#eg THREE HUSBANDS
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
Finlay Friday
12x15: "Stealing Home", script extracts
#CSI#CSI CBS#Julie Finlay#Finlay Friday#DB Russell#my gifs#Stealing Home#script extracts#Script direction: Unsmiling#Lisa: :)))))) :DDDDD#There is zero methodology behind choosing these extracts#Stage directions are fun as are parts where the dialogue changed#eg THREE HUSBANDS#!!!#but mostly it's just parts where I like her face#ps can we talk about how the ID badge says Finn is 5 inches taller than Lisa because lmao
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
I see a lot of smack talk from the younglings about the "Sad Beige Millenial Aesthetic" - and while I agree that some Youtube Mums should get prison time for doing their kids' nurseries that way, I cannot stress enough the calming effect this aesthetic has on my "undiagnosed for 39yrs" ADHD brain.
Let me have my stark white Ikea furniture and my muddy coloured accessories, it helps me get the laundry folded before my kids outgrow it 🙈
#honestly#the amount of sensory overwhelmed I have thrown out when I went for Sad Millenial in the up stairs of our home#our downstairs - kitchen and living slash dining room are super colourful#with fun rugs and all that shizz#but those rooms are MASSIVE#they need the colour and the fun shit lest they look like a hospital waiting area#but the upstairs is three bedroom a walk in closer and the big bath#plus slanted walls#because the roof goes low#so all the rooms are a lot smaller with very little wall space to put furniture#they'd just look cluttered that way#which they did#I still have before and after pictures of when we did the kids' rooms#as I told my husband#since I do the Lion's share of ending this house I get to decide how it's made#I wouldn't get anything he hates#but eg when he said he doesn't need a bedside lamp I told him tough luck the big light is evil 🤷🏻♀���😅
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
At the rehearsal dinner, the night before your wedding, your bridesmaids have prepared a presentation for you. They laugh conspiratorially before pulling the slide show up on the projector. The title is: Y/N Being Feral for Her Future Husband. Each slide has a photo and beneath is the unhinged text you sent with it. All the photos are sneaky pics you took while working with them.
Slide one: A slightly blurry image of him sitting on a bench at the gym.
The caption: “Sitting on his lap would probably fix me.”
Slide two: Picture is of him sipping his morning coffee or tea, disheveled.
The caption: “I’m jealous of a mug.”
Slide three: It looks like a selfie at first but you’re in the bottom corner and he’s in the background in full tactical gear.
The caption: “Love a man that uses protection.”
Slide four: Another blurry image obviously taken on a drunken night out with the rest of the team. There’s a tipped over shot glass and he’s licking the liquor off the bar. He’s got a big, goofy grin, being egged on by those around him.
The caption: “How many shots do you think it would take for him to want to lick me like that?”
Slide five: It’s a picture of his bicep flexed and the corded muscle on display, a slight sheen of sweat glistening in the light.
The caption: “I want to gnaw on him like a chew toy.”
Slide six: This is, much to your relief, the last picture. It’s of him sitting across from you at a dining table, dressed in nicer civilian clothes. Your first official date.
The caption: “Please, whatever deity is out there, don’t let me fuck this up.”
__________
A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for ages. I don’t even know if anyone else will find it as funny as I do.
#cod#modern warfare#cod x reader#simon ghost riley#call of duty x reader#captain price#john price#soap x reader#john price x reader#captain price x reader#john soap mactavish#kyle garrick x reader#gaz x reader#soap cod#soap imagine#konig cod#konig x reader#ghost x reader#cod imagine#simon riley imagine#soap call of duty#call of duty#ghost imagine#ghost cod#gary roach sanderson#cod roach#roach x reader#captain mactavish#captain soap mactavish#cod mw2
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
holidays headcanons (resident evil)
┌─── ∘°❉°∘ ───┐ characters: chris, leon, jill, claire, rebecca, carlos, luis, ada, wesker warnings: mentions of alcohol, some swearing.
a/n: i know this is late but all the recent love for the restaurant au inspired me!! check that one out here! love u pookies and i hope you had a great holidays <3 if you want me to cover anyone else, or have any other suggestions for au's please let me know! └─── °∘❉∘° ───┘
chris redfield:
this man comes for one reason and one reason alone: the food. you best believe chris redfield is grabbing two plates piled sky-high and scarfing it down before the rest have even served themselves. because of a particular incident involving leon and a nerf gun, chris has been banished to the kids table for the foreseeable future. he gets to sit there with (baby) sherry in a shitty little plastic barbie chair that claire bought off amazon-- the legs are bowing under his weight and are clearly destined to snap during some point in the night. as for the games, chris takes no part in it. why? he's stone cold passed out in the lazyboy. i'm talking full on snoring, scratching at his chest, mouth open, and drooling asleep. nothing is waking that man up from his food coma, other than literally firing a gun three inches away from his ears.
as for you, chris softens a little bit. he'll reluctantly indulge whatever you want to do, even if he's grumbling about it a little the whole time. this man is a practical gift giver, unless claire gets involved and gets you something indulgent in chris' name. if it were up to chris alone, he's replacing whatever you have that's worn down or unusable. he just wants to see you comfortable and stress-free, and he really doesn't have the mind for other things.
leon kennedy:
respectfully, he's the typical white dad of the group. he eats a good amount of mashed potatoes and roast beef, downs a couple whiskeys, and he's out for the count. there's been a couple occasions that he's gotten a little too rowdy, and relentlessly barraged the dinner table with whatever one-liners or borderline traumatic stories that come to his mind. he's fine, he swears, it really was funny that time he almost got blown up.
god forbid sherry grows up and starts bringing partners around the place, leon takes it upon themselves to act like her personal bodyguard. he'll sit in an armchair and stare daggers at them every time they so much as touch her, and it takes a while for him to warm up to them. for the games, do NOT ask that man to play charades. honestly, it will just be embarrassing for the both of you.
leon really does try his best when it comes to you. his gifts are usually something you eyed while out with him somewhere, which he very sneakily bought while you weren't looking. however, he's downright terrible at hiding it for you if he buys it ahead of time. you have to just act surprised and loving about the whole thing, and leon's putty in your hands. there's always a hand around your waist when you're in the vicinity, and leon loves to brag about your title in casual conversations. (eg. "yeah, my wife/husband is a pretty good cook. it's no big deal")
jill valentine:
jill's been banned from helping in the kitchen for five years. it's not her fault, honestly, she got a little too distracted sharing war stories with the others that she forgot the yorkshires were still in the oven. she'll happily eat everything though, or bring a store-bought dessert if need be. every single year, she takes photos of chris passed out in the armchair until she can make a photo album to gift him. there's a framed photo of chris mid-fall after the barbie chair finally gave way that's hanging above the fireplace, courtesy of her. also likes to take lil sips of leons whiskey when he's not looking since he always brings the good stuff.
she claims that she doesn't get into the games, but she gets super intense about charades to the point that everyone's reluctant to team up with her. she's shouting answers like there's a ticking bomb that will go off when the time runs out, and she'll scold you if she thinks your acting performance wasn't oscar worthy. she's flinging around a beer can during the whole thing and nearly soaking everyone in the vicinity.
when you start coming around for the holidays, jill visibly relaxes. she can let a lot of her guard down, and everyone likes to give her shit about how lovesick and happy she becomes. she's also a victim of the practical gift giving trait, but occasionally she likes to buy you something just because she thinks you would look nice in it. but there's always an extra gift at home that she won't let you open in front of the others, she has to maintain some sort of dignity.
claire redfield:
her and rebecca are the only reasons this tradition goes on for as long as it does. rebecca does most of the logistics, claire is the one who keeps that ship running while it's happening. the two of them are such a scary pair when they want shit done, that everyone else just has to follow along. claire is the one that banished chris to the kids table, but still lingers around to keep an eye on sherry and make sure she's eating enough. when sherry's old enough to bring partners around, she's the welcoming one, and will secretly jab leon in the ribs whenever he starts acting up.
claire likes to experiment with the games every single year, usually after incidents or fights break out. white elephant got banned after four different people just bought gift cards to the gun store (im assuming this exists there, im canadian). she's shaking the box of names aggressively at anyone who tries to get away, and will tip chris right out of that damn chair. they rarely get to be together with all the missions, so help her god they're going to enjoy it.
you're the first person claire actually brings around. sure, she's had relationships, but bringing you around to family christmas is a big deal. and don't worry, everyone else will tell you just how much of a big deal it is. you're the first person she tells everything too, and on the drive there, she's giving you a full run down on what she thinks of everyone (claire has very strong opinions). for gifts, she loves to buy you things. her favourite gifts are outfits either you can wear on her motorcycle, or matching clothes she painted herself.
rebecca chambers:
the holidays are a stressful time for her. not only does she have to cook for the most ravenous group of people that definitely do not cook for themselves enough, but she has to make sure they don't kill each other during it. despite that, dinner is always amazing, and the desserts are just to die for. she takes a special pride in her desserts, and if a couple extra supplements sneak themselves into the dinner, she definitely does not know anything about that. one of the few things that gets her through the holidays is the extra sweet hot chocolate and egg nog concoction that she makes for herself. leon tried it one time by accident and nearly gagged at just how sweet it was.
rebecca is very into the games and gifts section. it's the one time she gets to sit down and relax a little bit, and she does love how intense everyone gets about the whole thing. she's just happy that everyone can get together, and maybe relax after everything that's happened. despite her enthusiasm and smarts, she is downright terrible at charades. her answers are always way too complex for the minute they have to guess whatever she's miming. how the hell is anyone supposed to guess t-011 from hand gestures?
rebecca is by far the best gift giver out of the bunch. whatever she buys you is well-thought out, personal, and helpful. she likes to have you hang around the kitchen while she cooks, and will always feed you little spoonfuls under the guise of taste-testing. really, she just wants to make sure you eat, especially before chris can get his grubby little hands on the entrees.
luis sera:
leon invited him a total of one time, and luis had just become a permanent fixture of the whole thing. you best believe luis is bringing a karaoke machine and performing bad renditions of holiday music complete with an improvised choreography. he tried to bring leon into it one time, and nearly got roundhoused so hard that rebecca had to take them both out like misbehaving dogs. despite that, he always brings around a home-cooked entree to dinner, which rebecca appreciated greatly. luis also has the tendency to spin great tales about what he did during the year, which are definitely all lies.
in part two of the party, luis likes to be a little tipsy for the whole thing. who can blame him, he likes a party. just don't get him talking about his work, he'll talk about it for hours with increasingly complicated language that only rebecca can understand. like her too, he also gets really into the games section. luis is mentally keeping track of the stores, and will argue with anyone that tries to get the one up on him. i mean, he really deserved the point on the last one, so what if he buffs the numbers a little?
luis love to brag about you to all the others, you're his lovely partner and somehow agreed to date him, how could he not? his gifts for you are always a little extravagant, because he wants everyone else to know just what a good boyfriend he is. you're also the reason why he got chewed out over pda during the holidays. luis is just not the kind of man that can keep his hands off you, it's the season of romance.
carlos oliveira:
he's the one person who rebecca allows in the kitchen. carlos is always willing to help, and he'll even do it with a cheesy little apron on. it just makes his ass look nice, and these people deserve a treat on the holidays. god forbid carlos, leon, and jill are sitting together for dinner. they're throwing around the worst jokes known to man, and cackling loudly the whole time, especially if they're a couple beers deep. he's used to a big family, so this kind of gathering is right in his element. he makes sure there's enough food and drink for everyone, even if he's next to chris in eating it all.
another victim of getting too into the games. he likes to have fun and joke around, so he's definitely energetic, but doesn't take it too seriously. carlos is ultimately there to have a good time, and if a pretty woman is telling him to play, he's definitely not going to say no. he's relaxing back in his chair, beer in hand, yelling out suggestions and laughing loudly.
for you, he's just happy to bring you around and show you a good time. you don't have to worry about a damn thing during the holidays, carlos is doing everything so you can just lay back and enjoy the festivities. your drink is empty? carlos is already up and heading to the fridge. you want more dessert? there's another plate already in your hands.
ada wong:
no one really knows the reason she's here. people suspect she found out the location through her own means and just started showing up. or that wesker invited her for insurance reasons. she'll offer to help in the kitchen, and they always turn her down because she's definitely overdressed and they don't want to risk her getting dirty. during the dinner, she just like to witness the inevitable trash fire, or chatting quietly with luis about whatever work drama happening with him.
she's not playing any games. don't ask her. ada will give you a mean glare until you leave her alone. she wants to sit there and watch the wreckage and drink her little drink, she is not playing charades even if there's a gun to her head. get her to gossip though? she will happily engage in telling you dirty secrets about everyone else ( no one can figure out how the hell she knows these things).
ada's rigging the whole thing so you win. she wants to see you happy, and you'll be even happier when you see what she's got you. again, there's no way to tell exactly how she knows what you wanted, but you can be sure you're getting it. and it's in a pretty box, carefully put together and wrapped with a red bow. there's also a mistletoe in her pocket, for when she can finally get you alone.
albert wesker:
no one knows who invited him. no one knows where he is the whole time (he's in the bedroom, pointedly avoiding everyone else). he'll come down to dinner, eat his food, say nothing, and go back upstairs. he's also not going to engage in any sort of ugly sweater tradition, he's wearing all black, and god help anyone who tries to get him to wear anything else. wesker will speak up about his open disdain for chris, but it's quickly shut down by rebecca before he can start a fight.
he doesn't really come around all that often. he prefers to do his work, have his own celebration, and pretend all these people don't exist. after certain events, he becomes a bit of an unspoken topic amongst everyone else-- just a person that used to come around thats' been replaced by their new family.
the only way he'll do anything for the holidays is if you're there. yes, he's going to complain and say he has better things to do, and he would much rather have your own private celebration, but he'll reluctantly do it if you bother him enough. he's giving you his present in private and away from prying eyes, because that relationship is just between you two, not these other people unworthy of even looking at you. whatever you tell him you want, he'll buy. money's no object for him, and anything that will make you happy while he works on other things.
#happy belated holidays everyone !!#and if yall have suggestions please send them to me i love hearing from everyone#resident evil#resident evil x reader#leon kennedy x reader#leon kennedy imagine#resident evil fanfiction#ali writes#leon kennedy#chris redfield#chris redfield x reader#jill valentine#jill valentine x reader#rebecca chambers#rebecca chambers x reader#claire redfield#claire redfield x reader#albert wesker#albert wesker x reader#ada wong#ada wong x reader#carlos oliveira#carlos oliveira x reader#luis sera#luis sera x reader
201 notes
·
View notes
Text
Just One More. | 2
Lewis Hamilton x BLACK!FEM!Reader
WARNINGS: short, no smut! (surprisingly), just fluffy shit for father’s day <44 😘
SUMMARY: Congratulations! You had the twins! time to deal with lewis and his new dad antics (again), but first, here’s two cute moments.
|1|2|3|4|
✮✮✮✮
“You happy now?”
You stare at your husband through tired and teary eyes, watching him cradle your daughter in his arms. You had just gone through twenty hours of labor, spending half of those hours at home and in pain and the other half in the hospital. When you got there you could barely walk, every contraction you felt striking your belly and back which made your knees weak. You swore hours earlier it was just braxton hicks, but your twins soon proved you wrong. Very, very wrong.
When you heard both their cries erupt in the room, you smiled in victory as you were finally done with the most crucial part.
“You did so good, love”
Lewis praised you with stray tears he could no longer hold in trailing down his cheeks, a sweet kiss being placed on your forehead before he did the same to the twins. The boy who was born first, with no surprise, looked exactly like Lewis. He was a spitting imagine of your other set of twins when they were babies, but that daughter of yours? All you. Exactly three minutes apart, when she arrived the nurses were starting to wonder if Lewis was in the room at all when she was conceived.
You looked at the two newborns, just as proud of your work as god himself was.
“You know, I was gonna lose it if she was a boy” You spoke while gently brushing your fingers through your son’s soft hair. Lewis chuckles and lays besides you in the hospital bed, his eyes switching attention from baby to baby, but never letting go of his babygirl. You smile and let him have his moment. You knew the hogging was mostly because of him being in shock that he actually got his girl, He’d be all over your son also come morning time.
“I’m in awe how much she looks like you. Usually they don’t look like anyone right away but wow…she’s all you, Y/N” Lewis expresses, a finger caressing her blushed cheek. You just nod in agreement, laughing at how her hair stuck up in the front like spikes while everything else laid down. Lewis was too busy gushing over both of them to point out how silly either of them looked.
✮✮✮✮
When you two took the babies home, it was hard to keep the twins away from them. Your boys were there peeking over your shoulder at every feeding, every burping, every changing, even every bath. They had started to ask when they’d be big enough to play with, a toy in both of their hands as they waited for your answer. Before you could speak, Lewis was already speaking, serving them with the facts while simultaneously burping the baby in his arms.
“They won’t be able to play with you two for a while. They’re too small right now and they don’t do much but sleep and eat”
Your boys pouted, one rolling his eyes back dramatically. “Well, that’s boring! They’re boring!” Silas, the older one huffed, sitting on the coffee table in front of you. Both you and Lewis cackled, but the boys found nothing funny. “Yes, babies are boring for the first few months”
“Why’d you go and get two more then?” Silas’s face scrunched as he asked and you tried helplessly not to laugh so loud at the poor baby that the infant in your arms would jump out of her sleep.
“Yeah, Lewis…Why did we ‘get’ two more?” Egging it on, you look back at your husband for another answer, your face riddled with amusement as he completely curves the question. “Any questions other than that? Saint?”
“So they can’t throw a ball? or catch it?” Saint inquired as he went back to the previous topic, sitting next to his brother. You shake your head ‘no’ and they both sigh.
“And they can’t talk either?” Silas asks, earning another laugh from you and Lewis. You two thought the constant questions would stop at three, but your boys were a curious pair. You’d only hope the next set were a bit more tame but with how the universe humbled you the last time...
“If you hear them talking before they hit nine months then please inform daddy so he can call Guinness world records”
✮✮✮✮
💌: again, superior trope, dad!lewis for the win, muah!💋
#henneseyhoe#just one more fic#black fanfic writer#black!reader#black reader#black!fem!reader#black fanfiction#masterlist#black!oc#lewis hamilton fic#lewis hamilton smut#lewis hamilton fanfics#lewis hamilton one shot#lewis hamilton imagine#lewis hamilton x black reader#lewis hamilton fanfic#lewis hamilton fanfiction#lewis hamilton x reader#lewis hamilton#formula one fanfiction#formula one x reader#formula 1 fanfic#f1 x black!reader#f1 fanfic
675 notes
·
View notes
Text
—the seasons of love
or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. winter, the first time. the start of the year, the start of it all. minors dni, nsfw warnings under the cut. 7k words part two part three part four part five
18+ because: brat taming, fingering, oral (f receiving), name calling, spit, unprotected sex, overstimulation, booty call!, masturbation (f receiving), voyeurism, mad sass, fucking porn without plot basically.
There’s nothing special about the club scene in Monte Carlo. If you’ve been to a club in any major city, anywhere in the world, you’ve been to a club in Monaco. It’s all neon lights and kaleidoscope colors and poorly lit dance floors and mid-tier DJs who think they’re the next coming of Jesus.
Tonight is no exception. The air is thick and heavy with the scent of floral perfume and alcohol, the entire room shaking with the pulsating beat of the bass, reverberating off every single corner and shaking the liquor in your glass. Bodies move—yours included—half in sync with the music, half in step with their drunken stupor. Perched in the safety of Charles’s section, away from the swaying forms of laughter and shouting and screaming, your entire body thumps alone to the beat from the DJ booth a couple meters away.
Across the section, Charles sits stoic on a couch, taking up a seat and a half and frozen like some magnetic force. His eyes are stuck on you in a way that pulls goosebumps from your skin, makes you irrational angry at him. You’re feeling particularly bratty today, egged on by the tequila and his visible annoyance.
You’re on your way to interject into his pity party when your sister catches your arm, pulls you by your bicep to dance with her. Her palms are sweaty and cold and you hope that it’s the condensation from her cold glass that’s got her all clammy. The two of you have always been quite a sight after a few drinks. You get your tolerance from your mother, are both disastrous lightweights, feel the need to give any and everyone around you a show.
The two of you twirl to the music with little effort, laughing like you’re seven and the hazard littered floor under your feet is the old brown carpet from the family room you grew up hosting dance parties in. It’s all hair and giggles and hands in the air like you just don’t care. Everytime your glance catches his, he’s staring back, nursing his drink and half participating in a conversation with your brother-in-law and Jo.
“What’s his fucking problem?” you ask, leaning over to shout into your sister’s ear.
“He can’t dance,” she slurs. You snort. He can dance.
You whistle, loud and commanding and cat-call-ish even though he’s already watching you. “Charles! Get out here and dance, you fucking buzzkill!”
Your sister joins in on the fun, playfully swaying her hips to the music, tossing out an imaginary fishing line to her husband and reeling him over, calling along teasingly to Charles. “Yeah, show us what you’ve got, Il Predestinato!”
Charles rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. “I don’t dance,” he calls back with a soft chuckle. He tries to play it cool, like always, but everyone in the room knows you’re pushing his buttons. You always are. The reason he keeps you around is the same reason you stay around; your families’ relationship predates any animosity between the two of you. That, and the friend group was founded before you loathed each other and it would be too much work to try and split it up now. You’d probably never see Joris again.
You dance closer to him, putting on a dramatic show and a poor fight against the urge to continue challenging him. “Come on,” you tug on his arm, just out your bottom lip into a pretty little pout. “Live a little.”
He’s never been able to turn down one of your challenges, however thinly veiled they might be. It’s his own personal sore spot, the one that you poke and prod as often as you can. Competition has always been the foundation of your mutual annoyance, it’s not going to suddenly change after some eighteen years of consistency. Finally, he relents, lets you think you’re pulling him to his feet, dragging him to dance with you and your sister.
His moves are stiff and awkward, almost hard to watch. You laugh, because he’s wound up so fucking tight in two weeks you’d have a diamond. “See!?” your sister laughs, the contagion of it spreading to even the brunt of the joke. “I told you!” she continues, slinking her arm around her husband’s neck sloppily. His arm grips her side to hold her steady. It makes you feel sick.
A smirk tugs on his lips, and for a brief moment, there’s a hint of something more in his eyes. Not annoyance or frustration. Something seven, something innocent and childish. It’s fleeting, and you take a deep breath because the music feels quieter now. You down what’s left of your cocktail to clear your head, to calm the sudden flutter of nerves.
The more he drinks and the longer he’s forced to dance, the lighter and more magnetic he becomes. “You know, Charles, I never thought I’d see the day,” you tease. He’s been in a near constant state of pity-party for weeks now, ever since his dumb ass got dumped by another girl wildly out of his league.
He rolls his eyes, but his tone is as amused as it is drunk. “Don’t get too excited. It’s the liquor,” he retorts, a piss poor attempt at downplaying how much fun he’s having. He wouldn’t dare to give you the satisfaction. You lean in closer, brush your body against his, fueled by the noise and the alcohol.
“The liquor doing the touching, too?” you ask.
He’s always been a touchy drunk. Since before you and your friends were allowed to drink, he’s been hands-on. And maybe it’s because this is the first time he’s grabbing your hips, the first time his broad hand is flat over your stomach, but you’d never noticed him as this touchy with his girlfriends or his girls that appear when he’s around. Whatever it is, the more he drinks, the more comfortable he is with his hands on you, and the less you find the nerve to care.
It doesn’t matter how many times he does it, though. Every touch burns your skin. It’s a sick little game you two play. Sick and twisted and so, so unlike the two of you.
Watch yourself—he warns, hand on the small of your back. You play with fire. Well established and well documented, though; you never back down either. No, the thrill of annoying him is enough to dive head-first, to push his buttons until they stick. “Am I?” you ask, as innocently as the tequila can muster, taking hold of his wrist and moving it so his arm is wrapped around your midsection, fighting to settle in the space between your waistband and shirt hem.
You respond to every one of his careful touches, ever lingering finger on your arm and your waist and your back. When you close your eyes, you imagine the nonsense patterns he draws on your skin like it’s on canvas in a museum, hung front and center just for you. Your inhibitions are slipping too, and you let yourself trail wandering fingertips over his body, too.
This isn’t the Charles you’re used to, the one you go head-to-head with every fifteen minutes. This is something entirely new, so far into uncharted territory you’re not even sure which way is north. There’s something particularly intriguing about the nerves bouncing around your gut.
Everything fades away into the dark and crowded club. You don’t know if your sister and brother-in-law are still standing there, if any of your friends are. All you know if the electric charge of this, of every teasing remark and touch that draws you closer, forces you to test the waters of the newfound layer of tension.
Everything is building, it feels like, to some grand crescendo of emotion and desire. Before there’s room to explore it, though, to dive deeper into the unspoken shift, the moment is interrupted by the return of the friends you didn’t notice leaving.
The night drags on, the lines between annoyance and attraction blurring into some chaotic muddle of intoxication. Nothing is clear, nothing except the sobering and unignorable pull. It lingers in the air above you, in the space between like a secret just begging to be unraveled.
You’ve got another drink now, because you can only think of one decision that would be worse than more tequila. In due time, you’re worried you’re a lost cause when it comes to that choice as well. His eyes stay on you, even from a distance, and you revel in the glory of his attention. Embolden by it all, you continue fucking with him. “Having fun yet, Charles?” you ask, knowing smile, voice dripping in subtle suggestion.
He raises a brow, the corners of his lips quirking up. You don’t think you’ve ever spent much time looking at them, the soft shade of pink and the softer skin. “I suppose I can tolerate it,” he replies with teasing eyes. He’s irritated by your laugh, by your proximity, by your lips brushing against his ear when you whisper; you’re not the only one here trying to have fun. His jaw tightens but he doesn’t take your bait. Instead, he pulls you closer, sways in rhythm with you and replies, “I’m here to enjoy myself, not entertain you.”
He sends your brattiness running full-tilt. Forces you to carefully consider every movement, every ounce of playfulness that you allow to seep into your demeanor and the proactive sway of your hips. You grin at him every chance you get, sly and calculated, daring him to resist.
You lean in close, brush against his ear and can blame it on practicality, on the bass and the music and the DJ if anyone were to question your actions. You rest a hand on his chest. “I know you love my attention.”
His breath hitches at your audacity, heart racing so quick you can feel it in your palm. He pulls you closer, dangerously close to your lips and says, “you talk too much. Maybe it’s time someone shuts you up.”
You scoff, low and teasing. “I’d like to see you try.”
[18 minutes later]
You step into the well-lit lobby less than a pace behind him. Your hands are interlocked, have been for every block of the darkened streets—since he grabbed yours and pulled you out of the club. “Admit it,” you giggle. “You love having me push your buttons.”
He remains stoic, jaw set as he pushes the button on the elevator. The tension is at a boiling point. You’re either about to kill each other, to be on the news for some grand double murder, or something so, so much worse is going to unfold.
He leads you to the apartment without a word, but as soon as the door closes behind him, all is lost. Your head is bumping into the drywall before you even realize what’s happening, his lips harsh against yours, the pent up frustration and desire snapping like a dried twig.
It’s fierce and passionate and while you never, not for a single moment in your life, imagined what he would taste like, you somehow knew it would be like this, cool and fresh and drunk. He licks into your mouth, messy and intense, teeth clacking and both of you fighting for some nonexistent upper hand.
Fireworks are going off outside. They shake the windows with explosive gravitas as you’re blindly led by his backwards steps down the hallway. You realize that in an entire lifetime of knowing each other, this is the first time you’ve been in his place. It’s not what you expected, from what you can gather—all clutter and red cars and a boy who never had to drop his dream. “They’re going to look for us,” you say between sloppy, open mouthed kisses.
He mumbles against your skin, strong hands on either side of your jaw. “Let them look.”
You walk through a doorway, into a bedroom clad with clutter and blue sheets. He would have blue sheets. There’s another firework, loud and booming, it makes you jump. You check your watch over his shoulder, pretend your hand doesn’t shake. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Okay.” Your knees bump into his and he sits on the edge of the bed.
You laugh, climb onto his lap, your arms strewn around his shoulders, broad and strong and you laugh again–this time into his mouth. What the fuck is going on. Seriously, what the fuck is this? “Happy New Year.”
He sighs, pulls his mouth from yours long enough to roll his eyes, to speak annoyedly into the hot air between your lips. “Yeah, whatever. Happy New Year.”
“Charles,” you mutter, hand on his chest. You think he’s going to regret this more than you will. People have always told you he’s the best kind of person. You’re not held in the same regard, and you know it. Some people are made to regret and others are made to be the regret.
“Jesus Christ,” he laughs, but it’s curt and passive. Annoyed, as always, even when he palms at your ass, traces his hands along the bottom of your hiked up dress and pulls you down against him with a bruising grip. “Shut the fuck up.” You tug at the hem of his shirt, pull it off over his head in a swift movement.
“You’re doing a piss-poor job at making me.”
He moves you like you’re a fucking doll, like it’s lightwork, tossing you down against the mattress and swapping your positions in a swift movement. The strength and agility of it makes your head spin. He’s not supposed to make your head spin, he’s supposed to make it ache.
But no, no. You do ache for him. All of you aches for him, for his calloused hands and the roughness of his jeans against your thighs and the soft contrast of his lips against everything else. It’s embarrassing. You can’t believe he’s got you like this, hands pinned above your head while he buries his tongue in your mouth, grinds his hips against yours. The coarse denim is almost painful on your sensitive skin, but the growing bulge pulling the fabric tight is more intoxicating than any cocktail.
“You’re such a fucking brat,” he says, bites a bruise against the skin just above your clavicle. “Spoiled little shit.”
He sinks to his knees, big blue or green or whatever fucking color his eyes are today watching you intently, boring into you with blown, hungry pupils. His fingers trail along your underwear, pulling the thin, lacey fabric to the side, and then removes them all together. He gloats when he runs his thumb through your folds. “So fucking wet.”
“It’s not for you,” you goad.
“Oh?” He nods slowly, spreading your slick with the steady digit, watching you carefully for reaction. “For who then?”
Your eyes flutter shut when the pad of his thumb presses against your clit, circles it slowly, teases you. He’s unfocused, his mind lapsing and giving you a much needed in, a clear shot to piss him off. “Your teammate.”
“Fuck off.” You first.
“You’re right, Charles,” you speak slowly, careful to control your breathing, to hide every tell you might have. “Someone should shut me up. Do you know anyone?” Without warning, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curls them like someone had given him a diagram of your body. You gasp at the suddenness of it all. Yeah, he mutters, utterly delighted with himself. Yeah, I think I know someone.
You roll your eyes, push his head down, down, mouth onto your core. There, in the midst of licking a long stripe through your cunt, he fucking laughs, shakes his head with a subtlety you’d never perceive if it wasn’t for the tip of his nose bumping your clit when he does it. At least he can follow basic fucking instructions.
His dick must hurt pretty damn bad, all hard and swollen in his pants, because he’s unbuttoning his jeans and freeing himself from the constraints of the fabric while lapping at you, the other hand still fucking into you with steady pace and hazy curl. You can’t see it, view obstructed by the mattress and limbs and hair, but you can tell by the way his shoulders move that he’s trying to get himself off at the same time he works on you.
You’re not going to make his job that easy. You require all of his attention, pure and undivided and hopefully just as infuriated as you are. You reach down to the apex of your legs, pull his head up by his chin. “Just fuck me, already, you prick.”
He rises to his feet, shakes his head, “you’re a needy little thing,” he remarks. Needy? You haven’t fucking seen needy.
He guides the head of his cock through your folds, spreading slick and spit and smacking himself against your cunt.
Your lips purse into a sharp line. “Don’t tease me.”
“Why not?” He taunts, “you’ve been teasing for hours.”
“It’s different,” you grumble.
“How?” You could strangle him, him and all his questions. What’s a person have to do to get fucked properly around here? You already sacrified your morals by pulling tight against the navy blue sheets. A woman can only make so many sacrifices.
You groan, heavy and exasperated. He’s such a pest. “It just–oh, fuck you–” without warning, he plunges into you, buries himself in your cunt until he bottoms out, skin on skin and the sore sting of him stretching you. Your fingers bruise into his arms, nails scraping over his shoulder blades with a gasp. He gives you no time to adjust to him, rutting into you with deep, measured thrusts. What was that, he prodes. Somehow, you find the poise to stabilize yourself, to reply smugly. “it just is.”
His objective isn’t your pleasure, no. That would be his prerogative, a side privilege, a requirement in his quest to get you to close your mouth and stop pestering for once. Making you come is just another box to check.
You don’t fuck someone if you’re not going to finish, though. Sleeping with Charles might be a lapse in judgment, but being someone’s play toy, letting him reap without sowing, that’s a complete disregard of your dignity
Your fingers find your clit, circle it in just the right sequence, combining with the curve of his cock to push you closer, closer, closer to the edge of the fucking world. Your entire body burns, everywhere, all over, all at once you sweat. Tell me–he insists, voice short and breathy. Tell me when you’re going to come. “I thought you were trying to shut me up?”
“Just, fuck, just tell me.” He palms over your breasts, still covered by your bra and the fabric of your dress, however thin. “So many fucking clothes,” he grumbled, stalling inside you, hands slipping under your back, between you at the mattress to pull you off the bed. You hastily pull the dress over your head, toss it somewhere onto the clothing cluttered floor. Better? You ask. “Better,” he nods, bites your bottom lip roughly, licking against your teeth. One of the hands that explore the skin of your back make quick work of the clasp on your bra, dropping the straps from your shoulders and your back is against the sheets again, his hands groping at you, pinching your nipple between his middle and ring finger, working over it until you’re humming profanities and huffing into his mouth.
Hate and desire is such a fine, blurry line. Anyone who tells you differently is a liar.
“M’gonna,” you choke on your words. “I’m–shit–I’m coming.”
“Yeah,” He picks up his pace, maintains a steady, toe-curling rhythm. “Come for me,” his voice heavy and growled. “Come on my dick.”
You do. You come for him, hard and long, wrapping a leg around his hip in a failed attempt to still him, to just be full of him and nothing more. He’s stronger, though, and fucks you through the whole thing, faster, harder, big hands braced on your hips for leverage. You explore the idea that a person really could be fucked in half, forced right open.
“Good try,” you sputter, shaky and broken words leaving your lips before you’ve found a gravity that isn’t him. You lean up to kiss him, wrap your hand around the back of his neck and pull him to meet you halfway. Your fingers tickle the short hair at the nape of his neck, raise goosebumps to his skin. “Maybe next time,” you hum into his open mouth.
He spits a long string of saliva into your mouth when you move to close the gap. You laugh around it, down it in a single gulp and lick your lips, sticking out your tongue to showcase your empty mouth, big innocent doe-eyes watching his reaction, his eye roll and devilish smirk.
“Like I said–” you start, but he’s flipping you over, tossing you around like a ragdoll. You giggle, high on the teasing and the taunting and then he’s fucking your face into the mattress. He’s got your hair gathered up into a ratty ponytail, uses it like a handle, forcing your back into an arch, your ass to perk up into the air.
God, he’s so fucking deep, turning you into a mess of bruises and sweat stricken skin. Your hips bounce back against him, angle in any imaginable way in an attempt to feel him deeper, to feel him in your stomach and your chest and your head. To feel him everywhere that counts.
“Putain, taking me so good, baby” he groans, lets the praise and the pet name slipping past his lips in a moment that goes unnoticed by neither of you. He smacks your ass with a firm hand, trying to mask his words after they’ve already been spoken. Your eyes roll back into your head and you come again, without warning. You decide before you get to think about it that it was the stinging imprint of his hand that pushed you tumbling over the edge. Whatever the real reason, you’re up two-nothing, or, depending how you look at it, he’s the one winning.
That’s all any of this is, one big game. A power struggle. You’re always fighting to win, and this is not different. If there’s a way to lose at a game where everyone is supposed to win, one of you is going to fucking find it and force it on the other.
You’re the one doing the flipping, now. The pushing and the shoving so he’s on his back. You straddle him and he gives you this look like he’s fully pussy-drunk, sick and euphoric and floating somewhere far from here. You’re so winning at this. “Jesus Christ,” you poke, “wipe your fucking drool.”
His entire face contorts when you sink down onto him. Everytime you think you’ve reached a limit, he finds a way to hit a spot impossibly deeper than the last. His hips lift up off the bed to meet you halfway, rutting into pleasure spots you didn’t even know you had, hand moving to your cunt, thumbing lazily at your clit, leaving you fuzzy and drunk in a mess of mumbled moans above him.
When you come for the third time, messy and sweaty, nothing that leaves your lips is distinguishable, a mess of French and English and curses and nonsensical mewls. “Fuck you,” he moans, breath shaky when he pulls himself out of you. Your body clenches around air, aches for him to return.
He does, after he moves you back into the position it all started in. “So close,” he tells you, sinking slowly into you, his sigh hot and alcoholic on your shoulder. His pace is slow, then fast, then slow again. He’s as rapid as his breath is irregular. You better pull out–you groan, every muscle in your body strung out and exhausted and you’re coming again. It’s blinding white behind your closed lids, ears ringing and muscles flexing involuntarily. He’s wrecked you, finally, left you a mumbling mess.
He pulls out almost in sync with your orgasm, jerks himself no more than twice between your legs before he’s coating your stomach in hot stripes of cum, loud, guttural moans leaving his lips in a way that looks and sounds practically pained. “Christ,” he heaves, watches on as your fingers dance through his orgasm, spreading it over your skin and coating your fingers. You don’t break eye contact when you stick two of them into your mouth, swirl your tongue around them tauntingly, sucking them clean and pulling them from your mouth with a pop. You hold the clean hand up for him to see, palm facing him. When you turn it, you pull down all but your middle finger, flip him off cockily.
He swats you hand away, “Never fucking again,” he tells you.
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” you scoff. “I never want to see the inside of this apartment again.”
“Why are you here, then?” He remarks, turning the corner into what you assume is the bathroom, tossing a towel to you from across the room. You clean yourself up before anything dries, before coming up with a quick rebuttal.
You don’t come up with one, mind as tired as the rest of you. This game has been exhausting. “We’re never talking about this,” you say, pulling your dress over your head, stuffing your bra into your handbag because you aren’t sure you have the strength to clasp it closed. “Ever.”
“No shit,” he says, tosses your underwear in the general direction of you.
You bend over to pick them up, step into them with the snap of the elastic. “Promise me.” You have no idea where your shoes are, but he’s already ushering you out of the room, herding you down the long hall with wide, swooping waves of his arms.
“I promise.”
“Pinky,” you say, spot your shoes haphazardly stepped out of in the entryway. You don’t have any memory of them ever being on.
“Absolutely not.”
“Charles,” you lean against the wall to slip your heels on, hook up at him with a sober glare. He closes his eyes like you won’t be able to see them roll behind his lids, pinches the bridge of his nose and squints before dropping a heavy breath, holding out a pinky to you. You interlock it with yours. “Thank you.”
He pulls his hand from yours, turns the lock on his front door and swings it open, fingers wrapped around the edge, other hand gesturing out into the hallway. “Get the fuck out of my house.”
“With pleasure,” you say, stepping past him and into the well-lit hallway of sprawling marble floors. You stop in front of the elevator, press the button and wait for his inevitable comment.
“The whole brat-schtick you’ve got going on isn’t as believable when your leg shakes underneath you,” he calls down the hall. You don’t turn your head to face him, just extend your arm in his direction and flip him off. You hear his chuckle as he latches the door shut behind you.
Everything about today has been dreary–from the near constant mist that falls over the city, to the chilly temperatures, to the poor excuses for men that grace the screen of your dating app. This is not how Fridays in your twenties are meant to be spent, sulking in the dark of your bedroom after a miserable day at work.
You’re supposed to be out, partying with friends and making drunken decisions that have you waking up in a stranger’s bed after a good night you hardly remember.
God, you need to get fucked. It’s been months. Two months and ten days–not that you’re counting. Because you’re not. Counting. You aren’t.
You’re just restless, basking in the loneliness of the night, unable to shake the weight of your thoughts, of two months and ten days ago. Of Charles and how infuriatingly good he’d made you feel. The complexities of your relationship, the shift in the very DNA of what you know, it makes your heart race–a messy muddle of annoyance and desire that yearns to be untangled.
You give up on the dating apps, know that even if you do match with someone, there’s nothing that can be done to solve your problem tonight. You opt instead to scroll through social media aimlessly, searching for any distraction from the ache in your gut. Your hand unconsciously slips under the hem of your shirt, cups your breast while you scroll and scroll and scroll. It does little to quell your struggles. In fact, the game is over the moment you become conscious of your hand’s placement, the moment you start to massage your breast, to run your fingers over your nipple until it’s hard and perky.
You switch to the other breast, fingers gently tracing over the skin, sending chills up your arms, pinpointing the ache in your core. Your hand slides down your stomach, dips below the waistband of your shorts, into your underwear. You’re so worked up–pent up, reaching a boiling point.
Your middle finger glides through your folds, grazes over your clit, teases the slick at your entrance before dipping in, collecting enough to spread it around. Your clit is swollen, needy like the rest of you, and the pad of your fingers do little to relieve the pressure. Your fingers move clockwise, then counter. Vertical and horizontal and every combination of every direction and even though you can’t remember the last time you were this horny, this desperate to come, you can’t.
You slip in a finger, and then another, try to find the right curl and the right spot–to no avail. Now, you’re thinking about his fingers, about how much bigger his hands are, how his nimble fingers pumped in and out of you with sheet-gripping, whimper-inducing pace.
Your phone taunts you, his contact behind the locked screen just waiting to be messaged.
You try to resist. You hate him. He hates you. God, he knows how to fuck you, though; veiny hands and thick cock leaving you a writhing mess. Fuck. Fuck, why can’t your fingers move the way his did?
You cave, reaching over to grab your phone and text him. Hey. What are you up to tonight? It’s a mistake, you know that it is. He’s so damn annoying, there’s nothing about him that doesn’t drive you up a wall. Frustration makes the heart go fonder, you suppose, or maybe the cunt ache harder.
Within moments, your phone is buzzing against your palm with his reply. Chilling at home. You coming over?
You roll your eyes. No.
Ok.
You bite your bottom lip so hard you think you might accidentally draw blood. It’s phantom, almost, the way you can so perfectly imagine the sting of him stretching you out, the soreness of his bruising kisses, the swollen, wet head of his dick slapping against your clit. Come over.
You couldn’t pay me.
Door’s unlocked.
Give me 20.
You’re in the bedroom when he knocks. Three times, you wonder why he isn’t just walking in. You ignore the banging, let the universe decide for you if he’s meant to turn back and walk his happy ass out of your building. The universe decides he won’t be doing that, though, because he knocks again. Louder this time.
You pull yourself out of bed, feet creaking on the hardwood floors as you move to pull the door open. “I told you it was unlocked,” you grumble.
“Eh,” he shrugs, dumb fucking grin on his face. “Wasn’t up for your games.”
You internally debate just how bad you need him here, if it’s worth all the trouble that is him. It’s not, almost certainly it isn’t. You invite him in anyway.
“So, what’s the deal? Can’t get yourself off, so you call me?” He teases. Your frustrated blush gives you away before a witty comeback can slap the smirk off his face. “Oh my god,” he chuckles. “I was fucking around, but really?”
There’s no point in trying to lie now, not when your face has already betrayed your trust and revealed the truth. “Calm down,” you groused. “The last thing this world needs if your head to get any fucking bigger.”
He continues laughing like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him. You want to smack the smile off his face, dimples and all. “The last thing this world needs is for this–” he gestures between the two of you, “–to become a thing.”
You mock his movements, the dumb look on his face. “This is not a thing. It’s just two friends–”
“–We aren’t friends.”
You sigh through gritted teeth. “Two not friends helping each other out.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, chews on the inside of his cheek while his eyes trace your finger, head to toe and back to head again. “You do know how ridiculous you sound, right?”
You breathe out in resignation, heading down the hall towards your room. “Can we just get on with it?”
“No.”
You stop in your tracks, turn on your heels. What the fuck is he here for, then? “No?” You close the gap between the two of you, plant your hands firmly on either side of his jaw and kiss him, all tongue and spit and rough lips. You knock him off balance, falling out of step when he kisses you back with a matching intensity, hands hovering over your hips. He doesn’t rest them there, you can feel the warmth in the space between your skin and his, the force that pulls you together.
When he does settle his hands, it’s not to deepen the kiss, to swallow any more frustration. It’s to put distance between your mouths. “I want you to–”
You nibble on his earlobe, cut him off with your hushed words. “I don’t give a fuck what you want, I want–”
“Show me how you touch yourself,” he commands, voice failing to waiver to your hushed level, an air of snugness to him.
“Charles,” your voice cracks with his name, a hint of your under the surface insecurity peeking through, putting themselves on display for him. Here! Here! Look at me!
“Show me, or I’m leaving,” he says, and it’s all throaty and husky.
(Eleven minutes later)
Legs spread for him, two fingers moving busily against your core, circling your clit, teasing your hole.
He stares at you like he can see your fucking soul, watches from his spot across the room, leant against the old wooden dresser, arms folded and ankles crossed. You stare back–harder, maybe–like if you win the little contest your cheeks won’t burn so bright, you won’t feel so exposed, so vulnerable, so embarrassed.
Those feelings fade, they do, with each flick of your wrist. With every glance of his hungry eyes to your fingers, to your cunt, tracing their way up and down your body, you feel calmer and calmer. And when he runs his hand over his mouth, along the stubble of his jaw and off his chin, you’re closer and closer.
It pulls whimpers, soft and slow and sweet, from your lips. There’s a sick thrill to it, to him seeing her like this, all needy and open and sensitive. It’s empowering, almost.
He breaks no more than twice, watches every brow quirk, lid flutter, and lip twitch with raw, intimate eyes. He’s less interested in what you do to yourself, the curve of your fingers or the noises they create, than he is in the way you react to the movements.
“You’re not even fucking watching,” you say, the letter sounds falling to your breath, hitching as your fingers angle just right.
“Watching what matters.”
“Oh? And, uh–” you huff. “What’s that?”
He laughs, dimples digging deep into his cheeks. You’ve always thought they made his smile so childish, like you can’t take anything seriously when it comes from someone with primary-school dimples and giddy eyes. You don’t struggle to take it seriously, now. “You’re thinking about me.”
Your eyes flutter shut, a soft sigh parting your lips. “Says who?”
He pushes himself off the dresser, saunters over with heavy feet, stopping at the foot of the bed. “What are you thinking about?” He humors.
Your eyes roll. You’re thinking about a lot of things. Half a dozen, atleast. About your fingers, the way they move against your swollen cunt, sticky with creamy slick, and how his fingers are that much longer than yours. About how loud he walks, how his heavy feet stand at the end of your bed, crossed arms that pull his t-shirt tight across his chest. About the fact that you’re not sure you locked the door behind him because you were so distracted by the way his sweatpants hung from his waist. About how he doesn’t bother to adjust or hide the protruding bulge under the fabric right now. About the curve of his cock, about how pathetic and full it makes you, utterly unable to spend time thinking about anything but how well he stretches you out. About his hair, flat and straight and wholly unstyled, how your hands would mess it up so nicely, tug and twist until he has something smart to say. Beyond frustratingly, he’s right. As you quickly approach a high, breath quickened and movements desperate, all you’re thinking about is him. “Things.”
“Mmhmm,” he hums, ever the rake, unsatisfied with your response.
You add a third finger, steady pace and a held stare. The muscles in your leg twitch. You’re so fucking close. “What are you thinking about?”
He sways, rocks his weight from his left foot to the right, runs his tongue over his teeth. “Things.”
A coy smile upturns the corner of your lips. “Mmhmm,” you mock.
He moves around the bed, trails his fingers over your skin; from your ankle, along the bone of your shin, a bruise on your knee. They stall on your thigh, trace small, soft circles on the inside of your leg. “You really want to know?”
He’s such a tease, keeps moving up, up, up, over your stomach and through the valley of your breast. “I–ah– I,” you stutter through your words, fingers working tirelessly to push you over the edge. Restless, further irritated by his delicate touch, his fingers up to your jaw now, slotting themselves there, you nod. “Yes.”
He leans over you, your lips inches apart, open and hot breathed. “Too bad,” he whispers into the space between, closing the gap and kissing you with an insatiable kind of fervor. Your fingers still, your other hand reaching to grip the back of his neck, to pull him deeper into the kiss. It’s a kiss that’s half as good as the sex, the breaking of the unbearable tension that’s filled the room while he’s watched, the promise of what’s to come. A lustful implication. His hand leaves your jaw when you pull apart for air, moving over your stilled hand. “Let me?” He asks, and it doesn’t feel like much of a question, the way he’s already slipping his fingers under yours before you can even squeak out an answer.
There’s something entirely different about his fingers, like the way that you can’t tickle yourself. You can’t predict his moves, every movement of every ridge of his fingerprints is something entirely surprising. “Yeah, fuck, you make, ah, make yourself…” You give up on the sentence, your body failing your mind in its ability to spit out a comeback. Yeah, you wish you could tell him. Yeah, make yourself fucking useful.
He laughs, slides his long middle finger inside you, pumps it twice and slips in another. You gasp at his sudden movement. “You’re embarrassing yourself, baby.”
Your back arches off the sheets. “Don’t call me that,” you seethe.
“But,” he curls his fingers against the spot you’ve been trying to reach all night. A moan tumbles from your mouth and he smirks. “It makes my job so easy.”
“Fuck you.”
“I was going to let you come first, but,” he chuckles. He’s so proud of himself it makes you ill. “If you insist.”
His hand stills, threatens to pull out of you entirely, but you’re covering it with your own, holding him there when you look up, hips instinctively grinding against him. “I’ll kill you. I will.”
You’re pushing him out of your apartment by the end of night, locking the door behind him. Your leg shakes when you slide down the door onto the floor. This is the last time, it has to be. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence. Thrice. Thrice would be a pattern. You won’t let it become a pattern.
You wake up at seven-thirty and your hair is still in knots, your body still aching from him. You find a new bruise every time you look in the mirror. You can’t shake the image of his messy hair, of the feeling of the brown locks between your fingers and the sound he’d make when you’d tug on them.
It won’t be happening again.
#oi#this is getting me sent to hell.#charles leclerc smut#charles leclerc fic#charles leclerc series#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc#cl16#charles leclerc imagine#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 smut#f1 x reader#f1 x you#ferrari
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
RANDOM HEADCANONS. txt as husbands!
۪ 𝆬 ೀ ot5! txt x fem! reader! ◌ ⃘ ₊ 🔗 mini hcs!!! if this becomes a daily occurrence not my fault! ˖ ֗⠀✿ ˖ ⠀KINDA SUGGESTIVE AT SOOBINS SECTION!
YEONJUN...
gets drunk and goes to sleep at your neighbour's place because he thought that was your house.
you had to drag him by the ears.
cries to you about how much he loves you and how he would not be able to live if you didn't say yes to marry him.
tries to take out all the wedding albums and cries while pointing at pictures.
had a full on hiccup session after seeing a picture of soobin and him on his bachelor's ramen get together where they were egging beomgyu.
SOOBIN...
refuses to throw away his waifu body pillows.
"bABE listen TO ME THEY MAKE WONDERFUL PILLOWS AND THEY ARE CHEAP."
tries to watch animes with you and gets uncomfortable when babes with anime racks on screen, fumbling to turn the screen off and if he can't do that—
holds your hand and makes you face all while the anime boobs were jiggling and defying all three rules of gravity,
"babe your pair is the most beautiful pair to me."
BEOMGYU...
whips out his phone and starts recording you fighting another person in the whole foods section in the grocery to get the last discounted item.
screams 'world star' while recording.
totally hypes you up but when he sees the other person's husband approaching
quickly gets a hold of you, and your cart and power walks away before he gets his own ass beaten.
TAEHYUN...
refuses to ask for directions.
at any cost. like he can't believe you would ask him to ask anyone for directions in this modern world of google map and self driven cars.
nastily side eyes you when you suggest that to him.
like a full on.
"maybe there WERE some questions i should have asked before i proposed."
HUENING KAI....
you both have been married for a few months and still can't believe he is married.
fell out of his bed when you woke up next to him because he forgot he was living with you.
called you his best friend when you both went to register for your marriage certificate.
practices, "yes i got married, this is my lovely wife," in the mirror.
he is hiding a very big secret.
he will never tell you but he lost the engagement rings on the wedding day and almost had to be carried to the emergency room.
©ITGIRLGYU 2023! FEEDBACK ATE APPRECIATED!!
PERM' TAGLIST: @impureperhaps @full-sunnies @wonioml
#txt fluff#txt ot5#txt imagines#txt headcanons#txt funny#txt crack#txt x reader#txt scenarios#txt x you#soobin#huening kai#yeonjun#beomgyu#taehyun#soobin x reader#huening kai x reader#yeonjun x reader#taehyun x reader#beomgyu x reader#soobin fluff#yeonjun fluff#huening kai fluff#taehyun fluff#beomgyu fluff#txt reactions#soobin reactions#yeonjun reactions#beomgyu reactions#huening kai reactions#taehyun reactions
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Clear Lilac Eyes (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)
summary: Aemond had bowed and prayed, something he had never done before no matter how hard his life had been.
.
cw/tw: fluff, a bit of angst and hurt, aemond is a good husband, a dad and a king, childbirth, blood, implied war, patriarchy, threats, mentions of violence, threats and tags are not exhausted. Let me know if I miss anything
.
a/n: Wrote this as an alternate ending for Don't Get Sad, Get Even but I thought it was too positive so I wrote it as a standalone.
Also, I posted this as a celebration as my blog turned THREE (3) today! YAY! 🎉🥳 Mannnnn, I used to be a lurker on this app then I started craving for my whatifs then wrote them. To celebrate, I will post for all the characters I have written so far and it includes this one. And maybe I have something in store for the others. 👀 A much awaited comeback hehehehehe if you have any request, you may send me an ask! 🥰 I may write them. 👀 Anyway, without further ado, ENJOY!
Likes and reblogs are welcome!
💚
There was an air of uneasiness that chokes out the life of those who breathe it in. The flicker of fire from the torches and the quiet of the hallways made an eerie atmosphere in the Red Keep.
The shadows, the footfalls and the swish of clothings intensifies the feeling of distress in every mortal present at the birth of the King's child.
This was an important event for the realm as this child may become the first heir to this new era of dragons.
All the dragon-blood and silver-haired were almost wiped during the dance of dragons which happened for only a year.
Except for one.
With his wit and strategy, Aemond Targaryen was able to win the war and was crowned king.
He was vicious and no one could deny him of his throne. Once the swords were down and the white flags were raised, all heads bowed to him.
However, right now, the King's head was bowed to only one, the Mother. The Goddess of Birth.
While the realm was weary for his heir, he was scared to lose the love of his life.
She had always expressed her fear of giving birth. When they were young, she had said to him that if she had a choice, she would rather not give birth. During that time, he thought it was silly. No one can run from their purpose. Especially her, whose sole purpose was to continue her family's lineage. She was a noble and a girl. There was no way for her to continue life without giving birth.
Another blood curdling scream broke from her inside the room. It was loud. Terrifyingly loud. His gut twisted in fear. He had promised her not to enter the chambers while she gives birth but something was egging him on to force his way inside and to stay by her side.
The room was filled with the familiar sweet metallic scent of blood. He had grown accustomed to it on the battlefield and never once the sight repulsed him. However, the white sheets and the white clothes worn by the maester and midwives were all covered in blood. Her blood. There was too much blood around her. The sickening feeling swirling inside of him tore new fear as he rushed forward and watched her delicate face, pale and deathly. Her lips dry and her hands cold to the tips.
"My Lady wife, look at me, my dear. I beg of you " He watched her closely as her eyes fluttered softly at the sound of his voice. She looked at him and tried her best to give a smile but the look of it made him regret forcing her to go through the pain of giving birth. She slowly opened her eyes and looked at him before it closed with a deep sigh. He squeezed her cold hands with worry - he prayed that the Mother will show his wife mercy, as she did to all the mothers who had gone through similar pain.
A tiny scream of life caught his attention. He looked behind him and there it was, his child. He never saw that she had finally given birth and was blinded with worry as he rushed in. His small bundle of joy was wrapped in the familiar green and gold linen his mother used for him when he was born. His pride and joy finally came and his heart was filled with unfamiliar warmth. He had never felt like this before.
Without removing his hand that held his wife, he asked the maester to help him place his little dragon on his free arm. The silver protruding hairs on his head had proven he was his child. He looks so small, so full of life as it cries and he shushes him. He had never felt more at ease as he was surrounded with his family. The family he chooses and who chooses him. His love for them runs deeply and he could never express how grateful he was for them.
"It is a girl." The sound of the maester's voice brought him back to where he was sitting and he looked at him. The maester's face did not hide his disappointment but he will forgive him for now.
A girl?
A smile broke through him and he apologized inside his head to his daughter as he called her wrong. With a gesture of love, he placed his nose on top of hers and his heart was full as he heard her stop crying and coo at him.
He was overfilled with happiness. It feels like nothing could go wrong.
However, his joy was short-lived when he felt his wife's hand loosen its grip to his. He had now realized her palm was colder, almost like ice. His head whipped in her direction and he saw the familiar feeling of impending death.
No. Please. Not her either.
The wrong feeling in his gut came back again and he ordered the maester to help his wife. They rushed forward and he stepped back as he cradled the child, who was now peacefully sleeping on his arm. She must have been tired as she forced her way out to this world. She was so innocent and pure that she did not realize the terror that was eating away at his father's core.
He had watched them closely as they tried their best to bring his lady wife back to life. She looks so small, and fragile. He was afraid that they would break her as they moved back and forth to revive her.
The wet nurse of his child had asked and begged him to go out but he refused to do so and did not leave the room until the maester had told him that his wife was safe from harm. No one could tell when she would wake up but he was relieved that she could recover now.
At last, he had entrusted his child to her caretaker and asked the others to leave them be. Him alone with his wife. He waited for the sound of the door closing, before he broke down. With shaking limbs and eyes blurry with tears, he cried and kissed her hand.
He apologized for what he had put her through. He apologized for what she had to witness.
He apologized for exposing her to violence.
He apologized and apologized until there wasn't anything he could say to her.
If the life of his wife would be the retribution for his sins then he would never forgive himself.
That night, on his knees, he prayed and prayed for her to get better until there were no words he could utter to the Mother.
💚
Three days had passed and she was still asleep. He had smiled at her sleeping form as he recalled his interaction he had with his daughter. She was fussy and loud, just like her mother. He knew she would grow up with her mother's tenacity and boldness.
Ignoring her pale face and thin body, he bit the inside of his cheek and continued his story. This was worse than war. Sitting beside her and watching as she fights for her life. Waiting and not being able to help her. He hoped that his stories would make her feel strong.
He never liked the idea of her missing the growth of their child. He knew her better and this will make her sad. She had expressed that she had always wished for her mother to see her grow when she was young but she died too early for her to even remember her face, which people had claimed that they looked quite a lot like each others'.
He could never deny that there is no moment that he never missed her. Every inch and corner of Red Keep reminds him of her. Half of his life was him being with her. He wanted each and every waking moment of his was to be with her.
Swallowing his selfishness and pride, again, he prayed for her to get well and wake up soon. He bargained to all of the Gods that he will do anything and pay for it in his power to make it come true.
💚
The council room was obnoxiously loud. He watched them quietly like a hunter, staring down its prey.
If he had the choice, he would be with his daughter and wife. But alas, he had to create a strong foundation for this new nation for his lovely daughter. He had to muster all the patience he had to stay still and listen to them.
After the discussion about the trade and economy, suddenly, all the old men present looked at him warily. Even without them uttering a word, he knew what they would tell him.
A searing hot anger rises through him but he feels calm. Calm enough to not hesitate to stab and kill with ease, just like what he did during the war. Or maybe he could ask Vhagar to bite them off in half or burn them alive.
"Congratulations on having a girl, your grace. How was she?" He forgot that man's name but he believed the one who first opened his mouth was a Baratheon.
"My girl was doing well." He replied curt and short.
He saw how some of the men gulped in nervousness at the sound of his voice. He intended for them to feel the venom and challenge them to continue so he can cut their tongue. They looked nervous and fear was all over their features. Only Larys and Cregan, looked somewhat calm and remained quiet.
"We're happy to h-hear that." The Baratheon continued with eyes wandering around his allies, like a helpless sheep waiting to be slaughtered. Aemond moved back and leaned on his chair, he wanted to see them all on a better view. He lay his head to his hand as he stared them down.
The silence was loud as everyone stayed seated and waited for each other. No one dares to. They were afraid. Aemond, the King, was ruthless. They knew bloodshed would be inevitable if they opened their mouths to speak about the dying Queen and the King having no heir after she gave birth to a daughter.
Each one prefers their head intact, except for one. Or maybe the wise old folk of the North had better places to be and so he started the conversation with a tired sigh.
"I thought you have something to say about the Queen, boy." He looked at the young Baratheon who was seated across him with emotionless eyes.
The Baratheon stared at Cregan and the air shifted. The old wolf calling his name had given him confidence to open his mouth and talk about the real reason why this council meeting was held in the first place.
"Your grace, as much as we all pray for the Queen to get better. Please understand that we talk about this with the clearest intention in mind. After what happened to the Queen and the uncertainty of her health, we believed that it would be better to take another wife…..for the sake of our budding kingdom. In that way, we could secure an heir." He spoke with an air of superiority. As if he truly knew what he was talking about.
Aemond stared at the man. He doesn't know how long it was but he just looked at him. The silence was uncomfortable and some of the gentlemen in front of him looked nervous as they waited for him to speak.
"Y-your grace?" After some time, the Baratheon spoke again.
He breathed in and finally, with an intense stare at the fool in front of him, he spoke with a neutral chilling tone.
"Did you know how the war started in the first place, boy?" He tipped his head and waited for an answer.
Not knowing what to reply, the Baratheon boy blinked and looked around for help. But when no one could give him an answer he replied, confused.
"Your grace?"
"When my beloved lady wife was almost dying from childbirth, I suddenly remembered how and why we were all here. Why thousands of lives were lost. Why did dragons almost die and were wiped out?" He said with a menacing smirk.
"You see, it started on this very council. Who were greedy for power to have the dragon blood on their lineage. To have their blood on the throne. And a foolish king who wore his heart on his sleeves. Those greedy old men pretended to truly care for him by using the memory of his wife and in the end feasted on his heart, voraciously. "He was way too lenient for his own good and once he realized he was being used, it was too late to change anything." My mother once told me.
And I — I always saw my father as someone who swims along the current because he trusts way too easily, not knowing that there were sharp rocks waiting for him at the end. Even if I knew he wouldn't give me the love of a father as he should, I respect him for being the king. I believed he did his best to be a good one and a fair father to us. It doesn't mean it was enough though."
Aemond stared from afar as he recalled how he envied his sister. How she got all the love they deserved to have too. It was never their fault to be treated that way and so he blamed all of it on her. But after the war and during the time his wife had suffered the similar fate of the former Queen, he realized how lonely his father might have felt. He realized how his sister might have suffered from being a girl. It was a strong slap on his face as he sat in the middle of this council and watched how these men didn't care about what he had to endure and how the life of his wife was the only reason why he was keeping sane. They will never understand, never.
"Your grace, w-we cannot understand-"
"Of course you wouldn't. None of you would." He cut him off before he could continue to rebuke him.
"If the Queen dies right after this meeting, those who had agreed to have me married for another one would be beheaded for treason. If she did not survive even though her body has been doing well for days, I will treat her death as intentional from all of you. Speak again of her that way, head will roll, and blood will soak the iron throne. The only reason why you do not have a mad King, who craves death, was because of her."
He stood up and did not care with the way the men yelled in unison of their protest against what he said. The only ones who stayed seated were Larys and Cregan, who both shook their heads. He did not care if they agreed with him. His wife will not die and he will protect her even if it means he has to be a Mad King.
💚
He stayed seated beside her, just like what he has been doing these days.
He chooses to be with her at night. He cannot stand to sleep in their room without her. It feels empty and cold.
The barren room, even though filled with gold and riches, feels like another room in a gloomy castle.
Each night, he stayed with her. Talk to her until he falls asleep on her side. He will either hold her hand or weave his hand through her hair, to soothe her. Sometimes, he even sings to her in High Valyrian, hoping that she will hear him and finally open her eyes. She always tells him she loves his voice when he speaks his native tongue.
He waited and waited but it seems like today was like any other night. She needed a whole day of sleep to recuperate. He slowly closed his eyes after he kissed her goodnight. And prayed again that tomorrow, is the day she will smile at him again.
A caress…
He cannot help but smile at the soft feathery caress on his face. It reminds him so much of how she wakes him up in the morning. What a beautiful dream..
A dream…
He frowned when he realized it was just a dream. She was still asleep and sick. And with his brows knit together, he relinquished the soft touch of fingers on his face. It feels familiar and welcoming.
Just a bit more, he wanted to feel that she's with him.
He was slowly going back to sleep, after what happened today, he seemed tired than usual, and it did not take long as the sleep tugged him back again when a tap jolted him awake.
Even though the war ended a long time ago, his senses were still heightened and he was glad he wasn't wearing his sword or so he probably would have killed whoever forcefully woke him up.
A smile….
He stared, mouth agape, when he saw you giving him a tired smile. He blinked and then, he panicked as he rushed forward at you, careful not to hurt you with his weight.
"My love.." He said with so much worry in his voice. He was feeling the tears threatening to come out of his eyes as he gazed at her pale face and dry lips. He doesn't even know how he will touch her. A moment of hesitation, his hands stopped midair as he panics that he might break her. What if he hurt her unintentionally and she fell asleep again?
He watched her as she tried to move her mouth but failed. She swallowed and tried again. This time he went to where the water and cup was placed and he helped her up to drink. She was thirsty and her mouth is probably dry from being asleep for a long time. Aemond calm yourself! She needed you more than now.
Once done, he carefully assisted her to lean on the headboard and she sighed with relief.
He was just looking at her. And she was looking back at him. It took a while, the staring, until his face contorted with relief and then, he cried. He was shaking as he held her hand. She felt her fragile hands weave through his hair as she shushed him. He knew she was smiling. Glad to be back on his arms.
He never felt so relieved and so thankful.
All his life the people, his loved ones and even the gods did not like him.
No matter how much he tried his best. No matter how much he was better he will never be chosen for he was only a second son. He was there as a safety but never the one.
But you choose him. And never did your love wavered.
He never felt so hopeless when you were in pain and bedridden.
He never felt so useless despite doing his best to be the strongest for his family.
It was the first time he felt so inadequate and weak. That he gave all of his strength to kneel and pray for you whenever he could. He begged and promised that he would do anything in his power just so he could have you back.
And now, crying in your middle like a child, as you held him as tight as he did, he prayed for gratefulness.
💚
A week after you woke up, you are still not strong enough to walk outside.
You relinquished the sun on your window and watched as Aemond carried and sways your daughter.
You have a feeling that the reason why he was able to be in your room, as much as he could, was because he threatened the nobles every time they tried to stop him. You tried to talk to him once, compromising that he doesn't have to be with you, almost the whole day, but he shrugged and rolled his eyes, stating that he would rather be with his wife than be surrounded by men.
Aemond can be stubborn but he never runs from his obligations so this was truly new for you.
You giggled as you watched your lord husband's eyes widen from surprise. He was teasing your daughter by placing his finger in her small palm, when she closed and squeezed him tight, never letting go. His eyes softened when she cooed at him.
He looks so different from when they call him the one-eyed prince for being vicious and fearsome. You were truly loved by the gods for witnessing this interaction and being one of the centers of his affection.
"I will make her my heir." He said with a plain voice, as if he was asking you how you were.
"My love?" You frowned, confused. You have witnessed Rhaenyra being crowned heir and how the war started from there. What is going on?
"I will change the law to make the eldest an heir. No matter what gender they may be, they will be given the same education and treatment, fit as the next ruler. If the nobles disagree, not that I care about them, I will also add that a female heir and noble will always have a noble child. Compared to a prince, a boy, the one she would carry will have noble blood in their veins. I will use my life, my reign to establish this. My daughter will be heir and no man, no noble, will be able to take that from her." The initial worry and confusion you felt from earlier vanished, as you watched him share his plan with the softest eyes. The setting sun at the window, creating a soft silhouette of him carrying his daughter. He loves her more than the throne. Something you have never witnessed before.
It warms your heart and you never thought you would fall deeper in love with him this much in this lifetime. You will forever be happy that he chose you.
"My love…..you always prove to me why I choose you every single waking moment of my life." Without thinking you opened your mouth and spoke the words that always lingered in your end.
Surprised, he stared at you and then, he smiled in awe. You don't even need him to speak for you to know that his eyes and soften feature was him telling you that he loves you.
#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond x you#prince aemond#house of the dragon#hotd#aemond fic#hotd fanfic#hotd fic#aemond x reader#aemond fluff#prince aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond#aemond one eye#hotd aemond#aemond targaryen x you#aemond targaryen x female reader#eydi andrius#fic: clear lilac eyes
1K notes
·
View notes
Note
AITA for “yes, and”-ing the idea that I’ll divorce my husband?
I (32F) married my husband (35M) thirteen years ago. We have three kids and I thought everything was going fantastically well for us both. And then just last month we ran into “the one that got away.” Let’s call her Agatha (35F). Agatha was polite about meeting me, but didn’t stick around, basically went “hi, nice to see you, nice to meet you, gotta go.” My husband seemed agitated, but I didn’t think much of it. I didn’t know about her being the one that got away then.
We ran into her again on our regular date night, which was suspicious in hindsight. My husband insisted on this specific restaurant that neither of us liked much, and I went with it because it seemed so important to him, but lo and behold, Agatha was there with some friends!
My husband dragged me over to talk to them and, while they were all pleasant company, he kept trying to get Agatha to leave the table with him and she was like “no” each time, getting more and more blunt the more times he asked. Finally, and I can’t believe he did this, he leaned in to try to whisper in her ear and the guy sitting next to her grabbed his shirt collar and yanked him back. Turns out Agatha’s been married for seven years and neither of them have been pleased with the texts he’s been sending her.
I asked her what the hell she was talking about and she grabbed her phone out of her purse and showed me. I was shocked and FURIOUS. He’s been blatantly flirting with her, even when she reminds him that he’s married and outright told him to stop! And THAT was how I found out she was “the one that got away,” which didn’t feel great!
Agatha then turned to one of the guys at the table, Randy (probably 40-something M), and asked what his ex’s divorce lawyer’s name was, because with the amount Randy complained about her, she’s got to be good at her job. The rest of the table laughed, with the guy sitting next to Randy (Eddie, around the same age as Randy I think) elbowing him in the ribs, and Randy rolled his eyes and said he’d find it.
This is where I may be TA. I leaned forward a bit, because I’d dolled myself up and the girls are some of my best assets, and asked if that meant he was single. That got the table laughing again and Randy was like “no, remarried, sorry” and Eddie was like “I’m single, feel free to look me up once you get divorced.” Eddie had really nice eyes and I have a weakness for those, so I started bantering with him about the dates we could go on once I dumped my husband. The table was laughing along with us and egging us on, and I was having fun, so it wasn’t until my husband slammed his hands on the table that I even remembered he was there and could hear us.
My husband and I left together, because we came in the same car, and he was FUMING. I was also pissed at him for the flirting, so I gave and am still giving him the silent treatment, but looking back, maybe talking to another man about our future dates right in front of him was a bit too far.
I’m still divorcing him, but AITA for talking about the dates I want to go on once I’ve dumped him in front of him?
What are these acronyms?
189 notes
·
View notes
Note
I read your review of Poor Things and I was wondering if you had any thoughts on the section in Alexandria? It was horrifically executed on many levels but narratively, that part of the film is about Bella learning about class structure. She rebels against the cruelty of society through charity then by working as a prostitute, during which time she has cruelty inflicted upon her instead. Finally, she realizes that God’s creation of her was ultimately cruel, and then she runs away with her ex-husband-father only to realize that her prior self-mother was fundamentally characterized by cruelty, especially to her “lessers.” She then decides once again that she does not want to be cruel, but then she achieves this by taking God’s place as the doctor-patriarch and ruling his household with a new pet goat. The entire film is also about Bella learning about feminism: the arbitrary oppression of women is not only nonsensical, it’s bad! But then the ending has her reproduce almost all those power structures and cruelty she claims to reject, and has the unfortunate consequence of positioning her as ultimately equally cruel/callous as God, the guy she meets on the boat who shows her all the starving people, and her former self-mother, etc. I was wondering if you had any thoughts on why this is or like, what the director’s message was beyond self-contradiction and taking cheap shots at starving people?
so i would quibble a bit with the idea that bella's experience in the maison-close is exclusively or even primarily portraying sex-for-pay as a site of cruelty. i think it's more depicting paid sex as work, and work as unpleasant and repressive, and that's why the maison is the site where bella gets involved in socialist politics—if moral philosophy is the arena by which she responds to the injustice of the poverty in alexandria, then labour politics plays the analogous role where the maison is concerned. her problems there aren't inherently with the idea of being paid for sex, but with specific elements of the work arrangement (eg, she suggests that the women should choose their clients, rather than vice versa). ofc she has some customers who are cruel or thoughtless or rude, but i didn't read the film as suggesting that was universal to sex work, and the effect of the position is more to demystify sex, for bella, than to convert it into being purely a site of trauma or misery. now i don't think this film offers a particularly blistering or deep analysis of sex work or socialism or wage labour, dgmw, but i do think the function of the maison is different narratively to that of the alexandria section.
anyway to answer your actual question: yeah so this is really my central gripe with the film. lanthimos (slash his screenwriter tony mcnamara) spends much of the film gesturing toward bella's growing awareness of several hierarchical structures that other characters take for granted: the uneven nature of the parent/child relationship (god took her body and created her without asking); class stratification (alexandria); the 'civilisation' of individuals and societies via education and bio-alteration (bella's talk about 'improving' herself; her 'progression' from essentially a pleasure-seeking child to an educated and 'articulate' adult). these three dimensions often overlap (eg, the conflation of 'childishness' with lack of education with inability to behave in 'high society'), though, most overtly, it's in that third one that we can see how these notions of improvement and biological melioration speak to discourses about the 'progress' and 'regress' of whole societies and peoples, and voluntarist ideas about how human alteration of biology (namely, our own) might produce people, and therefore societies, that are better or worse on some metric: beauty, fitness, intelligence, morality, longevity, &c. this is why i keep saying that like.... this film is about eugenics djkdjsk.
the issue with the alexandria section to me is, first, it's like 2 minutes (processed in the hollywood yellow filter) where the abject poverty of other people is a life lesson for bella. we're not asking any questions like, how is that poverty produced, and might it have anything to do with the ship bella is on or the fantastical lisbon she left or the comparative wealth of paris and london...? secondly, everything that the film thinks it's doing for the entire runtime by having bella grapple with learning about cruelty, and misery, and the kinds of received social truths that lanthimos is able to problematise through her eyes because she's literally tabula rasa—all of that is just so negated by having an ending in which she bio-engineers her shitty ex-husband, played as a triumphant moment. i don't even inherently have an issue with the actual plot point; certainly she has motive, and narratively it could have worked if it were framed as what it is: bella ascending to the powerful position in the oppressive system that created her, and using her status to enact cruelty against someone who 'deserves' it—ie, leveraging her class and race within the existing social forms rather than continuing to question or challenge them. if that ending were played as a tragedy, or a bleak satire, it would at least be making A Point. but it's not even, because it's just framed as deserved comeuppance for this guy we were introduced to in the 11th hour as a scumbag, so it's psychologically beneficial for bella actually to do the sci-fi surgery to him that literally reduces him to what's framed as a lower life form. unserious
#the favourite and the lobster also have some troubling body and disability politics and i think this is a throughline with lanthimos#but this one is particularly egregious to me given the ending lol#poor things
212 notes
·
View notes
Note
¹⁰⁾ a dingy truck stop after ten hours on the road
bucky x buck x josie road trip vibes
(-: had fun with this
/ / /
"Papa," Josie said, pushing her foot against the back of the passenger seat where John was sat. Gale looked in the rearview mirror, offering a gentle chiding for kicking the seat- his husband tilting his head back to look at her.
"Hm baby?"
"Why aren’t we goin’ to Wis-con-sin in an airplane?"
John hoped she never grew out of the way she sounded out long words. And shared her current sentiment.
He laughed lightly to himself, reaching across the console to massage the back of Gale’s neck. "That's a question for daddy to answer I think,"
"Because daddy is trying to save us some money."
John hummed- half because he found Gale’s playful indignant tone with him endearing, and half because he knew the real reason.
“She had a hard time on the plane last time, don’t wanna put her through that again.” He’d said across the kitchen table from him when they sat down to hash everything out.
And it wasn’t an off base assertion- their trip to New York six months ago had been somewhat of a disaster in regards to the travel aspect. He wasn’t exactly itching to relive it either- and dreaded seeing his daughter upset. But there was a flip side.
“So next time we go out east we’re gonna drive for two days?” John asked softly as he leaned back in his chair. “Gotta push her a little Gale, it’ll get better the more she does it.”
Gale chewed on his lip, digging the ball of his foot into the kitchen floor. “Only one day of drivin’ to get to Wisconsin.” He said after a minute, looking at something on his laptop. “And it’d be cheaper than three plane tickets.”
So John let him have this, under the agreement that he’d be quite a bit more hard pressed to road trip to New York.
Josie tossed the topic as quickly as she’d raised it, leaning forward to get as close to them as she could from her seat.
"Didja know I'm gonna be six soon?"
"I sure did,” Gale said, tapping his fingers on that steering wheel. “You makin' any big plans?"
"Mhm.” She replied, dropping back against her seat to look out the window. “Gonna go to coll-ege."
John didn’t know if he liked the sound of that so soon, and saw what looked like the same thought cross over Gale’s face. He chuckled, lifting his eyes towards her in the mirror.
"Already? What are you gonna study peanut?"
"Ummmm," Josie started, tilting her head. "Horses, and and rabbits, and birds,"
"You know Uncle Rosie knows a lot about birds, you should talk to him about that." John said, glancing back towards Gale- concerned when he noticed that he seemed deflated.
By the end of the hour the five-year-old had chatterboxed herself right to sleep, John reaching over to give Gale's thigh a little squeeze.
"You okay? We can switch off at the next rest stop,"
Gale didn’t say anything for a minute, taking a little breath in like he always did when he was trying not to cry.
"She's gonna go to college someday, gonna leave," He said, voice wobbly.
John moved his hand back to the nape of his neck, rubbing his thumb there in a circle.
”Well she's not goin' when she's six at least." He said lightly, his own emotions about the reality of what awaited them in about twelve years starting to coil in his throat.
Gale went quiet again, for so long that John moved his hand to reach forward and turn the radio back on.
Until Gale broke the silence.
"I want another one."
John stopped mid-motion, his eyes widening as he glanced at the small blue screen of the radio display. He leaned back slowly in his seat, feeling his husband's eyes on him.
"You do?"
Gale’s nod in affirmation answered that.
It wasn’t something John was opposed to- he’d had his own moments of thinking about it, and almost bringing it up to Gale himself.
There was just a piece to it all that he felt less certain about.
"You thinkin’ of doing it the same way as last time, or,” He started, and the way Gale’s eyes seemed to focus on the road ahead gave him a feeling as to where his answer was headed.
“I- y’ know, maybe I just,” He started. “We missed so much.”
And there it was- the same stipulation that kept John up at night if he let him.
On the one hand, embarrassingly, the thought of an infant- of being responsible for someone from scratch like that, terrified him.
But on the other, every little thing he realized they missed out on with Josie made his heart ache. Having about seven photos from the first four years of their daughter’s life just wasn’t how it was supposed to be- he thought on occasion.
Before he could find the words to respond to Gale they were pulling into a rest stop- and suddenly feeling suffocated in the car, John couldn't get out fast enough.
Opening the back door, he gently shook Josie's foot to rouse her from sleep. She groaned when she realized she was being woken up, moving away from him with a huff.
"I know sweetheart," He said softly, undoing her seatbelt and helping her down. "Go can right back to sleep in a minute."
The rest stop was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the fluorescents that were on their last leg overhead. When Josie had washed her hands and they were about to head back out, she stopped- sleepy head drooping against the back of John's legs.
Obliging to her wordless ask- he scooped her up, pausing for a moment to brush the hair out of her face.
He ran the back of his hand along her cheek, it hitting him suddenly that she looked closer to her sixth birthday than she had before. Looked less like the little baby faced four-year-old that became his daughter overnight- and more like a big kid in a way that made a lump form in his throat.
When he made it back to the car with her Gale wasn’t in the driver's seat anymore. He was standing outside it, phone to his face- looking pale.
John got Josie back into her car seat and shut the door before circling back around the front of the car to him.
"Thank you Natalie- okay, John's here, I'm gonna call you back."
Natalie, John thought, and froze. The only Natalie they knew was their social worker from Josie's adoption.
"Why's Natalie calling?" He blurted out the second Gale hung up.
Dragging a hand over his face and pushing it through his hair, Gale tried to steady his breath. But his bottom lip trembled, John feeling more nauseas with every second that it took him to start talking.
When he finally did talk, the words that left his mouth made him sick all the same.
"Josie's mom had another baby- another one she can't keep."
"What?"
The utterance flew out of his mouth before he could form a more coherent response, and he felt his own eyes widen.
They'd never had any contact with the woman since her rights had been terminated by the time they were in Josie's life. The last they'd been told, over a year ago now, was that she was facing child neglect charges.
Despite his efforts to focus, he struggled to fully comprehend Gale's words as he continued to talk.
"Natalie said she called us first because we have Josie. The baby came early, he’s got- she said he’s stable now but-”
"We're turnin' around, right?"John interjected, feeling like it wasn't even a question he needed to ask given the conversation they'd been having all of ten fucking minutes ago.
Gale paused like he was waiting for John to take it back.
But when he didn't, he nodded- pinching the bridge of his nose as he did. "Yeah- yeah of course we're turning around."
80 notes
·
View notes
Text
BRF Reading - 15th of May, 2024
This is speculation only
Cards drawn on the 15th of May, 2024
Question: Are Meghan and Harry actively trying to kill The King?
As I was shuffling the cards for this reading, two cards flew out. I was going to draw one card for Meghan, one for Harry, and one for them as a couple, plus the underlying energy, but those two cards told me everything I needed to know.
This is a two card reading
Warning: This reading contains some of the ugliest energy I have ever encountered in all my years of tarot reading. Please prepare yourself before you read it and do not read it if you are feeling at all upset/despondent/shaky/insecure etc. You need to be protected by God/Jesus/the angels/the universe/whomever you call upon to protect you before you read this reading.
Answer: Yes
Card One: The Three of Swords
This is the card that flew out of my deck as I was shuffling. One look and I had my answer.
The Three of Swords is a card of grief, heartbreak, despair. It shows King Agamemnon being killed in his bath by his wife Clytemnestra and her lover.
Clytemnestra brooded over past injuries done to her by the King until she decided to kill him. In this card she represents Harry, with his belief that the BRF has ''victimised' him (e.g. by taking away his military honours).
Her lover, Aegisthus, believed his family has been betrayed by the father of Agamemnon and had been conceived to take revenge on the family. He represents Meghan, with her belief that the BRF has hurt her (eg no one asked me if I was Ok, no one cared about my mental health, they are racist and all her other lies) and her desire for vengeance on them.
The picture shows the death of the rightful King by Clytemnestra and her lover. I am taking this as the death of The King at the hands of Harry and Meghan, in answer to my question. Harry and Meghan want to kill The King. They want to inflict the grief and heartbreak and despair of his death on the BRF.
Card Two: The Eight of Swords in reverse
The energy of this card is of stress. The reverse position has intensified the upright energy (as it sometimes does) instead of reversing the meaning of it. It also adds a delayed time element to the energy.
Harry and Meghan want to use stress to kill The King. They wants him to feel trapped, hemmed in, unable to move or escape, especially mentally. This card can represent someone who is trapped/paralysed by their thoughts and who feels helpless, and that is the energy of the card - what Meghan and Harry want to invoke in The King.
There is a very strong relentless energy to this card - Meghan and Harry will not give up until The King either a) abdicates in their favour (yes, I know that is not possible, but we are dealing with two delusional people here) or b) drops dead from stress - stroke, heart attack, cancer, they do not care.
There is a vicious energy to this card that lashes out repeatedly until the desired object is achieved - an energy I can only describe as stabbing, over and over again, until the person is dead. There is a chant going through my mind of 'stab stab stab kill kill kill' as I type this. The 'stabs' are emotional and stress wounds.
These two cards tell me that Meghan and Harry have planned to kill The King and they will not stop until it is accomplished - and then they will turn their attention to Prince William.
This is truly ugly energy - vicious, self-centred, and laser focused on their desires with no thought of anyone else.
Because it is so ugly I asked for a third card as confirmation, just to make sure I am on the right track about this, as it is a horrible thing to say about anyone.
Confirmation Card: King of Cups in reverse
The King of Cups is the card for Scorpio, and as such it represents King Charles, who is a sun sign Scorpio. In the reverse, it shows King Charles in decline, weakened, not strong and happy (that would be the card upright). The card represents King Charles in his role as a person, father/husband/uncle etc, and not in his role as King. To have it in reverse as a confirmation card is a definite yes. Harry and Meghan want The King to die and they are actively trying to bring this about.
Just in case there is any doubt, the card after this was The Seven of Swords.
The Seven of Swords - deceit, trickery, lies, scheming - with the pictures showing Orestes creeping into the city/palace to kill his mother for murdering his father. The card showing a son in the act of murdering a parent and the meaning of the card - thief, lies, deceit, scheming - confirm the message above and add to it - Harry and Meghan are trying to kill The King so they can steal what is his for themselves.
Notice that all the suit cards I am pulling are Swords - the suit of thoughts, plans, and strategies. Another confirmation. There is no emotion involved here (that would be Cups) - just a cold and merciless desire to remove someone who stands in the way of their plans.
This is revolting energy and I am going to stop now.
A note of hope - just because Harry and Meghan are actively trying to do this, there is no guarantee that they will succeed, especially if we pray for The King and for Prince William and his family and/or we send them protective energy. St Michael the Archangel is a good angel to ask to protect them if anyone is so inclined.
100 notes
·
View notes
Note
HC? Or something crossed my mind idk, Tommy volunteer as a big brother/or just to help in a group home, and have a special bond with one of the kids there since he sees himself in him..
because I messed up the responses, this is @thatmexisaurusrex's request for Buck & Tommy calling eachother on a slow afternoon at work.
This is m-rated, nearing explicit, towards the end. Nothing too graphic, but definitely suggestive. also, since we're just existing in previous universes of mine today, this one fits in the same world as the prompt for "bobby overhears Tommy call him his father-in-law".
-
Evan sighs, sinking down onto the ground on top of the firehouse. It’s beautiful outside, but the team is still on shift for roughly eight hours, and the shift has been…slow. They’ve only seen three calls so far, which feels a little ridiculous considering it’s a nice day outside, which usually means cookouts, bonfires, and generally reckless behavior when it comes to fire.
Three. Fucking. Calls.
He spins his phone on his knee briefly. He tries not to call Tommy too much on shift. They already live together and work in the same field. Granted, Tommy has never once complained about it in the past three years, and he always seems rather cheerful when Evan does call him on shift. But still.
Any decision Evan thinks he has to make is quickly silenced when the phone starts buzzing in his hand, with the bolded text of “Husband” framed by two blue hearts pops up on his screen. A smile crawls its way across his face as he flips the phone into an upright position and clicks the little green phone icon, accepting the call.
“Oh thank Jesus,” Tommy mutters with a groan. “I’m so bored.”
Evan laughs. “Yeah. Me too.”
“Are you guys doing any better over there?” Tommy whines. “I’ve been on two flights today, and they were both done within an hour.”
Evan chuckles again. “Three calls so far. Last one was about four hours ago. Cap says everything coming in right now has been east of Pasedena or down in Panorama City. Too far out for us unless it goes three-alarm or higher.”
Tommy huffs, leaning back wherever he is. Evan assumes he must be in 1701 because it looks like he’s on the floor of a chopper.
“I have deep cleaned everything in sight, inventoried the helicopters and both planes, even helped with some of the inventory on the trucks,” Tommy says. “Checked up on current registrations and certifications. There’s not a damn thing to do.”
Evan can only smile at his husband as the older man complains. For all the times they’ve complained to one another over Facetime while on shift, Tommy has never been one to actually complain about being at work with nothing to do.
Tommy huffs, but after a moment, his eyes are on the screen of his phone again, and he furrows his brow. “Why do you look so entertained at my misery?”
Evan smirks at him. “I like seeing you flustered. It’s kinda hot, honestly.”
Tommy gives him that look; the one that silently tells him to tread carefully, unless he wants to find himself pressed into a mattress or countertop sobbing for release.
“Hey, so what was that story Charlie was telling at the wedding,” Evan asks, referencing back to their discussion over cigars a few weeks back.
“No, Evan,” Tommy replies, and the tone is there now too. Evan’s lips twitch with unfettered cunning, knowing he’s pushing Tommy’s buttons.
“Oh come on,” Evan states, clearly egging him on. “Didn’t I hear something about a screwdriver down?”
Tommy’s jaw clenches and he just shakes his head, although there’s no hiding the way the corners of his mouth are twitching, desperately trying to give in to the smile that he’s trying not to give his husband.
“You know we’re going into a four day after this,” Tommy reminds him, narrowing his eyes at the screen. “You might want to tread carefully.”
Evan raises an eyebrow at him, grinning lasciviously back at Tommy. “I think you assume that I didn’t consider that already.”
Tommy stares at him from the tiny screen, and even though nothing about his expression changes, there’s a multitude of unspoken words shared between them. The smoldering in his eyes that tells Evan about nights pressed back-to-chest, nails drug across his chest and Tommy grinding with fervor, drawing sinful noises out of Evan like it’s his job. The slight twitch of his eyebrows suggests afternoons lost to ‘don’t move an inch or we’ll start all over’ . The way his tongue slips between his lips to wet them calling up memories of being chest-to-chest, teeth biting necks and shoulders, nails dug into spines, tongues lapping into mouths that swallow sobs like water in a desert.
“If you’re not careful, you’re going to turn yourself up to eleven for the next four days,” Tommy warns, and the smirk on Evan’s face entirely suggests that he does not care. Turned up to eleven is the implication of total control turned over to his husband in the bedroom, whereas one is them meeting on an even field, usually when they want to take it slow and eject romance into things.
But Evan just did that for a week and a half in Havana. He’s more than happy to turn things up to eleven. Let Tommy work him over.
“Please, Daddy,” he replies softly, pulling the phone close to his face so that Tommy hears him but no one else does. His tone is just this side of breathy, barely moaning. Still, Tommy’s neck flushes, and Evan knows he has him.
“When do you get off again,” Tommy asks, switching the subject. Evan pulls the screen down on his phone and then back up.
“Like seven and a half hours,” he replies.
Tommy nods. He’s up and moving again, and after a moment, Evan hears a door close, and the smirk reappears on his face. Tommy’s finding privacy.
Evan pushes himself up from the ground, walking further from the door for rooftop access. It’s unlikely that anyone is coming up to bug him, given that Eddie was taking a nap last he checked and Hen and Chimney were locked into an intense game of Mario Kart. Athena was around for a visit, keeping Bobby entertained.
Tommy’s phone rests on some kind of countertop and Evan grins as he sinks down into a chair.
“So when you get home,” Tommy states, pulling at the zipper on his flight suit. He’s doing it slowly, and Evan can tell it’s on purpose. He gulps down the wave of saliva flooding his mouth.
“Yeah,” he rasps.
Tommy reaches a hand in, pulling up the t-shirt he has on under the flight suit, although his hand stops halfway up his chest, only giving Evan the slightest sight of his abs where the zipper ends. Tommy leans forward then, pinning both hands on either side of the phone, out of frame.
“You’re going to be a good boy,” Tommy states. It’s an order. Evan gulps, feeling himself starting to get uncomfortable in his pants. The slightest shift of his shoulder has Tommy lifting a hand, wagging a finger at him.
“Ah ah ah,” he chastises. “No touching. Clock starts now and ends on Sunday.”
Evan’s eyes go wide. They’ve never started something this early, let alone gone that long. Three days is about as long as he’s handed over control to Tommy, and even then, it usually begins and ends in their bedroom. This is a new layer, and he’s hot under the collar just thinking about the implications.
Tommy stares at him for a long moment, that extends long enough that Evan realizes he’s supposed to respond. If he has any reservations against the ideas, now would be the time to say something. Granted, Tommy would never be upset with him if he decides to safeword out early, but he’s also silently asking if it’s okay to start now.
“Okay,” Evan rasps, clenching his hand into a fist and resting it on his knee. It’s all he can do not to moan because he swears just by saying yes he gets harder. Tommy waggles an eyebrow at him, pulling his t-shirt. He adjusts it and fiddles it the zipper, clearly trying to play with Evan the same way the younger man was just playing with him.
“I’ll be home an hour later,” Tommy reminds him. Evan nods. “I expect to find you silenced and waiting.”
The slightest moan passes Evan’s lips. Tommy wants him gagged and on his knees, hands behind his back.
“Sh-…C-can I prep?” Evan stammers, his voice husky with wanton.
It’s Tommy’s turn to smirk now as he shakes his head slowly.
“The only way mi amor gets to prepare is if it happens naturally. Everything else will be taken care of when I get home.”
Evan shudders, and the heat in Tommy’s gaze, the grin on his face, is almost enough to make him feel like his heart is going to give out. He's not allowed to do anything to himself, but if he's aroused, Tommy expects it to happen without any assistance of his hands.
“Fuck,” he mutters softly. Tommy grins at him, and then a moment later, someone is knocking on the door of whatever room he’s in. Evan can hear Lucy’s voice briefly, asking questions but not clearly enough that he can make everything out. A moment later, Tommy glances back at the phone.
“I have to go. I’ll see you at home in a while.”
Evan nods, forcing himself to take deep breaths. “See you at home.”
The call ends a moment later, and he has to stay in the chair and keep breathing. There’s no way he can go back inside right now; he’d be roasted for his unmistakeable boner.
He checks the time on his phone again, and it’s all he can do to stifle a groan. Eight hours. Eight hours until he’s with Tommy in person again. He can hold on until then. He has to.
Eight. Long. Hours.
58 notes
·
View notes
Text
Congrats on 3k, Flor!! @raincoffeeandfandoms - I absolutely love this idea for the theme! I decided to go the snack route here. I hope you like it - I’m sorry it took me a little bit to post it. Enjoy! :)
I’D LOVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! - YOUR COMMENTS & REBLOGS HELP ME WRITE!
When The Kids Are Away…
John Shelby x Reader
Warnings: mentions of drinking, language
Word Count: 1038
Summary: John and (Y/N) Shelby very rarely get a night off, so they were going to make the most of it tonight.
The couple’s giggles could be heard all throughout the empty first floor of their home. It was rare that this Shelby family household was so quiet. John and (Y/N) very rarely got a night off, so they were going to make the most of it.
They were in the living room, sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace. Two glasses of wine sat on the coffee table, and a bowl of grapes rested in (Y/N)’s lap.
“Ok, ready? Your turn!” (Y/N) exclaimed as she plucked one of the grapes from its vine. John relaxed back against the arm of the couch and got himself ready for his wife to throw the grape his way. “You better catch it!” she said to him, a wide grin gracing her face as she held it up; ready to throw.
“Just throw it!” John egged her on in a lighthearted manner, his eyes wide and mouth open as he prepared to catch the piece of fruit. He didn’t want to wait any longer.
“Ready? Three, two…”
“Throw it!” John cut her off. His impatience back-fired on him greatly when (Y/N) threw the grape his way the second he interjected into her countdown. It missed its mark and hit him square in the eye. “What the fuck, (Y/N)…I wasn’t ready!” he exclaimed, holding his palm to the eye that had just been struck by the fruit.
“You said throw it, so I threw it,” she responded, trying so hard, and failing, to contain her giggles.
“And you missed my mouth by a longshot,” he pointed out, removing his hand and blinking a few times before opening his eye wide to make sure that he was able to see. (Y/N) rolled her eyes at his dramatic actions.
“Here, let me try again,” she said before grabbing another grape and holding it up in her ready position. John only nodded before he also got ready, opening his mouth and focusing on the piece of fruit. “This time don’t try and rush me,” she warned him, waiting a moment before she bit on her bottom lip and focused on the task at hand.
The exchange was quiet this time, but (Y/N) still missed, even with John nearly falling off of the couch to try and catch the grape. He gave her a wide-eyed look and she merely shrugged her shoulders before bending her elbows and raising her palms to the roof in an ‘I don’t know’ gesture.
“Lemme show you how it’s done, darling,” John told her, a confident grin on his face as he swiped the bowl from her lap. (Y/N) let him take it, shaking her head at his confidence.
“Just don’t hit me in the eye, ok?” she told him, her eyebrows raised for added effect.
“Do I ever miss?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Considering we have five kids, I’d say no,” she quipped with a grin, her suggestive statement making him laugh.
“Let’s get serious,” John then insisted, even though he was the one who was laughing. (Y/N) only nodded, watching as he plucked a grape from the vine and held it up. “Ready?” he questioned, watching as she nodded once again. After steadying his aim, John threw the grape and (Y/N) successfully caught it in her mouth.
“Yes!” she exclaimed after she chewed the piece of fruit.
“See? That’s how you do it!” John matched her excitement as he lowered his arms; finished with his celebration. “Told you I don’t miss,” he then added with a smug grin, one that (Y/N) rolled her eyes at.
“Let me try again,” she said then, grabbing the bowl back from her husband, “I promise I won’t miss this time.”
“Alright…let’s see what you’ve got,” John grinned, getting ready to catch the grape.
(Y/N) held it steady in between her fingers, her tounge sticking out slightly as she concentrated on her target. After a few intense moments, she threw it…and it successfully hit John’s right cheek. The couple stared at each other afterwards, neither of the two saying anything until they both cracked up in laughter.
“You missed again, love,” John stated the obvious after he got ahold of his laughter.
“Well I promise I won’t miss with this,” she responded, quickly moving the bowl to sit beside the wine glasses before she leaned forward. She then placed both of her hands on John’s thighs to steady herself before her lips found his.
She only intended to give him a quick kiss, but she should have known that quick kisses were never enough for John Shelby. He grabbed hold of her cheeks with both hands, holding her lips against his to prolong the kiss. Their lips stayed connected until he pulled away and began peppering her lips and the surrounding skin with kisses. She let him do this until she was giggling so much that she needed to pull back and catch her breath.
“See?” she said once her eyes had found his again, “I never miss with those.”
John couldn’t help but chuckle at her statement, taking a moment to bask in her beauty as a sweet smile graced her lips. “You don’t…and I’m damn glad of it,” he grinned before he grabbed hold of her waist and pulled her body into his, making her shriek at the sudden movment.
It didn’t take long for (Y/N) to settle. She happily curled up in his arms as they laid on the couch.
“We should let the kids go to their aunt Ada’s more often,” he suggested as he rested his chin on the top of her head. (Y/N) was only able to hum as she closed her eyes and rested her head back against his chest.
“All this quiet is nice, isn’t it?” although she asked a question, the matter really wasn’t up for debate.
“It is,” John was agreeing with her in seconds.
The two sat like that on the couch until they couldn’t go a few minutes without a yawn. They then moved their cuddle fest into the bedroom, where sleep came over the both of them very quickly.
Tagged: @the-anxious-youth @mystcldydrms @look-at-the-soul @mrsalwayswrite @julkaamazing @evita-shelby @lilyrachelcassidy @shelbydelrey @theshelbyslimited @peakyswritings @watercolorskyy @strayrockette @peakyduchesss @alexxavicry @stevie75 @dark-academia-slut @zablife @cillmequick @letal-y-poetica @depxiety @shelundeadxxxx @areyenotfondofmelobster @padfootdaredmetoo @crabat-the-queen @sebastianstangirl01 @everythingelseisextra @kmc1989 @papichulo120627 @brummiereader @adaydreamaway08 @kissforvoid @raincoffeeandfandoms @peakyltd @johannelis2302nely @wildheartsalwaysburn @dragons-are-my-favorite @jessimay89 @slaymybreathaway
MASTERLIST
#john shelby#john shelby x reader#john shelby x y/n#john shelby imagine#john shelby oneshot#john shelby one shot#john shelby fanfic#john shelby fanfiction#peaky blinders#peaky blinders x reader#peaky blinders x y/n#peaky blinders imagine#peaky blinders one shot#peaky blinders oneshot#peaky blinder fanfic#peaky blinders fanfiction#fanfiction#fanfic#k makes moodboards
328 notes
·
View notes
Text
I commissioned this piece from @quintilli0n (same @ on twitter as well), he did so amazing considering my prompting skills, I was lowkey brought to tears when I first saw it. It's based on this ship from a fic I write, and it is indeed a poly-ship. The fic is a canon-divergent longfic in an AU where the history of Marley alongside the Titan powers are slightly different. Anyways, below is a bunch of yap about what I was thinking when I was drafting this to quintilli0n. I got the idea of this from the 'Three Wise Monkeys', who a lot of people know by the maxim "See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.". Traditionally, this saying is supposed to be for people to avoid evil thoughts/deeds, but in a lot of modern media (mostly in the Americas), it's been used in reference to turning a blind eye to something, which is what I focused on when I was making my reference image. For Annie I chose speak no evil, I found her to be the most observant of others but especially herself. When it comes to observing herself, Annie is very critical and sees herself as a monster for the things she's done, Calie (the OC) and Bertholdt help alleviate some of that but it all comes crashing down when Annie struggles with her duties as a Warrior. For the next few days Annie forces herself to commit various acts of violence in order to reaffirm her Warrior mentality and is afraid of telling any of the other Warriors about her struggles out of fear they'll see her as some sort of "other", so I gave her speak no evil because of her avoidance of speaking out her "evil" deed of struggling as a Warrior.
For Calie I chose hear no evil. If you close your eyes, you won't see anything, if you close your mouth, you won't say anything, but you can't really close your ears, and even if you have something like earbuds in a lot of the time you can still hear the outside world. Basically, unless you're deaf, you'll always hear something, yet Calie is often unbothered by the things she hears. It doesn't matter if it's a wife begging for her husband's life or her own friends' grievances with her, it goes through one ear and out of the other. It's not voluntarily or anything, like I said it isn't possible to just close your ears, it's just how she was taught to live. Even when surrounded by violence, she doesn't hear any of it, so hear no evil felt appropriate. For Bertholdt, I chose see no evil. Bertholdt is avoidant of many, many things. He is aware of this because his ears work, but he decides that hearing it is enough. Having to actually confront, actually see the problems within himself is terrifying. Seeing the atrocities he's capable of committing isn't in him, so he just keeps his eyes closed to the world and to his evils, and instead lets other people (eg. Calie and Annie) guide him through life, even though he knows they themselves are "impaired" as well. Another reason I picked the Three Wise Monkeys as inspiration for my pose references was because of the often forgotten fourth one, "Do no evil". The reasoning was a lot more simple tbh, in the fic these characters do a lot of evil that they often forget about, which ends up hurting their relationships with the other Warriors. Once again, this was made by @quintilli0n, huge thanks to him!
32 notes
·
View notes
Text
READ ON AO3: I will fall in love with you over and over again
for this year’s secret Santa, I got @spicy-apple-pie :D
prompt was domestic damijon on a homestead, bonus if there was porch swing cuddles. I HOPE I DID IT JUSTICE!! HAPPY HOLIDAYSSSSSSSSSS
The moon was sinking lower outside, still just enough to shine through the slit in the curtains. Out in the barn, the rooster began to crow, causing Damian to stir.
He blinked a few times, mouth opening in a silent yawn. His husband was curled up on his chest, a direct opposite to how they’d fallen asleep the previous night. The clock on their bedside table told him that it was 5 in the morning on a Saturday, just around the time that a weekday would start. He struggled with attempting to sit up, only to have Jon’s hand tighten around the sheets.
He was under no impression that the other man hadn’t heard their natural alarm, chuckling a bit as he ran his hand through messy raven curls, sticking up one side with bed-head. Neither wished to leave the little cocoon of comfort and warmth they’d created for the morning sky, but duty called.
“Jonathan.” Damian said softly, voice a bit rough with sleep. “I’ve got to see to the chores.”
“Noooo.” Jon buried his face into the firm stomach beneath him. “Stay. Just for a few more minutes. The chores can wait a few more minutes.”
“The cows-”
“Are on a tight schedule and get milked at exactly six fifteen every morning, you would run outside barefoot in your pajamas to keep it that way. It’s the weekend, we can sleep just a bit longer.”
Damian needed little persuasion, still half asleep and easily lured by the promise of warmth and someone he loved. Still.
“Things need to be done,” he protested weakly, beginning to lie back down. Jon made a noncommittal humming noise as Damian’s hand began to run gently up and down his spine.
“And they’ll still be there in another thirty minutes.”
Jon scooted up to have his face next to his husband’s, bringing a hand to brush his hair out of his eyes. They smiled at each other softly before he destroyed the silence with a cheeky, “I win.”
“Shut up, Hayseed.” The other man grumbled, turning over and tugging the covers up to his shoulders. Jon wiggled under them, setting his chin on his shoulder and arms around his waist in a spooning position.
They drifted off for a bit longer until the light of the moon had gone. The clock hit 5:45 and this time, the both of them got up, stretching and ambling to the restroom.
Jon’s phone played an upbeat morning playlist as they brushed their teeth in tandem, just another part of the daily routine. About ten minutes later, the both of them left the house, exchanging a chaste morning kiss before heading off to their respective chores, an elderly Titus lifting his head from where his bed was and a younger puppy trotting at Damian’s heels.
Damian opened the door to the barn, gently greeting the animals and leading the cows to the proper station, starting the order.
Jon was out in the fields, doing a quick overview of the place and checking the irrigation. Once he’d gone through that, he stopped by the barn to heft the bag of chicken feed over his shoulder and pet their two horses' noses on the way out. The cows had just finished, Damian leading them out to pasture.
The sun rays spiked in the sky, chasing the dark of the night as the two young men worked to kick-start their morning. The chickens waddled out of the coop, ambling towards the feed scattered on the ground. Jon smiled, crouching into their home and plucking the eggs with deft fingers.
Damian passed him with a smile, crouching to greet some of the chickens and the rooster before going to the barn and checking the food bowl of the barn cats, all three of which were curled up in the hayloft.
The horses nickered as he approached them, filling their troughs and checking the water levels. They’d be let out after breakfast into the fields, but for now, they were content to be pet and spoken to lovingly.
A basket full of eggs on his arm, Jon leaned over to the side, making note of the sign of newly sprouting weeds in the smaller garden. They’d be weeding after eating, he supposed.
Damian stepped into the house just as Jon had begun to fill the dogs’ food bowl. The younger pup raced towards the bowl, beating out Titus, who preferred to come closer to Damian to be scratched.
“Aseema,” Damian clicked, calling her to his feet. She bounced back from the food bowl, sitting impatiently on the floor in front of him. She’d been the most recent addition to their ever growing farm family, chosen from a litter their neighbors had recently had. He praised her for waiting, releasing both dogs to eat.
Jon had begun to put the eggs away for the next day’s farmer’s market, Damian joining him in the kitchen to wash his hands and begin breakfast for the two of them.
He’d begun the coffee, the morning meal scent filling the air and aiding the homey atmosphere. He came around Damian’s other side, hugging him from behind and swaying them both in a rhythm that had his husband laughing quietly, leaning back and looking at him with twinkling eyes.
“What are you doing, ya amar?”
“Dancing, duh.”
Jon turned him around to face him, tugging Damian’s arms around his neck and moving them both around the kitchen. He rolled his eyes fondly, stating, “This is not dancing.”
“Shhh, take your training and shove it, this is my dancing in my kitchen.”
“We share this house.”
“Stop being logical, you’re interrupting the magic.”
He muffled his laughter into Jon’s shoulder, letting him move them around the tile floor until both their stomachs reminded them that breakfast was a very much needed meal of the day, prompting them to detach themselves from each other and begin dishing out the food. They ate quickly on the island in their kitchen, cleaning up the mess and setting out to begin a new list.
“We’ve got to weed later today,” Jon mentioned as they walked out, heading for the barn. Damian nodded, adding it to the list. There wasn’t much they had to do, both grateful for an opportunity for a lazy Saturday. They led the horses out into the pasture, checking up on the cows before heading back.
The garden tools were carried to the little patch of earth, Damian kneeling in the dirt to begin. Jon passed him the needed tools, getting his own and beginning himself.
It hadn’t been more than a few minutes when Damian looked over and remarked teasingly, “One would think Superboy would have already had more weeds out than I do.”
Jon scoffed playfully, wiping his cheek with his hand. It only served to smear more dirt on it, his husband noted with affection. “Everything doesn’t have to be a competition, darlin’.”
“Maybe not,” Damian hummed, grinning at the way Jon sped up in an attempt to clear his side of the garden first anyways.
They worked quicker, glancing over at each other, throwing jeers and checking to see how far each was falling behind.
“Didn’t you say it wasn’t a competition, habibi?”
“This is your fault.” Jon accused, pointing the root of one of the offending plants his way. “You knew this would happen.”
“I do know what makes you tick.” Damian’s brow quirked. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see where I was pushing towards.”
“I didn’t think I’d fall for it,” He grumbled, throwing the weed at him. Damian felt the incoming projectile, dodging it but getting dirt on his clothing. He made a face and lunged, throwing one at Jon’s back in return.
Jon squawked as he felt the impact, arms flailing. He turned, armed, and suddenly dirt and weeds were flying in the air, laughter and screeches echoing around the fields.
“I still won,” Damian claimed as they were picking up the fallen weeds. “I had more.”
“Sure, whatever you say.” Jon rolled his eyes goodnaturedly. “We’re filthy, by the way.”
“And who’s fault is that?” Damian brushed off the edge of his shirt. They were both covered in dirt and sweat, more than usual due to the deliberateness of the previous actions.
“Arguably, yours.” His husband gathered the plants and zipped out, dumping them in the proper bin and returning to see Damian scowling at him. It was always rather fun to be the cause of that expression when it was about something unserious as this.
“Mine? Try again, Corncob, I wasn’t the one who shot the first bullet.”
“You started the competition and you egged me on. In a chain of events, you tipped the domino. Rippled the water. Started the butterfly effect.”
Damian opened his mouth to protest, Jon stopping him with a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“You can keep going and stay covered in dirt and standing in the sun that’s only going to get hotter, or hurry up and finish so you can shower.”
“…Tt.” He turned on his heel, calling out the few things he was going to do. Jon nodded, turning the other direction to do the things that could be done with a little bit of help from his kryptonian heritage.
By the time he arrived back into the house, the barely afternoon sun had risen high, bringing a gentle warmth just enough to contrast the still cool breeze of the morning.
There was a folded blanket on the kitchen counter and Jon figured if he checked the fridge, there would be a basket filled with lunch. He sped up the stairs as the faucet squeaked, shutting off the sounds of the shower. His husband emerged a few minutes later, toweling his hair off and having exchanged his work clothes for casual wear.
“In,” Damian poked him playfully. Jon swatted at him, but kissed his cheek as he passed.
“I’m going, I’m going,”
By the time he was done, Damian was waiting with the basket and blanket under one arm, offering his other hand to Jon, who took it immediately.
He swung their hands between the two as they walked up towards the hill overlooking the pasture, just on the edge of their property. Aseema scampered ahead, Titus ambling behind her until he found a spot where he wanted to sleep. Jon spread the blanket under the shade, Damian handing him food and sitting down. It was a rather quiet moment, just silence speaking volumes between the two as they watched what they’d made of life flourish, from the grazing animals to the growing crops, all from a distance.
After the food was eaten and everything packed away accordingly, Damian pulled out his sketchbook, listening to Jon ramble to him about anything and everything. He’d listen to his voice forever, if he could. His hand moved of its own volition, pencil outlining the features of the person next to him in a movement so familiar he wondered if he could draw him with his eyes closed.
“D?” Jon had stopped, looking at him with a lopsided smile. Damian looked up, blinking at him. “Why did you stop? You were making an excellent point.”
“I thought maybe you had gotten bored.”
He tsked, managing to look almost offended. “Jonathan, it’s much too late for these thoughts now. I married you for all of you, and you know very well that if I didn’t want to hear you speak, I’d find some way to shut you up.”
(I love you, I love hearing you talk because it’s a part of you. Don’t feel bad.)
“I know, Dames. “ Jon leaned back, putting his head into Damian’s lap. “Don’t mind me, just my brain being stupid.”
“Tt, tell it to knock it off. Only I can be mean to you.” The tone was fond, the hand holding onto his sketchbook falling to tug affectionately at raven curls.
“Yes, sir,” he joked in return, shutting his eyes as Damian’s hand left his hair and returned to his artwork.
The shade began to get longer, the sun dipping down from its afternoon high. With a sigh, both men got up, Jon dashing to drop off the things from their afternoon in the house while Damian made his way to the pasture. The both of them began to bring in the cows and horses, leading them to their stalls.
Their livestock were cared for and fed accordingly, the both of them bidding them good night, for as the evening settled in, they would not return. The dogs followed behind them both obediently as Jon and Damian began to close up their home for the night.
Stars hadn’t yet appeared when they arrived home, the sun barely beginning to set. The food was heated, warming in the stove as the two settled into their evening, quiet and peaceful as they hung around the kitchen. As Damian walked past to check on the food, Jon moved forwards, spinning Damian around to face him and picking him up, arms around his waist.
“Dami,” He sing-songed, twirling them around a few times cheerfully.
“Jon.” Damian looked down at him, hands holding onto his shoulders and despite himself, lips twitching upwards in amusement.
“Let’s eat dinner on the swing, please?” He whined, nuzzling into the side of his neck.
“You’re a child.” Damian remarked dryly. “I married a child.”
“That’s a yes, right?”
“Put me down and I’ll consider it.”
As his feet touched the ground, he launched a plate at his husband, Jon yelping and catching it. “Damian!”
“You caught it.” He smirked, filling his plate with dinner. Jon made a rumbly noise, hip checking him playfully as he moved to get his own dinner. Titus was snoozing on the porch with Aseema tucked into his side when they got out, the sun nearly gone.
Jon sat, arm stretched over the back of the swing and plate on his lap. Damian leaned back onto his arm, the both of them quietly watching the stars taken over the midwestern sky.
Once the food was gone and plates stacked on the floor, he leaned into him, head falling onto his shoulder and legs curled behind him. Jon’s feet rocked the swing in a soothing rhythm, the soft squeaking blending in with the quiet song of the night.
“I love you,” Damian mumbled, eyes half closed as he rested against his husband.
Jon’s free arm wrapped around him, pulling him closer. “I love you, too.”
“Tell me about the stars,” he requested, feeling a gentle kiss land in his hair. Jon’s voice, soft now, carried through the night as they held each other, the world nothing but the two of them.
Tomorrow will be another day, a new set of challenges and smiles and laughter, each finding new ways to love each other more and more.
#HAPPY HOLIDAYS SPICY#I hope I didn’t fuck it up 💀#damian wayne#jon kent#supersons#jonathan kent#dc comics#batman#super sons#cosmicbird#batman dc#superman dc#jonathan Samuel kent#domestic fluff#They live on a farm/homestead/smth idk#secret santa#gift exchange#jondami#Damijon#Fluff#no angst#domestic jondami for the soul#I hope it’s cute and fluffy#I overthought this wAYYYYYY too much
39 notes
·
View notes