#I don’t like seeing him reduced so frivolously | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

always-andromeda · 9 months

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·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✯ DBF!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ✯ 4801

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 ✯ taboo au + once is not enough + “Do you like when I touch you like this? I can keep going if you want me to.”

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ✯ Sorry for the massive gap in posting fics! I've been getting into the swing of things with school and I wanted to do these justice instead of rushing through them!! I also want to preface this one by acknowledging that some folks hate this trope and if that’s the case…please don’t leave me hate on it. I am merely a twenty-two year old baby living her older man fantasy (cue that tiktok of Fred Armisen going “I’m sowwy. I’m a widdle baby.” 🥺)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ smut (minors, do not interact!!) fingering, unprotected sex, age gap (reader is in her twenties, Joel is in his forties), slight voyeurism, slight dacryphilia, pet names (darlin’, honey, sweetheart, girl), nothing else I can think of!!

(mdni banner template credit goes to @cafekitsune!!)

You'd come home from college hoping for some relaxation over summer break. Maybe you'd catch up with family and some old friends. Or maybe you'd find yourself. The opportunities were endless and you were excited. At least until Joel waltzed into the picture.

The last time you remembered seeing him was your going away party before you moved away for college. He'd been one of the many who clapped you on the back and congratulated you on getting into your school of choice. And when he'd looked at you with those soft eyes and said sentimentally that he was so proud of you...you had no chance at stopping the butterflies that went wild in your stomach.

His praise hit differently.

It had reminded you of a younger version of yourself who'd idolized the man. Your own father was decent. But Joel was the best. Joel was the one you'd call when you ran into trouble and he'd been keeping your secrets for as long as you could remember.

The first time you'd gotten blackout drunk during your senior year, he drove you back to his house and let you shake off the hangover before sending you back home the next morning without a word to your dad.

When your ex-boyfriend dumped you over text, who else was there to save the day but Joel Miller? With a stack of rented eighties action films and an excess of coupons for a local pizza place, Joel gave you a night that felt normal.

If you'd been alone, you might've sulked and sobbed over that shithead. But in his own brooding way, Joel proved that you were worth more than that. Part of you had been a little in love with him for it.

So, as he'd wished you well on your journey into college, you decided you'd let go of that frivolous teenage fixation. Instead, Joel was reduced to an aspiration. A blueprint for the kind of guy you wanted to be with. A blueprint that had proven to be nearly impossible to fulfill.

To your shock and surprise, most college guys in their twenties couldn't keep up with the maturity of a man who was rapidly approaching his forties. You couldn't help but feel a little repulsed by your new dating pool. Which propelled you to focus more on your studies...which only stressed you out even more. By the time finals came around, you were on the brink of tearing your hair out.

This summer was well earned. And you hated to admit that you'd been a little too enthusiastic to possibly see Joel again.

You hadn't necessarily been looking for Joel's attention. Upon your homecoming, your parents have invited him and a few other family friends over for a barbecue. It should've been a night of ice cold beers and suburban simplicity. But the itinerary suddenly changed once you got some time alone with him.

Standing on the back porch, you watched your parents and their other friends laugh and roast marshmallows over the fire pit on the lawn. As you rested against the wooden railing, you nursed a beer; your third one that night.

Joel emerged from the sliding glass back door with a bear of his own and took a place beside you on the deck.

As doting as ever, he gestured to your drink and asked, "How many of those have you had tonight?"

"Only a few."

Joel raised an eyebrow.

"Easy, old man," you giggled. "I've spaced them out. So I'm not drunk. Just a little tipsy."

"Ah, so I take it that college taught you how to handle your alcohol better, huh?"

You smacked his shoulder which earned a laugh from him. When his head turned, you got a real good look at him. He'd hardly changed save for a few stray silver hairs and his facial hair being a little scruffier. If anything, those changes only made him that much more enthralling.

So enthralling that it was nearly impossible to pay attention to his small talk. He did what everyone else did. Asked about your classes, your major, what you wanted to do with your degree after graduating. You answered each question with quick answers, eager to get to something more nitty gritty. Because that was what you appreciated Joel most for: his ability to cut through the pointless fat and treat you like an adult. Something that you were sorely missing after only a few days back at home.

You'd taken a long swig of your beer before throwing caution to the wind. "So, Joel?" he looked over at you with raised brows. Then you asked, "You seein' anyone?"

His chest rumbled with a small laugh before he took a sip of her own beer. With his lips pursed around the mouth of the bottle and his eyes crinkled, he tried to conceal his amusement. "Nope," he replied with an air of casualty. "How about you, darlin'? You breakin' those college boys' hearts?"

You scoffed, "No, more like they're breakin' mine."

His brow creased with concern. "Do I need to break some bones?"

"As kind as that sounds...I wouldn't have anybody in particular to send ya to."

That caught his attention. "You mean you're not seeing anybody?"

Not wanting to sound like a complete loser, you explained, "I tried to go on a few dates at the start of the semester. But none of them really worked out. They just weren't my type."

A note of silence passed over you two before Joel wondered, "What would you say is your type, darlin'?"

You wished Joel hadn't been staring at you, waiting for your answer. He had to know this was dangerous territory. He had to know that it wasn't an easy thing to casually admit; the fact that you searched for him in every single man you'd gone out with.

"Oh, you know..." you trailed off wearily. "Intelligent, strong-willed, no nonsense...but with a good sense of humor...mature–"

"Mature?"

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

You thought of an explanation quickly, "Yeah. Like...someone who's developed..." Joel eyed you strangely. "...in the mind, I mean. I don't want a guy who I have to practically train before I feel like I could date him."

Joel nodded thoughtfully before teasing, "Well, honey, if you're looking for a mature man...I think a college campus is one of the worst places you could've picked to look."

"Where should I start looking instead?"

His next words seemed to be testing the waters. "Maybe...maybe you should be lookin' a little closer to home."

For the first time you got the idea that it could be possible. He'd only ever looked at you straight with no inkling of duplicity. But now his eyes were going up and down, taking you in like he hadn't ever looked at you right before.

"How close are you thinking?" you asked.

Tipping his head back, Joel drank the last sip of his beer and you watched his Adam's apple bob. Watched a drop of the liquid gold fall from the corner of his mouth before disappearing into his beard. Watched as he set the bottle down on the handrail and straightened himself out.

Then he replied just loud enough for only you to hear, "Maybe the kitchen."

The descent into deviance came fast. From the moment you leaned back against the kitchen counter, Joel's lips were on yours. He tasted like the hops from his drink and smelled woody, it was a distinctly masculine combination that had made you clench your thighs together.

With his hand on the back of your neck, he guided you through the kiss in only the way he could and ensured that it ended before you were ready for it to. His nose bumped against yours as he searched your glazed over expression for any kind of reluctance.

"You sure you want this, darlin'?"

"Fuck, yes. Please," you pleaded breathlessly.

Once he let out a little laugh, he turned you around and you braced yourself on the counter. Starting below your ear, Joel trailed down your neck and along your shoulder. One of his hands was making a similar journey from your hip right up to one of your tits.

You gasped as he squeezed the mound of flesh gently and you had never been more glad to have taken off your bra earlier on in the day. Because Joel seemed incredibly pleased feeling the full weight of your tit in his hand, all warm and willing to be played with.

His other hand went the opposite direction. Down, down, down it went until it was cupping your sex over your jeans. Which were becoming increasingly uncomfortable as you squirmed in a fruitless attempt to find friction. Middle finger running up the seam of your jeans, you knew that if you were two layers lighter, he'd be so close to dipping into your folds. He was so close it could've driven you insane.

His lips were by your ear again when he whispered, "Do you like when I touch you like this?"

Back pressed flat against his heaving chest, you nodded.

Joel toyed with your zipper. "I can keep going if you want me to..."

You nodded once more and whined, "Please, Joel, please. Keep going."

And keep going he did. He kept going until you'd finished on his fingers twice. The first orgasm had been hard and quick, intensified by two of his thick fingers fucking you through it. Nothing could be done to conceal the sticky sounds of your cunt clenching around his digits nor the sound of you panting as you came down from the high.

With every ounce of your being you hoped and prayed that you wouldn't be interrupted. Because there was no normal excuse for Joel having his hand down your pants and his erection poking into your back. None whatsoever. And besides, getting caught meant ruining your parent's suburban simplicity.

So, for the second climax, Joel clapped a hand over your mouth and murmured, "Let it all out, honey. Don't worry, no one'll hear. I promise." You followed his directions to a T; practically shrieking when this climax crept up on you and washed over you in a relentless wave that had your thighs trembling and your back arching. It was too much and not enough at the same time.

Because when Joel pulled his hand out of your pants and wiped them off on his own jeans, all you wanted was more. Your body ached with that want.

As much as you knew that Joel was just looking out for you both, it felt like he was deliberately being mean when he mumbled, "Better get back out there before folks get suspicious."

With a quick peck and a light tap on your ass, Joel sent you off. Slick still plastering your underwear to your needy pussy, you waltzed back outside on shaky legs.

And it seemed like your mind spent every waking second thinking about it; about him. His voice, his hands, his scent, his body. Each aspect on its own could make you wet all over again. But all together? He turned you into a goddamn mess.

You couldn't shake him. Like an ever present itch, Joel had etched himself into your bones, ruining you for anyone else. And he made it all the more difficult to forget about him in the aftermath. It astounded you how Joel could shamelessly hang around your dad after that night, offering to help out with his various projects before sitting in your living room and watching baseball with him, just feet away from where Joel had defiled you. That was the brazen behavior that made you hide away in your room for that first week.

The night your parents decided to go out on an impromptu date, you were relieved. With some time alone to think and breathe, you'd sort yourself out. Tonight was reserved as a Joel Miller free evening.

Throwing yourself on the couch, you turned on some show you'd abandoned ages ago. You couldn't quite remember the majority of the plot threads. But that didn't really matter anyways. You doubted you could've scrapped together the mental awareness anyways. All of it was focused on him.

No matter how much you tried to distract yourself, your mind wandered back to him. The promise of his hard cock and his firm hands. Every part of him still had you hypnotized.

Not even your own hand could break that. For a good few minutes you fruitlessly played with yourself. You felt silly and almost pitiful trying to replicate the motions Joel had made. But it wasn't the motions you weren't getting right. It was the feeling. It was the thickness of just his middle finger separating your folds before squeezing your lips between three digits. It was his breath on your neck and his words egging you on. It was the edge of danger. It was the fact that he shouldn't have been able to stir up all of that arousal within you. And it was the fact that he did regardless.

You could never replicate that on your own.

Ruined. Fucking ruined.

Too lazy to get up and grab your vibrator from your room upstairs to help you along, you laid back and whined pathetically, relieved you had the house to yourself. But some

higher power had to be at play and had a fucked up sense of humor.

"What the hell are you doin'?"

Head snapping up, you spot the one man you didn't want to see ever again standing in the archway leading into the living room.

Joel Miller had his brow arched like this was some sort of surprise. Like you were on his couch in his living room in his house playing with his–

Before you let yourself finish the thought, you spoke, anger flooding your tone, "What the hell are you doing here? My dad isn't home, so what do you want?"

Joel leaned against the archway casually, still with an air of confidence that felt entirely too cocky. "I know," he shot back. "He said he and your mom would be out late tonight.

Gave me a spare key earlier and asked if I'd check in on ya on my way home."

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you responded quickly, "Well...you've checked in. I'm fine. Thank you."

And you know the second the words leave your lips that Joel doesn't believe them. He doesn't move. Instead, he surveys your figure sprawled on the length of the couch. Of course Joel is smart enough to infer your guilt. There's almost no innocent reason for your legs to be spread so wide, for your hair to already be so mussed up.

He tilted his head slightly and you knew he was putting the pieces together and picturing you writhing against that couch minutes before.

Finally, he concluded, "You don't seem all that fine, honey."

"I'm perfectly alright. I don't need anything else from you, Joel," you spoke his name pointedly, almost a warning against whatever other ideas he was concocting.

Silence. And you partially hoped that would be the end of it.

Instead he ambles further into the room before seating himself near your feet and gazing across at you. "Are we gonna talk about it at all?"

His furrowed brow threatened to make you fold. But you were determined to stay strong, licking your lips and starting shakily, "I don't see the point. What happened was a one time thing and...I don't want it to happen again."

"You don't want it happening? Or it shouldn't happen?"

"Is there really that much of a difference?"

"There's a massive difference. Because one suggests that you want it to happen again."

"It shouldn't happen, Joel," you answered solidly.

"Then tell me you haven't thought about it once since the other night." Testing the waters, he planted a hand between your knees and slid further up the couch, closer to you. "Tell me that you haven't been desperate to come like that again," he ordered.

"Joel–"

"Ah," he tutted. "Just tell me and I'll be on my way."

You're angry and already aroused. Because he knows that you can't say it. He knows you can't lie to him like that and that fact makes you feel more vulnerable than ever.

"I think about you all the time," you admitted carefully. "So much that it scares me."

At that, Joel's stare softened and he smiled sentimentally. "Me too, darlin'. Me too." It ignited that familiar warmth in your core. The kind that craved being kindled and grown until it could consume you.

"Is that what you were doing just now? Thinkin' of me?" he asked, eye flickering down to the crumpled front of your pajama shorts.

You could only nod.

"Did you get off?"

This time you shook your head, tears pricking at your eyes. You expected him to laugh at the miserable little confession. Teasing and poking fun had always been part of his personality and – more importantly – part of the casual relationship you'd once shared with him.

He complicated it even further as he cooed with concern, "Oh, little darlin', why not?" It was obvious that shyness would no longer cut it. He wanted words; wanted all of the gory details of just how much damage he'd done with only a few minutes.

So you indulged him.

"Because it wasn't you. I can think about you...but that doesn't replace you actually being there."

Joel's cockiness returned as he replied, "You're damn right it doesn't. But we can fix that, right?"

Nodding again, you found yourself treading dangerous waters once more. But this time you didn't mind it all that much. It felt natural when Joel slotted his body between your legs. The warmth emanating from his broad chest immediately encased you; made you feel undeniably safe.

This time his kiss was slow, soaking up the time he knew he now had. The first time he touched you, it seemed like a favor. A reprieve from dozens of disappointments from those pesky college boys. This time, however, it was entirely decadent. It was a strange sort of care and days of tension being channeled into a full on make out session that clogged your senses like molasses.

Joel made his way down your jaw and as soon as his mouth touched down on your neck, he was sucking a mark that would no doubt be noticed by your parents before too long. That was worth the risk to have his hot breath fanning across your skin as he kissed the bruising skin better.

He didn't have to say it, but you knew that he made the mark on purpose. And you couldn't even scold him for it. Deep down, you wanted to remember this for a while. You wanted to keep him like a secret. You wanted to look at it and know that he was the only one who could do this to you.

Joel's voice rasped beside your ear, "You know what I did after you left that night?"

"Hm?"

"You made me so hard that it wouldn't go away on its own. I had to take care of it all by myself."

"Aw, how sad," you murmured and held his face in your hands. "Poor you."

"Poor me is right. But all I had to do was think of that wet little pussy keeping me warm. Squeezin' me. That did the trick real quick. I don't think I've come that hard in a long while, darlin'. And it's been stuck in my mind ever since."

You had to admit that as much as his words spurred up those sparks and gave you a massive ego boost, it also scared the shit out of you.

"What if I can't live up to what you pictured?" you wondered.

"Honey," Joel began. "As long as you can spread those legs, let me in, and make those pretty sounds for me again, I promise you ain't disappointing anyone."

"I could think of multiple people who'd object to that..." you began to think to yourself. But before you could really finish it, Joel was taking your hand and dragging it south until you hit the denim covering his crotch. He rolled his hips a few times, allowing your palm to run up and down the full length of his cock. Fuck, he was hard. And big. Big enough that your brain scrambled, struggling to handle how intensely the want within you multiplied.

Joel chuckled as you put both hands to work, frantically undoing his jeans. "Jesus, sweetheart, you really don't know the meaning of the word patience, do you?"

"I do. I just know what I want," you replied. Sensing Joel's awe, you continued, "And what I want is for you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me on this couch. I want to feel you for days. I want you to show me everything you've got. Show me you're better than those college boys."

That tapped into something primal in him. Because soon he's rushing to pull his cock out. If his fingers had been filling, you could only imagine how the length would feel once it filled you to the brim.

Joel pulled the flimsy and soaked fabric of both your shorts and panties aside. Running a finger between the folds, he finished every caress with a languid circle of your aching clit. After a few swipes, he drew his hand back and eyed the glistening digit before bringing it to your mouth.

"Have a taste, tell me what it's like."

Opening your mouth, you took his finger graciously and ran your tongue along the underside teasingly. Hollowing your cheeks, you began to suck, taking it back and forth like you would his cock. Before his breathing could get too heavy, you pulled your lips off with a wet little smack and admired how the skin of his finger had already begun to prune.

"So?" Joel's voice broke on the single word.

You contemplated on how to best describe your arousal before settling on giving him a taunting glare and declaring, "I don't know, maybe you should have a taste too." Before Joel could question the statement, you grabbed the neck of his t-shirt and tugged him down to your lips, kissing him deep and slow and dragging your tongue along the seam of his lips. When you detached from him with a soft moan, a thin trail of spit kept your mouths connected.

"You best believe I'm getting a taste of that pussy before summer's over," he sputtered out.

"Only if you fuck me first," you promised dangerously.

With that motivation, Joel was quick to take his cock in hand and give himself a few pumps that already sounded wet with his own pre-come. Carefully and experimentally, he slid the underside of his cock between your folds and you swore to god you could feel the blood rushing through his veins. It was all driving you insane.

"I'll try to go slow," he said tenderly. Then, with the fat head of his cock pressed against your entrance, you were overwhelmed with anticipation.

It was an expectation that was satiated more and more as each inch of him sunk into you. Your breath kept getting caught in your throat and it took everything in you not to cry at just how full you felt. You panted, attempting to catch your breath after being engulfed by him.

You knew Joel was going through something similar when his eyes practically rolled into the back of his head. For a moment it made you wonder when the last time he felt a cunt was. In all the time you'd known him, he'd never mentioned anyone, never brought anyone around, never even hinted at having any sort of romantic or sexual life. But you're doubted that he was untrained or inexperienced with the control he exercised, keeping his movements gentle and steadying his breath with each rise and fall of his belly.

Even when you squeezed – just to see what would happen – Joel only winced and asked carefully, "You doin' alright, honey? Need me to stop?"

You were getting sick of this southern charm and gentlemanly manner. Both of you were way past the point of decency.

You meant to sound mean when you snapped, "For fucks's sake, Joel. I need you to fuck me. Now."

"Well, if you're gonna be such a brat about it..." he trailed off, returning your attitude.

He started to pull out, ever so slowly. Then, with his hands gripping your thighs tight, he slammed back in. The impact made you yelp in surprise.

"Is that how you want it, darlin'? You want me to fuck you hard?"

Head starting to fog, you nodded, added on a weak, "Please."

"Alright, since you asked so politely."

He does it again. And again. One after another, Joel delivers every thrust relentlessly. With each articulated stroke, he grunted and it prodded at something volatile inside you. Something that threatened to burst as he stretched and split you apart at the same time. You couldn't remember a time where you'd ever been touched that deep. And fuck, you were so terribly sensitive to it, your whimpers and gasps accompanying Joel's groans.

His movements were greedy, aiming to take as much as he possibly could and you were all too willing to give it to him; clenching eagerly around his cock and nails searching for purchase in the taut muscles of his back.

Like animals, you both scratched and clawed away at each other until there was nothing left but trembling, sweat slicked skin and the decade old couch threatening to give way beneath you both. Though there was a masterfulness in his motions, you could tell that was quickly fading as his thrusts weakened and he stuttered for breath.

Joel buried his head in the crook of your neck and hissed through gritted teeth, "I can't hold on for much longer, darlin'. You feel so fuckin'...fuck...so fuckin' good..."

"Give me your hand," you whined.

You took it, brought it between both your bodies, and held it over your clit. Joel quickly got the picture and divided his attention between your weeping hole and the sorely neglected nub above it. How he managed to uphold a modicum of gentleness with it, you had no clue. All you knew was that as soon as his fingertips began to brush those coveted circles over you, that was when the tears began to fall. You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing on the white hot pleasure that was burning right through you, visualizing the inferno growing and growing until it had no choice but to explode.

But your eyelids snapped open at Joel's biting tone, "You better look me in the eyes when you come. I need to see it."

Not having it in you to argue or protest, you tried to follow his simple direction. No matter how much you wanted to shut your eyes and somehow try to brace yourself for your incoming orgasm, you had to do as he said. Partially because you wanted him to be proud of you again, but also because you couldn't miss his expression either.

You were glad you withstood the urge because right as you started to come undone, you felt Joel's cock pulse. Then there was the telltale rush of warmth inside you as his seed filled you up. His hand slowing on your clit, you watched as his mouth hung open, letting out a deliciously ravenous groan as you milked him dry. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead and the curve of his nose before he wiped them away lazily and collapsed on top of you.

Being in his forties, you weren't surprised that a single fuck could wipe him out so thoroughly. And you gave a breathless chuckle when he confirmed his exhaustion with a low, "Jesus, you wear me out, girl."

"Good," you whispered, wrapping your arms around him and running a hand through his messy, damp hair.

You had no idea when your parents would be home. But you knew that Joel would have to be gone before then. Already you weren't looking forward to that parting. You couldn't bear the thought of his cock slipping out of you, leaving you empty again. And most of all you dreaded when you'd inevitably hear him say goodnight. Because you knew he would; he was polite like that, even after railing you into the family room couch.

For now he was yours. And there was nothing wrong with any of it, you told yourself.

#˚ʚ meda writes ɞ˚#hauntedhoedown #haunted hoedown #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal smut #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut

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paula-of-christ · 4 months

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I feel defeated. I know this sounds pathetic, but I kind of wish I was d*ead right now or at least I feel like I don’t belong to Christianity anymore like what’s the point. One of the things I worried about after finding God was that I have tattoos and I knew at the time like it didn’t matter and well honestly I saw and still see so many people getting saved who have loads and I know God doesn’t look at outwards but the heart, and more recently it gave me such joy to see kat von d being saved. That being said, I just came across a video of a priest idk maybe an orthodox priest on YouTube speaking on how it’s completely wrong and how awful it is etc and then the comments sections was filled with people saying how disgusting it looks on women and legit any confidence I had just vanished and I feel like a piece of dirt who has no right to call herself Christian lol I honestly feel like no matter how much I run after God or feel peace about everything and let go I see stuff like this and feel like I should give up like

I'd be interested to know why the priest said something like that. While frivolous tattoos are wrong to get, because it's disrespecting the body, Christianity has a very long history of tattooing. Off the top of my head, a traditional pilgrimage activity to Jerusalem is getting a tattoo of a cross, or some other Christian symbol. As well, in Croatia, the tattooing of young girls was common practice as a sign of their Catholic faith, and as a way to stop them from being taken as sex slaves. These often had Christian elements of crosses.

I posted it a few days ago but I'll link it again of this man (Shayne Smith) converting to Catholicism, and feeling accepted by Catholics despite his appearance having many tattoos, several of them on his face [time stamp starting at 38:45, but honestly all of it is so good I encourage you to listen to the whole thing].

I think perhaps a lesson to be learned, is that when you're online, and you see something upsetting, it's best to just keep scrolling/move on. It is pretty much never worth it to look at or to comment on things. I personally like the look of tattoos, and think that if they mean something to a person, that it's completely fine. Both of my bridesmaids had visible tattoos at my wedding, and I know one of the guys I had on my side has a tattoo (wasn't visible because tuxes cover a lot more). I don't personally have them because they are expensive and my husband doesn't care for them, and his opinion on how I look is the only one that matters.

That's also something, unless those people in those comments are people you are trying to date or get to know in a romantic sense, their opinions on women having tattoos is completely irrelevant. Even then, those types of people aren't who you should be looking to be in fellowship with, because if they are that negative on a random youtube short, they probably aren't all that pleasant in real life either.

As an example since my husband doesn't care for tattoos, if I did go and get one, it wouldn't make him less attracted to me. The people that are so against tattoos on women, are reducing those women to how they look, rather than the quality of their character. You can easily be a very high quality person and have tattoos, those things are not mutually exclusive.

As just an end note, I'll leave you with Fr. Mike Schmitz on tattoos. He even got one himself.

#catholic #catholicism #christianity #christian #advice tag #queued

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uncertainwallflower · 1 year

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ANGUISH & ANCHORAGE A @jilymicrofics. Prompt: embrace. Words: 783.

The stone floor was cold and hard and rough. It left indents in her knees, scraped her palms as she brought herself closer to it.

She had received the note at dinner.

Please go to the Headmaster's office immediately.

Seven dreaded words. No frivolities. No explanation.

Her plate remained unfinished, gone cold.

“Miss Evans, please have a seat.”

Hands shook as she pulled her knees into her chest.

“I’m afraid I have some rather distressing news.”

A sob was lodged in her throat. Refused to come to fruition. Refused to settle.

She blinked, and she could see her mother's pristine blonde hair. Saw her tuck a stray strand behind her pretty little ear. She blinked again, and it was all stone. Cold, hard, rough stone.

James had found her rather quickly. Or perhaps an eternity had elapsed, and now she was a pile of dust wet with tears on that cold, hard, rough stone floor. Either way, it was James. It was James, and he was here, shoving his funny little map in his trouser pocket and descending on her like an owl did a mouse in a field. He scooped her into his arms, pulled her onto his lap.

She felt the reprieve from the cold stone, and mourned its discomfort. Mourned the distraction. Now her pain hit her with full force.

The lodged sob extracted itself, tumbling from her mouth, soul-chilling, ricocheting about the alcove, escaping into the corridor and the greater castle beyond. She was lost to it now. Lost to the cries that tore from her body. Her chest shook with the effort, face pressed into James’s quickly dampening shoulder. His jumper muffled the noise some, but the pain was heard true.

He stroked her hair, and dropped kisses on her head, and reassured her that he is there.

And Lily was five, being tucked into bed by her mother. Jasmine filled her nose, her mother’s signature scent.

“One more story?” five-year-old Lily asked.

Her mother chuckled. “No, no. It’s bedtime now. You must go to sleep.”

A huff. “Fiiine.”

“Good girl.” She dropped a kiss on Lily’s red hair. “Goodnight, Lily-flower.”

She was backing towards the door now, switching off the light. Lily was panicking. She couldn’t leave, not yet, not before she said goodbye. But that’s not how this memory went.

“Sleep tight!”

“Don’t let the bed bugs bite.” The door was now closed, the room was dark, and her mother was gone.

“No.” Lily choked, lifting slightly from James’s shoulder. “No.” More desperate now. The sobs were harder, faster, punctuated with cries of, “no, no, no, no, NO.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Lily, hey,” James tried to quiet her, arms braced tightly around her small frame. “Lily, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

But Lily was in King’s Cross Station with her arms around her father, his own red hair indistinguishable from hers. The school year had been long, and the Summer was full of promise.

Her father was saying something. She strained to hear.

“Do you want to go back to the common room?”

The words made no sense. The reason was simple enough. It was James who had spoken, not her father. Not her mother. Never again.

She dared not try her own voice. Doubted it could produce intelligible words. She opted for shaking her head no.

“Okay,” James said. He dropped another kiss—it landed near her temple—and adjusted himself beneath her.

Had his foot gone numb? His leg? Lily wondered briefly how long they had been sitting there. She made to get off of him, hoping to spare his limbs from the burden, but he pulled her firmer to him.

“Nope, no,” he said into her neck, pulling her closer still. Any closer and their ribs would surely fuse together.

She wished it. Willed it. Fusion. To meld together. To become one. It would surely hurt less. He was much stronger than her; his body would dilute the pain. But it would not—could not—be so. The pain was hers alone to bear.

So Lily allowed herself to cry unabated.

She cried and cried. Body reduced to a sobbing, quaking heap. Perhaps it would be embarrassing. She imagined what James saw when he found her: a mess of red hair and robes amassed on the floor, shaking, crying silently. What he saw now: a mess of red hair and robes, flailing in his lap. Mourning. Wailing. Broken.

But it was not embarrassing.

Not when it was the only way this wretched pain could leave her body.

Lily was lost to the world ‘cept his voice. An anchor. A rope tethering her to the cold, hard, rough stone floor. To him. His embrace.

AO3

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dankusner · 1 month

Text

Judges speaking softly

What They Long for When They Read

Do you ever stay up nights wondering what judges want?

At least in briefs and motions?

I recently surveyed more than a thousand state and federal judges, both trial and appellate.

Respondents ranged from state trial-court judges to U.S. Supreme Court justices.

The good news:

Judges agree on much more than many litigators might think, and I found no major differences based on region or type of court.

More good news:

When judges are surveyed anonymously, they’re blunt and sometimes even funny.

The bad news:

Other than the briefs by the brightest lights of the appellate bar, almost every filing I see violates the wish lists of the judges I surveyed.

Here is some guidance, along with some choice anonymous quotations about what judges want but too often don’t get.

For starters, watch how you name names.

Use the parties’ names rather than their procedural affiliation.

Prefer words to unfamiliar acronyms, even if the word or phrase is longer.

Avoid defining obvious terms like “FBI” and “Ford Motor Company.”

And for the terms you do define, put the defined term in quotation marks and then get out of Dodge.

All four of these techniques make “legal writing” feel more like “writing.”

“I absolutely detest party labels (plaintiff, debtor, creditor, etc.). Name names, for God’s sake!”

“Don’t use ‘plaintiff,’ ‘defendant,’ ‘appellant,’ or ‘appellee’ in the brief because we may forget who’s who.

Instead, use names for individuals and business titles for companies.”

“Avoid defining obvious terms.

If a party is Apple Computer Corp., why include the parenthetical (‘Apple’)?

If the plaintiff’s name is Henry Jackson and he’s the only Jackson in the case, why the need to identify him as Henry Jackson (‘Jackson’)?

If the case is about one and only one contract, when first identifying it, why the need for (the ‘Contract’)?”

“I truly dislike acronyms. I would much rather have ‘North River Insurance Cooperative’ referred to as ‘the insurer’ or ‘the cooperative’ or ‘North River’ than as ‘NRIC.’”

“‘Hereinafter defined as’ (or anything like it) is pretty awful.”

“Avoid defined terms (“terms”) altogether.”

Keep your language choices classy.

As if on cue, almost all litigators and appellate lawyers are happy to endorse a ban on emotional or hyperbolic rhetoric.

The problem is that those same lawyers often grant themselves an exemption, as if their opponents are so singularly awful or imbecilic that even the snarkiest tone is warranted.

In fact, lawyers often tell me that they absolutely must point out how disingenuous their opponent is, because otherwise the court won’t see it.

Solution: Show, don’t tell.

“‘Disingenuous’ is a perfectly fine word that the legal profession has turned into the wild card disparagement of the other side’s argument.”

“Don’t use ‘specious.’”

“Avoid phrases and sentences that reflect a lack of civility. Don’t belittle the other side’s arguments but rather focus on your own strengths.”

“I hate ‘speciously,’ ‘frivolously,’ ‘disingenuously,’ and other shots at counsel or the other party.”

“Don’t write ‘ridiculous.’”

“I hate ‘laughable.’”

“Words such as ‘clearly,’ ‘plainly,’ ‘obviously,’ ‘absurd,’ ‘ridiculous,’ ‘ludicrous,’ ‘baseless,’ and ‘blatant’ are crutches intended to prop up arguments that lack logical force. They can never make a weak argument credible or a strong argument even stronger. So why bother with them?”

Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. once said that you should strike at the jugular and let the rest go.

If you write motions and briefs for a living, you can manifest Holmes’s maxim many times a day.

Start by cutting stuffy introductory formulas beset with such archaic language as “by and through undersigned counsel.”

Reduce well-trodden standards and tests to their essence.

Hack away at needless procedural detail.

And then, at the sentence level, slash windups and throat-clearing.

“Avoid long introductions such as ‘Plaintiff, by and through undersigned counsel, hereby submits its Reply Memorandum in response to _.

This Reply is accompanied by the following Memorandum of Points and Authorities.’

I know that counsel is filing the brief on behalf of his or her client.

I can see in the caption that the filing is a reply, and I can also see that there is a memorandum of points and authorities.”

“Avoid grammatical expletives (‘there is,’ ‘it is’).”

“‘It should be noted that,’ ‘it is beyond doubt that,’ and the like waste space.”

“Writing numbers out twice seems particularly useless.”

“Is it really necessary to devote a page or more or even half a page to discussing the standard of review for summary judgment or a motion to dismiss for failure to state a claim?”

“The procedural history does not need to go back to the Creation. Just summarize what is relevant to the issue specifically before the court.”

“Most sentences are dramatically improved by omitting testimony references: ‘Smith [testified that he] went to the scene the following day.’

While some discussion of trial testimony is necessary when you are talking about hearsay or impeachment, those discussions are best left to highlight after you’ve told the story the reader needs to understand.”

“There’s a real danger in stuffing factual sections with crud.”

With judges becoming ever more impatient readers, looks do matter.

Out: long, uninterrupted blocks of text.

In: timelines, maps, graphs, diagrams, tables, headings and subheadings, and generous margins.

“Sometimes a timeline is clearer than an essay format.”

“I ALWAYS appreciate a clear timeline of events and I am happy to have that in the text of the fact section or as an exhibit. I want one place where I can see when everything happened in the case if it’s not a singular event.”

“Just as I don’t like scrolling down to find authority in a foot-note, I don’t like flipping through clerks’ papers or exhibits to find a key piece of documentary evidence that is discussed in a brief. The use of pictures, maps, and diagrams not only breaks up what can be dry legal analysis; it also helps us better understand the case as it was presented to the trier of fact (who undoubtedly was permitted to see an exhibit while it was discussed).”

“When a case involves analysis of a map, graph, or picture, I would like to see attorneys include a copy of the picture within the analysis section of the brief.”

“I like fact sections broken down with headings and even subheadings.

Define chapters in the facts or the ‘next’ relevant event.”

I was surprised that the judges I surveyed were more open to bolding and italics than judges used to be.

Perhaps this evolution stems from their desire not to wade through paragraphs that look and feel the same. Or

maybe the internet has accustomed all of us to formatting bells and whistles.

That said, even judges who don’t mind emphasis want it in small doses.

And although the judiciary may be split on emphasis, every judge in the country appears to hate all caps, and few are fans of underlining.

“Party names should not be in all caps.”

“Headings in all caps are difficult to read.”

“All caps are completely beyond the pale.”

“If a lawyer feels that emphasis is needed, I always prefer italics to boldface type. Boldface signals to me ‘Just in case you’re too stupid to recognize what’s important.’”

Let’s move on to specific language choices.

One question on my survey simply asked judges to list words and phrases they dislike.

Few responses surprised me, but it was amusing to see how easily many judges could rattle off language choices that drive them crazy.

They must have lots of exposure!

As the list below suggests, many lawyers are unaware of how often they use these words and phrases.

Never confuse knowing that you should avoid a term with actually implementing that knowledge in your writing.

“Death to modifiers!”

“I don’t like any clunky legalese like ‘For the foregoing reasons,’ ‘heretofore,’ etc.”

“‘Wherein,’ ‘heretofore,’ ‘aforesaid,’ ‘to wit’: they all should go the way of the dodo bird.”

“Don’t use ‘at that time’ for ‘when.’”

“Don’t use anything like ‘s/he.’”

“I dislike formalistic terms that people don’t really use in ordinary life like ‘wherefore’ and ‘arguendo,’ unnecessary phrases like ‘[party] submits,’ and derogatory terms like ‘asinine’ used to describe the opposing party’s argument.”

“Don’t use ‘prior to’ for ‘before’ or ‘subsequent to’ for ‘after.’”

“I dislike ‘notwithstanding,’ ‘heretofore.’”

“Don’t use words like ‘wherefore,’ ‘heretofore,’ ‘hereinafter’ that aren’t commonly used in everyday language.”

“Don’t write ‘Pursuant to.’”

“I believe ‘hereby,’ ‘hereinafter,’ ‘foregoing’ and other arcana have no place in modern legal writing.”

“I do not care for ‘the instant’ anything.”

“Tell them to stop writing ‘In the case at bar’!”

“I don’t like unnecessary Latin phrases like ‘inter alia.’”

“Get rid of the formalisms from the Middle Ages such as ‘Comes now Plaintiff, by and through his undersigned attorneys.’”

“‘Aforesaid,’ ‘heretofore,’ etc. are all pretty much empty and add nothing. Same with ‘said,’ as in the ‘said contract was signed at the said meeting.’”

“I loathe the word ‘utilize.’”

“I do not like when lawyers tell me what I ‘must’ do. Just say that the court ‘should’ do something.”

“‘Unfortunately for appellee’ (or for any party) should never appear in briefs.”

Another category of language irritation:

Many lawyers are surprised when I tell them that judges really don’t find “respectfully submits” and “respectfully requests” to be, well, respectful.

Cloying is more like it.

And my survey results were right in line with my anecdotal experience.

“Don’t write ‘Defendant respectfully requests.’ I prefer it if you just say what you want to say. I’ll know if it’s respectful or not!”

“‘Respectfully submits’ or ‘it is our position that’ are wasted words: they communicate nothing, except potential insecurity about the argument that follows.”

“Avoid ‘with all due respect.’”

“Avoid phrases such as ‘respectfully submits that’ that can be stated in one word like ‘contends.’”

On the less-is-more theme, you’ll rarely if ever hear judges complain that sentences or briefs are too short.

And yet, sometimes short is, in fact, too sweet.

Two offenders: random “this” and “that” references such as “this proves” or “that explains.”

Also, especially for traditionalist judges in the Justice Scalia mold, avoid contractions.

“I do not like indefinite references and see the word ‘this’ used too often. It should be used in conjunction with another word such as ‘this argument’ or ‘this logic.’”

“I REALLY dislike contractions. They make the argument sound like casual conversation and they give the writer an arch voice.”

When it comes to usage as opposed to word choice, American judges fall into three categories:

(1) those who understand the finer points of usage and care (these are the judges who ask me in workshops about “pleaded” versus “pled,” predicate nominatives,

and the counterfactual subjunctive);

(2) those who understand the finer points of usage but either don’t notice or don’t care, and

(3) those who don’t know enough about usage to notice mistakes.

“I despise the use of ‘impact’ as a verb.”

“Learn to differentiate between ‘that’ and ‘which.’”

“I cannot stand ‘As such’ used as a synonym for ‘Therefore.’”

“Learn to use the subjunctive!”

Now let’s talk about fact sections, and in particular dates.

Whenever I relay judges’ irritation with needless dates, someone in the audience retorts that some dates really matter.

Well, that’s why judges object to needless dates.

And it’s not as if you face a binary choice between a full date and nothing at all.

Sometimes a word or phrase will do the trick.

“It helps to vary how the passage of time is described. Instead of ‘on May 26, 2016,’ it’s refreshing to read ‘the next week’ or ‘two months later.’”

“Dates are rarely essential and often overused. If I see a date, I assume it is important. If it’s not, you have interrupted the flow of your argument for no good reason.”

“I HATE specific dates that have no relevance. I keep thinking the 24th day of September must really be important, for example, and then when it isn’t, I’m unhappy I’ve spent brainpower waiting for writer to tell me why it was critical!”

“Sometimes it’s enough to refer to an event as ‘mid-2015’ rather than a specific date.”

“If two parties entered into a contract, and it makes no difference to the claim whether they did so on January 22, 2014, or March 6, 2015, leave the date out.”

Now let’s talk a bit about the beginning of motions and briefs.

Don’t short the introduction.

Judges find strong introductions invaluable.

They help lawyers hone their theory of the cases, and they help shape the fact section and legal argument to come.

“Explain why you should win on the first page. ‘The Court should deny Defendant’s Motion for Summary Judgment for the following three reasons.’”

“I’ve had briefs in fairly involved cases without executive summaries. I’ve likened reading them to putting together a jigsaw puzzle without having the cover of the box to know what the puzzle is supposed to look like when it’s done.”

“I do appreciate a good ‘statement of the case’ section, particularly in complex civil appeals, in which, in a non-argumentative manner, the lawyer sets the stage for what issues the court is called upon to decide. That helps me focus on what facts and portions of the record will be most relevant to those issues.”

How about cases and other authorities?

Busy judges have become increasingly irritated with the way many litigators handle case law.

Facile shorthand: “Too many and too much.”

But it’s a bit more complicated than that.

One common complaint is that many litigators appear to search case law databases for choice language even if a given case doesn’t quite fit and even if the case doesn’t come down procedurally the way the lawyer wants the current case to.

“The main issue I run across is probably a function of Boolean searches: citations to ‘blurbs’ or quoted phrases within published decisions where the actual ruling, or the analysis, or the posture of the case is completely distinguishable (or even adverse) to the point the party is trying to make. I am much more persuaded by one or two authorities that are carefully analyzed and applied than by a sprinkling of quotations lifted from a dozen cases that are strung together.”

It’s also surprising how many cases some lawyers cite for a proposition that their opponents would never challenge, such as the summary judgment standard, the Daubert standard, or the standard of review.

“For well-established law, such as the standard of review, I prefer only a single cite.”

“Cite just enough cases and not all cases. One controlling case is enough. For non-controlling cases, if there aren’t any contrary or many contrary cases, cite two or three non-controlling cases, preferably the two or three most recent. If there are two contrary groups of cases and none is controlling, then it might be appropriate to cite one from each jurisdiction supporting the writer’s side.”

Once you know which cases to cite and how many, what should you do with them?

On the one hand, most judges rail against including too many facts and too many quotations when it would be more effective to use a concise parenthetical or a pithy quoted phrase merged into a sentence about your own case.

On the other hand, for complex or dispositive cases, some judges find that lawyers use a parenthetical when a fuller textual description would be more apt.

Ask yourself this question: “If I were being asked to endorse proposition X, what would I need to know about case Y to be comfortable doing so?”

And then don’t write one more word.

“Skip the long description. Just state the damn proposition, cite the damn case, and be done with it.”

“Long discussions of the facts of cited cases are often not helpful.”“For the most important case, cover the important points in text, not in an explanatory parenthetical. But it’s okay to use explanatory parentheticals for the cases that support the main one.”

“I prefer citation to one or two cases with a short, pertinent explanation in a parenthetical. I prefer a full paragraph for distinguishing an adverse authority. I don’t prefer distinguishing adverse authority in a footnote.”

“I prefer that briefs directly address contrary authority organized by argument, not by case name.”

That brings me to the block-quote question.

Most lawyers defend block quotes by insisting that they convey pivotal information that can’t be paraphrased.

That may be true, but here’s the bad news about that “pivotal information”:

If it’s presented in a block quote, judges are likely to skip it entirely.

So meet judges halfway:

Use block quotes only when the language of the text itself adds value.

Use block quotes as little as possible.

And introduce block quotes substantively and persuasively, focusing less on who said what and more on why the reader should care.

“Do not block quote more than three lines. After that, I may stop reading.”

“Don’t write ‘As follows:’ before quotes. Just use the colon; the ‘as follows’ is implied.”

“Fold quotes into text if possible.”

“Huge block quotes are terrible. It’s much more persuasive to paraphrase the reasoning and then quote only the crucial lan- guage.”

“When quoting, do not overuse brackets—I call them punctuational potholes. If you’re quoting from a case, start the quote after the part of the sentence that makes you want to use a bracket. The same for quotes from the record. For example, instead of ‘The officer stated, “[i]f [we] catch [you] in [the area] again, if [you] don’t have something, [I]’ll make sure [you] have something,” put ‘The officer said that if Smith were ever caught in the neighborhood again and did not “have something,” the officer would make sure he did have something.’”

One last issue.

Even after Justice Scalia’s passing, the debate over where to put citations rages on.

But with so many judges reading briefs on iPads or on other devices that require scrolling to see footnotes, 78 percent of the judges in my survey prefer to see citations in the text, the old-fashioned way.

You should still try to avoid putting citations at the beginning or in the middle of your sentences.

And, of course, some judges (12 percent in my survey, with the other 10 percent neutral) do love to see citations in footnotes, but those judges nearly always make their views known.

“This is a show-your-work gig, and I need to see your work there—not go hunting for it. This is a bigger deal now, I think, since we all read electronically.”

“We want to process the citation as we read. When a litigant makes a point, it matters if he or she is citing to a Supreme Court case, a circuit opinion, a treatise, etc. I don’t want to have to stop reading and look down and find the citation in the footnote or endnote. I understand the reasons some endorse it, but it is not practical for briefs and opinion writing, and everyone I work with hates that style of writing.”

“I find citations in footnotes to be distracting. It also makes the case more difficult to read online such as in Westlaw.”

Here’s the bottom line: Just as many associates in law firms think that knowing individual partner preferences is all there is to writing, many seasoned litigators think the same about knowing the preferences of individual judges.

Sure, there’s something satisfying about finding out whether a given judge likes the Oxford comma.

(Since I brought it up, 56 percent of the judges I surveyed said they do, 21 percent said they don’t, and 23 percent said they don’t care).

And it’s all too tempting to make brief writing mostly about rules and formatting preferences.

But I suggest that both litigators and appellate advocates spend most of their energies developing the core persuasive writing skills that would make almost all judges much happier.

So shoot for strong, compelling, yet concise introductions; a restrained use of case law, with quality over quantity; a readable treatment of party names and industry lingo; helpful leadins to block quotations; a confident and professional tone; modern diction; and more white space, headings, and visual aids.

In a word, show empathy for the reader.

And for those of you thinking that judges should practice in their opinions what they preach to lawyers about their briefs, that topic will have to be for another article!

Shoot for strong, compelling, yet concise introductions; a restrained use of case law; and modern diction.

0 notes

plush-rabbit · 3 years

Text

Pining For You

Request: Hi bunny! Can i request pining hcs for Lucifer and diavolo pls? For a reader that's very oblivious, and very physically affectionate with the others. Thanks!

A/N: This was really fun to do!! I hope that you enjoy!!

Lucifer:

Pining for you ruins him. It ruins Lucifer in a way that it shouldn’t have ever been possible. He’s not one for the more romantic emotions, he’s far too busy with his own life to focus on something so frivolous. And yet, when the Avatar of Pride looks at you, he can’t help but feel a twisting around his heart and heat that settles in his chest and burns against him. It’s an odd feeling to pine over someone, especially when it’s him. It should be the other way around, it should be you wanting to confess and yet, he doesn’t find the entire experience awful.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt this way, so long that he can’t remember what the feeling is supposed to mean. He doesn’t have time for a relationship, and yet when you come knocking at his door, he’s willing to drop everything and run after you even if it’s for a simple task of reaching for the top cupboard. He’s willing to abandon his duties and promises, and have you lead him astray. It’s you that makes him a mess and it’s you that he’s fallen for. You’re oblivious and kind, and you’re human and one day you’ll die, but it’s you that he wants. If it’s you, he’d welcome any feeling, just to know that it was you that had left such a mark against his heart and soul.

You’re touchy with the others- constantly throwing your arms around them, leaning on their arms, and even playing with their hands. It leaves the demon with a bad taste in his mouth. He could easily return your affections, but it isn’t him that you’re choosing. He won’t admit it, but it makes him feel jealousy. He shouldn’t have to feel his way, and he doesn’t want to, but he does. He won't admit it, but due to you being so overly affectionate, he decides to have you closer to him. He has you sit with him during meal times, during council meetings he saves you a seat beside him, and he’ll find any excuse to just have you sit beside him.

Pride and obliviousness don’t go together. He’s sure of himself and he makes his attraction known to you, and yet, you can only smile and hold his hands in yours and tell him that you like him as well. It leaves him frustrated knowing that he’s confessed to you and yet you only take it as a friendly gesture. Despite the actions that he takes to have you notice him in a romantic way, you don’t. You take it as any other friendly gesture and he’s left with a headache forming between his brows and a heavy heart. It isn’t sadness- at least he doesn’t want to admit that. He’s a demon, a simple human shouldn’t be affecting him so and yet, you do. You make him want to scream when you accept his gifts and tell him how much you love them only to kiss his cheek and show them off to the others. It had to be in your nature to be oblivious, and while it’s frustrating, he’s still grateful that it’s you. He just wants you to see him the way that he sees you. You’re the one that turned the Avatar of Pride into such a mess that it's almost laughable if it weren’t his feelings at play.

A confession to you is not easy, but he doesn’t mind a bit of work. Lucifer knocks at your door, his head held high and hands clasped behind his back and he’s grateful that he has gloves to conceal how clammy his hands have gotten. When you open the door, he smiles gently at you and enters your room. His confession is meant to be short. He’s meant to just tell you that he has feelings for you but then he sees the way that you tilt his head and he’s left confessing himself to you. You are a human and yet you’re the one that has reduced him to nothing more than a mess. You’ve done so much for him and the only thing that he has to show for it are feelings that at away at him, feelings that make him lose his breath, and something so raw that it’s painful. He hadn’t known that pining after you would have caused such a ruckus in his life, but it has. You’ve left hi in a disarray. He’s your demon, and you’re his master, and whatever you want from him, he’d be willing to do.

Diavolo:

Diavolo hadn’t expected to find himself attracted to you in a romantic sense. He loves humans and in turn, humanity, but he never thought that the exchange student would be the one to capture his attention- especially when he was a prince and you were only a simple human. He sits with his feelings and that’s something that’s new to him. He’s so used to rushing forward without a thought, without a fear of consequence, but this time, it’s different. He doesn’t know what to do, he just sits with his emotions until he finally admits to out loud that he does have feelings for you.

You spend so much time with the others that it isn’t fair. He can’t spend time with you because he’s a prince, he has things to attend to and oversee and that costs him so much. He’s glad that you’re spending time with the others, that you aren’t alone, but at the same time, you rely on them, but not him. At a certain point, he starts to request your presence for just simple things at first- joining him for a meal, walking through the garden, attending a few more human related events, and then it gradually increases to staying late at the castle due to him convincing you to spend your time in the library, sitting beside him while he signs documents, and even just the simple task of him giving you a proper tour of the castle- anything to keep you around him longer. It’s all just a cheap ploy to get you to spend time with him. Sure he feels a bit guilty about it, but he’s also a demon, guilt is something he feels and to him, it’s just another emotion that he can easily rid himself of.

It isn’t easy to get you to notice his feelings for you. He’s sure that you can sense something has shifted in the dynamic but that also may be him just wanting to believe in that. Demon courting and human courting are two very different things that he isn’t quite sure which one to do. He’s sure you’d accept his gifts, but would you know the meanings behind it? If he were to ask you out on a date would you simply believe that he was just requesting more of your time? It’s such a bother, but it’s something that he must deal with- it’s his feelings and he’ll sort them out for you. He ends up trying a mix of both, hell flowers that seep with fortunes when bled on, a lovely note written in your textbook, gifts that are weighted in jewels and gold, and stuffed animals that he’s seen you admire. It’s a mix of things, but you seem to enjoy them so he doesn’t stop.

Perhaps it’s the demon in him that makes him so territorial when it comes to you. He’s surprised at his jealousy of having others touch you and having you reciprocate the touch- to reach out and cup their face or for you to pull them close for a hug. It leaves an awful, acidic taste on his tongue, an anger brewing in him that has him huffing out like a child. There should be no reason for him to feel so awful, but yet he does. It’s no surprise that you enjoy touch, but he can still sense your hesitation when it comes towards him. He thinks that it might have to deal with his title, but that’s only a hunch. At a certain point, he has to take the step forward and grab your hand that is so small in his and let it cup against his jaw and cheeks and when you run your thumb under his bottom lip, he only leans towards you, quiet with his eyes closed.

The poor prince can only handle his own feelings for so long. You’re oblivious and while that’s just a thing of yours, he can’t just sit quietly and hope you’ll pick up on the signals. Eventually, Diavolo pulls you aside and sits you beside him, his knee pressing against yours and his hands clasped over yours. It’s straightforward, he leaves no room for miscommunication. He tells you how he adores you, how you’re the one that makes him nervous and how he wishes that you would look at him the way that he looks at you, and as he lifts your hand to touch against his chest where his heart rests, you can only look at him with wide eyes. All he wants is to hold your hand and have you be beside him for as long as you’d let him; he may be a prince, but you’re the one who holds power over him. He’d bow before you and kiss your knuckles, he’d sully his own name if it meant that you would only kiss his temple.

#obey me #om swd #obey me swd #obey me lucifer #obey me lucifer x mc #obey me lucifer x reader #obey me lucifer headcanons #obey me diavolo #obey me diavolo x reader #obey me diavolo x mc #obey me diavolo headcanons #i thought this was cute #and it was short #i hope you enjoy!!#love you bye

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archies-litterbox · 3 years

Text

Home

Summary: Some times when Douxie called the castle his home, and one time Merlin realized his son saw the castle as his home whether he was ready to process that or not (and he wasn’t).

Words: 2000

A/N: I got this done! I actually challenged myself by making sure each little segment of the fic was EXACTLY 500 words, and I had a lot of fun! hope you like it <3

[CW: Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Nightmares (there’s way more softness in this than the CW makes it look I swear-)]

The typical chatter of the marketplace was overshadowed by Hisirdoux’s skipping steps, and those were overshadowed by the moppet humming a little tune to himself that Merlin couldn’t make sense of. It was one of many things about the little apprentice that didn’t exactly make sense, but when Merlin brought the boy along to finish an errand, what he truly dreaded was that the boy would be insufferable and get distracted at every turn. So, really, endearing -

- “Endearing to who?” Merlin asked in response to his own internal monologue, because the humming from the boy, a sure sign that his apprentice was content at the very least, was most certainly not endearing to him -

- So, really, definitely-not-endearing humming of silly, nonsensical tunes was a more-than-adequate alternative to that insufferability and distraction, Merlin was sure.

“Getting that potion ingredient was easier than I thought!” Hisirdoux said happily, the spring in his step ever-present, “The merchant wasn’t even cross with me, like usual - like when I come here by myself.”

“Have you considered,” Merlin started, “That she’d been cross because of your notorious slight-of-hand? And your pickpocketing and street tricks has rendered her wary of your possible antics?”

Hisirdoux shrugged, rubbed the back of his head in obvious sheepishness, and turned his gaze elsewhere, “Mayyyybe-”

His face lit up in excitement, his eyes widening as his mouth formed an “O” shape when he saw something off to the street’s side.

“Ooooh! Look!” He turned a little to the side, bringing his hands up as he started to wander to a stand selling some sweet treats, “They’re selling-”

Merlin put a hand on his shoulder to still the boy, who was already a handful without the added hyperactivity of sugar.

“Nothing of importance, Hisirdoux.”

He turned the boy forward again, put his hand on top of Hisirdoux’s head, and turned it forward again as well.

“Awwwh.” Hisirdoux whined.

“We have what we came down here for, and Wizards are many things, but they are not frivolous.” he said as he kept walking, a slightly-pouting moppet walking alongside him, “We’re heading straight back to the castle. There are better pastry bakers there, anyway.”

Hisirdoux’s disappointed pout left his face.

“Right, right.” he said, as if he were reminded of how happy he was just to be out here, on what he probably thought of as a beautiful day, although Merlin was rather impartial to the sunny weather.

“Let’s go home, Master!”

...Home?

Did he mean the castle?

Though he kept moving physically, putting one armor-plated foot in front of the other, Merlin’s mind froze as he looked down at the joyful, beaming moppet. To hear Hisirdoux refer to the castle as his home…

Well, Merlin knew he should have expected it at this point, considering the boy’s utter lack of a permanent roof over his head before, but he still didn’t know what to make of it, if there was anything to make of it.

So, he sighed.

“The castle isn’t that far away.”

The dark circles under the boy’s eyes looked darker in hue than usual today, but of course, that was only due to the contrast against the unusual paleness of his face. Said eyes looked up at Merlin with a rather lacking amount of cognizance as the Master Wizard stood over the moppet. Stripped of his bulky leather hooded vest in favor of keeping on only his trousers and tunic, so he didn’t overheat, Hisirdoux’s deep breaths through his mouth were only interrupted by a brief, pitiful sniffle of his nose.

“Mathter, ‘th thith… plague?” He was hoarse from coughing and nasally from his awful congestion. To this, Merlin only huffed - of course, leave it to his ever-dramatic apprentice to leap to the most dire conclusion possible, even though he couldn’t even rightly walk down to the throne room in this state.

“Not unless a rather nasty cold has become the new plague of Camelot.” he answered, “you should have come back sooner from your last errand, Hisirdoux, before it started to pour.”

Hisirdoux groaned, either out of his achy, miserable condition, or frustration with hearing the old man lecture him, or both.

“I know, I know-”

A wet cough cut him off, making him curl up before he flopped back down on the bed.

“Ugh, ithn’t there thome…” he swallowed, as if to clear his throat of sickly gunk as best he could without another hacking, “I dunno, “thickness begone-iuth” thpell, or thomething?”

“I won’t use magic to alleviate your sickness, if that’s what you’re implying.” Merlin denied, “Although unpleasant, your condition is far from serious, and your symptoms should alleviate in a few days, at the most. If I use magic on something so mere, your natural immune system will weaken, and a dependence on magic to maintain your health is dangerous, so-”

“But Mathter-”

“Don’t “But Mathter” me.”

Hisirdoux sighed, a shaky, ugly-sounding thing, too exhausted to even spare a laugh at how Merlin imitated him.

“Magic ithn’t a permithible shortcut…” he started, but he trailed off and punctuated the statement with another little sniffle.

It seemed, remarkably, Hisirdoux remembered a few of Merlin’s teachings, despite his low-grade fever.

Which reminded him…

The Master Wizard sighed and conjured a cold, damp rag, enchanted to not dry out or get tepid. Making sure it was properly folded, he laid it right onto Hisirdoux’s forehead.

“Oh, ‘th nithe…” he mumbled, “thank you…”

“Your plans for today are postponed, of course.” Merlin declared, “You’re to stay here and rest.”

“But-” Hisirdoux’s eyebrows furrowed, “I wath thupposed to go out and do that… that thing… and get the thing… from the plathe…”

Of course, it must have been harder for the boy to think sensibly and make sense than usual.

“And that will wait until your condition improves.” Merlin finalized, “Am I clear?”

Hisirdoux, resigned, nodded.

“Yeth, Mathter… thtaying home it ith, then.”

Before Merlin had anywhere near enough time to be surprised at that word, “home”, Hisirdoux fell right to sleep.

Merlin couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt like this before; when he couldn’t tell if he was more terrified or furious.

But he couldn’t be bothered to try to figure that out - not when, after hours of Hisirdoux being late coming back to the castle, a shoddily-written ransom note made its way to the desk of the Master Wizard’s study.

Thankfully, Hisirdoux’s familiar could trace it by it’s unpleasant scent. Merlin followed Archibald as the cat-dragon followed the scent trail to some disgusting hovel in a forest clearing, with some deplorable men hanging around it’s outside.

When Merlin laid eyes on them... he leveled them with any spells he could remember through his rage at them all; at their audacity.

Of course, it had been some incompetent group of bandits, but only a fool equated incompetency with harmlessness; just because these idiots didn’t know what they were doing didn’t mean that Hisirdoux was safe.

So, he shifted his focus on finding his apprentice, even if he had to reduce every board of this blasted cabin to splinters.

But it didn’t come to that; the second Merlin stepped in, he saw him.

Hisirdoux was curled up in a corner, sitting on his heels with his hands bound behind him, his arms bound steadfast to his torso, and a piece of cloth tied between his teeth. He was unharmed, but terrified.

Hisirdoux’s muffled cry that came out when he saw Merlin shattered the old man’s heart.

He never ran faster in his life.

A small, very precise blast from Archie made the bonds around Hisirdoux’s wrists and torso come loose, and when Merlin got to him, he pulled the cloth gag out as fast as he could without hurting him, letting it lay around his neck.

The instant his arms were fully free and Merlin was close enough, Hisirdoux hugged him, clinging to the Wizard for dear life and crying his heart out against his armored shoulder.

“Are you hurt? Did they do anything to you?”

Merlin felt Hisirdoux shake his head. He could tell he was swallowing to try to get some moisture back in his mouth. It had probably been dried out by that blasted gag, and who knew if they’d given him any water?

“No, just-” he gasped, “Scared.”

Those bandits would soon forget the very meaning of mercy.

For now, Merlin focused on rubbing soothing circles against the boy’s back, seeing that his ankles were bound. Merlin didn’t even notice before, and Hisirdoux was so hasty - so desperate for comfort that he didn’t even wait. He didn’t even seem to care.

Archie started cutting them loose.

“I-” Hisirdoux hiccuped, “I wanna go home.”

The shattered remnants of Merlin’s heart melted.

Home.

His son wanted to go home.

He sighed, moving one of his hands to cradle the back of the poor boy’s head, passing his fingers through his un-bunned hair.

“Please,” he whined, “take me home.”

Merlin nodded, the side of his head rubbing Hisirdoux’s.

“Right… right.”

It was long past nightfall, and the castle was quiet, so Merlin tried to tread the corridors lightly so his armored feet wouldn’t clank against the floor and wake anyone; the last thing he wanted was for any particular moppetish apprentices to stir.

That boy… he had already gone through so much he hadn’t deserved, and for what? To what end? Merlin presumed that before he’d found him in that alley, he’d been treated poorly for being not only a street rat, but a magical one at that. And now, even though he was the Wizard’s apprentice, that treatment hadn’t truly gone away; no, it only shifted onto new grounds: the grounds that... he was the Wizard’s apprentice. Now, much of the animosity sent his way was truly meant for Merlin; directing it at Hisirdoux merely amplified it. Strengthened the blow.

And that blow was strengthened today.

Merlin remembered the note’s creases under his fingertips as it trembled in his shaking hand; the door creaking open with a shriek in its hinges and showing Merlin his apprentice, bound and gagged and terrified in the corner of that hovel; Hisirdoux wailing against his shoulder; the trembling of his son in his arms. He remembered it all.

“Hisirdoux…”

He passed the sleeping boy’s door… and sensed magic from behind it. Unusual magic for this hour. In the little gap between the door and the floor, he could see the blue glow of his magic, too. Unmistakeable.

“...Hisirdoux?”’

He stopped at the door and pushed it open, only to be met with a fretful sight before him (not nearly as bad as the last time he’d pushed a door open to find Hisirdoux today, but it was rather close.)

The boy was thrashing in his sleep - tossing and turning in his blankets to the point where they’d started to tangle around him, which only made his obviously-nightmare-induced thrashing worse. Magic thrummed from his hands as he fought back against… something, and even Archibald, who had curled up on his abdomen to soothe him to sleep earlier tonight, couldn’t quell his night terror.

Merlin knelt down at the boy’s bedside and put a hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly, “Hisirdoux!”

“N-no! Stop!” he pleaded, thrashing harder to get the hand off him, “Get away! Leave me ALONE! Let me GO!”

Merlin shook him harder.

“HISIRDOUX!” he shouted.

Finally, the boy’s eyes snapped open, and he gasped.

For a moment, he just breathed as lucidity seeped back into him. After realizing he was in the realm of the conscious, he put his hands to the sides of his head.

“Master…” he squeaked, “Where-”

“It’s alright, Hisirdoux. You’re safe.” he assured, “You’re home.”

Honestly, the words just slipped out, for Merlin, shocked by himself, doubted that he would have ever said them otherwise.

And with now-even-wider eyes, Hisirdoux looked just as shocked.

… Well, no good rescinding it now. How could he, really?

“You’re home.”

Hisirdoux nodded, a shaky smile on his face.

“...Home.”

#fic: home #my writing #mine #douxie #hisirdoux casperan #merlin #merlin ambrosius #wizard dad #tales of arcadia #toa #wizards #toa wizards #moppet!douxie #hurt/comfort

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l0vew0rm · 3 years

Text

dance with me ( eula lawrence )

synopsis: fate has a funny way of granting your wishes when you least expect it—like a dance with the infamous reconnaissance captain of the knights of favonius. pairing: eula lawrence x gn!reader word count: 1.9k warnings: alcohol consumption inspired by: dance with me by beabadoobee

a/n: just a small piece i’ve been meaning to write for my beloved main. <3 i’ve loved eula ever since getting her by chance and i’m glad i finally got to write something for her. (bonus: this fic is loosely connected to my previous work wine so if you manage to catch the small reference i’ve written in you’re cool and i love you)

the knights of favonius had decided to host a banquet and an accompanying ball to celebrate the arrival of a diplomatic delegation from fontaine, and unsurprisingly, eula was nowhere to be found.

“i have no time for such frivolous affairs,” was the spindrift knight’s sharp and honest reply to your question of whether or not she would be in attendance. “and besides, seeing as my reputation has a habit of preceding me, i’m quite sure the acting grand master would be content to send me off elsewhere where i can’t sully the good name of the knights by simply being there.”

while you weren’t necessarily surprised at her response, it still didn’t make it any less disappointing for you to hear it, nor was it any less disappointing for her to not be there among the crowd of knights and diplomats you’d been surrounded with all night. despite this, you tried your best not to let it get to you, even if your mind did occasionally linger towards the thought of the spindrift knight, among other things.

shaking your head, you try to distract yourself by surveying your surroundings. glancing upwards, you’re met with the brilliant light of two golden chandeliers that hang from the ceiling, warmly radiating a bright yet soft glow that accentuates the elegant attire that your fellow attendants are currently wearing. at the opposite end of the banquet hall is a string quartet seated atop a small stage, providing mellow background music to the abundance of excited chatter being exchanged between knights and diplomats alike. in the back of your mind, you’re very briefly reminded of all the fairytales you used to read as a child of grand balls filled with beautiful princes and princesses, but your thoughts quickly dissipate the moment you feel your shoulder be tapped and a familiar voice hum low in your ear.

“good evening, sir kaeya,” you greet the blue-haired cavalry captain with a smile and a raise of your goblet. “i trust you’ve been having a good time tonight?”

kaeya playfully tsks at you. “how many times must i tell you that we’re well past the need for such formalities?” he grins, though he returns your gesture by raising his goblet of wine—which you note is practically filled to the brim to the point of overflowing—at you. “though to answer your question, yes, i have been having a lovely time indeed.”

“that’s good to hear.”

the two of you start exchanging chit-chat, and continue to do so for some time. kaeya’s halfway through telling you about his curious encounter with a drunk lieutenant earlier in the evening when he pauses at the sound of the string quartet beginning to transition into a waltz. it only takes one shared glance between the two of you before the captain graciously extends a hand to you with a smile on his face.

“care to dance?”

you smile back at him, and take his hand. “i’d love to.”

after placing your goblets elsewhere, the two of you proceed to the center of the banquet hall, taking each other’s hands and beginning to dance to the music of the string quartet. everything should have seemed perfect—the atmosphere was merry, the crowd was lively, and you and kaeya were dancing gracefully across the room like a pair of professional ballroom dancers. but despite all that was happening around you, something just…

“is there something bothering you?”

you blink up at kaeya, his star-shaped pupil looking upon you with concern. “pardon?”

“i apologize, since i know it’s rude to assume,” kaeya begins, but the sudden shift to a shit-eating grin on his face tells you he isn’t one bit sorry for what he’s about to say next, “but you’ve seemed pretty preoccupied all night.”

“it’s nothing, i just—”

“you miss the reconnaissance captain, don’t you?”

kaeya’s grin only grows wider at the sudden flush that overtakes your face. “i knew it.” the cavalry captain watches you try and stammer up excuses, but after a minute of nothing but gibberish escaping your mouth you decide it’s better to give up and give in. “i wasn’t surprised that she wasn’t attending tonight, but i… i wanted her to. i wanted…”

“you wanted her to dance with you?”

“as if she’d ever dance with some amateur like me,” you try and joke, but it falls flat with the weight of your somber tone.

“you’d be surprised to know how eager she is to do so, actually,” kaeya nearly fails to suppress his laughter at the sight of your eyes widening to the size of saucers at his remark. “eager in her own vengeful little way, of course.”

“and how do you know that?”

“i just do.”

you’re just about to start going off on a tirade before the sound of the cathedral bell rudely interrupts you—that, and the suspicious smile that lights kaeya’s face hearing it.

“ah, just in time,” he says, and you quirk a distrustful brow at him. “what? don’t you know what time it is?”

“no?”

“why, if i recall correctly, the reconnaissance captain and her scouts should be back from their mission at around this time. i could be wrong, but seeing as i was in charge of having personally arranged the mission in question…”

“and what do you mean to accomplish by telling me this?”

“that’s up for you to decide.”

the music comes to a stop. kaeya gently lifts your hand to kiss it goodbye. “farewell. i hope you have a pleasant rest of the evening.”

“kaeya, what—”

with a playful smile and a wink, kaeya walks away, leaving you and disappearing into the crowd.

after downing a few more goblets of wine to quell the growing unease in your chest, you decide to call it quits for the night.

outside, the streets are quiet, almost eerily so, with not a single sound to be heard except for the evening breeze whistling a bitingly cold tune. you express your gratitude towards the few passersby you encounter by waving politely at them—at least, to the best of your ability considering your slightly tipsy state.

you continue onwards with your walk to nowhere until you find yourself at the plaza. you wander over to one of the many stone benches in the area and take a seat, sighing in relief at your legs finally being able to catch a break from all the stairs you had just climbed. the warm glow of the street lights surrounding you, lovely as they are, are dim; so dim, in fact, that you fail to notice the sight of a shadow approaching you from the corner of your eye.

“and here i thought you were above some dimwitted drunkard too inebriated to care about their safety being exposed out in the open. hmph. to think i taught you to be better than this.”

you nearly fall over in shock at the familiar voice that interrupts the slow slurring of your thoughts. “eula?”

“who else would it be?” the spindrift knight huffs, crossing her arms over her chest as she draws nearer to you. you pray to barbatos that she assumes the flush on your cheeks is from the wine and not the fact your heart is threatening to beat out of your chest at the sight of her.

“but really, just what are you doing out here by yourself so late at night? aren’t you supposed to be attending that banquet over at the goth grand hotel? gods, i practically made a fool out of myself barging in there unannounced just to look for you! and the fact you had the audacity to worry me when i couldn’t find you… mark my words, i’ll make sure to—”

“you… looked for me?”

“what? just what kind of question is that? did you think that i wouldn’t look for you?”

“...no?”

“hmph! preposterous! absolutely outrageous! the fact you’ve had the audacity to not only wander off elsewhere without me to protect you, and for you to assume my actions and feelings unprompted… you’ll pay for this!”

you chalk it up to the alcohol meddling with your brain, but in that moment, the wildest idea pops up in your head. a wide, dopey grin etches itself onto your face as you lift a hand out to the reconnaissance captain standing before you.

“say… what if i paid for my transgression with a dance?”

the look on eula’s face instantly makes you regret your words. this time, in addition to your flushed cheeks, the blood in your veins runs ice cold with dread and embarrassment, and you quickly withdraw your hand from her reach to sheepishly rub the back of your neck with it.

“or maybe we could just settle the score with some good ol’ sparring, hah… m’sorry that i asked you that so boldly, i know that you don’t take kindly to—”

“i’ll take it. let’s dance.”

you blink. “what?”

“you wanted to pay for your misdeeds, yes? i accept your means of payment. now get up. let’s dance.”

“but i don’t—”

“know how to dance? then i’ll teach you.” you once again chalk it up to the alcohol, because you refuse to accept any other explanation for the sudden soft shift in eula’s tone. hesitantly, you get up from your seat to approach her, gingerly holding her gloved hand and trying not to let your breath audibly hitch at the feeling of her hand on your waist.

“grip my waist a little tighter,” eula instructs you, repositioning your hand against her side. “i won’t break. now follow my lead. one, two, three, one, two, three…”

the first few minutes the two of you dance is painfully awkward. all of your previous grace and elegance from that earlier dance with kaeya have all but disappeared, your dancing skills reduced to nothing and your movements limited to stiff shuffling and careless swaying. eula seems to catch on to this, judging by the way her grip on your shoulder tightens ever so slightly—not enough to cause significant pain or discomfort, but enough to steady you as the two of you waltz across the plaza together.

eventually, the two of you manage to fall into a slow and steady rhythm, dancing along to the sound of your shoes clacking against the cobbled plaza floor. impulsively—you make a mental note to apologize to her for it tomorrow when you’ve sobered up—you lean in and bury your face into the crook of her neck, pressing your bodies together closer than you’ve ever been.

“i… have something to confess,” eula tells you, and you hum into her shoulder.

“mm?”

“i wasn’t supposed to return from my mission until dawn, but i requested i be able to return early, because i…”

eula’s hand lets go of your shoulder, and her arms slowly begin to wrap around you in an uncharacteristically warm embrace.

“i wanted to dance with you.”

your breath hitches, but it quickly melts away as you smile into her shoulder. for a moment, you’re tempted to say it—the three words you’ve longed to tell the beautiful reconnaissance captain you’ve loved since the moment you laid eyes on her—but in the end, you choose to sink deeper into her arms.

“thank you.”

eula lets out a disgruntled huff, but the look of love and care in her sunset-colored eyes says otherwise.

#wendy writes .#genshin #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin imagine #genshin imagines #eula lawrence #eula x reader #eula x y/n #eula x you #eula imagine #eula imagines

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nox-artemis · 3 years

Text

Kentaro Miura

It took me awhile to get my thoughts in order. Honestly, as well intentioned as they are, a constant stream of fan tributes on Twitter and Tumblr more-or-less telling me how to process “The End” of Berserk with Miura’s death didn’t do a lot to console me, so I had to take some huge steps away from social media and only conversed my feelings with my other close Berserk fan-friends.

It was very surreal waking up yesterday morning to a friend messaging me simply saying, “did you hear the news?” When shit like that happens, I go onto my Google stories app and scroll through. I didn’t find anything really worth getting too upset over (maybe a bit sad that Queen Elizabeth II’s doggo died?) so it hit me to check my Twitter feed instead.

And that’s when I saw it.

We all know death is inevitable, and life is pretty much spent prolonging the point to that inevitability as well as preparing ourselves for when it happens to us or someone close to us. Being part of the Berserk fandom was the only time we all collectively had this on our mind not only for someone else but for someone we never met or really knew that much about. We only knew Miura through his magnum opus – and that was good enough for us. And no matter how much we discussed the worst-case scenario – pondering how the story would continue and how WE would continue – it still wasn’t enough to prepare us for this amount of shock. Hearing Miura had died and that the Berserk we know and love under his direct supervision is over truly felt like losing a long-lost friend.

It wasn’t just that the Berserk we know of is “over”, but that Miura didn’t have to die. He was only 54: not a young age, but not an old age either, especially by today’s standards. He could have seen the end to his magnum opus the way he envisioned it, yet he died of something so avoidable but is only brought about by a great deal of stress (from what I’ve read). It was always a morbid open rumor that so many of Miura’s infamous hiatuses were actually mental and/or physical health breaks, so the older or more conscious of us fans, while always eager and anxious for a new chapter, learned to not take them so personally. Miura was a spellbinding artist and storyteller, but he was also a human with his own life and conflicts that he was entitled to address at his own pace. This isn’t meant to blame anyone (at the very least, maybe to address some societal/industry issues), but it’s troubling enough to remind everyone – as the story of Berserk has demonstrated – that you need to take care of yourself physically and mentally, and while everyone struggles in life, you don’t have to struggle alone.

I always despised this weird cult of youth that insinuates that life isn’t worth pursuing once you hit your mid-thirties, and how some people so engulfed in their youth insist that they wouldn’t mind dying by the age of 50 or 60. It’s a shame when people live by that because there’s so much to live for beyond your youth – as I’ve learned, I only started buckling down when I transitioned into my thirties. Miura could have had a longer life ahead of him, going beyond Berserk and into his other endeavors, professional and personal, but that will unfortunately never happen now.

Everyone knows I have a lot of thoughts and opinions on Berserk. Most of you found out about me through my blogging several years ago, and I’m pretty proud that I was never the sort of fan that groveled at Miura’s feet and treated Berserk as some untouchable holy book: there were things I disliked about Berserk and things that disappointed me about Miura’s writing, but there were SO MANY MORE THINGS that I loved about Berserk and was proud of Miura for, and I wished him to continue his advancement in narrative growth. He did so and we watched it happened.

And, by meeting so many friends and acquaintances through the fandom, we saw a lot in ourselves change too. It’s surreal how we always joked that it would be one of us fans who would die before Berserk ended or the worst-case scenario of Miura dying; maybe some of us secretly preferred for that happen. But when we weren’t waiting around for another chapter… look at how much we’ve done with our lives! We graduated high school, undergrad, grad school, started and advanced our careers, traveled the world, got together, popped out a kid or two!... And while we experienced a lot of downfalls and tragedies that coincide, can you believe how much we have accomplished together?

We were all personally inspired, motivated, persuaded by Berserk in different ways: a lot of us were inspired for the better and admittedly, some for the not-as-good (if spending countless hours on Tumblr has taught me, there were definitely some toxic fan takeaways that had to be confronted). I’m not going to go to the point of saying that I now live my life by Berserk’s philosophy to a T or live as a reflection of certain characters (because I’m pretty sure that Miura was trying to tell us to NOT live your life like some particular characters) but it certainly helped to brings some aspects of life and existence into perspective, through the lenses of so many characters. Berserk also inspired me to write more, an already favorite pastime of mine, and how I should go about writing and planning a story, taking cues from Berserk on how to and how NOT to write and approach things in my own way, which I think is for the best in the long run. I can only dream that I’ll be published someday – which doesn’t have to be a pipe dream because it’s still much more possible than impossible. And so many other have done the same, creating our own stories and works.

And OF COURSE Berserk inspired me to be a little bit badass from time to time in moments of frivolity and seriousness – but it reminds us all that being badass and being a kinder person who tries to become the best version of themselves are not mutually exclusive. We definitely need more of that in today’s world.

We all made our own little bonfires of dreams happen, and because of Berserk existing, there will be a lot more beginnings than endings, and I don’t see a lot of bonfires being extinguished anytime soon. Miura poured his heart and soul into Berserk and its characters, and while he has passed on, his characters and lessons will live on through us and everything we create and how we live our lives (hopefully for the better).

I was happy to share all of my thoughts with you all – and I’ll continue to do so, since the mythos of Berserk has been a major backdrop of my creative mind for over fifteen years now and there is still so much to dissect and speculate. Personally, I don’t see Berserk ending just yet, if only because I’d be surprised that Miura or his publisher didn’t have some Operation London Bridge type plan in place in the event that this happened (Berserk is, after all, a major title that most likely brings Young Animal a lot of revenue). Again, I never treated Miura or Berserk as divine untouchables, so if there are plans in place to continue Berserk without Miura (BUT with his permission) or just on how to wrap up the story to give it a fulfilling conclusion, I personally would be okay with it (as a friend of mine put it, it’d be more of a tribute than an imitation). Going beyond our lifetimes, works will continue to be interpreted and reinterpreted as they have since time immemorial; perhaps Berserk will reach that point someday.

Honestly, and many have thought so too, Berserk was also meant to be cosmic level in both scale and concept. The plot is so grand and Byzantine that, even under Miura’s direct supervision, I always had a hard time envisioning how a story of this scale would conclude. As much as we love to hate him, a final showdown between Guts and Griffith seems too simple, too “good vs. evil”-esque for Berserk. Maybe having a low-key, vague but optimistic and bittersweet wrap up is what is best for Guts, Casca, and their new-found family. But that’s just another one of my fan speculations.

Regardless or what is to become of Berserk now, I think it’s safe to give adulations. We all came across Berserk at different times in our lives and stuck with the story for different reasons. For some of us, it was just another series that our friend from the campus anime club recommended to us; for others, we were drawn in from a morbid curiosity of its dark notoriety in anime circles. A few of us read for the gratuitous violence and the clout (because we all know you’re so deep and hardcore [/sar]), but a lot more of us read for the journey and the characters that we became a part of. The heaviness of Berserk made us confront a lot of trauma and even relive our own. For some of us, understandably, it was not a good idea to dive deeper (and maybe somethings could have been handled better); for the rest of us, it helped us cope, if not entirely through the story itself, than through the support network we made for ourselves in this fandom and its many realms (some realms, I argue, are more caring and nurturing than others).

From time to time, I always wonder if I would ever “grow out” of Berserk. There were indeed several times I took a step away from fandom and have tried to reduce my exposure to the story - but I always came back in some way, because the essence of Berserk has never left me and never will. Humorously I envisioned myself actually forgetting about Berserk for several decades, decades in which I work at my career, raise my family, mourn my elders, but continue living my life, only to go on the future internet in my mid-50s to find out… Miura is STILL working on that ending, sitting at his desk in the same pose as that famous monochrome capture of him, only he’s grayed and wrinkled, like the great Miyazaki.

The possibility of that future is over, but there are so many others.

#berserk #berserk stuff #kentaro miura #rip kentaro miura

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joannasteez · 3 years

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𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: EZ Reyes x Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: Mature Themes.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4.7k

Credits to who made the gif @angelreyesgirl

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @my-rosegold-soul @appropriate-writers-name @est1887 @xladymacbethx @blessedboo @brownsugarcoffy @elektriknachosss @queenbeered

Let me know if you’d like a tag!!!

✞

Your annoyance was simmering, daring to merge into the depths of some irreversible state of agitation. The engine of the classic Dodge Charger RT in your possession had, with incredibly poor timing, began to knock. The unsavory noise resonating into the thick air of the street, stilled heat of the day pushing back the regular ebb and flow of the Santo Padre streets to make way for the obnoxious sound of your engine. Your head was spinning, dazed by the bitter humidity and a steady brew of fear trembling in your fingers to dance just under the surface of your skin. The classic car was given by your father, who'd gotten it from his father, the mass of glistening matte black metal of significant value. If the engine failed, you'd be reduced to tears, wading in the dread of some existential crisis.

Your grandfather had had this car for twenty years, the imprint of his essence etched into the leather seats, and when he became grey and withered, he relinquished it to your father for another fifteen years, till finally, it was yours.

You pulled over just as the last knock sounded, the tremble in your fingers worsening. Your eyes welled, sure to leave a soft red glassiness. The need for air consumed you, the space to walk freely about, a puff of smoke or two maybe.

The pavement was hard under your feet, slam of the door accented by vexation. You picked behind your ear, that nicely rolled spliff safely kept and waiting to be lit. The lighter in your front pocket an easy grab, the flicker of orange a short friendly blaze as it singed the paper. The pull you took was slow, measured, as if to savor this minuscule moment of stillness that lived among others not so still. Not so peaceful. With release, you blew into the air, dried eyes taking in the vast blue of the sky. The never ending expansion blurring your vision as your mind sifted through slim courses of action. If you could just get the car to your garage, then you could figure the battery out on your own, saving time you didn’t have on a mechanics trips you couldn’t afford. All you needed was a—

"Need a boost?"

"Yes". The answer was so quick, it nearly gave you whiplash. The tension in your bones dissipating as you got rid of the sizzling flame around your spliff.

The stranger spun his car from its position just beside yours, the hood of it now facing yours head on before he turned it off and got out.

"Thanks so much for this".

"No problem. It's a nice ride you got, don't really see too many classics rolling around Santo Padre much", he said, eyeing the shine of the paint job. His fingers skimming the hood before he lifted it. "Where'd you get it?"

You step closer to him, a grin stretching your lips at his admiration. The RT was your pride and joy, the height of your ego bursting through to rise above some invisible ceiling whenever folks gave it compliments and stares of approval. "My dad had it for a while, gave it to me when he couldn't keep up with it anymore".

With a nod, he retrieved the cables from his trunk, the wide stretch of his back shifting just under the white fabric of his t-shirt to reveal the curve and ripple of muscles. They traveled down his arms, the bulge of them mixing with defined veins that ran across thick powerful looking fingers. He stretched one of those hands out toward you.

"Ezekiel Reyes".

You considered his hand for a moment, slipping it into your own as your eyes racked him with all the subtlety you could muster. It mustn't have been enough because that innocent friendly smile he gave you had turned into something more knowing. He knew you were checking him out but he didn't mind much. "Y/N".

His thumb skimmed the back of your hand just before letting go, turning his attention to attaching the cables to both cars properly. You minded his movements with the cables closely, triple checking the order in which he connected them with a hawks eye, a concentrated intensity that your dear old Charger RT deserved. Abruptly then, like the quickness of a blink or some single strike of lightning, a thought came to you. "Wait, not Reyes as in Carniceria Reyes?"

"Yeah it's my pops shop",

"Felipe's a real sweet guy. It's not everyday you can look through a deep book collection while the butcher cuts up your dinner". You paused, giving the beauty of his face another glance. "He should've warned me though, never told me both his sons were so handsome".

"You met Angel", he stated, a low dip in his tone. Was it disappointment?

"A couple of weeks ago. He was passing through when I stopped by to pick up somethings. He's a real charmer your brother, but I wouldn't worry. I don't think he's messed up your chances just yet", you flirted.

The assurance produced from him a toothy grin. "I'm not worried".

Silence took ahold of you then, anticipation of the moment charging the pressure in your chest to fall straight to your gut. ‘Please work' you whispered while swinging the door wide to slide into the warm leather of the drivers seat. With the key in the ignition, you twisted your wrist forward, a huff of relief puffing from your chest when the engine roars to life. You close the door quick, that relief bubbling under your skin, your head sticking out the window.

"Thanks again Reyes".

He stepped to the window, those warm endearing eyes taking in the summer glow of your face. His tongue slipped just over the plump flesh of his bottom lip. It was a rosy color, the curving dip of it enticing. He liked the way you said his last name.

"It's no problem".

You put your RT in reverse, backing away from his broad body. "See you around?"

"Maybe", he called.

You speed off, the rev of the engine blending into the ebb and flow of the town once again. Existence dipping into the horizon.

✞✞✞✞✞

You'd saw him again at some hole in the wall you frequented at. The smooth slow tempo of some classic 70s song strumming through the stereo to seep into your ears richly like fresh honey. The atmosphere was subdued, the short clinks of beer bottles and incomprehensible murmurs of frivolous conversations sating the air. It was the perfect place to think, to allow your mind to wander directionless through the never ending abyss of happenings and circumstances that had presented themselves down through the week. You made idle chitchat with the bartender about a laundry list of things of no particular significance, small smiles and light chuckles ringing from you both every now and then.

The night was going good, till you felt a creeping touch just at the low end of your back.

"Let me buy you a drink". The voice was rusted, withered by too much tobacco.

You held up the beer in your hand. "I've got already, I'm good".

This guy was tipsy, blood red creeping into his eyes, body swaying just the slightest bit. "Don't be like that, let me buy you another".

"I said I'm good", you asserted. The coolness of the bottle creating a tingling sensation in your hand. You'd crack it over his head if he touched you again.

"Sorry I'm late, everything alright?", another voice asked, but this one you knew. That deeply textured tone wrapping sweetly around your senses. You tore your irritated gaze set on the almost-drunk guy, softening it as you took Ezekiel in. He looked slightly different, refreshed it seemed, or maybe it was just his barbered hair. A Mayans kutte rested over him, comfortable like a second layer of skin, the black leather accentuating the swell of his muscles. You'd have to figure out later why your eyes diverted to them so often, they were becoming a hindrance to your thinking.

"Everything's good now", you played. Giving him a light peck to the cheek to sell the story. His arm wrapped around you in what appeared to be some reflexive reaction, all natural like he'd done it countless times before. When he realized Ezekiel wasn't leaving, the guy swayed away in true tipsy fashion. Mumbling incoherent things with a griped attitude. Ezekiel took his chair, the proximity of it in regards to yours making the point of his knee knock and slide the smooth plain of your jeans. You watched him take a glance over the bar before he called for a beer.

"Thanks for that".

"No problem", the corner of his lip turning up. "Seems like you've been needing my help a lot lately".

"Don't flatter yourself Reyes, this is just a coincidence".

"Any reason why you're at a bar alone?"

Your face screwed up in a show of confusion, but you could guess quickly the reason for the question. "Any reason why you're at a bar alone?"

He sipped at his beer. "Outside gets loud sometimes y'know, hectic. It's quiet in here. Good place to think".

"Exactly".

"A little unsafe for you though no?" And there it was.

"Everywhere's unsafe for me Ezekiel, I'm a woman. I mean I couldn't guarantee safety in my own home if I wanted to, but that's just how the world works". You paused, mischief rising in your face. "Don't worry though, I've got a little surprise for anyone who wants to test their luck".

"Oh really".

"Yeah, you men are dangerous out here. I gotta be prepared always".

His brows furrowed. "That's a bit of a big generalization to make".

"But if it's true it's true. Name one thing a man doesn't get dangerous about. Doesn't even have to be rejection", you say, turning to fully face him.

He considers the question for a moment, staring into the color of your eyes as if he'd find the answer in them. "Love".

"A man who loves, whose in love, would do any and everything, no matter how mad the shit is. He'd risk lives, his life even. If that's not dangerous then I don't know what is".

A speck of something lit in the hazel of his eyes. As if your words had brought to the present some memory buried deep within the grave of his soul. What you said hit rather close, closer than expected. "Who is she?"

"Doesn't matter, it's in the past".

"Humor me".

His jaw ticked before he spoke. "Her names Emily, but that shits all just history now. Doesn't matter". He turned the focus from himself. "What about you. Whose going all reckless about you".

"Who says he exist"

"You just did, I never specified who in particular".

So much for playing dumb. "His name is Jason".

"Sounds like an asshole".

You snort, the teasing of a headache coming as you thought on the insufferable man that was Jason. "He is. He's got that weird alpha male thing about him. Has to be in control of everything, doesn't know when to leave well enough alone".

The muted energy of the bar rose between the two of you, each taking quiet sips of your beer. You took notice of the way he surveyed the room from where he sat. That golden gaze sifting through the space and over bodies with quick ease. He was assessing, the gears in his head turning, calculating and considering every and all the possibilities of danger. It reminded you of someone.

"How long were you in for?", you ask.

"How'd you know?"

"You've been on the defensive since you sat down, lookin’ everywhere like someone's gonna up and shank you for no reason. My cousin was the same way when he got out, always looking over his shoulder". You shrugged. "Grew out of it eventually.

His eyes were a bit sullen, as if the truth would scare you. "Eight years".

"He was in for fifteen, and that prison shit is unbelievable, I mean the stories he's told me are crazy". You laugh suddenly at a memory, the resonance of it making him smile in admiration of the sound. "He did this thing for a while when he got home where he'd only have one knife, one fork and one spoon in his kitchen and I swear it was the funniest shit".

The smile falters, his body shifting awkwardly in the bar stool, embarrassed.

"Oh my God Reyes don't tell me you've been doing the same thing".

"In my defense I live alone".

"But what if you have a special guest over, you'd be a sorry ass host", you tease.

"If you wanted to have dinner with me then just say that".

You force away the heat daring to rise in your cheeks. "We have to take a trip to home goods before I even consider a dinner with you”.

You both give hearty laughs, till the vibration in your pocket pulls your focus. With a quick slip of your phone, you realize how fast time had gone on. “Shit I gotta go, but it was real nice seeing you again Ezekiel".

"It was good seeing you too".

You press your hand against his patch, laying a sweet lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Make it home in one piece for me yeah".

"I have to. You might need me again".

"I'm counting on it".

✞✞✞✞✞

You were a joke it seemed, the universe and fate in a gaming mood, as they were using you as a source for their own amusement. Commissioning their faithful associate to do the heavy lifting of masking their scents. The two of you were at the right place, at the right time again, what a damn coincidence. Before the present week, you'd never even seen Ezekiel's face, just learning of his existence a week or so before that, and now you'd seen him twice in a matter of days. This night being the third.

He was surrounded by men who donned the same kutte as him, curious eyes swimming through the sea of bodies as they did in every other setting, till they met yours. He came to you without a second thought, eyeing the tight leather of your pants and how they clung to your thighs. The cropped cut of your vintage top revealing skin he longed to touch. Since the first time he saw you his mind raced with thoughts of your voice, visions of your lips touching his skin again, plaguing his body with the desire to have you.

You stepped away from your group of friends, meeting him half way. "You're just stalking me at this point. Not that I mind".

He clutched the openings of his kutte, that signature grin lighting his face, even with the casting over of the nights darkness. "Something told me I'd see you again. How's your RT?"

"Good, resting in my garage. I've been kinda scary about replacing the battery".

"Why?"

"I'm good with cars don't get me wrong, but something about fucking it up just makes me sick. It's a lot of history behind that car. I don't wanna destroy it".

"Understandable", he nodded. Noting the caution behind your words, the way you spoke with such passion and care about the thing you loved. It was endearing.

The heavy crunch of gravel and sand tore through the beginnings of some silent stare, an undeniable enticement brewing. It was Angel.

"I see you met this asshole already", the older Reyes said.

"I'm not an asshole Angel, just 'cause I turned you down".

He sent a smirk your way. "You didn't turn me down, we made a mutual decision that you couldn't handle me remember?"

"Right. That's exactly how it went".

A call sounded through the dewy air of the night, signifying the start of a race. You started toward a cherry red car.

"That's me", you said. In regards to the call.

Ezekiel was confused, intrigued. "You racing?"

"Yeah, the mustang", you called, strutting over to your 1970's Mustang, adding the slightest dip to your hips. Giving the brothers something to admire, before dropping low into the leather seats.

With a quick twist, the mustang roared to life, the rumble tearing through the air, growling like a fierce rolling thunder through hazy storm clouds. Another car pulled up on your right, the blue electric color of it dazzling, clashing against the fine cherry red of your own to deliver a sweet contrast for the eyes that watched on in excitement. A woman, with a dangled bandana in her hand, set herself between your car and the other, whistles of admiration thrown her way as she gave the summer evening crowd an alluring smile. At the point of her finger you revved your engine, adrenaline pumping through your veins, rushing from your chest to pulse under your skin. The leather feel of the steering wheel was smooth, the grip you held to it steady. With the downward pull of her hands she set both cars to race and you pulled your mustang swift into the night.

The road before you was a muddled darkness, the outward spreading glow of your headlights stabbing it and tearing it apart as your wheels took a glide against the smooth road. At the mark line, you shifted your car into reverse, whipping left, back into drive, soaring back down the road to where the crowd watched and waited. Their rigid bodies of anticipation lit by your headlights, bellowing screams waning under the busting sound of your revving engine. Your mustang tore through the finishing mark, the tingle of victory surging through you.

Pulling back up to the crowd, you rolled your window down, a slim roll of hundreds placed in your hand by the guy who’d set the race up. You showed up to win and now you were done.

Ezekiel and Angel were a little ways away from your car, your voice carrying over to them. "A little party at my place. You and your guys are cool to come".

They both nodded, heading to their bikes when Angel answered after you. "We'll follow you".

Ezekiel swung his leg, resting on the seat of his bike as he buckled the helmet over his head, his fingers gripping the ape hangers, feeling the vibration of the engine as he followed the sleek vibrant red of your car. The afternoon he met you, he'd been turmoiled, plagued with the natural uncertainties that came with being a member of the MC. That new patch stitched into the upper corner of his kutte had bought a sense of pride and belonging he hadn't felt in forever, it gave him drive, fueled his determination, but as the saying goes, all that glitters is not good. Expectation deceived him, the reality of all things made clear. And that reality was shoveling makeshift graves for men whose names he couldn't even remember, but he remembered yours. Committed himself to it like the loving kiss he gave to the jar that held the remnants of his mother every time he stepped a foot into his fathers house.

He found you flustered, out of yourself with anxiety in the dimming light of the afternoon, and then at the bar, body rigid, eyes wired and ready to do your worst to a guy who could barely keep his posture straight, and now he was following behind you, backing his bike toward the sidewalk that laid just in front your home.

Upon entry, the knock of the speakers bled a thumping bass that pulsated through the floors. Your home had seemed to expand with every new corner that came into view, the walls pushing back to make room for the swell and scatter of bodies. Sweet smells mixed with more pungent ones, the hazy aroma of weed slipping past him as he walked further into the house. A hand placed itself at his side. It was you.

"Can I get you a drink? A beer or something".

"Yeah a beer is cool".

You intertwined your fingers with his, leading him to the kitchen where the sound settled some. Beer bottles clinked, the air releasing as you opened them, handing one over to him.

He gave a quiet "thanks" before sipping, eyeing the way your lips wrapped around the top of the bottle to taste the liquid. They looked soft, full and alluring. He redirected his gaze before the temptation overtook him to do something impulsive that had the prospect of unnerving you. His eyes flitted to the side of your face, an illustration about two inches or so etched into your skin. He hadn't noticed it till now.

You could feel him staring as you tasted the beer, the heat of it tingling your skin. "It's a dagger".

He reached forward, thumb skimming over the finely crafted design, it was a professionals work. With the simple touch of his thumb, your nerves were riling, heat rushing to pulse under your skin, he could feel it. It drew him closer, lured him in. "Did it hurt?".

"Like hell, but when you've felt more painful shit, tattoos like this don't really compare". You lifted the hem of your top some, bringing his fingers to feel the raised skin there. Four inches or so worth of a healed gash rested under his considerate touch. "Got it when I spent a year and a half inside. Grand theft", you admitted.

The reasoning behind telling him wasn't sound in the slightest bit, but what was reasoning when Ezekiel had awakened such dormant feelings inside you. With those beautiful, sunny colored eyes and the warm hand caressing your side, you were liable to tell everything. Truths you hated and dark secrets that laid deep inside your past. You reached up to lay a kiss to those pouty lips, the feel of them mesmeric, dazing. Fulfillment burdened itself onto you, finally you'd got a taste of that rosy pink bottom lip, and now your body was calling for more. Begging for it with such longing that you licked your way through his mouth, his tongue acting in kind. It was slow and all consuming, his body pressing you into the counter to surround you.

"Come with me", your voice airy. Breathless. You lead him to the back of the house. Your room first on the right. A gasp left you when your feet left the floor, body in his arms as he laid you against the fresh feel of the sheets. You kicked your shoes off with ease but the discarding of other pieces left behind a sinking feeling, a pressure forming in your chest to push down straight into your gut. He was glorious, the plains of his skin bound by rich thick tanned muscles and long veins. The dilation of his pupils darkened the air around him, physique imposing. This is what you’d wanted, Why were you feeling so anxious all of a sudden?

"What's wrong?"

Your body had raced miles ahead of your mind and now you were trying to catch up. "I don't know, I just... I feel..."

"Nervous".

"It's sounds so stupid when you say it out loud".

"But it's not, It's natural, and I'll do whatever you want me to do. Whatever makes you feel comfortable baby".

He sounded so sure of it, it made you believe him. You laid against the pillows, beckoning him with the outstretch of your fingers. "C'mere".

He obeyed, body atop yours, your legs wrapping loosely around his waist as your head tilted up to give those lips another kiss. It was messy this time, fueled by desperation, your tongues slow to lick as they tasted each other's. The remnants of beer still there. He took hold of your lip, sharp teeth pulling before he kissed his way down to the heated flesh of your neck. There he sucked, bombarding your skin with pressure causing your hips to grind against the coarse fabric of his jeans. The thin cotton layer of your underwear leaving you to erupt with a fresh wave of need. He feathered kisses down your body, pushing your legs up and apart to open yourself for him. A shudder drove down your spine, that soft wide tongue of his licking so close to where you needed him. He peeled away your underwear leaving you bare before him.

"Talk to me baby. What do you need".

You could hear the pulse of your heart in your ears. "Take care of me Ezekiel, make me feel good".

He hummed, loving the airiness of your voice. So drenched with need for him you were. He was methodical despite the desire boiling in his blood threatening to burn through his skin, so he'd settled with toying with you for now. Giving that sweet glistening clit teasing licks. They were measured, the constraint of them existing solely to wreck you, to kill your resolve completely till you were reduced to in-apprehensible words filled with air. The wide-ness of his tongue felt so good, your nails running over the faded part of his head as your hips drew tight circles.

The teasing, the game of it all. He didn't know but you loved it so much. "That feels so good baby, so good", you praised.

Your words were disembodied, wandering in another plain of existence as they rolled off your lips. Your senses were bursting at the seems, and then reborn again to erupt on impact when he sucked against your sensitive nub, lapping your slick salaciously. As if he'd been starved for years, only just finding you now. The line of your spine arched, waist swiveling, grinding to meet his wet tongue. A low "fuck" fell in the air as your felt the rise of your impending release. With taut, rough fingers he hooked at the back of your knees, pushing them into the sheets. The action opened you completely to him, no choice but to surrender to his will and the feel of his lips as he drew you closer to the edge.

"Please, I'm so close", you whimpered. Vision splotchy, thump in your ears intensifying.

He sucked at you again, holding his lips still as your body shook. Quivering against the sheets. He reverted back to soft licks, tasting as you rode the high.

He rose when you settled, eyeing the heavy rise and fall of your chest as he did away with his jeans. "You Ok?"

It took you time to register the question but when you did, you threw a pillow at him. "You just sucked the soul out of me, don't ask me that damn question".

He laughed, watching your eyes dim in bliss. You hadn't noticed, but he'd done away with his underwear as well, the weight of him causing the bed to dip as he came up to where you laid. His thick fingers rolled you over, setting your face to rest against the pillows as your hips raised in the air to rest against the hot flesh of his length, the veined skin laying along your slit. You moaned in anticipation, pushing back against him.

He gripped your cheeks, spreading them to see the quivering flesh of your opening, the flushed pink shinning in the dim light of the room. His tongue slipped against his bottom lip again, reveling in the taste of you as he pushed in. He groaned, and you gave a single fleeting "yes" , the thickness of him giving a delicious stretch, rigid length hot as he pushed and pulled in and out of your depths in a slow manner. Wanting to test the waters same as he did moments ago before building you back up again. The squeeze of you made his chest tight, head swimming with delirium.

"You feel so good mama, so tight around me", he groaned.

His thrust were dizzying as they picked up to set a steady pace, your hips rolling and pushing to take him deeper. To reach that place in you that would force your vision to blur and be replaced by disfigured stars. You reach to lay a finger at your overstimulated bundle of nerves, rubbing the soft slick flesh with lazy pleasuring circles that spurred the knot in your gut to grow. A single tear fell to dampen the pillow, your depths tightening at how full you felt, at how unrelenting the stimulation of his strokes were.

The sharp drive of his hips made you go rigid, the vice like grip you formed around him causing him to fall into his own high. Pace going all slow sloppy to ride out the blissful feeling.

He pulled from you, both your body and his collapsing against the bed. His face formed with satisfaction, a beautiful buzz running through him. "You know what this means right?"

"What", you asked.

"We’ll have to see each other around more often now".

#ezekiel reyes x reader #ez reyes x reader #mayans mc #ez reyes #ezekiel reyes #ez reyes imagine #ezekiel reyes imagine #joannasteez

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thekitschdiet · 3 years

Text

the kitsch diet part II

part one alr posted!! this chunk is about 3,000~ words long... let me know what u think :-) thank u all for all the luv already!!! looks like I really will hit 31 followers by easter!!!!!!!!

Who is the Kitsch Girl?

I think this is more loosely defined, but The Chic Diet did a truly admirable way of reducing a girl to her YSL bag and her really skinny legs. Now, that implies an archetype, or a population in a specific location. I think kitschness is kind of the niche you fill when you’re not really much of anything else, sort of your own conglomerate of mainstream-specific. One major requirement, though, is being a little too into something somewhat uncool. And the whole illusion falls apart if you have any sort of outward insecurity. See, the Kitsch Girl is somewhat undefinable because she is so much of everything. She exists in multitudes, in a way that is also quite simple to understand; think of a list of axioms, or principles to live by. And now add a section to each one that says “but…” to make a collection of verified exceptions. Say, the kitsch girl will never wear jeans. But she thrifted this pair of vintage flares she just loves. She doesn’t reply to texts efficiently, but sometimes she will within a couple seconds. No mascara, no dinner forks, candles are to be collected not burned; but that was a gift, or something. It’s not personal, of course, those are just the contradictions she exists in. Don’t try to understand it, the enigma is essential to the facade. Or maybe she just lives like this, and her character is so homogenous with her inner world there’s no sense in trying to separate it. You have to have a little bit of an individuality complex about the whole ordeal, which is normally so eugh, but if you’re kitschy enough it works on you. Trust!The Kitsch girl is not someone unlikeable, but amiable and well heeled. I double checked that last one, assuming it meant liked by most, but apparently means affluent. I suppose that is an aspect of the kitsch girl too, having seemingly endless frivolous expenses with no real strain, but that’s not important right now. People that don’t like her think so out of jealousy, or something. Envious that her clothes are all kind of shake-it-up-esque and her highlights desperately need touching up, but she still seems so enthralled with the whole of life… How does she enjoy her own company so much when other people want to know her better? Doesn’t she feel weird about blowing people off to make a joke about reading Kafka in the bath? Why would she document her cluttered, unexciting life on Instagram so delicately, so vibrantly? Of course, no one would say this to her face because they are really baseless claims. She’s nice, generous, and valuable to have as a friend. Trade-offs exist, as they do with anyone. But I like thinking it’s easier to overlook a forgotten birthday when your kitschy best friend gave you a multi strand pearl necklace to celebrate the welcome breeze of June. Or some other made-up holiday. She is so unassuming if you’re not really looking. Girls want in on her inner circle. Or they just don’t care. Nothing wrong with being liked or thought of naught, for the most part. Boys are either enthralled or repulsed by her. Her doctor knows her as something of a hypochondriac, but only minorly. It’s just carpal tunnel, don’t worry… The sales staff at CVS turn a blind eye when she slips an eyeliner pencil into her tote bag. She shoplifts on occasion, just to see if she still knows how. But she is not a shoplifter. $9 here and $6.45 there doesn’t really add up to much. Everywhere she goes, she makes a tertiary friend or two. The term of friend is loosely used here, of course. But it is nice to tell a stranger you like her earrings. Or her phone case is so fun, is it Wildflower? The kitsch girl has an eye for this kind of detail. Simply put, she is sort of unspectacular. But in a way that makes you sort of wish you knew her better.

Phone cases

The phone case is, like, religious for the kitsch girl. Sorry, but there’s just no other accessory as flippant and expensive and single-purpose as a trendy little iPhone case with some semitacky stickers plastered over the design. I used to have an iPhone XS- extrasmall- with like, 18 phone cases. It was kind of a sordid affair. I jest, but really… owning that many phone cases was kind of sick. We get it, you are frivolous and spontaneous and sooo stylish! Stop posting mirror selfies on your Instagram story, your crush isn’t going to see it. Kidding again. Having an extensive collection of phone cases is just so fun because while attainable, most people just simply do not partake in it. That makes you kitschy and unique. I really thought I had more to say about the IDEA of the phone case, but I guess in practice it is all very, very simple. You can slide your driver’s license in the back of a clear case. At what point does it stop being cool to have legal operational control of a vehicle? I don’t display mine because I don’t really like the photo. I look round. In the eyes but also just in general, swollen, unglamorous. Whatever. Not like I drive a Nissan or anything. I drive my *Mom’s* Nissan. Playing Bladee in the car seems sacrilegious. She would hate it.Back to phone cases. Sonix ones are cute but kind of overpriced retail- unless you have like, an iPhone 12 Pro Max or whatever the fuck is new this year, just go to Winner’s. They always have Xs and 11 cases. I had a cherry one for my previous phone, like the exact one Lana Del Rey had? Thank god I sold it before she got outed as a copfucker or whatever. Casetify is for an inadvertent flex. Flexing your lame, lame taste. Sorry, I know you bought it because you liked it, but what you failed to consider is just how un-Kitsch they are. SO common, and they advertise on Instagram. Sorry, I just can’t get into it! Kind of how I just never liked the Brandy Amara tanks. Or lowtop converse. Otterbox is just distressing. Like, if my boyfriend gave me an otterbox phone case I would probably break up with him because somebody clearly isn’t paying attention- one of my favorite, potentially overused joke is how Otterbox cases are the equivalent of orthopedic insoles. Sorry but if you have poor arch support or whatever, but no pain is worth giving up a good pair of Margiela slingback tabi heels. Obviously I couldn’t afford that right now because all loose income goes directly to Wildflower and my cig boy. But like, one day. I hope you want to punch me in the face a little bit after reading that. If Wildflower isn’t your thing, at least have the decency to get a beaded phone strap. But not from String Ting. Pray tell you aren’t keeping score, but they are one of my several parasocial enemies. That should have been ME collaborating with Wildflower! Should have been ME mailing shit to Caroline Calloway (more on her later, but she is the only blue check I follow. I adore her! I was on her patreon for a bit I thinkl!!) …. Side note. Phone cases are cute but there is no way to properly protect your laptop without looking just absurd or colossally lame. The foam sleeves… ick.

Having the shittiest music taste ever

So like, here’s the thing. I’m an Apple Music user, which sort of reinstates my status as an unironic My Bloody Valentine Hyperpop Death Grips kinda gal. Read; volcel. My most recent conquest ended up being a huge L on my part, but also… I totally dodged a bullet. The guy had an iPhone 11 (female trait) and didn’t know who Rei Brown was, which just seemed suspicious given his Niche. I just know he had a “making out playlist” comprising entirely of like, Joji. Which isn’t a bad thing I guess but so unembarrassing it horseshoes back to being humiliating.Like I said. Having the worst music taste. It’s nice how subjective and deeply personal your music taste can be; no one really Needs to know you’re a die hard drainer. But there’s also no point in being a die-hard drainer and Not capitalizing off it somehow. I added it up and I have well over 150 hours of just Bladee and Yung Lean. Which is so yass? The more I write, using myself as a case study, I realize just how desperately jobless I am. And Yogenfruz isn’t even hiring! UGH!I think there is something very kitschy about liking hyperpop in the least ironic, least obnoxious way. Sort of feeds into a “I’m not like other girls” thing, but I mean… That’s kind of the idea of kitsch, isn’t it? Be a little different but also the very same as your lipgloss brethren?!Side note. If you make monthly playlists I am genuinely kind of afraid of you. That is just so organized!! I just make playlists with esoteric titles and then make a new one when I’m sick of the stuff on the last. I have exhausted most genres but I think my favorite is the “I’m wearing f****ng air forces and my teeth are SO white”. Guess what genre it is. Or don’t, but it’s probably what you think is. Okay, moving on….

Curating a scent

I like thinking I smell like mango and peach, Glossier you, whatever citrus is in that Lush shower jelly and mint 5Gum. But of course it is probably less distinct and just kind of generally fruit-floral-mint. Anyway. I think Glossier You is the perfect scent for anyone with a rather elementary understanding of the whole.. Perfume business. Every bottle of intentional fragrance I own was made via aesthetic choices… it really helps that Glossier You is so cute And so universal. Now, Glossier is kind of interesting to me because it really is at the intersection of cheugy and kitsch. Kind of basic, overplayed, unspectacular. But also…. Often popular things are popular because they are good. Glossier has excellent customer suurv, they ship SO fast (and no import duties! W!) and their stuff is just so sweet and nice if not unoriginal, in kind of the same way strawberry ice cream is. Which is still my favorite, of course, especially if there’s a vegan option. I was talking about Glossier. What the hell! It’s really worth trying out. A huge principle of kitsch is just… having as many possible layers and appendages to your composure as possible. And adding a signature scent just really completes that! When curating your own, I say this as a complete amateur, know-nothing; make it something that comes kind of naturally to Your Character. Like, I’m just not a Chanel No 5 kind of girl. Odds are you aren’t either. My bottle (before she asked for it back when I told her I didn’t use it, in exchange for a Nordstrom’s gift card) was from my grandmother. Ummm.. Yeah, I really have no expertise in curating a scent. But it is nice to have a signature. And having a bottle displayed on your dresser next to your aughties McDonald milkshake themed beanie baby and a handful of lip products is just way too fun! This is the kind of girl I am, everyone! Cluttered, but prioritizing pretty-delicate things!

Cheugyism

Cheugy is a relatively new word that has unfortunately wormed into my vocabulary to replace “uncouth”. Which I use to mean graceless or tacky, but if that isn’t what it means…. Don’t tell me. That would hurt more than weighing myself after a “feast” slash pastry binge at my dear Grandmothe’s house. Like I was saying. Cheugy. It’s sort of a fucked up concept to me because it is a critique on consumption, but not the pace or volume or magnitude of it. But rather… the idea of not being “good” enough at engaging in microtrends, or involvement in the fast paced fashion cycle. Don’t get me started on TikTok, or do, but… yeah,. No. That will require a cigarette because I’m so sorry, but writing a thinkpiece on social media is so lowbrow I would need to find about six ways to aesthetically counteract it…. Moving on. I think the idea of cheugy is good, we really do need a word to simply and efficiently define “out of date/uninspired/lame”. But the way it is used to shame others for not liking the same trends or whatever is kind of gross. If you use cheugyism to put other people down and not as a neutral identifier umm… you will become what you fear. Sorry, that’s what happens. Some things that I think are cheugy or embarrassing, or just not part of my stylistic lexicon are… 1. Hooded or zip up clothing, or things with a large graphic on the back. Bingo if it's all three! I just can’t get behind it. Side note, my summer home outfit is brandy sweats and a tube top (Urban Outfitters tank I ripped the straps off) and a large cardigan that should have belonged to a stoner, but probably didn’t. I can dunk on bulky, uninspired clothes because I would honest to God NEVER be caught DEAD out of the house wearing any of it. I’m so serious. Next segment should be about the kitsch girl’s inadvertent affinity for diuretics. Remind me….. One of the ports of my laptop is dead. Not really sure what to do about that.

Eye makeup and what it means to me….

Personally, I am one of those people who never wears foundation and kind of has a complex about it. The kitsch girl wears fluffy eyelashes and owns a plethora of sparkly eyeliner. Or maybe she doesn’t, but she has something distinct and a little ritzy, if not haphazard. We all saw Euphoria and it like, totally imprinted on us. The way glitter sits on your face after a long day is so resplendent. When it’s shining and a little bit melted off from your long, semi-productive day… ugh! Just made for film. Pictures on film. But not the Prequel app. I keep getting fucking ads for it. But it’s so embarrassing. Like, isn’t the whole point of film the authenticity of the moment? The texture of the afternoon? Why would you fabricate that? Prequel is just so cheugy. More on that later. But anyhow. Wearing a ton of eye makeup kind of fits with the idea of film too I think. Like, look at you, in the moment. With your strip lash falling off! It’s all so tres-chic. Plus, for whatever reason, it’s kind of unique or notably dedicated to ~Pull up to the function~ with more eye makeup on than everyone else. Sorry, but it really doesn’t take that long! But yes I will gracefully accept your praise… it’s kind of like the dropshipping of complements if you think about it. Easy to source with little to no effort in the curating. Side note, lashes are like $20 for 40 weeks if you cut them in half and use each pair about 5 times. You could probably do more but I lose track. How the fuck is it almost June? I was trudging through the snow to check the mail for my Online Ceramics shirt just last week, I swear. The trick to cutting your lashes (the way I do it anyway) is pretty simple. Get out two lashes that are symmetrical. Find the middle and cut one slightly to the left and one slightly to the right. This means you have two sets (one set is a little more dramatic than the other but at least they are symmetrical) with longer outer edges. Glue this to the outer corner of your eye and you will look so Composed… obsessed with how this layers with three eyeliner tails (one traditional one pointing up and one pointing down directly below it, sort of like the tail light on a 2019 Lexus UX) and one below your eye, like a clown. Fun, irrelevant fact, is the first time I added this third tail to my eye makeup, my dad had just gotten home from the hospital because he was sure he had like appendicitis or something and it was actually.. Not that. Typical indie hypochondriac. He made me bring him cottage cheese on a plate with a teaspoon that evening. I put black pepper on it for flair, which he hated. Walking up and down stairs with a plate of cottage cheese is much more imprinting than most of the multiplication tables. Don’t forget to use a bright shimmer eyeshadow in your inner corner. It really opens up your eyes. I recommend Too Faced. One time I got a little bit too high and tried to film an “editorial” makeup tutorial. You will never, ever, ever see that video. But I essentially covered my whole eyelid in the ABH shadow “palermo” and smudged out the edges with a tan Tartelette Toasted shade, coupled with my long-expired Milk Makeup holographic stick. Lopsided lashes and near-blinding eyeliner experience aside, it was kind of cool. My point is, you really cannot go wrong with an arsenal of shimmers, taupey mattes and a good eyeliner pen.

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ineloqueent · 3 years

Text

dreaming of you

Brian May x Reader

synopsis: a storm results in a power cut, after you get locked out of your flat. luckily, your neighbour is home.

warnings: swearing, drinking

word count: 2.7k

a/n: i hope you don’t mind that i took a few creative liberties with the prompts, m’dear <3

see the moodboard here!

⭒

London, 1973

It was one of those days that simply went from bad to worse. And then fell down the stairs. And into a frying pan. And then leapt out of the frying pan and into the fire. Except the fire was not simply a fire, but a flaming pit, that was somehow also freezing cold and pitch black.

In short, you’d had a terrible day. And as life would have it, your day was about to get a hell of a lot worse.

It had started that morning, when you’d got out on the wrong side of the bed, quite literally. You had fallen face-first over your office chair, which stood mere millimetres from the left side of your bed, because you lived in a tiny flat on Camden High Street, above a shoe shop, where, in the winter there was rarely hot water in the pipes, and you were forced to scrape ice off of the bathroom mirror with a razor in order to see your reflection.

So, you’d fallen out of bed and bruised— your forehead— instantly, only to realise that you’d slept through your alarm, and forgotten to lay out clothes for the day the night before. This was then followed by a rushed— cold— shower, and jumping in front of the iced-over mirror to glimpse the large bump already forming on your forehead.

You’d made it to the kitchen, and found that you’d run out of both coffee and tea, forcing you to decide between going without caffeine, or being late to work in the process of getting a takeaway beverage. You opted for the latter, and sprinted out the front door with your scarf only half-slung around your neck.

You’d shouted a hasty good morning to your shop keeper neighbour from the lower floor, before running straight into your other neighbour, the one who lived right next door to you, and shared your rice paper-thin walls.

He’d narrowly avoided spilling his cup of scalding coffee down your front, but in avoiding spilling it on you, the poor bloke had instead dropped the mug at his feet, and watched it shatter to pieces, coffee spattering his white shoes.

Still, he was the first to apologise.

He was like that, Brian May. Very polite. Well-mannered. Ever the friendly neighbour.

And very beautiful. You’d noticed.

Off to work you’d rushed, once you’d helped him to clean up the mess, because you weren’t about to leave him standing in a pile of shattered porcelain, the existence of which was quite honestly your fault.

You’d been not five, not ten, not twenty, but thirty minutes late to work, and your boss had been none too pleased.

“Deadlines,” he’d told you. “We have deadlines!”

Deadlines your arse. You’d watched that man leisurely read his morning paper, with his feet on an ottoman, whilst you scrambled to get your affairs in order.

It’d then been a drab day, working at the newspaper, because it seemed that nothing was happening in the world, outside of your own little corner, where everything seemed to be happening all at once, and thus, there was no story for you to write. You’d been reduced to running fax and photocopies for various people, and— ironically— doing a coffee run, because everyone else was too busy for such a frivolous thing as a coffee run. Funny, though; for all they shunned the coffee run, they could not do without their precious caffeine to fuel their productivity.

The day seemed to drag on, and when it finally let up, the rain came down with the night, and you, with no umbrella and a good walk on either side of your tube ride, stared miserably through the window at the depressing weather.

But at home, pasta and television and your lovely, soft bed awaited you, and so, you were desperate to get home as quickly as possible.

With a sigh, you stepped outside, and let the rain soak you as you went on your way, having once read in a scientific study in the newspaper which had concluded from a series of experiments that one got more wet from running through rain than from walking through it.

The tube was crowded, as usual, and like a good citizen, you offered your seat to an elderly lady, only to realise upon second glance that she was not elderly at all, and you had just morally offended a rather prim-looking business woman. And lost your seat to the smirking man who’d watched the exchange occur.

You tracked mud all the way up to your flat, nearly breaking your foot at least twice when you nearly slipped on the rain-slick wood of the stairs.

The final nail— or so you thought— in the coffin of your terrible day came when you fumbled in your jacket pockets for your key.

The sinking feeling in your stomach was perhaps the heaviest you’d ever felt.

In your rush that morning, you’d forgotten your key.

Brian May walked up the stairs just in time to see you kick your shoe off in frustration, and let out a laugh at the sight of you.

You looked up from your abused shoe to find Brian paused at his door, one eyebrow slightly raised in concern.

“Alright?” he asked, dubiously.

You took a deep breath, in an attempt to remain calm and appear normal at the height of your despair. “I’ve had a shitty day, since before you saw me this morning, and now I’ve locked myself out of my flat. Alright, you think?”

“No,” he conceded, “but it seemed polite to ask.”

“Do you always just do what’s polite?” you sighed.

“Now that,” said Brian, inclining his head, “wasn’t very polite.”

You shook your head quickly. “That’s not what I meant. I meant it in a much more flattering way, like, you never fail to be polite, even when it’s hard to be, or when I’m sure you’d much rather say something sarcastic, or even just plain rude. You know,” you rambled, “you’re good at that—” you waved a hand, and amusement flitted across his eyes— “filter thing. You have a filter, I mean.”

“And you don’t,” he observed.

“Exactly.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, for once,” said Brian, “you look an absolute wreck, but—”

At that moment was when the real final nail of the coffin fell into place.

Because at that moment, accompanied by an ear-splitting peal of thunder, lightning struck, and eradicated the power supply of approximately one-third of the London metropolitan area.

“Bloody hell,” Brian remarked, as the rumble of thunder receded. The two of you stood in darkness on the landing, and while before, there had only been one bare lightbulb to light your surroundings, it was greatly different to be standing in total darkness when the city outside had become equally as dark.

“The power—”

You thought Brian nodded across from you where he stood, in the blackness of the hall.

“So…�� you muttered. “What now?”

“Well, given our presently rather strange circumstances, I’ll offer to let you sleep on my sofa, and we can talk to Clarisse in the morning.”

Clarisse owned the shoe shop beneath your flats, and therefore your flats as well. She was yours and Brian’s landlady, but, as with her shop, she was only ever in from nine to five. Given that it was now six in the evening, she was most certainly long gone.

You considered Brian’s offer.

The two of you had shared a landing for four, almost five years now, since you’d each come to London, and yet, though you were friendly, you’d never got past having coffee together. You knew that Brian was studying astrophysics at Imperial College, which was very impressive indeed, and that he was the guitarist in a talented, but relatively unknown band. You’d encountered the other members of the band a few times here and there, every year, given that they sometimes practiced, or held meetings, at Brian’s residence. Clarisse didn’t mind the band playing, and as the next door building always had loud music pounding, there was no danger of annoying the neighbours to the point of the police being phoned, so Brian and his band were free to hold their rehearsals. You knew they were talented because you could hear them playing through said rice paper-thin walls.

And having had coffee with the man in question at least three times, you felt safe enough in taking up his offer. You only regretted that in all your years living next door to him, you’d never invited him over. Then again, he’d never invited you over either. But here he was now, in your hour of need, and that had to count for something.

You nodded gratefully, then remembered that he probably couldn’t see you all too well, and said,

“I think I’ll take up your offer. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Nonsense,” said Brian. “I’m just polite.”

You thought he might have winked, but of course, in the dark, you couldn’t be sure.

He unlocked his front door, and you followed him inside.

“Watch out for the—”

You stumbled over what felt and sounded to be a guitar case.

“Oh shit, fuck, I’m sorry,” you apologised profusely.

He chuckled. “It’s fine. It’s empty.”

“Oh, thank god,” you muttered. “Thought I’d just destroyed something, again.”

“Yeah, it was bad enough that you ruined my coffee cup this morning.”

Reflexively, you covered your blush with your hand. “Please don’t remind me,” you groaned.

“I won’t miss it,” Brian assured you, tossing his keys onto a little table. “It was a hideous thing. Something Fred got me once from Kensington Market, where he works. Pretty sure the thing was second-hand too.”

Fred. Freddie, lead singer of the band you’d only heard through walls. Funny, charming, friendly though shy.

You wrinkled your nose. “Second-hand…”

“Yeah. He’s got no taste, silly bugger.” Though Brian’s remarks sounded harsh, he spoke with a fondness that could only have been reserved for the highest regard of friendships, and you thought that he and his bandmates must be quite good friends.

“Hungry?” Brian asked. “I’ve only got some left-over lasagna, unfortunately, since I wasn’t expecting company, and it’s vegetarian, but we can heat it up in the oven, and there’s enough for the both of us.”

“Honestly, Brian, that sounds delicious.”

Your eyes had begun to adjust to the dark, and so you saw his smile in response to your comment.

“Well, great. I’ll heat that up, then. Make yourself at home. If you can find the living room,” he added with a laugh. “There’s some candles in the chest of drawers by the window, so if you get those out, I’ll find some matches too, and we can have some light.”

“Will do.”

You set about your task, managing to only stub your toe once after removing your shoes, and set up candles about the living room, where you assumed Brian intended to set up dinner.

He brought you matches, and brought with him a glass bottle.

“Wine?” he offered you, having poured himself a glass, and you accepted, because it was Friday night and what the hell.

You lit the candles as Brian went back to his cooking, and before long, he returned with the lasagna dished up.

As your host sat down across from you, you couldn’t help but laugh to yourself.

With the candles providing a rather romantic glow, catching on Brian’s pretty ringlet curls and dancing in his eyes, plus the wine, and now, the static-y music coming in over a battery-powered radio, this atmosphere was a lot cosier than you had expected.

Brian furrowed his brow at your noise of amusement. “What..?”

“Are we on a date right now?”

With a glance about the room, with its overstuffed cushions and stitched drapes, the two of you eating a meal by candlelight, Brian laughed too.

“It would seem that way.”

He raised his glass to you, and you would have been lying if you’d said that the gesture and his words hadn’t made your heart skip a beat.

You ate in silence for a few moments, until Brian spoke again.

“Would you mind awfully if we were?

The question startled you a little, and you swallowed your wine carefully.

“No,” you said honestly.

A small smile graced his mouth, before his eyes dropped to his lap. “Good,” he said softly. “Because I always meant to ask you out.”

You blurted, “Did you really?”

He smiled fully now. “Yeah. But I’ve always been so damn shy.”

You were the one to raise your glass this time. “Well, here we are now. And you’re not getting rid of me. At least until tomorrow.”

He laughed gently in response, and you thought of how lovely and warm the sound was.

If only you were as warm as that laugh. The rain that had soaked your clothes was beginning to take its toll on you.

You finished dinner in silence, and Brian cleared the plates in silence too.

He came back after washing the dishes, just in time to see you shiver.

“Oh, yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Extra blankets.”

He fetched them, but then looked down at the bundle in dismay. It was very little; you could both see that.

You watched him close his eyes briefly in the wash of candlelight, saw him grit his teeth. You waited with bated breath for what he was going to say.

“It gets really cold here at night.”

This you already knew, from your experiences at your own flat.

“Yeah.”

“And it’ll get even colder now that we’ve lost all form of central heating… Forgive me if this is entirely over the line...” he sighed, and opened his eyes, watching you with a cautiousness that betrayed nerves. “But it might be best if I sleep here, near you. Body heat, and all that.”

“Oh,” you said, blushing slightly. Stupid blush. “Yes, that’s probably a— uh— good idea.”

“Right. Um. Bathroom’s down the hall, if you wanted to chan— oh. Well. Hang on. I’ll get you a jumper or something to change into.”

Your blush only deepened, knowing that you would be wearing his clothes.

You couldn’t look at him when you took the dry, clean clothes he handed you, and hurried to change in the bathroom, before returning to the makeshift bed now established on the floor of Brian’s living room.

He brushed past you to use the bathroom himself.

You slid under the duvet laid out, and shifted the pillow beneath your head, making yourself comfortable.

Brian returned, and began extinguishing the candles around the room.

Finally, a soft shuffling sound announced that he had laid down beside you, and you released a breath of relief, knowing you could soon go to sleep and forget the awkwardness you were so adept at in your conscious state.

But then you noticed that Brian, in his flannel pyjama trousers and t-shirt, was going to sleep with only a single blanket pulled over him; he’d let you have the duvet without a word.

You weren’t about to let him freeze to death on his own living room floor.

With a courage you knew not from where, you rolled over to face Brian. Or rather, Brian’s back. He was turned away from you. He probably thought you’d already gone to sleep.

You laid your hand gently on his shoulder, and he turned slowly.

“Hey,” you murmured, as his eyes met yours. “Sleepover?” You offered the duvet, a gift of peaceable intentions.

He smiled softly, and accepted with grace. But it was a stretch, with how far he lay from you.

“Oh, come here,” you said, and draped your arm over his lithe waist, drawing him closer to you. A little wine-tipsy and a little tired, a little cold, a little lonely, you nestled your cheek against his chest, your hands against warm skin beneath thin fabric.

Slowly, his arms wrapped around you too, and you breathed a soft sigh against his skin.

“Is this alright?” he asked carefully.

In silent response, you lifted your head, and kissed his pretty lips.

He reciprocated almost immediately, his kiss sleepy but tender, and you pecked his mouth gently once more. Then you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, and touched the skin there with another caress of your lips.

“Tomorrow,” you whispered, and he ghosted a kiss upon your temple.

“I can wait for tomorrow,” he said.

And soon you both drifted off, you in warmth and contentment, and Brian dreaming of you.

#s&t celebrate #tina's writing #brian may x reader #fic

94 notes · View notes

holyguardian · 3 years

Note

♡ 👀👀

MEME → Ship meme.

Who is the most affectionate? Hhhhh. Aerith! She's more openly affectionate, though Vergil in all his time knowing her has been incredibly soft which I don't think even he realises. He holds a lot of people to a certain standard... and then there's Aerith, getting away with so much stuff, he has a limit of course but she can greatly overstep the line and barely get chastised.

Who initiates the handholding? Aerith does. If Vergil reaches out to hold her hand it's the kinder version of a leash to keep her close and out of fucking trouble swear on Sparda.

Who worries more for the other? 8D aha. Vergil does, naturally. He isn't so much a 'worrier', it's not in his nature, and while he does attempt to place his trust in Aerith to not be reckless and live her second-chance at life like she is mortal... HE FUCKING WORRIES. He made a mistake taking on a role as her protector because this woman is either running headfirst into danger or she's tripping into it.

Who is more likely to ask for help? On the bright side, Aerith clearly knows when to ask for help. Had she not she honestly wouldn't have survived this long. It's extremely rare and a privilege for Vergil to ever ask for anything.

Who is the one always losing the keys? Aerith is. Guarantee she's been locked out of Devil May Cry before and he's found her curled up like some sad lump sitting on the steps outside because no one was there to let her in AND she locked the keys for her truck inside said truck along with her phone so she just had to wait.

Who leaves little love notes for the other? This one is difficult! Vergil reads quite a lot of classical literature and he's definitely well-learned in classical dances like the waltz which does make me believe he has quite the potential for romantic gestures, though in the same breath he doesn't have time to waste on anything frivolous. You can fight me on this one, but I think it's Aerith whose the one writing the love notes and Vergil is occasionally guiding her into a slow dance around the kitchen / shop / their rooms.

Who can’t sleep unless the other is there? Squints into another realm. I feel it in my BONES that I have answered this. In fact, I think I did, in a random headcanons prompt. It's Vergil. He's more at ease hearing her footsteps pacing around at night because it means she's inside and safe, it's when he hears the chime of the shop door that sleep is truly lost on him because he hates 1. how she walks outside at night and 2. not knowing where she has gone.

Who is more likely to propose to the other? Vergil is. This is another case of Aerith could happily live out her life with him and never be concerned about marriage, the piece of paper means little and the strength of their relationship is far more important. Though the thought of him stressed because in battle he lost the ring she gave him is chef's kiss because it would show how much he cares about their bond.

Who introduced the other to their family first? ... well. Vergil, surprisingly, and that's because she doesn't have a family anymore. This feels like a question where it should be Aerith who wins considering how guarded he can be but they get no choice here.

Who is more likely to play with the other’s hair? How many questions in a row am I going to answer Vergil, go! He's starting to open up to her more and I can honestly see him with a book in one hand and his other tangled in her curls and winding them around his finger etc etc.

Who makes sure the other has meals/stays hydrated? 8D Vergil does. He even goes out of his way to shop at the farmers market for fresh produce, and while he has suckered Aerith into contributing more when it comes to cooking meals for the collective DMC family, he still takes on the larger portion of that work in an effort to keep everyone healthy and reduce the sheer amount of pizza intake.

Who is more likely to stand up to anyone for the other? No, you know what, I'm stealing this one. He may be her protector but just watch Aerith launch to his defense. Sure, he doesn't need it, he could silence most people with a mere look and yet the small pink-clad thorn in his side will leap to tear shreds into anyone speaking badly about him.

Who is the most likely to prepare a surprise for the other? ... Aerith? Massive question mark on this one. Vergil feels like the kind of man who will come home with a gift because he saw something and thought of her in that moment, whereas Aerith would want to really impress him. He's impressed when she can do the dishes and not almost wrap her hand around the kitchen knives, but SHE thinks he has extremely high standards. He speaks well, dresses well, all of his hobbies are ✨fancy✨ so she will very carefully prepare surprises for him because she wants it to actually mean something.

Who makes the other pinky promise not to do certain things? Aerith. Can you imagine Vergil initiating a pinky promise? She would think he was teasing her or that she had just discovered a malfunctioning clone of his. Hell, she would try to make him pinky promise something and have to FORCE her pinky on his because he wouldn't be having any of it.

Who puts a blanket over the other when they fall asleep on the couch? Awww. This time it's Vergil. Cannot imagine he often falls asleep anywhere but his own space, and the couch is in a very common area. Aerith, the rare times she drifts off like that, is either very exhausted from working or she's unwell, which adds more sweetness to the gesture of covering her with a blanket.

#lostsonofsparda #answered #verse; devil may cry (soul bound)#the first and the last (lostsonofsparda).#massive AWWWWWW #their love is Vergil slowly losing his mind but Aerith making him soft #he probably says he hates it but he'd hate it more being alone

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miazeklos · 3 years

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I have no problem with (American) celebrities talking about politics, mostly because I don't think it's my place to tell anyone what they should talk about. What I take issue with is the condescending tone some liberal celebrities use when talking about voters from the other side. And the reason for that is, they don't know what they're talking about. A celebrity who is worth millions can't understand what a single mother who lives in a trailer park is going through. Or what a 20-year-old going to community college is going through. So why do celebrities get on TV and start shaming those who voted differently from them? Most of the time it doesn't even matter since the problems of us normies don't affect them. And the proof of that is that they've been travelling like crazy during this pandemic while we're supposed to feel ashamed for wanting to go see grandma after almost a year. This shaming of conservative/republican voters by celebrities like Chris Evans, Pedro Pascal, Elliot (previously Ellen) Page and so on needs to stop.

(Warning in advance: this kind of struck my blue collar nerve, so apologies for the essay you got as a result. TLDR is you’re right and you should say it, and this is a damaging stereotype that has grown particularly dangerous during the pandemic.)

100% agree. And this is universal internationally, imo, or at least in North America/Europe, from what I’ve seen - even if places outside of the USA aren’t quite as divided politically, the pandemic and everything to go with it has just elevated the tension everywhere. People in general are going to vote for the person that promises them the slightest bit of relief of the absolute nightmare that the last year had been and shaming them for that is definitely a case of misplaced self-righteousness.

One thing that really has been making me increasingly irritated about this is the ‘wEaR a MaSk’ celebrity gang (coincidentally almost always the same people who cried in their mansions about how bored they were and decided to encourage people by singing Imagine of all things - no, I haven’t forgotten) when the majority of people didn’t actually protest masks - they protested lockdowns, when they stretched out for months and it was clear that governments would offer no relief to small business owners. At this point, ‘conservative’ and ‘anti-mask’ had become somewhat of a synonym, and everyone seemed to forget that it was barely about the masks to begin with.

I’m bringing this up because it was exactly the condescension that you’re talking about being displayed from everywhere when people started getting angry. 'Just stay home, how bad can it be’, ‘don’t be selfish’, ‘wear your mask, that’s all that’s asked of you’ became the main leading point of liberalism and it was extensively successful in reducing people’s very genuine fears to some petty protesting over masks. Not saying that didn’t happen - there were definitely people flat out refusing to wear those - but it was never about the masks. What about the people who would not have a home to stay in by the end of the month when the last salary they’d had before being sent on who knows how long unpaid leave ran out? If the preventive measures had been limited to wearing masks and standing 2m away from each other, we would be in a better place as a species than we currently are.

And this isn’t even coming only from proper-rich people (last week I saw a tweet that went along the lines of, ‘I haven’t been living in fear, I’ve been staying in the comfort of my own home for months’ and I swear I nearly saw red because it’s just! good for you! last march I had to open a ko-fi page because my salary wouldn’t come in and I had to scrap together food for three people out of spare change while the multibillion dollar company I worked for decided whether they’d deign us with money we’d worked for during a pandemic! glad you’re having a good time, though!) but it’s even worse specifically from them. I distinctly remember Katherine McNamara’s whole ‘teehee just stay home I know it’s boring but you can do it’ shtick, occasionally interrupted by her taking photos on yachts and the realisation that I couldn’t stand it a moment longer before I unfollowed her, and that was so prevalent when it came to - largely liberal - celebrities that I can see why it straight up radicalised a lot of people.

Obviously all politicians lie for their own gain. I’m not saying that the conservative ones were in any way better than their liberal counterparts, but they have rarely been much worse, internationally speaking. And let me tell you - when you don’t know if you’re going to eat tomorrow, when you’re not sure if you’ll even have a job next month because of the measures tightening further, when you’re looking for literally any port in a storm, you’re going to latch on to the people who offer the way out.

Open up [insert country here] in the name of freedom resonated with people because it meant getting their jobs and their security and, again, in some much harsher cases, their homes, back. A family-owned business going under knocks your entire life off-balance - trust me, I would know, because it happened to my family. It was two years ago, nothing to do with covid, but it was largely due to much bigger chain stores in the vicinity. This happens constantly to people all over the world because while small businesses were closed and fined to hell and back for daring to open up shop, the Walmarts and Lidls and Tescos and Billas of the world profited off of people’s desperation for goods that, at the beginning of the pandemic and the delays in international transports, were scarce. The regional managers at my workplace (it was H&M, I’m no longer under contract so I don’t give a shit) fought tooth and nail to open every street location store (such as the one I worked in) while small clothing shops stayed closed for at least two more months, or were open under severe restrictions about how many people could come in at a time, which, obviously, affected them tremendously.

About two weeks ago, a friend told me about a bakery near his place that he really loves. Everyone loved it - up to and including the kids in the nearby school, who would come in during recess - and understandably, people were worried when all sorts of eating-related places were closed, because this was a family business and the family’s only income. Eventually, the schools opened for a bit last year and so did restaurants, but the bakery didn’t, so my friend called the owner to check up on them and the woman just burst into tears on the other side of the line and told him that they hadn’t made it. He asked her if there was still a chance they’d pull through - with a loan or something, at first - and she told him, ‘No, we’re in too deep.’

I barely remember being as angry as I was then. That’s one entire family’s livelihood, destroyed. In this country alone, she’s one of thousands. Worldwide, she’s one of millions. And, just... I’ve been poor all my life. I feel no shame in saying that. For my entire childhood, everything we had or didn’t have depended on how much money my parents’s shop had made on any given day. I started working as soon as I could; I put myself through university. I’ve struggled all the way through. I still struggle now, every month, whenever bills come into the equation, but we manage. We were one of the lucky ones. Stories of people who weren’t are countless, and they break my heart. The notion of some dumbass celebrity talking about how frivolous and ridiculous and uninformed it is to want to open up countries just because it’s mainly conservative politicians tooting that horn fills me with a rare amount of rage.

So, yeah. Elections are coming in my country. Both parliamentary and presidential. And this year I don’t feel like voting for anyone conservative or liberal; I’m just going to vote for whoever either gives people money or allows them to work for it. It feels like at this point, we’ve all been boiled down to that.

#asks #politics #lots of it #again apologies #this has been building up for almost a year now #Anonymous

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shatouto · 3 years

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🖊 ✨ 💻 for the asks?? 💜💜💜

(💻 answered here!)

🖊 Post a snippet from a current WIP.

ohohoho

Obi-Wan carries him on their little trip back from the refresher as well. Their skin still soft and steaming from the hot-water shower, they have barely tucked themselves into bed when something pings from the bedside table. Anakin groans and turns his face down into the pillow. Obi-Wan ruffles his hair before sitting up, reaching for it.

“What is it, Master?”

“It seems we’ve been assigned a new mission,” Obi-Wan says, sitting up slowly. Anakin looks up to see his brows furrowing, his face illuminated by pale cyan light. His thumb taps at the screen, scrolling up.

“Did we…” Anakin blinks, his chest shaking with the beginning of held back laughter. “Did we just miss a comm call from the Council?”

“Several,” Obi-Wan says, huffing, his ears dyed a sheepish pink at the tip.

✨ Choose three adjectives to compliment your own writing.

oh noooo i’m bad at this i’m bad at this

okay ughndflks i’ll go for what i AIM FOR for my writing to be, not what i think it already is (yes i’m cheating)

vivid. i try my best to get into not just the pov character’s mind but also their body. i really like describing the nitty gritty details like how cold your fingers suddenly feel against your clammy palm as you slowly close your hand into a trembling fist (instead of saying you’re shocked) or the sound of your incisors grinding together and the feverish heat that spreads from behind your eyes to your face to your neck (instead of saying you’re angry), etc. which is probably also ‘evocative’, i guess? idk i’m just very into show don’t tell lmao

lyrical. i do pay a lot of attention to cadence and melody in writing. it’s just something i naturally do because my native language (viet) is tonal. sometimes i care more about the flow and the pretty words and the alliteration than the grammar or lexicon, and then i just roll with it lmao. i do read a little bit of poetry, but i’m in no way a poet, so i just try to incorporate what little poetics i have into my prose.

deliberate. i try to be, like, mindful, of what i write. of course there will always be stuff that readers point out that makes me go “:000c !!!!!!” but all in all i want to know what i’m doing basically hahahaha. so i try to fine-tune my word choice (no five dollar words here, no frivolous use of the thesaurus either!) and limit my use of imagery and literary device (i’m working on reducing the use of repetition haha it’s such an easy technique tho), etc.

#ask game

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yinses · 4 years

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sweetie,can I request mori nsfw scenario with kinks 👉🏻👈🏻 pls include daddy kink 🥺🥺

ofc i can. never knew i needed daddy!mori in my life yet here we are. i probably wrote this 5 times ?? before i was happy with it?

“mori~”

expectedly, your simpering whine went ignored much like the few prior you had tried to gain attention with. slouched lazily in the study chair which had been dragged away from the bookshelf, you had adamantly made your boredom known. and understanding your phlight, but unwilling to offer a reprieve, the doctor-turned-mafia boss had managed to ignore you for the better part of the last hour. but you could tell your insistence was waning his patience.

“daddyyy~”

unable to neglect the obvious bribe the man reluctantly shifted his gaze to the expecting cheshire smile.

“yes, princess?”

stretching your leg over the arm of the chair, your head fell back against its opposite in a dramatic display of vexation.

“i’m bored.”

there was a quiet pause, before he responded with a sigh.

“i’m aware but i told you i wouldn’t be able to entertain you much this afternoon. yet you insisted on coming.”

it was because you had expected him to cave by now. but your tolerance had only degraded further the longer you waited for him to crack and offer to take you into the city. the two of you shared a mutual joy of purchasing things- well, mori bought them for you and you showed them all with all the gratitude you could muster.

the time spent shopping was therapeutic. it offered him the opportunity to escape the stressor of his occupation and in turn he was able to indulge the frivolous lifestyle you’d become accustomed to.

“ honestly, this can be such a tiring position. i almost regret taking it.”

“didn’t you kill for it? that seems like it would be something to regret more.”

sharp eyes return to your mouth where you finished off another pastry-possibly out of boredom likely out of spite. lunch had rolled around within the hour and you hadn’t missed the opportunity to have a tray of treats brought in. he’d been to busy with work to take notice, but now he realized you hadn’t cared anyway, already eating your way through what should have been his share.

you had been in his office all day, in some sort of fashion, a privilege he granted earnestly as long as you maintained your place. he agreed that you belonged at his side, but that didn’t mean you were his right. which often meant keeping your nose out of sensitive business and your opinions to yourself in the admist of varying members of the mafia.

he knew you listened though. whether you were interacting with elise or entertaining yourself curled up by the bookshelf, you always had an ear towards the main act in the room. as a leader of a nefarious organization with critical information, he should be concerned but you both knew of the consequences should you be too free willing with such confidential matters.

at this stage in your union, you weren’t sure if he would kill you over the matter. but you knew he wouldn’t be above stripping your rights and estrange your connections to the outside world.

even now, as his gaze continued to peel back your layers with each calculated consideration, you wondered if he had a private secluded room just waiting for you to slip up. at the flick of your tongue wetting your lips, his attention snapped instinctively to the distraction. it was when your lips curled into a knowing smile that his eyes lifted.

“why don’t you come over here?” his command was detailed with additional instructions as he moved his chair far back enough to reveal his lap in invitation. you obeyed without question. his dark gaze following your form as you skipped around the furniture, the dress purchased sliding effortlessly across your thighs before it flared out as your bottom settled on his thigh.

unaware, or likely simply ignoring the pinch of his brow, you snuck a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “you’re so tense. you should take a break and play with me a bit, it will be good for your health,” you coo.

mori doesn’t miss how your thighs part with provocation. he takes the bait without thought, the smooth linen of his gloves gliding across you skin without friction. with his other hand, he tangles his fingers in your hair to tilt your face to him. the kiss he delivers is chaste. intentionally short so that you give chase.

pouting, you manage to nimble at his lower lip before he’s out of reach. “daddy.”

you go to say more, but find yourself distracted by the finger that had snuck under your clothing, stroking your core. it curled and hinged at the cut of your panties, drawing them aside to allow the pad of his thumb to smear the pooling wetness. your mouth falls open, mouthing wordless against his neck as you resist the urge to rock into the ministrations.

as if taking note and offering a reward, a single gloved finger slides into your aperture. the contrasting dry fabric in dichotomy with your sopping cunt provides a different adhesion than the innocent touch at your thigh.

“an obstinate little thing like you surely doesn’t deserve this.” yet despite your tinge of fear, he doesn’t stop. instead a second joins the first, until you’re stuffed on his soiled gloves. breathing heavily against his neck, you offer an apologetic kiss to his cheek.

“i only want to help, daddy.”

the hum he makes is noncommittal as his fingers continue to idly move in and out of you. its just enough to ignite your desire but not as you need to teeter the end. it takes all your self restraint not to huff.

the hold on your hair goes slack, but the prompt of your whimper comes from him removing his fingers. the loss of him is as infuriating as it is intoxicating but you still your tongue. mori’s eyes soak in the warmth flooding your cheeks and he laughs outright.

“come on then, up.” he enunciates the command with a tap to your skin and you do so with pursed lips. you want nothing more than to take initiative and remove the fabric clinging uncomfortable to your cunt but ignore the discomfort .

“i’ve decided that i’ll fuck you over the desk.”

something chilling flashes in his gaze as you squirm eagerly at the proposition, wondering if you’ll feel the wood kiss your front or back. this was of course all for his sake, so either would be fine for you.

“but you wont come from it.”

he’s laughing now, deep and rich as the octaves kindle your fire. there’s something sadistic in the tilt of his grin as he coos back,” you wanted to help me, right? is this not all about me?”

the grit of your teeth clenched together make it impossible for you to answer further than a nod. rather than scold you for withholding a verbal response. his body slides against you as he stands, hand already working at his buckle and freeing his cock.

“on your back then. don’t keep daddy waiting.”

despite knowing the outcome, your thighs to tremble with trepidation as you ease yourself back against the desk. balanced at your elbows, you leave your legs to hang at the backs of your knee. before you can spread your legs to properly accommodate him, he’s taking the task from you, drawing one leg over his hip as he coats his cock against your dripping cunt then pushing in.

he’s still soft around the edges as he drives through your slick passage, but that quickly changes as he adapts to a pace of his liking. his hold is purposeful, bracing your hips still when you try to shift to an angle that doesn’t bring him in contact with sensitive nub on every thrust. but mori knows you inside and out without relying on one patch of nerves to draw you out.

he goes to the hilt with each drive, grounding against your clit. “i should stuff my gloves down your throat. they’re ruined anyway. but you’d like that too much wouldn’t you? i don’t want to make this too hard for you.”

the condescension in his words are thick, the viscosity sticking to you rather than rolling off. words are reduced to fragile gasps, broken apart by his thrusts. “no, daddy. i want you to hear me. it’s all for you.”

if he’s pleased with your answer he doesn’t vocalize it, but his actions speak for his libido as it skyrockets. his nails plant half-moon crescents into your skin as he fucks you senseless. mori wasn’t overly thick, but he made up for it with curve and length, each variable a promising invitation to tear an orgasm out of you.

mori doesn’t speak, but his pace challenges you-dares you to slip up and disobey. every sharp jab and twist coaxes your sensitive nerves to betray you. quickly, you worked against his efforts, mewls and strangled speech spilling from your lips. mori was as easily swayed by your stubbornness as he was by your ability to submit willingly. begging was your ultimate trap in loosening his own control as he suddenly pulled out of you and dropped his grip in favor of his cock.

his stokes were short as he angled his release onto you, a free hand drawing up your dress to give him more room to spill onto your stomach and breasts. he watched as you moved obediently without prompt, fingers sliding through his cum. collected on your fingertips, you drew them into your mouth, humming thankfully as you held his gaze.

mori fell back into his chair heavily, basking in his after glow and the site of you cleaning yourself up. “i’ve trained such a dirty girl, haven’t i?’’ he coos.

you wait for him to zip himself up and straighten his appearance, but he doesn’t. the command for you to remove yourself from his workspace doesn't either. instead, you hear the scrapping of the chair as it slides against the floor, drawing mori under its hidden depths.

“i think you make a fine center piece, darling. why doesn’t you lay there for a moment and catch your breath while i finish up. then we’ll see about some proper playtime.”

#mori ougai x reader #mori ougai imagine #mori sins #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs

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