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gasolinerainbowpuddles · 1 year ago

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A Weight Off Your Shoulders ║ ⒸⓄⓁⓁⒺⒸⓉⒾⓄⓃⓈ

| A WEIGHT OFF YOUR SHOULDERS | part of the A Weight Off Your Shoulders collection ║ series masterlist ║ main masterlist ║ | PAIRING(s): Joel Miller x plus sized!fem!neighbor

| RATING: explicit material | 18+ | WORD COUNT: 7.0k | CONTENT: age gap (Joel mid 40s, neighbor late 20s), cheating, negative body image, negative self-talk, discussions of body image struggles, the savagery of puberty, but mostly just indulgent pussy worship lmao, etc.

| SYNOPSIS: [AU no outbreak] After finding out your fiance was cheating on you with the younger, skinnier intern at his work, you pack up and head home to Texas where you meet your friendly DILF neighbor Joel. He doesn’t seem to mind your fuller physique, but you’re still plagued with insecurities that have followed you for most of your life. Can he make you forget about all that for just a moment or will you stay wracked with self-conscious, negative thoughts? Spoiler: We all know Joel is a smooth talker and is down to do whatever it takes to convince you that you’re perfect just the way you are.

✧this is the first installment of a oneshot collection✧ ✧◦◦║ Part 2 ║ Part 3 ║ Part 4 ║ Part 5 ║ Part 6 ║◦◦✧

The moving van’s AC went out about 75 miles ago, and you can’t bother getting too upset about it. It goes right along with the absolute dogshit spectacle your life has become. The sweat trickles down your back as you keep your eyes focused on the road. The GPS says it’s not too much longer. Your ass is sore from sitting and driving all day, for the past three days.

It should’ve been two at most - more like one and a half at even a leisurely pace - but the engine had started smoking and making an awful clicking sound somewhere in between Colorado and Oklahoma. You waited 6 hours for the moving truck company to meet you and switch out vehicles. At least the van hadn’t gone up in flames and destroyed all your messily packed cardboard boxes.

The string of down-on-your-luck events provided you with some sort of distraction from the reason you were cooped up in this incinerator of a vehicle and heading home to Texas where your parents still lived, a far cry from the life you had carved out with your fiance - ex-fiance, you correct yourself – in Colorado.

Ah, yes. Mike. Michael, you think to yourself bitterly. He always hated whenever anyone used his full name instead of his nickname. You were at that level of petty, insulting him in any way that you could. You knew you’d never get close to matching his efforts at hurting you, though.

It had been a great relationship for the first few years. You had met him at his job where you were logging unpaid internship hours so you’d have something to put on your resume when you graduated with your finance degree. Math and economics had always been easy and interesting to you, although it didn’t make you very popular at parties.

Mike– No, MICHAEL, had been sweet and teased you about how you were “too cute” to be an accountant. You had thought to yourself on numerous occasions that accountants could really use a PR overhaul. Most of your coworkers were nerdy introverts with a dark sense of humor and a penchant for getting ripshit wasted after The Hellfire Summit was over. (That’s what you all called Tax Day.)

But you weren’t “too cute” to be an accountant. Too cute for Michael, maybe, but definitely not some knockout. You had always been on the heavier side starting in middle school. You were vertically challenged, which meant there was a lot less real estate for any additional poundage you racked up through puberty. Your mom had done her best to not give you a complex, but you weren’t stupid and it wasn’t hard to figure out why she was so insistent on you being in sports throughout most of the year. You had taken to soccer pretty quickly, and the endless running kept your weight from climbing into absolute fat pig territory. Not that you didn’t think of yourself that way regardless.

While all your other teammates cried about their boobs not growing - something you had absolutely no way of relating to - you cursed the puberty gods for not giving you a growth spurt of 6” so you could be tall and lean like your friends. By the time college rolled around, you just stuck to running as a stress reliever, but it wasn’t the same level of activity that had kept you smaller throughout high school. The bathtub jungle juice frat parties and 2 am pizza slices didn’t really help matters, either. You put on a respectable “freshman 8,” but your hips and ass delivered it as more of a “freshman 23.”

Michael always talked about how he liked “somebody that didn’t just order a salad,” whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. You didn’t pay it much mind, though, when your sex life was pretty good together. He made you come more than other guys you’d been with, but it wasn’t hard to exceed expectations when the bar was so low it was in hell. And yet, Michael had found a way to sink it down ever farther.

You should’ve seen it coming. In hindsight it was so painfully obvious that something had changed for the worse. You had chalked it up to him getting nerves after FINALLY proposing to you. You were so happy when he finally asked you to marry him. Even his 15 year old son from a previous relationship had made a remark about his dad “finally growing some balls” and proposing.

A wash of sadness rolled over you at the thought of Ethan. He was such a good kid, and you had become attached to him after being with Michael for so many years. You’d moved in together, and Ethan thoughtfully cleared off a shelf of his video game things so that you’d have a nice spot in the living room for some of your DVDs and books. How on earth that was the child of the piece of shit cheating scumbag Michael was beyond you. Ethan must have taken after his mother more than you previously knew.

Michael had been married before and had Ethan with his ex-wife Patty. They had just “grown apart” as he’d put it. They got together when they were young, and it wasn’t until his 38th birthday party that he realized they just weren’t meant for each other anymore.

You’d been upset at first to learn that Michael had started seeing you before he had “made it official” with Patty that things were over. You weren’t into the idea of being the other woman, and you didn’t blame Patty for hating your guts. Of course she would assume that you knew they were still married and that they had a young son together. You were the homewrecker whore, and it was humiliating to tag along to family events where Patty and some of their mutual friends gave you a not-so-subtle stink eye.

The friends that did readily accept you weren’t exactly top of the line human beings. Luke had clapped you on the back once after having three too many beers and cackled about how he knew Michael wasn’t crazy for switching things up and breaking things off with Patty “for you.” When you shrugged his sloppy hand off your shoulder and asked what the fuck he was on about, his shit eating grin was the icing on the cake when he slurred, “Well’ya knowwwwww what’hey say, dontcha?” You shook your head, nonplussed and not really interested in learning “what they say.” He giggled and leaned in close when he revealed that “gotta be takin’ care’uhhh him ‘cause they say thah big girls give’thuh bes head ‘cuz they’re al-huways hungry.”

Trevor had intervened before you slammed your mojito into Luke’s Neanderthal brain. “Hey man, fuck off. Don’t be saying shit like that. Fuckin’ rude, dude.” Luke had made a fuss about how he was “jusss jok-eeen,” but Trevor wasn’t having it. “Whatever, man. Everybody knows you don’t go around talking about girl’s bodies, you fucking idiot. And you’re watching too much porn if you think she’s fat. She’s normal, man. Real women aren’t walking around like stick figures with tits and ass glued on.”

You groaned while Luke howled with laughter at Trevor’s defense of you. Calling you fat was somehow worse than big girl. Luke hadn’t said fat. Trevor hadn’t either, but his off the cuff remark that clarified what “type of big” you obviously were only drove home the idea that you took up too much space, one way or another.

Michael had taken a while to propose, and he always claimed that, while he loved you with his whole entire heart, he was nervous about getting married a second time. He started getting snippier with you and not wanting to have sex as often. His job was stressful, and he had been working tons of overtime to help pay for his part of the wedding. Thank god you kept your finances separate and never actually did walk down that aisle.

His late nights at the office were verified by his bigger paychecks, and you didn’t have a reason to be suspicious. You did think it was a little strange when he started getting up early to go to the gym so he’d “look nice for the wedding.” But hey, what a breath of fresh air, right? A man being the one concerned about how he was going to look in his wedding photos? Hitting the gym at an ungodly hour just to shed a few pounds? It was kinda like some weird form of feminist allyship, subverting societal body expectations. Right?

When you popped in to surprise him with a late dinner at work one night - you still had your keycard from your unpaid internship that nobody had remembered to disable – you found him balls deep in the tiny little blonde you later learned was the daughter of some higher up in the company that was “following in his footsteps at the company with an internship.”

Michael was such an uncreative asshole that he couldn’t even come up with a different meetcute for the leggy, fit blowup doll he’d replaced you with. At first you were enraged, but that quickly dissolved into despair. You were supposed to be getting married in 8 months. He was supposed to be the love of your life. You had wasted your 20s on this piece of shit, waiting around like a moron for him to decide he wanted to spend his life with you.

So here you were, sweating your ass off, moving your shit several states away, and starting at square one. The dark, moody sky made you roll your eyes. You figuratively and literally had a little black cloud over your head that followed you everywhere. If the impending bad turn of weather could just hold off for a little bit, you could get your “FIRST NIGHT IN NEW PLACE” box unpacked and inside unscathed.

Of course it started pouring buckets about 5 minutes after you’d parked the van in the driveway of your rental. Your new home. Where you lived by yourself. Alone. That’s all you were now. Alone. You dragged in your soggy cardboard box of necessities, only unpacking your phone charger before plopping down on the bare mattress your parents had been nice enough to drop off before your arrival.

You spend the first night at your place crying yourself to sleep.

Texas had gotten hotter since you’d left. No way was it always this hot. You used to play outdoor sports here, for chrissakes. There was no way on earth it had always been the same temperature as Satan’s ballsack in a pair of wool underwear. Maybe it’s hotter because you’re fatter than before your inner voice suggested. You were drenched in sweat by the time 11am rolled around and you’d finished unpacking your small collection of belongings. You never realized how much of your Colorado apartment was mainly Michael’s stuff until you had to clear all your shit out for the move. Humble beginnings, I guess you think to yourself.

Your tank top stuck to your drenched back, and your thighs were slightly chaffed from the hard rub of denim over and over while you moved in. Your stupid, fat thighs and the stupid, fat chubrub they gave you. That unfortunately was something that hadn’t changed about Texas. You always carried your weight in your hips and butt, and your thighs came to join the party shortly thereafter. You had gained a few pounds after dating Michael for a year or so, settling into that comfortable couple space where you sometimes go for donuts when you know you shouldn’t or indulge in breweries too many weekends in a row.

You were fat and happy together, though. Now you were just fat and sad all by yourself.

You stared at the lawnmower and imagined it bursting into a ball of flames. Your landlord had agreed to knock $100 off your rent if you mowed the lawn once a month. It was a no brainer, even if you had never mowed a lawn before. How hard could it be? Turns out, very.

You gave yourself a pep talk through figuring out how to put the gas into the stupid thing, but it had petered out into an irritated chant of “you piece of shit” and “fucking work, goddamit” when you couldn’t get it to start. You’d pulled and pulled and PULLED the stupid chord, but it wouldn’t start up. You wanted nothing more than to finish your chore and head inside before it got way too hot. You’d planned on already being finished by now. Michael had always made quick work of it, and if that room temperature IQ fuckwit could figure this out then so could you. Maybe.

When you pulled back again and nothing happened, something sort of cave woman happened in your brain, and you started kicking the mower in a fit of frustration. “FUCKING-PIECE-OF-SHIT!” you yell, accentuating each kick to the machine with a malice-laden word. When you propped your hands on your hips and took a step back to really give it a good, solid glare, you saw a man the next house over watching you with an amused look at the edge of his property.

“Need some help?” he called out, his smile growing.

“EVERYTHING’S GOING REAL FUCKING GOOD OVER HERE, BUT THANKS FOR THE OFFER,” you quip with way more acidity than this man deserved.

He took your stinging remark in stride and just smirked more. If he wasn’t so good looking you probably would’ve yelled at him for real. You needed a break and didn’t really care for your handsome neighbor to watch you fail at life, so you wordlessly stomped inside and plopped down with a bottle of water in hand. Was it too early for this water to turn into a beer? 11 am. Damn. You were pretty low these days, but you weren’t sure you wanted to take a trip down “drinking by yourself before noon” lane.

You sigh and play with the bottle cap as you try to ignore your growing embarrassment of being so rude to your hot neighbor. The sound of a lawn mower finally registers in your brain, and you scramble to the window to confirm your suspicions. Yep, there was your fine as fuck neighbor pushing your broken lawnmower around your backyard. It was definitely broken. He must have fixed it. It definitely wasn’t that you were entirely clueless about all this.

You groan and muster up some resolve before heading back outside. You wave at the absolute DILF-iest of DILFs you’ve ever seen in your life to get his attention. As though he was expecting you, he calmly turns off the engine and jerks his head up once in your direction.

“What are you doing?” you blurt out.

There’s that smile again. Damn, he must practice that in the mirror because holy shit it is very hard to think right now with him looking at you with it.

“Bein’ friendly to my new sailor-mouthed neighbor,” he drawled casually.

Goddamit. His voice was smooth and deep up close. And his hair, oh my god his hair. Peppery brown and slightly disheveled and wavy in all the right spots. And his eyes? Those puppy dog brown eyes that you thought just gave you a quick once over? You were kicking yourself for not being nicer earlier.

“Look, you don’t have to–”

“Name’s Joel Miller. What’s yours, sweetheart? And tell me quick, ‘cause I really think it might turn into Popeye if you don’t give me an alternative,” he teased.

Popeye? What on earth– Oh. Christ almighty. Right. Popeye. The “sailor man.” Because you have a “sailor mouth.” Okay, now the DILF was knocking out some dad jokes? You needed to find the box you’d packed your vibrator in that plugs into the wall after this little interaction.

“Kinda wanna tell you that you can call me whatever you want if you’ll just teach me how to turn that stupid thing on,” you say, motioning toward the traitor of a lawn mower.

“Hm, anything I want, huh? Temptin’. Maybe next time I’ll give ya a 101, but lemme just finish this up right quick.” Without giving you the chance to argue, he ripped the chord with a salivating flex of his bicep and resumed his task.

You awkwardly walked back up to your porch and tried to busy yourself with something. You didn’t want to go back inside and wait for him to finish. That’d be rude, him out in the sun doing your chores while you cooled off in the AC inside. You gave enough “lazy slob” vibes as it was. Luckily it didn’t take him much time at all to finish, and his sweaty brow was very distracting as he clambered up your steps. You had to keep your jaw shut when he pulled up the hem of his shirt to wipe it across his forehead, revealing a respectably toned middle. He was fitter than you by far. Not that that was a hard feat.

This DILF to end all DILFs had a toned body that shouldn’t have been such a surprise to you after seeing his muscular arms as they maneuvered the lawn mower. You suddenly felt self-conscious in your tank top and denim shorts. You were sure you were bulging out all over the place and looked like a sweaty pig. You hated how easy it was these days to get down on yourself, but seeing the blonde bombshell Michael had traded you for was all you could compare yourself to. The phrase “you can’t compete where you don’t compare” turned over and over in your head.

“See? Easy. Now about that name…” he trailed off, smiling now with a mischievous, friendly look.

“Oh. Yeah, um. Roxanne. But Roxy is fine,” you say.

Joel tilted his head as though he was considering how your name stacked up to how you looked, to see if it fit you or not. Heat crept up your cheeks under his gaze, and a fresh wave of insecurity engulfed you.

“Pretty,” he remarked.

“Huh?” you ask, sounding dumber by the minute.

Joel just keeps smiling at you, no matter how braindead you sound. “I said pretty. Your name’s pretty. Fits you,” he said.

You really wanted to believe this man was flirting with you, but it was wishful thinking.

“Hmm. Th-thanks. Um. Do you want money or?” you clumsily offer. You didn’t want to send him off empty handed after he just did you such a big favor.

“Two beers,” he posed.

You went inside and grabbed two cold beers from the fridge and loped back outside, extending them to Joel. He opened them both and made himself comfortable in one of your patio chairs. He set the second bottle on the arm of the chair next to him and pulled a long swig from his bottle. You watched the bob of his adams apple as he swallowed, and you knew your panties were gonna be absolutely wrecked by the time you finished your beer.

“Thanks.”

“Cheers.” He tipped his bottle towards you and leaned back, comfortable as ever as if this was his porch and not yours. “Didn’t see ya movin’ in. Musta been in the middle of the night to unpack a whole house without anybody knowin’.”

“Eh, not hard to move when you’ve got less than 20 boxes of shit,” you shrug.

Joel’s eyebrows pinched together in confusion. He clearly hadn’t been thinking you’d come into your new place with bare bones belongings. Someone your age would have at least a few pieces of bigger furniture and a couple of boxes of niche hobbies.

“Rest of it comin’ later, or…?”

“Nope. That’s it. Just me and my less than 20 boxes and a piece of shit lawnmower.”

Joel chuckled, and you found yourself giving him a small, shy smile.

“So you the neighborhood watch captain? Keep tabs on all the fresh meat?”

He laughed like heading up a community group was as likely for him as you figuring out that lawn mower by yourself.

“No quite. Just didn’t realize I had a new neighbor, is all. No car in the driveway. House has been up for rent for a few months,” he explained.

“Oh, yeah. I had a moving van, but I had to turn it back in to them a few days ago unless I wanted to pay for more days. They gave me a ride back. My parents are supposed to let me use one of their cars.”

You and Joel chatted back and forth about the neighborhood, how you’d grown up here and were now back - although you dutifully omitted the reason why - and what you did for work. When he told you he worked in construction with his brother in their small family business, it made a lot of sense. No wonder he was so toned.

Joel actually laughed when you told him you were an accountant. He didn’t believe you at first. When you started citing federal tax law addendums, he held his hands up in mock surrender. You laughed at his teasing. It felt nice to just interact with somebody without having to talk about your recent breakup and all the hard changes you’d been navigating.

“Should make you the poster girl for accountants because damn if I don’t imagine a blue haired lady sportin’ a big pink cardigan and goofy lookin’ glasses whenever I hear the word ‘accountant.’ You’d be the perfect brand image overhaul, sweetheart.” He chuckled, and you did your best to not think about how Michael had once told you that you were “too cute to be an accountant.”

“So, you got an accountant helping with your family business? Or are you just cookin’ the books?” you joke.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck with a nervous laugh. “Nah, we got some somebody at H&R whatever, but the bigger we get the more it seems they wanna charge. Lots of confusin’ shit with all kinds of tax laws. Wouldn’t know if we were gettin’ ripped off by ‘em, if I’m bein’ honest.”

You weren’t sure why you offered. Maybe because he had been kind enough to offer you help and then mow your lawn for you even though you had been an ass. Regardless, you offered to look over some documents and paperwork if he really wanted another set of eyes on it. You dismissed him with the wave of a hand when he started talking about paying you for it.

“Two beers is my rate, Joel,” you say with feigned solemnity.

“Two beers? You drive a hard bargain, sweetheart. I know you’re worth it, though. You free this weekend? Saturday mornin’?”

And that’s how you ended up with plans to help Joel go over his company’s financial information in two days time when Saturday rolled around.

Joel was singing your praises when you’d already found two instances where they could save some money by changing a few boxes on their taxes and getting things more streamlined with a different organization method for W2’s. You had applied for a few jobs in the area, but most of your pending applications were for virtual jobs that you could work from home. It was good to keep up practice in the meantime.

Joel made you lunch - a nice turkey sandwich with cheddar cheese. He’d mistakenly offered provolone, which you’d chosen, only to find that he had run out and could only offer cheddar instead. You teased him about being an awful host, but really you were glad to not have your favorite cheese on the sandwich because it would help you not eat as fast in front of him.

You hated feeling like this. You’d spent so many years of puberty pacing your bites with those around you, afraid to eat faster than everyone else. Nobody even gave a shit. You were just so terrified of being humiliated for being the plus sized girl who got that way in the first place because she inhales her food.

“You always eat like a baby bird?” Joel questioned through a large bite of his own sandwich.

“Only when I’m trying to concentrate on taxes and finances,” you lied with a fake giggle. You felt like Joel clocked your put-on nonchalance, but he thankfully didn’t say anything even if he had.

You tugged at the bottom of your shirt, pulling it away from your stomach. You caught Joel watching you do this, but again, he didn’t comment.

He did, however, raise a brow when you insisted you were “too full” to finish the entire sandwich. He played it off with a “damn, you really wanted provolone, huh?” You stuck your tongue out at him but dropped the playful demeanor the second he took the plates to the kitchen. Of course you were still hungry, but you weren’t going to gorge yourself in front of your super attractive neighbor. It wouldn’t kill you to cut a few calories here and there anyway, that familiar voice in your head points out.

Stupid, fat thighs the voice adds quickly, helpful as always.

You’re quick to adopt a smile when Joel comes back, but you aren’t sure you were quick enough for him to have missed the sad, fat, and alone girl’s real expression before flipping the switch.

It’s Saturday number two of your pro bono accounting skills. Well, it was actually a Thursday since Joel had some construction something or other this Saturday, but every day was a weekend when you were unemployed.

You had already hung out with Joel three times this past week and shared a few celebratory beers over your work from home job offer that you’d accepted and would be starting next week. Conversation came easy with Joel. He talked about his daughter, who was away at school for the semester, and you realized he must feel very lonely without her home. At least you could relate to him on that level.

You tell him the reason for your move back to your home town. He actually seemed genuinely pissed off when you told him Michael was cheating on you with a pretty little blonde thing and had been for months. You scoffed when Joel said it was Michael’s loss to have fumbled a girl like you.

“Hey,” he asserted, making you pause from the sip of beer you were about to have. “I’m serious. He’s a dumbass for havin’ let you slip through his fingers. You’re funny and smart and got a good head on your shoulders. Sure, you can’t figure out a lawn mower, but we can’t all be perfect.” His goofy grin was a sweet little addition to his playful teasing.

Maybe it was the beer talking, but you couldn’t hold back. “Yeah, well. There’s something you left out of that list there, and it’s probably the reason he did cheat on me.”

Joel shook his head in confusion. He wasn’t sure what he had left out.

You laughed hollowly to yourself, swirling your beer mindlessly as you spoke. “Funny. Smart. Good head on my shoulders. But not pretty, right? Not attractive. Not skinny enough.”

Joel’s expression shifted into something sympathetic and warm, and you hated yourself for having just let that word vomit happen.

“To be honest, sweetheart, I didn’t wanna say anythin’ that might make you uncomfortable. But I can give you a list a mile long with all the things that are beautiful about you. Inside and out.”

You flush at his appeal to your assets, but you know he’s just being nice. You were pathetic. You were going through a breakup from a relationship that had ended because your fiance was shoving his dick into his coworker. Of course Joel was going to try to boost your self-esteem and give you compliments.

When you didn’t respond, Joel placed his large, warm hand over yours. You looked at it and up to him. He grazed his other hand, a ghost of a curve against your cheek, like he wanted nothing more than to stroke your face and cradle your neck while he drew you into a long kiss and grabbed at your—

No. No he wasn’t. He was just being nice.

“I mean it. That prick is gonna look back and regret losin’ you.”

You wished you could believe him.

When Joel brought you a turkey sandwich for lunch on your second day of helping him, he made sure to point out the provolone. “Got it special for my girl, huh?”

Your tummy flipped at the way he called you his girl, but it was just another one of his terms of endearment that he probably used with everyone. He’d called you angel, sugar, honey, sweetheart, and even Popeye a couple of times. It didn’t mean anything. You weren’t special.

When you pushed your half eaten sandwich away, Joel set his down and waited for you to look at him.

“You don’t like it?” he asked.

“No, it’s great. Thanks for the provolone, by the way. You didn’t have to do that. Really. I’ll um, I’ll just save the rest for later. I’m good for right now.”

Joel’s jaw clenched from side to side before he leaned over in the chair next to you.

“Darlin’, you should eat somethin’. Half a sandwich ain’t shit.”

You shrugged and insisted you weren’t hungry. Joel chewed his cheeks against his molars for a moment before adjusting in his chair and leaning in even closer than before.

“This about that asshole? Messin’ with that blonde?”

You froze at his words. You heart was about to leap out of your chest.

“N-No,” you lie. “I, um, I’m not sure what you mean, Joel.”

“What I mean is you got the idea that you’re not beautiful. That you can’t compare.”

You took a deep swallow to clear the lump in your throat. Your eyes were getting a little blurry. Dammit, you really didn’t want to cry in front of Joel. Not over this stupid bullshit.

“Just leave it, Joel,” you mumble, turning your attention back to the papers on the table.

“Not gonna do that, sweetheart,” he said firmly.

When you looked back at him, there was a dark hunger in his eyes. His usually lax, friendly features were drawn into a stony scowl.

“I meant what I said the other day. You’re beautiful. Everythin’. Everythin’ about you is beautiful.”

“Look, I appreciate you being nice and trying to make me feel better, but you don’t have to–”

“You think I’m lyin’?” he challenged. You swallow hard at his commanding tone, and his words went straight to your pussy. You shook your head, feeling a little more convinced Joel might not be embellishing his opinion of you.

“Jus’ … Hard to think of myself that way, after…” You want to tell Joel every last detail of your life. Every time someone made you feel like you were eating too fast. Every time your friends got flirted with in the mall while you quietly hung at the back of the group. Every time you put something back on the rack after seeing how it accentuated the shape of your body too much to be a cute garment anymore.

Joel turned and was now angled directly at you with a knee tucking itself between your legs. His sinewy, large arm crossed your chest, his hand firmly planting onto the arm of your chair. He dipped his mouth right next to your ear. “You give me the word, sweetheart. Gimme the green light, and I’ll show you just how gorgeous I think you are.”

You’d been here before. The guy begging to show you a good time but only ever ending as a hookup. You were never girlfriend material, but you were a warm, round body for them to get their rocks off for the night. You knew Joel was different. He wasn’t like that. But you still can’t bring yourself to say yes.

“Tell me,” you whisper. Joel pulled back to look at your face. “Just your words.”

“After you let me kiss those sweet lips of yours?” he countered. You nod yes. It was only a kiss.

Joel stood and grabbed your hand, leading you to the couch. He tried to pull you onto his lap, but you knew he’d change his mind about all of this the second your too heavy body crushed his.

He tilts your chin for you to look at him after you sit. His eyes searched for any hesitation or unease. You can’t handle another rejection, so you lean forward. Joel meets you halfway and presses the gentlest of kisses against your mouth. It was feather light in a way that conveyed an intent to go slow rather than a hesitant partner.

His tongue gently flicks against your bottom lip, and you swallow a moan as you let him in. The kiss is agonizing in its slow, mindful pace as Joel makes no rush of exploring every part of your mouth. You suddenly feel very needy. You haven’t been kissed like this in a very long time. You pull at Joel’s shirt, dragging him on top of you as you lay back on the couch. His broad chest easily envelops you, and his large hands twitch with restraint to not smooth over every inch of you.

His grip tightens around your waist as he delves into a hungrier kiss. When he pulls back to adjust his body parallel to yours, the sight of your reddened mouth and blown out pupils almost have him crumbling into you.

“Tell me,” you breathe. “I just-I just want to feel pretty.” You curse the goblin part of your brain that tacked that pathetic sounding plea onto the end of your comment.

“Want me to start slow or you want me to tell you exactly what comes to mind?” he questioned with a flick of his tongue against your earlobe before drawing it into his mouth and sucking.

“Ohhh–ssh-shit– the s-second one,” you manage.

Joel’s deep chuckle sends goosebumps all over your body.

“Thinkin’ ‘bout the first time we met. Wanted you even then. Kept thinkin’ about us sittin’ on your porch. The way you were holdin’ onto that beer bottle? All I could do was imagine how your pretty fingers would look wrapped around my cock,” he murmured into the shell of your ear. “Bringin’ it to those pouty little lips of yours. Goddamn I thought about your tongue on me, baby. Takin’ me in real good in your mouth. Lickin’ this cock that gets hard just for you. That wet, warm mouth just for me.”

Your breath hitches in between Joel’s incredibly specific and detailed account.

“And when you were havin’ that little spitfire spell’uh yours, kickin’ the lawn mower?” he continued, earning a moan from you in half arousal and half embarrassment remembering your temper tantrum that day. “When you kicked it, your tits jiggled all in that little tank top you had on. Had to stop myself from marchin’ over right then and there and shovin’ my dick right in between ‘em and fuckin’ ‘em.”

You would’ve rubbed your thighs together just for the friction right now, but Joel had slotted himself in between your legs and was pushing his hard-on against your clothed pussy in a teasing grind that was driving you insane. Your hips canted at the hint of contact.

“Sittin’ in those cute little cutoffs,” he groaned low. “Your thighs spreadin’ on the seat. Wanted to grab you up and make my face your new seat, baby. Wanted those thighs on either side of my face while you rubbed your pretty little cunt all over my mouth.”

“J-Jesus christ,” you whimper. This man was giving you the dirtiest play by play of all the ways he’d envisioned himself exploring your body. Your pussy had already bottomed out by the time he got to the part about the lawn mower.

“‘N I jus’ know, baby, I just know it. Know your pussy is made to take this cock, baby. I know it’s perfect. Know it tastes so fuckin’ sweet. Know I’d fuck you ‘til you couldn’t think straight. Make you come on my cock over and over.”

Okay, maybe you could let him do more than just describe how much he wants you.

“‘N then after I work my tongue over you, ‘n after you take this cock so good, I’d grab you up, all to myself. Soft skin against mine. So soft, baby. Pull you in close and never let go. Press you right against me, hold you all night, cuddle up real close. Then wake you up with my dick hard against your perfect ass and fuck into that sweet little hole all over again.”

“Joel,” you whine.

“Hhmmm?” he drawled innocently, but you could feel his smile against your skin.

“I-I think I changed my mind. About telling me and not showing me. I think that, um, I think I’d really like for you to show me h-how much you want me,” you mumble against his cheek.

“S’that right, honey? You want a little show n tell now?” he teased. For good measure he rocked himself against the apex of your thighs, causing your hips to jerk up involuntarily to meet the movement. He chuckled at your eager change of heart.

Joel wasted no time nibbling and sucking your neck and his hands snaked up your shirt and under your bralette. The pads of his thumbs circle your pebbled nubs, and you let out a choked sigh. He shoved your clothing off with a few tugs and stopped to marvel at your bare top half. “God, even better than I imagined.”

His greedy eyes raked over every inch of you, a reverential gaze at your curvy figure. Heat spread between your legs when he dipped his mouth to your chest, leaving a wet trail with his tongue and lips in a freeform pattern before drawing your erect nipples between his teeth. Your back curved off the couch in a jerk at the delightful tease.

His hands covered large swaths of your abdomen where he enthusiastically massaged and kneaded into your flesh like he couldn’t grab enough of it at once. You lifted your hips when he pulled your shorts and panties off, and you would’ve been self-conscious about being completely nude while Joel was still fully dressed if you hadn’t seen the way his eyes glazed over with want as he absorbed the sight of you.

“Goddamn,” he breathed. “So pretty. Been wantin’ to drink this pussy from the first time I saw you.” His eyes flitted up to your face with a degree of effort as though he had to tear his gaze away from your heavenly body. He searched your features, checking in and making sure you still wanted this. You nod in consent, and no sooner is his tongue lapping between your folds.

You fist a handful of his hair at the overwhelming feeling of wet heat against you, and Joel groans in a deliciously lewd way that takes you even closer to the limit. He lathes against your heat with the fervor of a devout addict, and you come with a slamming jolt when he simultaneously slips two large fingers into you and sucks your clit.

“There’s my girl,” he coos, working you with a steady drag and push of his fingers as you come down from your high. “Knew you’d look so fuckin’ pretty comin’ undone, baby.” Your first orgasm quickly rolled into a second when Joel drove a third finger into you with a steady thrust. You cry out, clenching around the painfully sweet stinging stretch of his fingers.

You grab desperately at the tent in his pants. “S’about you today, baby,” he murmured into your thigh where he’s planting slow, sweet kisses.

“Please, Joel. Want to see you. Taste you,” you rasp out, still pulsing weakly around his digits. You groan when he pulls his fingers from you and laps all the glistening slick from them before standing in front of you. You sit up in a rush, eager to see more of him. He obliges and unfastens his jeans. His impressively thick

length made you gasp when he sprang it free from his underwear. You don’t hesitate to fit as much of him into your mouth as you can, and he lets out a satisfied hum when his tip nudges the back of your throat.

“Shit, I’m gonna come, baby,” he croaked. Apparently working you over had done a number on him already, and it made you want him even more. You wordlessly released him in a sloppy, wet pop from your mouth and tilt your head back, stroking his length with one hand and fondling his balls with the other. When his breathing picks up and he’s on the edge, you stick your tongue out expectantly and continue to fist him until his hips stutter and jerk, his spend cascading onto your cheeks, lips, and tongue.

You both just sprawled out on the couch like two chalk outlines haphazardly jutting into odd angles on pavement. You giggled when Joel asked you if you believed him now, and you said he had indeed made a believer out of you.

That was the first night you stayed over his place, and just like he had told you earlier that day, he scooped you in close to him, cuddling and shamelessly grabbing at your belly, thighs, and anywhere else he could reach while he peppered the back of your neck with kisses. It was the first time in a very long time that you didn’t once think about how much space you took up.

This one’s for all my baddie thickies out there!

I have hope that one day Miss Thickums® will come to love on herself a bit more because she deserves it, dammit. Also that and the fact that I get down bad for a lil Rubenesque cutie ha ha.

I hope y’all liked this little pairing! I have been working on Endless Night and Feral Woman but couldn’t get this idea out of my head so I just churned it out. I’m a sucker for fluff and praise, so this was a nice detour from my heavier series (but you should def go check those out too lmao).

I have so many more ideas for this pairing. I just know that AU friendly DILF neighbor Joel Miller has always been a “more cushion for the pushin” kinda guy and would love to nibble every pudgy roll on your body. His favorite spot is your lil muffin top. That’s my headcannon, and I won’t hear any differing opinions.

Let me know if y’all want more from these two. :)

Catch ya later,

♥Puddles♥

#fic: a weight off your shoulders #joel miller #joel miller x plus size reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #tlou fic #joel miller hbo #the last of us fanfiction #oneshots

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shion-yu · 8 months ago

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A Safe Place (part 1) [Day 28]

Cliff shows up at Elliot's doorstep in the middle of the night soaked to the bone. A Cliff/Elliot sickfic heavy on the angst, also ft. Theo. For @monthofsick Day 28: Chaotic body temperature. I know, not me joining in on a writing challenge right at the end but it fit so well. 3,065 words, original work, TWs for homophobia, emeto (neither strong warnings, but the sick will get much sicker in p2).

It had been a long summer. Cliff had spent it working at Theo's law firm again, except this time he wasn't an unpaid intern but a legal secretary. It was a temporary job that they had offered him when his summer break had aligned perfectly with one of the secretary's maternity leaves and Cliff had jumped at the chance to work in such a great environment again. He was happy to see many familiar faces from last year, and to his surprise they were happy to see him too. Although he was mainly working with one of the other partners this time - not Theo - he saw the lawyer nearly every day and was relieved to learn both Theo and his partner, Al, were in good health. Al had gotten a double lung transplant that last Fall, Theo told Cliff. He and his new lungs were doing great.

"What about you?" Theo asked Cliff eagerly. "How did your first year at NYU go?"

Cliff smiled, automatically thinking of Elliot. "It was great," he said. "My classes were interesting but not too hard."

"You look happier," Theo said, surprising Cliff with how true the observation was. "Did something cause that?"

"Yeah," Cliff said thoughtfully. "Someone did."

Being apart from Elliot that summer was difficult. He missed hugging and kissing Elliot every single day. He wanted to talk to him on the phone for hours and hours just to hear his voice and fall asleep with his fingers in Elliot’s curls. But when he was living at home, Cliff knew he had to be the perfect, straight laced child he'd been raised as. In other words, he couldn't be himself. He wore business attire to work every day, but the soft sweaters and cute hair clips he'd amassed over the past year stayed packed away in his college stuff for next semester. He didn't think his parents would appreciate those particular fashion choices he'd been making.

It's not like his parents made it hard to hide things. They hardly ever asked questions, and if they did it was about grades or tuition. Cliff knew he was incredibly lucky that his parents paid his entire tuition, room and board as if it were a given. Elliot's parents weren't able to help much financially, meaning his boyfriend had to take out loans and work part time while in school. This summer he was working nonstop in his dad's auto mechanic shop, saving up money. Often when Cliff video called Elliot these days he was covered in sweat, streaks of black motor oil on his face. It seemed wrong to complain about his parents when it was thanks to them that he was only working this summer because he wanted to, not because he had to. And yet, silently, Cliff thought maybe he'd be happier if he was in Elliot's shoes - without much money but with a place he could really call home. It was a selfish, privileged thought and Cliff refused to voice it, but it creeped in each time he heard Elliot's mom call in the background, "Boys, wash up, it's time for dinner!"

Working was a blessing to Cliff, because if he'd been at home he would've been in that big, lonely house all by himself most of the summer. Being at the law firm was not only a distraction, but comfortable. Despite wearing a suit, Cliff actually felt less tense there than at his parents' house. He stayed long hours, longer than he needed to, because he preferred the sound of printers and fax machines over his parents screaming at each other downstairs. When he was in high school it seemed easier to ignore. Maybe it was because he'd had a break for so many months that returning to it seemed worse than before. Or maybe it was because Elliot never screamed at him like that, and Cliff had started to realize that this wasn't how things had to be.

Around the beginning of August, Cliff caught a cold that didn't seem to go away. At first it was just the sniffles, and then it was a cough that grew progressively deeper with each week that passed. The other employees started asking him if he was alright, and embarrassingly Theo caught him staring blankly at the water fountain one day for far too long. Cliff was so out of it that he didn't even notice Theo calling his name until the older man waved his hand in Cliff's face.

"Oh," Cliff said, rubbing his eyes to try and make his blurry vision clear up. "Sorry, I was just... Daydreaming."

"You look pale," Theo said, and before Cliff could step back Theo had placed a hand on Cliff's forehead while ignoring Cliff's protest that he was fine. "Hmm, you feel a little feverish. Why don't you go home, kid?"

"I'm really fine," Cliff said, wildly embarrassed. "It's just a cold."

Theo looked him up and down, clearly assessing how pushy he should be. "At least go take a nap on the couch in my office, you look exhausted."

Usually, Cliff would say no immediately. He wouldn't even consider showing weakness at the place he was supposed to be making a vitally good impression at for his career. But he felt weak and a little dizzy and found himself saying in a small voice, "...If you're sure."

Theo was sure. He brought Cliff to his office and shut the blinds so there wasn't much light coming through the many glass windows. He even tossed a blanket to the eighteen-year-old. "I sleep here all the time," he reassured Cliff. "You can't work if you're too tired to think. Don't worry about it."

Cliff felt guilty for taking over Theo's office, but Theo headed out for a two hour meeting and Cliff was left alone on the couch. He had half a mind to leave and get back to work at his desk now that there was no one stopping him, but just sitting there made him realize how fatigued his whole body felt. A little nap wouldn't hurt, he reasoned. A really short one. He lay down and fell asleep so quickly that he didn't even remember closing his eyes.

He woke up to Theo gently rubbing his shoulder. Cliff was confused, then his eyes widened in embarrassment and he sat up. Shit, had it been two hours already? Wait, that clock didn't say 5pm did it? - surely he hadn't slept for four hours?!

"Woah, it's okay Cliff," Theo said quickly, "You seemed really tired so I let you sleep. You should go home now, everybody's leaving for the day."

"I'm so sorry," Cliff gushed, face bright red. "I didn't mean to sleep so long. You don't have to pay me for today - please don't, actually."

"Settle down, it's really fine," Theo said in a calm voice that made Cliff remember to take a deep breath like Elliot had taught him to calm down. "We all have off days. You don't feel so warm now, so that's good. Stay home tomorrow though."

"That's totally not necessary," Cliff said, his confident tone supplemented by a very unconvincing round of dry coughs. He waved off the tissues Theo tried to hand him. "Really, I'm fine. I've just been having some asthma since I got sick last winter, but my boy-" Cliff stopped himself, realizing he was about to out himself. "My, um, my roommate got me an inhaler so I just have to use it that's all."

"Your boyfriend," Theo supplied gently. "It's okay to say it, Cliff. You know I have Al."

Cliff wanted to deny the comment outright. He wanted to laugh and say Elliot really was just a friend. But Theo had such an earnest expression, and he was the only successful adult man Cliff knew of who was gay. "I know, but, it's really not, not for me," Cliff found himself saying, voice wavering. "I-I have to go. Sorry I slept in your office so long," he said as he hurried out, ignoring Theo's all too kind voice calling after him. Cliff knew in a certain world that it was okay, but it wasn't his world. Not the world where he still relied on his parents.

Despite saying he'd be back the next day, Cliff did stay home that Friday. His fever was worse and he had chills that left him huddled under the covers. His mom didn't notice he didn't leave the house and he didn't tell her. She didn't need to know, just like she didn't need to know about Elliot. She had never supported Cliff in anything at all, so why... Why did Cliff feel such a strong urge to tell her?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

On the last day of Cliff's work at the law firm, Theo told Cliff if he ever needed a reference, he'd get a glowing one from him. And if he ever needed to talk about anything, anything at all, Cliff could call him too. Cliff knew what he was getting at, and he didn't want to face it. But Theo was such a calm person that it was disarming, and Cliff asked without meaning to, "Is it worth it?"

Theo nodded. He knew what Cliff meant without specification. "Yes, it's worth it," Theo said. "Even if there's nay-sayers and you lose people, you gain much more. It's always worth it to be exactly who you are, Cliff."

Cliff went back to his parents house with those words echoing in his brain. Theo, a successful and respected lawyer, said it was worth it. He had a career and a person who loved him by his side. Was that something Cliff could have, too? Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be honest, just once?

"Mom," Cliff said over dinner, pushing his phone over to her with a picture of him and Elliot together on the screen. "I want to tell you something. This is my-"

"Don't do this to me Cliff," his mother interrupted before he could finish. "You've already caused enough trouble. He's not - just because you have a thing with another guy doesn't mean anything."

"It's not a thing mom. I love him," Cliff found himself saying angrily. And oh, why did he say that? The first time he finally said he loved Elliot and it was directed at his mom in spite. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"Cliff, you don't love him. You're too old to be playing this game. Now I'll forget we had this conversation. And don't tell your father."

Cliff saw red. He'd never been so angry in his life. He snatched his phone back and grabbed his wallet on the shelf by the door and went outside. She didn't follow him.

It was pouring rain. Cliff shivered, wishing he'd had the forethought to grab a coat too, but he wasn't going to ruin his dramatic exit by going back inside. Of course his mother hadn't approved. Cliff hadn't expected her to. But he'd expected her to get angry - not to dismiss him all together like he was just a kid with a big imagination. Cliff knew then that she would never really think of him as his own person, and he couldn't do anything to change that. It broke his heart.

Cliff walked for a very long time. He didn't quite know where he was going, only that he wanted to get as far away from that house as possible. He found himself at a park by the water where he beat up a couple of tree trunks that definitely won based on his bleeding knuckles afterwards. The rain didn't let up, and Cliff found himself getting progressively colder. His cough from earlier that month had never gone away and his breath began to catch on what felt like a dry patch in his throat. Cliff realized then that he'd left his inhaler at the house, too. The coughing grew more desperate until he pitched forward and vomited onto the grass he was standing on. He groaned and leaned against the nearest tree he could find, the contents of his stomach mixing with rushing rain water and swept away quickly. He continued to gag for several minutes until the coughing abated ever so slightly. He felt weak and pathetic. And also very, very alone.

He needed to get somewhere dry. Somewhere warm and safe. Cliff only had one place like that in mind. He boarded train after train, shivering in the corner like a wet dog as he made his way all the way to Long Island. He knew Elliot's address because he'd been sending Elliot mail all summer, little love notes and presents that made Cliff think of him. He never included a return address though, because he hadn't wanted his parents to see. Thankfully his phone had enough battery to direct him to Elliot's doorstep despite the wet four hour commute, and he found himself at the front door of a modest suburban home at 3:30 in the morning.

The journey had felt like a daze. Cliff had never done something so erratic, so unplanned. He raised his hand to knock before remembering what time it was, and Elliot had parents and sister who probably wouldn't appreciate him knocking. He called Elliot instead, his phone barely hanging on at 5%. He thought to himself that it seemed unlikely that Elliot would answer at this time of night. But after several rings, by which time Cliff had resigned himself to waiting for dawn under a tree, a very sleepy voice picked up.

"Cliff?"

"Elliot? Sorry to bother you," Cliff said, as if this entire situation weren't incredibly bizarre. "But I'm at your door."

There was a long pause, presumably while Elliot tried to figure out exactly what Cliff meant by 'at your door'. "Like right now? Now?"

"Yeah," Cliff said. "Do you think I could sleep over?"

"I'm coming down," Elliot said, and there was the rustling of sheets and then the thump of footsteps as Elliot ran downstairs. The front door opened and Elliot hung up. Cliff looked at him and thought he was the most beautiful person in the entire world. "Holy crap, you're really here," Elliot breathed. "God Cliff, what happened? No, come in first, you're soaked..."

Elliot pulled Cliff inside and helped Cliff take off his soaked trainers. There were traces of vomit on the front of his shirt and his fingers were still bloody. Elliot brought him to the bathroom, motioning for Cliff to stay quiet with one finger to his lips. He grabbed a towel from under the sink and wrapped it around the shorter boy, who was shivering violently from the marked change in temperature. In the bright light of the kitchen, suddenly his journey seemed a lot less valiant and a lot more stupid. "Sit," Elliot said, sitting Cliff on the toilet. "You're freezing... Can you take your temperature?”

Elliot handed Cliff a thermometer, which Cliff obediently used. After a few seconds it beeped and read ‘96.9.’ Elliot frowned. “Hot shower, okay?" Despite being woken up in the middle of the night, Elliot seemed fully alert. Cliff nodded and peeled off his wet and dirty clothes. He coughed roughly as he did so, a slight wheeze audible on the end of the exhale. Elliot patted his back with a concerned expression. "Do you have your inhaler?" Cliff shook his head no. Elliot grimaced and ran the hot water for Cliff. "You warm up. I'm gonna find you some clothes and I think there's an old inhaler somewhere in the medicine cabinet..."

Elliot moved to leave, but Cliff grabbed his arm before he could go. "Don't wake your family up," Cliff said hoarsely. "I'm okay."

Elliot looked at Cliff in concern and sighed. "Cliff, you just showed up soaking wet in the middle of the night. You live all the way in Newark. I'm gonna be a little concerned. But right now you need to warm up. We can talk later."

"Okay," Cliff said. He took the hottest shower of his life then, and it felt glorious. After a few minutes he started to feel dizzy though and sat on the floor of the tub. Elliot came back and peeked around the curtain, frowning when he saw Cliff sitting there.

"Are you awake?" Elliot asked worriedly.

"Hmm," Cliff hummed in confirmation. "Just feels nice, and I got sleepy."

"Finish up in there," Elliot said. "I've got sweats and a hot water bottle and bed waiting for you."

Cliff obediently finished showering and sat on the edge of the tub as Elliot dried him off thoroughly with two big, fluffy towels. Cliff closed his eyes and remembered how many times he'd imagined being together again over the summer. "I missed you so much," Cliff said, resting his face on Elliot's abdomen.

Elliot stilled and crouched in front of Cliff. "I missed you too," he said softly. "Now arms up." Elliot helped Cliff get into the warmest sweats that he owned and then led Cliff upstairs to his bedroom. The house was quiet, and Cliff hoped that meant he hadn't disturbed anyone else's sleep. He glanced around curiously at Elliot's childhood bedroom, which was decorated in a way that seemed so very Elliot. He smiled at the teddy bear sitting on the dresser that Cliff had bought Elliot at the baseball game they'd been to. It brought back good memories, nothing like the ones that had been swirling around in Cliff's head for the past several rainy hours.

"Bed," Elliot whispered, tucking Cliff under the duvet and several extra blankets. Cliff was still shivering, but less so now. His temperature had blown from low numbers to high and he gazed at Elliot with glassy, feverish eyes. Elliot handed Cliff a very expired albuterol inhaler, which Cliff took a few puffs of. Despite the date stamped on the canister, it still eased the tightness in Cliff's chest a little. Elliot then climbed in next to him and wrapped his arms around Cliff. The feeling and smell of being enveloped by Elliot after all this time brought Cliff to tears and he hid his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know I should have called.”

"It’s okay,” Elliot said. “Sleep, Cliff. We can talk tomorrow.” Knowing he was finally in the only place he truly felt safe, Cliff slept.

[Cont. part 2]

#shionwrites #novemetober rescheduled #whump #sickfic #sicknario #tw: emeto #tw: homophobia #prompt: chaotic body temperature #novemetober 2023 #oc: cliff #oc: theo #oc: elliot #fever whump #hurt/comfort #angst #hypothermia #pneumonia

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pervysenpaix · 2 years ago

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A/N: Oh my god, she's back again— I’ve fallen into madness talk to me nice 🧡

Pairing : E.Kirishima X Black Reader

TW! : ProHero Kirishima, Hard Dom Kiri, Slapping, Degrading, Oral

You had to be the world’s worst personal assistant.

Kirishima only hired you as a favor to your cousin Mina, but he knew he was probably earning himself a headache.

They say don’t judge a book by its cover but in your case it’s a valid double entendre because not only is your work ethic as bad as your resume, but you were also just as slutty as you looked.

Most of your tasks were pushed off to the unpaid interns while you sat at your desk posting pictures and reels on IG.

“ A day in the life of a Hero’s Assistant!” — which usually consisted of showing off whatever skintight ensemble you’d picked out that morning, followed by you getting sending the intern for Kirishima’s protein shake, ordering some ridiculously expensive lunch on the company card for the two of you and sitting on his desk while he finished paperwork.

It was a glamorous gig. You barely had to lift a finger. Some people might even call you spoiled. Say that you lacked discipline.

It was Kirishima.

He is people.

Simple tasks. Small things. Directions that shouldn’t be too hard to follow but for some reason they weren’t settling in that pretty little head of yours.

“Eiji—!” you whined, the fat of your breasts rippling as you stomped your feet like a school child. “Why do I have to do it! Isn’t it someone’s job to file your paperwork?”

The redhead chuckles, big hand resting on the small of your back. You stood between his legs, but he was so tall that even seated you were face to face.

“That’s your job, darlin’” he coos, “it’d be nice if you did it sometimes”.

Scandalized, you gasp— a hand to your chest staring at him disbelief.

“I am a very hard worker” you pout, glancing at the small stack of papers on the desk. “What are those anyway?”

The man shrugs. “Just some contracts. You don’t have to read or sort ‘em. Just put ‘em in the “personal” file down the hall, alright sweetheart?”

A simple task that shouldn’t have taken more than two minutes, so why has twenty minutes passed without him hearing the clicking of your Louboutins and the swish of your braid jewelry?

He steps out of his office and much to his displeasure he finds you at your desk with your eyes glued to the pages of his very personal documents.

“What is this?” You dare speak to him in such a condescending tone? Brow raised as if he’s the one that was doing something wrong?

Kirishima remains levelheaded, although you were practically begging for a session over his knee you weren’t his to take and the short stack of NDAs and BDSM contracts were proof that he wasn’t exactly easy on his subs.

“What does it look like?” He challenges, brow raised arms crossed over his powerful chest.

Boldly, you saunter around your desk, hips swaying in that barely there leather mini, and stop until your face to face chest with the man. Tip toeing to wrap your hands around his neck, pulling him down and of course he obliges.

“Looks like you’re some kind of a pervert, Mr.Ei” you whisper, dainty fingers tangling in his flowing red locs.

“Guilty” he smirks, shooting you a challenging grin that leaves you aching between your thighs. “So, is this why you won’t ever take me home ?” You pout, “because of this silly little paper ?”

A soft chuckle escapes him. Rough hands reach for your cheeks, relishing in the soft contrast there. His thumb traces your glossy pout before pulling down.

“Maybe” he brings his thumb to his mouth, “maybe not”. His tongue darts out to taste the residue and he hums in contentment. “I’m far less forgiving in the bedroom than I am in the office, sweetheart. I don’t tolerate bratty little girls”.

It takes a conscious effort to stop the frown from forming.

“I can be good, Eiji. I promise”.

Your whiny tone has his cock stirring in his pants. He kisses your forehead softly then looks back into your eyes.

“Then let’s get you a pen”.

Eijiro whistled lowly, circling you with your trench thrown over his shoulder.

“You look like a slut” he stated matter of factly. Pausing to look into your eyes. “Thank you!” you respond, smiling brightly.

After settling the details of your proposed entanglement, you immediately got online to find the sexiest lingerie possible. The lacy red ensemble was fashioned similar to his hero costume—black sleeves connected by thin red straps with small “r”s that barely covered your nipples.

He hummed in response, motioning for you to follow him down the hall and pausing in front of a door.

“Safe word and non-verbal signals ?”

You answered with practiced precision earning you a soft small and forehead peck. Swooning, you looked up at him through fluttered lashes pursing your lips for a proper kiss.

“This will be the last time I indulge you. When you cross that threshold you are mines. You exist only to please me. You take what I give you and do as I say. Do I make myself clear ?”

“Yes” you chirped excitedly, rising on your toes but he gently pushed you back down by your forehead.

“Yes, what ?” He challenged, voice low and gravely. His tone so chilling it made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. An expression far more sinister than his usual amiable nature overtook his features.

“Yes, sir” you replied meekly, dropping your eyes only to be shocked by a sharp pain across your cheek. Out of instinct your hand went up but he stopped you. Grabbing your hand to hold against his chest and slot your lips together. Pure sensuality clouded your brain alleviating the sting and leaving nothing but pleasure. He pulled back to rest his forehead on yours. “Always keep your eyes on me, Princess”.

He pulled you into the room and sat you on a chair near the bed. He adjusted your posture— chin up , eyes forward, back straight, legs spread wide. Two sharp slaps to the inner thighs were a reminder when they clenched together during his inspection of your mouth.

“You just can’t Fuckin’ listen, can you ? You’re fucking hopeless” he growled, meaty fingers sliding back and forth on your tongue. You tried to protest around them which earned you another slap to the cheek.

He kneeled until his blown out crimson orbs met your own.

“Disagreeing with me now , love? I knew you were a little dumb but that’s just plain stupid. You’re whatever I say you are and if I say that you’re a hopeless slut, a dumb bitch meant to warm my cock then that’s what you are, right ?”

“Y-yes Sir”.

“Good girl” he croons, fisting his hands into your braids to smash your lips together. His tongue invaded your mouth, overpowering you with ease to mark his territory. He left you breathless and gasping for air, only to pull back and spit in your mouth.

“Now you just be a good girl and keep that in your mouth while I fuck your throat. Sound good, Angel ?”

His voice was so sweet now and his eyes sparkled with affection. All you wanted to do was please him. You answered as best you could with his spit still resting on your tongue but he understanding and have a reassuring wink as he pulled down his sweats just enough to release his cock. It was painfully hard, swollen and angry red with pre leaking like the slick between your legs.

It was heavy on your tongue—you knew it would be. The delicious weight had your eyes fluttering before he even started to. Eijiro twisted a nipple making you yelp around him.

“Keep your fucking eyes open and on me , slut”.

Then he started to move.

The beginning was fairly easy— his dick glided in and out at the languid pace of his hips, but when Eijiro deemed you adjusted he hammered his cock against your throat filling you to near asphyxiation. His assault was relentless. There was barely room for oxygen to pass the rock-hard appendage stuffed in your throat.

You gagged and swallowed around him, contracting perfectly to bring him to the edge. Ropes of searing spunk erupted from head. You swallowed what you could but it was just so much, most of it spilled down your chest. But Eijiro was gracious, he didn’t punish you. He scooped the spilled cum back on to his dick to let you clean it off properly.

“Good fuckin’ job, baby”. The sweetness of his honeyed voice rivaled the saccharine seed he’d gifted you. “Let me take care of you now”.

The big brute of a man snatched you up by your hair and into a searing kiss. Your knees buckled like a newborn babe. Your mind was emptied of anything other than Eijiro Kirishima and pink appendage slithering against your tongue. Sharp teeth teased your lips, traveling down the column of your neck to graze the sensitive skin there. Eijro bit down-- not enough to break the skin but enough to definitely leave a mark.

"You're perfect now" he rumbled, spit soaked lips traveling to meet your own once more before picking you up and wrapping your thighs around his head.

Eijiro rested your back against the wall and ripped your panties of with a sharp tug. The man groaned at the sight of your pretty little pussy. Puffy brown cunny overflowing the evidence of your arrival. With one hand he supported your weight while running the rough pad of his thumb through your sticky folds.

You reeled at his feather-like touch, hips lurching to get contact where you needed him the most.

"Pleasee---" you begged, desperate for relief and fuck if that whiny little voice didn't get his cock stirring back to life. If Eijiro was a selfish man, he would've drawn it out. Leave your body burning too little touching. Get you right to the edge and pulling. Denying your orgasm after orgasm to get his fill of your needy whimpers. God- he really wished he was selfish, but you were just so good for him, and it wouldn't be fair to keep punishing you. So of course, he obliged.

"Itadakimasu".

@xogabbiexo , @mhathotfic , @tenyaiidasslut , @bookwormsenpai , @7inaa , @sems-diarie , @endeavours-jockstrap , @hentyehottie , @bitchubby , @m00nchildthings , @nasty-quillz , @namjoonswifeyy , @plussizeficchick, @linahopeeeee, @chaichaiiskai , @not-your-damsel

#kirishima smut #eijiro kirishima #mha smut #mha x black!reader #mha x chubby reader #kirishima x black reader #kirishima x chubby reader

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mai-fanblog · 10 months ago

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Team employees

This group I planned is based on my first Ducktales fic "See you again".

Here it is for context: Link

Summary of the relationship of the fours

Dickie and Gyro

They have been best friends for years. Gyro has a slight crush on her, but prefers not to say it for the sake of their friendship. Dickie likes Gyro very much and sees him as the most important person in her life, although she doesn't see him romantically. Although they are completely different, they understand each other; Gyro is willing to help Dickie and Dickie will support her dearest friend.

And while Gyro is often uncomfortable when Dickie likes someone or has a partner, mostly because he feels neither deserves her (nor does he himself consider himself perfect for her), being more recent: Launchpad McQuack.

Dickie and Fenton

The two get along well, although there is a bit of disdain (although it is on Fenton's part). Dickie teases Fenton about his superhero identity and teases him several times, despite his jokes against him, but genuinely appreciates him for being good to Gyro.

Fenton initially had a hard time establishing a relationship with Dickie, due to his slight jealousy for getting along with Gyro so easily and her practical jokes towards him. Over time, he began to sympathize with her, although he still resents her teasing comments.

Dickie and Launchpad

The two became friends immediately, however, Dickie fell in love with him, mostly because of physical attractiveness and LP saw her as someone likeable.

She initially saw him as just a handsome man, but as she was with him more, she realized his great kindness and even though he is dumb, he would show his compassion when it is needed the most. She wants to start a romance with him, unfortunately it would be difficult for Dickie; despite her failed attempts, she appreciates LP's friendship and is happy for him to spend time together as friends.

For his part, Launchpad has liked Dickie ever since he met her and adores her crazy energy. He has inadvertently left her in the friendzone. Launchpad appreciates Dickie's optimism, although he still knows her weak side and tries to help her.

They both share the same neuron. xD

Launchpad and Fenton

The two get along extremely fine, it should have been the events that led Fenton to make Gizmoduck.

Despite their friendship, LP had a slight attraction to Fenton, although he is aware that he has a girlfriend and prefers to keep a low profile on the subject.

They both help each other, even when Fenton is in his hero mode, even though Darkwing doesn't like the idea very much.

Launchpad and Gyro

Both are known to work.

Gyro dislikes Launchpad's presence very much, not only because of the issue with Dickie, but because of Launchpad's stupidity and ignorance every time he appears, the more he gets involved with something scientific. Even so, he tries to keep his professional attitude to avoid someone unpleasant (mostly so that Dickie doesn't look at him ugly).

Launchpad, on the other hand, wants to have a friendship (or at least closeness) with Dr. Gearloose. Unfortunately, it usually ends badly.

They are such opposites that it is difficult to keep them together alone in the same room.

Gyro and Fenton

Both were just a scientist and his (unpaid) intern, although it was mostly Gyro's dislike of Fenton, for resorting to it himself when he was young.

Despite Fenton's mistakes with the suit, Gyro gave him many chances and began to like him, in his own strange way with his sour face.

Because of the events in Japan, Gyro agreed to make Fenton an official assistant, showing his appreciation for him. The two would begin a friendship, despite maintaining their status as boss and employee.

Fenton would take on a more important role for Dr. Gearloose regarding his emotions, especially when Dickie came back into the scientist's life. Gyro acknowledged (at times) that Fenton had become a good friend, although he hid it so as not to be soft.

Thanks for reading (this so long) and I hope to bring more of this headcanon I've been thinking about for a while and fine tune the details.

(I hope to publish both fics and drawings of them).

Chau

#ducktales #ducktales 2017 #my favorite characters #artists on tumblr #dickie duck #launchpad mcquack #gyro gearloose #fenton crackshell cabrera #headcanon #disney ducks #duck comics #dt 2017

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confessionsfromthesecondrow · 2 years ago

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Honey, We Shrunk the Interns.

Growing up, I never dreamed of pursuing a career in fashion. Right up until I left college in 2011, I was fixated on the idea of becoming a barrister. Although fashion was an avid interest of mine – one that I studied intensely, poring over my favourite magazines and keeping up with runway shows each season – it felt a million miles away from the reality of my quiet, suburban life. After all, it's not what you know, but who you know – fashion’s unofficial epitaph that is sadly still relevant over a decade later.

With no connections via relatives or family friends, I turned to Gaydar, determining that through the gay network I’d find an in. As luck would have it, I came across a young fashion photographer who put me in contact with his stylist flatmate to embark on my first internship.

I wasn’t paid a single penny, much to the dismay of my parents – who chose more reliable careers in building and finance – but my modest entry into the industry felt akin to the moon landing, at least to me anyway. I met models, hauled suitcases filled with returns on buses all over London, and peered inquisitively at the magic being made on set while steaming clothes in photo studios – marvelling at Prada samples that I recognised from the runway. I even met fashion royalty, in the form of Pam Hogg, who offered me a cup of tea when I turned up rain-soaked at her studio one sodden evening.

From there, an internship at GQ Style followed, the majority of which I spent sobbing in the bathroom thanks to the (nameless) editor at the time who often humiliated me with pointless menial tasks. In one instance, I was asked to hand deliver a single daffodil to Alasdair McLellan sans address, later loudly berated in the open plan office for the flower’s wilted demise by the time I was provided with the studio’s location.

My introduction to interning finished with a friendlier stint at Dazed – acquired via the gay network, once again – five years before I’d return in a full circle moment as a fashion editorial assistant.

Beyond the obvious hands-on experience my months of interning provided me, it quickly proved even more valuable than I realised. After initially being rejected by University of Arts London to study fashion journalism, a follow-up email clarifying the additional internships I’d undertaken quickly secured me an interview and later a prestigious place on the course.

Throughout my studies at university, we were encouraged to continue gaining industry experience, culminating in a term entirely dedicated to interning during my second year. Interviewing at Wonderland and 10 magazine, I chose the latter, and continued interning there throughout my final year – while simultaneously juggling my final major project, writing my dissertation, and a part-time job – until I ultimately became the publication’s fashion assistant upon graduation.

Over my career, I’ve had the privilege of working with hundreds of interns – the good, the bad, and the lazy – the brightest sparks among them going on to become my peers holding jobs at Clash, The Face, GQ, Wallpaper*, Matches, and British Vogue. As was my experience at 10, it was common for brilliant interns to find themselves earning entry-level full-time roles within Dazed and AnOther right up until the pandemic when the company’s internship programme was discontinued.

At the time, the Guardian reported that 61% of employers cancelled their placements due to the pandemic, with small and medium-sized businesses the most likely (49%) to do so. Yet, as we emerged from the two-year slump, internships were just as scarce, largely due to HMRC cracking down on unpaid internships – serving fashion publications (both the media and arts are serial offenders) with warnings of fines if they failed to pay interns the national minimum wage.

So, where does that leave today’s budding fashion journalists?

‘It is impossible, it literally feels like winning the lottery,” Moira Gonazález, an MA Fashion Communication student at Central Saint Martins tells me. ‘My plan was to join a team as an intern and work my way up, but it’s so difficult to start like that – maybe one person out of every 20 will reply and most of the time you don’t learn anything. I’ve ended up assisting so many stylists where I’ve just been in Ubers picking up stuff all around London. So many people still expect you to work full-time for free, which is crazy, but everybody’s willing to do it for fashion.’

Despite being required to complete 120 hours in the industry as part of her BA, Moira was the only person on her course who was successful in doing so. ‘The teachers said that if you worked on shoots for uni that it would count towards the hours, so there was no motivation to go out and get the experience,’ she says. ‘The process can also be so long, it took four months to get to the interview stage for an internship at Burberry. How can you survive living in London as a 20-year-old and pay rent if you have to wait for four months to get an answer? It’s impossible unless you’re privileged enough not to worry about money.’

To see for myself, I looked into fashion editorial internships in London to see what was currently available. Unsurprisingly, I failed to find a single placement to apply for and advice offered by the Business of Fashion overlooked the obvious, that no amount of experience or tenacity can help secure an internship if there aren’t any available to begin with. Reaching out to all the editors I knew, the results were marginally better with month-long placements available for university students only at 10 and the Evening Standard. The majority – including Elle, Wallpaper*, GQ, The Face, and Perfect – responded with a resounding no, with Vice allegedly going as far as implementing a company-wide ban on all internships.

Of the paid internships the government were hoping would become available, only Dazed and British Vogue currently offer them – both six months, full-time, and paid the London Living Wage – though at the time, the vacancies were filled. ‘I remember when British Vogue posted the internship on LinkedIn and after two days they already had 500 applicants,’ Moira says. ‘When I later saw who got the internship, she had worked at two banks previously, studied politics, and was 25 or 26 so had a much bigger CV. How can I even compete?’

‘For me, I’ve always found that there was never a clear route into the industry, I didn’t have a degree and my parents aren’t creative – there’s nobody in the creative industry in my immediate family. I wasn’t getting anywhere and couldn’t get my foot in the door,’ says Louis Merrion, Dazed Digital’s inaugural paid editorial intern. ‘I had come to a point where I was looking at unpaid internships, but I’d have to work weekends to be able to afford to commute from Southend. All of sudden you’re working seven days a week and you could come out of the end of it without having gained any experience. It’s easy to see why people get so disillusioned with the system.’

Three months into his tenure at Dazed, Louis’ day-to-day involves tasks that you'd expect for aspiring writers: shadowing working journalists, transcribing, researching, pitching and writing their own stories. ‘It feels more like an apprenticeship than an internship because of the learning aspect of it, you’re not expected to come in and know how the industry works straight away,’ he adds.

With several bylines now under his belt, Louis is already using the opportunity to gain additional experience working alongside Dazed’s social and Studio teams, which he hopes will set him in good stead once his internship ends. ‘I couldn’t ask for a better first creative job and the experience I’ve gained is invaluable,’ he says. ‘I now feel like somebody who is actually involved in the creative industry as opposed to being a part-timer; I have the belief that I could have a career in it. It’s not as far-reaching as it seemed six months ago.’

It sounds too good to be true and for most it will be – the cost of paying the LLW means that spaces on such internships are currently limited to two golden tickets per year. What do you do if you're not so lucky?

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A post shared by @mentoring.matters

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An alternative path into the industry – thanks, in part, to the diversity reckoning fashion faced in 2020 – are mentorships that pair beginners with working creatives for 1-2-1 support over a six-month period.

Mentoring Matters (founded by Laura Edwards, a design director who has worked with Christopher Kane and Alexander McQueen), Room Mentoring (founded by Elle's editor-in-chief Kenya Hunt), RAISEfashion, and The Junior Network are a handful of these schemes born during the pandemic – generally aimed at aiding Black and brown creatives and those from working-class backgrounds.

In 2021 through Mentoring Matters, Aswan Magumbe, a BA Fashion Communication student at Central Saint Martins was paired with i-D’s global editorial director Olivia Singer. ‘Mentoring was more personal, so Olivia helped me pinpoint specific things I needed help with like pitching and how to approach PRs. I also got a lot more in-depth feedback about my writing,’ she shares. Yet, even with this, Aswan admits, ‘I’m still very stuck. Mentoring is good because you have somebody to turn to, but I still don’t know how to navigate internships. I really don’t know the route to take.’

As a working journalist, I’d be hesitant to take on a role as a mentor for this very reason. While I could impart practical wisdom on how to be a writer, I have no means of offering advice on where to practise those skills. While well-intentioned, these mentorship schemes are guiding marginalised voices into an industry that has been reluctant to give them a seat at the table to begin with. How responsible this is without fully understanding or doing more to remove the roadblocks that sadly still exist remains to be seen.

It’s a complex issue, yet to be properly acknowledged – the disheartening reality is that many editors I spoke to weren’t aware that their publications no longer offered internship opportunities. I urge them to similarly reflect on their own arduous journeys – regardless of whether they grafted as an intern or not – and question leadership on why they aren't putting more time and resources towards supporting the talents of tomorrow. Take a chance on a new writer with no bylines, become an unofficial mentor, answer that email asking for advice – do more!

We’ve talked enough about making opportunities more readily available for those who want to pursue a career in fashion – it’s time to finally do something about it.

#fashion #internship #intern #dazed #british vogue #vogue #essay #investigation #Instagram

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tetedump · 2 years ago

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omg congrats on getting into a grad school program! I am trying to go down a similar career path and i was wondering if you could talk a little about the experience you got during undergrad that helped you get into this program? Thank you:))

thank you!! <3

getting experiences were fairly tricky for me bc of covid, so it shouldn't be as hard for you, hopefully!! i didn't actively seek out research experience, i was primarily looking for clinical experience, but having the research experience was super helpful and i ended up really enjoying it (although i definitely don't want to continue down that road professionally).

for clinical experiences, i reached out to my clinical psych professor (honestly hated her, but she put me in touch with this organization where she was being trained which was the most phenomenal experience, so we're very grateful to her for that) and asked what organizations she thought might have summer internships for undergrad students. if you're looking in NYC, i can give you a few suggestions on places where you could start looking! <3 i ended up interning at this private practice for 2 years because they let me keep coming back—i got to learn things on the admin side, got my first experiences interacting with clients and parents in a clinical sense, and got practice talking with supervisors both getting/receiving feedback and asking questions.

for research experience, i emailed literally every single psychology professor at my school and asked if they had any research they needed assistance with (and, i said 'if not, would you be able to recommend another faculty member that I could reach out to? i'm very interested in gaining research experience!'). thankfully, the one who had an opening had work that i was happy to do! and i've stayed on that on and off for 2 years as well, because it's been easy, interesting, and super cool to be able to literally be writing the final research article now to be submitted to journals, after having done the clinical interviews 2 summers ago at the very beginning of the project:)

please let me know if you have any questions/if i should elaborate about any of these experiences!

i do not think you need either or both of these experiences to pursue psychology. I do think a lot of places like to see that you have experience. it's absolute shit that a lot of these experiences are unpaid. there are definitely scholarships and grants you can apply for, but that doesn't minimize the unpaidness of the work you're doing. if i can help at all, please let me know!!! <3 excited for you to explore this:)

#psychology #clinical psychology #psychology grad school #psychology internship #summer internship #college #university #undergrad internship #clinical experience #clinical psych #research #research experience #ich

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mariacallous · 2 years ago

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In the span of a decade, China has emerged as the developing world’s bank of choice, pouring hundreds of billions of dollars in loans into global infrastructure projects as part of its sprawling Belt and Road Initiative (BRI).

But as its borrowers fail to pay up, China is finding that its newfound authority is coming at a price. Eager to recoup its money, Beijing is transitioning from generous investor to tough enforcer—and jeopardizing the very goodwill that it tried to build with initiatives such as the BRI. China has broken a few bones in Sri Lanka, whose financial turmoil allowed Beijing to seize control of a strategic port, and is hassling Pakistan, Zambia, and Suriname for repayment.

For two decades, countries “were getting to know China as the kind of benevolent financier of big-ticket infrastructure,” said Bradley Parks, the executive director of the AidData research group at William & Mary. Now, he said, “the developing world is getting to know China in a very new role—and that new role is as the world’s largest official debt collector.”

The problem for China is that nobody likes being hounded for money. Chasing down unpaid debts won’t win many friends. It complicates Beijing’s broader aspirations of extending its influence and forging new relationships through economic deals. That tension, experts say, has left Beijing facing an impossible trade-off: Can it collect its money without hurting its image?

“This is a moment where China cannot have its cake and eat it too,” said Zongyuan Zoe Liu, an international political economy expert at the Council on Foreign Relations. “I think China literally has to choose which side it wants to let go. If you want to have your money back, you want to force debt repayment, that basically means you are going to forgo the goodwill.”

Once billed as Chinese President Xi Jinping’s “project of the century,” the BRI was unveiled in 2013 as an ambitious infrastructure development campaign that would crisscross some 140 countries. In practice, the initiative was less streamlined and more opaque. As Chinese lenders scrambled to administer projects under the BRI umbrella, it became a haphazardly executed mishmash of projects with shoddy lending contracts.

BRI was, in large part, a response to China’s own domestic economic challenges, where an excess of domestic production capacity could find no easy outlet, rather than a grand strategy to upend the global order. Following the 2008 financial crisis, Beijing “freaked out” and funneled vast sums of money into infrastructure development as a domestic stimulus package, said Yun Sun, the director of the China program at the Stimson Center.

“The goal was to keep the economy going and keep the economy growing,” she said. “The unintended consequence was that it put China’s domestic industries on steroids.”

Overpumped, the Chinese market became saturated with steel, cement, glass, and aluminum, prompting Beijing to look abroad for answers. Given the size of the overseas market for infrastructure, the logic went, the BRI would allow China to export this industrial overcapacity while also harnessing its foreign reserves and surplus dollars.

“This was about economics,” Parks said. “Now if you fast-forward to today, if the whole purpose of this program is to make money and now you have a lot of deadbeats that are not repaying their dollar-denominated loans, then it probably feels like your strategy is backfiring.”

In 2017, China overtook the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund (IMF) to cement its position as the world’s biggest creditor, although Beijing has since scaled back its lending. But many of its borrowers—still reeling from the COVID-19 pandemic and Russia’s war in Ukraine, alongside Beijing’s lending practices—are now battling to pull their economies back from the brink. Around 60 percent of China’s overseas loans went to financially distressed countries in 2022, compared with just 5 percent in 2010, according to Parks. Unable to pay China back, some cash-strapped governments are pushing for debt relief, forgiveness, or restructuring.

That has put Beijing in a bind. “You make friends when you provide loans. You don’t make friends when you insist on full payment, when conditions have changed and full payment is nearly impossible,” said Brad Setser, a former senior advisor to the U.S. trade representative during the Biden administration, now at the Council on Foreign Relations. “China has put itself in a difficult position because the financial interests of its key policy banks really do now trade off against its diplomatic interests.”

Take Zambia, which defaulted on some $17 billion of debt in 2020 and counts China as its largest bilateral creditor. Over the years, once rosy relations between the two countries have soured as Beijing and Lusaka struggled to hammer out a debt relief deal as part of the G-20 Common Framework. Roadblocks have emerged in the process: U.S. Treasury Secretary Janet Yellen, who has urged China to forgive Zambia’s debt, recently accused Beijing of being a “barrier” to progress. Beijing, in turn, has blamed Washington for “sabotaging other sovereign countries’ active efforts to solve their debt issues.”

“There seems to be a complete impasse between Zambia and China right now,” Setser said. “Any realistic solution to Zambia’s debt problems requires China’s participation. There’s no possibility of going around China.”

With Sri Lanka, another borrower that has been buckling under the weight of its ballooning debt, Beijing has granted Colombo a two-year debt moratorium. But it has not provided the required financing assurances for the IMF to step in, effectively blocking the institution from offering rescue loans to the country.

Part of the trouble, Parks said, is that Beijing does not have a playbook for navigating debt crises and sovereign debt restructuring. “China has never gone through this before,” he said. “They’re kind of extemporaneously trying to make things up as they go along and try to adapt and iterate on the fly.”

In an attempt to come to grips with distressed economies’ debt restructuring challenges, representatives from the IMF, the World Bank, India, China, the Paris Club, and other lenders and borrowers met last Friday. This week, leaders are again convening for a series of G-20 finance meetings in India, and New Delhi is reportedly preparing a proposal that would pressure major creditors including China to accept a haircut on their loans, Reuters first reported.

“China was hoping to get its money back, plus a nice coupon, a little bit of interest,” Setser said. But it “has discovered, in a significant set of cases, that it’s going to be very difficult to get its money back—and the countries want a break.”

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ilearnedthistodaysblog · 1 month ago

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#1086 When did diplomatic immunity start?

French translation (9 June 1815) When did diplomatic immunity start? Diplomatic immunity was recognized in law from 1709 in Britain, but some sort of immunity has existed since the beginning of civilization. Diplomatic immunity is recognized by almost every country in the world, at the moment. It was enshrined in international law at the Vienna Convention in 1961. This convention was held in Vienna, Austria because the first convention that attempted to write a law about diplomatic immunity also happened in Vienna. 193 states signed up to the 1961 convention. The only states that haven’t signed are Palau, South Sudan, the Vatican City, and Palestine. The Vienna Constitution finalized the rules for diplomats and how they should be treated. Diplomats, employees of international organizations, and their immediate family members all have immunity from all civil, criminal cases. They also cannot be arrested, detained, or searched in any way. So, what exactly is a diplomat? A diplomat is a person appointed by one country to conduct diplomacy in a second country. This means everybody that works for government A in country B, from the ambassador at the top, all the way down to the lowest employee. However, they don’t all have the same level of immunity. Ambassadors and their families are granted full immunity, then the immunity decreases as we go down the level of importance. They have immunity because country B agrees that the employees of country A won’t be touched or hampered in any way. This is so that they can go about their job, their diplomacy, without having to worry about interference from government B. It is also so that there is no risk government B will take them hostage and hold them in exchange for concessions. There is obviously a need for immunity where two countries might be hostile to each other, such as the USA and the USSR, but it appears that most immunity is used to get out of parking tickets. Apparently, millions of dollars a year in unpaid parking tickets are lost due to diplomatic immunity. With petty crimes like parking tickets, nothing is done, but with larger crimes, country B can ask for country A to remove the immunity so that the diplomat can be arrested and tried. This is not usually granted, although it depends on the circumstances. The host country is at liberty to ask the diplomat to leave, but they can’t do anything to them. Many of us see diplomatic immunity as a way for diplomats to avoid the laws of a particular country, but it is more for their own safety and actually having to use their immunity to avoid a crime they have committed would probably be a career ending event for many a diplomat. There are a few cases where immunity has been waived, but it tends to be in the favor of a wealthier country. Georgia waived the immunity of a diplomat who caused the death of a 16-year-old girl while driving drunk in New York in 1997. Had it not been in the USA, it is questionable whether they would have waived it. Colombia also waived the immunity of a diplomat who killed a man in London in 2002. So, when did diplomatic immunity start? The concept has been around since people lived together in tribes. Messengers and people involved in diplomacy were often given immunity from being killed or imprisoned, but this was not a law and it was certainly not always the case. There are many examples of messengers and diplomats being killed in order to send a message or to start a war. As larger civilizations began to form, diplomatic immunity became a case of “do unto others as you would have others do unto you.” Diplomats from the Roman Empire were given immunity because the consequences of not doing so were too severe. However, again, it was still not law and there are just as many cases where diplomats were not granted immunity. It tends to be a case of the envoys of powerful states get immunity and those of less powerful ones don’t. Genghis Khan’s envoys were always given immunity because if they didn’t his vengeance would be fearsome. Diplomatic immunity was first written down in law in Britain in 1709 with the passing of the Diplomatic Privileges Act. This was not international, and many countries still routinely rounded up diplomats when a war started. This was mostly settled in the first Congress of Vienna in 1815. Napoleon Bonaparte had just been defeated and it looked like there would be peace in Europe for the first time in a long time. Leaders of the various countries felt that it was a good opportunity to set down a framework for long term peace. One of the things that came out of this was a set of rules on how to treat diplomats. These rules were finalized in 1961. And this is what I learned today. Image By JoJan - Self-photographed, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17375744 Sources https://pulitzercenter.org/stories/explainer-what-diplomatic-immunity-and-what-does-it-have-do-migrant-domestic-work https://www.diplomacy.edu/resource/the-history-of-diplomatic-immunity https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diplomatic_immunity https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Congress_of_Vienna https://1997-2001.state.gov/www/about_state/diplomatic_immunity.html https://time.com/5696300/diplomatic-immunity-harry-dunn https://www.reddit.com/r/NoStupidQuestions/comments/10sirlq/why_is_diplomatic_immunity_even_a_thing_why_dont/ Read the full article

#ambassador #diplomacy #diplomat #immunity

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noellawrites · 3 years ago

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Headcanons for Being in a Relationship with Howard Hamlin

note: this might be rlly niche but i’m so thirsty for Howard & there’s no fanfic for him 😭😭

- you were an undergrad studying pre-law at UNM, just desperate to get your foot in the door

- you started as a low-level, unpaid intern at Hamlin, Hamlin & McGill

- picking up coffee, cleaning, the likes

- you weren’t paid and you weren’t even allowed to sit in on meetings

- you honestly didn’t mind; you liked talking to the mailroom workers and other interns

- one day, you were asked to meet with Howard Hamlin, the owner and CEO of HHM

- he offered you a job as his personal assistant

- not only would the job pay extremely well, but HHM would also pay off your student debt after you graduated

- once you got the job, Howard would call you at all hours, asking you to assess a case with him or attend a business lunch as his plus-one

- as he is normally a very private person, you were able to see another side to your boss

- he was funny, caring and extremely smart, on top of already being very attractive

- eventually, after one too many nights of eating shitty takeout with Howard in his living room while prepping for court, you fell in love with him

- and, as it seemed, he fell in love with you, too

- you both knew how it would look if your relationship went public

- an esteemed lawyer in his fifties dating his twenty-something student assistant

- so you kept the relationship professional to a T, not wanting to give the other HHM employees any ideas

- you hooked up in his office or at his mansion, and only when privacy was guaranteed

- Howard paid for anything and everything you could want, including a new car and a new apartment

- he had originally planned for you to move into his mansion, but you wanted to stay closer to campus and your friends

- about two years into your relationship, Howard retired from HHM suddenly

- you were almost graduated from UNM, and Howard knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you

- he wanted to get married, have children, and overall just live outside of being a lawyer

- you finally agreed to move in with him for your senior year of college, and he proposed the day after your graduation

- because of Howard, you never had to work another day of your life if you didn’t want to

- although you wanted a family, you were still passionate about becoming a lawyer, even if it was only part-time

- so a few years later, after you give birth to your first child, you begin law school at UNM

- while you’re at school, he’ll watch the baby

-it’s the most adorable thing ever

- he’ll send you the cutest pics of outings with your baby

-he’s also the most supportive husband while you’re enrolled in law school

- whether it’s staying up at night with the baby or helping you study for the bar exam, he does his best

- you honestly never expected to fall in love with your boss, but you were happy you did

- you meant everything to him, and he couldn’t be more in love with you

#better call saul #howard hamlin #breaking bad #better call saul x reader #howard hamlin x reader #better call saul imagine #howard hamlin imagine #breaking bad x reader

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soranihimawari · 3 years ago

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Borderline

I essentially woke up and cracked it this bad boy and now I’m thinking about sous chef!miya x reader

Estranged classmates>>acquaintances>>lovers

Mentions of arranged marriage by (toxic!) family members

MDNI🔞: MA for language, allusions to sex, marking/bite marks (non-explicitly specified how or when)// toxic family one or two mementos of verbal and/or implied violence against reader (strong grip leaving bruised shoulders) •• adult psychological themes••

Tora (nickname for reader’s charm and tiger like personality) : literally a tiger

For all intents and purposes, you thought your godmother was joking when she says your grandfather has arranged a suitor for you. You were the last in your family (aka, the youngest) to be married with at least a child or two on the way. Nowadays, in your city by the cliffs facing the entrance of the forests where your lineage stems from the pearl divers and falcon husbandry, the elders still abide by the rarity of arranged marriages. Your family is one of them, so when you’re woken up at five-thirty with a phone call warning you of said arrangement mentioned, you scream into the pillow nearest your head.

“God damn it!” you let out another banshee of a shriek.

The woman who birthed you frowns hours later as the food in front of you is untouched. No one likes a starved bride, but you use it as a sign of petty rebellion. Your future in-laws were arriving in less than hour and you remain uncouth in terms of appearance. The sister to your left is heavy with her third child and while she was able to chose her own path, she reminds you of your place. She blames hormones you call her a whore because she drunkenly fucks the neighbor every time his wife is on vacation.

“Uncalled for,” your father is red in the face.

“Considering one-san isn’t making an effort in covering up the truth, I suggest you talk about infidelity when her husband comes back from buying the ice in town,” you said. “Take that as a warning otosan dearest.”

You don’t make an excuse for yourself to leave the table, but you do regardless of your parents’ threats of disowning you at the ripe old age of twenty-four. Your phone in your pants pocket burns against the morning rays, yet when a familiar contact is the first voice to greet you, you breathe a sigh of (mental) relief.

“Hello?…can I get a table for one?”

Hours later, after a three train and one rideshare later, on the quiet corner of the small plaza in International Rd & Pacifica Way, your delivery bike is chained to a light post. The only acquaintance you’ve known by merit and popularity is the first one to greet you with his back to the door.

“Have a seat ‘newhere ya like,” cold, yet oddly satifying, gray-blue eyes peer over the sous chef’s broad shoulders.

You wonder if he has changed as much as his menu to accommodate the influx of orders since he was given the top third spot for locale favorites. Although your social circles were as different as night and day, you make an effort on at least befriending him now. When the line lead essentially catches up, your order was jotted down by a new hire who was learning the computer point of sale system today. Even if you’re stressed out with your imminent impending marriage, you show (what you can presume is a work-study student) her you are patient and aren’t too nit-picky when your gyoza arrives after your entree onigiri.

“I’m sorry, I can get my manager to—”

“It happens sweetheart, no worries,” you plop the order in your mouth two at a time. You wave your chopsticks around in a circle as of to bat away any lingering negative thoughts. “Tell the chef his gyoza is still as delicious as ever.”

You give her a thumbs up and she smiles broadly. Later on, as you camp out and move around to create space for the obaa-san from the textile fabric store, you sit at table eleven, your tab still unpaid for until the line chef is left in charge. The sous chef with kind eyes from earlier walks over post hustle. Hours kitchen staff was able to be caught up relatively quick by the time he joins you. Taking in your exhausted expression masked behind a neutral face, he knows it would be in your best interest too bent to him.

“What happened?”

Two word questions between you two had always been the key to have you open up a bit more. He seemed honestly concerned because he only takes his hat off when he’s on his break. Well-kept locks of which remind you of squid-ink noodles frame his face. You understand why he asks, not like much can be done when you fill him in on the family tea. His eyes roam you face for any warning signs of being trapped; he lends you the space to vent because who knew what would happen if you were to bottle that emotions away?

Ten minutes. You’re divulging information about several instances which leads to where you are at now. Your eyes glaze over in frustration because who would have thought leaving that hellish place would lead to you find some semblance of peace in an onigiri restaurant in the middle of a packed shopping district today?

“…and that’s putting everything delicately,” you lean back into the chair.

Your eyes filled with rage festers as you watch families and couples alike walk down the plaza together. Manifesting in glossy tired eyes, said chef gives you a once over: you’re of average height and build, he knew that much, but something about being in the same science and advanced maths classes for the years both of you attended in high school showed just how ‘passive’ you were… until you were subsequently stood up at the personal lockers and on a random day, you dial the phone number the head of the baseball club gives you. He wonders how things would dance changed if you chose to be by his side since that day. The memory of yesteryear begins again when those same curious gray-blue eyes warm up to the way the sun seems to highlight your features: going back to the day when you were stood up by a potential study date comes to mind (again). You put it on speaker as you were zipping up a hoodie and the traffic radio’s prank line plays the “rejected” jingle.

“Woah, that’s harsh,” a member of the volleyball says, shaking his head; green eyes watching how his friend’s brother would react if at all. “Would not wanna be her right about now.”

You grind your teeth, tie your hair back and square your shoulders, muttering how all you wanted was the notes from one class as you brush past other students who noticed you hold your books in a death grip. A term paper handed out from their English teacher that year was picked up by one of the twins next to the water fountain. In bold letters next to your family name, a bold green 100/100 ヽ(〃＾▽＾〃)ﾉ for the grammar pop quiz from this morning makes said friend’s brother catch up to you. You were wiping your cheeks as you tried to unlock your bike lock from the rack. You’re almost breaking the damn thing apart with the way your shoulders tense from the seething breathing you use to try to calm down. Does it work? No, but you’re not about lose this pride or your self worth. Not today.

“Sato is not worth it,” he says extending his hand with the quiz.

You pull yourself together quietly as you take it from him uttering a small “thanks”. The boy notices a dark bruise forming on your shoulder when you shuffle to put the quiz in your beaten up (‘hand me down’) canvas bag. He points to his shoulder as though he was your mirror and you brush him off saying you forgot to hang the laundry last night so mother likes to discipline you with her hands.

“What?” you ask, an incredulous look on your face. “Never been in trouble with your mom before?”

A scar behind your right ear happens to resemble a cigar burn because your sister, the sun lover, decided to pretend you were an ant and she the human with the magnifying glass. You were thirteen.

“Not like that, no.”

The boy tilts his head to one side while you explain this scar was from where, who, and when. Bumps and scrapes he had received were normal, but you, you stand tall inconspicuous to your classmate. You spoke in statements of neutrality, which drew him to you in the first place.

“Umm… here,” he fishes his phone out his burgundy pocket. “Give me yer number. We can make up a lie and if things get real bad ya can stay over for the night. I’m sure ma won’t mind.”

Was this guy for real? You hand him back his phone, closing his fingers around it with the intentions of giving it to him tomorrow.

“We’ve been in the same homeroom for three years…” your lock is stored in your backpack finally. “Does every girl in your phone exist because they were stood up for a study date? Or am I the first?”

“Excuse me…?”

He knows you’re not trusting of him, not one bit, but the least you could do is not bite the potential hand that frees you, hence his confusion.

“That’s what I thought,” you mount your bike, thank him for finding the quiz before warning him if he’s serious about what he said, you sit in the middle row, back seat next to the light switch for the room.

The memories of yesterday freezes when you stare out the current window panes. You sense jovial life and the like from strangers strolling down the street. Apparently after almost ten years of being out side of acquaintances, the sous chef trained his phone from his apron; the screen is unlocked and he draws your attention by the backlight. It’s the phone book contact lists and his finger hovers over your email. Your phone number and address remain blank; you really are a stubborn and skeptical person.

“What are you doing?” Your voice is constricted as you watch him hover his phone over your unlocked one. A QR-code is on your screen with an envelope with wings.

“Saving a friend from going through something insane even by my standards. And I have a monster twin.”

He chuckles right before he brings a hand to give you a silent sign to stay quiet for a little bit.

Beep-bop.

There’s an impish grin he wears when he stands abruptly to snap a photo of his lips barely grazing your cheek. His hair hides the apex of the lighting effect you would use to edit and send him a copy a couple hours later.

“That I thought I needed to give girl from my youth a way out of a loveless marriage at ripe age of twenty-four.”

You don’t push him away because you expertly let you guard down long enough to show him you can do more than scowl or show disgust; the proof is in how your eyes regained a flicker of hope when you tilt your flushed face to him.

“Better, so much better,” he teases. He wants to hold your hand, since that day, but he carefully declines. His nose on the other hand, whether intentional or not, nuzzles against your temple to see if he can test your patience.

“Oi! Miya-san!” shift change was about to start and he needed to return to reality of learning his craft.

“What? Can’t you see I’m—” he jolts upright.

“She ain’t going no where, right Ms Tora?” another chef pipes up holding a new bonito flake shaker. This one is a partly fellow, hollering about you and his boss going through young bursts of love.

“Did chef-kun ask you out yet?” the first cook asks, holding up three meal tickets for the Togo packing station. They are a rambunctious people, but they find poking fun at the holes in their sous chef’s love life… and the berating is quite the opposite from your family: yours is out of disappointment, theirs here in the restaurant is out of camaraderie for their leader.

Then it clicks like an epiphany of the last couple years forces you to never be too far from wherever he is. The fundamentals of the universe is to blame because you pick up that his coworkers call you by the nickname he gave you when he points to ripped tiger plush backpack charm. Your acquaintance seemed to have picked small things about he always noticed.

You had an inkling it was him or other people from the team that were his carrier ‘kitsune’ since the gifts became more tailored the later half of third year seemed to drag. The first being a replacement charm with a stainless steel D-clip. His handwriting is really neat and precise, how pretentious you thought when you stick the charm inside your desk.

At lunch, you weren’t feeling well, but when you rest your head on your desk the classmate with the bleached out platinum blonde dye job wears an amused smile obscured by his hand. You’re holding the charm, subconsciously squeezing it (and the strings around his heart force it stay in place instead of jumping to his throat). Over the course of the rest of that term, your team seems to be doing well both on the court for him and yours in the Olympic swimming pools: all came to a head when the school paper covered the results of the swim team: your name is credited as the anchor for your relay smashing the all-youth meet’s previous record.

“You like her,” his brother says one night.

“That’s not what this is,” he hears himself lie. “She’s a friend.”

“Deny it all you want, but you strike me as the type who likes the stoic ice-queen types…”

“You’ve been reading too much shojou/romance manga again demon.”

“And I just love to tease my little bro who’s clearly in love.”

“Shut up and go to sleep bruv. Did you forget captain’s got us morning practice at seven?”

There is delightful one finger waving from the side of the bunk bed near his face: “fuck off.” Lights turn off and they go to sleep.

Curious to see if he can witness that expression in person, your friend decides to do something a bit more drastic. Has he always been this beautiful up close? You keep that comment to yourself, since he did just give you his contact info via scanning that line contact QR code… and so just before he leaves you this time wishing to emanate the brashness of his teenage self again with an actual secret pressed against your brow this time and his lips murmuring a gentle, “Don’t you think we’re destined to be so much more?”

You stifle a laugh. It’s as infectious as the flu, but lighter than the glass of the high end carbonated rose in the back cellar. He leans back at you with a disappointing pout, blinking confused.

“Do that again.”

“Huh?”

“Your laugh,” his hand curls under your chin. “I like it.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t be shy now…”

“Miya!” the line leads at the time for shift change called him again. “Quit flirting with your girlfriend and get back to the line!”

Oh! Just how many people does he talk to?

“We’re not—”

“Samu, you should go back,” you don’t correct the presumption. “They seem serious, pretty boy.”

Are you trying to kill him? Or are you trying to motivate him? Whatever it is, it’s working. If this is how you flirt back with his taunts and baffoonery, Miya Osamu, sous chef in training, truly has his work cut out for him. He blinks at you. You stick your tongue out and it takes everything in his will power to not duck you in the freezer. Has he thought about it? Absolutely. Not like he’s going to tell you right this second…

“Sorry boys,” you peer over his shoulder to sell the pouting does work to your advantage and they all do get back to work one by one. You bat your eyelashes at the line and your partner across from you arches his eyebrows because how the hell is he to focus now? The playful guilt in your speech made his heart race, and he was about to wish you stay, but his fellow cooks were watching over his shoulder.

“I’m comin’ hold yer horses!”

You tap your lips in a thinking pose and you roll you shoulders back, saying you ought to be on your way too. Before he officially goes back to work, he says to wait for him by the register. You owe him dessert he decrees and you don’t hide your amusement until an idea pops into your head.

You rest your cheek on the fist with your elbow bent at the table with your phone in the freehand you have waving back at him as he enters the kitchen swing door.

“Looks like I’ll be staying over tonight!” your voice shouts and the cooks share a knowing look. You cup your mouth on one side, winking at Osamu who freezes up from his shoulders down. “Again!”

Yep. Miya Osamu’s instincts were right: you’re gonna kill him as the line yells their thanks to you for embarrassment well warranted, apt would can play this game, right? Right.

“Sous chef, you sly dog,” the senior chefs snicker while the younger ones nod in approval. He shakes his head, clearly embarrassed as the blush he tired to control peeks out of his collar, saying to pay you no mind while he grabs a clipboard of 86’d items and walks into the cooler.

There is a file of locked privately edited photos from your time as a model for the photography classes in university. You send your top three images to his contact info noted by the onigiri next to his name to get one last rise out of him and when he glances at the preview of the text attached, his shoulders stiffen when the phone recognizes his thumbprint. He narrows his eyes at you who whistles along with the ambient music. You really are a devil, huh? he thought.

Their sous chef clears his throat of his heart, being sure it moves back to his chest before he starts the night crew meeting after his little floating dance he performs for the fresh produce in said cooler. For a chef, soon to work his way into buying the restaurant in his name, Miya Osamu has fancy footwork. It’s clearly evident when he pauses for a moment to lookout the view finder facing the western point of the restaurant, the table where you sat still, he witnesses you bite your lower lip, when your phone vibrates in your hands. He is a good lip reader, thanks to Sunarin’s need to record everything and clown his brother on their group chat…yet you seemed distraught. That meant whomever was blowing up your phone was family.

You don’t even hear the kitchen cooler open nor see out of the corner of your eye your self-declared ‘boyfriend’ toss his phone on the counter by the register before it takes him three steps to cross the floor. He calls your family name, and you flinch as an automatic response; he wants to help, he still does.

“Hey chief?”

Osamu ties his apron a bit more snug around his waist. He was about to begin chopping the garnishes for the salmon roe special for the weekend on the expo-line.

“What now Katsu-kun?”

“Your girl,” the line cook who called his attention this time points at the table he just left. You look like you were struggling to get a word in and the more the person on the other line was beating you up with nonsense, the sous chef takes charge.

So he does the only thing he can think of on the spot: your mother is yelling at you about calling your sister a “slut around the block everyone knows” and Osamu, being a bit more calm, pries your phone away from your ears. He clears his throat as he rudely yet efficiently says the following:

“If mah wifey says ‘er sister’s a two timin’ slut, then I believe ‘er,” he winks at you.

You’re about to scream but your voice is stuck. He holds the phone away from his ear for a few seconds as you hear your own mother yell insults at him.

“Oi, quit complainin’ and for the last time woman: stop. trying. to. marry. ‘er. off.when.she.has.me.”

He blocks her number the moment he hangs up on your insanely toxic ma the second you stand up from the chair. You are at full height even if he’s taller than you, and your hands pull him down to your level by the his white and burgundy trimmed chef coat lapels. You stand on your toes and sear a kiss on top of his lips. You’re about to stand flat in your feet again, but he pulls you back into a welcomed hug.

“That was so hot,” his breath fans your ears. He kisses you promptly again. “We’ll discuss this when we get home, ok princess?”

“Get to work Miya,” your smirk, fingertips tracing over his lips.

He chews his cheeks pursing his lips together forcing a cute, “don’t wanna,” out. He laughs when you turn him around and as politely as you can you tell him you’re watching him from the sidelines like he requested during the game which secured his high school’s invitation to the inter high.

Later, on the third floor of a rented duplex owned by a kinder couple, you find yourself in the arms of a love that you had no control over. Falling in love was supposed to be this arduous journey, yet for the story of him and you, it was a gradual progression. The radio plays Unchained Melody on the counter by the kitchenette as you wear the chefs coat from earlier and the boy who wears his sweatpants after a hard days night, is enchanted with the temptress who makes desserts seem like a walk in the park.

“Hi baby,” you hear his voice tease your earlobes with a warning bite. Only to have him stand behind you, resting your chin on your shoulder, wrapping you in a warm hug.

“Mm?” you tilt your head to one side. “You awake already? Thought I tired you out?”

“Never,” he chuckles. “Tiramisu?”

You boop his nose with the chocolate in the spatula. He looks like a cat about to sneeze before you wipe it off for him.

He smiles against your skin now,admiring the way his lips stained the flesh he sees as you shrug your shoulders, the chef coat slips off your shoulder slightly. The love bites are now shallow, yet the bruises elsewhere are well earned. You learn how rough hands are made strong to hold you safely hours ago; and he learns your venom is a product of the life you left behind. Essentially, when the kisses linger more, he tells you that you left the rhetorical question unanswered back at the restaurant.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think so,” you answer.

“Right answer,” it’s almost eerie how hoss voice does that. His hands which were once on your hips and natural waist turn you around but to be small off your back. You’re wearing his old clothes, the ones he first met you in, the faded fox on the upper left pocket matches the track pants hanging loosely by the will of good faith.

“Eager to go at it again?” You tease. You squeal this time when he scoops you up in one go complaining that he thought you’d never ask pacifying your worry with a nod. Your hands steady yourself in his hold and he pushes you by the small of your back with one exceedingly warm hand and the other balances you underneath your plush thighs.

“You good cherabim?” He asks. His breaths are shallow, yet his voice showcases his lucid mindsets.

“O’course,” you lock eyes with him. You peck at his nose with your lips. He nuzzles against your neck, an audible confession of being screwed by the enigma (affectionate)that was and forever will be you. “I have you… even if I was too naive to think otherwise.”

“You chose me,” he hums. “I would pick me too—haha.”

You toss your head back and laughed reminding him where you are supposed to be headed unless he wants the floor to taste like sex.

“Fuckin’ hot,” he snickers slapping your thigh. You grin through gritted teeth.

“Did you just hit me brat?” Your voice is sultry and it seems you might have to correct his attitude.

“I stand by what I said Madame,” he walks out of the kitchenette on his level; down the corridor on the right, his door is ajar. “Care to hear you break me again?”

“Absolutely,” you snarl, nipping at the corner of his ear when you press against his shoulders. He groans and it’s delightful sample of where this will lead.

In light of your answer, Miya Osamu realizes this is the love you clearly deserved at the moment is laced with embers of wonton power struggle and strife at first glance, yet he will yield his hold because behind closed rooms, you lead with a steady hand.

“For you the world,” he whispers the saying across your exposed collarbone. His lips follow suit and everywhere you are scared to show him, for ever bump or scrape against your skin, he soothes it beneath his hands; the sheets are tangled in the throes of a love most well earned to those who live in the borderline between life and love.

#🌻— flying around collecting pollen—queue #sora after hours #haikyuu x reader #🌻. dash #miya.o & reader #🔞: for ma

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beloved-not-broken · 2 years ago

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Megachurches and corporate America are way too similar

Listening to episode 208 of The Bible for Normal People podcast got me thinking about my job, ironically. For context, the hosts were interviewing David Farrier, a journalist who covers megachurches.

The more David talked about the model and culture of these churches, the more I realized that they're plagued by the same problems that are prevalent in corporate America.

Content warnings for this episode

This episode is marked Explicit. Although the hosts don't go into detail, they do mention sexual assault and conversion therapy.

Here's the full transcript.

A few (of many!) problems with megachurches and corporate America

Like I said, as David explained his findings, I couldn't help but think about working in corporate America. Based on my experiences and using David's findings as a jumping-off point, both megachurches and corporations tend to...

Focus on recruiting young adults—both entities attempt to convey that they're cool, and that they're not like other corporations/churches. Free food, dedicated game rooms, and the promise of being part of "one big happy family" are often used to entice people to work at the company or attend the church.

Make outcasts of anyone who doesn't fit the mold—this includes BIPOC, neurodiverse, and LGBTQ+ folks.

Have narcissistic leaders—sometimes I wonder if the men in charge (because white men typically lead megachurches and corporations) truly want to make a difference or simply enjoy the spotlight, the influence, and the prestige of leadership.

Work their staff to the bone for little to no pay—many office workers aren't paid fairly, and interns tend to be unpaid. Church volunteers generally aren't paid to help out, either.

Have little to no oversight—megachurches and corporations tend to handle serious matters internally. And in my experience with HR, these internal reviews result in little to no consequences for the perpetrators.

Promote a fraternity-like culture—David spent some time recalling some nasty bullying that took place among leaders of a megachurch in New Zealand. Being part of corporate America, I can attest that male leaders have a "boys will be boys" mentality.

Lose as many people as they recruit—David talks about "churn rate," which is a business metric that indicates how many customers a company loses. A high churn rate is a red flag that something might be wrong with the organization. For all the reasons I just mentioned, megachurches and corporations tend to quickly lose people (churchgoers/clients and volunteers/employees alike!).

So what's the solution?

David said something very poignant about 35 minutes into the podcast:

"[W]hoever you think and believe Jesus was like, he was like a revolutionary, he had incredible ideas. He was kind, he was great. And when I look at what these megachurches are, they’re not that, like they’re not, in my opinion, biblical, it’s a different thing."

Ideally, the church should imitate Christ. Paul said as much in Ephesians 5, outlining things that Christians should avoid doing to set a good example.

Easier said than done, of course. But it's possible when leaders seek God, keep each other accountable, and follow after the things God desires rather than the things they want.

Shameless plug for Sanctuary

I'm grateful to be part of a small, community-driven church that is changing the way church is done. We're the church for outcasts, especially LGBTQ folks (in fact, our entire leadership team is queer!).

More importantly, we focus on making church a safe space for anyone who wants to learn about Christianity or break out of the binary thinking about God that got drilled into us at an early age.

Depending on the week, we typically...

Study a passage verse-by-verse to understand what it's talking about (we just started going through Jeremiah)

Talk about our experiences with church or Christian culture for the Kingdom Now podcast (hosted by our leader, Apostle Lee Ann B. Marino)

Have service with a quick Sunday school lesson, a Q&A session, worship, a message, and communion

Sanctuary is based in Charlotte, North Carolina. If you want to attend in person, DM me!

If you aren't local or don't want to meet up just yet, you can join us via Facebook. We go live on the first Sunday of every month starting at 1 p.m. (Sunday school) and again at 2ish (the message).

Whew, that was a long post.

Thanks for reading all the way to the end. If you have any thoughts about megachurches or how church should be done, let me know in the comments!

#Spotify #what's on my mind #the bible for normal people #megachurches #sanctuary international fellowship tabernacle (sift)

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farty-city · 3 years ago

Text

inside bo burnham review no one asked for

i enjoy other peoples commentary and i was writing down my first thoughts anyway so here it is

inside

first song/intro song

i like the phone screen on him, very reflective of how we have had phone screens on us

“roberts been a little depressed” osnskjdnfs

they were right “daddys made you some content so open wide” hjbfafn

intro

oh my god he looks awful

but like in a cute way

maybe

healing the world with comedy (second song)

the canned and queued laugher no exactly… is it a symbol or is it just funny.. who's to say.

it think its a good first song, establishing he knows what he is doing is kind of useless

“the indescribable power of your comedy”

he looks like marc maron rn

i like the synthed voice and synthesizer

the jesus allusion … yeah

“i'm a special kind of white guy”

this feels like he knows how he is perceived by fans.. Make happy was too much

his fucking dancing fksjdnfksj

i think he did a good job looking manic

the lasers lmao

Side 1

Bo made a huge gamble releasing this like,,, what if you just stumbled upon it and this was ur first introduction to him..

I bet its like when i comment dumb things on instagram comments and get that rush of hehehehe

NO NOT BO DEVELOPING BILLIE EILLISH VOWELS

Also this is exactly what he wanted like,, he just wanted to make his things and not deal with the crowds so..

To think i was like finding scraps of him performing at largo and stuff and now,, so much content

life imitates art

the way he's literally what he wrote hgbkdf

there is no authenticity with cameras

suicide ?

facetime with my mom tonight

the blue light.. Yeah

o hblue like sad

i don't know how i feel about the electric music but i guess its no different than whatever else i listen to

this is sad wow

still catchy etc

side 2

i wonder if here will be any fart jokes

that is how the world works (songs)

the huge mess and then him in a sweater

this is reminiscent of that walmart muppets

he became tim minchin with a sock puppet

the “yes… yes sir” stoppp

jkgdsnfijwkensfosnf

qbejfnjne

nerjgnoejns

bo making a political statement and a metaphor for activism and then making it weirdly kinky

brand consultant (bit)

man bun

i have to believe he filmed it with the beard because quarantine vibes and also bc he was tired of being seen as a child

white womans instagram (song)

i did not like that intro

BO AND GLASSES THANK GOD

the daisies wow just wow

underwear

“white womans instagram” or “bo burnham becomes a girlboss”

i like that he didn't lose his cadence like the way the rhymes are you can still tell its him

i don't get the mom part sorry

is it like how people are very superficial but also very personal on their instagrams

this part was legit sad

side 3

i wonder how he felt with cameras constantly on him

Although this is the point hes trying to make

lol seinfeld moment (bit)

unpaid intern (bit and song)

“barely people somehow legal” was so smooth woW

omg he was scatting

he was a man who would scat

oh my god what great news

the react clip omg

i cant believe he did that oh my god

observation/critisism and response to the “can anyone shut the fuck up”

and as i realized what he was doing he was like “i have this need for everything i make to have a deeper meaning” oh my god

now the question is how long will this go on?

jeffrey bezos (song)

idk its catchy

and then theres him like sleeping and talking which kind of is part of the jeff bezos song

bug eyes salamanders hehe

sexting (song)

i do believe this is just a silly song

the earrings tho omg

sounds like post malone hbkjdsnfskj

idk its still about like intimacy in quarantine and that stuff..

the knife (bit)

i know hes copying like other youtubers but like,,, what

stuck in a room (song)

the intro is very funny and relatable

classic bo i love it

i will say this special has been more reflective but i suppose it has to be

“look whos inside again”

i like the end too, this is all a fabrication

this is the clip where hes staring at the projection of himself from his old youtube videos which is sort of more like an ending to the “stuck in my room” song

sorry (song)

i love the 80’s style music and its like zumba

oh this is like an apology song

“father please forgive me for i did not realise what i did, or that id live to regret it” what a catchy line

i would say this is another more “classic” bo song where its self aware and funny

“my closet it chalk full of stuff that is vaguely shitty”

camera falling

this deserves its own bullet because its silly

i'm turning 30 (bit and song)

i remember him talking about this on a podcast and like,, damn i didn't know this also happened LOL

i really like how he did the lighting

“stupid fucking ugly boring children”

suicide talk (1)

this is interesting i like the use of the projection

this is something that could never have happened onstage

just like with the it being projected on him

i guess it could but it would have to be done differently and probably hed have to make it funnier to make it more engaging

intermission

i just checked this is about the halfway point.. Mh

i don't wanna know (song)

“i thought it’d be over by now”

i wish this was longer but i kind of like how its just a little snippet and then the cut

video game (bit)

“i guess i’ll cry again”

“is the dude big or is the room small” lol

hm depression

feelin like shit (song)

ohh the lighting is fun again

this is the tone shift i suppose

the feels like supalonely and the new kind of music

atl

panic attack

everything all of the time (song)

feels like brandon rogers

i enjoy this

this feels like “welcome to youtube” grew up

“a little bit of everything all of the time”

“apathys a tragedy and boredoms a crime”

ok olivia rodrigo

finishing the special (bit)

these feel like diary entries but as standup

interesting choice

jeffery bezos (2)

Why the seaweed suit

Where did he get that

the digital space (bit)

suit up, gather what is needed, and return to the surface

damn

pirate map anfdkjfnskjd

this was so stupid (affectonate)

that funny feeling (song)

the campfire vibes

kenny loggins

i don't get it..

is it about childhood, is it about the present?

i think its talking about the end of content?

“the end of culture”, to quote make happy

change and not liking it

“we were overdue, but it will be over soon”

if the second half of the special is like a panic attack this song is like a momentary pause before it gets worse

“so ive been working on this special”/breakdown

this was .. uncomfortable and genuine which i'm sure is why he kept it

all eyes on me (song/rant)

another sad thing to watch.. damn

me trying to tell if the audio was from make happy

i think he was trying to make it as if the audio was from make happy

this feels.. familiar

and obviously that is the point

“come on in the waters fine”

the use of autotune during the talking part... yeah

sad that he was gonna make another special… and it would have been totally different than this

i’ve decided i like the homage to make happy

It feels like hes made peace with it

the montage of him waking up and the “i think i'm done”

and then of course the ending where he's watching it over to remind us that its all fabricated

possible ending song/ “i promise to never go outside again”

ngl he looks good in the shirt with the haircut hehe

which i feel like is what he wants up to notice

and then like not think after we saw all his breakdowns

“i want to hear you tell a joke when no ones laughing in the background”

i really like the medley

Final thoughts

I want a blooper reel, but this doesn't seem like the kind of special

I also wonder if the songs will be on like apple music, but again, doesn't seem like the kind of special

I'm happy for him, he got to be honest and open and show us the sort of panicky stuff

this self aware comedy is exactly the stuff that i think will be making a comeback in the next decade. John better be pulling up with more deconstructed comedy.

I hope this has given him peace

#i am so sorry for clogging the feed #bo burnham #inside #inside bo burnham #make happy #what.#words words words #bo fo sho #oh bo

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maximumphilosopheranchor · 3 years ago

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Hello

I was wondering if you knew anything about Philips relationship with his half brother John of Austria.

Hello!

Their relationship was... interesting.

Philip only found out about his existence after their father's death and first met him after his arrival to Spain. Philip acknowledged him as a brother, showed affection and was very generous to him. On their first meeting Philip openly hugged and kissed him and made him Knight of the Golden Fleece. He gave him the family title "of Austria", household and place at court alongside Philip's own son Don Carlos and Philip's nephew Alessandro Farnese, later duke of Parma. He was treated fully as the family member and became a prominent member of Philip's court. John of Austria was entrusted with carrying Philip's firstborn daughter Isabel Clara Eugenia to baptism. He was the one who warned Philip about Don Carlos’s plans to escape to Vienna, and his assassination attempt by Don Carlos were reasons that triggered Philip to lock up his son. Don John also was the only illegitimate Habsburg family member whom Philip buried in El Escorial near their father.

Furthermore, John of Austria wasn't a merely decorative figure, Philip appointed him to very important tasks - he was a military commander to suppress the Moriscos revolt in Andalusia in 1568-1569, he commanded the fleet of the Holy League at Lepanto in 1571 against the Ottomans and gained a spectacular victory (that earned him international fame), and in 1576 he was appointed governor-general in the Netherlands which, however, turned out to be a bad decision.

Although Philip entrusted him all these important missions it seems that Philip thought that his brother was rash and needed to be watched. Thus, giving him supreme command to put down the Morisco revolt Philip paired him with Philip’s old close associate Luis de Requesens and urged him always to consult him. And there were reasons for it because Jonh of Austria used to disobey Philip's direct orders and sometimes it made problematic situations even more problematic and greatly frustrated Philip.

A real discord between them began over Don John’s appointment as governor-general of the Netherlands. Why did Philip believe that Don John was the right person to deal with the huge mess that had developed in the Netherlands is a mystery to me although I understand his reasoning that only his family member possessed the necessary authority for this office and Don John had military experience and reputation. But Don John didn’t want that post and accepted it only reluctantly and on certain conditions. He demanded freedom of action, as much troops and money sent as he asked for and, more importantly, to carry out the conquest of England. For Don John was quite ambitious and dreamed of becoming the king of England! The plan was proposed by some bunch of English and Irish Catholic exiles and the pope and envisaged that Don John with an army should invade England, liberate Mary Queen of Scots, depose Elizabeth I, marry Mary Queen of Scots and reinstate Catholicism in England (it was assumed that the English Catholics will raise up and assist him). Don John was very excited about all this but he needed Philip’s backing. Philip promised him all he wanted but once he arrived in the Netherlands Philip issued a new set of instructions to him that ordered him to pacify the Netherlands, restore peace and order and only then to think about conquering England because for Philip at this point the priority was the pacification of the Netherlands (remember the Dutch revolt!). In short, Philip tricked his brother into accepting the post. When Don John received the instructions he was angered, furthermore the things in the Netherlands were going bad for Philip (the unpaid Spanish army had mutinied and sacked Antwerp killing thousands of people, only one province remained loyal to Philip) and the situation demanded sensitive treatment. Don John though continued to focus on bringing the plan to invade England (Enterprise of England) to fruition and, according to Geoffrey Parker, in that he had two allies – his own secretary Juan of Escobedo and Philip’s secretary of state Antonio Pérez who at this point handled all correspondence between Philip and Don John (which apparently was something that Don John insisted upon, normally this correspondence would go through the hands of Gabriel de Zayas, Philip’s another secretary who was responsible for the affairs of Northern Europe). The actions of this trio - Don John, Escobedo and Pérez - , according to Geoffrey Parker, were directed to the conclusion of peace in the Netherlands on whatever price to clear the way for the Enterprise. And at first it seemed they were quite successful at that. In 1577 Don John signed an agreement (the Perpetual Edict) with the States General of the Netherlands, organized withdrawal of the Spanish troops and the provinces of the Netherlands recognised Philip’s sovereignty… that is, except Holand and Zealand which were led by William of Orange and which were not represented in the negotiations between Don John and the States General. Don John tried to persuade William of Orange to accept the agreement but the latter wasn’t in peace with its conditions and refused, not least because of the encouragement from Elizabeth I who thanks to the Dutch efforts who had intercepted, deciphered and passed to the English Don John’s letters to Philip had found out about Don John’s invasion plans. Don John then lost control. Still determined to carry out the plan to invade England he decided to raise troops for the Enterprise in Germany for the money that was granted to this task by the papacy, called back the departed Spanish troops, sent Escobedo to Philip with “orders to secure either the return of the foreign troops or permission for him to return to Spain” so that he could join to the expedition to England that according to his new plan was to be led by one English catholic exile Thomas Stukely (even if Philip didn’t participate) and then he declared war on William of Orange without waiting Philip’s permission. Philip was shocked and outraged about all this but eventually decided to resume war. Meanwhile the States General ignoring Don John invited William of Orange to Brussels and together they made new demands. With Spanish troops back and under his command Don John attacked Brussels, made William of Orange to flee, and demanded to Philip more troops and more money.

One thing that should be mentioned now here is that both secretaries - Escobedo and Pérez - had covert dealings between them behind Philip’s back and Perez had a habit to manipulate with information, like withholding important information from Philip in promoting his own self-professed goals that amounted to treason. But Escobedo and Pérez fell out, and fearing that Escobedo might denounce his activities to Philip Pérez by fabricating documents persuaded Philip that Don John on Escobedo’s urgings had plotted not only to conquer England but also to return to Spain to make a coup against Philip. And so Philip ordered Pérez to murder Escobedo – or it’s what Geoffrey Parker writes, all of this is according to him. There are other versions on these events and on why Pérez wanted to get rid of Escobedo too. Some say that Pérez didn’t work in concert with Don John and Escobedo, that Pérez didn't like their warlike ways, that he didn't want war to be resumed in the Netherlands, that he had his own idea how the matters should be arranged in the Netherlands, that he had covert dealings and secret communications with the Dutch rebels and Escobedo knew it and could use it against him. Who knows, it's one big muddle.

Anyway, Escobedo was assassinated on 31 March 1578. Don John still in the Netherlands demanded the murder to be avenged. Philip finally decided to recall him from the Netherlands but it was too late – Don John died of typus on 1 October 1578 completely failed his mission. Later Philip found out that Pérez had lied to him regarding Escobedo and Don John, and ordered his arrest.

So yeah Philip and Don John’s relationship by the end was pretty strained. Also, to think about it Don John character-wise reminds me of Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex. I think their personalities were quite similar, also both were handsome, popular and had many love affairs. And when I was reading how Don John ran off from court to participate in the relief of Malta after Philip had turned down his request and Philip sent people to catch him and bring back it felt like reading about Elizabeth and Essex because they experienced exactly the same situation.

#ask #anonymous #Philip II #Philip II of Spain #John of Austria #Juan of Austria

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