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thesublemon · 1 day

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best picture

For the first time in a long time, I watched all of the movies nominated for Best Picture at the Oscars this year. Partly on a whim, partly for a piece I’ve been working on for a while about what is going wrong in contemporary artmarking. I cannot say that the experience made me feel any better or worse about contemporary movies than I already felt, which was pretty bad. But sometimes to write about a hot stove, you gotta put your hand on one. So. The nominees for coldest stove are:

Poor Things. Did not like enough to finish. I always want to like something that is making an effort at originality, strangeness, or style. Unfortunately, the execution of those things in this movie felt somehow dull and thin. Hard to explain how. Maybe the movie’s motif of things mashed together (baby-woman, duck-dog, etc) is representative. People have been mashing things together since griffins, medleys, Avatar the Last Airbender’s animals, Nickelodeon’s Catdog, etc. Thing + thing is elementary-level weird. And while there’s nothing wrong with a simple, or well-worn premise, there is a greater burden on an artist to do something interesting with it, if they go that route. And Poor Things does not. Its themes are obvious and belabored (the difficulty of self-actualization in a world that violently infantilizes you) and do not elevate the premise. There’s a fine line between the archetypal and the hackish, and this movie falls on the wrong side of it. It made me miss Crimes of the Future (2022), a recent Cronenberg that was authentically original and strange, with the execution to match.

Anatomy of a Fall. Solid, but not stunning. The baseline level of what a ‘good’ movie should be. It was written coherently and economically, despite its length. It told a story that drew you along. I wanted to know what happened, which is the least you can ask from storytelling. It had some compelling scenes that required a command of character and drama to write—particularly the big argument scene. The cinematography was not interesting, but it was not annoying either. It did its job. This was not, however, a transcendent movie.

Oppenheimer. Did not like enough to finish. But later forced myself to, just so no one could accuse me of not knowing what I was talking about when I said I disliked it. I felt like I was being pranked. The Marvel idea of what a prestige biopic should be. Like Poor Things, it telegraphed its artsiness and themes and has raked in accolades for its trouble. But obviousness is not the same as goodness and this movie is not good. The imagery is painfully literal. A character mentions something? Cut to a shot of it! No irony or nuance added by such images—just the artistry of a book report. The dialogue pathologically tells instead of shows. It constantly, cutely references things you might have heard of, the kind of desperate audience fellation you see in soulless franchise movies. Which is a particularly jarring choice given the movie’s subject matter. ‘Why didn’t you get Einstein for the Manhattan project’ Strauss asks, as if he’s saying ‘Why didn’t you get Superman for the Avengers?’ If any of this referentiality was an attempt to say something about mythologization, it failed—badly. The movie is stuffed with famous and talented actors, but it might as well not have been, given how fake every word out of their mouths sounded. Every scene felt like it had been written to sound good in a trailer, rather than to tell a damn story. All climax and no cattle.

Barbie. Did not like enough to finish. It had slightly more solidity in its execution than I was afraid it would have, so I will give it that. If people want this to be their entertainment I will let them have it. But if they want this to be their high cinema I will have to kill myself. Barbie being on this list reminds me of the midcentury decades of annual movie musical nominations for Best Picture. Sometimes deservingly. Other times, less so. The Music Man is great, but it’s not better than 8 1/2 or The Great Escape, neither of which were nominated in 1963. Musicals tend to appeal to more popular emotions, which ticket-buyers and award-givers tend to like, and critics tend to dislike. I remember how much Pauline Kael and Joan Didion hated The Sound of Music (which won in 1966), and have to ask myself if in twenty years I’ll think of my reaction to Barbie the same way that I think of those reviews: justified, but perhaps beside the point of other merits. Thing is. Say what you want about musicals, but that genre was alive back then. It was vital. Bursting with creativity. For all Kael’s bile, even she acknowledged that The Sound of Music was “well done for what it is.” [1] Contemporary cinema lacks such vitality, and Barbie is laden with symptoms of the malaise. It repeatedly falls back on references to past aesthetic successes (2001: A Space Odyssey, Singin’ in the Rain, etc) in order to have aesthetic heft. It has a car commercial in the middle. It’s about a toy from 60 years ago and politics from 10 years ago. It tries to wring some energy and meaning from all of that but not enough to cover the stench of death. I’d prefer an old musical any day.

American Fiction. Was okay. It tried to be clever about politics, but ended up being clomping about politics. At the end of the day, it just wasn’t any more interesting than any other ‘intellectual has a mid-life crisis’ story, even with the ‘twist’ of it being from a black American perspective. Even with it being somewhat self-aware of this. But it could have been a worse mid-life crisis story. The cinematography was terrible. It was shot like a sitcom. Much of the dialogue was sitcom-y too. I liked the soundtrack, what I could hear of it. The attempts at style and meta (the characters coming to life, the multiple endings) felt underdeveloped. Mostly because they were only used a couple times. In all, it felt like a first draft of a potentially more interesting movie.

The Zone of Interest.Wanted to like it more than I did. Unfortunately, you get the point within about five minutes. If you’ve seen the promotional image of the people in the garden, backgrounded by the walls of Auschwitz, then you’ve already seen the movie. Which means that all the rest of the movie ends up feeling like pretentious excess instead of moving elaboration. It seemed very aware of itself as an Important Movie and rested on those laurels, cinematically speaking, in a frustrating way. It reminded me of video art. I felt like I had stepped through a black velvet drape into the side room of a gallery, wondering at what point the video started over. And video art has its place, but it is a different medium. Moreover video art at its best, like a movie at its best, takes only the time it needs to say what it needs to say.

Past Lives. I’m a human being, and I respond to romance. I appreciate the pathos of sweet yearning and missed chances. And I understand how the romance in this movie is a synecdoche for ambivalent feelings about many kinds of life choices, particularly the choice to be an immigrant and choose one culture over another. The immigrant experience framing literalizes the way any choice can make one foreign to a past version of oneself, or the people one used to know, even if in another sense one is still the same person. So, I appreciate the emotional core of what (I believe) this movie was going for, and do think it succeeded in some respects. And yet…I was very irritated by most of its artistic choices. I found the three principal characters bland and therefore difficult to care about, sketched with only basic traits besides things like Striving and Being In Love. Why care who they’d be in another life if they have no personalities in this one? It’s fine to make characters symbols instead of humans if the symbolic tapestry of a movie is interesting and rich, but the symbolic tapestry of this movie was quite simple and straightforward. Not that that last sentence even matters much, since the movie clearly wanted you to feel for the characters as human beings, not just symbols. Visually, the cinematography was dull and diffuse, with composition that was either boring or as subtle as a hammer to the head.

Maestro. Did not like enough to finish. Something strange and wrong about this movie. It attempts to perform aesthetic mimicry with impressive precision—age makeup, accents, period cinematography—but this does not make the movie a better movie. At most it creates spectacle, at worst it creates uncanny valleys. It puts one on the lookout for irregularities, instead of allowing one to disappear into whatever the movie is doing. Something amateurishly pretentious in the execution. And not in the fun, respectable way, like a good student film. (My go-to example for a movie that has an art-school vibe in a pleasant way is The Reflecting Skin). There’s something desperate about it instead. It has the same disease as Oppenheimer, of attempting to do a biopic in a ‘stylish’ way without working on the basics first. Fat Man and Little Boy is a less overtly stylish rendition of the same subject as Oppenheimer, but far more cinematically successful to me, because it understands those basics. I would prefer to see the Fat Man and Little Boy of Leonard Bernstein’s life unless a filmmaker proves that they can do something with style beyond mimicry and flash.

The Holdovers. Did not like enough to finish. It tries to be vintage, but outside of a few moments, it does not succeed either at capturing what was good about the aesthetic it references, or at using the aesthetic in some other interesting way. The cinematography apes the tropes of movies and TV from the story’s time period, but doesn't have interesting composition in its own right. It lacks the solidity that comes from original seeing. (Contrast with something like Planet Terror, in which joyous pastiche complements the original elements.) The acting is badly directed. Too much actorliness is permitted. Much fakeness in general between the acting, writing, and visual language. If a movie with this same premise was made in the UK in the 60’s or 70's it would probably be good. As-is the movie just serves to make me sad that the ability to make such movies is apparently lost and can only be hollowly gestured at. That said, the woman who won best supporting actress did a good job. She was the only one who seemed to be actually acting.

Killers of the Flower Moon. The only possible winner. It is not my favorite of Scorsese’s movies, but compared to the rest of the lineup it wins simply by virtue of being a movie at all. How to define ‘being a movie’? Lots of things I could say that Killers of the Flower Moon has and does would also be superficially true of other movies in this cohort. Things like: it tells a story, with developed characters who drive that story. Or: it uses its medium (visuals, sound) to support its story and its themes. The difference comes down to richness, specificity, control, and a je ne sais quois that is beyond me to describe at the moment. Compare the way Killers of the Flower Moon uses a bygone cinematic style (the silent movie) to the way that Maestro and The Holdovers do. Killers of the Flower Moon uses a newsreel in its opening briefly and specifically. The sequence sets the scene historically, and gives you the necessary background with the added panache of confident cuts and music. It’s useful to the story and it’s satisfying to watch. Basics. But the movie doesn’t limit itself to that, because it’s a good movie. The sequence also sets up ideas that will be continuously developed over the course of the movie.* And here’s the kicker—the movie doesn’t linger on this sequence. You get the idea, and it moves on to even more ideas. Also compare this kind of ideating to American Fiction’s. When I said that American Fiction’s moments of style felt underdeveloped, I was thinking of movies like Killers of the Flower Moon, which weave and evolve their stylistic ideas throughout the entire runtime.

*(Visually, it places the Osage within a historical medium that the audience probably does not associate with Native Americans, or the Osage in particular. Which has a couple of different effects. First, it acts as a continuation of the gushing oil from the previous scene. It’s an interruption. A false promise. Seeming belonging and power, but framed all the while by a foreign culture. Meanwhile potentially from the perspective of that culture, it’s an intrusion on ‘their’ medium. And of course, this promise quickly decays into tragedy and death. The energy of the sequence isn’t just for its own sake—it sets up a contrast. But on a second, meta level it establishes the movie’s complicated relationship to media and storytelling. Newsreels, photos, myths, histories, police interviews, and a radio play all occur over the course of the movie. And there’s the movie Killers of the Flower Moon itself. Other people’s frames are contrasted with Mollie’s narration. There’s a repeated tension between communication as a method of knowing others and a method of controlling them—or the narrative of them—which plays out in both history and personal relationships.)

Or here’s another example: When Mollie and Ernest meet and he drives her home for the first time, we see their conversation via the car’s rearview mirrors. This is a bit of cinematic language that has its origins in mystery and paranoia. You see it in things like Hitchcock or The X-Files or film noir. By framing the scene with this convention, the movie turns what is superficially a romantic meet-cute (to quote a friend) into something bubbling with uneasiness and dread. This is not nostalgia—this is just using visuals to create effects. It doesn’t matter if you’ve seen anything that uses the convention before, although knowing the pedigree might add to your enjoyment. The watchfulness suggested by the mirrors and Ernest’s cut-off face will still add an ominous effect. It works for the same reason it works in those other things. Like the newsreel, it is a specific and concise stylistic choice, and it results in a scene that is doing more than just one thing.

In general, the common thread I noticed as I watched these nominees, was the tendency to have the ‘idea’ of theme or style, and then stop there. It’s not that the movies had nothing in them. There were ideas, there was use of the medium, there was meaning to extract. There were lots of individually good moments. But they tended to feel singular, or repetitive, or tacked on. Meanwhile contemporary viewers are apparently so impressed by the mere existence of theme or style, that being able to identify it in a movie is enough to convince many that the movie is also good at those things. The problem with this tendency—in both artists and audiences—is that theme and style are not actually some extra, remarkable, inherently rarifying property of art. Theme emerges naturally from a story with any kind of coherence or perspective. And style emerges naturally from any kind of artistic attitude. They are as native as script, or narrative, or character. A movie’s theme and style might not be interesting, just like its story or dialogue might not be interesting, but if the movie is at all decent, they should exist. What makes a movie good or bad, then, is how it executes its component parts—including theme and style—in service of the whole. When theme is well-executed it is well-developed. Contemporary movies, unfortunately, seem to have confused ‘well-developed’ with ‘screamingly obvious.’ A theme does not become well-developed by repetition. It becomes well-developed by iterationand integration. Theme is like a melody. Simply repeating a single melody over and over does not result in the song becoming more interesting or entertaining. It becomes tedious. However, if you modify the melody each time you play it, or diverge from the melody and then return to it, that can get exciting. It results in different angles on the same idea, such that the idea becomes more complex over time, instead of simply louder.

Oppenheimer wasprobably the worst offender in this regard. Just repeat your water drops, crescendoing noise, or a line about ‘destroying the world’, and that’s the same as nuance, right? Split scenes into color and black and white and that’s the same as structure, right? That’s the same as actually conveying a difference between objectivity and interiority (or another dichotomy) via the drama or visual composition contained in the scenes, right? When I watched many of these movies, I kept thinking of a behind-the-scenes story from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The story goes that Joss Whedon was directing Sarah Michelle Gellar in some scene, and when the take was over he told her how great she was, and that he could see right where the music would come in. And Gellar replied that if he was thinking about the music, he clearly wasn’t getting enough from her acting alone. This conversation then supposedly informed Whedon’s approach to “The Body,” a depiction of the immediate aftermath of death that is considered one of the best episodes of television ever made, and which has no non-diegetic music whatsoever. Not to imply that music is necessarily a crutch, or to pretend that “The Body” is lacking in other forms of stylization (it is a very style-ish episode). But more to illustrate the way that it is easy to forget to make the most of all aspects of a medium, particularly the most fundamental ones, once one has gotten used to what a final product is supposed to feel like.

And that’s why most of these movies don’t feel like movies. They create the gestalt of a movie or a ‘cinematic’ moment—often literally through direct vintage imitation—without a sense of the first principles. Or demonstrating a sense of them, anyway. Who needs AI when the supposedly highest level of human filmmakers are already cannibalistically cargo-culting the medium just fine.

[1] “The Sound of Money (The Sound of Music and The Singing Nun).” The Pauline Kael Reader. (This book contains the full text of the original review, rather than the abbreviated review that I linked earlier.)

#posts: art #movies #am rusty at blogging and don't have all the virtuous nuance i would like in this but we will go with it

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siena-sevenwits · 1 year

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#Maybe 84 Charing Cross Road had too strong an effect on me. As I turn my head this way and that #trying to figure out what I shall do with myself when the semester is over and ties are cut with the school I've been teaching for this pas #decade #it occurs to me that I might go - hat in hand as it were - to the old bookseller who runs my favourite used bookstore of all time.#The shop has the most wonderfully curated selection. The first time I walked in there #having been used to the used book section in value village #I almost had my breath taken away #I have to be careful not to go there too often because I am weak for spending money on books #but every Christmas I go and buy a ton as presents and usually something for myself #and I ask the owner if I can start a stack on his counter while I shop and he is always happy and comments on my finds as I bring them #He is kind and conversational on those occasions #My mom once struck up a long conversation with him when we were there together #and learned how he has owned that shop forty years or so and does not have an assistant because he's always managed on his own #And last night as I tried to fall asleep I got ridiculously ahead of myself and imagined the possibilities of employment there in #the detail of a novel without much regard for the probable realities - the realities that he has given no sign of wanting to hire and #having gone so far without an assistant probably doesn't want one #that there would be sides to the job which would likely be dreary #and that as with any job there would be all kinds of difficulties #BUT I often need these romantic imaginings to spur me on to take any kind of action. So - this might be silly - but I am thinking of doing #things the old fashioned way - of going round to the shop rather than emailing him - and asking if there is any chance that there might #be opportunities for work. It will likely all come to nothing and I'll keep looking #but I'll at least make a memory of having tried.

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dubiousdoctors · 1 year

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augh and bleagh and I should not have let my friends who are also my coworkers know my tumblr

#sometimes it is fine and cool and sometimes I need to say I Cannot Take It Anymore in front of.#literally anyone who does not also know these people in real life.#think that my difficulty is that a great part of my job is being A Little Clown for the people we're teaching which means Joke Armor Always #nothing can harm me if I've got my Joke Armor on. I'm a funny little man and I run this dance classroom!#but they are so heart-unprotected to any kind of difficulty and they Will get into a blameful tizzy about it and It Does Grate Upon Me #and hey! I've been there and it isn't fun! but please god learn some control! we're trying to teach people to hop in a circle here #I Personally am doing a great job at keeping it together e.g. not Snapping Right In Their Face About It All #this is a good experience because it confirms that I would be Terrible Parents but not a learning experience because I kinda knew that.#I'll be Fun Uncle one day though. zero use at dealing with Your Issues of This Nature but boy can I show you how to hop #come on future niblings we're going to listen to miriam makeba together and bounce around all silly!

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darkclouds-rainsounds · 1 year

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More of this

The first image was moreso supposed to depict a slightly pissed off Volo whose only tell that he's angry is the minute waver of his illusion, hence the ends of his hair being faded and the part that sticks out of his bun is wispy. Alas, I effectively failed in portraying that both in terms of expression and because I have little skill in drawing side-profiles. Also the first image is him topless because I don't really know how to draw clothing on a side profile and have barely enough knowledge of anatomy to go 'fuck it ┐( ˘_˘)┌'.

Second Image I tried to do what I failed in the first and I guess??? it turned out okay??

H.Zoroark!Volo aside, the first image is also just how I headcanon him to look in terms of body type and being more scarred.

#【𝙿 𝚁 𝙸 𝚂 𝙼】#i have difficulty fathoming how some ppl look at volo and not see him as muscular in some manner???#like‚ some ppl do draw him thin or w/ an average body type but it doesn't click that it also means they perceive him as not physically #strong. bc in so many medias a character is basically your average joe but is strong af so there's dissonance in my brain that carries #across several different kinds of media. it's only when i undoubtedly see someone portray him as not that strong i go ??????#to me‚ personally‚ i /cannot/ perceive him as anything other than muscular given 1. he lugs that heavy ass backpack around /everywhere/#sure‚ he may or may not have it always stocked with supplies since he we only ever see him /actually/ do his job once ever but every time #we see him he's carrying that thing that if it isn't filled with stock‚ is filled with supplies for himself and his growing team of pokemon #which i would think wouldn't exactly lead to a light weight. (+ there's the spooky plate which itself doesn't weigh that much but it's #still weight) 2. he travels all of hisui by foot at least most of the time. we see that there are carts(?) that the guild members can ride #in that are pulled by pokemon so they don't have to walk those long distances all the time. volo is a loner within the guild somewhat #he's usually seen doing his own thing and checking out ruins and other things of his interest and only halfheartedly attends to his job as #a merchant. in order for him to do that period he would have to act alone and travel of his own accord bc the guild certainly wouldn't #allow it. you can also explicitly see in his concept art of him in his arceus outfit that he has /really/ big thighs which‚ like‚ no duh #and 3. THIS IS /HISUI/. these are times still long in the past! it'd be a miracle for any adult to be scarless given how dangerous those #times were. and again i reiterate: volo travels mostly /on his own/ he at least a lot of the time has no one but himself and his pokemon #to defend him and at the time we meet him a he has but only a single baby togepi! i honestly just have the firm belief of gamefreak being #a coward. i wouldn't really think that if gaeric and fucking /irida/ didn't look like twigs despite living in a place that has constant sub #zero temperatures. WHERE IS THEIR FAT? WHY DO THEY LOOK LEAN? GAMEFREAK HAS SHOWN THAT THEY CAN MAKE FAT/BUFF CHARACTERS. WHAT HAPPENED #you: it's literally pokemon‚ my guy. me: ←struggles to have a suspension of disbelief bc i have a hard time comprehending things that don't #make sense #edit: first mention of stocked w/ supplies i meant selling stock not personal

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curawrites · 6 months

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Babysitter

Mike Schmidt x Fem! Babysitter! Reader

Warnings: porn with some plot, kind of pervy Mike, lewd fantasies, cursing, making out, making out, fingering, p in v sex, protected sex.

Note: I’ve just awoken from the worst writers block ever because of this man. I haven’t actually watched the movie tho. 💚

Mike stared intently at the fuzzy security screens. His vision blurred from how hard his eyes were focusing and darting from one screen to another.

He shuts his eyes for a second before reopening them, his vision now clear.

Fuck he hated this job.

He hated the long hours, hated having to work the night shifts, hated having to stare at the stupid screens for hours on end, hated being terrified every night by the stupid animatronics.

He wanted his shift to be over immediately.

When the clock hit 6am he lets out a sigh of relief. His shift was finally over. He got up from his seat and hastily grabbed his things before booking it to his car.

He’s never wanted to leave the dingy pizzeria more. All he could think about was getting home and passing out in his bed.

Abby would be fast asleep by now and you’d probably be passed out on the couch.

He was so thankful to have found such a wonderful babysitter. You clicked soo well with Abby and you put up with his ungodly work hours.

You’re amazing with Abby, always making sure she has fun when you’re over.

Wether it was making a fort in the living room and watching Disney movies together, or drawing all of your’s and Abby’s favourite characters, or baking cookies or even going out to the nearby park, Abby would always tell Mike how much fun she had.

You also have a particular knack in getting her to eat all of her dinner and getting her in bed.

Mike had no idea how you could do it and asked you how you did it. You weren’t exactly sure about how you get her to eat but you told him that to get her to bed on time you made sure to tuck her in with her favourite plushy before reading her a bedtime story and she was out like a light.

Unfortunately, your methods didn’t quite work when he tried them.

Mike wished he was more well off so he could pay you fairly, but he doubts that he could get you to accept any kind of payment.

He had payed you in the beginning, of course, but he got behind on his payments due to some financial difficulties. You eventually found this out and refused any sort of payment from then on.

He’s half convinced that you’re an angel sent from heaven. You’re so understanding towards his situation and after working for him for many months you became an essential person in his and Abby’s life.

It took Mike a long time to admit to himself that he had a strong attachment towards you and even longer to admit that he liked you.

He couldn’t deny or brush off his feelings when after one shift, he found himself thinking about how he couldn’t wait to come home to you.

It startled him, how he could feel this way towards you, but it felt right to admit.

Mike didn’t realize it before but now, everything you do makes his heart flutter and his cheeks redden.

Those sweet playful smiles you flash him when you banter makes his heart skip a beat.

Every time you touch his arm reassuringly, or give him a gentle rub on the back or a hug he always gets goose bumps from just having you so close to him.

He wants to hold you closer, and for longer, just to keep feeling the warmth of your body against him. To feel your soft tits press against his chest.

God did he feel like a pervert, but he just can’t help himself. He finds you so god damn sexy and gorgeous.

His dirty fantasies of you had his cock growing hard in no time. He swears you’re teasing him, especially when you bend over in your tight jeans or shorts.

He can’t help but stare at your ass and imagine himself grabbing your hips and pressing his hard cock against the swell of your ass.

Or when he can see your hard nipples threw your shirt, all he can think about is sucking them until they’re hard and leaving them wet with his spit.

Fuck its was wrong, so so wrong to think of you that way. You’re just Abby’s baby sitter, he knew that, but he couldn’t stop his thoughts from running wild.

Mike took a deep breath as he stopped at a red light. He couldn’t keep having these thoughts about you. Especially not on the road.

He finally makes it home and parks beside your car in the driveway.

He enters his house as quietly as he can and closes the front door with extra care as to not make a ruckus.

“Mike?” You call out from where you’re laying on the couch.

“I’m home, Y/n.” he says quietly as he takes his shoes off.

“How was your shift?” You asked as you sat up and stretched, groaning quietly.

Mike clenches his jaw, the way you groaned sounded so sinful, “Awful. Like usual.” He said plainly and takes his vest off and throws it on a spare chair.

“Are you hungry? There’s Shepard’s pie in the oven for you if you want to eat. I can make you a plate” You offered as you got up from the couch and walked to the kitchen.

He stares at you, taking in the tight little grey pj set you’re wearing, before stuttering out, “Th-thanks, you really didn’t have to-“

“Mike. I need to make sure you eat to. Not just Abby.” You said as you grab an oven mit before opening the oven door.

Mike watched as you bent over to grab the dish. He watches your tight grey shorts ride up the swell of your ass, he can see the outline of your pussy as the material stretches over your crotch.

Fuck he was getting hard.

“I’m worried about you, you know..” you sighed as you made him a plate, “I don’t think this job is good for you.” You said as you handed him the plate and a spoon.

He swallows thickly as you come closer to him, “It’s fine- I’m just glad to have a job.”

He grabs his plate and spoon and sits down at the table.

You shook your head before sitting down next to him. “You know I’m here for you okay?” You say while rubbing his back.

“I know.” He nods before taking another spoonful of his food.

“Good.” You smile and stare at him sweetly.

Mike blushes, why do you have to look at him like that?

Your smile turns into a slight smirk upon noticing his blush, “Are you blushing?” You teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“No-“ he looks at you wide eyed.

You giggle, “Are you embarrassed?”

“No its just-“ his gaze flickers between you and his food.

“Just what, Mikey?” You ask, resting your cheek on your fist.

He could feel his face getting hotter at the nick-name you just uttered, “Your just..” he trails off staring at his food, poking at it with his fork.

You stare at him expectantly.

He really wants to tell you how he feels, but he doesn’t want to ruin your what you have.

He shakes his head, “It’s nothing.. never mind.” He looks away shyly.

“You can tell me.” You rub his arm trying to persuade him to tell you what’s on his mind.

Mike sighs through his nose and shuts his eyes, trying to compose himself, “You should have left when I got here..” he says as he abruptly gets up from his seat.

You watched as he put his dishes in the sink, “Probably, but I need to make sure you’re taken care of.” You stand up.

“There’s no need. I can take care of myself.” He says curtly as he walks past you.

“Mike..” you grab his arm, turning him around. “You’re worrying me.. did I say something wrong?”

He felt his heart clench at the way you were looking at him.

“No you didn’t. It’s just a me problem, Y/n.” He looks off to the side as he shakes his head.

“Are you sure Mike? I’m sorry if I did. I really don’t want to make you uncomfortable-“ You start to ramble.

“Y/n. Hey, hey, hey. Im not mad at you okay?” He says sternly. “I’m just- I have feelings for you okay.” He painfully admits. “And I know it’s wrong but-“

“I have feelings for you too Mike..” You proclaim, a blush decorating your cheeks.

The two of you stare at each other for a few seconds before you lean in and kiss his lips.

You pull way quickly, “sorry..” you whisper.

Mike grabs your cheek to pull you into a passionate kiss.

You’re surprised by this. You didn’t expect Mike to go in for another kiss let alone one so desperate, but you kiss him back none the less.

You wrapped your arms around his neck to pull yourself closer.

The hand on your cheek moves to rest with his other hand on your waist. His thumbs stroked small circles on your skin.

“Mike~” you whisper breathily and press your forehead against his.

He groans at the way you say his name. “Been wanting to do this for so long..~” he muttered before kissing you again.

“Mmm..me too~” You mumble against his lips.

He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before going down to suck and kiss at your neck. He leaves a trail of hickeys all over your neck and collar bones.

You slip your hands under his hoodie, “Mikey?~”

He shivers when your hands touch his bare torso, “Mm~ yes baby?”

“Can we..go to your room?” You manage to ask as Mike starts to get more touchy, his hands just inches from getting under your shirt.

It took a moment for him to process what you had requested and where the two of you were before he replied, “Oh- yeah.. yeah.” He says a bit flustered before picking you up and bringing you to his bedroom.

He lays you down on his plaid comforter and crawls on top of you.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Y/n~” he whispers as he takes you in laying on his bed.

Mike leans down to kiss you again, but more feverishly.

You clawed at his hoodie, trying to take it off as you made out.

“Mike- take it off please~” you pleaded.

He nods and takes his hoodie and the shirt he had underneath off in one swoop, leaving himself topless above you.

You bit your lip as your eyes raked over his bare chest. He looks so sexy panting above you with a lustful look in his eyes.

You squeezed your thighs together to ease the throbbing of your cunt and tangle your hands in his curls to pull him back down for a kiss.

“Baby..~” he mutters as you kept kissing each other, “let me take your top off..~” he asked, holding onto your shirt.

You whined, you didn’t want to stop kissing him. “Mkay~” you nod and put your arms up to help him out.

Mike takes your shirt off with ease and doesn’t waste anytime to grope your tits.

You gasp softly when he kisses the soft mounds and begins to suck on your right nipple.

The way he swirls his tongue around the soft bud made you moan.

You slap your hand over your mouth as he gives the other one the same treatment.

He pulled away from your nipple with a wet pop and kisses you once again.

“Need you Mike~” you mewl, as you grip his shoulder.

“Yeah?~” he said quietly.

You nod and try to push his pants down with you feet.

He pries your legs away from his hips and pulls your gray shorts off.

You let your legs fall open, completely revealing yourself to Mike.

His jaw drops at the sight of your glistening pussy. His cock couldn’t possibly get any harder.

“Fuck..~” he curses, “You have such a pretty pussy~” he licks his lips.

You blush and squirm a bit. You felt so vulnerable under his gaze.

“I need you Mike~” you reiterated desperately.

“I need you too baby.. so so fucking bad-“ he says as he fumbles with his belt.

He hastily takes his pants off and grabs his wallet out on the front pocket.

You watched as he rummaged through his wallet until he pulls out a condom.

He throws his wallet and pants to the side before ripping the foil open.

You quietly fingered yourself as you watched Mike roll the rubber onto his hard cock.

You took your fingers out of your cunt and reached forward to give Mike’s cock a few pumps using your slick as lube.

He groans, “Fuck baby.. that feels good..~” and smashes his lips against yours.

You wrap your arms around his back and your legs around his hips, “C’mon Mike~ I need you inside~” you whispered.

His dick twitched at your words. He lines the head of his cock to your slick entrance and pushes it inside.

“Oh.. fu-..Y/n~” Mike groans.

Your pussy is so warm and wet. It had been so long since he last had sex, he had to stop himself from cumming right away.

“Y/n you feel so good~” he mutters as he began to thrust into you.

You moan and tighten the hold your legs had on his hips, pulling him closer into your warmth.

Mike couldn’t stop himself from whining in pleasure as he thrusted faster into you.

“Gotta be quiet Mikey~” you whispered, pulling him into a kiss to quiet your noises.

He groans into your mouth and busies his hands by toying with your nipples.

“Keep.. doing that please~” you moaned quietly.

The way his thrusts were angled allowed his pubic bone to rut against your clit, and the head of his cock to repeatedly press against your g-spot.

You clawed at his back, trying to hold onto him while bliss over took you.

“Mikey!~ Mike!~ M’gonna cum!” You moan.

“Gonna.. cum too baby..~” he huffs, and reaches down to rub your clit.

“Oh fuck~ m’cumming!” You cry out.

Mike lifts his head out the crook of your neck to look at you while you came.

The mix of your blissed out face and the fluttering of your cunt pushes him to climax.

He moans as he cums, whimpering your name quietly as he fills the condom with his seed.

It takes a while before Mike pushes himself off of you to pull out. You whined in protest, you felt so empty without his cock inside of you.

He takes the condom off and disposes of it in his bathroom.

When he returns, you both get under the covers of his bed, and cuddle in your post-sex bliss.

You’re stroking his messy curls as you’re both falling asleep, when suddenly you’re rudely interrupted by Mike’s alarm.

His alarm to wake up to get Abby ready for school.

The end

#micheal schmidt #five nights at freddy's #smutty #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt #mike schmidt smut #mike schmidt x you #mike schmidt x fem!reader

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emmcfrxst · 19 days

Note

Giving Arthur Morgan the sloppiest soul sucking head of his life because that's what he deserves 👏

It’s no secret that Arthur likes you messy.

There’s nothing quite like seeing you covered in his cum; it satiates some sort of primal urge he’s way too embarrassed to ever admit he possesses — out of shame or for fear of being laughed at, he isn’t quite sure. It’s a delicacy he does not always have the privilege of seeing, what with the constant moving around, the never ending jobs, Dutch’s genius “plans” and the difficulties of having any kind of intimacy in a camp full of people— Arthur does not get as much alone time with you as he wishes he would. It’s on rare days like these; ones where he allows himself to be a little selfish as to take you out on a “job” that requires your specific skillset, that he does get to have you all to himself, soft and pliant and wanting. You’re a sight to behold, on your knees all for him, pretty eyes shining with tears as you take him down your throat until his thighs shake.

“Yeah, jus’ like that. Keep goin’, pretty thing.” his voice is raspy, breath catching on a syllable as you swallow around him eagerly, spurred on by his praise. Arthur has to look up at the sky for a moment as to not let himself come so soon, his gut tightening dangerously upon hearing you gag on his cock. Clenching his hands into fists, he chances a look down at you, brows furrowing in pleasure when your eyes meet, a needy moan leaving his parted lips when he notices you rocking your hips against one of your hands, thighs spread obscenely wide in the soft grass below you. He cannot seem to be able to stop himself from bucking forward into your mouth at the sight, making you gag again, a breathless apology on his lips. The action only seems to encourage you further somehow, free hand coming up to fondle his balls, rolling them between your slick fingers. Saliva runs down your chin, trickling all the way down between your breasts in an outrageously filthy spectacle; one that Arthur would pay good money to see more often. His thoughts are cut short by a particularly hard suck to his tip, your lips quickly being replaced by an expert swirl of your tongue, making him curse out loud and grip the bark of the tree he is leaning against. His knees buckle and for a moment he fears he’s going to fall to the ground, feeling your hands move quickly to grab onto his thighs to steady him. The aching desire that takes over his body upon feeling just how thoroughly soaked the hand that was between your thighs has become is almost mind-numbing and he finally lets himself unravel, orgasm carried along to the sloppy sounds of your mouth on him, hearing you moan before you swallow around him one last time, cum leaking from the corners of your lips. Breathing heavily, Arthur helps your gasping form up onto your feet, tucking himself away and putting his gun belt back into place before taking his jacket off and throwing it to the ground, hands moving to grip your hips to tip you backwards onto the grass.

“What are you doing?” you giggle, chest heaving in both exertion and arousal, allowing your lover to lay you down as he pleases, goosebumps spreading over your skin when he moves down your body, calloused hands groping at you.

“Returning the favor.” he replies, winking at you before disappearing between your thighs.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan imagine #rdr2 fic #rdr2 smut #rdr2 imagine #red dead redemption 2 fic #red dead redemption 2 smut #red dead redemption 2 imagine #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2

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arisuworld · 7 months

Text

HOW TO PERSIST?

So, now we all know how self concept is one of the most important key to manifestation. How you view yourself in relation to the world around you is extremely important and can greatly affect how you manifest. However, persistence is another key to manifestation that often gets overlooked. It is as important as self concept.

Now, I know why it can be hard. At some point of my life, i couldn't persist no matter what. It was hard for me. 3D and circumstances made it hard for me to persist. However, Manifesting in general is very easy but it does require a certain amount of discipline and mental work. It truly gets difficult for most people, when an unfavorable circumstance happens in 3D. Everything seems to be going well but then all of a sudden everything starts falling and you start seeing the opposite of your desires. Then circumstances and everything going on around you, makes you question, doubt yourself and even start spiraling, not knowing what to do.

Everyone has been in this kind of situation and they don't know what to do. So, now I'm gonna tell you what you should do when you're in this situation, no matter what the circumstances are.

• WHAT DOES PERSISTING MEANS?

per·sist /pərˈsist/ verb

continue firmly or obstinately in an opinion or a course of action in spite of difficulty, opposition, or failure.

Basically, persisting means to continue to dwell in the new assumptions despite the difficulties or obstacles that may come in the way.

• WHY IS IT SO IMPORTANT?

"An assumption, though false, if persisted in will harden into fact" — Neville Goddard

No matter how crazy your assumption sounds, no matter how delusional you sound, if you PERSIST into it, it will harden into fact. The 3D will always conform it in front of your eyes.

• IS BEING PERSISTENT AND CONSISTENT SAME?

People often confuse persistence with consistently. Affirming 24/7 till they pass out or their head hurts which is so wrong. Persisting isn’t affirming, it's knowing that your desire is inevitable. You feel safe and secure knowing THAT CREATION IS FINISHED. The moment you’ve finished your visualisation, affirmations, SATs or have just simply stated that your desire is yours, then your desire has already been completed. Your “job” is to just continue KNOWING that it’s yours, which is basically PERSISTING.

• HOW TO PERSIST?

Persisting means to live in the end, to completely live in your imagination (4D) and to ignore any unfavorable circumstances that the 3D may throw at you. Live in your imagination as it is the ONLY true reality that matters to you. When you see something you don't like in the 3D, turn inwards to your imagination and live within.

1. TAKE A BREAK: The main cause of a spiral is usually a result of seeing something unfavorable in the 3D and becoming overwhelmed. You feel like doing something to change the situation, to make it better somehow. Therefore you panic and try different techniques, methods at a time to fix the circumstances. However doing this will not help you fix anything. It will only manifest the opposite. No, let me ask you something. If you had your desire, would any difficult circumstance trouble you? Would it affect you negatively? No right?. All you're doing is interfering with your manifestations. Instead of trying to make it happen, you just have to let it happen. So, i would recommend you to take a break from ALL manifesting-related things for a few days for a week. Like delete tumblr, instagram, unsubscribe from LOA youtube channels. In this time period, i suggest you to do meditation, yoga nidra and journal out your feelings. Let yourself feel any emotions and vent out whatever’s bothering you. Don’t keep it all bottled up. Let it out for once and all.

2. DON'T SEEK VALIDATION FROM 3D: When you’re truly in the state of KNOWING (you already have your desires), you will be much less likely to spiral. Why? well, as i stated in the first point, we spiral primarily because we experience something unfavorable in the 3D. But when we’re in the state of knowing, we KNOW that the 3D is temporary and that our desires ARE COMING, no matter what, it’s inevitable. No matter what happens, your desires are already yours, is all you need to understand.

3. IMPROVE YOUR SELF CONCEPT: Self concept is the only thing you need to manifest. If your self concept is good then nothing can stop you from getting your desires. Now, after you feel like you’ve taken enough time “off” from manifesting consciously, now you can start easing back in. I recommend you to do a mental diet. It's easy, simple and so effective. All you have to do is be conscious of your thoughts, and flip your negative thoughts to positive. Whenever you get a negative thought related to your manifestation, just flip it around and be like "no, i already have my desire". That's it's, it's that easy.

• CONCLUSION

Persistence can be very hard sometimes but it is extremely important in order to manifest your desires! The best thing to do is to remember that you're the god and remind yourself that circumstances do not matter. Always, remain faithful to your new assumptions and don't let outer circumstances rattle you. Circumstances are temporary, they change in seconds. And, You are the god of your reality and everything has to go your way, no matter what! Never give up. Always persist, persist and persist. The 3D will always conform in front of your eyes.

#manifestation #manifestation blog #void state #loa blog #law of assumption #loassumption #loa #void #manifesting #manifesation #i am state

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aysegust · 15 days

Text

JUST A HEALER. - K.B

Pairings: (Kaz Brekker x Reader) A/N: Hey Everyone! I hope you all are fine and feel good. May goodness be with you… So this is a new fiction of mine. About Kaz Brekker… Well, I was so stressed about my studies so I wanted to write something to keep my mind occupied. English isn’t my native language, as reminding it again, I might have mistakes. If you saw it feel free to correct it with kindness of course! I hope you’ll like it. There will be a part two. Warnings: Kidnapping, Pekka Rollins, mention of Kirigan. It is mostly based on the first season of the series but I changed things. Word Count: 1.997

You can read the last part here: More Than A Healer. - K.B

A soldier, a healer.

That was all you were to him. A soldier, a healer. Well, the story of you and his crossed in a different path. You escaped from the Little Palace and took a ticket from an unknown ship, with that you went overseas.

As the ship sailed to the shore of Ketterdam, the city where every young-blooded Ravkan wanted to see, you were finally there. Freshly dressed and eager to see a new world. Other than forced to work under king’s command. Well, the missing state you were in probably put a traitor stamp on your name but you didn’t care.

Your parents died, because of Ravka. Because of their policies about taking Grisha’s away from their parents. Your parents die because they never wanted you to be taken from them. They died, because you were a Grisha… You blamed yourself for it from such a long time. But in reality, the blame wasn’t on you, it was on them.

A week passed since you were in Ketterdam, hiding your powers and blending into public. Well, it was safe to say that you were expecting difficulties. You had nothing so it would obviously difficult.

However as the weeks passed, you were able to find a shelter to stay, foods to feed yourself and a job. Well, you were taking care of wounded people, they thought you were talented. Not a Grisha. They thought this woman, you, are just talented and hardworking about what you do. But inside of every touch of yours, you were slowly recovering them faster.

Of course, you bandaged them, cut them, stitch them, clean their wounds but without the people of Ketterdam’s knowledge, as every slight touch of your fingers did the magic.

However, as you were so good at what you do, people talked. Pekka Rollins, offered you a job which you declined smoothly a time. He was pissed but you told him you work openly. But you treated his wounds so that’s why you were still alive.

Even Pekka Rollins didn’t realize you were a Grisha but a certain man, who likes to stay in silence and sees everything in a different gaze, such as reading between the lines, he noticed it.

That night you were going to your home, you heard a sound. It terrified you, so you touched your gun. Then you understood the sound of the cane, was on purpose.

The alley was empty. It was just the two of you, you thought. “It is not a daily thing you see a Grisha in Barrel.” As hearing his words, you turned to him slowly.

“Who are you?” You said to him coldly. He looked at you ruthlessly. As you were looking at his eyes, it was harsh, you felt goosebumps. “The right question is… why a Grisha is doing in the Barrel, Miss L/N?”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “I don’t know who you are, but you surely are mad.” He smiled to that. But the smile didn’t match his eyes. “I wouldn’t say that.”

He stepped firmly into your way, you didn’t back away. You wouldn’t show any weakness to him. You were a soldier.

“There’s no need for fighting, I present you an offer.” You looked at him with curiosity after hearing his crooked voice. “I’m listening.” You said firmly.

“You can work for me, and I’ll keep your secret.” You looked at him bitterly. “I don’t work for anyone.” You looked at his eyes. “Believe me, Miss L/N, in the Barrel, a woman like you would be a great investment.” He stopped briefly. “I have been watching you, and it wasn’t hard for me to understand of your little powers.” He looked at you so smoothly.

“Bold of you to assume, that I’ll work under you.” You said it confidently. He looked at his gloves for a moment. “If they finds out you are a Grisha, you won’t last long.” You squinted your eyes. “Is that a threat?” You said.

“No, it is just a warning.” His glances wasn’t disturbing it was frightening. “I give you a day, you can find me in the Crow Club.” Then he disappeared into shadows without even waiting for you to say anything.

After that night, you thought many things. You didn’t know the man, so you pulled strings and searched his name. The Dirtyhands. Bastard of the Barrel. The owner of the Crow Club. Kaz Brekker.

Kaz Brekker.

The Dirtyhands.

He had people work under him. The Wraith, The Sharpshooter… The Dregs. The informations you learned about the infamous Kaz Brekker, led you to his Club.

As you stepped into the Club, it was lighting with warm but sharp colors. You heard every laughter on gambling tables. Some smiling like devilishly, some whine in losing.

You stepped surely to inside. As your gaze fell upon to the upstairs, your eyes met in a brief moment. From the moment you stepped inside to the Club, he knew you arrived.

He made a small gesture, the way his face turned slightly to side, it was a gesture for you to come closer.

You walked slowly into his way, as he lead you to his office. Your gaze wandered the room. The walls were covered in a thick layer, the furnitures are covered in black as the way he dressed. The room looked tidy but his desk was filled with full of papers which looked pure chaotic.

The light of the room was dim. It was weirdly calming but as his body turned to you, your gaze met his. He looked like a wall. No emotion, not even a slight expression.

As you looked at his face, two days ago, looking at him briefly on the streets was not enough for you to look deeply into his features.

Now that you see him, well, he looked beautiful. In a disturbing way, he was looking good. Except for the fact that, he knows your secret and he is threatening you. Also, adding the fact that he is the Dirtyhands. You heard rumors about him before.

“So, you heard about me.” As he broke the silence, you nodded. “The Dirtyhands.” You said with a straight impression. “I heard about you.”

He leaned back on the edge of the table. “Then you heard all the things they said about me.” He replied.

“Look, Mr. Brekker, I don’t work for people. I don’t want to make enemies.” He almost laughed at that. “No, Miss L/N, the clear thing you don’t understand is…” He paused briefly. “Eventually, when people find out who you are, you are not gonna survive a day in here.” He looked at you sharply. “I won’t expose you, but, imagine if Pekka Rollins finds out?”

As he said it, you turned your gaze into one of painting on the wall. “Okay..” It was reasonable. You turned your gaze back to his. “I’ll work for you but under one condition.” You said. “I want a good check.” He looked at you.

“Then we have an agreement.”

Yeah, after that day a year passed as you worked under the Dirtyhands. Well, he didn’t trust you a bit and you weren’t trusting him too but you just had to trust the promise he made.

You were clearly a good asset to him. You treated Inej and Jesper’s wounds. Other members of his crew too. Also you were a great soldier so when a mission arrives, after some time of him trusting you about coming to his thefts, you were quick, strong and loyal.

He even gave you a new identity. Helped you to have a new identity in Ketterdam. So, you wouldn’t suspected to be a Grisha, a Ravkan.

But Pekka Rollins wasn’t happy about the idea of you working under the Bastard of the Barrel, which caused you some headaches. However, Kaz was cautious about everything.

A soldier, a healer.

You were all that to him. Well, you got along with Inej and Jesper. They had unique characteristics. You could feel the joy around Jesper while feeling safe around Inej. She was quiet but she made you feel comfortable.

You can’t say much things about Kaz. He was complicated. Never trusting you much, always prepared for everything and too cautious, too careful. As you observed him through the months, you saw how he deprived himself from touching. You saw the sour face of his after someone in the crowd bumped him with no intention. They thought it was just Kaz hated people. But to you, the way he looked with every little touch the furrowing brows of his tells a different tale.

Which you were curious about it. However, you never had the intentions of learning it. So you slipped the thought away and got along with your life.

You were walking around the corners of the Barrel, you wanted to be alone, as you blended in with the others, the crowds noise was silencing your thoughts. Well, under Kaz’s command, it wasn’t very easy but you felt safe and powerful. The threats of Rollins wasn’t new, but it didn’t scare you that much. Since you were a traitor in Ravka. You flied away from there and left the Army.

Of course, over the time passed Kaz learned why you were in Ketterdam as you told him the story of your life. You thought he would judge you but he was no better man. So he just didn’t mind it.

You earned his respect with how much you cared for his crows. How you treated their wounds after a fight very gently and how you were loyal to him and his team. It didn’t slip from his gazes.

As you turned around the corner, you felt a pair of hands grabbing your mouth harshly. You panicked just for a second. Then you tried to fight back to the man who held you tightly. You took a knife out of your pocket and hit him on his belly, as he whined in pain, you freed yourself from his prying hands. As you turned to look at the man, you heard a strong accent.

“I can say, I was very disappointed to hear you began to work under- Mr. Brekker, aye?” As you heard his voice, you turned to the owner of the voice. Pekka Rollins.

“What do you want?” You said sternly. He approached to you. “It is such a clever move, I say,” He looked terrific. As meeting his gaze, Pekka’s gaze didn’t seem to move away from you. “Hiring a healer? A Grisha.” He smiled. “A traitor…” You look at him disgustingly.

“Well, I don’t know what you are talking about.” You said it dumbfounded. He looked at you with range. “What should I do to you, Dame Blanche, huh? Or should I say… Miss L/N?”

You looked at him with anger. “I don’t care what you’ll do. I won’t back away from a fight.” You said it confidently. He looked at you with smug smile. “Oh, I won’t do you harm, The Black General, I think he is going to do.” You looked at him disbelief. As two of his guy grabbed your shoulders, you fought to get away from their grip but you couldn’t succeed.

Pekka approached to you and squeezed your cheeks in a hurtful manner. “After what would done to you, you are gonna regret to work under that bastard, lass.”

The next minute, you felt pain on your back as slowly, your vision blurred and your eyes went black.

As couple of hours passed and you opened your eyes, the sharp pain on your head was making you feel uncomfortable. You tried to open your eyes but your eyelids were too heavy and you feared.

What if Kaz couldn’t find you?

What if Kaz wouldn’t find you?

What if he doesn’t care about your sudden disappearance?

What if he,

if he thinks you betrayed him too?

#kaz brekker #shadow and bone #reader insert #kaz brekker angst #kazzle dazzle #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker x fem!reader #kaz brekker x you #kaz brekker x y/n #kaz brekker imagine #kaz rietveld #kaz brekker fanfic #shadow and bone series

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catcze · 8 months

Note

You want some Wriothesley requests, eh? I’m more than happy to provide ;))

Wriothesley is a busy man, he’s the Lord of the fortress of Meropide for gods sake, so the last thing he needs is more distractions.

So I raise you this:

Reader hurts themselves on a commission or something, and instead of telling their boyfriend about it and bringing him even more things to worry about, they decide to treat their wounds themselves and hide their injuries from him entirely.

When Wriothesley inevitably finds out, he scolds them and tells them that their health is always his number one priority, and that he’s more than happy to leave his work behind to take care of them.

It’s safe to say that reader always informs their boyfriend of their injuries from that point onward.

AUGHHAKDJS AUGHAJKSD LOVE AND CARE AND CONCERN 🥺 oh LORD

AAAAAAAAAA MY GIJUKANSDJKAJKSDNJKASJKD

OKay OKAY OKAYSYDKUAJS okay okay. Okay. ok. yes.

This,,,, this was supposed to be a blurb,,,,, and then somehow,,,, along the way,,,,, it evolved into a short fic like what the fuck i just can't shut up when it comes to him 😭😭

「 CWS : 」 Light descriptions of injuries, established relationships, Wriothesley being so soft for you

Okay. So it's no biggie to you, really. Getting a little banged up on the job? Just a regular day for an adventurer. There's no real cause for concern— no need to go to a hospital or a clinic, and certainly no need to bother Wriothesley about it. Not when he's already up to his neck with extra work since the court has just sentenced some new convicts to the Fortress.

You're a seasoned adventurer! You know how to do first aid. It's easy!

Until it gets a little bit more difficult.

Applying salve and bandaging up your arms and legs gave you no trouble. Your lower back was just a smidge bit more difficult, but nothing you couldn't do. The main difficulty, you conclude, huffing in annoyance and staring at your reflection in the bathroom of your home, is that stupid laceration between your shoulder blades that for the life of you you just couldn't reach, much less patch up and slap some gauze over. Your arms are already aching from all the stretching they've gone through, all in vain because you couldn't reach that stupid spot on your back. And to make matters worse, all the movement was beginning to make the laceration sting and you worry that any more exertion would make the scratches on your arms and shoulders open back up, which is a whole other can of worms you'd rather not deal with.

You're hyping yourself up, convincing yourself to try just one more time— no, if you're careful your wounds will absolutely not open back up and you'll definitely be able to clean up before your boyfriend gets home and—

You're so lost in your own thoughts that you don't even hear the front door opening. What does catch your attention is Wriothesley's voice from down the hall, calling that he's home and oh shit in your haste to patch yourself up you hadn't closed the bathroom door and fuck fuck fuck he's too close and you're too far from the door to slam it closed and you grimace to yourself when you see Wriothesley appear at the open bathroom door, his expression melting into one of surprise (and not the good kind) as his eyes grow wide and his mouth opens just the slightest bit, taking in the bandages wrapped around parts of your arms, parts of your legs and around your torso.

"...Hi." That's all you can come up with as your eyes meet his in the reflection of the mirror, looking both guilty and sheepish.

"...Hi," he echoes, still staring. Then it breaks, his brows furrowing with concern. You can see the questions on the tip of his tongue. Are you alright? What happened? Why didn't you call?

But instead, he approaches, taking the open salve you've placed on the counter into his own hands. "Arms down. Don't strain them," he says, giving them a gentle nudge until they fall to your side. He scoops a liberal amount of the salve up, gently covering that pest of a wound with it. The cooling sensation feels delightful on the clotted scratch, but you can't help protesting his help.

"I- I can do that, you don't..."

"I may not have to, but I certainly want to. The gauze, please, dearest." You hand it to him over your shoulder, and he takes it with a mumbled word of thanks, tending to the wound that had given you such a headache. He does it better than you ever could yourself, even laying a small kiss on the bandage that has your heart melting.

The he releases you, catching your eye in the mirror as he makes a turn around motion with his hand. "Come on, dearest, let me check on the rest of you."

You do as you're told, spinning around slowly. He helps you sit on the counter of the sink, hands careful to avoid any of your injuries where he grips your waist and hoists you up. He doesn't speak while he checks you over, hands skimming your skin so gently it almost tickles. He checks if you've done your bandages right, if you've missed any scratches or scrapes. To his relief you have not, and the only wound that you hadn't treated was the one he had helped with.

Wriothesley's checkup ends at a scratch on your face that you stuck a bandage on, and his hand gently cups your cheek when he's done. On instinct, you lean into his touch.

"You're all good. Nice job with the bandages, dearest," he says, pressing a kiss to your lips. Then he raises a brow, face turning just a bit more serious, tone becoming more like that of the duke that many people feared. "Now. Can you tell me why you tried to do it alone when you could have asked for my help?"

"Because I could have taken care of it myself." You tell him in a huff, looking away from his eyes. "You're busy and I wouldn't want to bother you over something I was capable of doing myself. It would have given you more things to worry about."

You make a pointed effort not to look at him, and Wriothesley can't help it when he laughs under his breath. "Even if I'm busy, you can always come to me for help. Work or no work, you'll always be my priority."

Before you can even protest, adamant that you would never want to willingly interrupt his workflow, the thumb of his hand comes to stroke your bottom lip, silencing you. "Nope. No if's or but's. Especially when it comes to your wellbeing, I'll never turn you away." He can feel the flustered warm that spreads through your cheek under his palm and has to stifle a smile.

"You're always worried about me, so let me worry about you too," he murmurs, giving you a peck on the forehead, and he can practically see your stubbornness crack.

"Okay," you acquiesce, sighing, but you can't deny how warm it makes you feel to have him dote on you like this. Your boyfriend, the Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide, one of the biggest softies to you and only you. "I'll come to you the next time I need anything."

"You promise?"

"Yes, Wriothesley, I promise," you exclaim, dramatically rolling your eyes, but smiling all the same.

A similar smile is reflected on his own face, and he can't help it when he feels the need to kiss you again.

"Thank you, dearest."

#「 🐈‍⬛ 」 catcze.desserts #Wriothesley x reader #genshin impact x reader #Wriothesley #Genshin Impact #cw gn reader

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animehideout · 4 months

Text

LOVE IS THE MOST TWISTED CURSE OF THEM ALL

Part Five

Gojo Satoru x Fem! Reader

Check part 6 here 🆕

Check part 4 here.

a/n: Hii, I hope you enjoy this part as well, let me know if you want to be added to the tag list 🫶🏻

if you have any ideas of details you want me to include please let me know and don't hesitate to share your critics it helps me a lot to better my writings <3

Music recommendation ♪ : SKZ- Taste ( Yes I am a Stay ♡ )

You shook your hand with Nanami's. Smiling softly at him.

“I see your wife is now playing your game..Gojo?” Said Mei Mei wearing an amused expression,

only earning a glare in return from the man sitting in front of her.

“Come on, don't tell me Nanami triggered your jealousy and protectiveness over your wife” she added.

“Im.Not.Jealous!! And.Shes.Not.A.Real.Wife” he whispered in an angry low tone.

“Hm then why are you so upset about it?” she asked sipping water from her cup.

Gojo leaned in and said, “because I want everyone to treat her poorly, everyone to belittle her and this guys over here shouldn't interfere or try to defend her like the gentleman he is– that's why I'm pissed...my plan is to make her life a living nightmare, and it shouldn't be ruined by anyone, especially Nanamin.. Understood now?”

“Understood” she simply said, looking forward for all the drama that she'll soon witness.

She was relieved that he wasn't jealous, Mei Mei desired Gojo since high school days, and him falling for you; his wife, is something Mei Mei won't allow.

......

“How long have you been teaching here? I haven't seen you around” he asked.

“Um– today is my first day actually” you replied with a hint of awkwardness.

“Oh I see!! good luck then I'm sure you'll do great” he encouraged,

“T-thank you” you stammered ,pleasantly surprised, a warm genuine smile graced your face.

Nanami is indeed respectful and considerate quite the opposite of some other dick that you're stuck with.

“Excuse me for my random question, but what Jujutsu technique do you possess?” he questioned completely oblivious of your situation.

You swallowed with difficulty, rocking your legs under the table in embarrassment. But why would you hide who you really are?

“I–I don't have any Jujutsu energy my situation is kind of complicated so...” you replied,

trying your best to hide your discomfort from his sudden question, especially knowing that your husband is sitting at the table next you and any vulnerability will cost you your dignity and pride.

“Oh I understand! but I'm sure you're skilled with weapon use. It doesn't matter if you have a curse energy or not what matters is the braveness you carry within you” he said and smiled,

he smiled for the very first time in years taking both Gojo and Mei Mei by surprise.

“Nanami smiling? if I knew he had such an attractive smile he would have been one of my preys” thought Mei Mei to herself.

The tables turned, and now it's Gojo's turn to sit and watch your cute interaction with his colleague. Having known Nanami for years, Gojo was already familiar with the way he treats women with ultimate politeness but in Gojo's eyes you weren't deservant of such treatment, he hates you and wanted everyone around to do the same, to turn against you until you feel excluded, until you give up on your job and the small circle you've built in two days. His goal is to make you experience once again the sense of isolation you've grown up with, and Nanami encouraging you was the first step to hinder his goals. That's why Nanami shouldn't get close to you.

...

It was the very first time you witnessed someone acknowledging your skills, someone comforting you and understanding that it's okay to not be a sorcerer. His genuine words touched your heart.

Uncertain how to respond a shy smile formed on your lips, his compliment felt like a gentle breeze that lifted up your spirit, making you forget about all the hate you have dealt with for years.

As the school bell chimed, signaling the break's conclusion, you rose to head to your next teaching assignment for the second years.

“It was nice talking to you, Nanami,”you said gently, keeping eye contact, which he acknowledged without breaking.

“Looking forward to our next meeting...after you” he said, stepping aside to let you walk ahead.

....

“Nanamin!!”

“Yeah Gojo what do you want?” Nanami replied with a sigh, irritated, since Gojo used to annoy him a lot before.

“Nothing much... but maybe next time, acknowledge my presence before chatting with her so casually.”

“Huh? she was sitting alone, and you were with Mei Mei. so what's your point? cuz i couldn't get it yet!”

“Listen, Nanamin, don't waste your time with her. She's–”

“Why would you say that? It's not like I'm trying to steal your wife or something!” Nanami interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

“I'd appreciate it if you don't talk to her again”

“She's a mature woman with free will. You don't get to decide who she talks to.. Excuse me now” Nanami asserted, and the walked away.

– Time Skip Night Time –

“Aah, what a day” you sighed, yawning as you began drying off, still wrapped in your towel.

The warm bath washed away the fatigue from a long day of teaching. Smiling at the memory of Nanami's words, recollecting his warm smile. Suddenly interrupted by a voice.

“I see you're happy?” came a voice that caught you off guard, disrupting your thoughts.

“Satoru? What are you doing here?”

“This is my house, or did you forget?”

A blush colored your cheeks as you realized being clad only in a towel that barely covered the length of your thighs, and his focused intense gaze didn't make things any easier.

“Watcha smiling at? don't tell me you're having those lovey-dovey moments where you have a burst of energy, kicking your feet in the air because you developed a crush on someone? is it Nanami?”

“What if it is? are you jealous? I thought you had plans to spend the night with Mei Mei. What brings you here anyway?”

“Oh, you gave yourself away... eavesdropping to my chat earlier?”

“Nah, wasn't really interested in what you said. You were just loud for some reason” you retorted.

“Getting more bratty by each day?” he remarked, taking a step closer as you instinctively took a step back.

“What do you want?” you asked, panic brewing inside, wild thoughts racing through your mind.

“Nothing.. Why do you seem uncomfortable? Is it because I'm getting this close to you? Is it because my fingers are now tracing your skin?” he teased, his fingers leaving a trail of delicate goosebumps on your exposed arm.

“Satoru!” you warned, air hitched in your throat..

“Is it because no one will be able to hear you scream, in this house of thick walls?”

“Satoru get away and- stop it with your g-games” you stuttered as he tarped you between his chest and the wall. He could hear your heart pounding out of your chest.

“What if I dont? what would you do? stop me?” he challenged.

You tried to walk past him, but he was faster, he pushed you on the king sized bed, and crawled on top of you, making you disappear under his giant figure.

“What? I thought you wanted this from the beginning, I thought you wanted me inside of you huh? You wanted to make this marriage real dont you? so why are you fighting it back now?” he said calmly,

He held your hands above your head to stop you from pushing him and hitting his chest.

“SATORU GET OFF OF ME..I DON'T WANT THAT AND YOU KNOW IT”

tears gathered in your eyes, you didn't want your first time to be like this, hell no, it scared the shit out of you, and wanted nothing more than breaking free from his grasp.

“Are you crying now babygirl? I thought you were braver than this..”

“IM NOT CRYING...GET OFF OF ME NOW” you yelled and used your legs to push him away.

Suddenly, he paused and then started laughing hysterically,

“Y-you should have *laugh* seen the scared look on your face...that was hilarious” he continued on laughing,

and you were sat on the bed, fixing your towel looking at him in utter confusion. “w-what the hell?” you whispered.

He paused inhaling, “See how weak you are, unable to protect yourself..” he started, looking at you with dismissive glance.

”I.am.not.weak.”

“I could have broke you if I wanted to, I'm just not interested in fucking a nobody like you..” he spitted each word was thrown at you like daggers.

You swallowed your pain, choking on the tears that you've never allowed to stream.

“You won't.. and I'm not interested in even looking at some arrogant, power digger, empty shell of man like you” you fought back

“Empty shell of a man” echoed in his ears, the thing that he's always avoided, his emptiness, the void that he thought he covered with his strength, you cracked it. How did you even know?

“Why are you silent now Satoru? did I strike a sensitive nerve?”

“I am the strongest, meaningless words coming from a meaningless person won't affect me” he replied, eyes piercing through you..

“Enough with the strongest!! is it your only resort to defend yourself? to prove yourself? You're not special Gojo Satoru, people out there are also worth it, are also strong and talented , you're not better than them not better than anyone, yo–”

“In all the heavens and the earth, I Alone Am the honoured one..do you understand?” he spoke slowly yet with harsh tone..

a tone that sent shivers down your spine. You looked at him silently, his face inches away from yours, looking into each others eyes, his blue eyes; an ocean, a canva of hidden struggles.

If looks could kill, you'd be already sent to heaven.

“Do.You.Understand?” he repeated.

But all what you could do is stare,

“Say.It” he yelled

“no” you started “...in all heavens and the earth, I alone the one you can't control, Satoru” you added twisting his words, and used them against him.

.....

Satoru let out a short, mirthless laugh, the flicker of offense evident in his blue eyes poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue– but it's Gojo Satoru, he would never give you the satisfaction of actually breaking his ego, so what else he could do except flipping the topics.

“From now on I'll be sleeping here. Couch or the other room, your call, but this is my bed” he declared, breaking the silence after thinking he would really break you, from how intense the atmosphere was.

“If I were you, I'd find another spot. But if you stick here, you better sleep with one eye open” he added warning, taking off his shirt to reveal his toned back.

You swiftly gathered your belongings, exiting the room as he began unbuckling his belt.

.....

Sitting in the next room, knees to your chest, tears flowed silently. making sure the door was locked, you couldn't deny he had given you a scare. It was his plan all along, to frighten you, to make you feel vulnerable, proving he could easily assert dominance.

“I hate this. I hate you, Satoru.”

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@olivianyx @inlovewithlondonn @wisepotato404 @butterskyy

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syneilesis · 3 months

Text

[fic] Pampertime

Pampertime

Love and Deepspace | Xavier (Shen Xinghui) x Main-Character!Reader | Explicit | 6.7k words | ao3 link

Butler Rule No. 1: From the moment you accept the role, be prepared to obey your lady’s every command. The bunny butler outfit makes a grand return. In bed.

Content tags: Established Relationship, PWP, Roleplay, Bunny Butler Xavier, Dom/sub elements, Sub!Xavier, Strip Tease, Hand Jobs, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Cunnilingus, Face-Sitting, Cowgirl Position, Riding, PIV sex, Creampie

A/N: My contribution to the bunny butler Xavier train. Only gave a cursory edit once, so any mistakes still my fault. I'm just glad I'm done, whatever. Divider by @/saradika

One bright and sunny afternoon, Xavier texts you: Emergency can U come up here to help me?

You're in the middle of cleaning your living room, after weeks of neglecting your household responsibilities due to the sudden influx of Wanderers in the neighboring city. The Hunters Association had been scrambling to send out their hunters due to the sudden invasion of Wanderers that resembled bafflingly like corgis—which was both a blessing and a curse, if one were to be asked. Blessing because, well, they were a breed that incited cute aggression and fluffiness, and civilian evacuation had resulted in minimal problems, if one ignores the influx of people into doglike Wanderers. A curse, because—well, they did look like corgis—fluffy like a bread with a cute butt, the kind that you would expect to see in the plushie line sold at Twinkle Toys Store. They're irresistible to drag your hand across their soft coat. A not-inconsiderable number of hunters realized the error of their ways in overlooking the fact that these floof of creatures were still Wanderers, and as a consequence, Linkon hospitals suddenly found themselves busier for a week or two.

Regardless, the corgi Wanderers were easy to take care of, once you saw past their clever ruse. The difficulty lay in the numbers. Like a relentless tsunami flooding the city, they undulate in droves, shaking their butts and bouncing around and generally making an oxymoronically cute menace of themselves.

As one of the hunters dispatched to the area, you valiantly resisted the siren cute-call and eliminated as many as you could. It took you and your team more than a week, and it would have been shorter than that, had Xavier been in the fray. But he had been sent in another region the week before, and was unable to join you in your fluff-filled resistance.

But now it seems that he's back and is in need of your assistance. Flashback to that time when his oven exploded due to his attempt at baking tarts, and you drop everything you're doing and fly outside, towards the elevator, fueled by fear and sheer panic.

When you burst into his apartment, using the spare key he left you, you cry out, “Xavier! Sitrep!”

A cursory survey of the area indicate neither fire nor flood, and his apartment seems undamaged. Fear subsiding, you finally take stock of the situation.

Perhaps it's not a kitchen emergency after all? There’s no smell of something burning, thank heavens for that. You do not want to apologize to his neighbors in his place again.

You call once more, “Xavier?”

“In here.”

His voice is coming from the bedroom, and that makes you waver. Why is he still in his bedroom? Maybe he's stuck in bed? Did he sleep for three days and wake up in an unusual position and in need of assistance to set back his limbs again? Weirder and weirder thoughts spiral in your head, and your lack of response prompts him to speak once more.

“You can go in, if that's what stops you.”

“Why can't you just go out?”

“I ... can't.”

The hesitation captures your attention. Xavier is probably entangled in the bed. You may as well help him.

“All right, I'm coming in then.”

When you open the door, you're expecting some sort of layers and layers of blankets, a sea of them, not just on the bed but also on the floor and other furniture. Xavier might be underneath in any of those blankets, and it's your duty to locate him and fish him out. You're ready to swim against these blankets, fight your way into it. Do your utmost duty as a combat partner.

Except.

Except it's not a sea of blankets that welcome you once you enter the room. It's—different.

So different.

So utterly different that you drop your phone. It clatters muffled against the carpeted floor, where it slightly nudges a gift-wrapped box. And that gift-wrapped box sits next to another gift-wrapped box, and another. And another. Until you lift your widening gaze to see that Xavier's bedroom is littered with a lot of them. And Xavier—

He's on the bed, all right. But he's—

He grins lightly, leaning back from his sprawled position. The pillows behind him sink under his weight.

“Kjalfjdsj?” you say, eloquently.

“I'm glad you came ...” A pregnant pause, before he drops the bomb. “My lady.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Xavier is sprawled on the bed, bunny ears on his head, waistcoat and tie, and—you just know, you can feel it in your bones—bunny tail on behind. It's exactly what he wore when you had your couple's photos back then. The fact that he's wearing it and, judging by the sudden change of interior design of his room, that he's replicated the decoration of the studio—actually, you don't know what you can glean from those points, because you're too busy picking up the remains of your brain matter to form a coherent thought.

He drops another bomb: “Why are you just standing there, my lady?” he says, and going by the quirk of his lips he knows the effect he has on you. Compared with the first time it happened, the shy reluctance is no longer present. “This bunny butler is ready to serve, just say the word.”

Your brain melts.

“Wha—I mean—um, guh—” You studiously reacquaint yourself with the concept of words. “I just—what is going on?”

Xavier blinks, and the bunny ears on top of his head twitch as if they are truly connected to his head. Your fingers twitch themselves in response, that urge to touch and feel them again.

“I just thought,” he begins, slowly at first as if testing the waters, “that you need to relax and get pampered after that difficult mission you've just had.”

The words percolate in your mind and you scrabble for an appropriate reply to that. To be fair to the man, Xavier is sweet thinking of your well-being like that. Or maybe he's guilty that he wasn't there to help during that corgipocalypse of a week. Regardless of his intent, you have to ask:

“You thought I need to relax and your solution is to dress up as a bunny butler?”

He has the gall to think about it at length. “Yes, my lady.”

You don't miss the way he spreads his legs a little wider at that.

And really—you're only human, with wants and needs and desires. It just so happens that the common denominator of those three aspects point to the ridiculous man before you, in that ridiculous bunny butler getup that you secretly love and hope to see again. Which—yeah, it's definitely the perfect solution.

Stomping your hesitation and pride, you stride towards the bed, and Xavier, watching your every step, reclines further, giving you space for you to place your knee on the soft mattress, between his legs.

The bedfoam dips, and he shifts to avoid sinking down the indent your knee makes. Your other knee follows, and you move towards him until the heat of his inner thighs touch the outer sides of yours.

At the proximity between the two of you, Xavier tips forward, and in spite of your positions he doesn't need to tilt his head much upward to meet your deliberating gaze. An anticipatory sharpness falls on his expression and, oh, you realize, he must've wanted this too.

Which is all that you need to fall into this completely.

And it's a transformation: a reshifting of limbs and the straightening of spine, something like a lock unlatching.

“Mr. Bunny Butler,” you begin, low and relishing and shy of being predatory, “bow your head.”

Xavier's nostrils flare at that. After a couple of seconds he complies, and seeing the sliver of his exposed nape opens something within you.

Against your shoulder the bunny ears snag, their length not allowing to fall along Xavier's pose. You bring one hand up to trace an invisible line across an ear, the fur short and soft. Xavier's quiet beneath you, but you can feel him stiffening at your every move. Braced a little behind his sides, his hands clench tightly.

“Can you feel it?” you ask, pinching the colored tip of the ear, pushing it back to observe its make. It's well-made, and you wonder if this one costs more than you'd expect.

Xavier shakes his head. You want to hear him, however, so you tap the back of his head in warning. He exhales loudly; breathes out, “No ...” and then tacking on: “Master.”

Your eyes narrow in pleasure, the flesh of your cheeks bunching from how wide your smile is. “That's my good bunny,” you praise him, caressing the curve of his head. He shivers—whether from the praise or the touch or both, you don't know.

To see him like this—a formidable hunter with centuries of experience, the force of stars pulsing underneath his skin, ready to rupture at his command—head bent low before you, hands closed in restrained fists, the lines of his body intersecting into a show of surrender. Yielding. It heats the core of your belly and your blood, and you can't help but bite your lip as you savor the image.

Leaning back and sitting on your calves, you catch Xavier's downcast stare. His brows furrowed as if concentrating, and when he notices you trained on him, his eyes do something that reminds you of the existence of the concept of puppy dog eyes.

Every time he does that, you think, you want to gobble him up.

Closing in on his face, you raise your left hand and cradle his jaw, tipping it up, gazes never leaving each other. Then you draw nearer, and nearer, until your lips almost brush against his. The sharp sound of his inhale is deafening in this lack of distance. Your eyes never leave his, but his drop down, nearly crossing, as he's distracted by your lips. His breaths are hot on your skin, and finally you aim at the corner of his mouth, and open your own to say:

“Don't move.”

And then you descend, trailing butterfly kisses along the edge of his lips, his cheek, his temple. Xavier goes spine-rigid at the first contact, forgetting to breathe for a second, before slowly exhaling, as if trying to hold himself together. His brows knit again and his eyes flutter closed, the line of his lips sloping downward.

He's controlling himself. And that delights you so much that you shift to kiss his earlobe and tug it once, then whispering directly to his ear, “That's my obedient bunny. Keep this up and I'll reward you.”

You stop to wait, and when nothing happens, you tug his jaw and take a bite at the shell of his ear—he gasps—and continue:

“What do you say?”

Xavier's shoulders lurch. He breathes once, twice, before answering.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Good boy.”

The first reward: a kiss on the lips. A quick, initial press before you pry him open with tongue, and he welcomes you eagerly from the way he surges to meet you. The hand on his face holds him back, but his own hands fly to your hips and plant themselves there.

You slap them away, he resists. You break the kiss, and he makes a disappointed sound, chasing you, and then realizes what he's done.

“I'm sorry—my lady,” he stumbles, putting his hands back in their previous position. He looks so properly chastised, you love it.

Outwardly, you sigh in disappointment, and he whips his head up, stricken. “After I said that you're obedient, you do this. What shall we do, Mr. Bunny Butler?”

“What—” He swallows. “What do you want me to do, my lady?”

In all the times you've tried to fluster him, Xavier doesn't really redden. At best his skin produces a soft sheen of pink across his cheeks that linger over his ears. Never tomato-red though.

But now, his face glows bright pink that gradiates to a noticeable crimson, ending at the tips of his ears. This is good development, you decide, something that you want more of. So you push further.

“Are you truly sorry, Mr. Bunny Butler?”

He nods meekly.

“Then”—a finger pokes at the center of his forehead and pushes, his head docilely tilting back, exposing his slender, beautiful neck—“don't move this time.”

You slip two fingers under his tie and pull it loose. The unobstructed slide of the silken fabric echoes around the room, punctuated by the hitch of his breath. The bunny ears jerk. To his credit, he's still as a statue, and the giddiness that you've been feeling for a while now mounts to a dull yet insistent ache that pools between your legs.

Then you unbutton his collar, which reveals more of that pretty neck. An alarmed sound forms in his throat, and you call his name in warning. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows whatever he's about to say.

And that Adam's apple becomes your next target: your mouth molds around it, sucking, and Xavier gives a full-body shudder. A groan bursts out of him. He's trembling, his hands—leather-gloved and creaking at the strain of his fists—his thighs, his shoulders. You can see how he wants to turn his head, to retreat from your hot mouth, but thinks himself the better of it.

You place your left hand under his head and kiss him under the angle of his left jaw.

“Ah—”

With your free hand, you trace down the outline of his neck to shoulder. His breath catches, he jolts away, his eyes shoot you a betrayed look.

“My lady—”

You plant another kiss in the dip of his collarbone. “What does Mr. Bunny Butler want?” you ask against his moist skin.

He releases a shuttered exhale. Behind you, his legs move in a way that comes across as avoidant, as if he's hiding something from you. You glance down and realize the reason for his discomfort.

Saliva pools in your mouth.

But you swallow the surging desire ignited by the image of his arousal. It isn't time yet; you want to draw this out as long as you can.

Head still tipped back, Xavier doesn't see your discovery of his want, his eyes half-mast and his focus directed on reining himself in. If you remove yourself from the scene and study him from head to toe, you'd find Xavier the perfect picture of temptation, restrained, controlled on the surface but a collapsing star underneath, gravity pulling you to him and there's no way to escape.

Not that you'd like to escape in the first place.

You repeat your question, this time against his Adam's apple: “What does Mr. Bunny Butler want?”

“My la—” He chokes. Tries again. “Whatever my lady wants.”

Ah. Such a good bunny.

Your hands drift down to the next closed button. His tie is loosened enough that you can remove it in one hard tug. And isn't that a nice thought: one strong pull and he's dragged along by the force, his lips inevitably landing on your lips, a welcome collision.

But you don't follow that path; instead, your hands drop lower, to the last button of his waistcoat. The sides of your hands brush against the seam of his pants, dangerously close to his already obvious bulge, and it dawns on Xavier that you're already aware of his worldly response, if the widening of his eyes is an indication. He whips his head to shoot you a meaningful look, as if begging you to ignore his lapse of control—as if that is an unwelcome development.

Sometimes, you think, Xavier wants to show you a side of him that only exudes assurance, a sharp blade and sturdy shield that envelop you in sidereal protection. Be it from outside forces and his own—and even yours. Physical dangers, most especially, but curiously enough: information. Knowledge. The matters of the past. The matters of the heart. The both of you may have confessed that day, the words of your promises embedded in your heart like an oath under the stars, but there are times when a shadow passes through Xavier's expression, and he seems so far away. Light-years away.

But right now, that thought isn't at the forefront of your mind: it is the way the redness climbs up his neck, his face, his cheeks, painting him a beautiful hue that reminds you of a recently blossomed rose. He truly is gorgeous this way.

One of his hands encloses around yours, stopping your ministrations. Minute tremors hum under his callused palm.

“I'm—” A quick breath. “I'm supposed to serve you, my lady.”

Ah. Truly such a good bunny.

You capitulate, hands retreating from the button of his pants, but not before caressing his trembling hand and squeezing it once. An indulgent smile unfurls in the line of your lips, and you make a snap decision.

The second reward: freedom. Xavier has expressed his desire to serve, to please, and you'll give him the freedom to choose how to enact it—

Under a specific instruction, of course.

“Yes, of course,” you say, tapping his warm cheek fondly with your index finger. “Serve me, then, Mr. Bunny Butler. Strip for me. Slowly.”

He catches that finger quickly with his mouth, bites it lightly, like it's a warning—or a promise. You let him nibble and lick your finger for a couple of seconds, the wetness sending electricity down your spine, and you can't stop the shiver that echoes throughout your body. Xavier narrows his eyes in satisfaction at your response, hints of a smirk around his lips, and that's insubordination if you saw one. So you snatch your finger away from him, and punish him by dragging your wet finger along the column of his neck.

He jumps at the sensation.

“Strip, Xavier,” you repeat firmly. “Make sure it's a good show.”

It just proves how dedicated he is at this roleplay: by this point he should have already ended this little act and would have taken over, but he's holding your critical gaze as his hands settle over the topmost button of his vest.

“I'll try, my lady.” His voice drops to a low, husky murmur, one that summons pinpricks down your nape and the back of your shoulders, crawling in a slow, deliberate tease.

He does try, indeed. He moves back, affording you space to see his torso without having to change your position. One hand to brace his weight, the other deftly maneuvering each button at a comfortable pace. For every button opened, he takes a deep breath, gives you a confident smile, albeit awkward at the edges. But the rhythm of it lulls you, and you find yourself playing with his bunny ears again—a right decision, because he makes a surprised sound, which morphs into a moan.

The returned proximity grants you the ghostly brushes of his knuckles against your clothed stomach when he opens another button. Because of this, the way your stomach contracts every time he brushes you becomes known to him, and Xavier huffs a laugh, and proceeds to be more purposeful with it.

You tug at his bunny ear, hard. “Mr. Bunny Butler,” you warn.

His shrugs his vest off as his reply.

Now, only left with shirt and tie, Xavier stares down at them, thinking about what to do next. You help him by pushing yourself flush against him, making sure that your thigh grazes his cock. He judders, shoving his face on the crook of your neck and groaning. Idly, you continue playing with the furred ears.

“My lady, my lady,” he mutters, and you feel him sighing, “don't tease me.”

You hum. “Then put more effort in your show.”

He peeks up at you under those pretty yet underhanded lashes of his, and you spy hints of a smirk in that mouth.

But before you can question him about it, a hand grabs yours and guides it to his tie, wraps it around the silk fabric, and pulls. Slowly, carefully. From this angle more skin is revealed under your wandering gaze—the tease of a nipple, flashing beneath that white shirt—and you gulp at the flutter in your belly.

Once the necktie is completely off him, he takes it from your hand and, indeed like a show, re-ties it around his neck, a ribboned gift. At this point you're ready to combust—and he's not even naked.

“Do you like it, my lady?”

“Yes,” you rasp, suddenly off-kilter, “very much.”

“Then ...” He resumes undressing, the buttons of his shirt easily extricated, his movements economical, and bit by bit his bare torso opens before your anticipatory eyes.

He stops at the tucked-in part of the shirt. Glances at you, bites his lip, and goes back to pull the front off so the shirt opens just below his shoulders, presenting you such a gorgeous view.

Xavier sinks into the propped-up pillows—and you unconsciously follow—and smiles. “All yours, Master.”

He knows—that little shit—the allure of incomplete nakedness. The gap, the gape, the patches of exposed skin surrounded by fabric. Xavier's using it to his utmost advantage.

By now you could have clawed his clothes away from his body, but somehow, this tastes more delicious, the promise of a tease, the prolonged heat-pulse that thrums in your core, and you're pretty sure, if Xavier's shallow breaths are an indication, that he's into this too.

Well. May as well take advantage of this luxurious present.

One hand descends on the side of his neck, and you see him tamp down the surprised jolt. This hand, light in its touch, ghostly, virtual, traces the edges of the necktie. You can hear Xavier's bated breath, waiting for your next step.

Then down, down, down to his collarbone, the dip of it, your index finger making laps twice, end to end.

Then further: his chest. And this time, it's not only your hand that wants to participate. You brace yourself on his shoulder and bend down to kiss the center of his chest. Xavier lets out a sound, and inhales sharply.

Next: his left nipple, with an additional teasing nip. His hips buck from the sensation.

You stay where you are, lifting your gaze to ascertain his expression. His head is turned away, hiding his face, a hand covering half of it. But it's useless for him to hide, because his ear is in your direct line of vision, and it's a glaring red.

This propels you to indulge more: the hand on his shoulder slides down to pay his other nipple attention. His legs shift, restless. The sounds of his gasps and moans occupy the room. You feast on him, laying your tongue flat on him and dragging it wetly until you hear him stutter your name.

“M-My lady—I—”

You surge forward, and the force topples the stack of pillows behind him. In the midst of this, you reposition your legs so that you're finally straddling Xavier, your skirt bunching up just below your waist, and—teasingly—grind against his straining cock.

He jerks, grabbing at your hips, attempting at more friction, but you remind him who's in charge, and he eventually relents, taking deep breaths to calm himself.

“Sorry about that, my lady. I'm—I'm good now.”

“That's my good bunny.” Then you continue exploring his body with your tongue.

He tastes faintly of sweat but also the scent-taste of his body wash. He's showered just before calling you up. And for some reason, that does you: you rise to kiss him again, and your free hand sneaks itself under him—and grabs his bunny tail.

Xavier yelps, scarlet, shocked at the action, gaping at you and your smug face.

You squeeze the fluffy ball of a tail in response.

“M-My lady...!” he blurts.

“Shame that I didn't get to play with this last time,” you muse, feeling up the soft thing. It twitches under your curious touch. Delighted, you shift around Xavier's torso to lift his hips and study and poke at the tail repeatedly, entranced at the bounce and fuzziness of it. “A wasted opportunity, don't you think so?”

When you check Xavier's reaction, you have to hold back your laugh. He's clearly uncomfortable, but the discomfort is brought upon by embarrassment, as evidenced by his squirming and the persistence of his blush.

Words have left him, so he just averts your leery gaze, bury his face into the nearest pillow, and groans.

Taking pity on him, you release his tail—but not without giving it one last flick; he jolts—and slide your hands around the waistband of his pants. You're fumbling for the button and then the zipper when two gloved hands hinder your actions.

Xavier's face is rearranged into an indulgent yet mischievous smile. “My lady can enjoy me as long as you like. There's no need to hurry.”

But that's the thing, isn't it? You have already enjoyed him so much and enough that at one point things are bound to snap. He as your focal point of your want, the desire that thrums alongside your veins, almost like blood.

“But Mr. Bunny Butler,” you start, adopting a light, airy voice and tilting your head up at him, “there are a lot of things to enjoy from you. I'm not sure if one evening would do.”

Before Xavier can even get a word edgewise, you tear his pants open and yank his boxers down, freeing his cock.

“My la—”

His cock is a firm, solid weight on your hand, and Xavier bucks at the first contact, a halfway gasp ripping out of him. You watch his reactions as you stroke him slowly—painfully slowly, tantalizingly slowly—as your other hand crawl up his waist, flat palm spanning his side.

You know, intellectually and objectively, that Xavier is pretty. Gunmetal-grey hair that shimmers under the starry night sky. His smooth, unlined skin that you're harboring unholy envy for, soft under your curious fingers, almost pristine, untouched all his life. The column of his neck, strong bones underneath the layer of skin and muscle, the prominence of his Adam's apple. The outline of his body—even and proportioned, balanced like a finely crafted sword. And most of all: his eyes, the most expressive part of all of him. The color of an unperturbed sky, always clear and never lost. A steady glister in the darkness.

Right now, though, he's different altogether. Almost otherworldly in the way he's unraveling under your clever fingers. A shift of pressure and he's biting down the meat of his hand in a poor attempt to muffle his groans. A fleeting trail across the slit of his cock and his eyes flutter shut, his hips jumping off the mattress. He thrashes in chase of the pressure and pleasure you're providing him in crumbs, your need to see him lose that frustrating control of his. You keep stroking him and watching him blossom before you, petal by petal, limb by limb, nerve by nerve.

“My lady—” He's panting, running out of breath, his voice gaining that frenzied quality. It's music to your ears. “Master—Master, haa—”

He's coming, you can feel it. You can see it through his quickening breaths, the flush of his skin all over his body, the white-knuckled fist of his hands, the throb of his cock.

“My lady, I'm co—”

You release him, and the slow transformation of his face is such a fascinating phenomenon. From the crunch of pleasure, then crumpling into confusion. He raises his head to see you leaning back, hands away from him, his hazy eyes taking in what's happening—or its lack of. Then they widen, his mouth dropping open to release a sound of distress, round and full and cracking.

“Why did you ...”

You tug at the ends of the ribbon-necktie. He clicks his mouth shut.

“You said I can enjoy you as long as I like. There's no need to hurry.”

His gaze finally clears, and he gulps, nodding. Near your hips, Xavier's cock leaks.

“Then ...” You lay on top of him, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, your belly pressing against his pulsing cock (he freezes at this, and then continues to freeze), and place your arms on the sides of his head so your hands can reach the bunny ears. They still react delightfully under your roaming touch. “I'm going to enjoy these a little more. Don't move too much, okay?”

The room becomes pinched with quiet, and while you're intent on the furry ears atop Xavier's head, you can sense in your periphery his eyes on you. He's careful not to jostle you, the air he breathes catching on your skin, and you feel his arms snaking around your waist, settling on the small of your back.

“You really like the costume that much, huh.”

You hum in acknowledgment, rubbing the area where accessory meets scalp. You scratch it with your light fingernails, and Xavier sighs at the feeling.

When you leave the ears, you turn your attention to Xavier's expression next. He's still observing you, his flush now pale but enduringly distinct across his cheeks, and that entices you to meet his lips in a slow, patient kiss.

“It's nice, seeing you go through such effort to make me happy,” you answer him after you separate, punctuating the statement with a pleased, narrow-eyed smile.

A thought takes over Xavier, with the way his brows knit. Moments pass, you regard him, until he finally opens his mouth to articulate whatever has occupied him.

“My lady,” he begins, hesitant at first, but each word gains confidence, “there's something I want to do for you.”

“Speak.”

“I want you to”—and here his stare morphs into that puppy dog eyes again—“sit on my face. Please.”

You're stunned. The room continues to be quiet, and you're stunned. Xavier doesn't add anything after that; just waiting for your response. He's probably not sensing how you've finally shut down. You, felled by nine words, the last one an imperative period that brooked no refusal.

When he calls you, his face and his voice are tinted with uncertainty.

“Stars, Xavier.” You scramble up to reposition yourselves in accordance to his request. During this transitory moment, Xavier removes his gloves with his teeth. Now bare, both his hands come up to hold your thighs from behind, adjusting their spread and angle. You want to whine self-consciously, but glimpsing Xavier's eager expression as you move towards his head, you stamp that part in your mind. “Okay down there?”

He doesn't reply—instead he just goes for it.

Your hands shoot for the headboard, a surprised cry shocked out of you. Is this Xavier's way of revenge for denying his orgasm earlier? The way he confronts you is not unlike a battle, with his single-minded focus on his goal and his preciseness. He parts your folds with his tongue, pays attention to your clit first: sucks it lightly before dialing it up. You convulse, your hips digging down, and he moans, the vibration thrumming your flesh.

“Xavier,” you sob, “Xavier. Xavier.”

He laps around your clit like a thirsty man, hands kneading your thighs. He must've been thinking about this for a while now, with how methodical he's going by it, strategized to push you into becoming a complete and utter wreck. He kisses your clit then mouths it, moves his tongue in lateral glides that have you thrashing on your position. You grind against him, and he welcomes it wholeheartedly, and behind you his hips thrust helplessly in air, his stubbornly hard cock drooling with pre-come.

One hand nudges you forward and you follow, until his tongue enters inside you—you gasp and shiver at the slick intrusion—drinks you with such loudness that you wouldn't be surprised if his neighbors overhear what the two of you have been doing.

He knows how to prolong the barrage of pleasure, that heat and swell around your core, your undulating hips, sustained until you buckle and collapse from the force of it, your orgasm torrential like a storm.

When Xavier emerges between your legs, his face shines from your slick and his saliva. A fond smile slips out of you, and a finger traces the length of his lips; then your entire hand, cupping the side of his face, a tender caress. A smile of his own appears and he nuzzles your hand, kisses the center of your palm, eyes closed and sated.

“Good boy,” you praise, and he sighs happily. “So good for me. Have to reward you, don't I?”

The third reward: release. You move back to pull his pants and boxers off him completely, and Xavier just watches you with anticipation, breaths in quick bursts.

“You know the drill: don't move.” You underline this order with a tease of his cock, a line-trail from the tip to the base and then a quick squeeze of his balls.

When you align yourself above him and begin to sink down, Xavier goes rigid-stiff, daring not to breathe, careful not to move. You pause from your progress, and send him a worried look.

“Xavier?”

“I—I'm—” He bites his lip, exhales through his nose. “I'm okay, I just. I'm just trying not to react too much.”

“Why?”

He casts you a helpless gaze. “Because, my lady, I'm afraid that my control would slip, and I would have my selfish way with you.”

You falter at that. To be honest that's not such a bad idea at all, but Xavier knows that this is for you and your needs, and what you need right now—and what you want, if one were to ask—is him under you, at your mercy. Just as he is right now.

So you move lower, feeling the head of his cock open you up, slowly. And you can hear the hitching breaths unwittingly made by him, his eyes shut and his whole expression folded inward, as if he couldn't handle the pleasure descending over him.

A groan tumbles out of his lips, low at first, quick and fleeting, but as you inch lower and lower, the feel of his cock molding you inside, the wanton sounds he makes lengthens, gets louder, until he parts those glistening lips and vocalizes his satisfaction.

“My lady—you feel so—”

“Good, I hope.”

He doesn't wait until you bottom out; he bucks his hips to sheathe himself inside you completely in one smooth motion. You cry out from his action, his cock pulsing against your walls, and the feeling of him pulls you in further bliss that your eyes flutter closed and your back arches as the pleasure spreads throughout your body.

“The best, my lady.”

He gasps when you clench around him, your wetness dripping between your joined bodies.

You really think the best position Xavier has ever been is here right now: underneath you, helpless to your demands, seized by pleasure that you're giving him and taking from him. The way his face doesn't know what to do in the undulating waves of pressure as you begin to move above him, your hips lifting and then slamming back down; the film of sweat coating his skin all over, moistening the sheets beneath the two of you. The severe grip of his hands, bunching up the blankets in their deathly clutch. His rapid heartbeat under your palm as you support your weight by bracing yourself on his chest. His moans, his filthy, filthy moans—his moans that you will remember until your dying day because they are so far out of his cultivated normalcy—open-mouthed, slack-jawed moans that come from the core of his abdomen, surging upwards, frantic, crazed, melodiously and sublimely wanton.

“Look at you, Xavier,” you pant, and one of Xavier's legs kicks out. “Look at my bunny butler.”

“Master—Master—”

“What do you want, darling?” you ask, shakily tracing the side of his face. When your fingers near his mouth he turns his head to place a kiss at your fingertips, then drags his tongue out to lick at their length. Your index and middle fingers press flat at his tongue, and he groans around them. His puffs of breath beat in time with the movement of your hips.

One hand crawls towards your thigh, haltingly slides upwards, up to the junction of your hips, where it disappears under the spill of your skirt. Then it reaches behind to squeeze at the meat of your ass, and you gasp, stuttering your pace.

You take out your fingers so he can answer you, but Xavier grabs your wrist with his other hand and brings it back to his lips, trails kisses on each finger, murmurs nonsensical things against your saliva-coated skin until, louder, he tells you—

“Everything you can give me, my lovely Master.”

And, oh, isn't that a wonderful thing to hear? That readiness of his—be it in battle or in bed, he rolls with everything you throw at him, as though there's nothing that can taint you in his eyes, no betrayal to feel forsaken by. As though all that he's done, all that he's doing, is in service to you.

And it's because of this that you use the same hand to cup at his jaw and jerk it in your direction, bowing down to kiss him, bite his lower lip, thrust your tongue inside, lick the roof of his mouth, suck his own tongue—devour him fully and utterly.

He meets your intent with his own, just as intense, just as parched and hungry as you are for him. Every exhale is accompanied by a soft sigh, and you swallow his every sound—that lovely and soothing voice that lingers in your mind and haunts the edges of your dreams. His reaction just drives you to speed up your pace.

He's trembling all over, and tries to shift the angle from which you're riding him. Doing so affords his cock to hit something inside you, lighting up your body, starburst behind your eyelids, and you jolt, a whimper tearing out of your throat that Xavier drinks greedily. His hand on your ass traverses to your clit and plays with it, intensifying the blast of sensations on your lower body.

Obstructed by your mouth, Xavier tries: “My lady, I think—I'm close.”

“Me too, I'm—don't hold back—”

He doesn't. And he doubles his efforts in relentlessly stroking your clit and pounding up inside you, and the pleasure crests and crests and crests until you pulse and clench and come, sobbing at the white-hot crash flooding your nerves, collapsing on top of Xavier, mouths still connected.

And he doesn't stop. This time both his hands bracket your hips; grinds you down as he pushes deeper and deeper inside you. You're oversensitive but you don't stop him, just clinging to him and whimpering, and he begins to assail your ear, his panting tangible and hot against your skin.

“My lady, my lady,” he chants, voice shattering like glass. “My lady—Master—”

His orgasm feels like an echo of your own release, his spend filling inside you. Xavier gives a few more thrusts before slowing down and stopping. A self-satisfied sigh ripples over his relaxed body, and his hands climb to your back, guide you to pillow your head on his chest, embracing you as you melt on top of him.

Minutes pass, and his breathing evens; you expected him to fall asleep after, but when you look up his eyes are emphatically open.

“Aren't you sleeping?”

He glances down at you. Quirks a smile. “No, not yet.”

“Oh ...”

“We're not finished, my lady.”

“Huh?”

“You've had your fill, Master.” He smirks. Then flips you over, reversing your positions so he's now on top of you. He starts unbuttoning your shirt. “Now let me have mine.”

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fic #LaD fic #love and deepspace smut #LaD smut #love and deepspace xavier #LaD x reader #love and deepspace x reader #LaD xavier #nsft #fic #my fic #shen xinghui my beloved

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lostyesterday · 6 months

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As a visually disabled person myself, one thing I wish TNG had done with Geordi is show his disability actually affecting how he functions in his daily life. For example, I can’t remember a single time in TNG where Geordi is shown as needing accommodations in his work environment. You might say that’s because his visor means that he can basically “see” normally and so he wouldn’t need accommodations, but I find this explanation frustrating.

For one thing, real life visually disabled people absolutely require accommodations to do most jobs, so if Geordi’s meant to be any kind of accurate reflection of the experiences of blind people, he should require some accommodations. For me at least, it isn’t some kind of wish fulfillment fantasy to see a visually disabled character who can do anything a sighted person can with no accommodations whatsoever. Instead, it feels like a denial of everything that being disabled has meant to me over my life. Disabled people are disabled. We have more difficulty doing certain tasks than an able-bodied person would – that’s what makes us disabled. We require changes to our environment in order to function well.

Also, literally just based on the in-universe information given about Geordi’s visor, it doesn’t make any sense to me that he wouldn’t require accommodations. Geordi’s visor is not really described as simulating vision, it is described as providing completely different sensory information about the physical properties of the world around him. I like to imagine the visor’s input as a kind of enhanced spatial awareness with a precise knowledge of where certain objects are, what their shape is, and what they’re made of. As TNG mentions several times, Geordi’s visor provides much more information than human eyes do, but, importantly, in the few episodes where the details of how Geordi’s visor works are discussed at all, it’s never described as providing purely visual information such as the color or reflectiveness of an object. I think that if Geordi faces a mirror, his visor will tell him there’s a piece of glass in front of him and he’ll know about how large it is and what material it’s made of, but he won’t be able to see his reflection in it, because the visor doesn’t provide that kind of visual information. This distinction is important to me, because it means that Geordi is still functionally blind with the visor, and it should mean that he interacts with the world differently from a sighted person.

For example, I would have loved if Geordi had been shown to be unable to recognize particular people until they spoke. All his visor tells him is that there’s a person in front of him and about what size and shape they are, but this isn’t generally enough information to determine a person’s identity. He canonically perceives Data as looking very different from an organic person which makes sense because Data is made of fully different material. And maybe Geordi can generally tell different species apart based on different body temperatures or something like that. But I really wish that Geordi had been shown at least a few times to need the sound of a person’s voice or some other cue to tell him who they were.

I also think it doesn’t make sense that Geordi can apparently read text on computer screens. How can he read if the visor doesn’t really provide visual information? A computer screen should just register as a flat piece of material. Geordi should have required some kind of accommodation to be able to use the computer screens. For example, maybe Geordi could use the computer entirely through voice commands, something that obviously already exists in the star trek world. Or he could use some kind of tactile display. The Voyager episode The Year of Hell shows that computer terminals on starships are able to utilize a tactile display that I’m guessing is somewhat similar to braille. I loved this mention in Voyager of tactile displays, because it indicates that Starfleet ships are probably automatically equipped with such accessibility devices. Geordi needing an accommodation as small as this would have gone really far in terms of making him feel like a genuine representation of a disabled character, at least to me.

#star trek tng #geordi la forge #star trek voy #i really like geordi as a character and there are some things i think tng did fairly well in regards to him as a disabled character #but i also have criticisms and this is one of my big ones #if anyone has any opinions on this or honestly about anything relating to disability in star trek i'd love to hear your thoughts #even if you disagree with me!#lane posts

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spiderfreedom · 3 months

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Why women presented as men, in their own words

Most of these working-class women appear to have begun their "masculine" careers not because they had an overwhelming passion for another woman and wanted to be a man to her, but rather because of economic necessity or a desire for adventure beyond the narrow limits that they could enjoy as women. But once the sexologists became aware of them, they often took such women or those who showed any discontent whatsoever with their sex roles for their newly conceptualized model of the invert, since they had little difficulty believing in the sexuality of women of that class, and they assumed that a masculine-looking creature must also have a masculine sex instinct.

Autobiographical accounts of transvestite women or those who assumed a masculine demeanor suggest, if they can be believed at all, that the women's primary motives were seldom sexual. Many of them were simply dramatizing vividly the frustrations that so many more women of their class felt. They sought private solutions to those frustrations, since there was no social movement of equality for them such as had emerged for middle-class women. Lucy Ann Lobdell, for example, who passed as a man for more than ten years in the mid-nineteenth century, declared in her autobiography: "I feel that I cannot submit to all the bondage with which woman is oppressed," and explained that she made up her mind to leave her home and dress as a man to seek labor because she would "work harder at housework, and only get a dollar per week, and I was capable of doing men's work and getting men's wages." "Charles Warner," an upstate New York woman who passed as a man for most of her life, explained that in the 1860s:

“When I was about twenty I decided that I was almost at the end of my rope. I had no money and a woman's wages were not enough to keep me alive. I looked around and saw men getting more money and more work, and more money for the same kind of work. I decided to become a man. It was simple. I just put on men's clothing and applied for a man's job. I got it and got good money for those times, so I stuck to it”

A transvestite woman who could actually pass as a man had male privileges and could do all manner of things other women could not: open a bank account, write checks, own property, go anywhere[…]

Ralph Kerwinieo (nee Cora Anderson), an American Indian woman who found employment for years as a man and claimed that she "legally" married another woman in order to "protect" her from the sexist world, also expressed feminist awareness for her decision to pass as a man:

“This world is made by man—for man alone.... In the future centuries it is probable that woman will be the owner of her own body and the custodian of her own soul. But until that time you can expect that the statutes [concerning] women will be all wrong. The well-cared for woman is a parasite, and the woman who must work is a slave.... Do you blame me for wanting to be a man-free to live as a man in a man-made world? Do you blame me for hating to again resume a woman's clothes?”

There must have been many women, with or without a sexual interest in other women, who would have answered her two questions with a resounding "no!"

From “Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers.” The economic reason for women to pass as men is almost never mentioned, funny that!

#mypost #radical feminism #lesbian women #bookcitation #the more things seem to change #gnc women #100 notes tag

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plussizefantasia · 6 months

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Ancient Races

Flufftober Day 28: Witches

Emmett Cullen x witch!reader

Word Count: 1.3k

AN: I think I've said this a lot but this is one of my favorites that I've written for Flufftober. Emmett has got to be my favorite himbo and the fact that he's a vampire really only makes it better.

I'm still looking for more requests for when I come back if you have any ideas please let me know. Reblogs and Feedback are always appreciated. See y'all tomorrow.

divider credit @royallaesthetics

Magic has been running through your family’s veins for centuries. Generation after generation of bright young witches who had powers beyond the scope of the rest of humanity. You were taught by your mother, and she hers and so on and so on. When you were five, your father got a job as the deputy sheriff in the small town of Forks Washington. Your mother didn’t argue and so within the month, you were in a new house.

Thinking about it now, you were sure that there had to be some kind of destiny out there, a deity of fate that pulled the strings of existence. There had to be some magnificent tapestry where all the threads of life were woven together just so as to create a beautiful picture. There was no other explanation for how things seemed to work out.

You met Emmet on his first day back at Forks High, this would be his fourth time going to this high school but it had been close to fifty years since he last stepped through their doors. The building looked different but not by much. You were walking into the building, with your arms full of books, looking like the textbook definition of a nerd. Emmett had been walking backward, not really watching where he was going and talking to Edward and Jasper. The two of you had collided. Your books fell to the ground, but you were pulled into his large chest. And thus, the best friendship you had ever had began.

There was only one problem, you couldn’t tell him about anything about your magical abilities. At first, it wasn’t a very big deal you weren’t spending a whole lot of time together and he was easily persuaded into meeting on days when you didn’t have lessons with your mother. As the two of you got closer though, it became more and more difficult to hide.

When you turned 17, you started having a bit more difficulty controlling your magic. It tended to burst out of you when you were feeling strong emotions, especially anger. You didn’t have a huge temper but it was known to flare occasionally. You got good at lying. And every time you lied to Emmett your heart broke a little bit more.

It had gotten to the point where you no longer cared about the rules of secrecy or the laws that your kind was bound by. You just wanted him back, you wanted to be yourself with Emmett because if you were being completely honest with yourself, he was no longer just your best friend. You were in love with him, and the thought of losing him because you had to keep hiding things was heartbreaking.

You had no idea that Emmett was feeling the very same way. When he had bumped into you that fateful day three years ago, his eternal existence shifted. You became the center of his world. He craved being near you, having you in his sight, and hearing your heartbeat. Knowing that you were safe and happy became his only goal. He tried so hard to let you take the pace, holding himself back from fully unleashing his feelings on you. But deep down he knew that he wouldn’t be able to last forever. So here he was, begging Carlsie for advice on how to tell you. He didn’t want to enter into a relationship with you that was shadowed by secrets.

If he was going to have you, he would have you being himself, with everything out in the open.

“Carlisle, I’m telling you. She’s everything to me. I cannot move on without her in my life. She needs to know everything.”

“Son, I know that you think that but-”

“No. Carlisle, she's my mate I know it.”

“Okay. I believe you. If you’re going to tell her you’ll need to make sure that she stays calm. I know that you love her, but humans are unpredictable. We cannot risk getting exposed.”

“I know. She’ll take it well I know she will.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Carlisle asked. Pulling his adopted son into his arms for a brief but strong hug. Emmett didn’t need any more convincing than that, he hopped in his car and immediately made his way over to your house.

You were upstairs in your room pacing a hole into your carpet trying to think of ways you could tell the boy you loved that you not only wanted to spend the rest of your life with him but that you were also a witch with emotionally charged powers who was going to live much longer than the average human. Your pacing was interrupted by several loud and fast knocks on your front door.

You raced down the staircase to see who was at the door and when it swung open you were met with the sight of an extremely flustered Emmett Cullen.

“Em, what are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?” He asked instead of answering you.

“Of course,” you stepped aside and he pished past you, “What’s going on Em? You’re kind of freaking me out.”

“I have something really important to tell you and I need you to not panic.”

“Saying that is not going to make me not panic.” You deadpanned. “But I also have something important to tell you so maybe we can take turns?” You suggested. Grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the large couch that took up a majority of the floor in your living room.

“Take turns, yeah.” He muttered to himself. The two of you were sitting close, things touching and staring at each other. Waiting for the other one to make the first move.

“Okay, here goes nothing. I’m, I’m a witch.” Your eyes bounced between your lap where your hands were folded, Emmett’s face to gauge his reaction, and the clock on the wall to count the seconds of silence that ensued.

Finally, “Oh thank god.” Emmett breathed out.

“What?” You were buffering. What did he say?

“No, I. That makes sharing my things a whole lot easier.”

“I’m sorry, Emmett how does me telling you that I belong to an ancient race of magic-wielding women make whatever you have to share easier.”

“Because I’m trying to tell you that I’m also a part of an ancient race. Except my race is immortal creatures of the night that feast on human blood.”

You broke into a series of giggles.

“Go figures. The first boy I fall in love with and he’s a vampire.”

“You love me?”

You froze. You definitely did not mean to just blurt that out, let alone in the middle of a self-deprecating moment of sarcasm.

“Well, if we’re sharing…” You trailed off.

“I love you too.” Emmett’s smile was so wide you were actually convinced that his face would start to split in half. “Is it weird to say that I’m really relieved right now?” He asked

“Depends on why you’re relieved I think.”

“I was convinced that when I told you you’d never want to see me again. But now I know that isn’t going to happen and I’m just so happy.”

“I’m happy too, Em. I was so tired of keeping secrets from you. It hurt when I lied to you and I thought it was just because you were my best friend but it was so much more than that.”

“C’mere” Emmett grabbed you by the waist and hauled you onto his lap. “You were made for me. I’m never going to let you go.” He whispered into the small space between your faces. You pushed forward and gently placed your lips onto his. Pulling away way too soon for either of your liking. You moved your head to rest on his shoulder, your face pressed against his neck.

“We’ll have forever.”

“Forever sounds good to me.”

You laughed softly once more and pressed a kiss lightly to the skin of his neck. Forever sounded pretty good to you too.

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