saying that anything that isn't a man and a woman is unnatural.
Half the URLs are Mumsnet and half are Kiwifarms. How many are bots? Sock puppets? How many really are just transphobic housewives accessing Kiwifarms from their phones? How many took the full plunge? The answer to all of the above is, we don't know, but it's a whole lot more than zero.
Every time we go into a bathroom, there's a chance we'll be the next screen shot pasted over reddit. It doesn't matter whether it's the men's or women's. They are equally unsafe.
If we need a women's shelter, we flip a coin on whether the person running it has already decided she hates us, because of these people.
We cannot upload a picture to facebook without this risk.
We cannot post about our lives without this risk.
We cannot appear at our work without this risk.
We cannot exist without this risk.
Every possible action we could take will be judged. There is no outcome that isn't negative. There is nothing we can do that isn't negative. Masculinine, feminine, pretty, ugly, angry, sad, sexual, frigid, proud, ashamed, strong, weak. Pre-op, post-op, non-op. Vagina, ovaries, chromosomes, fertility: womanhood is defined as whatever we aren't in that particular context.
I don't want to think about how many people this has killed. To call it a moving goal-post is inept, it is a void, an endless mass of hatred that follows us no matter what we do. Nothing is good enough. Everything, every single thing, is just waiting to be weaponized against us.
It has killed so, so many.
It won't kill any more.
If you're trans and you're reading this you already know everything I said. We've lived through it. You already know that I've spent time as all of the above because you have too. That when I get SIX HUNDRED COMMENTS calling me a man I want to swing my fists and I want to cry and I want to curl into a ball and I want to scream and I want to end my own miserable existence. The ugly beautiful girl in the mirror is so angry and sad and prideful and ashamed and violent and passive and this constant stream of abuse has torn me apart and created so many ugly things in this mind but if there is ONE. FUCKING. THING. THAT. THEY. WILL. NOT. MAKE. ME.
It is dead.
I will live. I will survive. And I don't even care about justice anymore. These people will get away with all this. Somewhere in that mix of the trans population and the infamous 40% number is a figure of how many people they've killed, but they'd never care. I'll live because all of their jeering and mocking and gaslighting and those goddamn fucking insufferable legions of laugh reacts, they don't do a fucking thing.
That's all it comes down to in the end. It's hard and it's painful and it hurts, it just ENDLESSLY hurts to weather their blows. But my name is Alexia. I am a woman.
You can hurt me all you like, but that won't change, and you can die mad about it.
- Lindwyrm Weisseritter
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yu-gi-poll · 3 months
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FINALS!!!!!!!
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Monster Stats & Propaganda Under the Cut:
Kuriboh is used by Yugi Mutou/Yami Yugi. Its stats are the following:
Attribute: DARK
Level: 1
Type: FIEND / EFFECT
Effect Type: QUICK
Effect (according to the anime): "During your opponent's turn, at damage calculation: You can discard this card; you take no battle damage from that battle (this is a Quick Effect)."
ATK / DEF: 300 / 200
Propaganda:
Turn 18 of the duel between Kaiba and Yugi in the Duelist Kingdom arc - INFINITE KURIBOH WALL.
There's one part in Duelist Kingdom (when the rules didn't matter) where the Kuribohs multiply and there's an endless amount of them.
He's cute.
Have you seen this adorable fluff ball?! He's adorable and will take a hit for you because he loves you.
It's just a small, fluffy guy. One that Yugi and Atem used destroy many an opponent, an example of how even a monster that seems useless can be used to topple an opponent. But mostly I'm submitting him because he's a small, fluffy guy. Very iconic, even if it's not the strongest monster.
In my opinion, he's the mascot of DM. Of the whole series, really. That's why there's on in each series. But you cannot go wrong with the OG!!
Slifer the Sky Dragon is used by Malik Isthar ("Marik Ishtar" in the dub) through Doll/Pantomimer ("Strings" in the dub) and Yugi Mutou/Yami Yugi. Its stats are the following:
Attribute: DIVINE
Level: 10
Type: DIVINE-BEAST
Effect Type: TRIGGER / CONTINUOUS
Effect (according to the anime): "Everytime the opponent summons creature into the field, the point of the player's cerd is cut by 2000 points. X stands for the number of the player's cerds in hand."
ATK / DEF: X000 / X000
Propaganda:
I think the answer is pretty obvious.
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sky-kiss · 6 months
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Okay hear me out. This isn't exactly a request unless...👀
But the Raphael x Tav dynamic where he is the only one who can poke fun or give them a hard time is eating my brain.
Like "I can call them a vapid little fool, but if anyone else does the exact same thing it's hellfire and brimstone for them. For a hundred years."
He'd call it affection if it was in his vocabulary.
A/n: This is short, but I’ve been doing a lot of Carrot!Raph and not a lot of Stick!Raph. Some gore and torture ahead. XD Also I don't think this is what you wanted RIP.
__________
“All this caterwauling! You should really feel blessed, little lamb! I rarely sully my hands these days.” Raphael folded his hands at the small of his back. Isolated from the scene around him, the devil would have appeared perfectly genteel: his doublet remained pressed, hair immaculate. Only the eyes were different, violently bright in the prison’s omnipresent gloom. 
Souls and prisoners howled around them, some in agony, some in a desperate attempt to catch the Master’s attention. He didn’t hear; only his guest mattered. 
The cambion stopped, lingering just outside their field of vision. They’d finally stopped screaming, lapsing into hiccuping sobs, slumped in on themselves. Not his finest work, he’d be the first to admit, but the rage had come upon him too abruptly for a more cerebral punishment. He reached out, fisting his hand in the sweaty mass of their hair, and tugged their head back. Terror flooded their eyes; their mouth tried to curl back in horror but failed to manage it. His claws left the cheek a ruin of tissue. He tapped a nail against the wound. They knew better than to twitch away. 
“Remind me why I’m entertaining you, little one.” 
It took three attempts before they could finally choke the word out: “Duchess.” 
“Ah, yes. How forgetful! You will have to forgive the indiscretion.” Raphael stepped closer. He’d made quite a mess, honestly. Bones jutted from strange, haphazard angles; he’d removed a few in a fit of pique. He didn’t believe they were essential, but it was always so difficult to tell with mortals. He yanked, and the little thing screamed their anguish. “And what was it you said? Be specific; your life depends on it.” 
“W…whore. Whore queen. Raph…” they winced. The mouth couldn't form the words, an ever-increasing disconnect between the body and brain as blood loss took its toll. “Your cunt.” 
“An inelegant summation.” He wiped his hand on the thing’s shoulders, glancing across the chamber. “Care to vouch for them, duchess?” 
His pet chuckled. What a sight! His finest treasure, her gown set with gems, gold chains hanging about her horns. He had created art with her. “It is they say, my duke.” 
“And that bodes well for you, little one.” Raphael knelt beside them, stroking hair back from their face. They turned their face into the motion, an awful pantomime of intimacy. “Though…perhaps not as well as you might have hoped. I guard my treasures so zealously, and she is first among them. You understand, don’t you?” 
They nodded, miserable. 
“But I am not without mercy. Should you apologize to her…we could start fresh. Would you like that, little one?” He pitched his voice lower, speaking as if in conspiracy. Two friends, ready to make peace. They released a shuddering breath and nodded. Raphael held out his arm to his duchess. She came to him with vibrant eyes and a smile, a pretty reflection of all he’d accomplished. His conquest, his might, his pretty love. “Begin, wretch.” 
“Beg…beg forgiveness, dutchess. Please…gods, please, forgive us…” 
His duchess hummed. “You are forgiven, wretch.” And to Raphael, “My love, must you play with your food? Are you nearly finished?” 
“Very nearly, little mouse. First,” he withdrew a vial from his doublet, a draught of restorative waters. He held it to his guest's lips. Like magic, flesh mended itself! Wounds shrunk and disappeared! In a matter of moments, they were whole once more.
“Merciful King, kind lord,” they sobbed, crawling towards him. The wretch painted the toe of his boot with kisses. “Never again. Not a word against you or the lady will pass my lips.” 
“No. I imagine not.” He nudged their ribs with his boots. “Alas, our fresh start will have to wait. My duchess requires me.” The imps crawled forward, hungry and eager. “I leave you in my staff’s ever-capable hands.” 
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atinylittlepain · 6 months
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I Wanna Marry You
no outbreak!joel miller x fem!OC
Hungry Hearts masterlist
he has a black velvet box waiting in his sock drawer. what will her answer be?
wordcount | 5K
warnings | this bad boy has it all. a little smut, a little angst, a whole lot of fluff
a/n | the jerry proposal and wedding event of the century. i had a lot of fun with this and would love to hear what y'all think <3
................................
Here’s the thing, Joel Miller is not slick. At all. And Cherry is pretty sure she knows what he’s up to.
For starters, she keeps finding him in their bedroom, his arm stuck way back into his sock drawer, though he never fails to whip around and slam it shut when she catches him, face flushed down and palming the back of his neck, a pantomime of casual guilt. He has also started making frequent trips out onto the back porch in the evening, leaving her on the couch while he takes a call. 
No, Joel Miller is not slick at all. She bets it’s Tommy’s fault, never far from a carton himself, though he knows better now than to smoke in her house, one too many swats upside the head. But he’s usually got a cigarette between his teeth when he and Joel drive together to work, so she doesn’t have to look far to figure out where Joel has picked it up again. 
It isn’t exactly that she minds him smoking. Hell, everyone did it in the eighties, and she even picked it up for a while back in the mid-nineties in the whole artsy-fartsy writing scene. What’s bothering her is that he’s making such a big deal of hiding it from her. Sure, keep it away from the girls, but why all the bullshit with her?
But she’s been waiting for him to bring it to her, something about healthy relationships and building trust and all that good stuff that she heard on some radio show, listened to while she was supposed to be doing edits for her newest project. She hasn’t snooped, she hasn’t pried, even as whatever this is continues to grate on her nerves. Supposed calls being taken, and Joel spending a bit too much time with his hand in his sock drawer.
Here’s the thing, Cherry isn’t very good at waiting. A moment of weakness, what she should be doing is going over the new round of edits she was just sent. What she finds herself doing instead is wandering upstairs into their bedroom. Everyone else out of the house, the girls at school and Joel at work for another half hour, so it’s perfectly quiet when she opens up his sock drawer and starts rifling through it.
She would have preferred to find a carton of cigarettes. Definitely not a necklace, nor a bracelet, and she’s pretty sure it’s not earrings either. No, the black velvet box is the wrong shape for any of those pieces of jewelry. She doesn’t open the box though, doesn’t really have time to when she suddenly hears the garage door opening, followed by what could only be the sound of Joel’s boots shuffling around in the kitchen. 
“Cher?” She moves before she can think, something nervous swirling up in her stomach, that damn velvet box still clutched in her hand as she makes her way downstairs. Joel stops himself mid sentence, something about needing to go to the grocery that gets cut off when he catches her pinched expression. 
“What happened? What’s the matter?” Anger feels good at least, so she scoffs, setting the ring box down on the kitchen counter between them. Joel’s face goes perfectly slack.
“You tell me. What the hell is this?” 
“That’s– you– what’re you doing snooping like that? Jesus christ.” Good, she thinks, let him get angry too. It’ll give her something to bite back at, glaring at each other from across the counter, Joel running a frustrated palm down his face.
“Snooping? Oh please, it was kinda hard not to notice your newfound obsession with the back of your fucking sock drawer. I’m telling you right now, Joel Miller, if this is what I think it is, you’ll return it if you know what’s good for you.” 
“Oh come on, Cher, just–”
“No.”
“Let’s just–”
“No, Joel. We’ve talked about this. You know that isn’t something I want.” She sees the sharp wince in his expression, but it’s not enough for her to back down, not when it comes to this. They have talked about this. A few times now. And normally, Joel is on her side, neither of them caring much about a ceremony or the titles that would come with it. Hell would have to freeze over before she took someone else’s name, not when she has built so much out of and on her own. 
“I just– it’s paperwork. That’s all it is, and a ring. You and I don’t need that, baby. It’s, we’re past that.” She knows what she’s doing with that soft baby she slips into her words, and for a beat, it seems to melt Joel just the way she wants it to, his eyes rounding a little, grimace softening around the edges. But then he huffs, a harsh drag of his fingers through his hair as he shakes his head at her.
“What about what I want, huh? Is it such a goddamn crime for me to want this? To want something a little more– a little more official? Fuck, Cherry, this isn’t– this is not how I wanted this to go.” Damn him, damn him for the way his words crack, tired and utterly disappointed at the end, a long sigh that slumps his shoulders. Damn him, she can never stay mad at him. Damn him, because she would like to give him whatever he wants, but this is not that easy. Silence falls between them, Joel resting both his palms on the counter, his head hanging down between his shoulders. Careful and quiet, she rounds the counter, one palm to his shoulder, and one covering his hand. 
“You deserve to have what you want, you do. But marriage is not– it’s not something– what we have is good, and I don’t want this– this thing to change it.” The truth of it. To her, marriage is cage. Marriage is silent houses, scraping forks at dinner. Marriage is violence. And she thinks that Joel understands that, his palm shuffling to rest over hers, thumb stroking along the side of her hand. 
“I don’t want it to be like that, Cher. Like you said, s’just paperwork. We can make it whatever we want it to be. Hell, we can just chalk it up to the tax breaks if we want.” It’s enough to coax a laugh up from her chest, her smile slipping to the side as she rests her cheek against his bicep, anger long forgotten for whatever this is. Something sweet, at least.
“Can I ask why it’s so important to you? Because if it’s just Deedee breathing down your neck I can handle–”  He cuts her off with a laugh of his own, a small shuffle for him to lean back against the counter, her stepping between his legs and letting her hands settle along his waist, dipping her head down when his chin drops in something a bit bashful.
“No, it’s not her, though she probably wouldn’t be upset at the prospect. But it is something I want, and– it’s stupid really.” She coaxes him with a quiet no, tell me, baby, squeezing at the soft part of his waist, making him huff again, and maybe flush a little. She loves getting him like this, a little mushy gushy where he’s usually such a hardass. God forbid Joel Miller have feelings, and God forbid he get embarrassed by having said feelings.
“Certainty, you know? That’s what marriage means to me. My folks– they’ve been married for fifty-something years now. And it’s a very real thing to them, that commitment. I just– I’d like that– with you.” And damn him again, for looking at her like that, brow all pinched up, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth when he finishes talking. She gets it now. Where she sees capture, captive, Joel sees comfort, reassurance that yes, this is real. Yes, staying. Got the ring and the paperwork to prove it. Maybe it could be that for her too. Maybe he could show her how.
Her answer doesn’t come in words, not at first, easy to lean forward and press her lips to his, once, twice, feeling the small curl of his smile the second time, hers matching his, fitting with his.
“So, you said something about tax breaks?” Enough to smooth out the scrunch of uncertainty in his expression, that smile threatening at the corners of his mouth while her palms smooth and shift to splay over his chest. 
“That a yes?” 
“Show me the ring, Miller.” He doesn’t turn around, just fumbles blindly behind himself until he snatches up the box. Of course, it’s perfect. A little unconventional, simple silver band with an opal set in it. Yes feels a little easier just looking at it. 
“I’m not wearing white, for the record.” 
“I’d expect nothing less, Cher.” Before he can lean in for another kiss, she remembers that initial curl of anger, pressing against his chest to hold him at bay.
“Wait, so you’re not smoking again?”
“What? Why the hell would you think that?” 
“I mean, that’s what I assumed was going on with the sock drawer and all the evening calls you were taking on the porch.” While she’s dead serious, Joel just seems entirely amused by the whole thing, letting out a laugh and squeezing at her hips even as she huffs at him.
“That’s not– those were phone calls, with Tommy. I was– well, I was planning something for you.” Damn him, Joel Miller was planning a proposal, and now she looks like a total jackass for ruining it.
“Oh, oh. What were you planning?” 
“If you weren’t so goddamned nosy maybe you would’ve gotten to find out, Cherry baby.” 
“Hey, watch it. The ring isn’t on my finger yet.” Of course Joel takes that as a challenge, one she doesn’t really care to fight against, letting him pull her closer into his chest while he fumbles with her left hand, a small, petulant grumble when it takes him a few tries to slide the ring onto her finger. When he does succeed, she indulges him with a waggle of her fingers, watching the gem glint, all light and color. 
“What do you think?” 
“You did good, Miller.”
“The girls helped pick it out.”
“You’re telling me Sarah and Ellie both knew about this? And that Ellie voluntarily looked at jewelry?” Clearly pleased with himself, he hums a yes, so smug she would smack him if it wasn’t a sweet thought. Her girl helping him pick something out for her mom. 
“Just to clarify, this does count as a yes, right?” 
“I suppose so.” She says it with a sigh, playing at resignation that he jostles out of her, another kiss that’s more answer than anything else.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Uh, putting on my suit jacket.”
“If you think you’re wearing jeans to the goddamn ceremony you’re sorely mistaken.”
“It’s Texas, Joel. You can wear jeans to a wedding.”
“Not to mine you can’t. Does Maria know about your little outfit? Because I reckon she’s not gonna be too pleased with it either.” Tommy’s face falls at that, hands pausing in his adjustment of his cufflinks.
“Shit, you think I got time to run back to my place?” 
“You’ll have to meet us there, but I ain’t letting you in the chapel like that either.” Tommy is already shuffling down the hall, though Joel chooses to ignore what he thinks is a grumbled fucking diva that comes from his brother’s mouth. More important things to be thinking about anyways, like the faint sound of Cherry and the girls getting ready down the hall. 
Sarah and Ellie had been adamant about this separation, starting last night when they stepped in front of the couch where he and Cherry were sitting. Their girls, with all the solemnity of CIA agents, informing them that the next time Joel would see his woman would be at the altar, no time for him to protest when they were already all but dragging her away from him. Sure, she was just down the hall in the guestroom, but he wasn’t about to rail against their girls’ orders, unsure whose wrath he was more afraid of, Sarah’s or Ellie’s, or the combined, nuclear explosion of the two. 
His eyes flick over to the clock on the nightstand, a muttered curse when he realizes they should have left five minutes ago. The plan, him and Sarah, his best maid of honor as she had named herself, in the truck, and Cherry and Ellie, her best maid of honor as dubbed by Sarah, in the minivan. No seeing each other until the altar, right. 
“Sarah, you ready to go? We’re already–” He doesn’t get the rest out, stumbling back in the hall when someone clamps their palms over his eyes. 
“Don’t look, old man, Jesus. We were just leaving.” He huffs at Ellie’s snappy command, a light tug to her wrists, though her hands don’t budge, clammy over the tops of his cheeks where they’re covering his eyes.
“Kid, my eyes are closed. Lay off, huh?” Albeit reluctantly, Ellie takes her hands away, a seemingly satisfied hum when she sees that his eyes are in fact closed. 
“I’ll give you the all clear when we’re down the stairs, alright? But until then, keep ‘em shut.” Lord help him.
“Uh-huh, whatever you say, boss.” Not sure what else to do, he rests his hands on his hips, eyes still scrunched shut as he hears what he thinks is the sound of Ellie and Sarah both bounding down the steps, but his whole spine shivers  when he feels a hand slip along his jaw, nails lightly scratching at his scruff.
“Look at you, baby. Always clean up so nice.” He could open his eyes, but now it feels like a game with the way her words graze right over his mouth, and he’s not about to lose. 
“How come you get to look?” A bright peel of laughter, her other palm slipping up along his chest. He can picture that grin of hers in his mind.
“Because I’m the bride, Joel. I can do whatever the fuck I want.” He has to laugh, his hands reaching blindly, slipping against silk that makes a hum settle in his chest. His eyes threaten to open on impulse to see, though he manages to keep them scrunched shut. 
“You still wanna do this, right? It’s– this is still good?” He knows it’s a stupid question, a small part of him still worried that somehow, there will be a catch to all of this. But Cherry doesn’t even indulge his ask with words, a pfft in the back of her throat before she leans in a little closer, guiding his lips to hers in a sweet, simple kiss. 
“I’ll see you at the altar, handsome.” 
“Dad, don’t cry. We haven’t even gotten to the church yet.” He sniffs hard, knuckles swiping under his nose as his other hand holds the passenger side door open for Sarah. 
“I’m not– not crying. You look very beautiful, honey.” An eye roll and a scoff, but he’ll take it, because she really does look lovely in the light purple dress Cherry helped her pick out, a sweet sight, with baby’s breath threaded through her hair.
His heart starts to kick up when they get to the church. It’s a small thing, simple, white clapboard and a single steeple. He knew that Deedee would have thrown a fit if they didn’t get married in a place of worship, not that he or Cherry had stepped foot in a church anytime in their recent adult lives. Still, they were happy to make that compromise, even though the priest had a small aneurysm when they told him that Cherry wouldn’t be taking Joel’s last name, no need for the Mr. and Mrs. Miller congratulations. Doing things their own way, just like they always have. 
Only the first two rows are filled across each aisle. His parents, Tommy and Maria, a handful of other friends and family. Will is here too, with his girlfriend who Cherry seems sure will soon be more than his girlfriend. Joel’s family has become hers in many ways, filling in the gaps, something he’s been happy to be able to offer to her, and to Will whenever he visits. 
He stands at the altar, waiting, Sarah right next to him, his hand on her shoulder, something to steady whatever this jittery feeling is. 
And there’s no fanfare to it, just a sudden wave of silence when she and Ellie appear at the end of the aisle, heads turning over shoulders to see. Ellie looks sharp in her suit, pleased with herself, clear in the set back of her shoulders and the tilt of her chin as she walks her mom down the aisle. And Cherry, well. 
He can already hear her snark. We’re way past white, Miller. Like sage, he thinks, soft green silk, a simple slip, her shoulders bare to reveal the dark curl of her tattoo. Her bouquet, made mostly of chrysanthemums, a broken laugh rattling in his chest at the sight. And she’s looking at him, the smallest curl of a smile, maybe a little nervous when her eyes dart to their modest audience, but then right back on him, still certain. 
“I like the suit, kid.”
“Thanks, old man.” He’s only a little surprised when Ellie offers him a quick hug, already ducking over to the side so it’s just him and Cherry, and the priest, of course.
And the rest is blissfully easy.
“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
“Don’t slouch.” Her mother’s hand is a quick curl of ice at the back of her neck, just enough pressure to send her spine back into straightness from her slow slump in the pew. Honestly, she’s not sure why her family insisted on going to this wedding, it’s not like they’re that close with Lisa-Anne’s family, especially not her older sister who is the one getting married. Appearances, she reasons, always appearances with her mother and father. See and be seen. 
Right now, after a nearly two-hour long ceremony, she has no interest in what her mother and father want, a little more focused on how her tights are cutting into her waist, sweat starting to drip down her spine beneath the stiff fabric of her dress. Mercifully though, this whole wedding thing seems to be wrapping itself up, man and wife walking down the aisle to a polite chorus of clapping. Meanwhile, she’s trying to figure out how she can escape early from the party afterward, trailing a bit glumly behind Will and their parents as everyone files out of the church. 
“Hey, Cherry.” Just above a whisper, it still stops her in her tracks, stepping out of the throng of people to look around for where that sound came from. She scoffs when she sees who it is.
“What do you want, Joel?” He looks like a cartoon character running from the law, peeking out from behind the side of the church, wild grin and a jerk of his chin that she knows means come over here. She glances back to her family, making their way along with everyone else to the tent set up for the reception, and suddenly, whatever Joel’s offer may be is seeming much more appealing, already slinking off to the side and toward him. When she gets within arm’s length, he surprises her with a reach and tug to her forearm, pulling her along and behind the church, finding Tommy already partaking in what she supposes Joel wanted to rope her into.
“Hey, dipshit, I didn’t tell you to light up yet, did I? Have some manners, goddamn.” Tommy smiles sheepish, a thin seep of smoke coming out around the edges of his smile as Joel plucks the blunt from his fingers. He must be exceptionally bored, she thinks, to have wrangled her into this, considering that they haven’t spoken to each other much for the majority of sophomore year. 
“I would say ladies’ first, but seeing as someone started without us, I’ll just give you the next hit, Cher.” She knows he’s serious, holding the smoldering blunt out to her pinched between thumb and forefinger, but she still scoffs. 
“I can’t do that, Joel. If my mom smelled that on me she’d– well, I can’t do that.” He squints, shrugs. And she hates how beautiful he looks when he takes a languid hit, the top buttons of his rumpled dress shirt undone to display how the long line of his neck trembles with the inhale, the puff of his chest, and then that smooth slump when he lets the smoke out. 
“Suit yourself. Tom, Maureen said she’d dance with you–” Tommy’s eyes light up, an exclamation already hanging from his parted lips, though Joel cuts him off with a prim finger pointed in the air.
“If you catch her early. So, you know, best get on with it.” Tommy nods hard, gulps a thank you to Joel, and is off like lightning around the side of the church and toward the reception. She raises her brow at Joel. Another shrug, smug.
“He asked me to talk to Maureen for him.”
“You didn’t talk to Maureen, did you?” 
“Nope, he’ll figure that out for himself though. You sure you don’t want some of this?” He takes another hit, hissing out smoke as if to punctuate his question. 
“No, and if that’s all you called me over here for then I think I’d rather be over at the–” 
“Oh, c’mon, Cher. We can just talk, huh? It’s better than all that bullshit anyways. Look–” With that, he flicks the half-smoked blunt into the grass, stamping it out with the sole of his shoe.
“See? All gone, now we can be civil and proper just like your mama wants us to be.” His smile spreads, and she can’t help her own, finally sighing and leaning back against the side of the church, turning her head on her shoulder to look at him.
“What’d you think of the service?” He snorts, kicking the toe of his shoe into the grass, his gelled hair – Deedee’s work, no doubt – flopping and falling into his eyes. 
“Thought it was long. And I thought the groom looked about ready to hoof it.” It feels good to laugh after sitting still for so long, a quick flutter of it in her chest.
“He was sweating so much. And the way he messed up his vows?” Ever the entertainer Joel immediately goes into character, his grin dissolving, brow pinching down and mouth pulling into an over the top frown as he wrings his hands in front of him, the perfect pantomime of fret.
“In, uh, in health– no, in sickness and in health until, uh– what was it again? Oh, death– until death do us part. A–fucking–men.” He concludes with a slap to his thigh and a big bark of laughter, his head tilting to the side as he grins at her own guffaw.
“You make fun now, but just wait until you’re up there at the altar one day. I’d pay money to see that trainwreck.” 
“Not very nice, Cherry. And also, bold of you to assume I’m even gonna get married.” 
“Oh please, Joel. At the very least, I’m sure Deedee will eventually stick you with some nice girl from the Kiwanis Club.” His whole face scrunches up at that, an indignant sound crawling up the back of his throat as he shakes his head at her.
“Nah, nope, no, ma’am. Reckon I’m not really the marrying type.”
“How can you say that? You don’t even have your driver’s license yet.”
“Uh, yes I do. I got it last week.” He’s already fumbling in his back pocket, movements a little fuzzed around the edges from his couple of hits as he procures his wallet and waves his fresh license in her face.
“Nice mugshot.” He tuts, tucking his wallet away.
“Always so mean. I bet you’ll be a sight at the altar one day, Cher. Gotta be careful not to shred your pretty white dress up with all that bite.” The word bite comes out with a flashy flare of his canines, a dramatic snap of his jaw that makes her snort.
“I won’t have to worry about that, thank you very much.”
“Oh no?”
“No, I’m never getting married.” She regrets it the instant she says it, even though she means it, already bracing for Joel’s mimicry.
“How can you say that? You don’t even have your driver’s license yet.” High and nasally, though he cuts himself off with an oof when she shoves him in the shoulder.
“I got mine two months ago, so there.” He sighs, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he mirrors her stance, leaning back against the church with his shoulder brushing against hers.
“You really ain’t gonna get married, Cher?”
“Not if I can help it, you?” It must be the weed, she thinks, making his face fall and his eyes droop.
“Nah, it’d, uh, have to be someone real special to change my mind.”
“You think they’d notice if we sneaked off for a while?” She tries to keep her grin schooled, a hard task with Joel’s hands wandering down her hips, laying a squeeze to the swell of her thighs before skating back up, arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her back flush with his chest. 
“Hmm, the cake’s been cut, et cetera, et cetera. I think we could get away with it.” Joel hums, swaying her a little where they’re standing on their back porch, surveying their small but mighty reception. Ellie is dancing a clumsy waltz with Deedee, a few other family members around on the makeshift dance floor, everyone else talking in a haze of booze and sugar, slumped in their folding seats, napkins and plates stacked on the tables in front of them. And her and Joel are already slinking inside and up the steps. Giggling, entirely absurd, they don’t even make it to the bedroom, tangling and traipsing over each other into the bathroom, Joel kicking the door shut behind them as he crowds her up against the sink.
“Looked so beautiful today, I already tell you that?” Words humid and hotly murmured into her sternum, her laugh turns into a gasp when he noses up the column of her throat, teeth grazing that spot he so likes to grin into.
“You may have mentioned it. Not as pretty as you though, baby. All proper for me– oh, right there– waiting for me in your suit and tie.” Said suit and tie has long been shucked down to just his button-up and slacks, now untucked and rumpled, going lopsided with the way she fumbles down the first few buttons of his shirt. She can practically feel the heat flushing up his neck from her words, though Joel hides any bashfulness with a petulant smack to the side of her ass, quick to smooth when she jolts in his hold.
“Don’t tease, Cher, gotta be quick, huh? You gonna turn around for me and show me this pretty dress from the back?” The realization of just what that means settles in her mind, slanting her grin to the side as she shoves him back with a palm in the middle of his chest, for once, doing exactly as he asks and turning around to rest her palms on the counter. For posterity’s sake, she makes a show of it, arching her spine and spreading her stance a little wider, a little sway in her hips. She can’t help her snicker when Joel finally slides the satiny skirt of her dress up over her hips, his movements stuttering still as a quiet curse slips from his mouth.
“How— how long have you been like this?” She turns her gaze over her shoulder, maybe enjoying this too much in the slow bat of her lashes. Joel looks stricken, jaw slack and eyes wide.
“All day, baby, why do you ask?” 
“You’re telling me you walked down the aisle– in a house of God– like this?” She shrugs, leaning back into Joel’s palm that’s been idly palming her ass, her very bare ass. 
“Don’t tell Deedee.” His laugh comes out on a splutter, clearly unsure if he even should laugh in the first place, though she can’t help her own snort of amusement, soon the both of them dissolving into it, shoulders shaking and eyes crinkling up.
“You are trying to give me a fucking heart attack, goddamn.”
“Think of the lines, Joel, it would have ruined my outfit.” He just shakes his head, leaning over her to find a slanted kiss. And then the realization that yes, they still need to be quick about this, wedding guests downstairs and all that. A little bit of fumbling, and a preening sigh in the back of her throat when he drags the hot weight of his cock through the seam of her cunt.
“Who’s the freak now, huh, Cher?” She tries to laugh, but it’s more of a whine when his hips finally settle against the plush of her ass, so deep that she can’t help but lift up onto her toes, Joel holding her steady with a palm clutching at her breast.
“You’re the one that married the freak.”
“Damn right I did.” 
Not romantic at all. Quick, the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin with the way she bounces back to meet his thrusts. And no, not so young anymore, so it isn’t long before they’re both biting back moans, a small hit to hold them over before the guests leave. They slump down against each other in the aftermath, hazy smiles and breaths that try at laughs, Joel pressing his lips to the top of her shoulder, the side of her neck, her temple. 
“Love you, freak.” 
“You were the freak first, Miller.”
“I believe the correct response is love you too, actually.” Still framing her against the counter, his hand comes to rest over top of hers, fiddling a bit with the ring on her finger.
“Yeah, that too.” He scoffs rubbing his scruff against her cheek with the way he shakes his head at her. It’s annoying how quickly she folds for him, turning around in his hold, a shaky two-step to finally look at him. 
“You know I do, baby. I wouldn’t do this with anyone else.” She punctuates her words with a kiss, small and simple, feeling his hum beneath her palm on his chest. 
“Me too, Cherry. Only ever imagined it with you.” 
...........................................
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carmybears · 2 years
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Flirting with Knives
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pairing: carmy berzatto X female!reader
summary: a fluffy little vignette about cooking with your new boyfriend, except he tries to turn it into a cooking lesson
word count: 900
“I cannot keep watching this.”
You snort, biting back the smile that is tugging at your lips as you continue dicing the onion sitting on the cutting board in front of you.
“I wouldn’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Carmy. And besides,” you throw a glance over your shoulder. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t judge me.”
Your relationship with Carmy was new. As in text each other all night, gossip to your best friend about him, and generally spend every waking moment thinking about when you’d get to see him next kind of new. It was the intoxicating stage in the relationship where you pretty much wanted to have your hands on him at all times, but also still panicked about the state of your apartment whenever he stopped by. All in all, it made you feel like you were about sixteen years old again. But every time your eyes met his, you could feel yourself getting caught up in a flurry of butterflies and you wouldn’t change a thing.
Tonight, you were cooking for him for the first time. You’d pulled out a recipe for cherry balsamic glazed pork chops and thyme roasted potatoes that you had made enough times before to know that it was reliably delicious and easy enough for you to make without making a fool of yourself in front of Food and Wine’s Best New Chef.
That said, cutting onions can be a bitch and your knife was fucking dull.
“I’m not judging, I swear!” There was laughter in Carmy’s voice as he sidles up behind you, putting his hands on your hips. “Could I just maybe give you a few pointers?”
With an exaggerated roll of your eyes, you set the knife down on the cutting board and step aside. “Yes, Chef.”
Carmy steps up to the kitchen counter, taking up the onion in one hand and the knife in the other. His voice is gentle as he explains to you how best to position your hand as you hold the onion and then pantomimes the cuts he is going to make. It isn’t until he presses the blade to the vegetable that he curses under his breath.
“Jesus Christ babe, when’d you last sharpen this thing?” The shock on his face is palpable as he looks at you with wide eyes and mouth hanging agape. It’s kind of hilarious.
“So…” You draw out the syllable as long as you can before you make your confession. “I might not have a knife sharpener.”
If you thought he looked outraged before, you’d be mistaken.
“You wound me, you know that?”
You tilt your head back and laugh.
“Absolutely fuckin’ ridiculous. I’m taking matters into my own hands.”
You reach for him, your fingertips barely grazing the waffled sleeve of his Henley shirt as he turns on his heel and crosses into your living room, where his backpack lays in a heap on the floor.
“Carmen, baby, what are you talking about?”
He unzips the bag and pulls out a neatly tied roll of fabric. “I’m talking about this.”
“Are those your knives?!” You exclaim. “Do you always take those everywhere with you? Or should I be afraid?”
“Well yeah, I take them with me over here because I usually end up going straight from your bed to the restaurant,” he reasons, giving you a quick peck on the lips. “And the only thing you should be scared of is losing a damn finger to those dull knives of yours.”
He lays the roll out flat on your kitchen counter and pulls out an incredibly sharp knife, setting it on the cutting board.
“Now, we’re going to finish making dinner and then tomorrow night I’m coming over and sharpening all of your knives.”
“Is that your idea of foreplay?”
He smirks then, that little dimple forming in his cheek, but very pointedly does not answer your question. You decide to take that as a yes.
You take Carmy’s knife up in one hand and the onion up in the other, arranging your fingers in almost the same way you had seen him do it. “So, like this?”
“Um, not quite.” He curls his hand up into a claw and demonstrates. “You want to curl your fingertips down under a little more.”
You mimic what you see. “Better?”
“No, um, let me…” He comes around to your other side and places his hand over yours, gently positioning your fingers into place. As he works on perfecting your technique, you look up at him, study the way his brow furrows in concentration. You rock back in your heels just enough to feel the press of his broad chest against your shoulder. A feeling like electricity courses through you, and you’re not entirely sure that you’re all that hungry anymore – not with your favorite chef on the menu.
“Y’know, Chef, you should probably just put your arms around me. I’m not sure I can cut these onions all by myself.”
He pauses what he's doing and wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you gently into his body. His lips are pressed against the bare skin at the base of your neck and you feel a puff of warm air as he laughs lightly into your skin. When he speaks, his voice is low in your ear, giving you goosebumps. “Are you flirting with me, chef?”
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