#None of my thoughts are in the bible right now
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actual-changeling · 1 year ago
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everyone is lusting over david tennant in his black suits but this is my roman empire, she is for the lesbians and the lesbians only and this picture has changed my brain chemistry forever
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cherienymphe · 7 months ago
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Lead Us Not Into Temptation
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Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader
Warnings: NON-CON, mentions of prostitution, mentions of infidelity
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies 
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summary: turning your life around is easier said than done when you tempt the very man meant to lead you to salvation.
“Bless me, father, for I have sinned…”
The familiar words tumbled from your lips, and your gaze remained on your lap, eyes following your finger as you traced patterns into the solid black skirt on your frame. It kissed your ankle as you shifted your feet, and the reminder of the long fabric had you swallowing down less than gentle thoughts. You slowly reached up to touch the collar of your shirt, eyes briefly falling closed as you cleared your throat.
You’d spent hours agonizing over how you’d leave the house…
“It has been seven days since my last confession. These are my sins.”
Like clockwork, you listed the time you cursed for some accident or another and the time you took the Lord’s name in vain and the brief impure thought about that attractive man you’d seen in the grocery store. Every week, it was the same. Sins that you yourself would never have considered as such months ago that you were now hyper aware of. They climbed out of your throat seamlessly, remembering every single one until only one was left.
The silence between you and the man just on the other side of that wall stretched—a familiar occurrence—and you took your lip between your teeth. You could taste blood as you worried it, swallowing it down before clearing your throat again. You smoothed your hand over your skirt, and you furiously blinked, struggling to blink away the tears that had started to collect. As you sat in silence, you wondered why you were trying so hard to impress people that had already written you off?
“I’ve had…some hateful thoughts as well.”
You struggled to get the words out, always struck by just how emotional this made you. You looked up towards the ceiling, eyes roaming, and you hadn’t even realized that your breathing had started to pick up until he spoke.
Father Mayhew.
“Take your time,” he gently encouraged. “Speak when you are ready.”
It wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words, recalling your first ever confessional and how you’d cried. It was as embarrassing now as it was then, but it was necessary. You were determined to live differently now—to be different, now.
“Although I have abandoned my former life and…occupation…” you thought you heard him shift. “...I feel as if I will never truly be forgiven for it.”
You swiped your tongue between your lips.
“...will never be accepted.”
You recalled the eyes that often found their way to you during mass—the judgment, the disdain, the way in which some stared at you as if they didn’t know how to place you. 
Every sunday it was the same. You’d wake up and agonize over how to present yourself in a place as holy as this. You’d fret that this skirt was too short and that dress was too tight. You’d fiddle with your hair for far too long and every lipstick you wiped off would stain your lips a little more than the last. You were constantly at a crossroad, torn between wanting to look nice for church and concerned about looking like…well…a whore.
You struggled to swallow.
“I see the way they look at me,” you eventually whispered, staring at nothing. “I can’t hear what they whisper, but I know it’s about me.”
You touched your throat, hating how tight it felt.
“It’s…discouraging.”
You didn’t want to use that word, but it was the only word that was appropriate. It made you sad, and you often wondered why you kept returning to a place that made you sad. Surely a church wasn’t necessary to ‘find God’...right? You didn’t think so, but you had wanted to start somewhere, and considering that none of your friends even owned a bible, they had been of no help. Stepping foot into a place that had only ever served to be ominous and oppressive in your eyes was the most terrifying thing you’d ever done.
…but then you had laid eyes on Father Mayhew.
He’d been the only one in the church at the time, and you would never forget the curious glint in his dark gaze. You’d had no doubt that he could see you were scared and unsure and in an environment you were wholly unused to. You’d appreciated the gentle way in which he talked to you, guiding you towards a pew in the front as you asked him questions that some people had answers to their entire lives. He hadn’t treated you like you were stupid, but more importantly, he hadn’t treated you like you didn’t belong.
You were willing to bet that he hadn’t even known about you then.
Although, months later, you were willing to bet that he did now…even though you’d never told him.
“Humans are flawed,” his smooth voice reached your ears through the wall. “We all fall short—even the most devout of us—and we find ourselves falling prey to the temptation of judgment…pride…lust…”
You intently listened. After all, he’d never said these words to you before, always giving you some speech about God’s love trumping all.
“I have no doubt that it is trying, but I am sure you will come to give them grace for their sins just as they will give you grace for yours. We are all God’s children striving to lead a life in his image…”
His voice lowered at that, and you frowned slightly, looking towards the wall and thinking to yourself that he almost seemed to be talking to himself now.
“He wants his children to love one another, a feat that is not without difficulty I’m sure you know…” that actually made you hold back a chuckle. “...but God’s love is powerful and he always grants forgiveness to those who genuinely yearn and ask for it.”
At that, you did smile.
You told him that you were truly sorry for your sins, and he told you to say ten Hail Mary’s, and you stepped out of the confessional feeling better than you did thirty minutes ago. You didn’t know how long the feeling would last though, and so you wanted to hold onto it for as long as you could, but you knew from experience that was easier said than done.
You touched the crucifix around your neck as you stepped out of your building.
It had once belonged to your mother, and despite how long she’d been gone and how down on your luck you’d been ever since, you could never quite find it in you to pawn it. It was real gold—probably the only real piece of jewelry you ever owned—but you just couldn’t do it, and you supposed that you were never meant to. Despite the many years you’d lived life as the complete opposite of a God fearing woman…it felt right sitting just below your collarbone.
Even if many would not agree.
You were no stranger to several men in this town—and the ones who often passed through on their truck routes—but that had not stopped you from seeking solace and guidance from a place you’d never stepped foot into in your life. You couldn’t lie and say it didn’t feel…strange to be in the same building as some of the men you’d serviced before, their wives and children at their side as they furiously avoided making eye contact with you. It felt even worse to watch the way the women would congregate together after church, excluding you all the while talking about you.
It felt somewhat pathetic for your only ally in the place to be the priest.
Although you sometimes wondered how true that was these days. You’d never once confessed that you used to be a prostitute—although the kids called it sex work these days—but you weren’t stupid. As godly and devout as they claimed to be, you knew that the church was filled with gossip and there was no telling who’d let it slip to the dark haired man. You knew when he knew though…
…because he looked at you different.
It wasn’t a bad different—thank God for that—but just…different, and while it wasn’t necessarily bad, you still didn’t think you liked it. Confession—being anonymous—never allowed for you to tell him your name, and considering you’d only ever spoken to him once outside of confession months ago, you didn’t know if he ever knew it was you he was talking to. You didn’t know if he knew that the woman he spoke so gently with each week and listened to cry on the other side of some window was the same woman who often shrunk under his heavy gaze as he looked down on his congregation.
You never felt like he was judging you, no, but you also never felt like he was looking at you as he did that first day, a gentle curiosity in his eyes. He wasn’t your friend—far from it in fact—but he felt like the closest thing you had to one in this church, and so you often forced yourself to find excuses for it. He watches you because he wants to make sure you’re settling in okay. He watches you to observe how other members of the church are treating you. He watches you because he’s wondering if you’ll ever come to confession, convincing yourself that he’s never recognized your voice all this time.
That is why he watches you, you told yourself.
No other reason. 
“You always come to pray at least three times a week…”
The familiar voice startled you as you stood, hand lowering as you’d just finished signing the cross. Your hand was still on your chest as you turned to face him, a small smile on your lips as he stood directly in the center of the aisle. You hadn’t even heard him make a single sound, and you wondered how long he’d been standing there.
He slowly returned your smile with one of his own, although it was smaller, and the silent way in which he stared at you reminded you that he’d said something to you. 
“Yes,” you finally said, moving away from the altar. “It helps with…um…really everything.”
He blinked at you, and you noticed that a strand of his hair was threatening to go rogue. He always looked so neat and perfect that it was hard to miss. Father Mayhew was handsome—if anyone had seen enough men to know it was you—but he was handsome in a way that you would categorize as flawless. Divine even. In a way that was untouchable and only meant to be admired in the most innocent of appreciation. 
He slowly nodded at your response, and you didn’t miss the way he studied you—dark eyes drinking you in and taking note of every stylistic choice you’d made today.
“You know, I think I might see your face far more than those who have been coming here for years,” he lightly told you, a slight laugh on his lips.
You laughed with him, only offering him a shrug.
“I’m still new. I’m sure it just seems that way because you aren’t used to seeing me.”
He started to shake his head before you could even finish talking, and you watched him move closer.
“No,” he murmured—so low you almost didn't hear him. “I think you are perhaps my most…devout congregant.”
He touched your crucifix as he said this, dark eyes tracing the shape of it, and he was so close that you could smell his cologne. You blinked at the scent, finding it strange to know that he wore cologne. It shouldn’t be strange, you supposed, but you realized then that you didn’t quite view priests—view him—as human. As normal…
His eyes lifted then to finally connect with yours, and a crooked smile danced along his pink lips.
“It’s admirable,” he whispered. “More of my congregation could stand to follow your lead.”
You couldn’t ignore the way your chest bloomed at those words, almost hating how much validation you wanted from this place. Validation that you were a good person…you weren’t who you used to be…that you were worthy of something more, you didn’t know. It just felt relieving to hear such a compliment from Father Mayhew when no one else in the church would even give you a chance.
“Thank you, Father,” you quietly replied to him. “That means a lot to me.”
You watched him slowly inhale as he dropped his hand, and he seemed even slower to step out of your way. When you walked past him, you could feel his gaze on you—always watching—and you smiled when he called out to you, telling you that he looked forward to seeing you on Sunday.
No one was more sad than you when you had to disappoint him.
An unexpected cold had you bedridden for days, and while you knew that an illness was a perfectly valid excuse to miss church, you couldn’t swallow down the disappointment. You hadn’t missed a single Sunday since you first started going, and you thought to yourself that the first thing you’d do when you returned was explain your absence to Father Mayhew.
You had never anticipated him showing up at your door to get it himself.
No one ever knocked on your door these days, so the sound had taken you by surprise. Your friends—while supportive of the direction your life had taken—didn’t quite understand it and so you didn’t see them as often, and as for anyone else… Well, there wasn’t anyone else who would come knocking on your door. You didn’t do that anymore so no customers were going to be greeting you on the other side with their money in their hand and an eager grin on their lips, and you doubted any of the women in town would want to sit down for a chat anytime soon.
Your shock at Father Mayhew’s presence was all over your face.
“Father,” you stated, the lilt in your voice hinting at your surprise.
He looked just as you were used to seeing him—clerical collar still on, not a hair out of place, and a hint of a smile on those pink lips. You stood there gaping at him for all of five seconds before it struck you how rude you were probably being.
“I…I’m so sorry. Um…come in,” you told him, stepping out of the way and widening the gap in the doorway.
He didn’t respond nor move right away, looking past you into your small house with a look in his gaze that you couldn’t name. If he were anyone else, you might worry that he was judging where you lived. You watched his jaw briefly tighten, a noticeable strain in his face, and it only just occurred to you that maybe this wasn’t appropriate? Although you were positive you’d heard of priests and pastors visiting the sick before, and while you certainly weren’t on your deathbed, you didn’t see why this would be different.
Before you could say another word though, his foot crossed the threshold, and you closed the door behind him.
“I do apologize for the unexpected visit,” he said to you, gazing around before his eyes landed on you again. “...but when I noticed that mass was absent of a face I’d grown to look forward to, I became concerned.”
You couldn’t stop your smile at his words
“Oh,” you softly said. “Well, there’s no need to be concerned. It’s just a small cold that will be gone in a day or two.”
You watched him exhale at that, nodding to himself, and you studied him, surprised to see that he looked genuinely relieved at that.
“I’m glad to hear that’s all it is…”
At that, your brows furrowed, and you watched him slowly walk about your living room.
“I had feared that some of your fellow church goers had scared you off.”
Your lips parted at his words, and he turned and looked at you.
“They often fall into the temptation of judgment, after all…”
Your heart skipped a beat, and you didn’t know how to react with the knowledge that he knew it was you who came to see him once a week. You’d only spoken to him face to face twice, and you swallowed, looking away.
“I thought it would be a shame if they scared you off,” he confessed, and you noted that he was closer now. “I wondered what I would have to do to convince you to come back. Drag you, perhaps.”
You gave a soft laugh at that, although he didn’t join you, and it awkwardly faded. He stared at you in silence for what felt like a long time, and just when you were considering asking him if he wanted anything to drink, he reached out to touch the crucifix around your neck again.
“So devout,” he quietly said to himself. “It almost makes me ashamed…”
At that, you gave a heavy laugh, wondering how you could ever shame a priest.
“Why?”
“...because I see why they flocked to your door…money in hand.”
His gaze lifted as he said that, and you were still as you both just stared at each other. His words made you blink, and you were suddenly very aware of his hand practically on you. You couldn’t stop the slight frown that fell over your face, and for the first time in months—since you first stepped foot into that church—you felt…wrong.
“I see why their eyes trace every inch of you when you’re not looking…as if to relive the memory of what you felt like—tasted like.”
You finally took a step back, hand coming up to cover your necklace as if protecting it from his touch.
“What memories they must have of you…”
You wrapped your other arm around yourself, mind whirling to reconcile the man before you with the same man who’d always been so welcoming and gentle. Not once did you ever think he judged you for your past, and you supposed that you were right, but not once did you ever think he also might…
You hadn’t done that in over a year, but had it really escaped you so quickly that a seemingly devout man was still…a man?
“Father, I think you should-.”
“I don’t say any of this to offend you,” he interrupted, tilting his head. “I say it because I fight the urge to touch you every time you’re in my presence.”
You moved by him to make your way to the door, but like an ever present shadow you only just noticed, he was close behind.
“You can cover up as much as you’d like—wear skirts down to your ankle and shirts up to your chin…” his hand on the door halted your movements. 
You felt his chest just barely grazing your back, and his lips followed suit, the softness of them brushing against your ear as he spoke. That familiar cologne invaded your senses.
“...but none of it can hide the temptation you pose by merely existing.”
You shrunk away from him at that, tears in your eyes as he verbalized the same fears you had every time you walked into the building. You flinched when his lips touched the back of your neck, heart dropping to your stomach, but you reached for the door handle anyway.
“Father, I’d like you to leave-.”
Your words were cut off by your own sharp scream, taken aback by the feel of his fingers harshly pressing into the skin of your throat. His hand rested on the back of your neck, and you pressed your hand to the door when his lips grazed your cheek.
“They’re all like rabid dogs…just waiting to pounce,” he mused against your skin, sliding between you and the door and forcing you further into your house with every step. “Just waiting for you to give up this charade and go back to taking their money for a quick fuck.”
You blinked, and a few tears escaped.
“...but they don’t know you like I know you.”
He grinned against your cheek, and you winced as he lightly nipped at the skin there.
“They don’t know that you come to church at least thrice a week to light candles and pray…”
You were full on sobbing now, and you could feel the cool metal of his ring against the back of your neck.
“They don’t know that you never miss your weekly confession, telling me every time you so much as say the Lord’s name in vain.”
His free hand was reaching for the buttons of your shirt, popping them open one by one, and you gasped when his fingers finally met skin. He dipped his head, mouth finding the skin of your shoulder and collarbone interesting before his hand searched for your wrist.
“They don’t know that you are the most pious woman to walk through those doors,” he purred, pressing gentle kisses to the inside of your wrist. “...and that I just want to ruin you for it.”
When his hand dipped between your legs, you were quick to try and stop him, still wincing at the tight grip on the back of your neck. Father Mayhew made a noise of disapproval, and your hand faltered when he harshly bit your shoulder.
“We are…and always will be…sinners…”
Once his fingers were inside of you, it was like the point of no return. You found it funny that he likened the men in church to that of rabid dogs when he himself was behaving like the very thing he used to insult them. When your knees buckled, he followed—one arm around you and holding you in place while the fingers on his other hand curved into you.
Every thrust of his fingers made you wetter—embarrassingly so—and when he pulled your head back, he forced a kiss onto your lips. He swallowed down your whimpers and noises of protest, a moan escaping him as he tasted the inside of your mouth. With him so close to you, you could feel the muscles and contours of his frame beneath his clothes, and you were forced to recognize your predicament and his strength and what that meant for you.
When you were face to face with him again, his hair was nowhere near as neat as it was when he first walked through your door. His pink lips were swollen and reddened from kissing you and dragging over your skin. Your pajama top had long been discarded, the bottoms long ripped and pulled off of you. Father Mayhew’s—Charlie—clerical collar was long gone, his shirt pulled open and hanging off of him.
You recalled the way your mouth had parted into an ‘O’ shape when the head of his cock finally dipped into you, stretching you with every inch and making your heart momentarily stop. His hand covered a breast, the feel of his ring cooling that singular part of your skin, the rest of you so overheated. His other hand was wrapped around your throat, and you clawed at his hand as he fucked you.
The sound of skin slapping against skin was loud in your tiny home, the only sound to rival it being his harsh grunts and your strained voice. Any fight that you’d put up had been quickly squashed down, shown in the harshest manner just how strong your priest was. You hated how good it felt, hated that you didn’t want this but was now forced to enjoy it. Nevermind the fact that you hadn’t enjoyed sex for the act itself in years…
…but of all people to find yourself in this predicament with.
Father Mayhew’s hands never stayed in one place for long. He seemed determined to touch every part of you he could get his hands on, lips tasting the saltiness of your skin. Sweat clung to your frame and his, his fingers sliding over you as he kneaded your thighs and your waist and your chest. Every time you reminded yourself how wrong this was, he’d push his cock into you to the hilt, and you’d involuntarily throw your head back.
You could feel your crucifix pressing into your skin, and your eyes watered.
“I must admit that I was—am—jealous,” he dragged out, voice hoarse and throaty and wholly unlike how you were used to hearing him. “Your devotion to God inspires an envy within me that I never knew existed.”
You took note of the scars on his back underneath your fingers.
“...a desire to have you completely devoted to me,” he bit out, covering your lips with his own. “You so desperately desire forgiveness and acceptance…and all the things you didn’t think you were worthy of having.”
He harshly thrust into you, making you gasp.
“...and I can give that to you,” he whispered into the kiss.
The power behind his thrusts had you scratching at both his back and the floor, eyes squeezing shut at the way his fingers dug into your skin. It was like he was both holding you to him and trying to prevent you from ever walking away. Your chest arched up into his as you gasped, choked whimpers climbing out of your throat with every push of his hips. He growled against your skin as his lips traveled to your neck, the sound almost demonic to your ears.
When you came around him—your first orgasm in over a year—you couldn’t swallow down the noise it forced out of you. You could feel blood beneath your nails and a slickness on the inside of your thighs, but all the while Father Mayhew didn’t stop.
With one hand pressed against the floor, he pushed himself up to look down at you. His free hand slid up your sweaty frame, coming up to wrap around the crucifix that rested against your skin. He tightened his hold around it, and he pulled on it, forcing you to lift your head and meet him halfway for a kiss.
“I want you just as eager to get on your knees for me…”
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hwallazia · 4 months ago
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XMAS DINNER GOES WRONG – 정우영
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⋆ synopsis. it seems like your husband can’t keep it in his pants, not even on a fucking christmas dinner with his family. but, as the lovely wifey you are, you gotta give him some relief, right?
pairing. husband! jung wooyoung & fem! reader.
wc. 3,2k
warnings. smut (mdni!), suggestive language, cussing, almost!! getting caught by wooyoung’s mom (oops), pet names (love, babe, my wife, pretty girl & more), nipple play, wooyoung sucks your entire skin (neck, collarbone, tits and the list can continue…), teasing, wooyoung tears your panties to shreds heh, not dirty—NASTY TALK, begging, yn at some point says “stop” but it’s bc she’s far too blissed out; not bc she actually wanted him to stop, this is alllll consensual!!, unprotected sex, praise ofc, squirting, gut-wrenching fluff in the end ‘cause love him too much.
nic’s notes ⋆ first ff of the xmas event yes sir !! i felt some shit writing this istg (๑/////๑ " )
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you know holidays, right?
the perfect opportunity for the entire family to gather and celebrate achievements, blessings, and thousands and thousands of other things. cousins, nephews, aunts, uncles, and even great-grandparents were reunited in that cold and windy winter night. an entire feast was splayed on the table for everyone’s delightfulness, different kinds of foods and smells mixing and creating a delicious, toe-curling experience for anyone’s nostrils.
the hours you had spent shopping for every ingredient for each dish, cutting the vegetables, cooking everything to the exact, perfect point and term really paid off once your and your husband’s family were brought together at the large, dark oak table to celebrate your very first holiday — both families now joined together as one.
nothing could go wrong. the chatting flew as calm and joyful as spring water, sharing experiences and old memories pleasingly, smiles spread like the most enchanting disease—as well as the wholesome ambience, and everything was accompanied by a delightful meal, the well-deserved five star bonus of the evening.
so, if everything was meant to go perfectly, then why the hell was your husband staring at you with the most explicit, sluttiest “fuck me” eyes you’ve ever seen?
wooyoung sat in front of you, his two cousins sitting each on his sides. his plate was rather full, and that had an explanation: he was far too gone and busy burying heart-shaped daggers into your eyes while his hand cupped his cheek, head tilting to his right — his tongue glided over his dry bottom lip every now and then. you’d bet that none of his thoughts were in the bible. ‘cause fuck, even his younger brother would guess that something’s odd about him. that that’s not the usual behavior of his dear older brother.
“yn? darling?” the voice of wooyoung’s mother dragged out quickly of your insulation bubble. her tilted head clearly showed that she had been trying to talk to you for a while. a soft, warming hue of red struck your cheekbones.
as you gyrated your head to meet her worried gaze, you replied. “yes! mrs. jung, ‘m sorry. what were you saying?”
“are you doing fine, sweetie? you were gone for a bit.” she stared at you intently, genuinely worried about her daughter in-law. oh that woman was almost a fallen angel—if not one. if only she knew it was his own son who was to blame—the very last person she’d suspect, and oh, how deliciously ironic that was.
the figure of your husband’s shit-eating grin could be seen out of the corner of your eye—a sight that ignited a fiery rage within you, yet one you couldn’t help but savor, lingering on the view as long as possible before responding to your sweet mother-in-law. “oh, it was nothing. i’m prolly just zoning out because of how tired i am. y’ know, spending the entire day in the kitchen was exhausting.” the cherry on top of the excuse was the little, innocent giggle you emitted by the end. the woman gave you the most pitiful, yet endearing look. she lifted her arm, indicating with her open palm the white stairs, the reflection of the christmas-decorated banister lighting up her eyes.
“oh, sweetheart. you should go rest, it’s pretty late after all.” her gesture softened your heart, chest clenching a bit.
this woman was going to be the death of you! … uhm, never mind. first place is taken by wooyoung, who seems quite excited with the idea of going upstairs with you, by the way. take a guess at what his mind is scheming.
you shook your hands in front of your chest, quickly denying the opportunity. “thank you really, but i’m okay. i’ll just go wash my face.” you excused yourself, hovering your leg over the other and getting yourself up. “maybe that way i can wake up completely.” ending with a little giggle, you started walking towards the staircase when suddenly, the voice of your dear husband rang inside your ears.
“excuse me. i’ll go help my wife.” his foxy eyes curved into crescent moons, and his lips stretched wide, forming an upward line. oh fuck, you were done for.
“oh yes, i was about to ask you to do the same. please, son.” she stated, nodding approvingly. oh what a gentleman she had raised.
you resumed your steps quickly, arriving to the second floor in less than you expected. you turned your head, only to be met with an empty corridor. thank goodness he hadn’t gotten there yet.
or so you thought. ‘cause when you refocused your attention to your front, a pair of arms grabbed you by your waist and swung you around the air in a swift motion as he dragged you to an empty room. the last sound heard in the corridor was the slam of a closing door.
your breathless body was pinned against a cold wall, trapped between two quite familiar, tanned arms. simultaneously, your disoriented irises tried to adjust to the darkness of the room and focus on the feverish, hungry eyes standing in front of you.
“wh… what the fuck was that.” you muttered as the remains of your breath flew away. wooyoung seemed enchanted by your current state though.
“heeey, don’t curse at me like that.” his gentle, cocky voice penetrated your mind like a bullet. knuckles crept up the sides of your exposed arms, providing soothing strokes — goosebumps prickled to life in response. he opened his warm palms and reached to your also bare shoulder, massaging them. “after all, ’m jus’ here to help you.” he pulled his secret weapon and started making out with your neck, licking your flesh like a starving man and spreading wet kisses all over it.
“help me? how are you helping me like this?” you uttered as your breath hitched, head leaning to the side at the right angle to give him enough space.
wooyoung sucked that sensitive spot that always made your eyes roll to the very back of your head, dragging a whine out of you successfully. his chuckle and victorious smirk didn’t go unseen by your already blissed-out self. he leaned back a little to admire you. just for a bit, palms not leaving their place. “you’ll know when we’re done.” his hands moved in a swift motion, arms wrapping around your thighs and shoulders, lifting you effortlessly in a princess carry. “for now, just shut up and enjoy it, hm?”
“w-wooyoung—you know we can’t do this now— angh!” your anxious, flustered self made a futile attempt to reason with wooyoung, hoping he’d remember that both your families were gathered downstairs for a fucking christmas dinner—while he, entirely unbothered, seemed more than eager to spend the evening thoroughly ruining you in the bed just one floor above. and that was clearly shown when he threw you to the bed as if you were the lightest feather and immediately crawled to you.
“c’mon, love. i just wanna help you stay awake” his gravelly voice purred gift next to your ear as his taunting hands played with the sides of your dress, fingertips aching and itching to rip it off you.
he had you underneath him, completely flustered and nervous. he knew you were really anxious about the dinner—you’d spent a whole hour straight ranting about how nerve-wracking the preparations were, only to end up feeling physically ill from the overwhelming surge of dopamine flooding your system. but your reddened cheeks were smiling at him and your plump lips were whispering nasty things to him. holy fuck, how couldn’t he be tempted?
he needed to be balls deep in you. now.
his skillful tongue found home in your neck and collarbone, sucking cute love bites all over. but, your body was still tense, too uneasy at the thought of the possible scenario of someone entering the room and catching the two of you in such a compromising position.
“b-babe, please—hmph”
in a sultry tone, he muttered, “already begging. so fucking cute.” a smirk was drawn on his lips before his hands reached to your cleavage and popped your tits out of your low-cut dress. “y’ want me to fuck you? ‘s that what it is?”
before you could even think of an answer, he dived right into your breasts, licking your sensitive nipples as though they were his favorite toy — because they absolutely were.
god, the incessant thoughts that ran through your head and his tongue lapping around your buds were too much. everything was starting to be too much, and he hadn’t even taken your clothes off. with heightened sensitivity, your lips fell open and a beautiful, sweet melody of your moans and whimpers escaped through them — a delightful melody for your husband’s ears.
impatient hands stripped you of your glittery dress, leaving you with nothing but your black, thin panties. wooyoung took a moment for himself — well, more accurately for you, to admire and revel in your beauty as he should. a rush of blood surged to his cock, making it throb even harder than before. he was no more than a man, overwhelmed by desire. “you’re fucking irresistible, y’ know that?” he started down to where your and his crotch connected, brows furrowing when he saw your clothed pussy. “i think it’s time for this to go.”
a sharp rrrrrip! bounced through the walls and brought your attention. “woo did you just—?!” you followed the movement of his hands, which discarded the shreds of black fabric to the floor. “that was my—! hahh” and his thumb flew right to your already swollen clit, stimulating it with circling motions.
“why’re you whining when you know i’ll buy you ten more pairs,” he whispered as he soaked in the unsteady shiftiness of your body — and for that, he posed a strong yet harmless grip on your waist. his fat thumb worked nonstop over your bud, sending sparks right to it. your body jolted upward at the feeling of his middle and index fingers tracing soft lines up your pink folds. the sight of your walls clenching and relaxing around nothing spun him. “ooh, what a greedy wifey i got.” he chuckled under his breath, gaze stuck to his home — and i mean your cunt. “sooo desperate for my fingers, huh?”
at this point, any sense or unsteady thought had already vanished away, completely replaced by a selfish state of mind. you wanted him to finger you, fuck you, drive you insane. and you wanted it right fucking now. and so you mewled, “god, please just do something.”
“got the name wrong, darling.” and with that, he pushed two fingers at once inside your fluttering walls, tugging a satisfied moan out of you. “it’s wooyoung. or hubby” he giggled. he fucking giggled as he rammed those fingers mercilessly, shooting stars and fireworks filling your vision.
“w-wait stop— baby, please— fffuck!” stuttering words and incoherent gibberish spilled from your swollen lips, too red and slick from how often and harshly you’d bitten them; eyes welling up with tears from the intense pleasure overload.
“stop?” a chuckle rumbled through his chest. “fine then” he withdrew his long phalanges, leaving you empty. completely fucking empty, with velvety and throbbing walls already missing him. you cried as you felt the void of your pulsating pussy, but before you could coax a desperate “please” from your lips, wooyoung grabbed you by the waist. you gasped, as he manhandled you, positioning you on top, naked folds grazing his clothed sex.
you pouted and wooyoung laughed. he was finding this shit way too funny. “since you so nicely begged me to stop, then put your back into it, mm?” a loud smack! reverberated through the walls as his heavy palm landed on the flesh of your ass. “fuck yourself on my cock, pretty girl.”
and did he have to tell you twice. desperate, shuddering hands worked on his dress pants, quickly undoing his belt and zipping it down just enough to uncover his rock-hard bulge. you grabbed the band of his boxers and pulled it down as well, his cock springing finally free. with a smooth movement, you took his member and positioned it below you. and just before you sit down on him completely, someone knocked on the fucking door.
the surprise caused you to jolt and lose control, sinking in a faster and sloppier motion than you intended — a loud cry resonating through the thin walls the moment his tip kissed your cervix perfectly. with eyes wide open, you slapped a hand over your mouth, cursing yourself for being so fucking noisy and sensitive and—
“yn? are you in here?” the muffled voice of wooyoung’s mother echoed from the other side of the door.
shit shit shit.
“y-yes, ma’am! i… ’m kinda busy over in here—ugh!” you tried to speak as loud and clear as you could, but wooyoung seemed to be unbothered by your efforts since he grabbed your hips and started swaying your core up and down his girth. up, down, up, down.
you stared at your husband with glaring eyes, stabbing knives into his. fuck, did this man even care about being heard by his own mother? now, with all doubts gone, you’re certain you’ve married a freak.
“are you okay, sweetie? what’s going on over there?”
and you swear you heard the door creaking open, so you exclaimed. “no! everything’s fine!” you yelped, your voice higher-pitched than you intended. “please don’t come in.”
wooyoung chuckled underneath you, soaking in the sight of your nervous self trying to mute your cries as your tits bounced right on his face. he could die right there and then and he’d be happy. “what’s wrong, baby? can’t take it?” he whispered as he gazed directly into your tightly scrunched eyes, your partially open mouth releasing nothing more but silent cries and pleas.
“fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.” you hushed soundlessly, yet willingly bouncing up and down his length. the low, manly giggle he uttered spun you. fuck, he had you wrapped up around his finger.
“oookay? uhm, do you know where my son is? is he there with you?”
he grinned. that shit-eating grin you hated so damn much appeared all across his face. “c’mon pretty, tell her the truth. tell her how good i’m fucking you, how good you’re taking my cock, hm?” he growled into your ear, his voice low and raspy, sending shivers down your spine. the sound was intoxicating, clouding your thoughts and turning your mind into mush.
your throbbing walls clenched around him subconsciously, his head rocking back in reaction. “he’s… he’s here with me, h-helping me like he said he would.”
wooyoung seemed utterly satisfied by your answer, his grin only spreading wider. “that’s my wife. so beautiful.”
“perfect then! i’ll see you in a bit then.” after those words, no other sound was heard — other than the wet clapping of your flesh against his hips.
“‘s she gone?” your half-lidded eyes stared down at your husband, who was hugging you by the waist, face deeply buried in your bobbing, soft tits. your hands flew to the back of his head, cupping his neck whilst caressing his raven hair fondly. at your words, his head lifted, and took a glance at your divine expression.
“baby, i didn’t care, not even a second, if she was hearing or not.” his intoxicating, dark irises sent love letters to yours, utterly drunk in love. “i jus’ wanna cum inside your sweet pussy.”
skillful fingers crept to your hardened, overstimulated nipples and all the way down where your bodies collided, positioning right on your clit. his left hand stroked your firm nipple and played with one breast, letting wooyoung’s tongue take care of the other whilst his right hand shifted rapidly over your bundle of nerves.
he fell in love with you again as he saw your back arching into a perfect crescent moon. “good girl.” your loud whines and moans only encouraged him to keep going. “so responsive to me.” he exhaled breathlessly. “fuck, are you about to cum, baby?”
“y-yeah, fuck— woo, i-i’m gonna cum, ‘m gonna fucking cum” you yelped as your bounces became sloppier, more desperate and more reckless. wooyoung motivated you by whispering sweet things and heart-melting praises right into your ear.
“cum, baby. cum for me, milk me dry.” and with one last bounce, you sprayed your juices all over him, soaking his pants and white shirt even more.
exasperated grunts and exhales left your husband’s mouth at the sensation of your folds clamping down on him — you definitely understood the assignment of milking him dry. ‘cause your pussy received the hot ropes of cum that his dick spurted out with great pleasure, sucking the life out of his poor, now softened length.
you crumbled down on him, your weakened core landing on top of him with his dick still inside you. your head found home in the crook of his neck as his hand reached to your back, wrapping your waist safely whilst the other provided soothing ministrations to your face. with your last ounce of strength, you pulled the sheets over your naked bodies, an even warming sensation drowning the both of you.
“fuck” was all you could mutter. “how’re we going to get back there, they’re waiting for us.”
wooyoung hummed thoughtfully, the vibrations rumbling through his chest and brushing against your skin. “we could pretend we fell asleep. with that, they shouldn’t suspect a thing.”
“hey that’s actually a great id—“
the door creaked open and your bodies jerked softly. the both of you knew exactly what to do, so your eyes flew shut. wooyoung even started snoring quietly to add a spec of realism to the scene.
the sound of your mothers’ voice echoed through your ears. “she said wooyoung was helping… her” wooyoung’s mom immediately lowered her voice as she took in the scene. an almost soundless aww escaped your mom’s lips.
“well sure he was helping her.” your mother sighed at the wholesome moment she had the luck of appreciating.
“i think he was massaging her. ‘cause when i knocked on the door, i could hear like— muffled sounds, that seemed like moans.” she stated, and you froze in place — well, not like you could move an inch. “at first i was confused, but then she clarified that wooyoung-ah was helping her “like he said he would”” she remarked your words as if she had studied them.
“oh i see.” your mother spoke. “i think we should let them sleep. my poor yn had a long day.”
and with that, the door shut closed with a soft click.
wooyoung giggled under the covers as your face burned from the embarrassment.
“massaging? well, that’s a way to put it.”
“wooyoung, babe, as much as i love you, please shut the fuck up.”
he laughed wholeheartedly, a gut-wrenching sound that never fails to make you smile. “you embarrassed, my love?”
you slapped your open palm against his exposed chest as you whined. “stoppp.”
his small, soft giggle buzzed inside your eardrums before he left on the top of your head a kiss full of fondness and affection. “cutie.”
| masterlist
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haeryna · 1 year ago
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in my dreams you love me back (i still love you) ↪ gojo satoru x reader x geto suguru ⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆
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summary: soft moments with shoko keep your heart soft as well, but suguru finds something that he wasn't supposed to.
tw: sfw but vague mentions of losing your virginity. your mother MEDDLES but let's be real, we'd do the same. allusions to the bible for the aesthetic but also because i like the imagery of the themes. not proofread.
notes: title taken from red velvet's "in my dreams." the second half of "i would give up heaven if i had to." another short chapter because i split it in two originally! banner from @/cafekitsune
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"You look like shit."
You can't stop the huff that escapes your mouth as Shoko peers at you from your phone, propped up against your rice cooker. She's somewhere in the United States right now, attending a medical conference. She isn't wrong; your ten minute break in the bathroom had turned into a full-blown half hour breakdown. Thankfully, none of your coworkers pointed out the redness of your eyes and the sallow tint to your skin. Your manager had practically forced you to go home early. They all assumed that you had broken down about how the Gojo Satoru had demanded you be the one to make his drink. At this point, you were too tired to correct them.
"I just got back from the cafe, leave me alone." Yawning, you reach for a bowl. "I'm starving and exhausted, and now you're going to yell at me, Sho?"
You can hear the heavy exhale, and the camera blurs as she lets out a cloud of cigarette smoke. "I never said that. Did you see them today?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"Nobody else can make you cry that hard, and I know it wasn't me."
You hesitate for a moment. "Mom thinks I should hear them out."
"Personally, I would tell them I'll speak to them after a down payment of 5k."
"Shoko!"
But your laughter fills the air, and you can catch Shoko's self-satisfied smirk from the other end. "There she is." A soft haze fills your screen as her voice softens. "Do I need to fly back and tell the two of them to fuck off?"
"I can tell them to leave myself," you protest, but Shoko gives you a deadpan stare. "Okay, well, maybe it'll be hard."
As the silence falls, warm and comfortable, you bustle around the kitchen, spooning rice into your bowl of leftovers. The air is warm, and despite your exhaustion, you can't help but appreciate the dreaminess of the evening. Shoko watches you, dark eyes unreadable. "What?" you finally ask, curiosity lacing your voice.
"Just be careful," she sighs. "Satoru and Suguru will probably do some crazy shit to get you to notice them. I just don't want those idiots to scare you."
"They don't care enough to do that," is your sardonic reply, and this time, it's her turn to laugh.
"If you really think that, then you're blinder than I thought."
He is breaking me down on every side, and now it's too late for me; he has uprooted my hopes like a tree.
When the number of your old landline rings on Suguru's cellphone, he almost blocks it out of habit before he registers the last four digits. Panicking, he immediately accepts the call.
"Hey, is everything okay? I-"
Your mother's voice chirps back at him, a bit staticky from the old phone that he knows she'd insisted on keeping installed in the kitchen. "Suguru, dear, could you do me a favor?"
Ingrained instinct forces a "yes ma'am," from his mouth before he can even process the request. He can practically hear the smile in your mother's voice. "It won't take too long, don't worry. My back has been aching an awful amount after my last surgery, but I've been meaning to wear some of my old church clothes to Bingo Night. Would you mind grabbing it for me?"
The attic is cluttered and old, and the dust stings his eyes, but Suguru can't bring himself to complain as he begins to rummage through boxes. It feels like seeing you again, like being your Suguru again, as he unearths old photo albums, and stuffed toys. There was the rabbit you used to carry around all the time. A picture frame, of you, Shoko, Satoru, and Suguru one summer afternoon. Carefully, he wipes away the dust, smiling at the memory. You'd lost your front tooth that summer; now, it was forever memorialized.
Finally, he reaches a small collection of boxes in the back. The dress lays draped over a small stack of boxes, but as he grabs it, one topples over, spilling its contents all over the floor.
Suddenly, selfishly, Suguru is grateful that Satoru stayed behind back in their hotel room, because inside the cardboard box is envelopes. At least thousands of them, crammed into each possible corner, dates written on the front in the same handwriting you've had since high school. He tears open another box, only to find the same. Three whole boxes of letters. Selfish hope and heavier dread sinks into his skin like the dust that is slowly falling to the floor; Suguru has unearthed something that he knows he's not supposed to see.
Was this how Adam felt, holding the forbidden fruit in his hand? Which was stronger; the will of God, or the love of man?
"You will not certainly die,” the serpent said to the woman. “For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.
He's almost frantic as he searches for the first letter, scattering them around himself until he finds it; labelled a week after Suguru had taken Satoru with him to pursue what they had believed to be an impossible dream. Suguru hesitates only for a moment, until with one decisive swipe, he rips the flap from the waxy paper beneath. This one is addressed to him.
Suguru,
My parents put me in therapy. Remember how we always used to joke that if anyone needed it, it would be you? Why did you leave me? What did I do wrong? It hurts, Sugu, why, why, why My therapist thinks that keeping letters will help, and my parents want me to at least give it a try. Mom won't say anything, but I know she's concerned. Dad's already torn into Toru's parents, so the whole town is fully aware of what they've done. Shoko says that they're practically livid with shame, skulking around the town as that'll fix their reputation. You missed it; there was one night when the fireflies came back, and I swear they filled the entire sky. It was beautiful. It reminded me of the first time we met, do you remember that?
I wish you'd been here to see it. I'm sorry, Suguru. I'm sorry that I wasn't good enough to take along. I'm sorry that I didn't tell you I love you. I hope you're safe. I hope you're taking care of Toru for me.
I love you so much that it's hard to be mad.
Water drips down onto the ink of where you'd signed your name, and with a start, Suguru realizes he's crying. Gently folding the letter, he sets it aside, and reaches for the next one.
Mom and Dad have what Grandma had. I'm scared, Toru. I wish you were here. You'd always say something silly that would make me forget for even a moment.
Another.
I saw you on the television today, Toru. You're so beautiful it hurts.
Another.
I've given up on properly going to college. They're so sick that I'm terrified to leave them alone.
More. More. More.
I try my best not to listen, but the radio in the coffee shop plays the songs you make, Sugu. I hate it, but it's selfish of me. The girl you sing about, does Toru get along with her? Does she make you happy?
He can't stop himself from reading any more than he can stop the tears pouring down his face. They'd missed so much of your life, and yet you'd dutifully written letter after letter, as if you'd planned on them seeing it. Like you hoped they would come back some day. The next letter was only written two years ago, but it turns Suguru's blood to ice.
I saw the scandal on one of the gossip magazines while I was out shopping for groceries, Toru. The Chanel model? Really? I was kind of hoping for the Gucci one, she seems so nice to her assistant.
I say this like you're a celebrity. A celebrity that I can just laugh at, and say "must be nice, having supermodels fall into your lap!" You were mine, once, long before you were hers. I love loved you.
I did something stupid, last night. Remember Kenji, from high school? The one you always hated? I can't even explain it, how furious I was, when I saw you with that model. You looked so happy, like it didn't matter that all your joy and abundance didn't come at my expense.
I ended up sleeping with him for the first time, with anyone for the first time really. I'm not going to write more; it's embarrassing, and it wasn't even good, but I think I'm more upset with myself. It doesn't matter.
It's not like you'll ever find out. Even if you do, it's not like you'll care.
It's not like my love mattered to you to begin with.
Suguru's chest feels as though someone has washed his heart in acid. On paper, the person you were after they left was more jaded. Less optimistic. You no longer spoke of things you wished they were able to experience with you, but rather all the things they'd left behind. You thought they didn't care, and as he forces his useless lungs to take another breath, he knows that he can't leave this town until he convinces you to come with him. As he stumbles down from the attic, dress in hand, your mother gives him a knowing stare.
"Did you find the dress I asked you to grab?"
"Yes ma'am," Suguru says numbly. It's all he says. It's all he can say. Your mother sighs, patting the chair next to her. "Why don't you call Satoru over, hm? Try some of the tea I bought. I remember your mother saying you only drink black. You really should call her more."
Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in?
"I'm home!" you call out, slipping your shoes off with one hand as you balance the full bag of groceries in the other. "Did you take your medi-"
The carrots drop to the floor as you take in the sight of Gojo and Geto sitting at your kitchen table with your mother of all people. "What the fuck?"
Geto's eyes are rimmed red, like he'd been crying, while Satoru stares at you with a hint of anguish. "What the fuck," you repeat again, dumbfounded. "Why are you in my house right now?"
Geto opens his mouth to speak, but your mother waves it away. "You know how bad my back's been lately, I really wanted to wear that old emerald dress your father got me, do you remember?"
Stunned, you can only nod.
"And, I didn't want to have you come all the way back from the city just to grab a dress for me, so I called over Suguru and Satoru to help me out," your mother finishes. You can't stop the panic from leaking into your voice.
"Where was the dress?"
From the look on their faces, you know that Geto and Gojo have found it. All the letters you were too weak to send, too weak to throw away. How much did they read?
"The attic, dear," is your mother's quiet response, and when you turn her attention to her, you can see the quiet love and encouragement in her eyes.
What's more important? The love for all the things they did do, or all the things they didn't?
White noises rushes into your head, and you can barely process your mother's departure. Something about Bingo Night? The door clicks shut and you're left with silence so profound that your body almost instinctively crumples in on itself. Suguru can't look you in the eyes, absentmindedly tracing the rim of the delicate porcelain teacup that looks comically small next to his calloused hands. Satoru merely watches, but you can see the tension in his neck, in the way his fingers flex around empty air.
So, you do the only thing you can do. You run.
Turning, you all but sprint up the stairs. You lied. You couldn't do this, couldn't face them, see them, hear them-
Toned arms reach around from behind, pulling you decisively to a well-defined chest. The air is forced out of your lungs as you yelp, squirming out of the hold, only to freeze as Satoru places his cheek on your head, nuzzling into your hair.
"I missed you."
Tears spring to your eyes but Satoru keeps going. "You were the only thing that kept us going. Our apartment was so shitty, we had to put cardboard on the floor just to keep warm. I thought of you all the time. I thought of which stage outfit you'd like better, how you would get along so well with the other members of the group. We didn't forget you. We love you too much for that."
"Stop," you choke out, as your legs crumple under you. Satoru catches you, tugging you further into him, as tears trickle down your face. A blurred shape; Suguru, kneeling in front of you, gently taking your hands in his.
"One chance, princess," he breathes. "Give us one chance to explain ourselves. After that, we'll do whatever you want, give you whatever you want. We've only ever been yours."
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sillyteecup · 8 days ago
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Nowhere But You
Terry Richmond x black!o.c
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Warnings:
18+
Swearing/Cursing
Smut
Oral (female receiving)
The greed they talk about in the Bible😔
Word count: 4463🧍🏾‍♀️
A.N: I'm not a monster so here's a little band-aid for "Requiem For My Lover". Anyway, if you've read any of my stuff then you know that I don't write fluff. Because I don't really know how to. So I don't know if this counts as fluffy, but I'm giving Mila a break. Now, what I lack in the sweetness department, I try to make up for with filth. So sit back, relax, and enjoy some Milaverse shenanigans where there are only 3 constants: Mila, Terry, and smut.
~Tee❤️
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-SoMiLa/Ring Finger.
T.R
One would think that being a Grammy award-winning artist and having a painter for a husband would make Mila some sort of a visual art connoisseur; or at least mean she at least understood it. But neither were true. In her 29 years of life, Mila had been to many an art gallery. Be it on a date or for her sister’s friend’s exhibitions, she never truly grasped the concepts of any of the works she had laid eyes on. Other than being pretty artworks, they sparked nothing but confusion in her regardless of how long she stared or how many artists and coordinators explained.
Until she met Terry. Suddenly the art began to make sense, invoking all kinds of different thoughts and feelings. And maybe it was vanity, but an artwork that centered her was the only kind that could capture and hold her attention hostage.
Although she was a household name in the music industry for her entrancing voice and soul clutching lyrics, she was shrouded in mystery. Her fans and the public had been grasping for straws for anything personal regarding the enigma that was SoMiLa. All they had to speculate over was the music and the rare interviews. Terry was no different. Critics, peers and fans alike would jest about how they could count on their fingers how many times he had made public appearances. The number would come to dwindle when he and Mila moved in together, both prioritizing a quiet and private life together over their public images. Even though they had been spotted out together a few times over the last 7 years, fans couldn’t tell if they were together or just close friends. This sparked a years-long movement of fans analyzing the rather cryptic lyrics in her love songs and his paintings that centered the same black woman who always somehow resembled Mila. The pair remained silent, not confirming or denying anything. Not out of secrecy either; they just had no desire to entertain the public.
Then came the release of her latest album, "I Rich(MoNd)". With the added bonus of the famous "T.R" signature across the originally hand-painted cover art. But the real icing on the cake? The final track being titled “T.R/Ring Finger.” The public was sent into a frenzy, but the couple paid them no mind, continuing with their lives in private while everyone fretted over the long awaited confirmation of their relationship.
“Don’t tell me you named it after-” Mila gasped as she marveled at her man’s latest creation.
“Our song? You’re my muse, I’m yours. It only felt right,” Terry said from beside her.
Terry’s newest exhibition, “RiChMoNd,” consisted of personal works that symbolized his adoration for and marriage to Mila. Thus none of the works were for sale. They were however available for public viewing at his Johannesburg museum, “Heart of Richmond.” The museum housed many artworks. Some were favorites from his mother’s collection, others were the very few that Mila remotely got and liked, and the rest were works by Terry that he refused to sell. The exhibition also served as the opening of the latest addition to the gallery, also titled. “I Rich(MoNd)”. A passion project he had been working on since he had proposed 4 years ago.
Despite standing in an entire gallery of works devoted to her and their love, the image of the semi-faceless black woman intrigued her. Aside from the boho locs, the subject’s resemblance to Mila hid in the more intricate details. From the tiny mole above the deep-thought induced dimple, to the scars that painted memories of her childhood over the cocoa skin of her arms and the single raised thigh that was visible. Glimpses of her personality appeared as the pens sticking out of her locs, the lit J tucked between her full two-toned lips and the way the white sheet draped over only a fraction of her body. Laid up in an unorganized space full stationary and opened CDs, tinted by the red hue of the sun was the exact reflection of Mila’s writing process. Complete with the song that not only perfectly encapsulates the way her husband inspired her, but also won her 5 new Grammys.
While Terry was a man of very few words, his hands always found ways to say the most endearing and intimate things for him. Their families joked about how stoic and quiet he was for an artist, but Mila knew better. Terry’s love language was only understood Mila, a canvas, and every crevice of the house he had fucked her into.
“You’ve done it again. It’s amazing. All of it is perfect,” Mila said appreciatively. 
His breath lightly brushed her skin as he leaned into her. “Not as perfect as the woman that inspired it all,” he whispered between light kisses behind her ear.
It didn’t take much for Mila to have Terry bricked like the third little pig’s house. He had been absolutely taken from the very moment he had laid eyes on her and only grew to fall in love with her and everything about her. All she had to do was open her mouth to breathe and Terry would be on his knees before her. The way she looked at the moment didn’t do his self-control any favors either. As much as he didn’t care for what the media thought of him or their relationship, he still wasn’t one to get caught up in a scandal. But damn, the way the exposed parts of her soft, mocha skin in that backless wine-colored satin gown invited him, silently goaded him into throwing all rational thought away. If the cost wasn’t a possible snapshot of him making love to his gorgeous wife in the middle of an exhibit modeled after his love for her, he probably would have ripped that dress off right there and then.
Cameras clicked behind them, reminding them that they weren’t in the safe bubble of their home where they were just Terry and Mila Richmond. Now they were SoMiLa and Terrence Richmond, music’s prodigal son and the new age Basuiat. The public’s favorite unicorns making one of those prized rare appearances before disappearing back into whatever hidden mythical realm for who knows how long. Although conscious of the attention, Terry kept his nose buried in the skin of her neck and his hands planted firmly on her waist. As far as he was concerned, their love had never been a secret: everyone had just either been too blind or dumb to see it. Not that he cared either way. 
“Fuck baby, I need you,” he rasped needy in her ear. 
Although her own arousal had begun to make itself known and was begging Terry to just drag her out of the building so he could turn her every which way all over their Bryanston home, Mila understood that he still had some work to do. And if the boner digging into her lower back wasn’t enough of an indicator, Terry’s erotic declaration was definitely a sign that she had to be the smart one. Otherwise his agent, Sandra, would have both their heads for weeks to come. Neither of them feared the cut-throat agent, they just didn’t have the energy to have her yelling down their throats for a week.
“And you can have me T, but first you have to find Sandra and then get through this opening night,” Mila replied, biting back a moan at the unrelenting kisses on her sweet spot.
His grip tightened around the satin covering his wife’s waist as he let out a disgruntled grunt. “Man fuck Sandra and all these people. Let’s get out of here so I can taste you. Make you feel good, hmm?” he hummed against her now goosebump riddled skin, a natural green light from her body that contradicted her words.
“How about you make me feel even better by keeping me by your side while we make tonight a success? Then I'll let you taste every single part of me all you want, loverboy,” Mila said, objecting to her own deep desire for the man that threatened to consume her whole.
“Promise?” Terry asked, moving his affectionate attack to the other side of her neck.
Mila raised her pinkie for Terry to interlock with his. “Pinkie promise.”
Terry texted Sandra to open the doors and have everyone gathered in the center immediately. He wanted this over with, and he wanted to do it quickly. He had a wine colored bowl of a chocolate dessert waiting on him. The kind that had a creamy center and melted on your tongue. And Terry was never one to deprive himself of his favorite treats, let alone the one next to him. 
As the guests poured in, Mila helped Terry straighten out, smoothing his jacket and wiping his glasses. She placed them back on his face, gracing him with a proud and grateful smile. Despite his lips barely moving an inch, the corners of his eyes crinkled as if he were grinning. Such little expression covering so much emotion. Emotion only Mila could read, like her own secret diary. 
Still, it was a miracle that this man could paint because he was terrible at expression of any other form (that wasn't affection for Mila). 
Having become accustomed to large crowds, Mila had grown indifferent to all the eager eyes focused on her and Terry. They stood in the center of the gallery, hand in hand, as they waited for everyone to settle down. Right behind them stood Sandra who was nursing a glass of champagne to ease the nerves and whispering animatedly with her best friend, and Mila’s manager, Sid. The couple’s mothers and teams chattered excitedly among themselves about the direction of the night.
“Good evening everybody. My name is Terrence Richmond and I wanna welcome you all to the grand opening to the latest, and dearest to my heart, vessel in the Heart of Richmond, a passion project that I’ve put my all into because a tribute to my literal heartbeat and our love deserves nothing less: “I Rich(MoNd)”,” he announced, garnering loud applause from the crowd.
He waited for the clapping to subside before continuing. “I would like thank each and everyone of you for taking time out of your busy lives to celebrate with me this ode to the love of my life, Somila Richmond.” Another round of applause sounded through the room as Mila stepped into the imaginary spotlight that was the audience’s admiration and his loving gaze. She shone them a grateful smile before stepping back to place short but yet desire filled kiss on Terry’s lips. The low growl that rumbled in the depths of his chest had her fighting the urge to deepen their kiss and have him show the room just how much he loved her. But she was the rational one, so she pulled away, but not before sneaking a light swipe of her tongue over his lip. The only reaction she had dragged out of him was a sharp inhale and his nails once again digging into her waist. She retook her place beside him while he finished his relatively short intro speech. 
He implored everybody to enjoy their evening, watching the crowd disperse into the gallery. Almost immediately the press swarmed in with their cameras, beckoning the power couple’s attention for a photo op for their websites, blogs and magazines. Terry had banned microphones from the opening, stating he would only be giving interviews starting the following week. This decision was influenced by Mila during his meeting with Sandra a month ago at their Phuket home. Her reason was that Terry would be too tired from planning and setting the gallery up, and her man’s health was a top priority. The public would wait till he was at least somewhat well rested and that was that.
“Abagqibi na aba? It’s been 10 minutes and I, personally, get tired of smiling,” Mila hissed through what was slowly becoming a strained sneer.
“Imagine how tired I am,” Terry gritted through his teeth, cracking Mila’s sneer back into a genuine grin as she bit back a chuckle.
One of her favorite things about doing press with Terry was his absolute disdain for smiling and how much of a grouch it made him during photo ops. If she was lucky, he’d start cussing like a sailor any second now.
“Alright, that’s enough!” Sandra called out, earning disappointed groans and protests from the disgruntled photographers.
“That’s a lot of complaining from people that haven’t been kicked out. You guys getting ungrateful with me now?” she demanded as she stood before them with her hands placed on her hips and an expectant glare. That seemed to silence them as they also ventured into different parts of the gallery.
Terry and Mila both instinctively relaxed as the cameras disappeared into the crowd. Terry flexed his jaw while Mila stretched her neck. Terry’s hands came to the rescue, gently grabbing and twisting at Mila’s chin and cranium till a tiny crack signaled a job well done. Mila mouthed a grateful thank you right as Terry placed gentle kisses on her cheek and forehead. Sandra approached the pair, smirking as they gathered themselves. 
“Where would you two be without me?” Sandra asked sarcastically, making Terry roll his eyes.
“Scary Terry over here would probably be in jail for massacring a gaggle of photographers because they dared to ask him to show some tooth,” Mila quipped, earning chuckles from their managers. Terry just scoffed as he absentmindedly rubbed circles on her shoulder.
“Like you weren’t complaining,” he deadpanned, his unamused glare making Mila giggle like a schoolgirl.
“You’re so cute when you’re grumpy,” Mila gushed with a playful elbow to his side.
The corner of Terry’s lip twitched into a smirk. “I’m even cuter when I’m eating you out till you cry.”
Sandra’s features scrunched up in disgust before strutted away, muttering something about finding Sid and the champagne. A flustered Mila on the other hand, smacked his bicep, only earning a wider smirk as a reaction from Terry. “Kanene wena woyikwa zintloni,” Mila sighed with a click of her tongue. 
Terry took her wrist into his hand, gently pulling her into him. His palms cupped her face, angling her upwards to meet him for yet another soft kiss. Only this time her lips felt like they were being claimed as his by his. His hands had taken refuge back on her waist, keeping her body flush against his to make her feel his growing arousal. Thank God for the long wrap-around coat his stylist, Tori, had picked out for him. Although the matching slacks were a little loose around that region, Mila doubted they would have fared well on their own. With a gentle tug of her lip, he pulled back, leaving Mila in a semi-lustful haze.
“Let's get out of here. I'm not asking this time,” his tone, although barely above a whisper, left no room for argument. Luckily for the two of them, Mila had none left in her. Especially when he had stolen her breath and common sense a mere moment ago. 
She nodded, offering a breathless “yeah” as he led her out of the building, not bothering with any formalities. Either way, his job for the night was done. He'd just text Sandra to handle the rest of the night. 
With Mila in front, and Terry trailing right behind her like a bear-sized pup, they quickly paced to the car. He hurriedly opened the passenger door to their Rolls Royce, ushering her in and making sure she was safe inside before making his way to the driver's side and starting the car. 
One hand gripping the steering wheel with purpose and the other firmly perched on Mila's thigh. Halfway through the trip, Terry had begun to regret his insistence that they drive there and back themselves. He stupidly ignored the possibility of wanting to turn his wife inside out on the way back. Now he had to give all of his attention to the road while ignoring the temptful gaze piercing threatening to veil his judgement. He was only able to spare her the occasional squeeze of her leg, resulting in a subtle clench, a light gasp, or her fingers brushing against his knuckles. 
The usual 29 minute drive was cut to 19 as Terry basically drifted into their driveway like he was Dominic Toretto. He wasted no time, moving like a man on a mission from the driver's seat to retrieve Mila from the passenger side. A quick shuffle and a fumble with the keys later, they were in their living room, locked in a tangled frenzy of wandering hands and spells against each other's lips. 
“Where?” he breathed against her. 
“Anywhere. Fuck, right here,” she moaned into him. 
He hoisted her by the backs of her thighs, placing her gently on the suade couch. He knelt before her and slid the scarlet So Kates off her French-pedicured feet, placing soft kisses up her ankle to her calf. Repeating on the next foot, his heavy lidded gaze found her needy one. 
Her chest gently rose and fell under the top of that dress. That dress that took him three steps back from God whenever he laid eyes on her that night. Her deep cherry lined lips were agape as she welcomed the last few regulated breaths for the night. All these shades of red, like the blood pumping through his veins, into his hardened cock, goading him into fulfilling every sinful thought that had crossed his mind since they had left the house. 
“Sandra…you need to-” 
“She's a grown woman, she'll be fine. I need to attend to more pressing matters,” he interrupted, as he pushed her dress up to her hips and guided her legs open to reveal the thin lace material covering the aforementioned matters. 
Red. The thong was red. 
“But T, the gallery-your work-” Mila breathlessly protested, earning a sharp smack to the back of her thigh. 
“It can wait. My princess’s pleasure on the other hand can't, and if she can't understand that then I'm going to have to gag her for the night,” Terry stated. 
“Do you want me to gag you princess? Do you want to deprive me of hearing that beautiful song of you coming undone? Are you trying to punish me Mama?” he asked, tone dripping of lustful sincerity. 
Mila's head shook frantically as she reached for the hands clamped around her calves. “No baby, I want you to hear me. Need you to touch me, please.”
Terry's head tilted to the side, feigning confusion at her request. “But I am touching you sweetheart. Is there something I'm doing wrong?” he was taunting her into specificity, and he knew she wasn't far gone enough to understand that. 
“Fuck, Terry just touch my pussy please!” she breathed out, beginning to lose her patience for his games. He had insisted they leave early so he could make her feel good. Now was the time, and teasing just simply wouldn't do. 
At her command, Terry’s fingers hooked beneath the thin waist straps of her racy underwear. Instinctively, Mila lifted her hips slightly for him to pull the only thing in the way of him feasting on her, down her legs. He tossed the thong over his shoulder as though it were a nuisance, not caring where it landed. Mila’s hand reached behind his buzzed head, angling him to meet her in a careless gathering of lips dancing against one another. 
Her tongue slid into his mouth, occasionally brushing against his own in a claim of dominance. He groaned into the kiss, the sharp tips of her acrylics grazing his nape and pushing him into a delirium that only grew his hunger for her. Like a psychic. her teeth sunk into the plump flesh of his bottom lip, daring him to consume her as she had just done to him.
The sense of duty his military father raised him with, overtook him as he reluctantly pulled away from the soft, cherry flavoured appetizer. Like a panther in the night, his bright irises zeroed in on his meal as he grabbed her legs and reeled her in for her reckoning. Mila’s shaky gasps and growing whimpers hit his ears like music. Melodies he controlled with the varied pressures of his thumbs on her clit. With every stroke and light brush, her pussy leaked with a call for Terry to devour her whole. 
His index and ring fingers joined the fleet, greedily plunging into her entrance.The curve of his digits against her walls rewarded him with a lewd cry for more, and who was Terry if not a dutiful husband. Daring to tear his gaze from his treat, the sight of Mila’s needy state cracked the stained glass window that was his self-control. Her hooded eyes burning with wanton, her cherry stained lips trembling, and the rest of her features idle from the pleasure only nurtured the unholy lust scorching him from the inside out.
“I’m the luckiest nigga on earth, no doubt about it. You’re so fucking perfect Mama,” the curl of her lips paired with the light giggle his words elicited drove Terry’s fingers even deeper into the valley of her sex. 
“Teeerryyyy!” her honeycombed voice, accompanied by the squelch of Terry working her pussy like a fiddle, cried as her head flew further into the back of their couch.
Between watching her unravel on his fingers and watching said fingers take a swim in the frothy center that awaited his taste buds, Terry was beginning to grow impatient.The fragile glass of his window was falling apart as her desperate song for more backed by the raw instrumental of her pussy being prepared just for him, dealt devastating blows. But with the way she screwed herself around his digits as her walls clenched, the light at the end of the tunnel appeared. She would cum soon, and then he would feast on her as if he were a death row inmate and she was his last meal.
“Terry I-”
“I know Mama, just let go. Let me handle the rest. Let me take care of you,” he coaxed as her juices thickened and whitened into the creamy delight that consumed his more sinful thoughts. Her eyes clenched shut, prompting a sharp smack to her thigh. “Come on Princess, I need you to look at me. Need to see those beautiful eyes process what I’m giving to you,” he cooe’d. 
And there they were; beautiful brown eyes spiraling through mindless pleasure while Terry’s words and fingers carried her through to the other side of the bridge he had built her by hand. The bridge called “mind-scrambling pleasure”. The end of it being Terry’s insatiable hunger for his Princess. The center of his being. His wife. Somila Richmond.
Feeling her come down, Terry slowly retracted each finger individually, savouring the labored gasps and strained whimpers he drew out of her. Each finger was immediately cleaned off by Terry’s tongue. A satisfied groan vibrated in his throat, eyes closing as he enjoyed his little taste test. The thought of how close he was to tasting the real thing sent a rush to his head and his dick. This woman had no idea how much of a crack fiend she had turned him into.
“Y’know Mama, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t need trivial shit like food, water or even air. You’d be all I need to survive-no. You’d be all I need to live,” his words of praise were punctuated by kisses of worship against the soft skin of her inner thighs.
“I love you…so fucking much T,” Mila declared breathlessly, making Terry’s heart flutter.
His loving gaze, carrying a predatory undertone, connected with her love-drunk one. His heaven on earth sat before him. The only woman to ever have him on his knees; not sexually, but in full submission of his heart, mind and soul. Everything he did was for her, and the moments like these? With her lost in pleasure he had hand delivered to her (although sometimes out of greed) professing her love to him? These were the moments that made life feel worth it. Because what would his be if it weren’t the one he built with her?
“I love you too Mama. More than you could ever comprehend.”
Having said his grace, Terry pressed his forearm to her hips, pinning them to the velvet seat cushions without breaking eye contact. One thing he just couldn’t have interrupting his meal, was uncontrollable squirming. His knowledge of Mila’s body was extensive enough for him to anticipate and plan for such…inconveniences.
He watched her watch him have a few quick laps at the mess he had created. The remains of her previous orgasm were always the first focus. In tandem, the thumb on his free hand began to massage her clit, coaxing her pussy to increase his supply. 
His tongue dipped into her sex, scooping through anything it could taste. The once smooth, lewd sounds sliding from her lips became indecisive erratic cries. As the tip of his tongue swirled through her entrance, the pressure of his thumb increased, as if opening a faucet. Uncontrolled grunts vibrated against her entrance as her essence kissed his taste buds and flowed down his goatee while her body writhed and shook from unbridled pleasure.  
Terry wasn’t even in the business of overstimulation, he just had a tendency of feasting on her like a madman. The way his tongue would rearrange her mind just by pressing deeper into her pussy always blossomed a few seeds of pride in his chest. His lips had begun to glisten, matching Mila’s now glowing skin from the sweat she was working up. 
He momentarily swapped his tongue and thumb, the coarse, flat pressure on Mila’s nub sending ripples through her body while his thumb worked her back to where he needed her to be. Flat pressure turned to light flicks, and Mila turned to mush as another orgasm tore through her with a guttural moan. 
More creamy froth coated Terry’s thumb, telling him to switch back. The onslaught continued as Terry relished the taste of Mila’s undoing while Mila dissolved into a body of incoherent whimpers. Like the glutton she had turned him into, he went for thirds, then fourths, cleaning her out of every orgasm he could claw onto. But alas, his jaw could only take so much, and his tongue could only flex for so long. 
Finally releasing her, Terry got off his knees and stood at full height, only then being reminded of the raging boner he had developed back at the museum. Unfortunately his greed had delivered him his comeuppance rather soon. Mila was a twitching mess of nothing but pleasure and vibes on the couch. The bun her locs was in had come undone, leaving them in a sprawled high ponytail. A clear sheen covered her face and the dark brown skin glowing iridescent under their dim orange light. The lip liner had faded but the cherry lip gloss remained, keeping her plump lips soft and smooth. 
Still absolutely perfect. 
“Fuck, I did too much didn’t I Princess?” he chuckled hoarsely, earning nothing but a mere incoherent mumble in response.
If Terry were a lesser man, he would take more than necessary. He would take the monster prowling in his slacks and fuck her till she didn’t even know who he was. But he wasn’t. He was a man of honour. One that at least accepted consequence when met with it. So he gently scooped her into his arms and carried her bridal style into their ensuite bathroom.
He would just use the hand that was complicit in his gluttony to get himself off. A small price to pay really.
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machinesonix · 1 year ago
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Somehow I have made it this long without realizing that none of the screen adoptions of Dune so much as mention the Butlerian Jihad. Like I guess it's burned into my brain so hard I sort of assumed it was part and parcel of the universe. Don't get me wrong, I think that's probably the first thing you learn if you want to dive deeper into the setting, but it still hits me like if the LotR movies showed us the big flaming eyeball tower and was like ‘Oh, that's why there are bad things, but don't worry, that's just background stuff.’ Yeah, you can understand the movie, but if the story is just like Frodo vs. The Witch King you are losing out on any of the conversation about the corruptive allure of power or theological undertones. So without further ado let's pretend this is for the benefit of interested new fans roped in by the movies and not part of my desperate attempt to silence the howling specters of literary analysis that live in my blood.
The Butlerian Jihad is an event set ~10k years prior to the events of Dune in which humanity won their freedom from the machines that they had enslaved themselves to. As a result, it is a religious taboo to create a machine that thinks like a human. That's frankly the bulk of the information presented by Frank Herbert in the text without dipping into books 7+, but whether or not those are canon is frankly an enormous can of worms, which really makes sense when you consider the size of the worms. But boy howdy, Frank loved his subtext and parallelism. Everyone has a foil character, every theme is hit from multiple angles, and Villinueve has been doing an excellent job of capturing a lot of that in repeated imagery and dialogue. The Butlerian Jihad happens off camera, but it's themes are absolutely critical to the big picture.
The Butlerian Jihad was a holy war. It was not merely a rebellion against the machines, it was a crusade against them. The prohibition against thinking machines isn't just a law, it's in the pan-universal Bible. Absolute psychopath Pieter DeVries himself claps back at the Baron for insinuating he might have a use for a computer, and this is a guy who has been hired specifically for his preternatural absence of morals. Let's hold onto that idea for a minute. 
Probably my favorite scene in the first book is the one where planetologist Liet-Kynes is dying out in the desert. As the last of his strength fades to dehydration he hallucinates conversations he had with his father concerning terraforming Arakkis for human habitability. He's told that the means are not complicated. There is already enough water on the planet, the Little Makers just have it all trapped deep underground as part of the sandworm reproductive cycle. You just need to isolate enough water to start irrigating plant life, and once it's established that'll keep the water on the surface on its own. The hard part is making sure everyone on the planet is environmentally conscious enough to foster a developing ecosystem. Nobody can drink any of that water while it's being collected, because they'll just introduce it back into the water cycle where the Little Makers are. It's going to take generations, so that sort of water discipline is going to have to go above and beyond a social convention. People need to be willing to die before they'll take a sip and compromise the plan. Ghost Dad Kynes concludes that the only mechanism in the human experience to enforce this consensus is religion. 
In the context of this whole parallelism thing, you have probably noticed that the Butlerian Jihad is not the only holy war in the narrative. Paul sees a new jihad as the only way of creating a future where humans can flourish. Now you might be saying ‘Wait now, Machines. I thought the point of Paul’s holy war was to avenge Leto and disempower established power structures by taking away the control of the spice!’ And you’d be right. The thing is, without getting into spoiler territory, Dune Messiah is not going to be about how everything just gets so much better now that Paul has destroyed the economy, government, and untold billions of human lives. This isn’t the endgame. Dude can see the future and the way he does it involves looking into the past. Paul lives in a society defined by a holy war and his goal is to redefine society. 
Putting it all together you can see what I mean about the Butlerian Jihad being essential to the themes even though the story never shows us a thinking machine or a narrative beat where the absence of computers changes the outcome. It helps us see the big picture. I’ve seen a lot of dialogue lately on whether Paul is a tragic hero or a consummate villain and I’m not here to answer that, but I am here to underline the critical detail. Paul intends to be seen as a tyrant. Just like Kynes’ hallucination says, religion is the lever to make a value stick around forever. He wants to traumatize humanity to hate chosen ones and emperors the same way the machines traumatized humanity to change them forever. The Water of Life ritual doesn’t invert his values, it lets him realize these visions of war are the means, not the ends. He is absolutely not happy about it, but this is Paul’s terrible purpose. 
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superblysubpar · 1 year ago
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return to main menu | Her Body Is Bible masterlist
Honey, On Your Knees
steve harrington x fem!reader
summary: Your husband and you get nasty in a church…again.
the song: Holy by King Princess
2.5k words
warnings: This fic is a part of my "Her Body Is Bible" AU - you can find the first story linked at the masterlist above | warnings from prev fic still apply - religious themes, and the holiday Christmas being celebrated | Mentions of trying to get pregnant | Alcohol mentions and use by reader | SMUT (oral - reader receiving / public - in a church again, right off the worship space / steve is kind of edging us a little if you squint)
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He hadn’t meant to say it. 
The house was warm, the low murmur of relatives catching up while silverware clinked together mixed with Nat King Cole crooning out of the stereo. Mashed potatoes heaped by spoonfuls onto plates, kids’ new toys scattered in a rush once the ham was carved, and soon wine started to be poured for those of age.
Vivian Harrington simply smiled as you told her none for you and moved on, but the same couldn’t be said for others at the table. 
“Not drinking, huh? Are you pregnant?” 
If his scotch drunk uncle jumped over the line of appropriate, Steve ignored it all together, replying hopefully and without thought. 
“No…not yet!”
He hadn’t meant to say it. 
Your eyes widened, jaw tensed as you huffed out a breath through your nose. Steve’s cheeks flushed, and the table erupted into chaos, terribly intimate questions directed towards you. 
“Oh! Are you trying?! How exciting!”
“When you are, make sure Stephen here does everything. It’s the least he can do.”
“How long have you been trying? Don’t give up, Ben and I took two years, but look at us now…”
“How many do you want?”
“Are you still going to work?”
“Kids? So soon?”
“Who’s having a baby? Uncle Steve?!”
“Vivian?” You called, flagging Steve’s mom over.
You took the bottle of previously passed on wine and gave yourself a more than generous pour, and Steve whispered, “Baby, I thought that alcohol could affect your…”
The look you gave him had his mouth closing quickly, keeping his concern about ovulation and hormones to himself. You turned away from him, then answered every single question with grace and a grip on the glass that made Steve gulp around his own drink. 
Eventually, the table settled into topics that gave you a small reprieve. 
Steve leaned closer, lips almost to the apple of your cheek and you turned, so his kiss was cut off, mouth parted in surprise as he blinked at you. He spoke softly, fingers reaching for yours as he did, “I’m sorry, I didn’t-”
“Should we give you two some privacy?” A quip and waggled eyebrows from the other side of the table, and you plastered on a perfect smile and faked a laugh, poured yourself more wine and Steve’s shoulders deflated. 
You still hadn’t spoken to him. Dinner passed, and then dessert, and then coats were being pushed on and kids wrangled into cars for the midnight service. 
Steve managed to get you close to him in the very backseat of one of the vehicles. He kept his eyes on your profile as you stared straight ahead. 
“Are you going to ignore me the entire night? I’m sorry,” he started, voice low. 
Your gaze turned to him finally and your chest ached from how apologetic he looked. And honestly, you were over it as quickly as it happened, and the glasses of wine helped, and you were ready to say so. But then Steve’s fingers brushed your knee, up and down and back up your thigh. They nudged at the hem of your skirt, testing. His other fingers curled around your neck, words dipping even lower, soft and for only your ears. 
“How else can I tell you I’m sorry, honey?”
Steve’s thumb swiped down your neck, soothing and far too close to your racing pulse. It’d been sort of easy for him lately, and the thrill of making him think you were mad, the chance to make him sweat a little, to work for it, had your underwear growing wet. 
“We can talk about it later, when we get home,” you whispered, sternly. 
Steve nodded earnestly, until your fingers curled into your skirt, until the red, green and gold fabric pulled higher and higher. Your eyes remained on his until he had to look down, to see your black tights were not tights, but stockings. A sliver of supple skin revealed between plaid skirt and where they ended high on your thigh. The black lace disappearing as quickly as it was shown to him as your skirt dropped again, fanning nicely over your thighs.  
His tongue swiped over his lip, adams apple bobbing. He cleared his throat, voice a warning, “Baby-”
The car pulled to a stop, and you were out on the pavement with his family, heading into the church before he’d really even caught his breath. 
He watched you hang your coat, and help his nieces and nephews with theirs. His eyes traveled from the black heels up the black stockings that he now knew ended under your pretty Christmas skirt, curved around your thighs delicately and sinfully. He swallowed at the sight of red velvet over your breasts, at the memory of what happened last time you were here. 
It was easy to slip away as churchgoers caught up over coffee and doughnuts before the service, as kids became preoccupied in the Sunday school rooms with toys. You made your way down a dark hallway under the guise of the bathroom, and had to bite down on your smile as an arm slunk around your waist and pulled you into a room silently and quickly. 
Only lit by the soft light of the navy sky and moon outside, the room was obviously rarely used, a place for mismatched and forgotten things. Steve spun to face you, his fingers behind him clicking the lock closed with a barely audible, but still noticeable click. 
“Yes?” You prompted, folding your arms over your chests and hiding your delight at the way the movement made his eyes flit down to your breasts. 
Steve crossed the room in quick strides, hands finding your hips and tugging you to him gently as he spoke with sincerity. 
“Angel,” his nose traced down the bridge of yours, before he kissed the tip of it, “I’m sorry.” He kissed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips before he pulled away enough to look into your eyes again, so you could see how truly sorry he was. 
“I really didn’t mean to say it, it slipped out. I’m just so excited, and I didn’t even think…” 
“I know,” you offered quietly, as your fingers slipped into his hair, curling stray and unruly pieces behind his ears. Your eyes remained focused on your adjustments, sure that if you looked at his eyes for longer than two seconds, you’d forget you were “mad” and fuck him in a church again. You’d break and he’d have barely worked for it. 
Steve knew this, you think. 
Because your eyes caught the subtle twitch of his lips, the fake deep sigh, the way his head leaned forward until he was at your ear. Hot breath hitting skin in a way that had goosebumps exploding over your entire body, his voice sultry and low as he asked, “Can I make it up to you?”  
“Steve…” your half-hearted start to a protest you didn’t want to give lost as he dipped lower, pressing silk lips to your neck. 
His palms brushed over the curve of your breasts, they skated down your sides, lower and lower to your hips. As your head fell back, they circled to your ass, grabbing generous handfuls and squeezing as his breath grew sharper against your collarbone. Parted lips dragging across it, the tentative trail of his tongue warm and testing. 
“We…we’re in a church,” you gulped around the words, his kisses traveling up the column of your throat now as he nudged your feet backwards. 
“Didn’t stop us the last time.” Steve’s voice was shot, a goner the minute you showed him the stockings. 
Men were too easy. 
Your legs hit a couch arm, and Steve’s fingers grabbed for your jaw gently, thumb pulling at your chin so you had to look at him. Both of your chests moved rapidly, anticipating, as you fell deeper and deeper into the moss and honey in his iris’ - lost in the forest, stuck in the sticky trap. 
His other hand roamed to the hem of your skirt, pads of his fingers buzzing over the skin above the stockings as he pulled the fabric higher. His head cocked in a way that said he knew what he was doing, the ghost of a smile on his lips telling you he knew that you weren’t mad, not really, but he’d play your game anyways.  
“Let me make you feel good, honey,” his lips brushed over yours as he spoke. The chatter of people filling the chapel right outside grew louder, but his voice remained even and soft, “It’s the least I can do, don't you think?”
Maybe you were easy too.  
Because you were nodding, and he was easing you down onto the couch. Steve knelt before you, watching you carefully, hungry, as he pulled your heels from your feet, letting them fall to the ground. 
Your palms pressed to the cushion behind you as he lifted a leg, your words swallowed and caught somewhere in your chest with your breath as he kissed your ankle bone through the thin material. Steve kept his eyes on you, warm and greedy as he kissed up your calf, at your knee until he was at the top of the thigh high. He gently laid your leg back down, and then pulled at your waist until you were at the edge of the seat. 
“You gonna be quiet for me?” 
The nod of your head was pitiful, putty in his hands and from his words as he flipped your skirt up. Steve’s lips pressed kisses to the inside of your thighs, sweet and in a slow way that had heat rising to your cheeks. Your body hot, spine turning to liquid as he nudged his nose into the damp black silk covering you, as his fingers curled into the waistband. 
Steve pulled them from you, sighing at the way they stuck to your lips. He slipped them down your legs, never letting his eyes leave the space between your thighs. He was taking his time, drinking you in with his eyes in a dirty gaze that had your entire body tightening, making you want him more than you ever had, erasing any sort of rationality or thoughts from your brain other than him and this.
His fingers tugged at your hips, squeezing possessively until a whine bubbled out of you, his name a desperate whisper, barely audible over the choir singing. 
He hummed when you spread your legs wider for him, pressing against the couch as he leaned in. His hands roamed down and back up your thighs, until they were spreading you. 
His thumbs held you apart, mouth a ghost over your cunt. Hot breath exhaled against slick lips that had your toes curling and your lungs somehow forgetting how to take in air. He had you on the ledge, and he hadn’t even started. 
Steve pushed closer, the tip of his nose a slow drag through your slit, his lips skimming over your folds behind it, tasting, testing.
His tongue finally made contact with you, a long, slow lick from your entrance to just below your clit, making you wait, making your fingers dig into the cushion and your eyes look towards the heavens.  
Steve did it again, painfully slow, the hot and wet glide of his tongue along you sinful. Over and over, flat, broad strokes of it, tasting every bit of you except for your clit, getting you higher and higher, closer to bliss without giving it to you.  
You were throbbing, an insistent and buzzing pulse under your skin demanding to be felt, demanding to break. It felt like your ears were crackling with static like the speakers the pastor was now giving his sermon in. 
Steve lifted on your hips that wiggled, caressing over the top of your ass. He stopped his movement with his tongue, panting over your cunt, letting his mouth hover against your glistening lips. 
Your chest grew heavier with each rise and fall of labored breathing as you watched Steve’s tongue flick out, tracing the curves of you and letting his nose drag and nudge behind it. Teasing and taunting, pulling every last drop of want out, your body taut and ready to snap. 
Then he looked up at you.
His cheeks flushed pink, and pupils blown wide, lit up in glittering moonlight streaming in through old and warped glass, he looked like something holy and angelic between your thighs. As if he were worshiping you, praying on his knees at your feet.
The grip he had on your hips shifted, pushing down your thighs and spreading you wider, and his voice was raspy as he asked, “You forgive me?”
Your head nodded once, fingers reaching for his hair to pull him closer, desperate for his mouth to be back on you. Your own voice shot, a pitiful whine as you begged him, “Please, need your-ohmygod.”
Steve’s spit hit your clit, making your thighs go to snap close, but his palms held you open forcefully. He wasn’t an angel worshiping, he was unholy, he was sin, he was filthy as he kept eye contact with you and dipped his mouth over you again. 
His lips molded around your pulsing nerves, tongue flicking out in a rhythm that had your entire body lit up, vibrating, fraying and sparking. His hands pushed at your thighs that resisted him, he moaned against you as you fell forward. Your fingers yanking in his hair as your hips moved against his face. 
Steve’s exhale was sharp as he released, sinking lower and dragging his tongue over your slit again. He was faster now, keeping his tongue flat against you as he lapped at your cunt, nose nudging against your clit over and over again as you rocked against it. 
“Fuck, Ste-,” your hand slapped over your mouth and your eyes widened, but Steve didn’t let up. You tugged on his hair, whimpering, and his hand rose, finger pulling at your pouting bottom lip until you were parting for him. You moaned around the black silk he shoved into your waiting mouth. 
He doubled down then, tongue prodding at your entrance, fast and precise licks up to your clit he kept working at with his nose. Steve’s heavy lidded gaze up at you had you crying out around the fabric, your chest crumpling over his head as you grinded down against his nose, unraveling for him. 
Tears pricked behind your eyes, skin hot as you came around nothing but his tongue, he hadn’t even slipped a finger into you. Steve held your waist now as you arched, letting your thighs finally close around his face as he licked over you, humming against your sensitive nerves as he greedily took in everything you gave him. 
He pulled away eventually, nose and lips skimming down your thigh until he was at your stockings. He pressed his cheek to your knee and looked up at you. Your underwear pulled from your mouth and crumpled in your fingers, your eyelashes fluttered as you tried to keep your eyes open, chest rising and falling ragged. You looked at him under your straining eyelids, warmth and affection and something far too sweet for what you two just did behind your gaze. 
The choir was singing again, Silent Night, and your fingers pressed to your lips, hiding a smile and a giggle.
He hadn’t meant to say it, but he was kind of glad he did. 
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profoundbondfanfic · 9 months ago
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Do you have any recs for Reallyyy long fics? Like 200-300k+ words? That isn't 91W... avoiding that one because I feel like it will hurt me... preferably fix-its? Oh and no a/b/o pls :) thanksss
Here are a few:
Angel's Wild by riseofthefallenone (Explicit, 389k words)
But that’s the whole reason he’s here, isn’t it? He’s not out here hunting Humans. He’s not even hunting deer, or bears, or anything else that featured in Bambi. He’s out here, freezing his nuts off every night, because he’s hunting Angels. Sometimes Dean wishes that Angels were like how they’re described in the Bible. How people from time too old for him to care much about thought Angels were messengers and warriors of God, protectors of Humans. He knows that how they’re really described in the Bible is actually pretty terrifying, but at least they were told by God that they’re supposed to love Humans, right? That’s a thousand times better than what Angels really turned out to be.
Bitch Better Have My Money by Duckyboos (Explicit, 256k words)
How Dean Winchester - mechanic, shitty cook, single father - became the power behind the throne in one of the biggest crime syndicates in the Midwest.
Computer Safety Verse by followthattardis (Explicit, 232k words)
On the day of his 29th birthday, Dean receives an email from his old nemesis: Michael Milton, the guy who got him kicked out of college and stole his girlfriend. The email contains encoded images with top secret CIA/NSA intelligence – and now their only copy is in Dean’s brain. Both agencies send their best operatives – Castiel Novak and Victor Henriksen respectively – to handle their accidental asset and protect the invaluable data in his head. To justify their sudden appearance in Dean’s life, they adopt covers: Victor as Dean’s new co-worker and neighbor, Cas as his new boyfriend. Needless to say, Dean’s brother and his girlfriend are thrilled to see him in a relationship they believe to be real. Clearly, there’s no way this could go wrong.
Four Letter Word For Intercourse by bendingsignpost (Explicit, 228k words)
As a grease monkey turned college freshman, Dean's constantly three seconds away from being stressed out of his mind. It hardly helps that he's finally figuring out his sexuality in his thirties. What might help with that stress is a little phone number (and a big credit card bill). If he can't figure out how to be bisexual in person, he can at least give it a go over the phone, right? (It's probably a bad idea, but he really can't help himself.)
Light me up by tricia_16 (Explicit, 218k words)
Five years after participating in a life-changing threesome with his then-girlfriend and her friend Cas, Dean's single, comfortably bisexual, and has everything he's ever wanted except for that special someone to share his life with. When tragedy strikes, he and Cas are reunited in an unexpected way, and a split-second decision entangles their lives in ways neither of them could have predicted…
Not Part of the Plan by Annie D (scaramouche) (Explicit, 337k words)
Castiel's spent most of his adult life keeping his head down and staying out of trouble. This is a deliberate choice on his part, because as a cousin of the King, he'd rather stay unimportant and forgotten. This changes abruptly when King Michael decides that he has a better use for Castiel: he is to be wed to a noble member of the neighboring Republic, as part of an agreement between their two nations. Castiel knows he has to obey, but that doesn't mean he won't rebel in what small ways he can. Unexpectedly, his actions end up having far-reaching consequences.
one million fires burning by dothraki_shieldmaiden (Explicit, 248k words)
Dean Winchester teaches three classes a day, tutors after school, and chairs the English Department for Lawrence High School. He does enough. Unfortunately, his boss doesn't feel the same and informs him that he has a new job: co-coaching the school's trivia team. His co-coach? None other than the school's golden boy, Castiel Milton. Who Dean can't stand, for various reasons, all of which are valid, thank you very much. And the fact that Dean can't stop talking about the stick up Cas's, sorry, Milton's ass? Completely irrelevant.
Redux by emmbrancsxx0 (Explicit, 386k words)
Dean Winchester is dead. For decades, he, along with Castiel and Sam, has led a peaceful afterlife in heaven. He has everything he’s ever wanted: a home, his family and friends surrounding him, and a relationship with Cas—and he’s bored as hell. Until, one day, Chuck escapes heaven’s lock up and begins capturing souls to regain power. To stop him, Jack sends Dean, Cas, and Sam back to Earth. After so long away from hunting, will they be able to once again find their place in the family business?
Talk Some Sense To Me (Kenopsia) by ImYourHoneyBee (Explicit, 244k words)
Scrambling to his knees Castiel hugs back, burying his face in Dean’s neck, breath coming in fast little pants against his skin. Dean closes his eyes and just breathes him in, barely able to believe that this is real. At any other time in his life, closing his eyes against a threat like Death would be an inexcusable lapse in his hunter’s judgement. Right now, he doesn’t give a single fuck. Death can reap him for all he cares, he’ll die knowing Cas is going to be ok. Alive. “I will see you soon, Dean,” Death tells him, that deliberate voice of his soft enough not to intrude on the intimacy of the moment, “Raincheck on that grilled cheese.” “Thank you,” Dean croaks, propping his chin up on Cas’s shoulder, unmindful of the tears trickling down his cheeks, “Thank you.”
The Closest Thing We Have To Magic by EllenOfOz, TrenchcoatBaby (Explicit, 221k words)
Dean Winchester is a graduate student at Stanford University’s School of the Occult. A naturally-talented mage but a lazy professor and student, he figures he’ll coast through his final year the way he always has: with charisma, charm, and a natural aptitude for magic. All that changes when his thesis advisor, Dr. Castiel Novak, turns out to be the strictest and most challenging educator on-campus. Unfortunately for Dean, the uptight professor is nearly his age and infuriatingly gorgeous. But Castiel is keeping a secret, a powerful talent that’s more a curse than a blessing when he’s targeted by seditious parts of magical society. Can Dean and Cas put aside their animosity—and undeniable chemistry—long enough to instill real change in the magical community? Or will sinister plots and hidden agendas keep them apart?
To Build a Home by intothesilentland (Mature, 383k words)
Twenty-three years of head-over-heels, devastating devotion and love, love, love for the man with bright eyes and dark hair. Fourteen years of friends, best friends, of always together. One moment of rejection. Nine years of apart. Nine years of heartbreak, nine years of continents away, of not speaking, of no acknowledgement, no interaction, no closure, no peace. No happiness. Nine years of Dean’s life entering motions, going through them, constant, cold and mechanic, like clockwork. Nine years of alone. God. Nine years. A lot has changed. And yet Dean still loves Cas just the same. Even if his heart hurts all kinds of different.
Under The Midnight Sun by NorthernSparrow (Explicit, 232k words)
Dean Winchester’s been camp manager of a science research station on the Alaskan tundra for thirteen years. Dean likes his job; fixing the camp trucks, troubleshooting the generators, keeping clueless undergrads and NSF bigwigs from walking into grizzly bears or getting lost in snowstorms — it’s all in a day’s work. It keeps him pretty busy, and this year his brother Sam's visiting too, so he's even busier. So it’s really not any of Dean’s business when some weirdo antisocial ornithologist sets up a tent a few miles away, a dark-haired blue-eyed guy who’s doing a “very long-term" study on birds or wings or something, and who never, ever takes off his big lumpy backpack. But then the new guy starts dropping by camp for coffee and… well, he’s not officially part of camp; he's not Dean’s responsibility; he’s really not Dean’s problem at all, but when a strange blizzard comes sweeping in, Dean gets worried and goes to check. Thing is, Dean's spent years in the sweeping vistas of the Arctic. He knows all about the midnight sun and the northern lights, the ice caves and avalanches, the rough-and-ready Haul Road truckers and the even rougher-and-readier wild animals. But even so, what he finds is much more than he bargained for.
With Interest by everandanon (Explicit, 296k words)
Eighteen, bored, and not quite able to turn down the money, Cas agrees to an ill-advised bet, and Dean's heart isn't the only one that gets broken. Eleven years later, grieving his twin brother and struggling to take care of his niece, Cas finally returns home — only to meet Dean again and discover that the boy he left behind has grown up a lot. And now, Dean seems to have every intention of getting him back — with interest.
You can also check our >100k tag for all the longer fics we rec.
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waywardsou2 · 8 days ago
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I apologise for what you are about to read in this post
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But that looks to me like Bucky's been tied up...
None of these thoughts are in the bible and I am actively foaming at the mouth
(also quick side note I'm really hoping that sliver thing is just some material and not something to do with his old arm)
I would be all over that man right now if given the change my GOD. I need to bite him so badly
He kinda looks afraid too...
Omg the Whumper inside me is going absolutely insane for this shot. I need context and I need him NOW
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sojourner-between-worlds · 11 months ago
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Things about being a Christian I've had to unlearn as an adult:
Spending a lot of time on/ being invested in something doesn't make it an idol. This is not how that works, bestie. Look. I get that the advice "if you spend more time on x hobby than you do reading the Bible and praying" is well-intentioned, but it's just plain Bad. There are a lot of hobbies that take significant amounts of time. Art. Writing. Trade hobbies, like woodworking. I spent two hours Saturday putting in a garden (now that I have space for one!), and not spending two hours and one minute on Bible reading doesn't mean that gardening is now an idol for me. It means I got into a groove and just kept going (and got terribly sunburned for my trouble). What makes something an idol is NOT how much time you spend on it but rather the importance you place upon it. Sometimes important things take five minutes and sometimes they take an hour; the thing that took five minutes isn't less important because it took up less of your time. If your thought process is "this is more important than spending time with God", that is what makes your hobby an idol. (If you are constantly foregoing your time with God in favor of a hobby, then I'd say you need to re-evaluate your priorities, but spending a lot of time on something does not inherently make it an idol. Not to mention that a lot of hobbies can still bring you closer to God despite not spending that time intentionally for that purpose.)
Not having your "quiet time"/ devotions every day does not make you a "bad" Christian. This goes hand-in-hand with the previous point, and there's a lot I could say on this topic, but what it boils down to is this: God understands our human limits and the brains He gave us that sometimes make it difficult -- autism and ADHD and OCD and [fill in the blank]. I'm autistic. So when (well-meaning) people say things like, "you can't get to know God if you don't spend time with Him!" about praying and reading the Bible -- well, 'spending time' looks different for me. Socializing is difficult for me. And while socializing with God is obviously different than with people, praying is still far more mentally draining for me than for most people (especially growing up in an environment where it was implied that you have to 'say the right things' when you pray instead of just allowing it to be a conversation, but that's the next point). A lot of "socializing" for me is simply being present with someone else. This is called "parallel play": you're doing your own thing in the same space as someone else while they are also doing their own thing. This...doesn't translate well to Christianity and what Christianity is "supposed" to look like, unfortunately, so I constantly felt shame that none of the common advice worked for me when it seemed to work for everyone else. Set a time? Executive dysfunction makes switching tasks hard and once that set time has passed, "well, it's too late now". Having a reading plan? I'd miss a day, fall behind, and the shame at that would keep me from continuing to try. And when I did manage to stay on track, quite often it simply became a box to check off and that was it. So, now, I do what I can, when I can. I always get more out of it, and I think God cares more about that than sticking to a plan just so you can say you read every day anyway.
"Don't script your prayers! They'll become repetitive and you won't think about or mean them!" Oh, boy. Once again, I get the well-intentioned meaning here. You don't want your prayers to become rote and stale. But as someone with high anxiety, scripting them is the only way I can survive praying aloud with other people, and, in fact, it means I put more thought into them, not less! But hearing this kind of advice coupled with an environment where it was implied you had to say 'the right things, the right way' was absolutely detrimental to my prayer life growing up. I was always worried about saying the wrong thing, especially as an undiagnosed autistic who was constantly, ya know, saying the wrong things in conversations with people. So I definitely didn't want to say the wrong things to God! But... I also wasn't allowed to plan what to say? How was I supposed to pray then? So I just. didn't pray. For a very long time. Until I learned its just as perfectly okay to talk to God about whatever crosses your mind while you're standing at the sink doing dishes as it is sitting down with a list of things to focus on. (Not to mention that this really is just...terrible advice in general. Kudos to my pastor, who, in his current Sunday night series on worship, actually gave a tutorial on how to personalize praying the Psalms. So, you know, pre-written prayers.)
Purity Culture. Need I say more? Oh, I could write a whole post about how harmful this is, but plenty of people already have, so I'll leave it at this: I wear what I am comfortable wearing now. Something I love about my church is that our philosophy on modesty is this: The greatest sin of immodesty is saying "look at me" instead of "look at God." In other words, modest isn't about what you're wearing so much as what your attitude about what you're wearing is. If you choose what to wear because you want people to notice and stare and give you compliments, then that is immodest no matter how much of your skin is covered up. It's not immodest to wear clothes you like and that you think are attractive (or that help you look professional when its called for), but ultimately your mindset is really not about "dressing to impress." (There is a very thin line between 'modest' and 'immodest' and its not where most people think it is.)
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klipkillakai · 1 month ago
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"I open the lecture door and with my head down I walk to my seat and sit down quietly as my professors back is turned as he writes something borderline illiterate on the board, 'God I hate how he writes, how could he possibly teach literature?' "I think to myself as I pull out my laptop and notebook"
"Today we will discuss the fall of man"
"Are any of you familiar with the book paradise lost?"
"My eyes drift around the room as I softly tap my pen on my thigh looking to see if anyone raises there hand, a few do while I notice others are checking to see if it's on the syllabus, I smile softly and the teacher continues"
"This book or epic of you may is essentially a romanticism of the fall of man, it gives Adam and Eve more character and the author focus a lot on the love that Adam and Eve share, Adam loved Eve so much that he ate the apple and fell with her, the Bible makes mention of that too but we'll get into that, the book also focuses on The Fallen.. the angels that fell with satan, and what that kind of looked like too, now we aren't going to go into anything too deep today but I would like you to read the first few pages and tomorrow we'll come back and discuss."
"A few moments later my borrowed copy is finally passed to me and I softly open the book and skim the pages for a second before returning to listening to the lecture"
"I sigh as I walk across campus to my dorm as I finally got out of that long lecture, Mr peters can be long winded and I only got 3 hours of sleep after I stayed up all night watching twilight for the billionth time, i don't understand why I torture myself like that knowing I cannot function with anything less than 7 hours of sleep"
"I reach my door and I'm about to put my keys in but I hear a loud thump in the room next to mine, I peep it but ignore because it's not my business, I turn my key and when I do I hear the door burst open and I jump back a bit when I see a tall man stumbling out the door, he grunts and sort of sags against the wall before snapping his eyes open clearly trying to focus his vision while he looks at me"
'Um..you alright?"
"I ask and he just stares at me, and I stare back.. and he responds"
'No'
"Low key not expecting that response, I nod"
'Just checking' "I reply"
"And I turn around and open my door and walk in deciding not to push, I'm not a damn detective"
"After showering I lie in bed scrolling on tumblr, occasionally liking a book quote and saving smut for later, and I decide to start reading the book for lit, a bit curious about what it says, I grab my bible for reference as im well versed in genesis and I want to cross reference, i start the book and im immediately captured by the writing and I read for hours"
.....
"Storm"
"Lighting"
"War"
.....
"A powerful fight and a sword so mighty it cannot be destroyed not even by its creator, a battle cry so strong so loud it shakes the heavens, then.. silence.."
"I'm falling.. falling..falling"
"I gasp awake and I jump up on my bed, I breathe heavily and my chest heaves and I'm drenched in sweat, i quickly open my nightstand drawer and frantically search for my inhaler I'm when I do I take two deep puffs before i calm down, my hand shakes and I sigh out and rub my face before pushing the covers off me and getting up to rinse my face off, I lazily grab my water bottle off my dresser too and I open my door as I go to the communal sink, I fill my bottle up as I'm deep in thought"
"I haven't had that dream in ages, that's so weird, maybe it's the book, I shouldn't have read right before bed.. and did I even eat? god I've got to stop-"
"A throat clears and I snap my head up to see the boy who looked half dead earlier"
'You know your speaking out loud right?'
"I slowly close my mouth and, I watch a small smirk form before it dissipates"
'I know now' "I reply with indifference"
'What was the dream about?' "He sits down at the table in-front of me and I lean against the counter with my arms crossed"
'None of your business'
'It is when you practically yell it out for the whole dorm to hear" "he says with a low amused tone, even tho the conversation is relaxed his gaze is intense, it almost weighs me down"
'Just a nightmare' "I say softly, I've had it before but not for awhile"
'Tell me about it" "he says it like a command almost, but I'm getting this feeling like it's just his nature"
"Well... I'm in the sky.. and there's this war I think, it's very jittery and fragmented.. It's like I'm seeing bits and pieces, "I clear my throat a bit and I look down" anyways um.. and I think I'm fighting in it and there's this sword and every time I have this dream when I see the sword it's like my world is ending, like that's the last thing I wanted to see and I see this bright flash that practically blinds me and that's when I finally wake up"
"It's not particularly scary but it just feels so real, the feeling is so deep it's just startling when I wake up, "I say as I stare at the floor my brows slight furrowed as I think deeply"
'I understand the feeling'
"I hear him say, but he sounds distant like he's experiencing something too and I look up at him, and he's just staring at me, watching me, studying me"
'Yeah' "I whisper it knowing how to respond and I just look at him"
'So what happened earlier? You looked like shit"
"He snaps out of his daze , yeah um I was hungover"
"Oh, well I'm glad your better I guess"
"I softly grab my water bottle and I close it tight"
"Oh I never got your name"
"When I look up he's gone and I look around startled, where did he go? I just looked down for a second.. shit I didn't even hear him get up, I start walking to my room and I look at the door next to it for a second before going Into mine getting in my bed and getting the rest of my sleep"
-a work i had started and now i must finish, i present to you.. “the watchers”
ps: the male mc has a name but you can visualize any of your favorites
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miraculouslbcnreactions · 6 months ago
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“it could mean that they didn't think further than season five and we're about to get a lot of awkward writing.”
Genuinely, I’m pretty sure this exact problem is about to rear it’s ugly head into the plot so hard. Once it becomes obvious enough next season, I think this is about to become the biggest gripe people have with the show.
I don’t subscribe to the “Chloé was rewritten by TA out of spite” theories—however—it is almost **impossible** that season 5 didn’t, at the very least, have the bones of the plot laid out *when it was still intended as the final season,* and then those bones were **heavily** rearranged when contracts were signed for Miraculous Ladybug to continue production beyond that point.
This is quickly having a domino effect on the plot, where storylines are being re-sculpted left and right to somehow tie-up the arc of the previous 5 seasons, whilst still maintaining pre-reveal status quo for the seasons still to come. The most glaring problem with this is, of course, that they had to royally shoot Marinette in the foot to make that work.
I don’t want to put my tin-foil hat on too much, but Adrinette getting together sans reveal is just a symptom of the show continuing past it’s original intended “end of life”. We were likely supposed to get exactly what is holding Adrinette back from being interesting right now—the reveal—in the original midseason finale of season 5 instead of Kwami’s Choice.
What’s an even more cynical thought—if season 5 was the end of the show like intended at one point, there is ZERO chance that Marinette would have even NEEDED to lie to Adrien about his father. *THAT’S* what frustrates me most about the season 5 finale. Not that it’s shocking, not that it subverts expectations, that it’s so glaringly obvious the main character is making a decision simply because the plot for future seasons implodes on itself if she thinks logically for 1.2 seconds. It’s not interesting. It’s only there because they wrote themselves into a corner they never intended to be in 5 years ago.
And as the seasons tick on and on, the cycle is just going to continue to chase itself in circles under the guise of “drama” and “plot”, but in reality the episodic nature of the show means that none of the plot lines will ever conclude in a satisfying way
(Post that inspired this ask)
it is almost **impossible** that season 5 didn’t, at the very least, have the bones of the plot laid out *when it was still intended as the final season,* and then those bones were **heavily** rearranged when contracts were signed for Miraculous Ladybug to continue production beyond that point.
Now that is a theory I can get behind and will even admit to subscribing to. Season five absolutely feels like it was written to be the final season and we know that it was, originally, supposed to be the final season. It's not a conspiracy theory to say, "I think that they may have committed to elements of season five before they got a sixth season and that ended up making season five into a bit of a mess."
I'd be fascinated to know the behind-the-scenes timing of things and what was written before the season-six greenlight and what they were allowed to change after season six became a thing. Things like scripts, lore bibles, and plot lines get signed off on by a lot of people! It's entirely possible that the writers' hands were tied on certain elements of season five. If the leaked, season-five Bible is to be believed, it says that it was signed off by TF1 & Disney and has a date of 1/29/21, about three months before season six was officially announced, implying that major elements of season five may have been set in stone all the way back in early 2021:
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[Image description: footer for the leaked Bible reading "Ladybug - Bible FINAL VERSION updated season 5 - approved by TF1 & Disney 1/29/21 - CONFIDENTIAL]
This may mean that the writers literally weren't allowed to make major changes to season five because they'd already gone through the approval process for the overall plot. It's also possible that they could have redone things, they just didn't have time based on production timelines or maybe they did have time and just couldn't think up a new version of season five in the time they had. There's no way to be sure with the limited information we have. Maybe season five is exactly what they wanted it to be!
It's hard to buy that, though, because a lot of the awkward writing makes so much more sense if there was supposed to be an identity reveal at the end of Kwami's Choice. Like why Adrien is worrying about how to tell Marinette that he's leaving, but he never once stops to think about Ladybug. If he knows they're the same person, that's suddenly perfectly understandable.
I also full agree that the lie at the end of season five feels like another stalling tactic and not a piece in a well-crafted narrative. It's really common for the writing to get stilted in TV shows and movie series that get renewed past their expiration dates because no plot can last forever. Even the best writers can't draw a concept out to the end of time and Miraculous doesn't seem have the best writers. Now that they've been greenlit for ten freaking seasons, I think we're in for a wild ride and I don't mean the fun kind. Serious identity shenanigans like the love square are not designed to last for 86+ hours. (The show has 26 20-minute episodes per season, so if you multiply that by 10, you get a little over 86 hours + specials and such.)
I just don't see how they're going to draw out the identity reveal for another five seasons without making the love square a toxic waste dump, but I also don't think that they're ever going to do an identity reveal in the mid game. They're saving that sucker for the end no matter how much it ruins the story. (Watch season six prove me wrong, lol. You never know.)
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erkauberscream · 3 months ago
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"sir, there's a christianity in your murdergame" - on religious motifs in End Transmission -part 1/2-
- a christianity? just one?
- just one.
- a singular christianity. a singularity, if you will.
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Okay so I finally decided to write down my thoughts on the biblical motifs found in the End Transmission chapter. They mainly come from the Book of Genesis, but you'll have to forgive me for not quoting specific verses, especially since I've no idea which version to use. For context, I grew up Catholic, and thus most of this stuff feels fairly obvious to me. None of this should go into any sort of deep Bible lore, in any case.
I promise it'll all make sense in the end. Huge thanks to my bae @whispy-witch, who brainstormed this thing with me and is currently translating it, my co-player @triopse who's responsible for my obsession with this silly murdergame, and @blue-jacket-blues, who prompted me to finally write baby's first meta.
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With that out of the way, let's start with the thing that tipped me off.
1. The Fruit
That's probably the most obvious one - Gabe's first memory in "Existence", the part where he asks if he can eat a fruit he found on Dvarka.
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(is2g immediately clear the guy is an engineer and not a biologist. Gabe is like a fucking cat, this clone is gonna land on a new planet, see a fruit, ask "can I eat it?" and not wait for an answer. he probably chews on foil too.) The answer is obviusly no. The fruit is forbidden... at least for now. In the Book of Genesis, first people were allowed to eat everything in the Garden but the fruit of one specific tree and were told eating it would cause their death. The reasoning Gabe receives is similar:
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2. The Garden of Eden
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Not much to say about this one. The Garden was supposed to be an ideal place for humankind... and boy, the way Dvarka is described sure sounds like a paradise, eh?
(let's all agree to ignore the way Toba Landing map looks in-game. maybe the Entity fucked it up, bc this shithole is far from how I'd imagine heaven on Earth)
3. The "Eve"
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tldr Eve was tempted to eat forbidden fruit, which resulted in humankind knowing right from wrong, good from evil, and being banished from the Garden - to the dangerous outside world.
Guess which little freak gets to be Dvarka's Eve...
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Hux gaining sentience can be easily interpreted as an Eve allegory - though in this case it happens by accident, by him touching an alien crystal in ancient temple. (The fact that was specifically a temple feels meaningful as well.)
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He gains knowledge about the meaning of death and, what's more important, he's able to judge his own actions, describing them as "clearing - no, destroying" the remnants of ancient civilization.
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This may be a reach but my qpr (who hates horror and know all the dbd stuff only from me by proxy, the poor thing) pointed out the fact that the first thing Adam and Eve did after consuming the fruit of knowledge was to cover their naked bodies...
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...similar to Hux' whole quest of creating himself a new body.
What also feels important to notice is that Eve was created to serve Adam - much like co-bots were constructed to serve humans.
And talking about Mr First Dude...
4. The "Adam"
So with all this in mind, you may ask: where's Adam in this methaphor? And I think I may have an answer.
Eve shares the fruit of knowledge with her husband. Only one person beside Hux had a contact with the alien crystal... and it was through Hux's data.
This person was Gabriel.
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(btw it's funny that to this point Gabe was only trying to stop Hux through non-violent means, even after seeing him holding Sarah's fucking head. All it takes is one look at some alien code and our boy Soma is fighting for his life while also trying to kill the murderbot with fire. That's growth, baby!)
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Anyway that's all for now. I decided to leave the last bonus point for the next time, as it's not connected that much to the Book of Genesis. I'll probably write part 2 in a few days or so.
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sleepyspoonie · 2 years ago
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the unwanted guest spoilers:
i have an incoherent theory i've developed after reading tug that i dont know whether it has much consequence but would make a lot of sense if im on the right track
so the big focus of tug is the permeability of the soul and how exposure to other souls causes an interplay and intermingling between the two that causes shared memories, habits, etc.
my thought is this: what if this is why people are always quoting hamlet and the bible and fucking 21st century memes and pop culture and shit?
hear me out hear me out.
the 200 dead children from the ninth haunt harrow because they were used for her creation (abigail points out that harrow is MEGA haunted during one of the dream bubble sequences. additionally when harrow relates the story of her conception to john, he straight up specifically describes it as a RESURRECTION in htn).
compare this to john, who resurrected the original 10,000 (i think. dont quote me on this specific number.), caused the great resurrection, using the earth itself as a battery to do so. he was in a perfect lyctorhood with the soul of the earth (and thus intermingled with HER based on that same idea of permeation) when he did it.
now, we'll get to john specifically, but imo, it makes total sense that the interplay of humans living and dying on earth for thousands upon thousands of years would permeate alecto's soul and vice versa. alecto even when she had total amnesia as nona knew what an alligator was and drew it during school. but also, if that wasn't enough, look at JOHN.
because what do we know about john? mr none house left grief likes spitting dumb millennial memes and went to catholic school and thinks he's hot shit for knowing shakespeare (he named his first corpse kids titania and ulysses for fucks sake), and therefore may well be like. patient zero of all the nonsense that comes out of peoples' mouths around here.
TLDR. what im thinking is that the resurrection through alecto and john's lyctorhood and the interplay between the souls of john and the earth has caused a link between john and/or the people of the 21st century and the people of the houses who are descended from the people of the resurrection.
if it's john, i also have this afterthought of a tangent built upon the above - i think it makes MUCH jucier the idea that john believes he can kill everyone/wipe everyone's memories clean and start over as many times as it takes when his own memories and habits and feelings might be intrinsically interwoven into the souls of the people he does this to ("empty's just another word for clean?" you're not going to empty or clean much when your soul is intermingled with everyone your necromancy has ever come in contact with and your memories and your rage and your grief are a gaping wound bleeding into every human you ever touch)
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goldentigerfestival · 2 months ago
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Another translation from the Radiant Mythology 3 Fan Bible! These are skits found within the game that were included textually like this in the Fan Bible.
I don't always add the "check" portions, but I include them if I feel like they add anything to the skit.
(Scanner preferred to remain anonymous.)
Original JP + TL under the cut.
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Youthful Indiscretion
Occurrence Condition: None. Characters: Jade, Estelle, Flynn, Asbel.
Asbel: Shockwave Slash!
Estelle: Wow, amazing! How did you do that just now?
Asbel: Lady Estellise?!
Estelle: Um… Your hands… go… like this… Your posture… like this, right? Shockwave Slash~~! (...)
Asbel: Ahaha… Lady Estellise, you need to steady your upper body. Spread your feet more, so they’re shoulder-width apart, and lower your hips… Right, like that…
Jade: Oh my… Would you look at this. Such enthusiasm you have this morning, don’t you?
Estelle: Ah, good morning. That’s right. I was just receiving instruction on the basics from Asbel. I wasn't swinging my hips enough.
Flynn: Swinging your… hips?!
Jade: I see, I see. So you learned with your body firsthand?
Flynn: Learned with… your body?!
Estelle: Yes. Spread your legs wide. Then like this, lower your hips… with force…
Flynn: Lady Estellise, please stop! How shameless…!
Estelle: Huh?
Asbel: Shameless?
Flynn: Asbel… I thought you were an honest and sincere man… But as your commanding officer… I cannot overlook this inexcusable conduct!
Asbel: Uh, Capta–���?!
Estelle: F-Flynn?! What are you angry about? Flynn!!
Jade: Ahhh. It’s good to be young, isn’t it.
Check!
During early morning training, Asbel is giving Estelle an introductory course for Shockwave Slash. Flynn seems to have an impure misunderstanding due to Jade's misleading explanation, but if anything, his thought of it being shameless is in itself shameless. And Jade, who enjoys toying with healthy youths and watching them get flustered, is even more shameless.
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aphidclan-clangen · 1 year ago
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you don't have to post this, but I thought it would be funny!!!
Nimblekit: I just scream a lot... I just, scream... a lot
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Goldshine: With all due respect, which is none,
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Sparkspeckle: You know how someone can say “I respectfully disagree”? What about “I disrespectfully agree” for when you hate someone but they are unfortunately correct.
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Shadebreak: I am always up for potential rule breaking.
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Goldshine: Don’t be afraid to make a fool of yourself, I do it regularly.
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Nimblekit: 80% of people are actually ugly because of their face, you know.
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Pearlstar: Trans people? In my clan? It’s more likely than you think.
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Blisswhistle: For the last time, you can’t die of adhd.
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Sparkspeckle: You can do whatever you want forever :D
Stormwhisper: I love you, but that is not helpful.
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Stormwhisper, too nervous to ask for emotional support: Man, it smells like wrongdog in here.
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Gravel: Aren’t you like 5’2?
Firebeetle: I self identify as tall.
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Pearlstar: Every day my joints are shocked and disgusted that I would use them for their intended purpose.
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Sparkspeckle: You can never lose an argument if you say “shut up nerd” at the end.
Icesheep: Yes you can.
Sparkspeckle: Shut up nerd.
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Goldshine: In my defense, your honor, I simply do not care enough.
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Nimblekit: Your honor, in my defense, who cares like omfgggggggg who cares????????? Like come onnn.
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Skykit: Are you a girl or a boy?
Shadebreak: Uhh, well some people aren’t girls or boys!
Skykit: Wow, just like snails...
Shadebreak: ???
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Straight Man: Hey
Titania: That’s enough.
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Lilacpaw: I respect perfume commercials being like, we can’t show you a smell, mind if we just go insane for 30 seconds?
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Shadekit: Hey we are all really small, do you wanna sleep in a pile.
Icekit, Stormkit and Sparkkit: Yes.
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Blisswhistle: “Fuck it, we ball” (Malnourished, heavy eye bags, dehydrated, on the verge of insanity.)
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Goldshine: Evil infodumping where you just tell lies.
Sparkspeckle: Tiktok
Icesheep: 5-minute crafts
Shadebreak: Resume
Stormwhisper: Men
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Nimblekit: I fucking hate the hand that feeds me, I think i’ll do something fucked up to it.
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Nimblekit: Sick injury bro, would be a shame if i added insult to it.
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Pearlstar: I laugh at my own jokes because I am my target audience. Y’all just happen to be there fr.
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Gravel: I wish they sold offbrand cars, get me a damn honder.
Firebeetle: Pulling up in the revolver.
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Shadebreak: When two buses pass each other and the bus drivers don’t wave at each other, like omg... did you guys break up...
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Blisswhistle: I can still crack a joke mid-breakdown, that’s why everyone is lucky to have me in their lives.
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Gravel: They don’t kill the presidents like they used to.
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Berrykit: The LMAO+ community.
Nimblekit: It’s LMFAO+ this is party rock erasure.
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Sparkspeckle: It’s harder than you think to communicate with someone who isn’t familiar with the world of spongebob.
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Goldshine: Pipe down your honor, you weren’t even there.
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Goldshine: JFK?? Like from umbrella academy?? Haha... you know he’s not... real, right?
Stormwhisper: Wait, I though JFK was from clone high??
Sparkspeckle: JFK, as in Jesus Fucking Khrist, from the bible?
Icesheep: Isn’t JFK that fried chicken fast food chain.
Shadebreak: Guys cmon, it’s Jennedy Fennedy Kennedy, you gotta know this.
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Goldshine: Mfs be named “James” and it only be one dude.
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Nimblekit: Does violence have to be the last resort, can’t it be like third.
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Lilacpaw: Free my man, he did all of it but I don’t care.
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Pearlstar: Let me get this straight. Grabs the nearest heterosexual. Now, where were we. (He is holding nobody)
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Blisswhistle: I’m so done with self care, it’s time for others harm.
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Shadebreak: Fun fact. Shut the fuck-
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Sparkspeckle: Nuh uh
Icesheep: FYM “NUH UH”???
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-⚡ anon
Genuinely made me laugh, I love these
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