#but such a cruel fact of jeans

[readingwriter92]

My comfiest pair of jeans rn is starting to grow a hole in the knee and I’m so hyped bc its gunna start getting warmer and then they’ll be perfect and I’m still mourning the loss of my last pair of jeans that I wore out both knees to and were soooooo comfyyyy

[dutybcrne]

The only person who has actually seen Kaeya's right eye after the immediate treatment post-Confrontation is Adelinde. He adamantly refuses to let anyone else see under it, especially those like Jean or Diluc who knew him best. The thought absolutely makes his gut churn. He would do anything to make sure no one catches sight of his eye if he can help it. Anything.

[fingertipsmp3]

I need mediocre men to stop having opinions on Taylor Swift

[rafesangelita]

omg congrats on the 5k! can i order a freshly baked slice of warm vanilla cake [🍰] for bitchykook! reader + “you wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid” + smut

warnings: kinda mean!reader lol, rafe is desperateeee, oral sex (f. receiving), rafe finishes in his pants (!!!)

rafe wasn’t a desperate guy. he could have any girl he wanted, except you of course, and that drove him crazy. he was so used to girls bending at his will, that when he made advances towards you and you outright rejected him, it threw him for a loop. “fuck a guy that’s been in every bed in figure eight? no, thank you.” you blew him a kiss, walking off with a laugh as your friends cackled alongside you. rafe’s ego had definitely taken a blow that night, and it was from that point forward that he decided to make it a mission to get you to say yes to him.

he would find out where you and your clique would be for the evening and show up, buying rounds of drinks for you and your girlfriends, only to not be acknowledged or even waved at by you. rafe couldn’t crack you and he hated it. taking it a step further, he managed to get dozens of flowers sent over to your house, a pathetic little card with the words ‘just one time.’ written in gold script was folded into one of the bouquets. the next time you saw him, he wasted no time in asking if you’d received his ‘romantic’ gesture. “i did actually! but just for future reference, roses aren’t my favorite. bye now!”

you had left rafe at a loss for words, and feeling more defeated than ever. apart of you would feel bad if he was begging for a chance to actually be with you instead of just using you to add to his list. that was one of the reasons why you were being so cruel to him, the second reason being; you loved to see the drop in his shoulders everytime he thought he had you. a few weeks had passed, and you were throwing a party for your best friend, the entirety of figure eight taking over your home. “i’ll be right back, i’m going to go get your gift.” your bestie squealed excitedly as you went upstairs to your bedroom.

walking over to your closet, you had grabbed the glittery pink gift bag, your door clicking shut as you fixed the white tissue paper peeking at the top. “chanel! this is supposed to be a surprise..” you looked up, being met with rafe instead. “what do you think you’re doing in here?” you arched a brow at him, jutting your hip out as he fiddled with his fingers. “i just wanna talk.” he held his hands up defensively. narrowing your eyes at him, you placed chanel’s gift on your nightstand before taking a seat at the edge of your bed. “well.. talk.” you watched as he lowered himself to his knees.

you laughed. “rafe, what the hell?” you let him rest his hands on your thighs. “why won’t you give me a chance?” his eyebrows were drawn together, a pleading expression on his face. “a chance to get me out of my panties?” rafe sighed. “you want it that bad?” you weren’t surprised, rafe wasn’t the first man to get on his knees for you. “yes, i’m begging.” you studied him for a moment. “i’ll tell you what..” you leaned forward, “you could have a taste.” rafe’s fingers curled into your skin, nodding frantically as he spread your thighs apart. you watched him slide the lace material of your underwear down your legs, your dress pooling at your waist.

rafe cursed at the sight of your bare cunt. he’s been fantasizing about this for months. “fuck, you’re gorgeous.” he marveled, pressing kisses to your inner thighs. you took your bottom lip between your teeth, your eyes fluttering closed when you felt his tongue run up your glossy folds. “oh my god- you taste so good.” while everyone knew rafe to be an intimidating man with an even rougher exterior, you had him crying at the fact that he got to eat you out. so, so, so pathetic. rafe was already hard as a rock, his cock straining painfully against his jeans.

“holy fuck, i can’t believe this is happening.” he felt his chest bloom with pride when he made you moan, desperate to make you do it again. his tongue worked skillfully on your clit as he palmed himself to relieve some tension in his groin. you couldn’t deny the way rafe had you melting into his touch, your skin sore from where he had a bruising grip on your thigh. you reached down, nails running across his head as he ate you like a man starved. “rafe..” you whimpered, hips chasing his mouth as your voice echoed in his ears. he could die happy knowing you moaned his name.

rafe was still palming himself through his pants, a groan leaving his lips when he felt his cock twitch with need. “please let me fuck you.” he gazed up at your pretty face, meeting your eyes as if to persuade you to let him have his way. “just the tip, baby, please.” you shook your head, propping yourself up on your elbows. “you wanna fuck me so bad, it makes you look stupid.” soon after you said those words, you were shaking in his arms as he brought you to your orgasm, a cry leaving your lips. rafe’s eyes widened. you weren’t the only one who made a mess.

he brought you down from your high, cursing under his breath when he looked down and saw a wet patch on the front of his jeans. following his eyes, you placed a hand over your mouth aa you gasped at the sight. “oh my god, did you cum in your pants, ‘cameron?” you giggled using your heel clad foot to push him away. “you should probably go home and clean yourself up..” was the last thing you said before leaving him alone and taking chanel’s gift downstairs.

[crows-and-crumbs]

Whenever Jeremy does anything for Jean in TSC I’m reminded of the fact that it was Andrew who most likely did it for Kevin, in his own fucked up Andrew Way (TM).

Andrew followed Kevin’s schedule to keep the partner rule.

Andrew took him shopping for new clothes.

Andrew took him to sweeties full of awfully unhealthy food.

When Kevin wakes up at night, in a haze and he looks for the other bed in the room, it’s Andrew he finds.

When he’s afraid, when he panics, when shit hits the fan and he needs help, it’s Andrew he looks for, and Andrew is right fucking there.

They’ve spent the past year in each others pocket, in a way that the drowning hold on to a raft.

They’re complicated and ugly towards each other. They’re cruel and sharp and vicious, and they hit each other where it hurts, but nobody can ever tell me that the two of them are not best fucking friends.

I will never recover from the fact that if Neil and Andrew got married, Andrew picks Kevin as his best man, Kevin says yes.

[cu7ie]

ა˚₊﹕take your time. ⊹

cw: virgin reader, gn!reader, don't even ask me what dimension this miguel is from. miguel being a good partner, unintentional teasing, reader is just shy! an: first miguel fic! woo!!! totally dedicated to @buttress atp

You still can't look at him.

-

You've been dating Miguel for months at this point. You're not moved in together (yet), but see each other as often as possible, spending nights in his apartment, folded under his arm and leg tucked between his.

He's very familiar with you, perhaps more so than you are him. Knows what you look like when you're positively elated, seen those so hard smiles that afterward you're complaining your cheeks hurt. 

He's seen utter devastation, too. You'd mourned the loss of your dear departed cat in his arms, sobbing and snotty and cloyingly tender. Must've cried all the water out of your body that day, soaked the whole front of his shirt (the one time he chose to wear white) before dying off into the most pitiful whine. You'd grown too small to support yourself.

So he helped.  Reassured you gently with the strokes of his hand along your back, getting you water, making sure you ate, spending the night at your house …

And you two have been dating for a while now. You've seen his highs and lows too.

Hardly this kind of low though. 

-

He's seen you naked before. Not enough for this lifetime, but definitely on more than one occasion. 

You're still so bashful.

When he joins you in the shower you can barely meet his eye, washing the front of his chest tentatively while he gently massages shampoo into your hair.

You get flustered when he catches you changing, covering your chest with your shorts and risking a friction burn with how fast you force your jeans past your thighs. 

Your affections usually stop at kissing. It's clear to him you're interested, but you always seem unsure to start. You're a little self conscious, nervous about the space between you two - and right when it starts feeling better than just good, you pull away. 

It's kind of like edging, bordering on torture, but Miguel knows how to be patient. 

Eventually, you come back to him.

-

Before he found himself two fingers deep in you, you had ask him to fuck you once before. 

Almost verbatim.

"Fuck me."

and, regardless of the fact that his cock jumps a little as you whisper it so close to his lips, 

It sounds so strange falling from your lips like that. Abrupt and sudden like a clap of thunder in the dead of night, and his eyebrows shoot up - as quick as residual lightning.

Maybe the look on his face was what faltered you. The way his pupils constrict then dilate like he's really looking at you, into your depth, and probing for your intention with a breathy, "You sure?" 

And you nod, a little slow.

"Y-yeah. Certain."  Miguel arches his brow skeptically, lips quirking into a half-smirk as he turns his body to face you, his head leaning to the side as he looks you up and down slow enough to make you second guess. "Of course, Cariño - as you wish." And admittedly he's a little cruel, enjoys the way you curl in on yourself, imagines the heat burrowing into the apples of your cheeks, watching your breath catch in your chest as you stare him down. The moment lingers.

"Show me then."  He props his arm onto the couch as his posture relaxes, his expression no greater than his polite smile, which still feels goading, in a way. "Show me how badly you want me to fuck you." 

He knows right away you got a little too facey. You're a shih tzu glaring down a rottweiler and you've forgotten how to bark. It always gets caught up in you, desire tangled up in a net of worry, doubt. Can see it in your eyes, the way your lip dips down before you tuck it beneath a tooth, the aura of your gaze becoming more shadowed, more sensual.

"I'll… I'll show you."

"Mhm. 'Course you will." 

Your finger hops up a little. You don't know where to put your hands so his thighs serve as a placeholder as you push yourself into his lap, the supple flesh of your lips meeting his, and,

 ooh, his chapstick is lemon flavored.

Your kiss is so dear to him. It's dainty, lightens his heart because you're too shy for tongue kisses at first. 

Or maybe you just don't know how. Still,

You slowly build yourself up to it that night.

Cautiously, your mouth parts a little more, ushered into a new sensation as your tongue maps out the roof of his mouth, the ridges of his teeth, slowly feeling him rise to the occasion, raising your chin and humming pleasantly into your mouth. Your eyes fluttered shut, your arms coming up to wrap around the back of a pleasantly surprised Miguel's neck, and he moves to settle you in his lap.

Miguel's skin feels smooth to the touch.

He’s moved you to the bedroom, urged you to wrap your legs around his hips as he took the liberty of digging his fingers into your soft ass, irritatingly thin shorts keeping him from getting to feel you for real. You're convincing him well enough so far, your skin rippling hot wrought iron left in the sun, and the burn on his skin is delicious - so when he's ready to eat,

When he's spreading you out on the bed and has your shorts around your thighs,

He notices you're not looking. Your breaths are shaky and fast, eyes welded shut, cheek turned and smushing into your pillow. You're still apart from the light tremble in your thighs, your legs dangling over the side of the bed as he adjusts his position on his knees, face partially curtained by your thighs as his arms curl up under them to tug your sex closer to his waiting lips.

"Ay." He gives your leg a healthy shake, jolting you out of your stupor. "Still want me to fuck you?" There's amusement bleeding into him again, but his eye is measured, patient. You blink an eye open, look down at him, his head between your legs,

The predatory, slow lick of his lips makes your hair stand on end, and you buck up, propping yourself up on shaky elbows. “Miguel…” 

“Hm?” He breathes so close to you that blood doesn’t know where to rush, to your head or between your legs. The dull throb of arousal that lances through you excites and terrifies, a nervous whine wheedling its way from between your lips, makes MIguel stop again. He feels your knees shake a little, still only one eye open. 

On the inside, budding frustration. There are two wolves - the desire to be cool, calm, and reassuring clashes with its twin, the overwhelming desire to have what he wants and do as he pleases. He sighs, and represses the second urge.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes, really.” You breathe in good for once, a relieved sigh as he pulls your underwear back up and pats your thigh, maintaining a pleasant expression while on the inside the mourns what should have been, imagines the feeling of you stretched around his cock - the tightness of your warmth, fucking in and out of you and hearing you squeal as he rolls his hips, adjusts his pace.

Tucks his fantasy away till it's only remnant is the hard-on he's trying to will away as you beckon him to join you under the sheets.

But he’s patient above all. Joins you on the bed and holds you close, burrowing his head into your shoulder as your wrap your arms around his back, 

And he leaves it alone.

-

'Could blue balls kill a man?'

He's not proud of his Google search history -

But it's been a couple weeks since he managed to get that far with you, and his hand hasn't been cutting it for a while now. And Miguel can sure as hell pretend he's not feeling as carnal as he is - that the chip on his shoulder is his increasing responsibility at Alchemax, the diminishing of his free time, lack of sleep …

But he feels no rage more potent than after he's came into his hand for the 5th time in two days, holding a shirt or a pair of your underwear up to his nose and huffing like it's paint. He's never been a junkie, but sometimes he's shaking he's so mad, that there's not more of you, enough of you, none of the soft, real parts of you.

And it's not your fault. You'll be ready when you're ready, and he just has to accept he might not make it to see that day.

But fast forward to right before bed that night. Yellow lampshade that turns the warm light dim, moonlight pressing through murky clouds and filtering into the window above the bed you two share. 

You still take showers together, but now you linger behind to wash properly while he settles into his normal routine, playing with his balls and turning his head into your pillow. 

He sighs to the sound of the creaking door, dripping water falling softly to the floor as you, towel wrapped around your naked body, step closer toward the bed.

You move from the front of the room, to the foot of the bed, til you're hovering over his side of the bed, this look in your eye like you've made up your mind about something. "What?" He flicks his head up, drowsy but not yet asleep.

"I think m'ready." Miguel blinks the tired out of his eyes and looks up, confused.

"What? Whaddaya mean you're ready?" 

"I mean," the towel falls, and he sees your bare body - your skin still dewy from your shower, glistening in the light. "I'm ready to fuck you. For real this time."

"Oh? So you're fucking me now?" He sizes you up a second, before you're crawling over him, straddling his hips as your bare intimates are flush against his groin, your butt pressing softly into his cock as he gets a half chub, not wanting to fully commit yet, but you're not letting up …

And that's how he got here. Two crooked fingers deep, up to the second knuckle, scissoring your hole open and hearing all these new noises - ones he's never had the chance to hear until now. You're accepting of his touch, but seem unwilling to fully express how bad he's got you - your wrist folded over your mouth, every moan sludging itself in your throat because you won't let it be free. You won't let him hear it.

Your back’s on the bed and he’s laying on his side next to you, over top of you, and he has the perfect view of your cute face and ditzy expression, your eyes pinched shut as you mutter something behind your hand, cut short as he curves his finger inside. “Miguel!”

“What is it querido? I’m a little busy here…”  Two fingers deep and you’re not as resistant as he’s expecting, so he feeds you a third promptly and it does not go unmissed how you clamp down on him tighter, your shuddering groan so lewd it almost beats the rational thought of preparing you out of his head. 

The only thing keeping him from mounting you then and there is your inexperience. Laid bare for him in this moment, he rubs his erection against your side brazenly, distinctly unashamed with letting you know how badly he wants you.

“Have you been touching yourself, carino? You’ve been preparing yourself for me?” You inhale shakily, and Miguel slows his pace so you don't have an excuse, any reason to not answer. You're so adorable when you're embarrassed. A little wetness in your eye, and usually you get all pouty like you might cry,

But he's doing something alien to you, pressing up into your sensitive walls, eliciting a brand new reaction he's sure he quite likes. 

You sniffle and answer slow. "A little… I was j-just practicing!" Your voice pitches up again, and instead of making his way further in, or adding a fourth finger, he stops. 

So abruptly you whine, arch your back in irritation and only then do you look at him, see the shadows that have settled over his face,

and isn't he feeling a might slick, having reduced you to jerking limbs and whimpering and moaning in what felt like a few minutes, though he doesn't have it in him to feel smug. 

Just hungry. 

"...Miguel." Barely a whisper. Only because it's you does he hear it. "Be gentle with me, please."

"Yeah." The single syllable is drawn out, curving into a growl, husky and deep unlike any noise a man ought to make.  "Right. Gentle."

[primofate]

TW: death, angst

Recently thinking of scenarios.

How do I explain it.

You feel as if this person is more important to them than you are, and in some senses maybe they are.

Klee to Albedo

Lynette and Freminet to Lyney

Teucer to Tartaglia

And it doesn't always have to be a sibling thing.

Jean to Diluc?

Sigewinne to Neuvillette/Wriothesley?

And so imagine if in a life or death situation only one of you could come out alive.

You vs that person.

Imagine you look at Klee, who is oblivious to the situation and tell her "...Klee, I'll handle this. You can go first, okay?"

Imagine lying and telling Lynette and Freminet there's three submarine pods left and that they should take the first two and meet Lyney at the surface.

Imagine seeing abyss lectors approaching from the distance, swift and with purpose. Imagine turning to Teucer and telling him you'll race him home, and that you'll give him a head start.

Then Albedo, who receives Klees worried look with confusion. "What's happened, Klee?" And her who replies "...Y/N said they would catch up, but it's been ages...We were getting chased by some bad people..." Albedo, who tracks Klee's steps back... who should be happy that you had chosen to protect his sister...but could only feel sick that you had to sacrifice yourself.

Then Lyney, who waits at the surface for you with Lynette and Freminet. Waits. And waits. And waits. And-- "Were there really three submarine pods...?" He whispers and the other two could not reply. "Lynette. Freminet." His voice starts to rattle a little as he slowly turns his head to look at his siblings, eyes starting to water. "Were there really three submarine pods?" He repeats. The other two still do not reply, only giving a look of doubt as an answer. So they wait. And wait. And wait... Why? Lyney thinks. Why does it still hurt so bad even when his family was safe and sound right here? In fact, it seemed to hurt even worse, knowing that you knew he loved his siblings with all his heart.

Then Tartaglia, who had been at home waiting for the two of you, laughing at the panting Teucer who explained the race home. Tartaglia comes to the door, wholly expecting you to just be a few paces behind but instead sees no sign of you "...Hm, how much of a head start did Y/N give you, Teucer?" He laughs and the young boy scratches his head. "I don't know... I didn't really look back," There's a flash of worry in Tartaglia's eyes, they decide to wait a bit more. There's a deep feeling of dread in the pit of Tartaglia's stomach when he finally decides to track you down...where the snow is painted red. Perhaps it takes a moment for him to realize what happened, and the sacrifice you so painfully made. That's how much you loved him, he realized. To protect his family and to give up your life. The sorrow and the rage build in his chest. It's overwhelmingly blinding. The whole world deserves to burn for giving him this cruel fate.

That type of scenario...I don't think I can really adequately put it into words.

The feeling of initial happiness that someone you love is safe and sound...shattered by the revelation that the other had to be sacrificed. And then cue a flashback of all the fun times you and him had.

[boy-eater11]

-Paper Confessions-

- Kurt Wagner/nightcrawler x Shy!Reader

- After Kurt receives two anonymous confession letters, written in slowly improving German. He comes face to face with their quiet author. -

- CW: fluff, bad German, references to insecurities, Gn!reader

The first time it happened, Kurt didn't know what to think. Messy handwriting, horrible grammar, and other blatant mistakes led him to believe the note must have been some kind of elaborate prank.

It seemed honestly quite rude, that someone he knew would go through the trouble of translating an entire fake secret admirer note into German, just to mock the idea that someone could honestly have feelings for him.

Compliments like, 'Der netteste Mann, den ich kenne' or 'der schönste Mann, den ich je gesehen habe' read as cruel insults instead of words of appreciation.

Needless to say, the following day, Kurt was visibly disheartened. You however, were quite proud of yourself. The days before, you had spent countless hours reading and practicing German, in an earnest effort to learn it.

Ever since you had developed feelings for Kurt, you had been painfully unable to communicate how you felt towards him, any attempt to have a genuine conversation resulted in stammers and awkward silences, so you opted to appreciate him from the sidelines. Spending quiet hours in each other's company.

Yet, it had been months since then, and the need to express to him how you felt was becoming too great, so you crafted an idea. You would write him a note, something truly meaningful, to get the stress of hiding your emotions off your chest, even deciding to write it in German, in order to show Kurt just how much you cared.

Your efforts were seemingly in vain however, as the first attempt went incredibly poorly, so poorly you trashed it, where without your knowledge, it managed to find itself into the hands of the very person it was written for.

Kurt had been in the library when he found the crumpled paper with his name on it. He thought it was odd of course, but figured its author wished him to receive it. He regretted that decision after reading it. A cruel insult to all the effort he had put into seemingly as kind and approachable as possible, not wishing to be seen as a monster.

You were of course, confused, when Kurt was inexplicably downtrodden the next day. Everyone could tell, yet any attempt to comfort him was brushed off. When approached, he just claimed to be tired or unfocused.

Observing this, you poured yourself into your books again. Writing, practicing, translating, anything you could do to perfect your skills. Finally, nearly three days later, you had finished your note. Imperfect, but unlike your first failed attempt, you felt confident in your progress. You slipped it under his doorway of course, anonymity was your saving grace.

Despite your original plan, you couldn't bring yourself to admit the confession, leaving it unsigned. You hoped that at least getting your feelings off your chest would help you relax.

Kurt however, was only further confused. This second note, properly addressed to him, left for him to find, was much less demeaning. Still imperfect, in fact it was painfully clumsy in his eyes, but a vast improvement. If he had read this note first, he would have been over the moon with joy. Yet, the cruel doubt etched in him from the original note, clouded his mind from the possibility of sincerity.

He thought through his suspects, Logan, Storm and Jean, seemed like obvious no's, Remy, Scott, or even Rogue seemed more likely, yet he had a hard time believing any of his teammates would do this.

Then you crossed his mind. Painfully shy, but confident in a fight, you seemed far from anyone who would do this. Yet part of him hoped it was you. That he had gotten this whole thing wrong, and that you had been secretly reciprocating his affections.

Kurt had liked you for months, after you patched him up after a seriously bad mission, he felt comfortable around you. When you first arrived, Kurt assumed you were scared of him, you always seemed to avoid him, and never seemed to want to keep a conversation with him. Yet, when he asked if you found him monstrous, you were honest. Saying that you found him quite kind, but that you simply struggled to make friends, and had been intimidated by his forwardness.

So, Kurt took his time. He let you approach first, he was constantly welcoming, and you two had found yourself in a pattern of spending quiet afternoons in each other's company. Not talking, or even really hanging out, just being in each other's presence.

That's when he developed feelings, the quiet moments you shared, seemed like the most relaxed Kurt ever got to be. You were beautiful of course, but being near you reminded Kurt of a warm blanket or a cold towel on a hot day. gentle, and refreshing.

So, that's what Kurt hoped for. That his assumption was wrong, and that you had been writing these for him. It seemed unlikely, and part of him truly believed he was wrong, but it made him feel giddy to think you could feel the same.

You, on the other hand, and only dig yourself a deeper hole. Your work was pointless, you still felt overwhelmed by your wish to confess to Kurt, and the fact that you had put so much time into trying to escape it, weighed you down like bricks on your shoulders.

"You've got to tell him properly. Right now he's probably thinking he's about to get swept off his feet by the girl of his dreams, and you're too scared to admit it's you." Jean teased.

"You're right...I know....I just can't even bring myself to look him in the eyes." You signed, running your hands through your hair in frustration.

"Then don't, hell if you don't want your work to go to waste, just actually put your name down this time." Jean rolled her eyes in response.

"Are you sure that's a good idea though? I mean I can hardly talk to him now, what if after he finds out he doesn't even want to be around me?" Jean patted your back and you rubbed circles into your temples.

"He won't. You two just need to communicate for once."

So, you wrote again. One last letter, rambling painfully about how much you cared for him. Detailing every way he made you smile. Reading it back made you want to almost vomit with cringe, but you didn't know how else to say what you felt.

So, as you had done days prior, you snuck to his room, slipping it under the door frame. However, this time, as you turned to flee, you were treated by a familiar *bamf*

"Mein freund... This was... You?" Before you know it, you're face to face with the fuzzy blue boy of your dreams.

"I... Uhm..yeah." you nod, staring down at your feet, a bright red blush stinging your cheeks.

Without another word, Kurt begins to read your most recent note. You shift uncomfortably, debating whether to run, or to freeze in place.

"You've improved quite a bit Schatz... I am glad." He looks down at you, a wide smile, and indigo blush gracing his features.

You chuckle awkwardly, unable to formulate a genuine response.

"Ich liebe dich auch." He rests a hand on your shoulders, calming your fidgeting, and freezing you in place.

"y-you.... Really?" You stare at him, wide eyed in disbelief.

"of course, meine Liebe. I have for quite some time. In all honesty, I had been wishing it was you."

Without thinking, or saying a word, you pull him into a hug. Burying your face in his chest, wrapping your arms around him.

"good."

- end. -

[secretmellowblog]

The thing is, Jean Valjean’s “nineteen year prison sentence for stealing a loaf of bread” from Les Mis isn’t actually unusual….not even today! I see people talking about it as if it’s strange or unimaginable when it happens every day.

In modern America — often as a result of pointlessly cruel (and racist) habitual offender and mandatory minimum laws— people are routinely sentenced to life in prison for minor crimes like shoplifting or possession of drugs.

The ACLU did a report in 2013 detailing the lives of various people who were sentenced to life in prison without parole for nonviolent property crimes like:

•attempting to cash a stolen check

•a junk-dealer’s possession of stolen junk

metal (10 valves and one elbow pipe)

•possession of stolen wrenches

•siphoning gasoline from a truck

•stealing tools from a tool shed and a welding machine from a yard

•shoplifting three belts from a department store

•shoplifting several digital cameras

•shoplifting two jerseys from an athletic store

• taking a television, circular saw, and a power converter from a vacant house

• breaking into a closed liquor store in the middle of the night

And of course, so so so many people sentenced to life without parole for the possession of a few grams of drugs.

And we could go on and on!

Gregory Taylor was a homeless man in Los Angeles who, in 1997, was sentenced to “25 years to life” for attempting to steal food from a food kitchen. He was released after 13 years. The lawyers helping to release him even cited Les Miserables in their appeal, comparing Taylor’s sentence to Jean Valjean’s.

And there’s another specific bit of social commentary Hugo was making about Valjean’s trial that’s still depressingly relevant. He writes that Valjean was sentenced for the theft of loaf of bread, but also that the court managed to make that sentence stick by bringing up some of his past misdemeanors. For example, Valjean owned a gun and was known to occasionally poach wildlife (presumably for his starving family to eat.) . So the court exaggerates how harmful the bread theft was—he had to smash a windowpane to get the bread, which is basically Violence— then insist the fact that he owns a gun and occasionally poaches is proof that he is habitually and innately violent. Then when Valjean obviously becomes distressed traumatized and furious as a result of his nakedly unjust sentence and begins making desperate (and very unsuccessful/impulsive/ poorly thought through) attempts to escape…. the government indifferently tacks more years onto his sentence, labels him a “dangerous” felon, and insists that its initial read of him as an innately violent person was correct.

And it’s sad how a lot of the real life stories linked earlier are similar to the commentary Hugo wrote in 1863? Someone will commit a nonviolent property crime, and then the court insists that a bunch of other miscellaneous things they’ve done in the past (whether it’s other minor thefts or being addicted to drugs or w/e) are Proof they’re inherently violent and incapable of being around other people.

A small very petty fandom side note: This is also why I dislike all those common jokes you see everywhere along the lines of “lol it’s so unrealistic for the police to want to arrest Valjean over a loaf of bread, there must have been some other reason the police were pursuing him. Because the state would never punish someone that harshly and irrationally for no reason. so maybe javert was just gay haha”. (Ex: this tiktok— please don’t harass the creator or poster though, I don’t think they were intending to mean anything like that and its just a silly common type of joke you see made about Les mis all the time so it’s not unique in any way.) because like.

As much as I don’t think Les Mis is a flawless book or that its political messaging is perfect….the only way that insanely long unjust sentences for minor crimes is “unrealistic” is if you’re operating on the assumption that prisons are here to Keep You Safe by always only punishing bad criminals who do serious crimes. And that’s just, not true at all. Like I get that these are just goofy silly shallow jokes, and I’m not angry or going to harass anyone who makes them. but it feels like there’s an assumption underlying all those goofy jokes that “this is just not how prison works!” “Prisons don’t routinely sentence people to absurd laughably unjust pointless sentences!” “Prisons give people fair sentences for logical reasons!” When like…no

Valjean being relentlessly hounded and tortured for a minor crime in a way that is utterly ridiculous and arbitrary in its cruelty is not actually a plot hole in Les mis. It’s a plot hole in …..society ajsjkdkdkf. And the only way to fix that is to fight for prison abolition or at least reform, and (in America) stand up against the vicious naked cruelty of habitual offender and mandatory minimum laws.

But yeah :(. I hate how Les Mis opens with a prologue saying the novel will be obsolete the moment the social issues it describes have been resolved— but two hundred years later, the book is still more relevant than ever because we’re dealing with so many of the exact same injustices.

[bevy-obeyme]

What kind of guys are the demon brothers?

In which, you ask each one ‘’Ass, tits or thighs?’’ (Slightly NSFW I suppose?)

ART BY munda 03 on zerochan!!

Lucifer-

- The way this man would whip his head to look at you so fast once you ask this question-

- He’s very vague, in fact, it stung his pride for you to even question him on something so improper.

- And also the fact you thought he only loved one aspect of you.

- Ultimately however, after much tedious pestering, he admitted he leaned towards your boobs.

- He liked their softness and it gave him something to hold when he just needed a stress ball or something-

- He didn’t care if you had large or small ones, the tissue was still soft to him no matter what.

- And the sadist loved to tease you with it cruelly as well. What a pain.

Mammon-

- Now, this man was so flustered when you asked that question. Had you caught him staring?! He bolted out the door with such a furious blush.

- It was quite hard to catch the white haired demon but eventually you did.

- At first, he would deny any preference with a blush so obvious it put Diavolo’s hair to shame but eventually, he caved.

- Out of everything, he probably liked your ass the most. A little squeeze every now and then.. why else did you think he rested his palm against your lower back so often?

- Not to mention, it just looked.. nice. Whenever you wore a dress that complimented you so well it was hard not to just hold onto you.

Leviathan-

- This question made the otaku extremely embarrassed and he instantly denied having such ‘’normie’’ preferences with numerous stutters.

- However, when you did manage to ease him into opening up, he confessed he liked your thighs the most. It was so comfortable to just lay his head down on your lap when he gamed on his console or was watching anime with you.

- He almost fell asleep each and every time but he reminded himself he’s not Belphie and you wouldn’t appreciate it.

Satan-

- When you asked the question, the blond man just stood there blankly for a moment. How was one supposed to answer such a question?

- He had avoided your eyes for a moment with a small flush. Ultimately, he couldn’t chose just one aspect.

- So he settled for your breasts and thighs. He loved how you allowed him to read with his head on your lap and the way your fingers would run through his hair.

- Or the times he’s been particularly angry and he sank his face into the safe haven of your chest. The feeling was comforting and your heart beat thumping gently was soothing.

Asmodeus-

- Now, you know this man did NOT shy away from the question at all. In fact, he teased you about it and took it as an opportunity to flirt and gush with you.

- But in all honesty, he loved everything about you. He couldn’t chose just one! That was cruel.

- He loved the soft flesh of your thighs when you sat down besides him, or the round curve of ass whenever you were in some fitting jeans - or just the way your cleavage was accentuated with your low cut tops! You just looked so good in everything and it made him so elated to have a darling like you.

Beelzebub-

- At first, when you asked, he genuinely thought you were talking about food until you clarified.

- He wasn’t sure how to answer, as he didn’t want to offend you by saying just one thing, but ultimately, he loved your thighs the most. They were so squishy.

- He would tenderly squeeze them or even run his hands up and down gently.

- On a day when he was particularly ravenous, maybe he’d even nibble a bit too. Albeit, gently to make sure he wouldn’t hurt you.

Belphegor-

- The question didn’t seem to phase Belphie yet he took pleasure in mocking you for even daring to ask such a sinful thing.

- However, he knew you wanted a genuine answer, so he answered your breasts.

- They made a great pillow for him. Resting in the crook of your cleavage was something indescribably soothing.

- There was a lot of times he’d just fall asleep resting on your chest, often he’d subconsciously nuzzle in closer to you, relishing in your warmth and steady heartbeat.

[eightstarr]

what's mine — ellie williams.

summary: the day you left for this assignment, ellie remembers thinking it would be okay— or maybe it was you who said it, your hands over her tense shoulders, her fingers tugging at your shirt, “you’ll be okay.” she goes home and knows it to be true, like words from a god. she’ll be okay and you’ll be back. what’s left to do but count the hours?

warnings: descriptions of violence (not very detailed), suggestive content near the end!

notes: uhhh i love being dramatic and i think it shows here. all i think about is the action of coming home to someone who loves you and how it is as meaningful now as it was a thousand years ago and as it will be in a hundred years but whatever haha sorry about that guys. if you read this i love you btw

don't support zionist neil druckmann.

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・。.・゜✧・. ────

Being without Ellie is disorienting. The first week feels like walking alone in a dark room, feeling the walls for a light switch, running into sharp corners that stab your sides. You miss her like it's a sickness, less a longing and more a threat to whatever you’re made of.

There's a small community way outside of Jackson offering a trade. Maria makes it sound simple, like everything else. “They know us, it’ll be quick. You pick up the supplies, drop off our part of the deal, and come back.”

It takes 26 days. The exchange is simple but the journey less so, you and three others have to carry home the much needed medical supplies through herds of infected and a heavy storm that slows you down and cuts off your communication for three terrifying nights.

Ellie wanders the house and feels like a stranger, sickly, a sleepless corpse searching for living blood. The light coming through the windows feels too bright and her skin abnormally cold. She knows, or thinks, that if she’s not careful she could get lost in it— merge every wall together until there’s nothing left to see but a stark flatness, an unfamiliar box. The space is not huge. It's not a tall castle or a manor in the countryside or anything fitting to the theatricality of loneliness, but it’s your home. So much of you is in it. Ellie finds herself focusing on a different thing each passing day, clinging to them with a nauseating desperation, a hundred random pieces of you scattered like breadcrumbs to keep her sane. A book with a folded corner somewhere along the first half of the story, your favorite mug next to the sink, an old pair of jeans ripped at the knee on your side of the drawer. Too many things for you not to come back.

“Do you think I'm losing my mind?” she asks, a soft wrinkle between her furrowed brows, her eyes focused on a random spot ahead. “I mean, it’s been two weeks,” she’s trying to sound like it's not as bad as it looks, like she finds any of it funny or interesting instead of plainly horrifying. The sole of her shoes hits the floor in an anxious rhythm, mocking her— tap, tap, tap, tap. “Isn’t that fucked up?”

Dina curses at the lighter until it flickers back to life with a weak orange flame, holding it near the end of the half finished blunt. She inhales and passes it over, breathing out, “You’re not crazy.”

A pause. Ellie lets the comment comfort her for a single second before it flies right through her head, sounding more quiet than usual when she admits, “...I have this feeling like someone took something from me.”

Dina raises her eyebrows, her chuckle cut off by a short cough, smoke itching her throat. “You mean, like… what’s her name?” she squints her eyes and tries to remember. 

The name worms around Ellie’s head like it has been for days, bold letters, clear as day. She makes no attempt to let it pass through her lips, self aware and unrelenting at the same time, maybe finding some indefensible satisfaction in the fact that it can be forgotten. Cruel, you'd tease, and Ellie would smirk a lot like she tries not to now.

Dina gives up a second later, “Whatever— the girl that volunteered to go with them before you could. You're blaming her?”

“I guess.”

“Hm. That’s a little…”

“Don’t say crazy—”

“Crazy.”

“Fuck you,” she rolls her eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“So you’re not jealous?”

Ellie scoffs, tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek. Dina argues unlike anyone else. She’s confident, her goal clear and her strategy already lined up before you get a word in, loaded like a gun. But her strongest contender, perhaps the only one, might be Ellie’s simple stubbornness. “I’m concerned. She got picked over me even though I've studied that route a hundred fucking times. I could've done a better job,” she says, steady and tireless like bulletproof glass.

“At getting the supplies or at taking care of your girlfriend?”

“You’re starting to sound like Maria.”

Dina pauses for a short moment before she shrugs. “Maria makes good points.”

Ellie takes one last hit of the blunt and flicks it across the room to die out somewhere on the permanently damp floor. She tries to believe it. No one took you, she thinks, you left dutifully like anyone else in Jackson would've, like Ellie would've. It’s a dangerous trip but a job like any other, the same risk of deadly infection that comes with any of them. She should be used to it by now. Does it not also exist every other day of the year?

Still, she can't remember the last time she didn't see your face for this long. You’ve been dating for a little over three years, living together for half of that— it's a terrifyingly meaningful chunk of your young lives, months and months of seeing you everyday, of falling asleep with her face on the crook of your neck and waking up with your fingers pressing into her waist. You've built a world where things like this don’t happen, where all Ellie can think about as she leaves home is the way you hum in the mornings, soft and sleepy and so fucking cute, when you wake up to her back against your chest and her hair on your face. She thinks about her own laugh, how shy it sounds, how your lips press to her head before she turns around to claim a proper kiss.

But now you’re not here, and she’s too terrified to even utter the words out loud, and there's a hole in her chest where you should be that makes her feel insane everywhere she goes. It's an open wound leaving a hazardous trail of shame and memories, humming in her ears like a boiling kettle, who took what's mine?

Ellie has never considered herself to be the jealous type, but she never was the type to sleep with her back turned to someone this comfortably, either. It’s different with you. It's theatricality, it’s the coldness of that bed at night, it’s your legs tangled with hers like growing roots now disjointed. It’s a thing, breathing and alive, screaming at nothing— I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

Is that girl you went with hanging from your every word in that way she always does? Is that a shameful thought to have? Ellie wipes it clean in a second and finds it immediately there again, at the front of her mind like a message on a cloudy mirror. She can't think about anything else. Is the storm keeping the two of you awake? Does a part of you find the girl brave for volunteering? Is she turning to look at you and asking, just loud enough, are you asleep? That fall earlier was rough, how are you feeling? Is she looking at your wounds like they matter more than doing a good job? Is your blood, warm and red and yours, on her hands now?

The last of the smoke spills past her lips in a sigh. Ellie pulls her knees closer to her chest and tugs at the loose thread on your ripped jeans.

─────✧･ﾟ: *✧･

There’s a comfortable weight that keeps you under, the loving press of her arm resting over your chest, her thumb brushing your chin. The sun feels warm where it’s draped across Ellie’s back, white tank top wrinkled slightly up her waist.

She watches you until you let out a little sigh, squint one eye open and then slowly the next, a smile stretching your lips as soon as your sight focuses on her. She looks beautiful. She looks just like she did before you left, your girl.

It’s weird— you’ve showered, scrubbed your hands clean and raw, changed clothes. And still you feel like you’ve brought in something dirty, like it’ll be stuck on you for a while, the grime, the guns, the storm. Your muddy shoes must still be sitting by the front door. Something in your head screams that you should get rid of them, burn them like an evidence of guilt. Do you look anything like you did before you left? You feel like a worn version of yourself, sticky and darkened. It’s a ridiculous worry to have, but the thought comes hand in hand with embarrassment and you can feel it crawling up your neck. You cover your face with your hands and groan tiredly, shy.

Ellie laughs, warm like musk, salve on a wound.

"Are you watching me sleep?" you mutter, voice ridden with exhaustion and joy all at once. The thing, love, obsession, both— breathes along with you. "Freak."

"Yeah, I was,” she shifts to sit on your lap, one knee on either side of you, spilling her confession easily. Ellie leans over to push your hands away from your face and press her lips to yours, passionate but short lived, still softly brushing against each other when she says, "I missed this face."

You chuckle, eyes tracing over her freckled cheeks, hands squeezing her thighs, feeling strangely like you’re being washed clean. “I missed you.”

Ellie closes her eyes and rests her forehead against yours, her fingers caressing your cheeks, looking at you again when her thumb brushes against the ridge of a scar. It’s a warped line that almost follows the shape of your cheekbone, from your hairline to somewhere near the corner of your lips. She'd seen it last night, nauseous with worry and relief to have you back, her vision clouded. The morning reveals it in a different, heartbreaking light. It’s okay, you’d said during the night, your hands on either side of her face much like hers are on you now, didn't even need stitches. Ellie tries to let that sink in, make the guilt feel any better. But it can't. Maybe you’d been saved the prick of a needle, but she knows it still hurt, she knows it bled and stung. It feels like a betrayal. If I can't save you the pain, she thinks, I owe you the witnessing, the chance to clean its wry edges, pat it dry. "How'd you get this one?" she asks, as softly as she can.

You’d been prepared for the question but not the devastation in her eyes. It falls over you like a ton of bricks, her love making your chest ache and sinking you back into the memory.

There was an empty house, or what looked like one. Pieces of broken glass scattered over the rotting wood of an old, wobbly table. A man's hand placed forcefully on your head. The side of your face rammed into the table with a thud when he pushed you down, the faint pain of something slicing into your cheek made worse by your struggle to get free. A kick and he stumbled back. A slice of your knife and he fell dead. You don't think the fact will do much to comfort Ellie. So, in hopes of sparing her, you hum and shake your head. "Come here," you say, or beg, a hand on the back of her neck like fond guidance. "Let me kiss your pretty face."

She feels soft like satin on your lips, tastes like honey and black tea. Ellie kisses like she argues, experienced and unruly all at once, with a point to make— I need you and I want you to know it. Her tongue slips past your parted lips and brings a muffled sound from your throat that almost makes her pull slightly away, if it weren't for the feeling of your fingers tightening on her neck to have her closer. A faint thought crosses Ellie’s mind, a feeling like pity for the person she was before you, whoever that was, an old self who couldn't know what it's like to be devoured so caringly.

She brushes her nose against yours and you let out a sigh that sounds painfully like a prayer, her short hair a dark veil over your eyes when she turns her head to press kisses on your cheek. "You can't leave me like that again," she breathes out.

You swallow her words, a confused wrinkle between your eyebrows. “Ellie—”

A kiss cuts you off. You slide your hands up her thighs to her waist, a surprised hum vibrating against her lips when she wraps her fingers around your wrists and squeezes, as if to keep them there. She leans back and stares into you, and for the first time since you’ve known Ellie, you can't tell if she's commanding you or begging. “I won’t let you.”

It’s a gesture. It goes beyond the reality of your lives, the fact that any day either one of you could be made to leave again, that any day either one of you could die. It means I missed you. It means I need it to be me who looks after you. It means I love you.

Your stomach flutters, hungry with an urgent craving. And like you have every day since you’ve known Ellie, you find yourself unable to deny her love or the indulging promise of a different world— but maybe those mean the same thing. "I'm not leaving you," you say, breathless, and it might as well be true.

Ellie makes a sound in response that feels painfully close to a moan, a soft mmhm that clouds your head of anything that may or may not exist outside of this room. The tip of her nose brushes against your neck and then continues its way down, her fingers sneaking inside your shirt, pulling up the fabric and pressing kisses over the skin that’s revealed. "I love you," she says, almost near the band of your underwear, her blushed lips parted. You feel her breath against the burning fire in your lower stomach, reaching out to cradle her cheek against your hand. She feels hot, flushed pink under her freckles, and you’re not sure if she hears you say I love you, Ellie as much as she watches you mouth the words. She presses her face further into your hand, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, begging as if she’d ever have to, “Baby, I need— please.”

You don't hear yourself say yes, but the look in her eyes says you must have.

[poge-life]

heyyy. can u do a drew starkey imagine where both him and the reader are members of the obx cast and they are at the pougelandia event and they are in a secret relationship but they are constantly doing cute stuff throughout the event but the reader gets a bit tipsy a bit tipsy and outs their secret by accidentally kissing him on stage and the whole crowd reacts and screams. also sorry if this really long.

Ugh, I absolutely loved this one!

This was probably the best event you had ever been to. Jonas had decided to do a big ‘Poguelandia’ event to kick off season 3 and there were hundreds of people here. You absolutely loved how much support the show got and how happy this event made people. Maddy and you had pregamed before you left, as always.

You guys had been dating for a year and it was the best year of your life. You guys had immediately kicked it off when you met and then one thing led to another and you started dating. You both decided to keep it a secret from the public, just knowing how cruel the media could be and would try and twist you guys apart. Obviously, your friends knew; considering it would be hard to hide it from the people you were always with.

You guys had shown up separately; you arriving with the girls and Drew arriving with the guys. And boy, were you having a hard time keeping your hands to yourself. His hair had grown out again and he opted out of styling it, leaving it messy. He was wearing his green jacket with a white Tee underneath, pairing it with black jeans and his black converse. Going for a more casual look, you had a black cropped button up tucked into a black skirt with white flowers on it and slit up the side. You paired it with platform docs and gold jewelry.

Everyone had been split into different groups for all the stuff going on; you were with Carlacia and Maddy while Drew was with Austin. Carlacia had mistakenly left you and Maddy unsupervised at the bar and to no one’s surprise, you both got tipsy. It was no ones fault but her own. She had been told when she joined the cast to never let you and Maddy be alone at any kind of bar or else you’ll drink them out under the table.

Once the performance’s started, you guys all made your way up to the platform, to get away from the crowd and have some time with your friends. You stood in front of Drew with Chase on one side you and JD on the other. You all were just having a good time with each other and you couldn’t have thought of a better group of people to be friends with.

You leaned back against Drew, looking up at him as he looked down at you. He chuckled at your appearance; cheeks all red and rosy but he couldn’t tell if it was from being in the sun all day. Or, it might be the fact that you’re wearing all black in 70 degree weather.

“Having fun?” He asked, letting out a laugh as you had a dopey grin on your face as you nodded, “The best fun. I haven’t been this relaxed in a long time.”

“Good,” He smiled, placing a hand on your waist, thumb brushing the skin exposed between your skirt and shirt. Goosebumps showed up at the feeling of his cold ring against your skin that had been warm all day but it was comforting and very much needed. It probably wasn’t the best idea to be drinking in the heat but you didn’t care. This day was about you and your friends and you were going to enjoy it.

“What?” Drew asked, once he realized you were still staring at him. You shrugged, turning around to lean on the bar, “Can’t I just appreciate how good looking my boyfriend is?”

“Uck. You guys are gross.” Chase mumbled, brushing past you two as JD followed after him.

A/N

Please feel free to let me know if you guys want me to continue this fic!!

[r3starttt]

DON'T BUY TLOU | PALESTINE MP | PALESTINE LINKS | DAILY CLICK | TAGLIST

Dealer! Abby who's got her hands round your neck and stomach, her hips against your ass, rubbing herself like she's the one in need. The ligh in the bathroom almost too Intense for your current state to deal with, the music too loud, making everythinf buzz- and her words, too hurtful for you to even focus on how wet she's got you with it. But she knows- she's aware she's got you ridiculously wet. "Think you can do better than me?" Her lips pressing a kiss right on your earlobe, her breath hitting your skin. "No- Abs, please," all because you accepted some random girl's joint instead of looking for her- who you knew was about to fuck some other girl too. "Shut the fuck up." Thing is, she caught you first.

While your hands keep yourself in balance against the sink, her fingers pull towards your chest, underneath your shirt which she takes with her hand, exposing a bra she very much knew. "Gotta be fucking kidding me" She mocked you. "You're a fucking whore, mhm?" every move accompanied by a wet kiss on your neck- lips sucking and nibbling at your skin with no shame, her reddish eyes looking at you through the reflection. you just blabber in denial, feeling her other hand tightening around your neck, the callouses of her fingers harsh against your skin. "No? you're not a whore?" The vibrations of her laugh hit your skin, almost at the rhythm of the music outside. "Then why're you wearing this, just a coincidence?" she voices almost like a long grown. "Abs-" it wasn't in fact, any coincidence, but she was too mad and annoyed by your stupid voice right now and your drunk-high blabbering to care about any word coming out your mouth that wasn't whimpers. "Shut the fuck up." Her fingers graced over the cups of your bra, tracing its pattern, skimming the lacey material before pulling the cups under your breasts.The reflection in the mirror humiliating. some baby hairs cascading on the sides of your face, quivering brows and a stupid smile half biting- sucking at your bottom lip and your breasts now fully exposed, your nipples begging to be touched. It was giving you a headache.

Her nails wrapped your perky nipples, pulling and pinching until she saw your reflection- that stupid look on your face- as she played with you, the hand on your throat left, going down yoru ass to cup and grip at the flesh, her index finger pulling you from the belt loop. “Think she could’ve made you cum?” she kept the palm of her hand steady against your hip, slowly moving back to your lower stomach, down your zipper until her palm cupped your cunt over the pair of jeans you were wearing, the fabric suddenly too thin yet too thick. You shook your head relentlessly, blabbering quiet no’s over and over again until she’d had enough fun with you.

“Haven't even started fucking you right, you're already drenched" her fingers slid right above your clothed cunt, underneath your jeans. Her fingers rubbing the smallest and slowest circles over your clit. Her other hand left your nipples, all swollen and sensitive- she rather forcing you to look at your reflection, hugging your neck tight enough for you to follow her unspoken command. “You're fucking wet, all cause I'm being mean to you? yeah?" you nod your head, letting her run her thick fingers down the slit of your cunt, aching for her to just pull your panties aside, touch your twitching entrance properly. “Want me to fuck you? want me to use you?" Abby’s eyes were red-ish, half leaded and looking at you pitied, cruel. Your nails hit the cold of the sink, the notion sending and awkward shiver to your whole body. “Please,” she laughs at how pathetic you are, all from just her fingers which she didn’t took long to push into you, they slid with ease, like you were made for her. It was embarrassing for you, but her? the whole scene before her feeding her ego, no one could ever make you this stupid. “see? sucking my fingers right in like the whore you are" you grind back onto her fingers, your walls clenching around them. you could feel your cheeks burning at the sound of your slick folds, the neediness of your hole to be filled. “You're gonna be fucking loud, and say my name when you cum. Let that bitch know who’s fucking you , yeah?”

[retroaria]

Domestic Life w/ Osamu Dazai ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊

• ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── •

summary: life with agency!dazai, days off, date nights, the whole shabang!

warnings: slightly suggestive at some points (not sure if MDNI is necessary but keep it in mind) NOT SAD AND MISERABLE CANON DAZAI!!! Pretend he is happy and joyous for this, why would he want to die when he has you? Not proofread!!

BSD M.LIST | enjoy 🐈 - aria

• ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── •

The days where Dazai can fully devote himself to you are unfortunately far and few. On top of that, he’s a rather forgetful man. He saves all his reports for the last minute, needing to finish them up while everyone else is already gone (or spend just as much time begging Atsushi to do them for him). He makes plans, promises, deals, all of which take up his time aside from the usual agency agenda.

You know that Dazai loves what he does, so you put up with it. At the very least he still comes home almost every night, flops himself down on the bed and wraps his arms tight around you. And he’ll still be there in the morning. flashing you a warm smile as you wake up to see him adjusting the collar of his suit, throwing his jacket over his shoulder before planting a soft kiss to your lips and heading out the door. The purely intimate moments you get to experience together always happen in the dead of night or at the crack of dawn.

Aside from that, as well as all the work related events Dazai brings you to, his days off don’t come often. Whenever the stars align and those days do happen to fall upon you, you know immediately as you wake up in the morning. He’s still wrapped around you, arms and legs, almost in a death grip. He would’ve left for work by now if he had too, not that he hasn’t slept in late before, but his suit is still sprawled on the floor of your room. He hadn’t taken the time to wash it or hang it back up because he wouldn’t be needing it the next day.

• ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── •

These days begin with an absolute power struggle in the bedroom (not the fun kind). This man will not wake up and will not let you out of bed. He will whine and groan and sometimes even shed tears at the fact that you would ever want to leave him when he finally can spend a morning with you. “Dazai we still have stuff to do today, you can just hold me captive.”

“Do you hate me Bella, is that it? Has our love truly dwindled? I finally have the chance to engulf you in my affection and you want no part of it.” He’ll give you a full Shakespearean style monologue about how cruel it is that you would deny his neediness.

“Oh my god Osamu, you are so dramatic”

Eventually you do escape his grasp and leave the bedroom to start the day, to which he must follow suit. These days are spent with Dazai following you around like a lost puppy.

He follows you to the bathroom, you guys get ready together, he sits on the toilet while you shower, talking to you through the curtain about all the recent agency drama, casually mentioning all the times he’s almost died in the last week alone. (He’s also sneaking peaks of you, slyly pulling the curtain back when you won’t notice)

On days where the two of you get to go out you always let him pick your outfit. Dazai’s list of skills typically pertain to crime and manipulation, but style and fashion is somewhere in there too. He’s usually wearing simple jeans and a crew neck, but he wants you to look like a runway model next to him. “Gosh you look beautiful, gonna make me look like the luckiest guy in the world standing next to you!” he gushes in a sing-song tone.

The first order of business is breakfast, a task which Dazai wants desperately to help you with, but always fails miserably. You opt to let him make coffee for you two, which he adorns with an ungodly amount of sugar and creamer. you’ve been drinking Dazais coffee for so long you’ve grown to like it. It’s like a sweet treat with breakfast, nothing you could complain about. If he gets his hands on a frying pan you’re truly doomed, so this is the one thing you let him have. He can handle the toaster too so he’ll make toast for you guys with jam on it that he spreads on in the shape of a heart with a smiley face in the middle “Dona’ look, can you tell what it is?” he says with a smirk of confidence on his face.

“Very sweet Osamu, your hearts are getting better and better” You can’t actually tell what it is but you know he does the same thing every time. You grab the toast from him and plant a kiss on his cheek, it’s like his reward.

One of Dazai’s favorite things in the world is going to the grocery store with you. It’s such a simple task, that always ends up being so much fun. He relishes in the domesticity of it. It feels almost intimate in a way, it’s something you both would have to do if you were apart, but you’re together, so you do it together for the both of you. He loves being reminded that you are a part of his life in every way.

But god is he troublesome

Dazai is the kind of person to stay at the sample stand and talk to the employee for forever. After about 10 minutes he knows their geographical lineage, their favorite flavor of ice cream, their mother’s maiden name, the name of the high school they went to, the name of their first love, but then he gets bored and moves on. Btw he ate the whole tray of samples while he was talking to them, but made sure to swipe one for you before he bounced. “Don’t think I forgot about you darling” he’d wink as he hands you the cup.

Once you guys get everything you need you head back home. Dazai is a gentleman and is obviously carrying all the heavy bags, but not without complaining. “I don’t remember us getting 3 tons of milk”

“I have the milk, that’s the bag with the 10lb rice”

“I don’t remember us getting 3 tons of rice either.”

When the two of you get home he acts like he just got back from a 12 hour shift, like he’s been fighting an enemy organization all the day, like he’s been strategizing with Ranpo for hours, like he just had to get rescued by Chuuya. He helps you put the groceries away and throws himself onto the couch.

Once he notices you’ve start cooking he returns from his corpse like state on the couch and peaks over at you. He likes watching you cook because you look so focused yet so relaxed at the same time (I’m sorry if you don’t like to cook oops) . He likes to try and read your mind whenever he watches you do things.

Eventually he’ll get up and walk over to the record player in your living room. As you’re chopping away you notice the feint sound of a jazzy tune ringing away behind you, before you can turn around to see the source there is a pair of hands on your hips, swaying you from side to side. “Osamu, I have a knife in my hand”

“That’s never stopped me from anything before in my entire life” he hums away, pushing his body up against yours as he lays his head in the crook of your neck. You guys stay like that as you continue to cook, him humming into your shoulder, planting soft kisses as you simply sway to and forth.

“This is really nice, but I’m about to start chopping onions.” You lied, you were already chopping them.

“Augh god, my eyes! Why would you ruin the moment!?”

“I have to make dinner ‘samu!”

After dinner you guys both enter a corpse like state on the couch, snuggled together, either watching a movie or a parallel play type thing, usually both of you reading your respective books. During this time Dazai can be rather clingy, wanting to literally lay on top of you or have you lay on top of him. He also needs to get your opinion on whatever is happening in the movie or this crazy new suicide method he saw in his book (it’s a novelty interest now, how could he want to die when he has you!)

As bed time approaches, Dazai gets into the shower and it’s your turn to sit in the bathroom with him and tell him about all of your own work drama. Unlike Dazai, your peaks behind the curtain aren’t very sly “hey I see you~” he’d say in a teasing tone.

When the two of you finally get into bed, a wave of sadness washes over Dazai. He is unpleasantly reminded that he has to go to work tomorrow. His little life with you would end once morning came and he’d go back to having to use 100% of his brain power to focus on anything but you. He dreaded the thought and all he can do now to eleviate the pain is pull you close beside him. He plants a million kisses on your face before pulling your lips against his into a deeper kiss that usually lasts until both of you are tired and slightly out of breath.

At this point you begin to drift off to sleep in each others arms. You awaken the next morning to Dazai flashing you a warm smile as he adjusts the collar of his suit, throwing his jacket over his shoulder before planting a soft kiss to your lips and heading out the door.

• ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── •

I FINALLY wrote something for my husband Dazai. I hope you guys enjoy and I can’t wait to keep writing I’m having so much fun here!! Stay safe guys and much love 🤍🤍🤍 -aria

• ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── •

[aphrogeneias]

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 — biting

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

warnings: secret relationship. mentions of penetrative sex.

"What is that? Have you gotten into a fight with a werewolf?"

"Huh?" Steve was still half asleep when he picked Robin up that morning. As his best friend got into the passenger seat of his car, already speaking in a volume that would surely wake him up in no time, it didn't really register what she was talking about.

She scoffed. "Those bite marks, dingus. Didn't know you had a date with a feral animal last night. That's a new low for you."

He felt the blood drain from his face, but covered it up with a playful scowl. "Whatever. You're just jealous 'cause I have a pretty girl who is willing to give me all of these hickies."

"A pretty girl, yeah? Who's the lucky one of the week?"

Knowing himself to be a terrible liar, Steve looked forward, taking his car out of park and into the street. He was blushing, though, and that he wasn't able to hide. 

"No one you know." He mumbles.

As Robin protested, reapplying her mascara through the passenger seat mirror, Steve blushed harder as he remembered the night before — and he would love to tell her all about it, except for the fact that she couldn't know it was you.

She couldn't know that it was you that he had on his bed almost every night, and that this has been happening for weeks. She couldn't know that it was you that was on top of him, telling him to keep his hands on the headboard while you ravaged his skin with your mouth, biting and sucking red and purple bruises all over him.

She couldn't know how much he liked it, begged for it. How he looked at you as you sunk your teeth into him with a strange kind of adoration, the thrill of being marked — owned — by you. The way his hands roamed your bare skin, the glittering sheen of sweat that made you glow, and how he left his own mark on you with how his hands gripped the supple flesh of your hips when you sat yourself on his cock.

He couldn't tell her about the noises you made, how your moans echoed through his room and spurred him on, the roll of your hips meeting his own, the slick sounds that came from where your bodies met. How you couldn't keep yourself up with how good he made you feel, laying on top of him and letting him fuck you from underneath you, setting a cruel pace as you whimpered into his neck.

She couldn't know about all the ways he made you cum, or about how obsessed he was with you. You'd made a deal — keep your little relationship a secret until you're sure about what you really want. None of your friends could know, you'd tell them when the time was right.

Steve wanted to shout it from the rooftops, but he agreed that there was a certain appeal in hiding in plain sight. Your bite marks on his neck, you going to work wearing his sweaters, sneaking out to fuck whenever you hung out. The world didn't need to know you were his, not yet — you knew, and that was enough.

They were still bantering when he stopped at your driveway, and watched you walk to his car with a bounce on your step. You opened the backseat door, threw your bag in first, and sat right in the middle.

"Did you see that Steve got mauled by a wolf last night?" Robin turned her body around to see you better. All you did was snicker, and throw your hair over your shoulder. If you weren't jeans, they would be able to see Steve's own marks left on your thighs.

"Really, Steve? Did you at least win?"

The two of you shared a look. The curve of your smirk, the defiant rise of his chin. Tension that would be resolved later, surely.

"You know me. I never lose."

As he started the car again, you rolled your eyes. "Maybe the wolf should have gone harder on you."

Your eyes met through the rearview mirror. "Maybe I'd like that."

[ennabear]

i saw you do an abby on vday could you do ellie ?🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼 thank you‼️ (if not that’s fine) ALSO HAPPY VDAY KIND STRANGER

ellie on valentine’s day

sorry this is late i hope you’ll still love me 😞 happy late valentines bae and thx for the ask 🤗

links on donation and info on palestine

❥ you’d wake up to ellie sleeping completely on top of you, shaggy auburn hair overspread your face. her sleeping head was still tucked into your neck as your eyes adjusted to the bright morning light.

❥ the clock read 11:14 am. ellie and you weren’t too big on making plans, but you knew that if you wanted a chance to get out of bed, it had to be soon. no matter how many soft kisses you pressed to her freckled cheeks, or soft fingers that smoothed the hair on her head, she wasn’t budging.

❥ in fact, she didn’t wake up until you rolled her over and stripped the blankets from her. a soft whine came from her lips as she stuffed her face into the pillow. poor ellie, it was valentine’s day and her cruel girlfriend wouldn’t even let her sleep in!! :(

❥ after a bit of back and forth, you agreed to getting breakfast at a small downtown diner if she promised to get out of bed and get dressed. her outfit consisted of your jeans, your belt, your shirt, and one of her own hoodies.

❥ the diner was practically empty, the only other people there were an old couple and a few waitresses. ellie insisted on sharing a milkshake with two straws, just like they do in the movies. chocolate, of course, because ellie has the diet of a five year old.

❥ walking back home was nice, ellie kept one sturdy arm around your shoulders and you wrapped one around her waist. the february chill turned ellie’s spotted nose a rosy shade of pink, and you couldn’t stop yourself from giving it a soft kiss.

❥ you agreed to cook dinner that night. one of ellie’s love languages was food, and the greatest gift you could ever give her was a warm, home cooked meal. as you cooked, she set the table and lit a cinnamon scented candle.

❥ dinner was romantic. ellie brought out the joke book and gave you a show of corny valentines themed jokes and gross pick up lines. you giggled anyways, because she had such a way of charming you.

❥ the night ended with sloppy, half asleep grinding. your clothes were on the floor, her bare hips crashed onto your thigh as she chased yet another high. soft, warm kisses placed on cheeks and necks, along with pleads of “i love you” before falling asleep with her in your arms.