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raindotdrop · 5 months ago

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🔞 vergil x reader | whole new breed

‧₊˚♡ summary: you were turned into a devil to save your life after a fatal attack. adapting to this new form has been okay⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯until you experience your first heat.

‧₊˚♡ word count: 2.2k

The transformation you underwent from human to devil, it was never meant to happen. You didn't know it could happen.

You were meant to die months ago, but your lover didn't allow that.

It was a brutal mission. While your fellow hunters were panicking, already grieving you⎯it took Vergil minutes to recite an ancient ritual. The man sacrificed his own flesh like it was nothing, then watched you rise from your bloody spot on the ground, ready to rejoin the fight.

He reduced fate to a joke that day, spitting into death's embrace for trying to claim you. Claiming you is his job.

Your devilish transition has been relatively easy. You look the same, sound the same, act the same. Really, the only difference is your strength. Nothing feels heavy or tiring to you anymore, nothing hurts.

 Except for one thing.

Does it hurt? You aren't sure. It's... distracting, if you had to describe it. Day by day, you've been feeling more feverish. Needy, lonely, grumpy, dripping. You've forgotten the names of everyone else in your life because Vergil is dominating your foggy thoughts.

He's been working for days straight now, leaving you to worsen in your shared bed. Normally, he answers your every demon-related question and tends to you, but he's gone.

Without him present, the mere thought of him leaves you humping whatever smells like him the most. His pillow is drenched in your fluids, his clothes held up to your nose as you orgasm.

An obscene amount of slick pours from between your legs at all times, to the point where you've ditched bottoms. Your nipples are too sensitive to be covered, too. If it's fabric and not your fingers then it hurts.

Something is definitely wrong, but you don't care about all that human side versus demon side junk. You want Vergil. You don't want this frenzy to end on its own, you want him to come home and fuck it out of you.

On his side of the bed, everything is soaked. You're pathetically attempting to finger yourself at different angles and speeds because you're praying you can replicate the way he does it. Laying flat on the sheets is how you've chased your past few highs, any other position is too much of a chore.

His scent is growing stronger, your fingers pump in and out as you're buried face down in a pair of his boxers. The musk is so powerful all of a sudden, it's as if he's there. You're cumming from the intensified smell alone, shaking harder than you have in hours. Nobody warned you about the sensitivity your senses would develop.

Before you even lift your head from the bed, you're blindly reaching out for another piece of clothing to destroy. Someone grabs your wrist before you can.

With a jolt, you look up, and none other than Vergil is looking down at you. He seems to be studying you moreso than anything else.

"So I was off. I predicted your cycle would strike next week, not now..." he muses aloud, but you barely understand him. Despite Vergil being the one to grab your wrist, you've turned the tides so you're clinging onto him instead, both hands gripping him. Almost in disbelief, as if letting go means he'll vanish.

You roll onto your back using his arm as an anchor, revealing your glistening breasts to him. You're trying to tug him down onto you to no avail, whining rather than greeting him. You blink up at him, as he observes the way you leak like a waterfall from his proximity.

"Beautiful," that word kills you inside. You keep yanking at his arm, animalistically, your demonic side obscures every single word you've learned. "I would have relieved you days ago, had I known. Well, I⎯⎯"

"Vergil!" you cry out in frustration, the only word on your tongue.

Pity flashes on his features when he sees how much discomfort you must be in. Vergil had taken up extra work so he could free up his schedule during your first heat. It pains him to see his incorrect calculations lead to this.

Of course, it makes his pants feel tight and fills him with almost as much desire as you (if that's possible), but he wishes he could have guided you through every single step with care, not be invisible while your heat worsened. You must have been so confused...

"Vergil, please!" you snap him from his thoughts. Propped up on your elbows now, your eyes are watering. Sobbing, almost, and you're sucking on his fingers.

Every cell in your body craves him so much, it feels like you're going to explode. The confusion you felt from your heat's onslaught is long gone, replaced with a 'this is so right' feeling the moment Vergil entered the room.

His wet fingers pop from your mouth and stroke your cheek, coating you in your saliva. The affection in that gesture is your saving grace, you know he's going to please you from that touch alone.

"Alright. I won't keep you waiting." he says, his tone is more gravelly now that he's fully realized what he's going to do. This was unexpected, but he isn't objecting whatsoever.

Your body is so sensitive from the amount of climaxes you've inflicted on yourself, that when Vergil begins to shrug his coat off, you can't tell if you actually just orgasmed from the sight or not. The pulses around your body intensify as he reveals his bare arms to you. Do you want to watch him strip, or are you so impatient you want him to just fucking take you already with his clothes barely hanging on? It's unclear. You begin to paw at his thighs, trying to shred the fabric off.

"Eager little thing..." he coos, swatting your hands away so he can undress with no obstacles. He's stripping faster than ever before, but to you, it feels like he's moving in slow motion. Every second that he's not inside of you feels like a thousand years of emptiness. "I'm here now, don't worry." Despite his reassurances, he's the one who's worried, hoping you aren't in any pain.

Once his cock springs out, leaking precum from the feral sight enticing him, you lunge at it. Instantly, the whole length is wrapped around your lips. You're too distracted to properly suck him off, shaky hands touching him with no rhyme or reason.

Vergil chuckles. "Now, this isn't about me," he says, knotting his fingers in your hair so he can pull your mouth off. You put up quite a fight, common sense clouded by desire. Your mouth isn't the hole that's begging for him, it's just the nearest one, so it reaches in without thinking.

"We have time for that another day." The force he had to apply, it has you tumble backwards on the bed. Gasping on your back, you're already kicking at the air, aching to be close again. Drool stains your chin because you just tasted him after imagining it for so long and your body is screaming for seconds.

You see him sitting at the foot of the bed, fully bare. The sheets beneath him are coated in your release. His precum joins the mix as he rakes over your figure, mind racing with thoughts of how he can tame you when you're like this. It's a challenge that leaves his cock straining in the air.

He sternly says your name right before you try crawling back, and you freeze.

"Lay back."

The authority in his tone gets through to you, so you rest your back on the damp pillows. It takes every ounce of self control not to clamber over to him, but you know he's a man who should be listened to.

"Good girl." You twitch. He notices. "I'll fix this. Allow me,"

Relaxing in this state is impossible, but as you lean backward, the shaking in your body eases up. He kneels in front of your quivering form, still searching for any signs of pain, knowing how long your heat was left unchecked.

Your devil side is shrieking at you to touch him, but your human side finally triumphs over it, laying back so he can ravage you. Stilling yourself, breaths steadying...

An experimental hand of Vergil's rubs at your folds and all that progress is undone. You arch into the mass of pillows behind you, whimpering out, "Vergil.. please, more..!"

"I have to see if you're ready." his stern tone remains, guiding you through this the way he always intended to.

He gathers up slick, feeling you up. Obviously, you're wet enough for him to fold you over and pound you right there, but he still has to confirm for himself. Your comfort matters so much to him, even like this. Once he realizes the extent of your wetness, the fact your pussy has been getting stuffed all day, something primal ignites within him.

"I am... please, I'm so.." your begging doesn't even make sense, but the sweet sound of it nearly has Vergil trip over his words, betraying the composed way he presents himself.

"Yes, you're ready. The things you must have done before I arrived..." he trails off, having to stop himself because that imagery is dangerous territory. "You'll have to show me, next cycle."

His toned arms position themselves near your neck, a snug embrace that you nuzzle into. He wants to hold you if he's going to ruthlessly breed you, never letting you forget how much he loves you.

If only he knew that every moment you're alive is a personal reminder of his devotion, whether he's there or not. His ritual, his sacrifice, his refusal to let you die is why you're here. His love for you transcends biology and reality itself. Human or devil, you're his.

His tip smacks at your entrance and it sends you spiralling. His eyes are fixed on your face, so it takes some positioning to find your hole. He's a demon too⎯the way your face is coated in tears, slick, plus a mixture of his spit and yours, drives him absolutely wild and he has to inhale your scent just like you did with his boxers.

"So beautiful," he echoes his previous words as he buries himself to the hilt, your walls all but absorbing him. The tears of joy that stream down your cheeks are kissed away by his busy lips. You begin to utter out a 'please', which he swallows right up. "No need to beg, I'll give you everything."

He kisses you like a man starved, fucking you hard into the mattress. His upper and lower halves work in tandem to make up for lost time, whispering praises and consuming you.

He doesn't have to hold back anymore with your newfound demonic endurance. To say he's drilling you is an understatement. Everything feels shaky but so right. The sensitivity of your heat-riddled body already has you clenching and cumming around him. Less than a minute in, and you're not ashamed. You're already trying to embrace the next one.

"Let it out," he grunts into your jaw, peppering kisses to it to mask his own sounds. He wants to focus on you, not him. Vergil tells himself you'll receive five climaxes minimum before he comes close to his, but you're making it difficult for him. "Let it all out, that's it... let me care for you, my vixen."

One arm holds you close, but the other has a more important role down at your clit. It rubs circles into the nub, and you're fluttering around his cock again. You feel his length twitch uncontrollably in response, on the verge of emptying himself inside you.

Vergil knows he can't actually impregnate you unless in his devil trigger form. He spent time researching how this moment will unfold for you.

"You'll be safe," is how he expresses this to you, unable to hold back any longer.

You're breathless when your walls are splattered with his seed. He spurts and spurts with no sign of stopping⎯your heat absolutely impacts the one you mate with, you discover.

As you're filled, he pulls himself out so the stream of cum can reach your torso as well. Your stomach leading up to your breasts is coated, then your expressive face. If a body part exists, it's marked by him. Vergil's grunts grow louder than your lustful cries for one singular second before he bites your neck to muffle them.

The fire inside of you feels quenched for a few seconds, like you can finally resume your daily life, before it snaps right back to being unbearable.

You rub yourself against Vergil's weeping cock, silently begging for another round. It's not enough. Will anything be enough? You don't see an ending to this rut, just an urgent dream of Vergil stuffing you again. His cum trickling out isn't a finality, it's lubrication for the rest of the night.

Picking up on your unrest, he repositions his hips with ease. "You and I will be here a while," there's another nip to your neck to accompany the rocking of his hips, "best to get comfortable."

#vergil x reader #dmc smut #devil may cry x reader #vergil smut #mine #AAAAAUUUHHGHH

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simpjaes · 1 year ago

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how about jealousbf!heeseung who takes you to the empty soundproof vocal rooms and stuffs you full with no mercy after you looked at jay a little too much while they were doing their dance practice

tags: front man heeseung, wannabe groupie reader, he's not her bf !! non idol au, they're just in a band !!

wc: 1k

looking at jay was never an issue until heeseung was looking at you.

who would blame you though? it's not your fault Sunghoon always brought you to band practices. it's not your fault that Heeseung never really paid attention to you before they managed to finesse their way onto a label.

then again, it's not like you knew that Heeseung was always looking. You always seemed to share a gaze between him and everyone else too, so it wasn't really a competitive thing until he noticed you consistently looking at jay more and more.

Hah, always the fucking guitar players too. What do they have that he doesn't? Aside from skilled fingers?

Arguably, Heeseung's fingers are quite skilled too. Just because he's the front man doesn't mean he can't fuck like a guitarist.

So, well, it all really started when you didn't show up. It's rare that you don't, honestly, and all the members seem to miss you when you're not there but man.

Jay sure is a fucking asshole.

"I think she wants me." He joked that one day, nudging Sunghoon and watching them both nod in confirmation that yeah, it's probably true.

"I could take her into one of the soundproof rooms, none of you would even know." he said on that same day, giving Heeseung the idea to do it first.

After all, it's not like he hasn't seen you disappear into sticky bathrooms or dingy band van's at several small town shows with other bands and their members. Why would he be any different? Why would Jay be any different?

Exactly. You're a wannabe groupie and Heeseung is far too willing to feed into your fantasy of fucking a rock star now rather than later.

Jay likes the chase. Heeseung likes the hunt.

And so, that next "practice?" Of course you showed up. Bright eyes, slutty outfit, doe eyes blinking in awe at a bunch of guys who haven't even debuted past a burned CD with shit sound quality? Heeseung approaches you.

Being the front man and all, it's not hard to get you alone as the members take their time doing their own work on the new song. Heeseung's vocals were all finished, and Jay was too wrapped up in his guitar solo recording to notice you eye fucking him again.

"Welcome back, we missed you last time." Heeseung starts in a sweet voice, opening his arms out for a hug.

You kind of quirk your brow at him because, well, you've known the dude for like two years by this point but never has he done more than an awkward side hug while covered in sweat and the scent of musk and alcohol after a show or a hard practice session.

"Oh?" You question, surprised by the grip he holds on you.

"Wanna come with me somewhere?" He asks again, even though the question felt more like a demand in the way he immediately starts dragging you away from the recording studio and into the hallway.

You don't really say much, being more of a go-with-the-flow person than anything. You just shrug, following him into what you obviously know is one of the sound proof rooms they've used previously to practice the noise music.

Working out the kinks of a song doesn't always sound so good, yknow? Nobody really wants to hear that shit til it's ready either.

And it's not like you're stupid or anything. You know what this is, when he steps inside and closes the door behind you. In fact, you're entirely down for it despite not really knowing why the band's front man suddenly wants to be alone with you.

"Hah," Heeseung smirks, watching you already start to slip your shirt off. "I knew it."

You just kind of look at him.

"Well, what else would I expect after being dragged in here?" You ask, pausing your movements and allowing your shirt to fall back into place against your waist.

"I don't know?" He laughs back, rolling his eyes at you briefly before boxing you up against the wall. "Jay?"

You smirk.

"Honestly? Yeah. We've been eye fucking each other for ages." You laugh, brushing Jay off entirely. "Didn't expect you to be the one to come after me."

"Well, if you would have stopped staring at his fingers for thirty seconds maybe you would have noticed it."

"What can I say? He moves fast."

"And you think I would? You've seen what I can do with my tongue, right?"

You pause, noting all those instances during shows where he definitely treated his tongue like some sort of mating ritual. Licking up his microphone, flicking it between his fingers, even going as far as flattening it at multiple city girls that seemed to want a bad boy for the night.

"Don't think I have, actually." You roll your eyes playfully, blinking at him innocently. "Care to elaborate?"

Man, he elaborated.

Without another word, actually. Which was a bit of a shock to you, considering he likes to rasp those vocals all night through song and shrieks. Ah, the sounds are so much different vibrating when his tongue is buried into you, moving faster than you'd have expected.

What's worse? You never really noticed how pretty his vocals could sound until he was muttering out words of degradation towards you. He went in raw, explaining that it's his right. That he should be the first to feel your pussy squeeze him dry. Whispers questions of how many other men have been in you like this. Asking if you've always been this breathless for them. Asking why you're not screaming loud enough for Jay to hear, even through the soundproof room.

In reality, your throat is dry from allowing yourself to be loud for him. Rasping and panting confirmations of his filthy words, only to feel him plunge into you harder, harder, harder. Like a mantra of a song he only wishes he could write.

The proof of having you before Jay could, the proof of fucking you better than anyone else could.

By the end of it all, to Heeseung? Doesn't really matter if every other member of his band has a turn with you know. He's only gonna ask what his dick tastes like. He's only gonna ask if they fucked you cross eyed too. Because he knows the answer will be no.

Why?

Because you keep coming back for more. Up until Jay takes note, mentioning a month later to Sunghoon, right there in front of everyone,

"What's gotten into her? She practically ignores me."

And of course Heeseung smirked, giving him the answer he probably didn't want to hear.

"Me."

#heeseung smut #enha smut #enhypen smut #ask #anon #hardthots

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marionthegeek · 1 year ago

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Stede is in the Gravy Basket, Izzy is Alive

The season 2 finale of Our Flag Means Death is odd. It hits weird. I think I know why. And this is going to sound bananas, but give me a chance to explain. Maybe you’ll agree.

It has a huge tonal shift. It seems to speedrun Stede and Ed’s romance. It feels like we’ve missed out on something from the end of episode 7. The fight scenes and pirate plans are nonsensical, even for OFMD. And most egregiously, a prominent character is killed off in a way that feels disingenuous to his story arc, just for starters.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. We need to go back to the beginning of season 2. The season opens with Stede looking more piratey than ever. Beard, sash, earring… oh he’s his own fantasy of a real proper pirate. He’s clashing swords with Izzy Hands and demanding to know where Ed is. He’s dreaming. In the dream he kills Izzy. He and Ed run into each other’s arms while screaming each other’s names. They crash into the surf. Ed says “I knew you’d find me, Babe. I knew you’d find me, Love.” Stede keeps asking if they’re good. Ed dodges the question. Then Ed asked about the smell. Stede wakes up in a crowded room with farting and shushing roommates.

At first I thought the finale was supposed to be just a “satisfying” mirror to Stede’s dream. Stede and Ed call each other’s names and run into each other’s arms in a display that resembles a more grown up version of Stede’s dream fantasy. There’s some wild sword fighting not unlike Stede’s dream duel with Izzy. And Izzy dies.

It does mirror, but I didn’t find it satisfying. All of the characters except Stede feel flattened. Stede gets to make the heroic plan (that we never even hear) while there’s at least five pirates with better skill sets for it in the room. Ed, as Blackbeard, was described last season as “History’s greatest tactician”; Zheng Yi Sao conquered China; Jackie just took out a room full of British soldiers. Izzy and Auntie are right there. You could make arguments that Jim or Frenchie, or pretty much anyone could make a better plan. Then Stede says “It’s only suicide if we die,” which is horrible considering the plan gets Izzy killed.

Stede’s really the only person in that room who thinks Stede should be making the plans. So I got to thinking, what if it's not just mirroring the dream? What if it is a dream? Last shot of episode 7 is an incoming cannonball. Maybe he’s unconscious.

Huge shout out to @Arty_Sunflowers on twitter (I’m not calling it X, fuck Musk) for pointing out that that isn’t the only episode that ends with a cannonball. Episode 2 ends with Jim swinging a cannonball down at Ed’s head. Stede’s not just dreaming, he’s in the Gravy Basket!!!! (Stede even screams “Oh my God!” at the end of episode 7 in the same tone he screams “Oh my God, I don’t want to die.” in s1e9.

Stede’s hopes, dreams, and insecurities shape everything in the finale. And it helps explain the absurdities in the episode when you remember that Stede is living out pulp adventure and romance novels in his head. (He even looks like someone on the cover of one in his episode 1 dream.) But Stede can’t be dead, you say. He’s literally the main character. Well, Ed was dead for a whole episode. Let’s take a closer look.

I could and probably will do another essay on Lucius as a POV character and Ed’s mental health and how the threads they seemed to have dropped aren’t as dropped as they appear. But all of that hinges on me proving the Stede is in the Gravy Basket theory. So for this essay I’m focusing on that.

So for starters we’ve got the cannonball scenes. They’re eerily similar even if the method of cannonball propulsion is different. We don’t know Ed is dead and in the Gravy Basket for about half of episode 3. Neither does he. It makes logical sense you can be there without realizing it for a while. Buttons even said Ed didn’t know whether he was in the Gravy Basket or not in episode 4. It definitely messes with your reality.

One of Ed’s issues is self hate. He manifests Hornigold as his companion. Stede is desperate to be a good pirate and have people be proud of him. And he lives in his fantasies a lot. So his dream shapes his experience. There’s a whole bit about Zheng needing “soft” and Auntie saying she’s proud of her. That isn’t their issue. It’s discordant with the show previously. But it is Stede’s issue. He’s manifesting.

When we first see Stede and Zheng in episode 8, they’re in a familiar spot for Stede, the bridge from episode 1. But why are they alone? When we last see Stede and Zheng in episode 7, several characters are within 5 to 10 feet of them. Did none of them decide to escape with Stede? Izzy, Lucius, and Jim are closest. But we know Pete was there begging Stede to stay down during his fight with Zheng. Archie was definitely in the bar. That's why Jim entered the fight. So why is it only Stede and Zheng at the bridge? Because, going back to rescue others fits into Stede's hero fantasies.

Zheng and Stede also argue about who pulled who to safety and how they got there. Stede waxes poetic about being a failure his whole life, but things always seem to work out for him. He’s such a main character mediocre white guy in this scene. He saves Zheng from two random soldiers, then she has to save him from them. Then they fight a bunch more soldiers on the beach until Blackbeard manifests in full leather from the ocean. It looks cool. But it's absurd, even for OFMD.

Speaking of Ed, he begins the episode waxing poetic about nature and calling fishermen simple. Those things are more Stede than Ed. Pop pop tells Ed, “You have no skills” which is something Izzy said to Stede in episode 5. He also tells Ed, “If you were ever good at something, go do that, you bum.” If Stede’s insecurities could be distilled into one sentence, it would probably be that. (He also talks about being like a wave. I’m not 100% sure it's a The Good Place joke, but it would be thematically appropriate.)

Pop pop also tells Ed he “ruined dinner.” Back in season 1, in Stede’s flashbacks to life with Mary and the kids, Stede thinks he’s ruined dinner. But remember, we also see another version of the scene where Stede is laughing with Mary and the kids. Stede isn’t exactly a reliable narrator. Even in his own head.

Despite it being beyond unlikely, Ed finds soldiers reading one of Stede’s letters. I know physics in this show is sketchy, but this seems like a good time to point out no one found the red silk. Stede wants Ed to read a letter and for it to fix everything between them. The letter, plus Stede being in danger, make Ed swim out, find his leathers, and emerge from the sea with them on, while the music is the Swede’s solo from Stede’s fuckery in s1e6. Stede wants to be rescued by his handsome pirate in leather, again, just like a pulp adventure romance novel. Little chance of Ed swimming out and finding his kit. Even less of him getting leather pants on under the water.

Back to the beach… for some reason two squads of soldiers are wandering around out on an empty beach. A visually incredible fight scene occurs. It honestly reminds me of Pete’s story in s1e2, including flips. Ed and Stede yell each other’s names exactly as in the dream. Like I’m pretty sure they used the same audio track. The same song (I Love My Baby, Nina Simone) starts playing. Ed says “I love you.” Stede says “I know.” (We’ll come back to the Han Solo joke in a minute.) They have a bit more absurd fighting then Ed, Stede, and Zheng sit on the beach complimenting each other. And Ed calls Stede “babe”. He’s never done that outside of Stede’s dream and this moment. He’s called him mate a couple of times. Babe is exclusively in Stede’s head.

Back in the Republic of Pirates, the crew are locked in a cell that is actually the “vista suite” at Spanish Jackie’s. Izzy gets a heroic entrance. It’s as cool as Stede thinks Izzy is. And he gives a speech that sounds like what he probably told Stede to get him to relinquish the suit in episode 5. Piracy is about belonging to something. You can’t ignore the wishes of the crew. Izzy also knows details about Captain Kidd and Pinocchio. Not impossible, but not exactly Izzy’s wheelhouse. It is Stede’s though. He’s obsessed with pirate tales and he read Pinocchio to the crew.

Stede, Ed, and Zheng show up just as Jackie has poisoned a bunch of soldiers. Stede makes a plan, despite everyone else being more qualified. Everyone disguises themselves as soldiers. Now we’ve seen the crew of the Revenge wear disguises. They never do the weird free styling they do here. Only Stede actually looks like a British officer. Zheng at least wears the disguise properly. Suddenly Ed has a multi gun bandolier like Blackbeard in the books. Pete ripped the arms off. Izzy is still wearing his vest. Doesn’t make sense if we’re going for stealth. Neither does not checking hostage Ricky for weapons or putting Izzy and his wooden leg at the front of the group.

If I'm right, Stede wouldn't know Ricky was behind the explosions. However, Ricky is basically evil Stede. He's Stede's perfect foil. All of this is reflecting Stede's psyche. So, of course, it's Ricky.

Izzy gets shot and says quite a lot of nonsense in his death scene. “They love you, Ed.” Um, 3 of them were going to leave like five minutes ago. Ed has made some progress with the crew, but we’re not at “they love you Ed”. The only person who thinks the crew loves Ed is Stede. Stede who weeps for Izzy while most of the crew aren’t showing much emotion. Stede can barely deal with his own big feelings. His fantasy doesn’t give the crew room to have them. Also, given the rest of the season, having Jim just let Ed be the person cradling Izzy doesn’t fit. The crew is also pretty stony at Izzy’s funeral.

I feel like it should be noted the last shot of Izzy in episode 7, he’s got one are around Jim and a hand on Lucius’s shoulder. He sat in Wee John’s lap in episode 6. Reactions to his death don’t make sense.

Also, Izzy’s terrible grave marker is very … Stede. He’d think it was a brilliant idea.

I didn't understand at first why Izzy had to die, even in Stede's dream world. Stede clearly likes him a lot better now. Why kill him? Well, it's because we're supposed to think Buttons is there to go to the Gravy Basket for Izzy. When actually he's already arrived in the Gravy Basket and he's there for Stede. Also, mentors die in pulp adventure novels. Stede sees Izzy as a mentor.

They go aboard the Revenge for Lucius and Pete’s wedding. It’s cute that the crew performs the ceremony, but I’d venture a guess that’s because Stede doesn’t know a captain should do it if it's legally binding. Stede does love the romance of it all. The sudden uptick in monogamy is also very Stede. He barely understands monogamous relationships. Polyamory is beyond him.

Then Stede and Ed, who earlier told Zheng they’d help hunt Ricky, go back to the island where Izzy is buried to start an inn in a run down shack. Stede knows Ed wants to do this because Ed told the (Taika’s) kids that they ran an inn. We hear Ed ask ��Jesus, what is that smell?” Now, at first, I thought Izzy, because Ed “knows the smell of my rotting first mate”. But what was the last thing to happen in Stede’s dream? A fart joke.

Last scene is Buttons landing on Izzy’s grave. To retrieve Izzy from the Gravy Basket? No, Izzy’s not dead. He’s with Jim and Lucius, probably watching over Stede’s corpse. Buttons is there to retrieve Stede.

This theory fixes the plot holes and dropped threads problem. We’re coming back to them next season. Ed's amends making should be far from over. And we see several moments during the season where he acknowledged that. And yet here on the island they've set up a horror movie and called it a happy ending. Well, Stede is the type of boss who thinks things are fixed with a pizza (Calypso) party. In Stede's mind, this is a happy ending. But really Ed is still off finding himself, Stede is (temporarily) dead, and Izzy (who is not dead!) is probably guarding Stede's corpse.

They haven't resolved the domestic violence thread, but they haven't dropped it, either. Izzy is alive. Stede and Ed aren't together (yet). There's still time.

This also explains some of the freewheeling nonsense David Jenkins has been spouting in articles. Ed doesn’t see Izzy as a father figure and mentor, Stede does. Stede almost turned to mush when Izzy approved of him. And David is writing a three volume adventure novel. Han Solo (Stede) is in carbonate (the Gravy Basket). The perfect end to the second act. See, I told you we’d get back to the Han Solo joke.

I still have problems with the season. I really think they need a sensitivity reader. Even just implying a newly disabled character was fridged is certainly a choice. Especially given the amount of time devoted to how the character handled the disability. The DV scenes were brutal, as well as the suicide attempt, and the Human Puppet joke. I think they need someone trauma informed and disabled in the writer's room. (David Jenkins hit me up!)

Overall, I liked season 2. Especially once I realized Izzy wasn't dead. I'm looking forward to season 3, the conclusion of the Gentle Beard arc, and hopefully 6 seasons and a movie of Izzy (to be clear, he's not captain) and the kids sailing up and down the coast being gay and doing crimes, occasionally checking in with Stede and Ed.

Seriously, David, call me.

Historical Note: IRL Blackbeard died on November 22, 1718, killed in a naval battle off Ocracoke Island in North Carolina. IRL Stede Bonnet died December 10, 1718, hanged in Charles Town, South Carolina for piracy. IRL Israel “Izzy” Hands survives piracy, death date unknown. I know this show doesn’t actually care about historical accuracy, but this lends a little support for my Ed died, then Stede died, and Izzy isn’t dead theory.

#our flag means death #ofmd #izzy hands #stede bonnet #gravy basket #Izzy Hands lives #David Jenkins I just want to talk

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redfoxwritesstuff · 3 months ago

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A Misdemeanor Of The Heart: Chapter 22 (Human Alastor x Reader)

Chapter Trigger Warnings: UwU Fluff, Angst, implied sexual assault

Prev Masterlist AO3 KoFi

The basket clattered to the ground, spilling containers and napkins. Glass shattered as the cups hit the ground, but you hardly noticed it. Alastor’s foot caught in the basket as he stepped forward, trying to save you from crashing into the front of his car as an uncharacteristic curse dropped from his lips.

It didn’t do him any good, only crushing the basket as he himself stumbled. The cool steel of the car bit into your back. Pain ripped through your healing ribs as you gasped. The pain faded into the background as Alastor caught himself just a moment before his body crashed against yours.

His hands landed on either side of you, braced against the hood of the car. You could just feel his chest brush against yours as you took gasping breaths, more out of shock than anything else.

He was so close now. You could feel him. God help you, you could smell him. Musk and pine with a touch of cigarette smoke. The smell along with his warmth made your head spin.

“Are you alright?” He asked, not moving away.

“My ankle twisted was all,” you whispered, eyes darting between his, then down at his lips as his tongue darted out, wetting them. “I just stepped wrong.”

“I’m glad,” Alastor said, lifting a hand to brush stray hair behind your ear. “It’d kill me if you came to any real harm with me.”

Alastor waited, watching as your eyes roamed his face. His heart beat in his chest as fire felt like it burned through his blood, threatening to eat away at the resolve he maintained ever so carefully.

He leaned forward and you tilted your face up, eyes wide, looking so much like a doe caught in headlights. Tempting, god above, you were teaching him what temptation truly meant. If this is what those women felt as they chased after him, desperate for as little as a look, he understood it now.

A deep sigh ripped from his chest as he rested his forehead against yours, taking in the warmth of your skin and the way you trembled ever so slightly, trapped between him and the car. He should let you up, should give you space to breathe, but it was taking everything in him not to take what distance you had from you.

He wouldn’t. God, how he wanted to, but he wouldn’t. You had your choices taken from you again and again. He had watched from a tree, fucking helpless as the man you married invaded the sanctity of your body against your wishes.

Had you ever kissed a man willingly? Even once?

Was there a time when you longed for lips against yours? Was it ever good for you? You had told him that there hadn’t been anyone before your husband. Had you ever longed for his touch at one point? His lips?

Selfishly, Alastor hoped not.

What would it feel like to kiss someone he desired? How he wanted to taste your kiss, but you failed to move. He needed distance before he lost his mind, before curiosity burned the last of his resolve.

Distance. He needed to give you space. Slowly, he did just that, pulling back. As he did so, he noticed your hand resting against his chest. Had it always been there? He didn’t know. He had been so absorbed in the way your eyes darted around his face that it very well could have been.

You could feel the way his heart beat under your hand. His open jacket covered some of your fingers. Having your hand under his jacket, even just partially, felt far more intimate than the kisses he would place to your temple or the way his hand would linger, holding yours.

They were not kisses, you told yourself. Yes, they were, your heart screamed back. You didn’t know which was true.

“Why did you pull away?” you asked the question in your heart before your mind gathered control of your lips.

“You’re married,” he said softly.

“Oh,” you said over him, looking away, shame burning in you as your hand slipped from his chest. “I’m sorry, I-”

His hand wrapped around yours, holding the palm of your hand flush against his heart, ensuring you had no choice but to feel how rapidly it was beating against his chest.

“I don’t care about that. I only mean to say it should be your choice.” Alastor said, eyes locked on you as he hooked your chin with a finger, pulling your face back to his, ensuring you saw him as he spoke. “I will not be just another man taking from you, forcing you.”

Your choice.

What a strange concept. Tears burned in your eyes as you tried to put your thoughts in order. You took too long, and he was pulling away again, a guarded smile across his lips.

You acted before you could think about it anymore. You only got one life to live. The bible had taught you that lusting after someone that was not your marriage mate was as sinful as the act of adultery itself. In your heart, you know you had already paved your road to hell.

The fabric of his shirt bunched under your hand as your fingers balled into a fist, grabbing ahold of him as you threw your other arm around his neck. You didn’t know what you were doing, never had you initiated a kiss before, but you’d seen it in films and from couples that actually cared for eachother.

You pulled yourself up off the car, or maybe you were pulling him down to you. You didn’t know for sure. Then his lips were against yours. His hand, which had left your chin when you moved, hovered in the air for a moment before resting against your neck lightly.

Would he push you away?

Fingers curled around your neck, weaving through the hair at the nape as he leaned into you. He drug his hand from the hood of his car, wrapping his fingers around your hip as he held you in place.

Sanity clawed back into your mind as you pulled away, blinking your eyes open as you looked up at him. What would he do? What would he say? You pulled your lip between your teeth as you waited.

He had said it was your choice and impulsive though it may have been; you had made your choice.

Alastor’s hands were long, strong, yet elegant. His thumb caressed your jaw and then applied pressure, just under the bone, to encourage you to tilt your head up a little more.

Then his lips were on yours. You could feel the way he sighed into the kiss, his chest moving with it as the breath washed over your face. His hand wrapped around your lower back, pulling you tighter to him. Your hand ran up his chest, fingers dancing over the collar of his shirt, taking in the soft feeling of his neck.

His hand on your lower back ran up, holding you closer. It seemed with every exhale of air; he pulled you closer as his lips moved against yours, pulling and pushing. Each time his lips left yours for a gasping breath, he was back again.

As you pulled air into your lungs, his kiss pinched your lower lip softly between his lips. Your head spun. Never had you dreamed it could feel so good to simply be kissed. His hair was as soft as you dreamed as your hand slipped along his neck.

Your thumb brushed against his jaw and your head swam at the feeling of a patch of stubble, ever so small and slight. A missed spot from his morning shave, just under his jaw. A speck of imperfection, hardly noticeable unless you ran the pad of your thumb over it.

Your lips closed around his, returning to the kiss as you tried to better slot your lips together, trying to correct the misalignment. Any thoughts you may have held onto as he showed you what it felt like to be kissed was lost as something warm and wet darted out between his lips.

You were not sure if he was trying to lick his lips or yours, but the way he felt had you gasping, begging for air. It was intoxicating, more so than any wine you’d drank in your life as you tasted him as his tongue softly swept into your mouth.

His kiss wasn’t greedy. Nothing about it hurt. Nothing about it was a battle. It was soft, sweet. You were gasping as his tongue withdrew, leaving you to chase it. You flexed your fingers, scratching his scalp lightly in the process as he continued to pull back.

Your name was a whisper on his lips, his voice ever so thick and naked as he said, “I’ve got to get you back.”

“I don’t want to go back,” you whispered back. “I want to stay with you.”

“We must be careful, ma cherie.” Alastor whispered, leaning in and placing a soft, chaste kiss against your lips before stepping back, putting distance between your bodies.

You softly touched your lips as you stood in the kitchen, the sink filling with hot water. Laurence hadn’t been terribly impressed with dinner, but the cleaning had earned you mercy for it.

It felt like you were suffocating, waiting for the sound of his office door closing behind him. Alastor had said he would leave you a note, and you just needed to sneak out to get it.

Warm hands wrapped around your waist, pulling your back to a too wide chest. Bile rose in your throat as you felt Laurence’s hands smoothe around your front.

Lips that disgusted you brushed against the top of your head in a vile mockery of the lips you couldn’t stop thinking about.

“Laurence, honey?” You whispered, frozen otherwise in place.

“I’ve got a business trip tomorrow,” he said, holding you. “It was sprung on me. That’s why I was so stressed this morning.”

“That’s alright,” you said though you were less and less sure that it was as you spent more and more time with Alastor.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, baby.”

“I know,” you said, guilt and doubt clawing into you. Your husband was here, arms around you, and you kept thinking about another man. Why couldn’t you feel the way you did for Alastor for your husband?

“The tip will have me gone overnight again,” Laurence said in your ear.

“Tomorrow night?” You asked, trying to not sound hopeful.

“Tomorrow night.” Laurence agreed, “I’m going to go upstairs and bathe. Be ready for bed when I’m done.”

“Yes, Laurence,” you said, tears welling in your clenched eyes as you willed them not to fall. It would be worse for you if you cried, it always was. If you took it with a smile, it wasn’t as bad. Sometimes though, it felt like Laurence’s goal was simply to make you cry so he could be angry about it.

You looked up from the dishes in the sink as you listened to your husband walk toward the stairs, eyes training on the apple tree in the distance. You couldn’t see it, not really with the darkness of night. It felt like Alastor was out there, looking back at you. He promised more that you couldn’t reach out for. Alastor was something you wanted so badly and yet, as long as you were married, you could never have him.

There was rat poison under the sink, tucked behind bottles of vinegar and cleaning solutions. You put it there yourself, back in the fall. Tears slipped down your face as you questioned how much it would take to be free of the man you called your husband.

Then your eyes rose a little more while the sound of Laurence’s weight creaked on the stairs. As Laurence turned on the water, running the bath, your eyes locked on a flash of light. It was little more than a spark coming from the darkness around the apple tree.

You couldn’t kill your husband, Alastor wouldn’t want anything to do with you if you did. A good man like Alastor would never want a woman who killed another, a woman who committed such an ultimate sin. He needed a strong, infallible woman who would help him push forward.

You wouldn’t deserve a moment of his time if you did something as monstrous as murder. Wiping tears you hadn’t noticed falling from your face, you dried your hands on your house dress and walked through the kitchen on the toes of your shoes. Each step was careful and slow, ensuring that the heels didn’t click against the floors as you walked toward the back door.

Slowly, you opened the door and slipped outside. The sound of crickets and cool night are enveloped you as you glanced up, expecting to see your husband in the bedroom window waiting to catch you.

He wasn’t. Your bedroom was dimly lit by the gaslights in the hall. You were in the clear. Walking quickly turned into running as you crossed the back garden. It was dark, and you nearly tripped over your own feet and then again on twigs.

It was selfish, a fleeting hope that wormed itself into your heart, but you hoped he was still there. You wanted to see him again, to feel his arms around you again. Even for just a moment, you wanted to feel his kiss again.

He was gone when you reached the tree. Disappointed huffs of breath puffed between your lips as you stuffed the fleeting heartbreak down. There wasn’t time to be disappointed. He had been there. You had seen the light from a match being struck.

Reaching blindly into the hole, you found it. There was a notebook and sticking out from it, a torn-out page. Grabbing the page, you unfolded it, heart in your throat as you struggled to find a ray of moonlight bright enough to read by.

“My Darling,” Alastor’s neat penmanship started. “I enjoyed our lunch and dearly hope that you can say the same. It pains me so to return you to that house, knowing what you endure at the hands of another. I’ll be counting down the moments until I may see you again. Would it be selfish of me to check back tonight for a response? Perhaps, though, I must confess I will before I return home for the night.

Until then, A”

You held the note to your chest, heart beating fast. Next to the notebook in the hole was a lighter to burn the letters, but you couldn’t stomach the thought. Instead, you folded the paper and tucked it into your apron. It was a risk you couldn’t help taking.

It was dark and you could only hope your penmanship would please him as much as his did you. It pained you that you had no time to sprawl a lovely message to match his.

“I don’t have long,” you started, crouched next to the tree as you braced the notebook on your knee. “He’s going out-of-town tomorrow for work. He’ll be gone overnight. I want to see you, if that’s alright. I dearly wish to see you again.” You signed the note with your initial, just as he did and folded it, tucking it along with the notebook and pen into the hole.

Would he have been by already before returning home for the night? You didn’t know. You hoped he would be by again, even in this late hour. It was selfish. He needed rest too, but you hoped that flash of light wasn’t him saying goodbye.

For a moment you felt the need to snatch the paper up and scrawl a declaration of your feelings across the page. Leave it to speak everything you were to afraid to say, too ashamed to say but instead you turned away.

You’d been out for far too long already. You needed to get back. Laurence would be out of the bath and looking for you soon. Based on how he held you, you doubted he would tolerate your presence being absent from the bedchamber.

“I’m sorry,” Laurence said, running his hands over your arms, bodies lit by nothing but the moonlight through the window. That too was quickly fading as clouds moved in.

“You needn’t be.” Your eyes traveled, looking everywhere but at your husband.

“I’ve been working so much we’ve not been able to make it to the cinema much lately. Even our lunches have fallen off.” His lips moved against your neck as you tried to stand as still as you could.

“You’ve been working hard,” you whispered. “I don’t hold it against you.”

“You don’t seem to appreciate how hard I’m working,” Laurence’s voice turned sharp. What you said was wrong. You didn’t know how or what the right thing was, but you had said the wrong thing.

“Of course I do,” you forced yourself to turn and face him, though you couldn’t make yourself reach out for him like you knew he wanted.

“Then fucking act like it.” Laurence’s mouth crashed against yours in a hard kiss that seemed to be a mockery of what you had learned a kiss could be. “Icy bitch.” He said as he tore your nightgown down your body.

It was near the middle of the night as Alastor crept through the small forest, note in his pocket. The cloud cover was far too thick for him to have a hope of reading it, but that was alright.

It was a note from you. That’s all that mattered. At least, he hoped it was. He knew it wasn’t the note he left, written after he had delivered you to your back door.

Once he was safely through the trees, he sat on the first park bench he found, tucked under the warm glow of the streetlamp. Oh, how his heart pounded and that feeling in his gut bloomed as he took in your slanting letters, messy from speed and poor writing position.

Tomorrow.

He could see you again so soon. He’d have to plan something. Would he take you out for another evening on the town? Perhaps not Mimzy’s. The memory of Laurence there may be too fresh still.

The next town over? No, he didn’t want to waste so much time driving when he could be with you in a more intentional sense. His home was the only logical decision. He’d have to make something for dinner, make it worth the night in. That would be fine, large home and middle class upbringing aside, you seemed content with the simpler things in life.

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers including the first page of the next chapter of MisD a day early!!

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unhetalia · 2 months ago

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do you think that Alfred deals with a lot of issues being so beautiful when it comes to both nations and humans? like oversexualization in the media and nations holding him to the "dumb blonde bimbo/himbo" stereotype. i can imagine him, in a nations revealed universe, being held as some stupid looksmaxxing icon (think of Adriana Limas and Brooke Shields reputation) and "Pure American Blonde Beauty". Having cameras constantly in his face trying to capture his "inhuman" beauty, getting excited for interviews only for them to always end up discussing his looks, ect. I would think this would have irreversible effects on his self esteem and body image issues considering how young he is...

Context for this reply -

This (old) ranking I did on who I thought is considered the most beautiful among the Nations.

My headcanon that Alfred has a high IQ.

Headcanon on Alfred having autism and ADHD.

The idea that Alfred finds it hard to build muscle.

One of the reasons my Alfred isn't involved in his own government is because even though he has, over time, developed adequate social scripts, he has always been very obviously 'different'. Pairing this with his looks, and Alfred in the beginning was often infantilised. A symbol. To be seen and not heard. Alfred would have realised very quickly that he was leaving Arthur's thumb only to be under another's - and that they cared about him infinitely less than Arthur did.

I don't know if, back then, his looks would have impacted him negatively if not for his autism and ADHD. But I think the combination of both meant he preferred to be separate from governing bodies.

In World War II, the existence of Nation Guardians becomes public and immediately, Alfred's government tries to prevent him from fighting because they want him to be a symbol. This is what you're protecting, as opposed to this is who is going to protect you. In this case, I imagine Alfred is still young, physically 17. He looks almost fey - but androgynous, slender. This is the difference between making him a symbol of masculinity and allowing him to go off and fight vs their decision to make him a symbol to protect. Of course, Alfred absolutely does not go for that. This is where the bomber jacket comes in - it makes him look bigger. He has big boots, possibly even covers his hair and eyes, often not taking off his aviator hat and goggles. He changes his own image. This is where I think the 'I'm the hero' motto comes in.

By the late 50s, he's physically 19 and this is where he stops aging (how the universe decides this, we don't know). He's taller now at 5'11, and I think the years in the public eye have really gotten to him at this point. This is the point where he's most obsessed about his looks; specifically appearing masculine. He is obsessive about sports clubs, gaining muscle, etc. The thing is, his body is not actually predisposed to bulking up because of his metabolism and super strength.

By the 70s, I think Alfred starts to settle into himself again. Stops trying to mold himself into what's acceptable. Consequently, this is where he gets his worst media. His masculinity is questioned, people try to connect the decline of American society with how 'weird' he's become - basically a moral panic. From this point on, Al's relationship with his government sours immensely.

(2001, it comes to a head when Alfred publicly goes against Bush. This is unrelated to his looks, so I won't go on.)

Around 2010 with social media starting to really take off, Alfred's image changes. He's on tumblr, he's on youtube and eventually he's on instagram. He's briefly on twitter pre-Musk.

Alfred really captivates the youth in a way that isn't just to do with his looks (though his looks continue to come up). He loves anime, he loves animals, he's not wealthy like a lot of other Nations and therefore he's 'relatable'. He does videos where he teaches people how to fix things around their home so environmental activists love him, he always encourages community - soup kitchens, community gardens. He's cool.

To the media, though, he's still just a commodity, and they're focused entirely on his looks. "How to get glass skin like Alfred F. Jones" articles, "The Alfred F. Jones diet - plastic surgeon talks how to naturally get skinny like America's greatest beauty symbol".

Nowadays, I think there are many people who call this out, but it continues. However, I do think at this point Alfred is able to just do his own thing and ignore it. He's an online darling, but mostly people will be talking about the time he accidentally blew up his garage while doing an experiment or the time he skateboarded down the stairs and called it 'a lesson is gravity and physics'.

#hws america #aph america #hetalia #hetalia world series #reply.#re: america #.txt

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vivid-ink · 1 year ago

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"The Love Shack" Teaser Snippet

Relationship: Neteyam(23) x fem!Omatikaya reader(21) x Lo'ak(22)

Author's Note: I've had this sexy little plot bunny in my head for a wee while now, so here is a little teaser snippet of the oneshot I'm writing for a threesome between NeteyamxReaderxLo'ak, which I will upload this weekend. Emotionally, it is more NeteyamxReader, but the final work will definitely see Lo'ak get in on the fun too. 😉

Story Summary: You’d heard the whispered speculations and stifled giggles during the daytimes. You’d seen the furtive glances that the other women cast at Neteyam and Lo’ak through coquettish eyes, cheeks stained a blushing mauve as they exchanged coy smiles with the two brothers. And during the nights? Hell, you’d heard the moans and wanton cries for yourself… You were definitely curious, but did you have it in you to go through with their proposition?...

Warnings: Adult content 18+ MDNI Teaser content: Mentions of group sex, suggested threesome Final story content: Will include threesome smut, sex toy play

Full Part I is up now HERE

You blinked dubious eyes at Neteyam and your ears lowered a fraction. You huffed out a jaded laugh and gave a slow shake of your head, “Ugh I can’t believe you. I never expected group liaisons to be your thing. But it’s none of my business and you can do what you like. It isn’t my place to judge. It just surprised me is all.”

Neteyam took a tentative step towards you, “Why does that surprise you?”

You swallowed hard, noticing the way Neteyam had begun to close the distance between you. Part of you was regretting the way you had just run your mouth and admitted you were perturbed by his choice of nighttime activities. You should have just kept your gob shut and gone home. Now you were cornered and he was asking questions.

The mild breeze that had been blowing before had vanished and the air lay heavy and thick around you. You didn’t know if you were imagining it, but you could really smell Neteyam. A fragrant musk was pouring off him and Eywa help you, he smelled so good…

Aware that Neteyam was still waiting on an answer, and not wanting to appear affected by the close proximity you now shared with him, you spoke measuredly, “You’re just so polite and proper all the time. I guess I didn’t expect you to have such a wild streak.”

All Neteyam could smell in the humid air was you, the lovely perfume of your scent assailing his senses and making every fibre of his being ignite with desire. It made his blood pump fast and hot through his veins with the increasing pace of his thumping heart. You thought he didn’t have a wild streak?... Oh, how he yearned to introduce you to the red-blooded male that existed within him…

“The side of me you see when we work is only one side of me. I’ve got a fun side too.” Neteyam breathed softly and there was a gravelly note to his voice that you’d never heard before.

It was deep and captivating, and it breathed over you in hot shivers that made your nipples peak behind the covering of beads and leaves over your breasts. Ever so slowly, his head tipped downward towards yours and he took yet another step towards you, bringing the both of you almost front to front with nothing but a scant sliver of space left between you.

Feeling a twinge of remorse for being judgemental earlier and making presumptions about his character, you whispered an apology, “Sorry for being presumptuous. I shouldn’t judge you.”

“Don’t apologise, just come to the outpost tomorrow night. Consider this your personal invitation. It’ll be just you and us. No one else.” Neteyam’s nose caressed the soft skin of your cheek and the action elicited an involuntary shudder from you.

Neteyam’s use of the word ‘us’ reminded you that Lo’ak was part of the picture too.

You, Neteyam and Lo’ak in a secluded space exploring the possibilities of sensual indulgence… You were a little shocked to find that the sentiment did not repel you.

Instead, you felt a spear of anticipation low in your belly…

Author's Note: Things are going to get STEAMY and oh so juicy in here. Sing out in the comments with your thoughts and let me know if you'd like to be tagged when I post the full work this weekend. 😘 Credit to @cinetrix for her beautiful renders of an adult Neteyam that I've used in the story cover image.

Full Part I is up now HERE

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froppy-butterflyfan2000 · 9 months ago

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🧶🌊🌈💖🗡️🐉💙🍪⚡️ for Vincenzia!

Sure! Oh by the way, it is Vincenza.

🧶 - Do they do any arts, crafts, or creative hobbies?

In the aftermath of the war between the Queenguards and their allies and The Titanic Ten, the resurrected legendary warriors, and rebel monsters whose side with them, and the arrival of the continent, Sweetopia, where The Candyfolk Kingdom reside (created by @cooltmoney95) coming to help aid everyone in the rebuilding of Mewni, she take up baking to help provide food aids for the people of baking. Vincenza is fast enough magically to delivery messages (if her crow, Salem is needed by the Second Division) to Captain Fum and food aids. Even considering helping Spikeballs (Her knight, Vega’s dad) out in construction work in repairing villages. But baking is what she got into the most in the rebuilding phrase of Mewni. The scent of breads rising up in the oven, freshly baked are so wonderful. This is all thanks to Vincenza spending her time with Gino Churro.

Cartography (when exploring Mewni in her free-time).

Occasionally singing (Warning: Covers your ears! She sounds like a combination of a mirror-phone vibrating, scratching on the chalkboard, and crow.)

💙 - Describe their bedroom! Is it personalized, unchanged? Messy, neat?

Vincenza tried to make her room neat and tidy to be presentable of her royal status. Her clothes are kept in her dress cabinet (it is where she stash board games and a box of her maps). She make sure to dusts it before the maids do. However, the room will occasionally have eagle feathers and outdated maps of Mewni, that she drew, scattered on the floor. Vincenza make sure to pick up the outdated maps and put them in a box for safekeeping. Otherwise the maids will throw them away by going into the trash, or worst, her mother see them.

Vincenza personalized her room to be a mix of Bloomcore and in-between Gothpunk and Whimsigothcore.

🍪 - What are their favorite scents?

Earth/Dirt (Thanks to Fum)

Cherry Blossom

The smell of freshly baked breads (Thanks to Gino Churro, @cooltmoney95’s Breadfolk and a part of the Sixth Division)

Bergamot Musk Scented Candle to ease her fatigue (useful for her because it delay her hunger whether she use her magical ability). It also help ease her anxiety.

Roses from Eclipsa’s Garden

Pig-Goat Stew and Smoked Pig-Goat Leg

Goblin Dog

Smell of the maps

Fresh air and floral scents of the the forests (both from Pixtopia and Mewni)

🌈 - Do you associate any colors with them?

Teal Blue

St. Patrick’s Blue

Navy Blue

Cerulean Blue

Vermillion Orange

Red Orange

Bright Red

Cherry Blossom Pink

Magenta

🐉 - Very serious question… are they more like a dragon, or a unicorn?

A unicorn, due to how rare I am in writing stories about her that I promise to, and her being one of the first Pixie Hybrids in existence in Tales of Mewni. Vincenza only appear in @kururu418’s Tales of Mewni (main storyline), the stories I typed using prompts, and the story of her and @laylaylamode’s Jia exploring Noceto Forest. I really need to finish the sequel. 😥

🌊 - Does this oc have a secret or repressed desire?

Her secret desire is to marry Fum (this character is The Captain of the Fifth Division and he belongs to @kururu418), but everyone in the Queensguard know. Her colleague, Robin Skylight (@cooltmoney95’s ToM SVTFOE next gen character) calls her Simp. 😂. That is why she is honing her size manipulation, in order to becomes bigger. By bigger, I means giant-sized, so she can challenge Fum to a duel of love. However, Lilli (ToM Brownie OC of @doomface) seem to beats her to it 😂.

People to play with in Dungeons and Dragons. (Although, I don’t know how to write a story of people playing that game. 😔)

⚡ - Does this oc have any unusual or “irrational” fears?

Ice Magic (because it is responsible for her unable to fly because of a broken wing), specially Astro’s Ice Magic.

Rubella’s cold stare when Vincenza is late for her lesson on diplomacy. Rubella Lucitor belongs to @cooltmoney95.

Losing control of herself when she get very wrathful/apeshit.

The Grove Guardians in the forests of Pixtopia Dimension.

🗡️ - Does this oc have a signature object, accessory, or weapon?

Her scythe, The Befallen. It is forged in The Waterfolk Kingdom and is a gift from her twin sister, Cordelia.

Her red flowers hair clip.

Navy Blue hooded cape/Snowy Owl (A Beast in Pixtopia that was slain) Feathered Cape

💝 - How much effort do they put into appearances? Do they have a favorite article of clothing?

Vincenza doesn’t put much in though. Usually always wear her double dutch braids in her duty as a knight.

When it come to social events and representing the pixies in Pixtopia, Vincenza put a lot of effort in her appearances when it come to social events. She wears a Dutch Braided Bun when attending meetings with the heirs of Mewni Kingdoms and Monster Tribes on Cordelia’s behalf.

In her time on Earth, Vincenza is low-key into gothic fashion (Originally Pastel Goth. Vincenza is trying out a combination of Romantic Gothic Fashion and Faerie Gothic Fashion). Her theme of fashion is a cherry blossom theme.

#tales of mewni #Vincenza Dolittle #thanks you for asking!#This feels like my first ask about Vincenza.#laylaylamode

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thecubspeaks · 4 months ago

Note

If you're still taking prompts. Strength; something with Wyll and Shadowheart. Doesn't necessarily have to be shippy.

i'll always take a prompt!!

[tarot card prompts]

Strength (Strength, courage, persuasion, influence, compassion)

Shadowheart hears Wyll approaching from behind, but pretends not to-- not until he speaks, and makes his presence unavoidable.

"Shadowheart? Dinner is ready-- you ought to come eat something."

She makes a vague hum of acknowledgement, but doesn't move. So Wyll doesn't move, either. It lasts for a little while, the silence. She's the one to break it.

"Are Wyll Ravengard and the Blade of Frontiers the same person?"

Shadowheart can't see what Wyll's face does in the minute pause before he chuckles and comes to sit beside her. "That's quite a question. Why do you ask?"

"Because you have a very irritating habit of insisting people are themselves. It's what you said to me. You are Shadowheart. But I haven't the faintest idea what that means. But you must know, since you insist upon it so often."

Wyll sits in silence for another moment, there on the log she found just outside their little roadside camp. Even with the Risen Road cleared of the Absolute's army, it isn't save to wander far alone, but since leaving the Shadowfell, company is difficult to bear.

"I suppose what I mean when I say it," he says at last, "is that even if you feel unmoored, there is a truth to you that shines through for others. You may not see it yet, but it is there to be found."

"And that's comforting to you?" She looks over at him at last. He looks back. The devil's ridges on his face cut deep shadows in the sunset light. "To rely on the rest of the world to define you?"

"Not to define me. I hope," he adds, an irrepressible waver of uncertainty that he quickly covers up. "To see me. When I lose track of myself."

Someone says something that sends a burst of laughter up from the camp behind them. The scent of the last of the fresh food scavenged from the ruins of Moonrise wafts over on the air, with the pleasant musk of campfire smoke. Shadowheart stands.

"You didn't answer the question."

Wyll, standing too, laughs. "No. I guess I didn't."

#my fic #prompt fic #tarot prompts

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pumpkinstep · 2 years ago

Text

At the edge:

The ceiling beams blurred and moved into focus, in and out, clear than murky than clear again.

Reclined in a chair, Jacob could feel how heavy his body was, how it took up space and depressed the cushions beneath him.

He could hear his father in the kitchen, he could hear muffled voices and light hearted conversation.

he didn't care. He couldn't bring himself to care about what they were saying or doing. He didn't want to be in his room, reaking if vomit and blood. Nightmares had kept him awake, cries for help that would never come haunting his thoughts.

though he'd showered recently, he still felt filthy, his skin a sticky clammy mess, he felt, a feeling he had yet to get used to.

the ceiling beams went out of focus again, blurring into brown fuzz as he heard a door open then close again. two people left, he was vaguely aware. Finally he was alone, or so he thought.

Not long after his father left, a door formed and opened between two bookshelves. Not long after it appeared, a small form stepped inside.

Without looking he knew who it was, just by smell alone, he knew who it was. It was something animal, a musk he'd recognize anywhere. It was something akin to unwashed dog, an almost stale and greasy scent covered by something sickly sweet. It could have been chocolate at some point but now it was simply sugar, it's earthiness lost to the musk.

He ignored the intruder and kept his vision unfocused until a small hand waved over his face.

he huffed out a sigh, proving he hadn't died yet, before focusing and looking at who had stepped in.

it was Coby.

He'd never seen him like this before. Sure he's seen him in quite a bad way before, bloodied and bruised, snot running with cheeks drenched in tears, crying so hard his missing teeth were visible. Of course, for all his suffered expressions, he was silent.

Coby stood before him with messy long hair. His strawberry blonde locks grown long and curly towards the ends, hampered by grease and keeping them straighter than they usually would be. His caramel eyes, large and doe like were empty and tired, heavily accentuated by dark rings as if he'd been losing sleep or rubbing his eyes too much from distress.

Just like me....it's almost like a complete reflection, Jacob thought as he looked at him, I've seen that look before...

He shifted and lifted himself up slightly with the arms of his chair, sitting back and proper to give his guest his full attention.

"what do you want?" he asked, feeling his voice come like gravel in his throat.

When was it the last time he'd spoke to anyone? It had been a while, he reasoned, since hed seen anyone since the nightmares started.

The small teen, barely tall enough to reach Jacob's chest when standing next to eachother, pulled a small chalk board from his hoodie pocket and began to write.

He looked hesitant, his lettering slow and unsure and, just when jacob was about to get impatient, he turned it around.

[Do you have rope?]

Jacob read the question, then read it again, turning the words over in his mind as he slowly looked up at Coby who flinched under, what the strawberry blonde felt was, his contemptuous gaze.

"What do you need it for?" Jacob finally asked, narrowing his eyes a little at him, only adding to his intimidating appearance.

Coby fidgeted with his board, suddenly looking away and pulling into himself at the question.

Ah....so I was right...he knows I know this isn't just a normal request... Jacob thought, resting his head on a hand whilst propped by an elbow. He would wait, he had the time. How he answered, he figured, would determine how he'd respond.

To him, they were not in his father's livingroom, instead, it was a cliff. He saw the boy standing at the precipice and with every fibre of his being he was begging for Jacob to push him.

He heard him loud and clear, even if he hadn't really made his intentions clear, he understood. He didn't have a right to pull him away, and while regret made him want to reach his hand out to pull him in to his arms and change his mind, he knew he couldn't make that choice.

Not after what he'd done to the young man.

silence grew like wild black berries and just when it became almost unbearable, the sound of chalk on board broke it.

[it's for plants. I want to hang up some plants in my room. very heavy ones.] the board read when he finally finished.

"plants, huh...real heavy ones too? I didn't know you liked plants but...who am I to judge." Jacob rasped, stuffing a hand into his own hoodie pocket before removing a thick and sturdy rope from within.

Having used magic to summon the loosely wound bundle, he was confident it wouldn't rip under any circumstances.

"You better find a good tall sturdy place to hang them. you don't want anything to break...it's a little disappointing to lose a pot if whatever it's hanging from breaks." he said, keeping his tone uninterested and casual while he held the bundle out.

Coby stared at it then reached out to take it, recoiling at first as if it were a snake that was about to strike before snatching it up.

"you should show me your plants the next time I'm over." Jacob said with a yawn.

Coby slowly nodded as he stared down at the rope in his hand. soon he awkwardly turned and left, not bothering to thank Jacob for his help as he did so. He didn't mind, he knew that was probably the last time they'd ever see each other again.

However he had a feeling he wouldn't go through with it. He was a coward and had plenty of people who would knock his door down to check on him in times like this. He wasn't worried...not entirely.

He had the thought to call him back or follow him, to give into his guilt but he found himself glued to his chair with the knowledge he'd done enough and now it was time to let go.

even if he wanted to make him stay, he had to trust his friend and have hope.

It was all he could afford to do.

at least that's what he told himself as the door closed and he was alone once more.

since then, he was kept busy with his own troubles and his straining relationship with his father. He wouldn't learn of the outcome until years later.

when he heard the news, all the guilt he'd felt bubbled up and presented itself as hot bile that flooded his mouth and burned his throat.

tears stung his eyes as no loss had struck him as harshly as this.

While everyone spoke of suicide. he knew deep in his heart that the real word they should be using was murder.

@thealphapigeon @ghostiebloo

#tw suicide #its super late at night but i suddenly got inspired to write this #sort of the end of cobys book but from jacobs perspective.#ive been doing a lot of plit reworking and stuff #of course this stays but jacob and his relationship is a bit more friendly and less antagonistic #my art #fiction

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venusdian · 2 months ago

Text

VIII. Unforgettable - Part III

Xydia parks his car in the driveway that also housed the other vehicle he mentioned. Junis looked up and saw Xydia parked in front of a Duplex. It was the Duplexes that Redlands recently built. Redlands had bought some land in the downtown area of Brookdale, which is the city where Redlands University resides.

She noted how nice the Duplex looked. The moonlight helped her to see the exterior. It was an impressive house. It was a white House with two red doors. The numbers on the door were gold plated. Junis furrows her eyebrows. The rent for the Duplexes was a pretty penny.

For Students, it was a set monthly rate of $925. She only knows that information because she was interested in staying in one of the Duplexes, but once, she read that her scholarship did not cover the duplexes as rooming, and the remaining funds from FASFA would not even cover a year of rent. Junis decided to go with the Mary Bethune Dorms since they were similar to what she was looking for but smaller.

Xydia chuckles as he watches her intently look at his duplex. He wondered what was going on in her mind. What questions did she have?

“You good?” Xydia asks with a slight chuckle. Junis nods and looks at Xydia, thinking.

“How can you afford this?” Xydia softly smiles.

“My parents pay half, and I pay half.” Xydia nonchalantly replies. Junis chuckles.

“Are they looking to adopt another child?” Junis jokes. Xydia laughs, shaking his head.

“Let’s get out of the car.” Xydia unbuckles his seat belt and gets out of the car. Junis does the same but stumbles and almost falls when Xydia catches her. Junis looks up at him as he cradles her waist. Her mouth was agape, but nothing was coming out. She was enamored by how handsome he was. Xydia gives her a charming smile.

“You good, ma?” Junis silently nods. He stands her up, and Junis nervously chuckles, looking away.

“Thanks.” She mutters sheepishly. Xydia nods. He takes her hand, feeling the same electric sparks previously in the car. Both ignore the feeling, trying not to act rashly. Xydia opened the door. Junis’ nostrils were hit with the scent of a sweet musk. It instantly relieved the tension that Junis was feeling. Junis looked around, and it was just as beautiful as the brochure.

The walls were white and covered with African décor. There were maplewood hardwood floors that sparkled. The house was dimly lit. It wasn’t too dark, but it wasn’t too light. Xydia leads her to the living room. There was a small brown linen couch with gold and brown pillows. There was a coffee table. It had various spiritual magazines as well as a couple of lifestyle books. His green bean bag chair that Junis often saw in the Facetime calls was in the corner, close to the open-spaced kitchen.

Xydia gestures to her to have a seat on the couch. Junis nods and sits on the couch, noting how clean his duplex was and how welcoming it was. It had a women’s touch. Did Xydia have a girlfriend? This thought begins to plague her mind.

“So, your duplex is really nice,” Junis notes. Xydia was in the kitchen, making some tea. He hums and nods.

“You can thank my mom for that. Ever since she retired from the firm, she’s been doing interior design as a side hustle.” Xydia explained. He walks out of the kitchen with two wooden mugs that smell lovely.

“I had the kettle cooker warming up while I went to get you. So, it would be ready for you to drink.” He places the wooden mugs on the table.

“It smells good! What is it?”

“So, it’s an ashwagandha & lavender tea, sweetened by homemade Rose jam.” Junis was intrigued. She grabs the wooden mug and takes a sip of it. It was bitter, earthy, but also sweet. Her taste buds were confused as they didn’t know whether to like it or not. Xydia notes Junis’ facial expression and softly chuckles to himself.

“You’ll get used to the taste,” Xydia explains. Junis slightly chuckles.

“I’m holding you to it.” She teases, placing the mug back on the coffee table,

“So, how do you pay for your portion of the rent? I mean, you did tell me you worked, but what do you do for work, if you don’t mind me asking, of course.” Xydia nods.

“You good. Uhm, over the summer, before I moved to Redlands for school, I took a massage therapy course and can legally practice in Georgia and Washington. So, I offer massage therapy, and non-medical healing therapy, like meditation and herbal teas.” Junis looks at him, impressed.

“Wow, well, maybe one day, I can get one of those massages.” Junis jokes.

“Well, how about right now?” Xydia says, shrugging. Junis’ eyes widen, not expecting Xydia’s statement.

“You sure? I don’t want to—” Xydia chuckles and places his hand on her thigh, reassuring her.

“It’s fine, I insist.”

An hour in and the Warehouse was packed. Cassius leaned against the wall, sipping on some Henny. The harsh, bitter brown liquor had him feeling a bit tipsy. He hasn’t found any cute girls that he wanted to talk to. He missed Junis. He hated how she consumed his every thought. Junis was probably getting her back blown out by the new man in her life, and he hated knowing that another man was getting his kisses, getting his hugs, feeling tight, warm, and wet walls wrapped around their shaft.

Cassius physically shakes his head and takes a sip from his plastic red cup. The liquor burned his throat and chest, but it felt so good at the same time. He spots three girls watching him and giggling. He couldn’t see too well to tell if they were cute or not. But one girl caught his eye.

It was the girl that was giving him lustful eyes. He couldn’t see her face, but he could see her body shape. She was thick and curvy. Something like Junis, but her stomach was flat. That Fashion Nova dress accentuated her body nicely. He got up from the wall and made his way over to the group of girls. The girls see him coming and quickly act like they weren’t just talking about him.

He stops, and his eyes focus on the girl in the middle. She had big brown eyes that were cat-like shaped, like Junis. He didn’t know if he had genuinely found her attractive or if she kind of reminded him of Junis. Either way, he wanted to dance with her.

“Aye, ma. You tryna dance?”

“Which one?”

“The one with the pink buss down.” The girl smirks and takes Cassius’ hand, taking him to a clear space on the crowded dance floor. Chris Brown’s “Under the Influence” plays, his arms are wrapped around her waist as she rolls her hips. Her butt pressed on his cloth crotch. He leans forward. His nose smelled her Victoria’s Secret perfume that smelled sweet on her dark brown skin.

He softly inhales her scent, feeling his manhood getting happy, but her scent alone.

“What’s your name?” He whispers seductively in her ear.

“Liebe.” He grins. He likes the uniqueness of her name. She turns around and lustfully looks up at Cassius.

“Yours?”

“Just call me Cass.” Liebe nods.

“Ok.” Thumbing Cass’ plump bottom lip. She could smell the Hennessy on his breath, but that didn’t deter her from wanting to fuck him. Drunk sex was the best sex in her mind.

Meanwhile, Vemini, Wootie, and Zy’onna enter the party. The song changes to Tyla’s Water. Vemini gets excited and grabs Wootie’s hand.

“OOO! This is my song!” Vemini happily exclaims. Vemini looks over to Zy’onna.

“I’ma go and dance, you good?” Zy’onna nods. Wootie looked at Zy’onna, making sure she was good.

“You sure?” Zy’onna nods.

“Yeah, I’m good!” She insists. They both nod and go out to the crowded dance floor. Zy’onna depressingly sighs. She was alone. She wanted to say no, but she didn’t want to piss Vemini off. She walks over to the bar and sits on one of the Stools.

“watchu wanna drink?” The bartender asks. Zy’onna shrugs.

“Your strongest Vodka.” The bartender nods and goes under the bar, grabbing Smirnoff Triple Distilled 100 Proof Vodka. He placed it on the counter and grabbed the plastic shot glass. He opens the bottle, pours it into the shot glass, and hands it to her. Zy’onna’s nose burned to how strong the alcohol smell was. She scrunches her face up, pulling the plastic shot glass closer to her. The smell is getting stronger and stronger.

Her face scrunches up in disgust, but she needs a shot to loosen her a bit. She frighteningly picks up the shot glass.

“So, you gunna drink that?” A male voice asks her. She looks over and sees a guy taking a seat beside her.

“Yes, I am.” The male nods, chuckling. Zy’onna puts the rim of the glass in between her lips. She slowly sips it and immediately puts it down. The guy and the bartender begin to laugh.

“YUCK!” Zy’onna shutters multiple times, trying to get the taste of vodka out of her mouth. Once she stopped spitting on the floor, she glared at the guy beside her.

“What’s funny?”

“You.” Zy’onna rolls her eyes.

“I would like to see you throw this back.” The bartender looked over at the guy and then looked at Zy’onna.

“You sure you wanna do that?” Zy’onna huffs.

“Oh, please don’t tell me you think he can throw it back because he’s a man!” Zy’onna argues with her arms folded. The bartender and the male laughed.

“What?”

“Nah, shawty… It’s because my name is Rocket.” Zy’onna furrows her eyebrows.

“Why do y’all have weird names? I mean, Wootie, I can get, but why in the hell did your mother name you after an inanimate object?” Rocket looked at her weirdly while Zy’onna looked back at him, confused. The bartender shook his head and zoned out the rest of the conversation.

“You must be that girl Vemini was telling us about.” Rocket says. Zy’onna, still confused.

“What gave it away?”

“Because you think Wootie and Rocket are our real names.” Zy’onna’s face flushed with embarrassment.

“oh…” She mutters. Rocket chuckles, shaking his head.

“Nah, ma. You good. I’m Nyshire.” He holds his hand out. Zy’onna slightly blushes. She takes his hand.

“Zy’onna, Nice to meet you.” Nyshire nods, shaking her hand.

“Same here. You tryna dance?” Zy’onna shrugs.

“Why not?” They get off the bar stools. Rocket takes her hand and leads her into the dance floor.

Xydia takes Junis’ hand and leads her into the spare room. He opens the door and claps his hand twice, exposing his setup. The Surround sound begins to play soft, earthy sounds. There was a black massage table in the middle of the room. There were motion sensor tea light candles all over the room. There was a desk with various types of oils and lotions.

Junis looked around the room and was impressed.

“Wow…” She pauses, then skeptically looks over at Xydia.

“You not like those Instagram Masseuses, right?” Xydia chuckles, shaking his head.

“No, I don’t think those are massages… More like hunching with extra steps.” Junis giggles, shaking her head.

“Go sit on the table.” Junis nods and goes to sit in the middle of the table. Xydia goes over to his desk, grabbing a green bottle. Junis watches in confusion as he pours the liquid onto his hand and rinses his hand with it.

“What is that?”

“It’s a spiritual cleansing water. It releases the leftover energy of others and myself so you have a purifying massage.” Xydia explains. Junis hums, swinging her legs up and down. Xydia stands in front of Junis. Their eyes lock momentarily. He bites on his bottom lip as Junis looks at him sensually.

“I don’t usually undress my clients, but you seem a bit shy.” Xydia teases as he pulls the hoodie off of Junis. He folds the hoodie and places it on the chair.

“Take off your bra and lay on your stomach.” Xydia commands. Junis nods. Xydia turns his back on Junis as she takes off her bra. Xydia goes to his desk and grabs the bottle of Massage oil. It’s naturally made with Rose, Lavender, and Chamomile oil. He places the bottle beside Junis’ head. He goes to the shelf that has his Incense Waterfall.

He grabs a Chakra Lotus incense cone and places it on top of the fountain. It was his favorite scent. It often reminded him of happier times with his mother. Plus, it spoke well to the feminine energy in the room. He grabs his lighter and lights the tip of it. He waves off the flame with his hand and places the lighter back on the shelf.

Junis could smell the beautiful flowery scent instantly. She makes a sound of pleasure.

“Ooh, that smells so good.” Xydia chuckles, walking over to her.

“Thanks. This one is usually popular with female clients.” Junis hums. She feels a tinge of jealousy, but she brushes it off. Xydia grabs the bottle of oil,

“You ready?” He asks. She hums and nods.

“Yes, please.”

Kali Uchis’ Fue Mejor played the Hennessy was getting Cassius very loose. The room was slightly spinning, and Liebe’s sweat intoxicated him. Liebe gets closer to Cassius. Her arms encircled his shoulders as she moved to the sensual rhythm. Cassius pulled her closer. There was no space between them. Every motion and bumped their crotches together, teasing each other. Liebe’s heavy pants drowned out the music.

Cassius’ hands gripped onto her thick thighs. He digs his nails into her thighs and claws upward. Liebe throws her head back, moaning. Cassius leans his head down on the side of her neck. His tongue enjoyed the taste of her sweat. They were in their own little world, not realizing the music changed to Lola Brooke’s Don’t Play With It.

Cassius was done with the games. His shit was erect and ready to feel what Liebe hiding in between those thick thighs.

“Let’s go to the bathroom.” Liebe nods.

She takes his hand and leads him out to the dance floor.

Zy’onna was dancing with Rocket and enjoying the music that was playing. It wasn’t her speed, but it was nice, danceable music. She turns around and sees Cassius at the party. Her heart stops as she stands there. She sees a woman in front of him, taking him away from the party. She watched as a girl who looked nothing like her led him away.

Rocket looks over and sees Zy’onna’s face sad, confusing him.

“Aye, you good?” Rocket asks her. Zy’onna looked over at Rocket and couldn’t mask the hurt on her face.

“Uh, is there somewhere we can go?” Rocket nods.

“Yea, follow me.” Rocket takes Zy’onna’s hand and leads her outside the warehouse. Zy’onna jerks her hand away.

“I hope you don’t th—”

“Look, you wanted to get away, right? We can sit in my car for a bit. I ain’t tryna fuck ma.” Rocket assured her. Zy’onna softly sighs and nods. Rocket pulls out his car keys and the headlights of his 2003 red Ford Explorer flash. Zy’onna looked at his car, slightly disgusted, but she couldn’t go back in there. She was looking for just one day of happiness, but instead, she sees her ex, whom she’s been with for over five years, moving on, and it’s not even with the girl he cheated on her with.

She gets in the car and lets out a small sigh. Rocket sits in the driver’s seat, throwing his head back on the headrest. The alcohol was catching up to him, so he decided to cool down a bit by smoking a blunt. He grabs the blunt from the cupholder and pulls out the dingy neon green bic lighter that was in his jean pocket, lighting his blunt.

“So, talk. What happened?” Zy’onna sighs.

“I saw my ex at the party…” Rocket nods as he puts the tip of the blunt on his lips, deeply inhaling. He pulls the blunt away from his lips, and the smoke comes out his nose.

“I see. Why y’all broke up?”

“He cheated on me with Junis, and Junis left him, then he left me,” Zy’onna shamefully confesses.

“Damn! He was able to bag Junis?! I’ve been trying to hit that for months!” Rocket exclaims. Zy’onna rolls her eyes.

“You find that pig attractive?” Zy’onna asks, disgusted. Rocket chuckles.

“Hell yeah, and that’s your problem.” Zy’onna furrows her eyebrows.

“What?!”

“You gotta put another bitch down to make yourself feel good.” Rocket explains as he takes another hit of his blunt. Zy’onna scoffs.

“Excuse me?! Junis is not attractive, and it’s embarrassing that he would cheat on me with her out of all people! What could she possibly have that I don’t?!” Rocket chuckles.

“Confidence, and she’s not a bitch.” Zy’onna had enough of Rocket’s truths. Zy’onna grabs the door handle and tries to leave, but Rocket grabs her arm.

“Let me go! I refused to keep being slandered!” Zy’onna angrily exclaims.

“How am I slandering you if it’s the truth? Zy’onna, I’ve only known you for about an hour. You automatically assumed that my real name was Rocket, which means off rip, you think that Ghetto people don’t have basic English fundamentals. Then, you sat here and slandered Junis, did not hold your ex accountable for his actions at all. You are just mad that you work hard to keep up with your appearance when niggas don’t care about that. Did you ask why he cheated or even notice the signs you guys were drifting apart, or did you assume that you’re the greatest gift of god and thought he should be grateful for having you?” He pauses, waiting for Zy’onna to answer, but she is too stunned to speak.

“By the way your hair looks and your features, you’re mixed. White momma, black daddy? And they always told you that you’re better than these other black women because you pass the brown paper bag test and come from an affluent background, right?” Zy’onna jerks her arm away from Rocket, mad that Rocket could see right through her.

“Look, I ain’t tryna hurt yo feelings, but I’m not gunna lie to you to make you feel better. Too many people already do that. You’re too beautiful to have such a horrific personality. You young, so, you can fix that shit. But, if you keep putting up that façade, you just gunna keep getting cheated on and end up alone.” Zy’onna’s eyes water a bit. She looks over at Rocket, who has a look of sincerity.

“I—I—I don’t know what to say,” Zy’onna confesses.

“Don’t say shit, just tell me you hear me.” Zy’onna sighs softly, wiping her tears, nodding. He grabs her chin and makes her look at him.

“You understand me?” Zy’onna looks up at Rocket and nods.

“I understand.” Rocket lets go of her face, satisfied.

“Good. Now, te—” He pauses. He sees a lime green 1975 box Chevy with big gold rims enter the parking lot. He watches as it parks in the far back, hiding behind the various cars in the parking lot. He’s not familiar with the car.

The car turned off its lights and sat in the dark. Zy’onna looks over and sees Rocket looking suspicious.

“is everything good?” Rocket nods.

“Yea,” He looks back over at Zy’onna.

“Go ahead and tell me some things about you.” Zy’onna chuckles.

“So, you read me for filth and NOW want to get to know me?” Rocket shrugs.

“I don’t follow steps too well.” Rocket jokes to mask the internal worry. Rocket pulls out his phone and begins texting somebody on their phone, which worries Zy’onna even more.

“Is everything ok?” Rocket nods.

“Yeah, just talk.” Zy’onna sighs.

“Fine.”

#blackauthor #black literature #writers on tumblr #blacktumblr #black simblr

0 notes

dertaglichedan · 1 year ago

Text

IRS Using Fake Names to Intimidate and Harass Taxpayers

Do you remember all of those times that the Democrats wanted metric buttloads more money for the IRS (along with all of the guns and ammunition) but they assured you little people that you had nothing to worry about because all of these resources would be focused on a couple of hundred billionaires? Yeah… good times. Well, you can toss that story out the window along with much else that the government has “assured” us of. The latest tales from the adventures of the IRS coming out of the investigations of the House Judiciary Committee are simply alarming and they involve regular old working-class people, not just Donald Trump or Elon Musk. It turns out that IRS agents have used fake names when dealing with taxpayers and engaged in tactics that definitely constituted harassment. And some of them break the rules with impunity, potentially even in violation of the law. (Washington Times)

The IRS allows its agents to use fake names when they contact taxpayers, according to a congressional report Friday that found the pseudonyms can create a tense and potentially harassing system. The House Judiciary Committee documented a case in Ohio where an IRS agent showed up at a taxpayer’s home unannounced, lied about his name and the reason for his visit, refused to leave when told to do so by the woman’s lawyer, threatened to freeze the taxpayer’s assets and then filed a complaint against the police when they responded. Police found the man’s behavior so strange that they initially concluded he was an impostor. It was only after they contacted the IRS‘ inspector general that they learned the man was a real agent using a fake name, “Agent Bill Haus.”

The example described above involving “Agent Bill Haus,” is even stranger than it first appears. (I assume that was an inside gag. “Bill House” of the IRS. Get it?) The woman who was being harassed turned out to not even owe any money in back taxes. They admitted as much to her after the fact. So what was the purpose of the intrusion? Was it just intimidation for some unstated reason?

While the House is investigating this, I think the public deserves a good, long look at the official IRS operating procedures and policies. Is the use of fake names something they put in writing or just some sort of unofficial “tradition” that developed at the agency over time? How often does it happen? Or, if this office that employed “Bill Haus” was some sort of aberration, was the employee and/or their supervisor terminated?

Underlying all of this is a more fundamental question. Who uses a fake name for any reason whatsoever unless it is with the intent to deceive or cover up the fact that they know they are doing something wrong? Sure, we could make exceptions in the case of spies or various legitimate exercises of espionage. But we’re talking about the Internal Revenue Service. If a taxpayer is contacted by them it’s already a traumatic enough experience. We have a right to know who we are dealing with in case there are any issues or we feel we need to escalate the matter to their superiors. This is completely unacceptable.

If the police or the FBI show up at your door for any reason they are expected to display a badge so they can be identified. (Exceptions are made for emergency response situations, but they will still have to be identified later.) IRS agents are not sent in to resolve hostage situations or stop a killer in their tracks. There is no point at which they should fail to have and produce appropriate, authentic identification and reveal their name. I want to know how deep this story goes and everyone should demand the same.

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rebrandedbard · 3 years ago

Note

Good morning, I had an idea and I wanted to share (could be a prompt if you want): So, Jaskier definitely, absolutely wants to learn Geralts potions and which to give when. But they aren't labelled at all and you've got to discern by shapes and colours. I firmly believe Jaskier writes a little ditty for that and maybe it spreads or maybe Geralt wakes up after a hunt with vague memories of that song after Jaskier saved him...

Jessi you know exactly what to say to get a fic out of me. Invoke my musicality! Just for you, not one, but two songs Jaskier uses for Geralt's potions!

Witcher's Brew

wc - 2476

Geralt wakes up after a hunt gone wrong and finds himself patched up in bed. He waits for Jaskier to arrive and overhears him singing a strange song to himself as he fusses with Geralt's potion supplies.

Rabbit stew, warm and fresh from the pot. It was the first thing Geralt could remember upon waking. They’d had rabbit stew at midday, just before the hunt. He almost imagined he could taste it on his dry, cut lip, but the lingering bitter taste of White Raffard’s Decoction chased the last of the memory away. He could not recall taking any potions. In fact, he had trouble remembering what it was he’d been fighting. His head was vague, all the details swirling at the edges in a haze. Someone had been speaking to him, he thought. Was it the chanting of a kitchen maid, timing her baking with a prayer? Or was it a song?

A song.

Geralt sat up with a grunt. “Jaskier,” he called, voice rough and catching in his throat. He looked around the darkness of the room, but he was alone. He scented the air. Jaskier had been near in the last hour or so, his smell not yet faded. It tasted bitter on his tongue, like the decoction: bitter like the musk of fear. The tang of salt hung in the air as well. Tears. But there was more. From the table at his side came an earthy scent and he discovered a bowl of mushrooms upon it. Sewant mushrooms.

That’s right. They’d been in the caves. The vision of the beast rose to the forefront of his mind and he remembered that they’d been fighting not a wyvern as hired, but a slyzard. It had been a deadly miscalculation, for the beast could breathe fire over a great distance. Geralt felt the fresh burns on the back of his neck, smelled the poultice pasted there. He remembered pulling Jaskier behind cover. He’d not had the chance to see whether he’d been burned as well. There had been too much to distract him; he did not even know if he’d slain the beast.

There had been mushrooms in the cave. Someone had to have brought them. Jaskier would be foolish enough to return to the caves, even if the beast still lived. But for mushrooms? Geralt could not imagine why.

“Sewant from the sewer caves, crows’ eyes, fang of beasts; blood from all the nasty things, and myrtle pure as priests.”

Geralt turned to the sound of Jaskier’s singing beyond the door. It cracked open and there the bard stood, arms hidden beneath a mass of white flowers. He had, too, a leather pouch dangling from around his wrist. Unloading his burden upon the table, he flipped through the open bestiary, still singing under his breath. It was not his usual kind of song; it was lifeless, simple rhyme and meter without passion. He did not even glance Geralt’s way as he set to work, grinding ingredients together in a mortar.

“Mistletoe and mutagen, aloe leaf of wolf; green mold, han, and celandine, then in the flame engulf.”

Jaskier poured the concoction into a potion bottle and hurried to the fire. He bent to light it, cursing as the matches failed beneath his shaking hand. He cursed louder, his hand slipping again. His voice began to shake as he continued his chant.

“Remember Raffard’s recipe and count it by this rhyme; be ye neither quick nor slow to measure out the time. Once the brew has bubbled and its color turns to red, let cool and cork then brew again to raise him from—”

Jaskier’s voice caught in his throat as he failed to light the match once more. He gripped the potion bottle in his hand and wiped at his eyes, unable to finish the line. “To raise him—”

“From the dead,” Geralt concluded.

Jaskier whirled around, dropping the bottle upon the floor. It shattered, spilling its contents into the hearth and over his boots. But he didn’t pay it any mind. He ran to Geralt’s side and knelt before the bed. His hands were everywhere at once, prodding gently, examining him.

“Geralt,” he breathed. Then everything came out in one great rush, each new thought interrupting the last. “Oh fuck, I was—! You weren’t moving. You just dropped to the ground the minute your sword—! I had to carry you back, and you only had one vial left. I was so worried I wouldn’t be able to make more before …”

“One vial is enough,” Geralt said. He nodded toward the supplies on the table. “Is that White Raffard’s?” he asked, knowing it could be nothing else.

Jaskier nodded, silent.

“What was that song just now?”

Jaskier bit his lip, looking guilty. “I … didn’t meant to pry,” he murmured. “I promise never to share trade secrets but … I had to know how it was made. It’s one of your most important potions. If you couldn’t make one, and if we were ever in a situation where we couldn’t find a healer, I needed to know that I could save you. So I watched, and I wrote it to remember.”

“You wrote a song to remember how to brew a potion?” Geralt asked. He looked at the ingredients. They were all correct, and well-measured from the look of it. Jaskier had prepared three bottles, two still sat empty on the table. Before them, their ingredients lay in even piles, waiting to be ground in the mortar.

Jaskier took Geralt’s hand in his, pressing his forehead to it. “I can brew Raffard’s, White Honey, and Swallow. I know you need Swallow with Raffard’s, for the toxicity. And … if I ever brewed a faulty potion, I would have the Honey.”

“You know what potions to take,” Geralt said. It was less of a question, more an expression of awe. He’d never taught Jaskier about the potions, merely asking for them as needed if Jaskier were in reach to fetch them. And from that, Jaskier had learned what was needed when.

“I wrote a song for that, too. All of them: what they’re for, the ones to take before a battle, and the ones to take after.”

Geralt blinked.

“All of them?” he asked.

Jaskier looked up. He once more turned his head away in shame. Witchers’ potions were not for men to know, let alone theirs to brew. But he nodded. There was no denying it now.

“Sing it to me.”

The look on Jaskier’s face was nothing short of complete and total astonishment. Geralt never requested songs. “You … right now? You want me to sing the song?” Jaskier faltered.

When Geralt gestured toward the lute, Jaskier smiled.

“It hasn’t got music,” Jaskier said. “It isn’t meant to be sung, really. Not in that way at least.”

“But you could put it to music, I bet.”

Jaskier flushed. There was a bit of praise in there somewhere—an admission of skill. At Geralt’s request, he stood and fetched the lute. “You seem to be doing much better,” he said, sitting at his side on the bed.

“Raffard,” Geralt replied. “Are you in tune?”

Jaskier strummed the lute slowly, emphasizing each open note with pride. “Always am.”

“Sing, then.”

It only took a minute of experimental plucking before Jaskier had a set of chords prepared. He strummed them twice in succession, then began his song:

Before one fights vampiric beasts

Drink Black Blood down to spoil their feasts

And if there’s acid on the rise

First taking Bindweed would be wise

When fighting something swift and cruel

Down Blizzard quick before the duel

And if the brawl takes place at night

Take Cat to see in dimmest light

Geralt watched with open admiration as he listened. Jaskier had learned it all on his own. He’d made a careful study of the potions without any help, and what Geralt heard was thus far correct. There were trainees who’d not kept such simple things in order, even with proper instruction.

When fighting wraiths one cannot spy

De Vries’ Extract evolves the eye

And wolves will howl in perfect tune

When given life by the Full Moon

At the play on wolves, Geralt rolled his eyes. Even so, he was impressed. He’d only encountered two wraiths with Jaskier at his side. He would’ve had to pay very close attention to remember De Vries’ Extract’s purpose.

The bit about the wolves did not escape his notice either. There was a little crook in the corner of Jaskier’s mouth as he sang the words. Of course the potion made for jokes among the witchers of the school of the wolf, but they weren’t the only ones who used them.

But if one’s poisoned first, let’s say

Oriole takes the sting away

And when one bleeds, to stop the aches

A simple Kiss is all it takes

If long the task you must endure

Then take a dose of Maribor

And if one’s signs aren’t up to snuff

Then Petri’s Philter is the stuff

If one cannot avoid a hit

The vengeful Shrike takes care of it

And if you’ve time while under cover

Swallow aids a slow recover

If the battle leaves you tired

Tawny Owl may be required

And while weak one cannot parry

Thunderbolt will make foes wary

When hope is lost and at its end

White Raffard’s revives your friend

And if while brawling stunned you be

Then Willow is the remedy

For power in your every blow

Take Wolf to strike against your foe

And though it makes one wobble blind

With Wolverine their fate is signed

Remember this what else you do

White Gull is base for every brew

And when the potions start to strain

White Honey lets you start again

“You ended with White Honey,” Geralt remarked.

Jaskier lay a hand over the strings of his lute, quieting them. “It lets you start again, does it not? Once you swallow a dose of White Honey, it nullifies the effects of all potions,” he said in his most academic voice. “I thought it would be fitting to end the song there; it certainly helps to remember the purpose.”

“And you know how to brew it.”

“I find it ironic that there’s not a trace of honey in it whatsoever. In fact, far too many of your potions involve the use of vinegar, the very opposite of honey. Would it ruin the potions beyond use if I were to add a bit? A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, they say.”

Geralt smiled. He waved his hand, gesturing for Jaskier to come closer. He put a hand on his shoulder, whispering in his ear. “I think whatever potions you brew for me in the future will be made sweet enough by that sentiment,” he said. “So don’t fuck up my recipes, bard.”

Jaskier stammered, then laughed and batted Geralt’s face. “You cheeky thing! For a moment, I thought you actually intended to compliment me.”

“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” Geralt asked. “I did.”

“Not a compliment if you insult my cooking right after. Or—well, eh—brewing, as it were.”

“Alchemy.”

“Oh, yes, that’s much more flattering. Assistant Alchemist! I do like the sound of it.”

Geralt chuckled. “You’re my assistant now, are you?”

“But of course,” Jaskier replied, waving a dramatic arm in the air. “Always have been. I only needed a proper title.

“Then tell me, assistant: what became of the slyzard?”

Jaskier grinned and leaned over to grab the leather pouch from the table. He tossed it for show and caught it with one hand before emptying its contents. A collection of sharp, bloody teeth fell onto the sheets, some with bits of pink gum still attached to the yellow base.

“I believe Raffard’s called for fang of beasts in the list of ingredients,” he said. “And there was no other beast nearby to take from. Your sword was still lodged in its back; all I had to do was give it one last thrust through the heart.”

Jaskier winked and produced another bag from his doublet, heavy with coin. “Needed proof anyway,” he said, setting it alongside the teeth. “I needed some distraction while you were out, so I checked off the list: put you on the mend, finish the hunt, get the pay, replenish supplies.”

For a moment, his cocky expression faltered. “I was just finishing up when I got a little …” he trailed, bundling up the teeth once more. “Well, it’s easier to get lost in worrisome thoughts when doing quiet tasks like foraging. But you woke up, and now there’s nothing left to fear. I’ll have a new set of potions ready for you by the time you’re well enough to get out of bed.”

“… You … killed the slyzard?” Geralt said.

“You did most of it. I just gave it the last push. It barely twitched. Honestly, its innards made more of a fuss when I went to bottle them. I think you’ll be well stocked for some time.”

Jaskier killed the slyzard. He stooped to rummaging in its bleeding corpse for the most vile and disgusting of ingredients. For his potions. Which Jaskier brewed. Which he knew how to brew by merely observing, putting it all together in simple songs to remember. And still he’d found time to collect his pay.

“Fuck me,” Geralt said in wonder.

“Maybe once you’re healed,” Jaskier laughed, ears a touch pink.

“Then kiss me,” Geralt amended. He lay his hand over Jaskier’s arm, leaning forward, enraptured. It was a simple revelation and he wondered just how long the idea had been bubbling in the back of his brain. “Kiss me,” he said. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Jaskier blinked twice, his cheeks flushing as he took in the seriousness of Geralt’s tone. “Did … you put too much White Gull in that last batch of Raffard’s?”

Geralt shook his head, his eyes never leaving Jaskier’s. “Will you kiss me?” he asked again.

“I …”

“You killed a slyzard for me.”

“Yes.”

“And you memorized my potions. In case I needed them.”

Jaskier nodded.

“You love me,” Geralt concluded. His heart gave a leap at the notion. Yes. Yes, this was something he never knew he wanted. No, not wanted—this was something he needed. If all that didn’t add up to love, he didn’t know what would. It was such a simple thing, and he was a very simple man in every meaning of the word.

“Love me, Jaskier,” he said. “Love me and kiss me, please.”

But Jaskier already did. And before the final plea could escape Geralt’s lips, Jaskier did.

I’m going to take care of you, Geralt thought. He would take care of Jaskier just as Jaskier had always taken care of him. Good care.

“I do love you,” Geralt corrected.

Jaskier chuckled. “Don’t need to think about it?”

“I don’t think I ever really did.”

#asks #my fic #drabbles #witcher #the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #you know i wish that i had jessi's tag #actually let's tag this as a ficlet too it's a bit longer than usual #ficlet

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aimless-imagines-for-fun · 4 years ago

Text

Racing Heart

Pairing :: Clark Kent x short/petite fem!Reader

Warnings :: Smut, Size Kink

Word Count :: 4,265

Summary :: You never knew why, but whenever you were around Clark, your heart always raced.

A/N :: Just an fyi, I used Henry Cavill’s Clark Kent, but I used the comic book height of Clark, which is 6′3′’, versus Henry’s 6′1′’

You never quite understood why, all you knew was that your heart always started racing when you were close to Clark. It wasn’t whenever you saw him, or when you were just in the same room as him. It was only when you were able to notice how small you were compared to the 6’3’’ man.

There were many occasions when this happened. Whenever Clark hugged you, helped you grab something on a top shelf, or even when he was standing so close to you, you two almost touched, your heart began racing. It had gotten to the point where you went out of your way to avoid getting close to the man, making sure you were always on the opposite side of the room from him.

There were three specific times though that made your face heat up just thinking about them.

The first one was in the break room.

You had managed to open the cabinet doors right above the refrigerator, but were struggling to grab the box of plastic utensils. You always forgot to bring a fork or spoon from home for your lunch, though you never had to worry about it because The Daily Planet had some. Of course, in an office full of tired reporters, others were bound to forget their utensils as well, and thus the box that was placed on the counter was now empty.

You stood on your tippy-toes, fingers barely grazing the corner of the box. The heels your wore offered no help, only adding a mere inch and a half to your height. You open the cabinet with ease, and a huff of annoyance left you when you saw the box of forks was on the second shelf. You had grown so frustrated, you began hopping just to try and hit the box that you now believed was taunting you. However, your hopping was working, as you managed to hit the corner repeatedly to make the box slowly come out. You didn’t care if you were wearing a skirt. It ended right before your knees and you were wearing black tights so it was fine.

You just needed one more good hop and you knew you’d be able to grab the box. You bent your knees only slightly, and then-

“Do you need some help?” A deep kind voice asked, followed by a large hand reaching past you and grabbing the box.

You whipped your entire body around, now facing a tie and button-down plaid shirt. You tilted your head up, seeing the man from Kansas, Clark Kent. He was giving you one of his classic golden boy smiles, looking down at you.

You gave him a small smile in return, and you could feel your heartbeat begin to grow faster. Perhaps Clark sneaking up behind you startled you, and he seemed to notice.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, I just saw you were struggling for a bit,” He commented, holding the box out for you.

You grabbed it, thanking him quietly before a small idea popped into your head. “Were you watching me?”

You swore you saw a small tint on Clark’s cheeks as he let out a cough to clear his throat. “Um, no, I had walked by earlier and saw you struggling then, and, well, when I came back I saw you were still here so I decided to help.”

You let out a small giggle. “I’m teasing Clark.”

You saw him visibly ease up, letting out a small exhale. Little did you know he had been staring at you for a small while before he helped you. Watching you hop up and down had brought a small smile of amusement to his face.

The second one was in the supply room.

Some people bought their supplies, and that was their stash. Others, such as yourself, helped themselves to the abundance of the supply room. What you had just ran out of only moments ago were sticky notes. You used them quite often, not only for notes but also for little drawings you did to pass the time. As a matter of fact, your entire desk was nearly covered with either small memos or doodles of random characters.

The sticky notes, unfortunately, were located on the top shelf. To add to your bad luck, there was also no stepping stool or ladder. Now, you could’ve been rational and go get someone taller to help. ‘Nah, I got this,’ you thought as you carefully began to climb up on the shelves. You believed in your climbing abilities, even in your heels. Admittedly, it was a bit awkward trying to grip onto the shelves, and the heels of your feet were hanging off, but you felt secure enough.

You reached the top shelf with relative ease, only needing to step up two shelves. Then came the matter of the box of sticky notes that had yet to be open. There was no way you could open the box to grab the small number of notepads you needed, not without both hands though. You could throw the box down, but what were the chances of it breaking open and creating a mess? ‘I really should’ve thought this one through a little better,’ you regretted.

Busy thinking of how to get the sticky notes down(along with how often you found yourself in this sort of ‘you’ve made your bed now lay in it’ situations you’ve been in) you didn’t notice the door open and close once again. “(Y/N)?”

“Wha- Ah!” You let out a squeal, losing your balance from being pulled from your train of thought. Your eyes widened and your heart froze, feeling your feet slip off along with your grip.

You squeezed your eyes shut, ready for the oncoming impact from the floor, along with the pain. Thankfully, the person who had caused your fall was quick enough to save you. Instead of feeling the hard tiled floor, you felt a pair of strong arms catch you. They held you close, almost squeezing you a bit too tight, but you felt safe in the embrace. You opened your eyes, blinking a few times to make sure you were indeed okay. You looked up to see who had caught you, your (e/c) eyes locking with blue ones behind a frame of glasses.

There was a clear worried look on Clark’s face. “You need to be careful (Y/N), you can’t just climb up shelves. If you need help, ask for it,” He continued to scold you, but you couldn’t focus on a thing he was saying.

Your heart was pounding, though you thought it was from the adrenaline of almost falling, and your mind was elsewhere. You couldn’t listen to him with him still holding you, it was all your mind was focused on. His grip on you was frim, and you were so close to him you could smell his cologne, citrus with a hint of musk. You always knew you were petite in build, but being held like this made you feel tiny. ‘His arms are so big. Am I really this small? He doesn’t look like he’s struggling at all. When does he have the time to work out? How-’

“(Y/N) are you even listening to a thing I’m saying?”

You blinked once, looking at him with big eyes. “Um… You’re still holding me…” You pointed out, a small blush coming to your cheeks. Unable to look at him any longer, your eyes darted down, missing his flustered face.

He put you down quickly, apologizing, and you told him not to just as quickly in response. After, you thanked him and rushed out without even taking a single sticky note with you. Later on in the day though, when you had walked away and returned to your desk, there were two sticky note pads on your desk.

The third one was at a charity event.

You and Clark were assigned to the event together as it was a rather large event. The money being raised was for meta-human teens and children, to help them better understand their abilities safely.

After hearing the guest list, you knew you had to wear the one forest green dress you wore to every fancy event. It was the nicest, and expensive, dress you owned. You paired it with three-inch black heels and a simple opal pendant. You never like dressing up too much. Clark wore a simple muted dark brown suit, with a navy blue button-up and blue tie to match it.

Now, it was rather tricky to keep your distance from Clark this time, and you really didn’t want to get flustered during work. Before it was at work, now it would be during work. There was a difference, granted a small difference, but still, a difference. At work, you just minded your business, and on occasion, goofing off when you weren’t writing an article. Here you were supposed to be interviewing and taking notes of everything happening. You couldn’t miss something important because Clark wanted to dance and you couldn’t keep your mind straight after. He didn’t ask you to dance, but, if he did you’d refuse.

“So, Mr. Wayne, Mr. Queen-”

“Please, call me Oliver,” The blond said.

Before you stood Bruce Wayne and Oliver Queen. You were intending to speak to Mr. Wayne alone, but just as you approached him, Mr. Queen also got to him. You were about to apologize and walk away, however, Mr. Queen, or rather, Oliver, insisted you interviewed them together. You had to admit, it was rather nice having Oliver around as Mr. Wayne, even though he was known as a playboy, gave you a rather intimidating aura.

You began interviewing the two, asking them the same questions you had asked all the millionaires, but ended up talking with them and enjoying it. Mr. Wayne wasn’t as intimidating as he had seemed, and Oliver was rather humorous. It was clear to you the two were friends.

You were in the middle of laughing at a joke Oliver had told when you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder. You turned your head, seeing Clark, standing right beside you with a smile.

“Well you most certainly are having a good time,” He commented before turning his attention to the men in front of you. “Mr. Wayne, Mr. Queen, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He reached out with his free hand to shake theirs.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well…” Mr. Wayne’s voice trailed off as he looked down at Clark’s badge from the daily planet, “...Mr. Kent.”

“Call me Oliver,” He said as he shook your coworker’s hand. “I take it you two were sent together?”

“Yes,” You said in sync.

The conversation continued, and the entire time Clark kept his arm around your shoulders. You nodded along, even humming a few times in response to make it appear as if you were listening as your mind wandered. ‘Why is my heart racing? Why is he still holding me? Should I say something? What if I seem rude? I don’t want him to let go though.’ Even though you didn’t want to acknowledge it, you knew there was a small part of you that always liked how petite you were compared to Clark.

Then, you felt his thumb begin to rub small circles onto your bare shoulder. Without thinking, you slowly leaned into his larger frame. Now, you couldn’t see it because you were still looking ahead at the two millionaires, but Clark glanced down at you, happy you had come closer.

You couldn’t avoid Clark forever though, despite your best efforts.

You walked down the sidewalk, holding four large reusable grocery bags each full to the brim. You lived alone, but you liked to shop in bulk so you wouldn’t have to go out often. You were struggling a fair amount though. Normally, you had a friend who’d come with you to help you out and then the two of you would hang out. Sadly, all your friends were busy for the next few days and you were beginning to run out of your favorite conditioner, not to mention you were low on food.

You didn’t drive to the grocery store either, adding to your struggle. It was only three blocks away, why waste gas? You wouldn’t be struggling much longer though.

“(Y/N)! (Y/N)!” A male voice called out.

You stopped, eyes darting everywhere to find the owner of the voice. It took you a moment until you eventually spotted Clark in front of you, a good distance away.

“Oh, hi Clark!” You placed two of the bags down to give him a large arm wave.

It took him a moment to get to you, and when he did he looked down at your groceries puzzled. “That seems like a lot for one person to carry.”

“Yeah, I tend to bite off more than I can chew.”

“I’ve noticed,” He said with a chuckle. “Do you want some help?”

You shook your head. “No. I couldn’t possibly drag you away from your day off to help me.”

“It wouldn’t be a hassle at all,” He reassured you. “Plus, it’d eat at me all day knowing I left you struggling.”

Knowing he wouldn’t take no for an answer, you let out a sigh, agreeing to his help. He took three of the bags, leaving you with the one bag filled with two bags of chips, three loaves of bread, and two dozen eggs. You tried to hold two bags, make the work even between the two of you, but he insisted. He tried to carry the bag you held as well, but you were adamant you held at least one.

Walking down to your apartment complex, the two of you mainly talked about work. At least you did, and Clark more so listened. This was the first time your heart didn’t start racing as you stood next to him, probably because you wouldn’t shut up about the deadline for your new article. You refused to look up at him, eyes fixed only on what was in front of you. It didn’t take long for the two of you to get to your apartment. You thanked him and told him he could go on with his day, but he insisted he helped you carry the bags up to your apartment.

You were quiet from then on, listening to Clark talk about the building. He lead you all away to your front door, standing patiently for you to unlock your door. Then, it hit you. You noticed his shadow over you as you faced your front door. Your heart quickened a bit, still, you ignored it as you opened your front door.

You speedily guided him to the kitchen to place the groceries down, and just as fast you tried to rush him out. His brows furrowed, confusion written all over his face.

“(Y/N), why are you in such a rush to show me out?”

‘Because I can’t think straight now with you around!’ You thought. Instead, you said to him, “Because I’m tired and I want you to enjoy your day off!”

He didn’t seem to believe you. He stood in front of you, a small frown on his lips. “Do you like me?”

Your eyes widened, mouth left ajar at his question.

“Because sometimes I get the feeling that you don’t like me.”

‘Oh-’ “What- No. I think you’re a great guy Clark.”

“Then why are you always avoiding me?” You didn’t think he had noticed. “Whenever I get close to you, you scurry off, and when you can’t you look uncomfortable.”

Like a child who had just gotten caught, you covered your face, too embarrassed to look at him. You didn’t want to tell him the real reason you were avoiding him, but, you also didn’t want him thinking you disliked him. It was the exact opposite.

“I’m not avoiding you because I don’t like you, Clark,” You said through your hands. You spread apart your fingers so you could look him in the eyes. “I… I avoid you because you’re… you’re so big.”

Now Clark was taken aback, a brow raised. “What?”

With a long exhale, you lowered your hands. “I said, I avoid you because you’re so… so big, and it makes me feel really small, and I can’t think straight.”

“You avoid me because I’m too big, and it makes you feel small, and you can’t think straight?” He repeated.

You nodded.

He was silent for a few seconds, tilting his head to the side. “In a good or bad way?”

“What?”

“In a good or bad way?”

You could feel your face heat up, and it wasn’t the only spot on you beginning to grow warm. Softly, you answered him. “In a good way, I guess.”

Clark took a step closer to you. “So you like the fact that I’m larger than you?”

“Yes, I just-”

“No.” His normally bright blue eyes seemed to darken, his eyes narrowed on you. “I want you to say it.”

You closed your legs closer together, feeling a heat rise in between your thighs. “I like that you’re so much bigger and stronger compared to me.”

Swiftly, Clark scooped you up, hands just beneath your bottom to raise you to his face. With how fast your heart was racing now you were sure he could hear it pounding in your chest.

You looked into his eyes as you carefully took off his glasses and tossed them onto your couch. Then, you placed a hand on each side of his face and gave him a long soft kiss. He returned the kiss gently, though after a few minutes you could tell he wanted more, his kiss began to grow rough.

You had wrapped your legs around him to be more comfortable, giving him a better grip on you. He squeezed your ass and in response you let out a soft moan. He lowered you a bit, only enough for you to feel his growing erection against your fully clothed core. He held your hips close, moving you against him for a bit of friction. You whimpered, lowering your head into his chest and gripping his dark grey shirt.

“Clark, please,” You whined.

“Where’s your bedroom?” He asked, voice deeper than usual.

You pulled your head away from his chest, nodding over in the direction of your bedroom. “Second door to the right,”

Almost hurried, he carried you straight to your bedroom. He stopped right at the edge of your bed, letting go and letting you fall back onto your mattresses. He crawled on top of you, placing a knee between your legs. Gently, he peeled away your clothes, tossing them to the side and leaving you in your underwear. He began peppering kisses around your neck, slowly moving down to your collarbone. As he did, his hand crept its way behind your back and undid the clasp on your bra. He pulled away from his kisses to watch your breasts bounce free, eyes fixed on your bare chest.

Feeling embarrassed, you moved to cover your chest with your hands, but he pinned your hands above your head with one hand.

A low chuckle escaped him. “Aw, are you feeling shy?”

You were about to turn your head away when Clark dipped his head down, capturing your lips again. You could feel his free hand slowly trail up your side, humming as a shiver went down your spine. He cupped your breast firmly, beginning to knead it in his palm.

Small moans left your lips, arching your back, body begging for more. You already knew your panties were wet, and you needed him, but he was still fully clothed. All the while you could feel his denim-covered erection against your thigh.

“Clark,” You groaned against his lips, “It’s not fair.”

He pulled back, brows raised. You struggled to pull your hands free, to no avail.

“You’re still dressed,” You said with a pout.

He gave you an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, how about you take care of that for me?”

He let go of your hands and you eagerly reached for the end of his shirt, pulling it off of him. You almost started drooling seeing him shirtless for the first time. Your hands began to wander around his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles. Your hands wandered down further, to the hem of his pants. Just as you were about to reach for his belt, his hand stopped you.

“You’re not ready yet sweetheart,” He warned you.

“Clark-”

He pressed his mouth against you, silencing you before you could complain. Even though you weren’t allowed to undo his pants, he slid them off with ease and you felt his long hard member pressed against your thigh. You momentarily pulled away to glance down, gasping loudly when you saw his length.

Worried, you looked back up at him. “It’s not going to fit.”

He dipped his head back down to your neck, peppering kisses across your jaw. “That’s why we need to get you ready.”

His hand moved down to your soaked panties, pushing them down so you were completely bare now. Your breathing hitched, feeling him stick in a finger and begin to move it in and out of you slowly. He picked up the pace with his finger, eventually sticking in another and he could already feel your pussy tightening.

You were growing close and he was only fucking you with his fingers. Granted, his hands were larger than yours, so two of his fingers felt much larger than two of your own.

To add on, he lowered himself so his head would be right at your dripping cunt and began sucking on your clit.

“Ah!” Your hands went straight to his hair and began to tug. You were a mess in his hands.

It didn’t take long for your body to shudder and your hips begin to spasm as you hit your high. Clark licked up your pouring juice, humming at your sweet taste. He looked up at you, two fingers remaining and now scissoring inside of you.

“You know, you really should ask for help if you can’t reach something,” He began. “It’s hard trying to hold back when you reach for things in those tight skirts of yours.”

“Well, now you don’t need to hold back,” You teased.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, grabbing his face with one hand and guiding him back to you. You could taste your juices in the kiss, humming in delight.

He pulled his fingers out, your core aching to be filled again. Luckily, you soon felt his already dripping tip at your entrance. Slowly, he pushed himself into you and you could feel your walls stretch around him. You nearly cried, your body in a mix of pain and pleasure. Your back arched, breasts pressing against Clark’s chest. Your hands gripped his arms as tight as you could, and you were sure you were digging your nails into him.

It was so much. You could feel your eyes water and tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

Clark kissed your forehead, muttered against it, “Just relax.”

He gave a small moment to adjust, noting how your breathing changed when you had gotten used to him. He pushed himself further in though, and you cursed under your breath, body growing tense again.

Again, he gave you a moment to adjust, despite how painfully tight your walls clamped around him. He pulled out a small amount before pushing back in, bucking his a few times to get you used to him. Eventually, your quiet whimpers turned into small moans.

“M-more,” You breathed out, breath shaky.

Like a switch had been flipped in him, Clark pulled out almost all the way and speared you, no longer as gentle as he had been before. He did this again and again, going a little harder each time at a constant rhythm. Then, with one thrust you shouted his name loudly and your cunt squeezed around his cock.

“Ah! Clark again! Right there, please!” You begged him.

Knowing he had found your g-spot, he pulled out all the way this time and pounded that same spot, earning another cry of pleasure from you. He did this repeatedly now with a faster rhythm, leaving you gasping and clenching with each thrust. With each of your breaths growing ragged, it was clear you were both close to your release.

You wrapped a leg around his hips to try and bring him closer, and he gripped your thigh harshly. He squeezed it so tightly, you were sure there’d be a faint bruise.

With a few more thrusts, you shuddered, juices flowing out of you again and around Clark’s cock this time. You swore you heard Clark curse, feeling you squeeze around him and juices cover him.

His rhythm was growing sloppy, and he pumped in and out of you until he let out a low groan of relief. You took a sharp breath, feeling his warm seed enter you. He continued to buck his hips, riding it out until he finally stopped, breath heavy.

He looked at you with now clear eyes and a smile on his face. “So… Do you need help putting your groceries away?” He asked cheekily.

You giggled. “Only if you don’t put anything important on the top shelf.”

“Why not? I’ll be around to help you now.”

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