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jwanniie · 1 year ago

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The hoop to my heart!

Summary: your coach was always harsh on you, but behind that tone there were deeper feelings…

Pairings: basketball player and coach Yunjin x basketball player fem reader!

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: virgin reader, p in v, unprotected sex, reader implied to have some family issues, reader mentions their grandma, slightly mean Yunjin, not proofread and just smut and slight angst!

Wish you could just punch that stupid smirk off that, good looking face. Her voice, her smile, her attitude, the hold she got on you. Just making you hate her more And more. ”Be faster y/n, how do you think we can win if you keep this snail pace on?” Yunjin complained, you just scoffed and handed the ball to your teammate, walking towards the changing room, too worked out of everything. Your school has been stressful, your mom and dad constantly bickering, basketball competitions coming up, just everything.

Basketball was usually the hobby, you always came to when you felt lonely, sad, stressed or happy. It was your home, but the last months were tough and after the number one player and your coach Yunjin started playing with your team. She couldn’t stop complaining about how you throw the ball, how you hand the ball, AND even how you walk with the ball. It’s like she loves pointing out anything she thinks is “wrong”.

Yeah, she is the coach and she must criticize some stuff, so you can improve and get better, but it’s not like that, it’s only you, you were her problem and you were the only one she criticized. Even her tone when she criticized was bitter and acerbic.

You walked towards the changing rooms tiredly, today’s practice leaving you no energy to use, you quickly unpacked your stuff and decided to shower at home since you don’t want to spend more time at this place. Why did she dislike you this much? Why is she nice to others but you? Thoughts were constantly crossing your mind, or more like questions.

The walk home was peaceful and you needed that the most, the sky dark, the only light in it are the stars. It was nice till you came in front of your house door, The shouting could be heard through the door. You shut your eyes tightly, and took a deep breath before sliding your key in, and twisting the lock.

The door opened and you walked in on your parents in the kitchen yelling at each other. You sighed deeply and didn’t spare them a glance,walking straight to your room.

You just collapsed on your bed. The soft cushions pressing against your face, you grabbed the teddy beside you, that your grandma gave you when you were born and just snuggled it. The aroma of your grandma and the clean bedsheets bringing you comfort and peace. The place you could always come to.

Growing up your family was not the best emotionally, your dad a busy business man and your mom a designer. Both of them traveled a lot and you were left here alone, sometimes you went to your beloved grandmas house, the house that was your real home. Financially your parents were very stable, they had a very good income and a good cash balance. But that didn’t suffice your relationship with your parents emotionally. As well your parents were very strict and made sure you didn’t date anyone, and thats why you have never dated or even kissed anybody.

You suddenly were out of your thoughts and noticed that the loud voices got quieter. You sighed in relief, finally. You were staring at the ceiling blankly, unknowingly drifting to sleep.

You woke up to shouting again, the usual. You were sore from the practice, remembering that you were supposed to shower but you didn’t. You groaned, now you have to shower at morning!

You took a nice hot shower and wore your clothes, you didn’t really like morning showers but this was surprisingly relaxing.

You walked downstairs and grabbed an apple, not wanting to sit in that tensed environment, you decided to eat your apple on the way to school.

You entered the school and immediately walked towards your class, when you were walking you saw Yunjin with bunch of girls, girls she’d probably fuck tonight. Bet she didn’t even know their names.

She gave you a dirty smirk before grabbing one girl for a kiss, during the kiss her eyes never left yours, making sure you see how she is basically eating that girls mouth. You don’t know why but you definitely know that you are not supposed to feel that way, what is it?

Annoyed? No

Furious? No

Jealous? No…Yes

You suddenly catch yourself staring and quickly walk away, at the end you have a class you should go to. You felt slightly embarrassed, you just stared at your annoying coach, Yunjin kissing a random girl. And you feel kinda jealous, but you don’t know why? You hate her so why are you feeling this way? You surely didn’t like her? Did you?

The school day was shit, really shit. You forgot your book and got yelled by your teacher, the milk you bought from the cafe spilled all over your shirt, you got detention for being too “loud” in class. What?!?!?

Now you are sitting in the empty classroom, staring at the wall unimpressed and grumpy. It was one hour which will lead you to be late for the basketball practice, and that means yunjin will yell at you again and the day will just be even more worse.

The one hour felt like 10, but you managed to get out. You were ready to be yelled at by yunjin. But hey! Showing up late is better than not showing up at all.

You carefully walked and you were met by Yunjin, arms crossed, face bored and eyes dark. “You are late!” She stated apathetically, you looked at your feet “I know, I’m sorry” you simply replied.

You didn’t want to hear her response so you hurriedly walked towards the changing room. The practice was even worse than usually, or was it because you had a bad day? Yunjin didn’t let you breathe, the whole time she was just picking on everything you do. The most unnecessary things, “y/n be faster!” “y/n hand the ball properly!” “Y/n don’t walk like that!” And that’s when you snapped, tears running down like a waterfall being unstoppable and eyes becoming red.

You started running to pack your stuff and go.Yunjin was shocked, did she really push you this far? She decided to go check on you, and maybe give you an apology.

She walked on you, and saw you,hair out, nose and cheeks red with tears actively flowing and sniffing constantly. The sight made her heart clench and guilt wash over her.

She approached you slowly and looked at her feet, scared to meet your eyes. “I’m sorry for being harsh on you all the time…I have liked you for a while now and I wanted you to feel anything for me, even if that means hatred” she confessed, you swore your jaw would have dropped to the ground if it could, and your eyes widened.

You don’t know what to say, and were confused because you think you like her but she still used to treat you like shit. You let your inner thoughts win, placing your hands on her cheeks and taking her in a soft kiss.

You opened your eyes and saw her shocked expression, before kissing back. The kiss was so soft and gentle, the hatred and hurt in you flooding away. She placed her hands on your upper back, guiding you to lay on the bench.

Her lips were hungrily over yours, you hardly had time to respond to her. She was kissing you like she had been starved. Her sleeveless arm meeting your silky soft skin. Her hands found their way down to your shirt, you parted your lips and looked her deep into the eyes.

“I’m virgin” you breathed out, after hearing that her expression quickly softened and the hunger and lust in her eyes got replaced with warmth. Her hands left the hem of your shirt, but you were quick to place it again there. “I want it” you uttered, “are you sure baby? I don’t want to make you feel like you have to do this” she questioned, you gave her a reassuring nod and she pecked your lips before her hand slowly slid your shorts down and slid your shirt over your breast and unclasped your bra. She suck in a deep breath before blurting “such a pretty pair”. Her hands found their way, and started massaging them slowly. Earning soft moans from you, the contact from her hands making your panties stick to your folds, wetting your panties. “I need you Yunjin ” you whimpered, her touch way too slow for your liking. She smiled and took a look at the wet patch before moving your panties to the side. Getting a good look at your pretty pussy. Her pants getting way too tight for her, she groaned deeply. She hastily took her pants along with her boxers off, before placing her mushroom tip at your entrance. “Are you ready?” She asked, care visible on her face. You gave the same nod you gave a while ago. She finally pushed in, pussy squeezing her too tightly. Her eyes rolled to the back of her skull, at first you let a gasp of pain, it hurt but the feeling of being full overtaking you.

It was too difficult to move due to your cunt suffocating her deliciously, her whole body was burning with sensation. She placed Open mouth kisses all over your neck and chests. Before her tongue grabbed one of your nipples, her tongue moved professionally around the two breast, moving from one to another. Her tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. She made you forget the pain down there by her mouth. Her length started slowly thrusting in and out of you, your cunt sucking her in deeply.

Both of your moans could probably be heard, you didn’t care everyone is gone by now. She continued the ramming in your pussy, the pleasure driving both of you insane.

You were the best fuck she ever had, better than any of those sluts that she fucked every night and couldn’t care less about.

Her tip continued the abuse on your cervix, she was close so close, and she could be cumming any time. You were also very close, the sweet clench you gave her indicating you were close.

Few more slow but harsh thrusts from her and you squirted, your orgasm leaving you exhausted. Her thrusts never slowed down, your pussy now was squishing her even tighter. Clenching and unclenching around her base, she let out a loud deep moan and pounded her liquid into you. The creamy white ropes of fluids painted your walls. Both of you feeling satisfied. She cradled you in her arms and nibbled on your neck gently. “You are my girlfriend now, right?” She asked you. You found the question ridiculous so you decided to give her a peck to answer her curiosity. She smile and returned the peck. “Let’s go shower now!” She demanded, picking you up and taking you to the shower in the changing rooms.

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netherfeildren · 2 years ago

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Someone's Wife in the Boat of Someone's Husband .8

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Joel Miller x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Discussions of child abandonment

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Posted a day early bc I adore all of you so much <3

Artwork is Kiss by Edward Munch (1897)

Word Count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

You have to pick the places you don’t want to walk away from.

Joan Didion, The Book of Common Prayer

The passage of time is a strange thing when wading through the midst of grief. At once, a sort of liminal space you’ve created to enshroud your existence, protect yourself in. Like all time has stopped, and you’ve cemented yourself in this space where your pain and sadness was created, but also, with life continuing to churn around you without pause. So that you’re left to watch as everything around you passes by – all while you’re unable to move, breathe, change.

It was… saying it was difficult would have been laughable – inane – to move on from the scene in the park. The look on Joel’s face, his silence, Sarah’s cries for her mother. You wanted to be there for them, to know what was happening between them, if Sarah was okay, if Joel was okay. But you remain in your shroud instead, surrounded only by all the things you want, but will not let yourself have, surrounded by all the ghosts of your past you’re so fucking tired of holding on to.

The day’s been abysmal – exhausting and sluggish, and it seems as though everything that could have gone wrong, had. Like the universe was working overtime to turn your existence into one ridiculous, cosmic punch line. And now, well into the evening, and much, much later than you should be leaving the school, you make your way towards your lonely car at the far end of the parking lot. You’d had to stay late to figure out a delivery issue with your order of supplies for the rest of the semester and had lost track of time once again. Now nearing eleven PM, you’re exhausted and hungry and freezing – the true chill of late autumn finally sweeping into the city with an angry vengeance.

You’d had Sarah at the forefront of your mind all day, worse than usual, for some reason. You couldn’t stop thinking about the sound of her little voice asking you if you’d had as much fun with her as she’d had with you. She’d embedded herself into your heart in such a short time, and as inextricably as her father had. Just one more painful thing you had to carry on without.

You climb into your car and sit for a moment, head tilted back against the headrest, staring out into the dark night. You’ve felt on the verge of tears all day, a tight, pinched heat hovering just at the edge of your forebrain, ready to break and spill at the slightest provocation, and just sitting here now, after such a terrible day, at the thought of having to go back to your lonely, quiet house and get into a cold bed, only to dream about him, well, it has those tears rushing forward and spilling unencumbered from your eyes.

You must surely paint a very sad and pathetic image, sitting here alone in your dark car, crying over a man who you’d so definitively pushed away, you thought that whatever he might’ve felt about you at one point, would surely turn to hatred eventually, after having hurt him so much. The thought fills you with a rueful bitterness, and you think that after everything, it’s only what you deserve. You think of his coaxing voice, telling Sarah that it’d all be okay, and as you reach to turn the key in the ignition, you think that maybe you’ll get yourself an ice cream with sprinkles too, maybe that’ll make you feel even a little better, just like he’d said, make you feel close to them, but when you turn your wrist all the car does is give a pitifully sad sputter and croak and then nothing. You turn the key again, again, the lights on the dash flicker, and then it goes completely silent and dead. And yeah, this is just exactly what you’d expect. You’re sure that you’re being punished. Punished for ever getting involved with him, for falling in love with him, for pushing him away, for hurting him, punished for existing, perhaps, because God can things get any worse? You don’t think so. Your tears renew their vigor, and then you’re slumped over, brow pressed to the steering wheel as you sob. It’s so late and you’re so tired. All you want is to go home to him. All you want is to see him, to have him hold you and tell you in that deep, comforting voice that it’ll all be okay. Gerri had mentioned that she had plans with her sister tonight, you don’t want to interrupt that, and you realize, as you wrack your brain for what to do, that you have no one to call to come help you. It’s closer to midnight than not, and you’re entirely alone here, stranded in the cold night.

And at that terribly sad, despairing thought, you pick up your phone and dial his number. You don’t even consider the fact that it’s late, that he could be busy, asleep, with Sarah or his wife. The impulse is uncontrollable, you need him, you need to hear his voice. Nothing else matters. It only rings twice before that gorgeous bass is rumbling in your eardrum. Your eyes flutter shut at the sound of it, all your breath whooshing out of you in a pained exhale.

“Hello?”

“Joel–” you gasp.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” His voice is immediately full of panicked worry.

“I’m sorry to call so late. I– I didn’t–”

He says your name sharply, “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I– I didn’t have anyone else to call, I’m sorry and a– a–,” you can’t catch your breath, “I– I didn’t want to– to call anyone else, and– and I’ve had just– just the worst day, and Joel– Joel, I miss you so much, and I’m so sorry,” you cry. “I can’t stop thinking about you saying that this was hurting you, that I was hurting you, and then Sarah, and– and now my car won’t start and I– I can’t, Joel. I just can’t do this anymore.” You let your forehead fall forward onto the steering wheel as you feel tears drip down your chin and onto your lap, digging your nails painfully into the leather of the wheel.

“Jesus Christ, where are you?” You can hear him moving around quickly on his end, the jingle of his keys. He says something you can’t make out to someone on the other side, and your heart seizes with panic for one second, but then: the snap of his fingers, and Tommy, I’ll call you, closer to the receiver, and your anxiety abates for a moment. “It’s eleven o’clock at night. Are you at the school? Are you by yourself?”

“Yes– yes, the college.”

“I’ll be right there, sweetheart. Don’t cry anymore, and listen to me,” his voice goes, suddenly, very serious, snapping you to attention, “You didn’t hurt me,” he says. “Okay? I don’t want you thinkin’ that. The circumstances, perhaps, but never you. Do you understand me?”

He can’t see you shake your head, but you do it anyway. I’m sorry, you whisper again. You know you did, you know your indecision and recalcitrance and rejection hurt him. “Wait, Joel–” you don't know what you want him to wait for because all you can think, all you can feel, is the most tremendous amount of relief you’ve probably ever felt in your entire life. He’s coming, he’s coming, he’s coming for you. It’ll all be okay now.

“I’ll be right there, baby. Don’t worry, and lock your goddamn doors.” You hear the slam of a door. “Ten minutes.”

He makes it in seven. Your cheek is smushed against the steering wheel, half of your face gone to numbness now, when his headlights swing into the dark parking lot. You pick your head up, blinking your blurry eyes, trying to collect yourself – stop your crying, but you’re dizzy, half lulled to sleep by the headache brought on by your tears and anxiety, and then he’s there at your door, rapping on the window and tugging on the handle for you to open it. You flip the lock, and he rips the door open, coming to a crouch in front of you and taking your wet face into his hands, swiping his thumbs beneath your swollen, aching eyes. Your tears fall harder. You can’t help it. He’s touching you, he’s here, after weeks and weeks of dreaming of him and hurting for him and missing him, needing him, he’s here and he’s touching you.

“Joel–” you sob, throwing yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck as tightly as you can.

“Fuck, baby, please, please, don’t cry like this. Please, you’re breakin’ my heart.” He rubs your back in long, soothing strokes, trying to calm your wracking sobs.

“I’m– I’m sorry – I can’t help it. I– I’ve missed you so– so much,” you hiccup. He presses your head into the crook of his neck, drapes one of your knees over his crouched leg to pull you in closer to him. You’re so warm, you mumble into his skin, delirious.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he soothes, “I’m here now. No more crying. I’m gonna make it okay. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. Not gonna let you miss me anymore, sweet girl. No matter what you say. This ends now.”

Please, please, you whisper again and again over the sound of your tears. You don’t even know what it is, really, that you’re pleading for. You only know that if he doesn’t give it to you, you feel you might surely die without it. “I’m so tired, Joel,” you whisper, as he holds you, settles you in his arms.

He follows you home in his truck after he gets your car to start again, says he wants to make sure you get there safe. You hope what he really wants is to just stay with you a little bit longer.

As you clamber out of your car in your driveway, your heavy tote weighing your shoulder down, he’s already there, gently gripping your elbow to help you out, sliding your bag off your shoulder and relieving you of the burden.

“I’m– I’m okay. You don’t have to.”

“Hush, let me take care of you,” he murmurs as he takes your keys from your grasp and slides his warm palm along the small of your back, urging you towards your house where he unlocks the door and follows you into the dark interior.

“Joel, it’s alright. If you need to go, or–”

“There’s nowhere I gotta be other than right here, sweetheart.” He sets your bag down by the door as you retreat to the far side of the living room. You need space to breathe, to collect your thoughts, or you’ll throw yourself at him, melt onto the ground at his feet and turn into a puddle of tears and desperate want right before his eyes. You think that what little dignity you’re still holding on to should be preserved right now, at least in front of him.

“Sarah?”

“Tommy’s with her.”

“Eva…?”

“She left,” he says plainly.

“On another trip?” And there’s a sort of desperate, hysterical edge starting to fill your voice at the look in his eyes. There’s something in his gaze that tells you that this is it, this is the point of no return for the both of you, for some reason.

“No, baby. She left for good. Weeks ago – got divorce papers in the mail on Monday.”

“Wh– but I–” you turn away from him, shaking your head and rubbing at your aching temple as you pace back and forth.

“You what?”

You stop your pacing, turning back to face him, entirely at a loss. “But I don’t understand…” you say, voice small – childlike.

He steps towards you, the most tender look in his eyes, “What don’t you understand, my love?” said so, so gently.

“She just left Sarah?” Your hot tears are falling once again, uncontrollable, causing your voice to hitch and break. The image of your mother, walking away from you with that tall, dark stranger, never turning back, never coming back to you. She’d gone away that day, and had never really come back again, not in any real sense. And now Sarah, the same thing was happening to Sarah. You feel a hot surge of anger rise up inside of you like a cresting wave. You go almost dizzy at the intensity of the feeling rising up, and you’re forced to reach out to the closest surface for support. A weeper in a long line of weepers, and you are so fucking tired of it. You never want to shed another tear over any of this ever again, for the rest of your life. You just want to be happy, you just want peace, you just want to let go of this interminable anger and resentment, let the wound close, please, please, please. Just let go of it already.

“I don’t– why would she just leave? How could she just leave her like that?” I don’t understand, I don’t, I don’t. How could she just leave like that? How could she just leave me like that? How could my mother just leave me like she did? How can a mother just go away and never come back to her little girl? You’d never understand. You couldn’t.

And yet, through the haze of your panic and grief, his voice breaking through the turmoil is loud and clear. You realize that his hands are on you now, cradling you in his embrace, pressing kisses to your hot face and hair, murmuring in that gentle, and reassuring tone you love so much: I’m here, I’ve got you, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here, and I’ll never leave either of you. I swear to you, I swear, I swear.

And once again you’re reminded of category, of the power of category and what comes before it and what comes after it. What is feeling before category? No longer possibility, but promise, promise, the promise of his love. For even if he hasn’t said it aloud, you feel it in the press of his hands, the reassurance of his voice, in his presence here, in this moment, coming to you when you needed him so badly, despite everything else. There is promise in the love he translates into your body, into your soul.

And then it breaks through the haze of your mind: my love, my love, my love.

And there is your category, after all.

You feel him sink to the ground with you held in his arms, and he cradles you as you cry. As you let out what you promise yourself in those moments, to be the last anguished tears you will ever shed for your past again, for the loss of a mother, for the idea of the right kind of love. He cradles you and pets your hair and whispers words of reassurance and love and comfort into your ear until you're lost to the sound of his quiet voice and his stroking hands, and you fall into the first sleep in months where he doesn’t visit you in your dreams.

You come to slowly, taking stock of your exhausted body. Your head throbs, but there is the most delicious heat seeping into you everywhere, comforting and heavy and blazingly hot. He shifts as he realizes you’re beginning to wake up, and his arms tighten around you for a moment, before he’s pulling back to cradle your head and look down at you. You realize that you’re both laying in the dark coolness of your bedroom. He must have carried you in here after you’d cried yourself into exhaustion, stayed with you to accompany you in your sleep.

He rumbles at you, deep in his chest, drags his fingers along your scalp and down the length of your hair, and your eyes flutter closed at the sound, at the feel of him. You love him so, so much. You are so in love with him.

My love, my love, my love. A shiver wracks through you, and you let out a tiny whimper.

“How do you feel?” he murmurs. “Can I get you something?”

“I’m–” you clear your throat, it feels raw, your voice coming out rough and scratchy, “I’m okay.” He’s quiet for a beat, taking your face in, and you bring your hands up to wrap around your throat, to keep yourself from grabbing at him, pulling him over you and never letting him go. You’re afraid, you don’t know what’s supposed to happen now. His wife had left his daughter, she’d sent him divorce papers, but you’d pushed him away, you’d hurt him, and he’d not come to look for you since. You didn’t know where you stood, despite him being here, despite his words and his touch, you were unsure what it was that would or could happen now.

He looks down at you for a second longer, and then nods once and moves to stand, pulling his arm slowly from beneath your head so as not to jostle you. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”

Okay, you whisper as he turns to go out into the kitchen. You lay there for a second, listening to the sounds of him moving around your home, and it fills you, once again, with the most intense of longings. You want to hear him existing in your home, in your space, for the rest of your life. You’re so full of love for him, love and longing and a deep awareness of how good and kind and caring he is, and you want the opportunity to be able to give him everything he deserves.

When you step out of your restroom a few minutes later, he’s sitting at the edge of your bed, a cold glass of water dripping down onto a coaster on your bedside table. You pause at the door, leaning against the frame to stop and stare at him. He’s still not cut his hair. You wonder if he’d let you do it for him. You have the ridiculous thought that you don’t want anyone else touching his hair ever again. It’s yours, he’s yours, and you want to be the only person in the whole world who gets the privilege of experiencing that sort of intimacy with him.

He stands too after a moment, and you watch his eyes sweep down your frame – fire for you burning in his gaze. He still wants you, and oh, it’s all you need to know. He lifts one thick, strong arm to drag his fingers through his overly long curls, and you admire the lacework of blue veins beneath the stretched skin of his bulging bicep. He lets out a deep, long breath, you watch the wide wings of his rib cage contract and expand as his lungs work. His arm falls limply to his side.

“Will you come over here?” he says, so softly, but with a note of distressed fervor at having you so near, and yet, not being able to touch you, but also, at the same time, afraid, afraid that you’ll reject him again. Your eyes flutter shut at the sound, and then you’re stumbling forward and throwing yourself into his arms.

He catches your skull in the firm grip of his wide palm, thick fingers twisting in your long locks, “This is it,” he says, looking down into your face, “You understand me?” And yes, yes you do. You realize that there’d always been a part of you that wanted someone to tell you, to claim you, to tell you that you were theirs without doubt or stipulation, to tell you that you belonged to them, and here he was, doing just that – had been trying to do so from the very first moment. The realization fills you with the deepest of comfort.

Your eyes flutter closed and you nod, yes, you whisper, I understand, and then you’re letting your head fall back on your neck, opening to him, and he’s kissing you, pressing his mouth to yours and taking you with a sense of savage, desperate victory. Finally, finally, the two of you have found yourselves on the same sure footing, finally, you can give yourselves to each other without anything else to interfere or hold you back.

His strong hand anchors your head exactly at the angle that he wants you, and he sweeps his tongue deep into your mouth, slick and wet and molten. His other hand slipping down your back to clutch the soft swell of your ass and press you up and into him.

He turns to slowly lower you down onto your bed, never once taking his mouth from yours. When you hit the soft surface he slides his mouth across your cheek, along the edge of your jaw, a gentle nip to the throb of your pulse and then further down to the wing of your clavicle. You drag your fingers through his hair, over his face, feeling the flutter of his lashes, the coarse roughness of his beard, the strong muscles of his neck and shoulders as his mouth moves over your skin. He pulls back to pull your top off and slide your trousers down your legs, and then he’s rolling you onto your side, your limbs divested entirely of their autonomy at the gentle maneuvering of his big hands, he unhooks the clasp of your bra, and then he’s pressing you entirely down onto your belly. Taking in the elegant sweep of your back, the delicate muscles twitching and trembling beneath the gorgeous surface of your skin. He slowly pulls your thong over the swell of your ass and bends to bite down on the supple flesh of your cheek – hard – laves his tongue over the hurt to soothe, and you keen, high pitched and wild for him, hips hitching in a needy little arc. He wants to mark you, brand you permanently. Write his name into your flesh, blood drawn for him to drink down.

There is a certain flavor of darkness swelling inside him, something possessive that demands he take you and mark you as his, only his, forever.

He pulls you up slightly by your hips and grips you by the meat of your ass to spread you wide for his inspection – red cunt, weeping and swollen already for him. So pretty, he tells you, praises you. You beautiful fucking thing.

He bends his head and licks the broad flat of his tongue from your clit, all the way through your sex to your asshole, presses his tongue there, just slightly, to let you feel the pressure at that secret little place he plans to eventually take for himself as well. Your moan at the feel of him there is loud and guttural. He clamps down on your hips, tight, to keep you from squirming away from his exploring mouth.

“Joel, please, please–” you beg, but it’s his turn now, his turn to do with you as he will. He flips you back over, tosses your legs over your head and pulls you up by the hips to start licking you in earnest. His mouth on your throbbing clit, his thumb in the cleft of your ass, he sucks on your clit hard, one foot planted on the ground, another bent on the edge of the bed, he supports your weight like that as he eats your cunt. “Knees hurt, baby,” he rumbles into your wet flesh. All you can do is moan and whimper his name over and over again. He licks into your fluttering hole, kisses and laps at your clit, over and over again, until he can feel the tremble of your thighs around his head and the shifting of your abdomen and then you’re coming on his tongue, scratching at his arms and sides, anywhere you can dig your nails into him and grapple for purchase.

“Please, please, take your clothes off, I want to feel your skin. I have to, please.”

He lets you down to pull back and reach around for the neck of his sweater, pulling it up and over his head, shucking off his jeans and boxers, and then he’s kneeling over you and pressing his entire heavy weight down into you, covering you with the broad expanse of his body. He squeezes and kneads your soft flesh, gripping the lush of your bottom to roll your wet core against his hard length. Your shared moan at the feel of the hot press of your aching flesh sliding alongside each other trembles through the lines of your body, and he pulls his hips back slightly, notching the wide head of his cock at your entrance and pushing into you slowly, slowly, so that you’re made to feel every throbbing inch of his thick girth. He shifts one of his knees further up beneath your thigh to anchor you more firmly into his lap and pulls his hips back and then drives back in, hard and deep so that his cockhead bumps at the mouth of your womb.

“Oh God, Joel– harder, please, harder, more,” you beg.

“Missed you so fucking much,” he groans into the crook of your neck, teeth nipping at the line of muscle that connects your throat and shoulder, putting more of his weight behind his thrusts so that he’s ramming into you in slow but devastatingly deep strokes, his hand anchored at the base of your spine to pull you onto his impaling cock. “So much, baby. Was going out of my fucking mind without you. Need– need you. Fuck–” he moans as your inner walls start to clench and flutter at his words. You press your heels into the small of his back to urge him further into you. You want him deeper, need him harder.

He hooks a hand beneath one of your knees then, spreads you wide and angles his hips down so that he can drill into you. He pulls his head back to look into your eyes, “Come on my cock, come for me, sweetheart. Lemme feel that cunt soak me. I need it.” You’re stuffed so full, cunt stretched obscenely wide, pleasure and pain coalesce in your core, his battering cock stoking the fire in your blood until your pulsing and throbbing around his unrelenting length, cunt clenching and convulsing around him, trying to suck him deeper. He bares his teeth at you and almost growls at your wet gush. You arch your back further, muscles pulled tight as a bow string, trying to let him in deeper, deeper, you think that it’ll never be far enough, but he pulls out then, suddenly. Your cunt clenching desperately around nothing, and you cry out, trying to hold him by his hair, dragging your nails over his shoulders to pull him back to you, but he’s bending and gripping the backs of your thighs to spread you wide, wide for the broad expanse of his shoulders, and he’s licking through the swollen mess of your cunt, lapping unrelentingly at your clit, licking into your opening so that you’re forced to roll into another cresting orgasm. Your muscles clenching and throbbing, a deep, searing heat coiling in your pelvis and unspooling in a rush of wet, musky slick onto his tongue.

You’re beyond words, thought, consciousness, almost – a wet, trembling mess of a girl. You think you’re whispering his name over and over again, can feel the vibration of words in your throat, begging for something you have no name for, perhaps his love, his devotion, but no, you know you already have that. You can feel it in the press of his hands, in the sweep of his tongue, in the murmured words of adoration and praise he presses into your slick skin. My love. He sucks hard on your clit, once, twice, and then he’s flipping you over again and pulling your hips up, up, up, and pressing the incredible thickness of his cock back into you, sinking deep down to the end of you, and holding there, grinding, so that you’re left clawing and mewling desperately for him to relent, to move, to go harder, something, anything.

There’s a part of you that thinks you want him to destroy you, to unmake you, to unravel you to your very core and then put all your pieces back together himself.

“ Fuck– look at you… so pretty stuffed full of my cock, baby. So perfect. My perfect girl,” he grunts, slamming his hips into your ass. All you can do is mewl and whimper pathetically, twisting the sheets beneath you in your shaking fingers.

“What?” he pulls out, presses the wide head to your clit, then slides back up and in again, so slow. “How does it feel? Describe it to me – use your big girl words.”

“Unghh– so– so good. I don’t– I can’t,” you cry, “… so full.”

“Oh, I know,” he coos, reaching around to pinch your clit, up higher to cup your swinging breast, twisting your nipple harshly, “I know it’s hard to think when you’re so full of cock, isn’t it?”

He deepens the curve of your spine with a palm to the small of your back, face pressed into the mattress, ass up and completely open and vulnerable to him. His hips against the backs of your thighs are unrelenting as he pulls you back onto him, impaling you on his cock over and over, his balls slapping wetly against your clit, his other hand twisted tight in your hair. You can feel the rebound of your flesh at each of his thrusts, and you feel him getting more and more desperate. The rhythm of his hips translating all the weeks and months of wanting and anguish and lies and secrecy you’d volleyed back and forth between the two of you in whatever pathetic attempt you could muster to stay away from each other. All his frustration at you for pushing him away, keeping him at arms length, the painful cage of his marriage. You can feel all that repressed exasperation in the battering of his thick cock against your womb, balls slapping against your clit. He’s like a muted bruise deep inside you and you moan, your eyes rolling back into your head at the throb that rolls through your body.

“Don’t stop, please. Never stop.”

“Yeah? Like that, baby?” he grits.

He pulls you up against him, with one strong arm, back pressed tight to his chest, and you can feel the sweat sliding between the two of you. His breath is wet and panting, moaning, in your ear. His thrusts growing harder, deeper, erratic; he bands the inescapable strength of his forearm across your chest, pressing your breasts up and squeezing your tit tight in his big palm. You keen at the twisting pain, and he turns his face into your hair and groans, whimpers, the sound sliding through your hair as you start to come around his length one more time, cunt clenched so tight it hurts, almost pushes him out, but he fucks you through it. Forcing himself in again and again. You can feel your wetness dripping and smearing across both of your thighs – the wet gush of it, obscene. Your whole fist is clenched tightly around two of his fingers, holding on for dear life as you feel him start to come, the waves of his release rolling through him and into you, coating your insides with his hot spend. His heat blankets the bruise inside you know you’ll feel tomorrow, soothes and incites it at the same time. There’s a sudden flash of desperate gratitude within of you. He’s marked you. You’re his now.

“I love the way you take me,” he breathes into your ear, “My perfect girl.” He grinds deep, and your muscles work to pull him further, pull his spend in further. Your whole body trembles and shakes, your cunt clenching tight as a knot, and then going loose and shaky so that you can feel the gush of his come start to leak out of the place where you’re joined. He plants one thick arm on the bed in front of you so that he can bend forward and let the both of you fall slowly to the bed, still buried inside of you. You continue to clench around his length, and he still has your breast clutched in his grip so that when your front meets the surface of the bed he’s draped over your back, so big and muscular and heavy, and you love the feel of his weight pressing you into the mattress. You turn your head towards him, so that both your sweaty brows are pressed against each other, and the two of you can breathe each other in.

You stay like that for a long time, letting your oversensitive bodies come down from their trembling highs. Everything is sweaty and sticky and slick with your mingled come. Overwhelming in the most perfect way.

Eventually he rolls the two of you over so that he’s not crushing you, your head rests against his chest – both of you catching your breaths still. His cock lays heavy and soft on his belly, damp from your mingled come.

You dance your fingertips along his hip, draw unseen flowers and vines that grow up towards his ribs and down his thigh. His own fingertips are a slow drag along the notches in your spine. Little pauses at each dip where he presses into your skin – he’s telling you something. Pressing a silent message into those beats, and you’re hyper focused on the feeling of it as you cover him in your invisible greenery.

“What are you thinking?” you whisper. He’s quiet for a long time, and you’re worried it’s something bad. Regret or a wish for something different. But then he says: “I haven’t been this happy in a very, very long time.” And what more could you want to hear from him in this moment?

“Wanna know a secret?” he says.

“Mhmm,” you hum, eyes closed, enjoying the feel of his dragging fingers over your damp skin.

“I stole your panties, that first time at the lake, the blue ones.”

Your eyes pop open, and you surge up to lean on one elbow and look at him, “Oh, you are so–” you swat at his chest, “I looked everywhere for those – I want them back!”

“Nah, they’re mine now.” He squeezes you into him, cranes his neck to nip at the swell of your naked breasts squished up against his hard chest.

You lay your head back down on him, and grumble, “You’re a panty thief.”

“I am.” And no one should sound that pleased, at the sound of that sort of accusation. “Prettiest little scrap of lace I’d ever seen in my life, I had to have ‘em. Blue’s my favorite color now, you know.” He fists your hair to bring your mouth to his, “Gonna buy you a hundred more pairs of blue panties for you to wear for me,” licks into you.

Later he says: “Can I tell you something selfish now?”

“Always.”

He’s quiet again for a beat, and you’re coming to recognize these silences of his as moments of gathering for his words, things that have never come easily to him. “Sarah’s the love of my life,” he says slowly. “Nothing has ever, ever made me happier than she has. I’ve never loved anything more than I loved her the first moment I held that tiny little baby in my hands. But sometimes– sometimes I just– I wanted something else, something other than just my child, something only mine– that makes me happy and belongs only to me. And she’s my daughter, and so of course she’s mine, right? But one day she’ll go away and make her own life, and what’ll I be left with? Just my memories of her? And– and sometimes I think I– I resent … not her, never her – but I guess the idea of that, maybe? I’m not sure that’s right… but that she’s my only source of– of joy. I resent that. And it — God, it makes me feel so fucking selfish and ungrateful … because I’m not, I’m– I’m grateful for the miracle of her every single day, it’s the first thing I think about when I open my eyes every morning, and I’d never, never discount that or– or not realize that she’s such a blessing and how fucking lucky I am to have her, but… I don’t know… Do you– you know? You know what I mean? Is that — that’s real bad, isn’t it?”

“No, Joel. It’s not at all,” you say softly. The look in his eyes devastates you. So unsure, so wary. Like you’d strike him down, like you’d discount his feelings, not even try and understand him. You cup his cheek and he turns to nuzzle his nose into the palm of your hand. “I know what you mean.”

“That’s what you are for me. That something else–” You’re quiet, taking in what he’s saying. “I don’t mean to scare you.”

“You’re not scaring me. You could never do that.” You wrap your arms tighter around his waist, press a kiss to his belly, nuzzle the space under his ribs. “You’re a father, but you’re a man too. You deserve something else – besides just fatherhood – something for you. To make you happy.” You think of your mother, of Eva, two people who’d, like Joel, also wanted something for themselves – something besides parenthood that was only theirs, but who’d not known how to find it without forsaking all the rest. And Joel… who’d sacrifice anything for his daughter, even you, you’re sure. But still he’d fought for you, he’d hoped for you, and now look at the two of you, here together finally.

You lay holding each other for a long time through the night. You think of the hours and days and weeks you spent lying alone in this bed, missing him, hurting for him, and now, to have him here with you, with nothing else in the way, it feels like the most sacred sort of miracle.

“Will you take a shower with me?” you ask him eventually.

“Yeah, baby. ‘Course I will.”

The two of you stand under the warm spray together, his arms wrapped around your back, enshrouded in the cocoon of heat and steam. Your face tucked up beneath his jaw, you lick the warm water that runs down the slope of his neck, pepper small kisses to the beat of his pulse, his ear, the dip of his collarbone. His hands sweep over you in slick, roving arcs, squeezing your ass, traveling the slope of your spine, encircling your waist, exploring the lines of your ribs. His fingers are thick and strong and they press between the spaces of the bones in your chest, as if he’s looking for a gap in the protective outer shell that enshrines you, looking for a way to sneak in and peer inside, to the heart of you. If you could, you’d split your very skin for him, let him live inside you forever.

Your mouth moves down to the notch at the base of his throat, and you lave your tongue there, tasting the flavor of his warm skin. Then to the thick muscle connecting his neck and shoulder, you dig your teeth in, sharp and hungry, and suck hard. Hard enough that you hear a little gasp slip out of him, his fingers tangling in your hair painfully, pulling on the sensitive strands, but not to rip you away, rather to press you closer, to make sure you leave a mark of yourself in his skin.

You move down to his chest then, peppering open mouthed kisses over the broad expanse of his muscles there. He’s so hard, so strong everywhere. So much larger and more powerful than you are, and yet, he has the keenest ability to make you feel stronger than you’ve ever been, imbues in you the ability to feel like there isn’t anything you couldn’t do. As if there were a tether connecting the two of you, some sort of invisible string born from his heart and running all the way to yours, funneling that interminable strength of his, right into you. He makes you strong. He'd always let you be as vulnerable or as strong as you needed to be in the moment. Even despite his anger or pain or frustration he still let you get here on your own. And you realize that you’d never been allowed to be soft or sensitive – never given the chance to show your underbelly, being brought up in such a hostile environment, but he’d always given you that chance. He’d always been gentle, patient, understanding. He’d never been annoyed or frustrated at your overwhelming tears and nerves. He’d always let you be all the things you’d always been, but also gave you the chance to be all the things you’d always wanted to be, the ones you hadn’t even thought of yet. The possibility for you to grow into anything you’d like to be is endless in his embrace. You nuzzle into the smattering of chest hair at the center of his sternum, then a kiss over his heart. You pause there for a long moment, press your cheek to the surface and listen to the pulsing echo of his heart beating beneath his skin. Your eyes flutter shut as the beat thumps into your ear, and you shiver. This is the sound of Joel’s existence. When you turn your face up to his, his eyes are molten, full of heat and hunger and yes, there is it, love. You can see it melting out of him like ore. He loves you.

How is it that two people can become so wholly intertwined that words become, eventually, entirely futile? Unnecessary. You don’t need to hear him say it, at least not now, not until he wants to, but you can feel it, see it, hear it in the cadence of his voice when he swore to you that he’d never leave you, that he was here and he would remain here, that he wasn’t going to let you miss him anymore.

You start to lower to your knees slowly, face still turned up to his, your eyes never leaving his, but his hands tighten in your hair, holding you in place. “I want you to fuck my mouth,” you tell him.

“You don’t have to, baby. Floors hard.” And hearing his concern for you, that he’d think of that when you’re asking him to let you suck his cock, it makes you even more desperate to please him like this.

“Please, will you let me?” You resume your descent so he’s forced to either let you go, or pull on your hair too hard. “Will you let me do this for you? I want to taste you. I want you in my mouth.” You press a soft kiss to the skin beneath his belly button, your knees reach the shower floor, another kiss to his hip bone, your tongue runs a line at the crease of his hip and thigh, and then another kiss at the space right beside the thick root of his cock.

“Shit– yeah… yes, I’ll le– let you. God, fuck–” he spits, teeth bared in a growl. You’ve sucked one of the heavy, hanging weights of his balls gently into your hot mouth. You run your tongue along the soft skin, suckle gently on the round shape within, giving the sensitive surface as much of your wet mouth as you can. “My fucking God–” he whimpers above you. You wrap your hand around his rock hard length, fingers not fully meeting around the thickest part of him, and slowly start to jack his cock up and down, squeezing your grip at the head in a little twist. You stare up at his face the entire time, and you watch his head fall back on his neck, the strong muscles of his throat working as he pants and swallows, trying to keep his control. You hum deep in your throat, let him feel the vibration of the sound, and his hips start to thrust slowly up into your working hand. You pop your mouth off his sac and finally give the angry, flushed head the gift of your mouth. You press a gentle kiss to the curve of his tip, opening your mouth to flutter your tongue over the wide tip. You can taste the salty tang of his precum, leaking in a steady stream. Then your tongue, gentle as possible, pressed into the slit at the tip and he jerks, almost mewling at that. He’s panting above you, whispering your name over and over again, telling you how good you are, how perfect, how much he loves your mouth, what a good girl you are for taking his cock like this. You finally swallow him down in one smooth go, as far back as you can, and you hold there for a beat, another, another, working the muscles of your throat to swallow and tighten around him. His entire body is shaking now, trembling, his fist in your hair is so tight your eyes smart, tears springing to the corners. You pull back, take a breath and start to bob your head along the throbbing length in earnest. You can taste his precum at the back of your throat, and with how hard he’s trembling, you know he’s close. You hollow your cheeks around him and lave your tongue around the head on the pull back, suck hard on the tip, and then slide back as far as you can go, wrapping your hand around the base of him, the part that’s too much for you to take comfortably. Your tongue runs along the sensitive underside, you focus on the tender spot right beneath the flare of the wide mushroom head, flicking your tongue back and forth until he’s growling and moaning, his hips drawing back to start to saw his length in and out of your hot, suctioning mouth. Fucking your throat in earnest, just like you’d told him you wanted him to.

“You’re gonna be a good girl and swallow my entire load, you hear me?” he grits. “Gonna spill down that little throat and fill your belly with my come.” And fuck, your cunt throbs and clenches painfully at that. You moan up at him, pressing your thighs together to alleviate the aching want there, your watering eyes, looking up at him with all the adoration and pleading you can call forth. Yes, yes, you want to tell him, please, give me your come, give me everything you have. I can take anything if it’s from you. He anchors your head in his hands and fucks your mouth, all the way until you feel the fat tip hit the back of your throat, once, twice and then his cock seems to swell even further, just for a second, and it kicks inside your working mouth as he starts to come. Thick, searing hot spurts of salty, musky come that you swallow as fast as you can. His torso tilts forward, one arm coming up to steady himself against the shower wall behind you, and he moans, deep and guttural, his blazing eyes trained on yours the entire time. “Fuck, yes– fucking swallow it all,” his voice breaks at the end, quivering. You can feel globs of come seeping out of the corners of your mouth, and when he finally pulls his spent length from your mouth, a small whimper as you run your tongue against the extra sensitive underside at the last moment, he scoops the leaking spend back into your mouth with his thumb, pressing on the flat of your tongue as he makes sure you don’t miss a single drop of him. “All of it, sweet girl,” he whispers, eyes wide and feverish, “Every last drop.” You wrap your lips around his thumb and suck, circling your tongue around the digit, making sure you don’t miss anything. When you pull back with a loud, wet pop, he’s already bending to hook his hands beneath your underarms and jerking you up and into him, pressing his mouth savagely to yours and licking into your mouth to taste himself on your tongue.

Chapter .9

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

#someone's fic #Joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x female reader #joel miller/you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #joel miller imagine #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters

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vladdyissues · 4 months ago

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I like the idea of "halfa's ghost form changes with their personality". First of all, it looks the age halfa feels himself/herself (so, yes, I doubt that Phantom is forever 14). I guess, Danny will get a full knight armor and, maybe, some stuff like a cape.

As for Vlad, I have more headcanons (but I should warn you, I see his hair as long and loose which is better for bitter broken lonely soul). The first change should has happened after "Masters of All Time": Vlad was at full force all the time to heal yourself, preventing ecto-acne symptoms, but since he is cured, his ghost form is in normal state, Plasmius' eyes aren't the whole red anymore, it's human-alike but still red, maybe, there're some pink inclusions.

At the start of Vlad's redemption arc he must develop his creative skill (ecto-constructions, weapons that works on his pink ectoplasm), trying new forms. Slowly but surely he will approach to his dream - to raise a child - he will learn how to create a life. It will take decades or even centuries but soon he will learn to make something beautiful and durable. Something like this will add to the ghost form, something like a… pink rose's tucked behind the ear.

And the last change in Plasmius' look I see is breezy hairstyle which is formed after the mutual love confession of Vlad and Danny.

I'm sorry if these hcs sound too corny for Vlad but after all I see the bitter broken lonely man who develops by love and the young halfa into the beautiful burning soul but still bitter-sweet because he can't forget what he comes through. (I love him)

No no no, these headcanons are great! Beautiful, actually. (I firmly believe there's no such thing as a "corny" headcanon. That's like saying only certain hopes and dreams have value while others are worthless—and what are headcanons but our hopes and dreams for stories and the characters within them?)

Evolving ghost forms, especially for halfas—who, unlike spectral entities, are still changing and aging—makes a lot of sense. And the idea of Vlad having long, flowing biseinen hair is very appealing 🌹

You also brought up a fantastic point about Vlad's ecto-acne being cured in Masters of All Time and how that would affect him going forward. I have a pile of headcanons about that myself but I'll make a separate post about it since it's more general meta.

But yes, imagine if Vlad was allowed to be more than a 2-dimensional cartoon villain, and curing his ecto-acne removed a terrible, irritating thorn from his side. When one is no longer suffering or in chronic pain—or living in fear of the next flare-up—imagine the difference that would make mentally and emotionally.

How could Vlad possibly be unchanged after that? The Fentons cured him. (Okay, it was more Danny discovering the cause and Maddie developing the vaccine, but still, it was their combined efforts that ultimately saved him.) If there was going to be a turning point for Vlad's character, that would have been the place to start, just like you said.

And hey, we can still dream that's what really happened, right? 🔮

#asks #danny phantom #pompous pep #vlad masters #headcanon #meta #redemption arc #hjbendergifs

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snzcaretaker · 22 days ago

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𝕰𝖉𝖜𝖎𝖓'𝖘 𝕵𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖆𝖑

(Please excuse the random bit of blanket over his butt - covering that up for Tumblr's sake.)

Previous Fic | Below are Edwin’s journal entries between his encounter with Ambrose, and receiving his letter. He got sicker :( I also left some blanks instead of inventing names for minor characters and places - just seemed more convenient for now. CW: contagion

January 3rd - The New Year’s Ball was a disaster. If not for Ambrose, I hardly know what I would have done. He found me in a back room, already delirious and - But I can’t speak of it, even here…partly because of its disgusting nature, and partly because of the affection it brought out in me. Which is more mortifying? All I can say is how grateful I am to Ambrose. Things could have been much worse.

At any rate, I must be stronger. Will return to work tomorrow. I am wanted in L____, where there is a land sale to be arranged. I am quite well enough to go. Healthy exertion will put all these thoughts out of my mind.

January 4th - Trip to L_____ brought nothing but misfortune. All the household there was sick with congestion, and Mr. ______, in addition to driving a terribly hard bargain, coughed every other word. But the real troubles began on the return journey. The left front wheel of the carriage sank into a concealed hollow under the snow. The sky was very bleak, and bitter cold seeped into the carriage interior until my nose ran in complaint. We were stuck in the snow for hours and did not reach home until after sundown. I’m afraid I cursed at everyone, and kicked the side of the carriage like a child in tantrum. My driver is a good man, but he will like me even less now than he already did. The devil take my temper…

But how could I help it, in the midst of panic and frustration? I was so close to being well again. Feel unusually tired now, but hopefully that will be mended by morning. I cannot afford to be ill again so soon.

January 5th - Awoke late, with a sore throat and a feeling of great dread. I did my best to overcome any weakness by persistent activity. I went for a short ride, and chopped wood until I came over faint. Nonetheless, I only found that the cold moved from my throat to my head and nose. Servants finally persuaded me to take supper lying down. They will talk. I refuse to call for Dr. _____, though. That will only confirm the gossip, and further damage my reputation. Half of E_____ County already thinks of me as fragile.

January 6th - Attempted to work from bed. At least correspondence can be attended to. However, I blotted the ink so many times due to ill-timed sneezes that I soon gave up the effort. Am now lying in bed alone. Everything is dull and I feel unconscionably sorry for myself. Fever has set in - I know myself well enough to say I will likely only worsen from here. Will sleep again. [Page has clearly been sneezed on.]

January 7th - Felt utterly pathetic and miserable all day. All I can think about are Ambrose’s arms around me. I physically ache with longing to be held. How can I return to my lonely existence after being shown such kindness? Such a happy memory…it torments me because it can never be repeated. He was a saint, but no one is saint enough to want to know me after I’ve spent a whole night sneezing myself silly into their hand, an absolute mess. And I said such needy, adoring things…I hope I am misremembering…what an embarrassment.

Must stop writing or I will go to pieces again.

January 8th - Oh Ambrose, Ambrose, Ambrose. There is light in the world after all! How do these gifts fall into my lap? He feels as I do. That he could forgive me, even want me, after seeing me this way…I am overcome.

I wrote a few short lines to answer his request in the affirmative - everything else must be said in person. I’ll busy myself with making a guest room ready for him, and doing what I can about my appearance. Patient as he is, the last thing I want is to greet him with total dishevelment and a sneeze in the face. Though I might not have a choice. I feel so very weak even sitting up at my mirror, and my hair is not obeying me. Maybe I’ll just rest a little while longer…

#First POV from Edwin - I hope he sounds distinct enough from Ambrose!#snz art #snz ocs #snzfucker #snzario #snz fic #ocs edwin and ambrose

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neonnightflower · 13 days ago

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I'd like to talk about the fact that I doubt that Singed really got a happy ending. Yes, that's probably enough for him. But I still find this ending sad.

I'm not going to talk about what disappointed some of Singed's true fans right now. Namely, this is what he was given a primitive sentimental motivation. In general, someone doesn't like the fact that the goals of this character were reduced to bringing his daughter back to life, instead of him doing everything purely because of his scientific interest. Now he can answer any question "for the sake of my daughter." However, in general, I like this turn of events. I haven't played LoL.

So, in the finale of the second season, we see that Singed has achieved his goal. His daughter is sitting at a table and admiring a box with mechanical ballerina, while her father sits down next to her and looks happy. But let's think about what it cost him. This is, in fact, an unhappy character. I'm not saying that everyone else is happy. But nevertheless.

We don't know about his past, but he probably lost his wife if he was the one raising Orianna. Of course, a woman could despair and break up with him on this basis, but maybe Orianna wouldn't have died if she also had a mother who looked after her. So I'm inclined to believe that Singed's wife was dead after all. So, he lost his wife, and daughter is the only thing he has left of a loved one. Accordingly, that's why he values her so much and wants to preserve at least one part of his ruined family at all costs.

Now imagine that this man lost everything, and he was also kicked out of the academy. I don't know if it was before Orianna's death or after. But in LoL, Orianna didn't die. She just gradually became a robot and lost her humanity. Or was Singed not kicked out? Did he resign because of financial problems? I can't say for sure. Was it said in Arcane? I only remember about the resignation. I'd be grateful if you could clarify this point. But, one way or another, he lost both his family and his job.

Singed had led a lonely life for a long time, and where he lived, only his terrible experiments, silence and a dead daughter awaited him. Most likely, there were also many painful and overwhelming thoughts related to the past. He was alone with it all. And so on for many years. Thanks at least to Viktor (I'll add here a meme that was made by guineapigeddie, sorry)), Silco and his work that he had some kind of communication. And he was just great that didn't give up, didn't go crazy, but continued to try to find a solution, putting his life on healing the loved one from the death.

He also suffered severe burns to his body, especially his face, as a result of which he even lost his lips and an eye. It must have been very painful and traumatic. Isn't that the price?

But what is the price for? As a result, he managed to revive Orianna, yes. But who is she now? A robot or a puppet that will never grow up. She will only be able to return to her hobbies, work, and maybe make friends with someone. But, most likely, she is infertile or even asexual, so Singed will never see the birth of his grandchildren, and even, probably, the moment when his daughter finds a partner and will be happy in this sense. Although the question is whether she wants it herself. If so, it was bad, and it was selfish of him to bring her back to life. Did she even want to come back to life? Will she be able to socialize? Would she blame her father for the bad things he did for her sake? Maybe she'll give up on him eventually. Or she'll be left alone when he dies and won't be able to adapt to life.

And who's Singed now? An old and ugly (not for me ^u^) man who was called a monster, the meaning of whose life is now tied only to his daughter. Someone who is stuck in his past. He lost a lot of time, which now he will never get back, and he has relatively little of it left. I think it's a controversial happy ending. A happy ending with a taste of bitterness.

#singed #singed arcane #arcane #orianna #league of legends

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zebaji · 4 months ago

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Morrotober Day 3

Prompt: Opposites || Shadows

Summary: When Morro dies, he doesn't go to the Cursed Realm, but to the Underworld.

He thought death would be lonely. In his life he was certainly alone, so why should his afterlife be any different? Oh, it’s funny just how wrong Morro was.

The Underworld is a chattering, hive-like, loud place that is under the rule of an ugly-looking dude who has four arms. Samukai acts like a king, but he has no control over his people. He lumbers around, threatening the undead warriors into creating weapons and vehicles that he has no use for.

He is useless, Morro realizes and once he learns that his powers still work in this realm despite being only bone, he is more than happy to usurp the crumbling throne and begin organizing his very own skulkin kingdom– one that actually works.

It’s a great distraction, Morro thinks absentmindedly as he watches Kruncha add the final touches to the palace– the last piece of his kingdom. For he refuses to believe that he will rule the underworld forever. Sure it’s not the worst place he could be doing his time in death, but Morro has always strived for greatness.

The Underworld is not a place for greatness.

As his kingdom thrives, getting as close as it can to being great and falling short due to its failure of a realm, Morro begins to venture to the borders of the caverns. He had died underground, and reborn in a vast cavern, falling into the pit that had been the cause of his demise. But there must be other ways for the disgraced souls to enter here. How did one enter this realm?

He’ll keep an eye out for new occupants of this realm. See where they come from. There must be a crack in this vast void. Something that Morro can use for his own gain– for he wants to escape this wet and spykor-infested realm. He wants to see the skies, to feel the breeze. He wants the skin on his bones to feel the weather. Morro wants and wants, always unsatisfied with what he already has.

His people respect him and trust him. Dare he even say, adore him. He has everything he has ever wanted in his life. He has a home, a people, and acceptance of who he is as a person. But he is greedy. He is a king here, and yet Morro wants more.

At long last, his wishes are answered.

He watches as Garmadon falls from the highest point of the lowest ravine. He watches as Garmadon challenges him for his throne. He watches as Garmadon fails– simply because the Lord had not expected Morro to have elemental powers and the knowledge of Spinjitzu.

“What? Wu never told you about me?” Morro scoffs, voice bitter and painful as he speaks of his old mentor.

Garmadon’s eyes narrow, his shadows increasing in size. If this was a power play, then Morro refuses to lose. He floats a few feet above the man a smirks.

“You knew Wu,” Garmadon asks with a snarl and clenched fists. One could mistake his anger for caution, but Morro sees the sting of betrayal behind the man’s eyes. He smirks.

“It seems your brother has a really bad problem with harming the people he’s close with,” Morro laughs, antagonizing him further as he stares at the Lord with unconcealed amusement.

Instead of rage, Garmadon slumps, the fight abandoning his body. “Then I fear for my son. Wu stopped me from retrieving the weapons so I could protect Lloyd, and I fear what will happen to him.”

Morro wisely does not ask how Garmadon has a child. But he tilts his head, “You seek the Golden weapons?”

The Lord eyes him cautiously, “You seek them as well?”

“I do,” Morro confirms, thinking back to how they hadn’t done anything when he stood before them. He wants to burn them. To mold them into something that will do as he wants. He holds out a hand. “Let’s make a deal. You are still living, I am not. I will aid you in retrieving the Golden Weapons if you help me leave this realm so that I might live again.”

Garmadon contemplates his offer for a moment but ultimately shakes Morro’s bony hand. “Alright,” he agrees.

Garmadon can control the shadows. He can make them as real as he wants, as tangible as any living being. The Lord explains that it’s an ancient type of magic, made from Oni and darkness. Morro learns it quickly.

The lord does ‘Reconisance,’ although Morro is sure that the man is just checking up on his son. But he also returns with tales of Wu gaining other students, the true wielders of the Golden Weapons. Morro refuses to feel the jealousy and the anger. He will be great and show his old mentor that he was the right person all along.

“We must hurry if we are to succeed,” Garmadon says, finally deeming him ready, and he guides Morro to the highest point of the lowest ravine. “Take your shadow here,” he points to a crevice between two stalactites. “You will arrive in a temple in Ninjago.”

Morro, if he had a tongue and throat, would have swallowed. Freedom at long last. He could almost feel it.

“There is a dragon guarding the Sword of Fire,” Garmadon continues. “It is expecting me, but not you. Tame it and bring it back to the Underworld. Then you will be able to take me and the rest of your remains back to Ninjago.”

Morro nods and stretches his shadow into the crevice. Just like Garmadon said, Morro finds himself in a temple filled of lava and a sleeping dragon.

Morro smirks. Greatness at long last.

<<Previous

Next>>

#i know its obvious but i want to clarify that the opposite part of the prompt is the fact that morro is a skeleton and not a ghost #ninjago #lego ninjago #morro wu #lord garmadon #morro ninjago #ninjago morro #morrotober 2024 #morrotober #writing #zebaji-posts

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evans23 · 1 month ago

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RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 21 - HEARTFELT CONFESSIONS

Pairing : Alexander Dane x OC (Catherine)

Summary : Alexander is back in his village to spend Christmas with his family. He met an old friend, an old friend who could be his second chance to have something who worth living.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Mention of depression. Sadness.

Also read on AO3 - Wattpad

Alexander Dane was depressed. It was nothing new. He hated his role as Dr. Lazarus, yet that was what put food on the table. He couldn't stand all those stupid conventions, those stupid fans, and most of all, he missed the stage.

Theatre, his first love, which unfortunately would never pay as much as this role. Not that he had an extravagant lifestyle, but he liked his little luxury.

This year, he didn't know what had gotten into him, but he had agreed to go home to the United Kingdom for the holidays. No doubt it was his old mother's insistence that had played on his heartstrings. Except that Christmas made him bitter.

As he watched his mother peel potatoes, he noticed a young woman outside, busy taking a shopping bag out of an old red Ford.

"That's the Staffords' daughter, Catherine," his mother said, following his gaze.

"Didn't she live in London?" Alexander asked, frowning.

Catherine... he remembered her well. She had been his accomplice when he was a child, he had no one to play with after school. She had been his best friend when he was a teenager, no one believed in his acting dreams, she had been his biggest disappointment when he had bullied him one evening when she had pointed out to him that he had gotten a big head and had hurt her with words he had not been able to hold back.

"Yes, she worked as a secretary for a small company, but they went bankrupt. She found herself unemployed, the crisis did not allow her to find one quickly enough and she ended up on the street."

Alexander sighed. He had always had the impression that life must be more complicated for Catherine than for others. Yet she was kind and brilliant in his memories. But the universe had seemed to hold it against her from the moment she had dared to say the forbidden word "study at Cambridge". From then on, she had never gotten anything she wanted.

"She's not married ?" Alexander asked as he watched her cross the blue fence that led to his parents' house.

"No. No known man in her life, no children. A very lonely girl if you ask me. No wonder she looks like she's about to burst into tears every time you see her," his mother said as she savagely cut a carrot.

Catherine, the beautiful Catherine who had come to all those plays when he was in London, Catherine who apparently still got nothing from the universe.

Later that afternoon, he was desperately trying to fight the winter cold that invaded every corner of the house, lost in his memories of the past. He was looking forward to New Year's, which he would spend in London... alone, as he often did. But at least he would be far away from this place he had despised since he was a misunderstood child.

That was when he saw her again. Catherine was crossing the road with the same awkward, hesitant gait she had had as a teenager. She slipped on the icy ground, dropping the box she was holding. He hesitated for a second, then decided to leave.

"Always dropping things, Catherine," he said, pulling his coat tighter around him.

She spun around, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Gosh, the great Alexander Dane," she said, straightening up, "I didn't think I'd see you here again," she added with the same captivating smile of their fifteen years.

"Me neither," he admitted, handing her a pouch that had escaped from its box.

"It's a package for a friend. She lives in Scotland and I was supposed to go meet her, but all the trains were cancelled because of the snow," she said, holding the box tighter against her.

"My mother told me you moved back here."

She looked down, blushing slightly.

"Yes, at my parents'," she said, not daring to look at him.

"Hey, there's no shame in it. Think of it as a time to take care of yourself."

"Who are you and what have you done with Alexander?" she asked, her smile returning.

"The years have given me some wisdom," he said, smiling back.

"Are you staying for the holidays ?"

"Only for Christmas."

Well, he wasn't so sure all of a sudden. After all, spending New Year's alone or spending it with his mother, his idiotic little brother, and his aunts was pretty much the same thing.

"Are you and your parents doing anything special for the holidays ?"

"No. Just the three of us."

His mother was right, Alexander thought, Catherine was terribly lonely, and her tired eyes made him nervous. They weren't tired from lack of sleep, no, they looked tired from life.

"I have to go, the post office is closing soon," Catherine said, interrupting his train of thought.

"Sure. I'll probably see you later," Alexander replied, watching her get into her car.

He would see her again, that much was certain. CatherineStafford. The beautiful and sweet Catherine. The girl he had loved all his adolescence without ever daring to admit it to her for fear of losing their friendship. A friendship that he had broken himself one evening when she had needed support and not the sharp blades that had been his words.

He saw her again no later than the next day. She had been hired in old Harry's tea room. He had never imagined his oldest friend as a tea waitress and he was certain that she had neither. It was all a waste, a waste of everything she had to offer, if only she could have had her chance, just once.

"Be careful," she told him as she sat him down at a secluded table, "there's a young fan of Dr. Lazarus here," she said as she pointed with her head to a young boy who was eating cookies in front of a man that Alexander guessed was the child's grandfather.

"Oh no, please..."

"Too late," she said, not hiding her amusement.

The little boy approached him with wide, wondering eyes.

"Where's your costume ?"

"I..."

"To the laundry," Catherine answered for him, stopping him from curtly replying that he didn't spend his life dressed like a stupid alien.

"Can you say it ?"

"Say what ?" Alexander asked gruffly.

"You know, your line."

"He won't let you go until you say it," Catherine sneered, handing him the tea and pastry menu.

"By Grabthar's harm," Alexander said, rolling his eyes.

He hadn't put much conviction into it, but it seemed to suit the child, who returned to his seat.

"He'll be back for a picture and an autograph," Catherine warned him.

"Catherine, can we stop pretending for a moment ?" he stopped her.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, genuinely surprised.

"I know I was an idiot, but I was young, I was scared, scared of getting stuck here and..."

She looked at him without blinking.

"And what, Alexander ?"

"I... I'm sorry."

He had almost told her, but at the last moment, he had changed his mind. Their relationship was too fragile, he knew, to venture into such dangerous waters. He didn't miss her almost disappointed look, but he thought he had imagined it.

"That's the past. I don't blame you anymore. And I'm glad you're here."

She had said it without bitterness, with a disarming sincerity before walking away.

After that, he became one of the most regular customers of the tea room, which was not complicated in such a small village. He spent more time talking to Catherine than eating cakes and drinking tea, and he soon realized that she soothed him.

"Are you planning to go back to London ?" he asked her as he hung a string of lights in the living room window she had just closed.

"I'd like to. Life is more... interesting there," she said as she wiped down a table.

"But ?" he guessed.

"But... I don't know. I feel too old to try anything new and at the same time I don't want to be a prisoner in this village all my life," she admitted.

"Too old ? You're going to be 40," he said, rolling his eyes.

"39 !" she protested.

"Okay, 39. It's not old, you silly girl."

"I know, but it takes money, no matter what you want to do. Not everyone gets to live their dreams, Alexander," she said softly.

"You could live in my apartment. Save yourself rent."

"Oh, now Dr. Lazarus feels sorry for me, great," she mumbled.

"First of all, don't ever call me that again, and secondly, I don't feel sorry. I'm helping my best friend get a fresh start."

"I always felt like you were out of my league, Alexander."

The simple confession made him freeze.

"What do you mean ?"

"I... I don't know. That I expected more from you, but... well... life."

"Catherine..." he said softly, getting down from the stepladder he was perched on.

Could it be that she, too, had feelings for him in the past ?

Had they both missed out on a great story because they didn't have the courage to reveal themselves at the time ?

"Oh, it's already late," she said, looking at her watch, "I have to hurry, I promised my mother I'd bring her some eggs and the grocery store is closing soon. Nothing's open after 6 here."

She offered to take him home, but he declined, saying he'd rather get some fresh air. The truth was, he needed to think because since he got back, he'd been questioning everything: his dreams, his career, what he really wanted in life.

Christmas Eve came all too quickly for Alexander's liking. His parents' house was packed. Aunts, cousins, his idiot little brother... it was all too much for him.

How ironic for an actor, he thought wearily. But in the end, one of those stupid science fiction conventions seemed less difficult to bear than this family gathering.

He managed to escape between the main course and dessert. Outside, sitting on the low stone wall his father had built long ago, he watched the house across the street. Everything seemed silent, except for the diffuse light that the television reflected against the windows of the Staffords' living room.

Without thinking, he got up and went to knock on their door, as if he was no longer the master of his body.

The door opened to reveal Catherine's father who did not immediately recognize him.

"I would like to speak to Catherine, Mr. Stafford," he said with a lack of confidence that irritated her to the highest degree.

"Alexander! How you have changed. Of course, I will get her."

Catherine appeared in the doorway, dressed in pyjamas decorated with a gingerbread man who looked happier than she was at that moment.

"Were you asleep ?" Alexander asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, I was reading. My parents are watching a show on the BBC," she explained, a little embarrassed that she hadn't taken the time to at least put on a pair of sweatpants and a sweater.

He shook his head. Alone. She was alone. Like him, who felt so alone no matter the world around him.

"Are you okay ?" she asked, intrigued.

"I... I have to tell you something."

He swallowed hard before starting.

"I was in love with you when we were teenagers. And when I saw you again, I realized that I still felt something strong for you."

Catherine's eyes widened in surprise, but she said nothing, letting him continue.

"I've spent my whole life running, and I realize that I wasn't running after the right things. I went to the ends of the earth to find that something, while you were here all this time."

"Alexander," she whispered, not hiding her emotion.

"I want us to try. I've always loved you. I still love you. I'm sorry I was an idiot and hurt you, I'm sorry it took me so long to understand, but I'm here now. So, if you'll have me, if you'll try..."

"What about your career ?"

"Can you keep a secret ?"

She nodded, her arms tightening a little around herself to suppress a shiver from the biting cold that surrounded them.

"They're going to kill Dr. Lazarus."

"What a tragedy," she said, not believing it.

"Yes, a terrible tragedy. And after that, I plan to return to London and resume my career on the stage."

She looked at him without saying anything, a silence that began to make Alexander uncomfortable.

"So, what do you think ?"

"I say I've always had feelings for you too, big fool. And yes, I want to try."

He gently pulled her towards him, enveloping her in his warmth, and he placed his lips against hers, kissing her for the first time, but certainly not for the last time, he knew it.

"By Grabthar's harm, it seems that the universe has finally offered us our Happy Ending," he murmured against her lips.

And he was still far from the mark. If only he had known, that this heartfelt confession would bring them both so much happiness, he would have stopped running much earlier.

#alexander dane x oc #alexander dane fanfic #alan rickman #rickmas2024 #evans23

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archivalofsins · 9 months ago

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The Futa and Mikoto dynamic in the latest minigram-

MILGRAM EP57 "Caffeine"

[57-1]

Mahiru: Would anyone like some coffee?

Yuno: Do you have any sugar?

Mahiru: Of course!

Yuno: Thank you very much.

Mahiru: Want some sugar?

roar

Futa: Why are you only asking me?!

[57-2]

Mikoto: I don't think she meant anything by it.

Futa: I can't keep my mouth shut when they want to make assumptions and treat me like a little kid.

Futa: It's bitter.

Mikoto: (Maybe it's because you act like this.)

Mikoto: It's a matter of taste.

Mikoto: So, I don't think it relates to being a kid or an adult.

Mikoto: Also, you should apologize later.

Futa: How about you then?

Mikoto: Me?

Mikoto: I've gotten used to drinking coffee.

Mikoto: It's not really a love/hate thing.

OVERTIME

ENDLESS PHONE CALLS

PILES OF WORK

Mikoto: Coffee was more like something like a must have...

Futa: ?

The way Mikoto says taste has nothing to do with being a child or adult. That mindset right there is why I believe Amane let's her guard down around him and allows herself to be childish when he's around.

21/04/16 (Amane’s First Trial)

Amane: …………

Mikoto: Oh, welcome back Amane! ……what’s with the grim face? Ah, right, the guard summoned you! How was it? Did you cry? I bet you were so scared you cried, right!?

Amane: ……alright then. If it’s a fight you want, it’s a fight you’ll get.

Mikoto: Huh? Oooi! Hey, are you listening?? Ooooi!

Along with why, when he became more standoffish in response to her verdict and she saw him being avoided, she began to avoid others. Turning people away when they approached her as she saw them not approaching him. So, she may have gotten the impression that others were only approaching her due to her age, not because they cared about her.

Something that could give further context to Shidou noting Mikoto and his behavior specifically in his second trial written interrogation,

Q.07 Are there any prisoners you get along with?

Shidou: Kayano-kun has become like that, and I can’t spend my time smoking at the moment, so the smoking trio has disbanded, which is a bit lonely.

Despite him and amikoto around this same time being drawn smoking together. Along with Kazui literally encouraging Shidou to take breaks in the timeline as well. Plus, Mikoto's change in attitude having very little to do with him not smoking to his own admission in the same answer. Like he states he just hasn't had the time to do it at the moment but starts with noting Mikoto's attitude isn't helpful. Probably because he thinks Amane is mirroring him and he's not srtying a good example for the kids. Which isn't his fucking responsibility since he's in a high stress situation for one.

Secondly, despite being like this, he's still better with kids than Shidou is. Let that fucking sink in.

Amane let's herself be childish around Mikoto because he's less likely to judge her solely based on being a child. Instead as he would treat her like any other person. He'd treat her as herself and someone he only knows about through their own individual actions.

Not base his judgment of her off of something she has no control over like her age-

20/06/13

Amane: ……what’s wrong, Shidou-san? Your hand has stopped marking. This is mathematics, so there’s no questions about the answers. If I got something wrong, please mark it with an X.

Shidou: I…… I just don’t understand. If everything about MILGRAM is true…… why did a child like you have to become a murderer? Just imagining what sort of circumstances must have led to that, it makes me so sad……

Amane: ……*sigh*. Is that right. I don’t think I’m going to get along with you, Shidou-san. I don’t agree with the fact you refuse to acknowledge that I have my own free will, and that I should be held accountable for my actions, just because I’m a child. I may have only been alive for 12 years, but all the choices I’ve made, even if they weren’t the best ones, were entirely my own. What point is there in you getting sad when I have no regrets myself? ……please give me back my test. It seems you don’t have the concentration levels required to be my teacher. I’m going to get Kotoko-san to teach me instead.

Shidou: Amane…… I don’t think that’s true. However smart you may be…… you’re still just a child.

Mikoto, in contrast, recognizes that Mahiru asking Futa if he wanted sugar had nothing to do with her treating him like a child. Instead, this was Mahiru being considerate and taking note of Futa's taste and behavior. Then giving him the opportunity to adjust his drink to his liking. Something that goes totally unappreciated because he gets upset that she didn't ask Mikoto the same thing.

When in all honesty I wouldn't put it past Mahiru to have taken a glance at Mikoto soulessly drinking his coffee and internally go,

"Nothing will make him like this drink. I don't even think he tastes it. There's hope for Futa though."

That's how neutral he is to it. Hell, he even admits he's neutral to the drink in this same conversation. Referring to it as a must-have or a necessity for his job. He's basically just drinking it because it's there, and it's now a habit for him to drink it when it's available due to the environment he was in prior to this. He just mindlessly with no real thought went hey there's coffee might as well get some then when asked went oh yeah I have no feelings towards this drink.

Leaving Futa there confused downright puzzled like of you don't like or hate it why did you voluntary get some as Mikoto is their having trauma flashbacks like,

"God the work, the hours, the phonecalls...coffee my only reprieve and fuel. The thing I needed but..."

Yet this also shows off something about Mikoto that gets overlooked. The guy is no pushover. Even though he doesn't want to be rude he will be direct and tell others when they mess up. Going ad far to tell Futa,

"You should apologize later."

While talking Futa through the mistake of tying taste to maturity.

Because that's a stupid thing to fucking do. Assuming having preferences when it comes to what one eats or a person has to eat a certain food due to their age alone and no other health reasons is stupid.

20/06/03

Futa: ……huh? What’s your problem? You’re just leaving all your meat? What a weird kid.

Amane: You say that, but you’re not eating all of your food either. ……are you not able to eat your vegetables? Even though you’re an adult.

Futa: Huh, what, so you’re just eating grass? What are you, a rabbit or something? Since you’re just a brat, you should be eating your meat properly. You won’t grow if you don’t.

Amane: ……you make some really funny jokes, don’t you, Futa-san.

Eat what you like regardless of age isn't a hard concept to grasp. Going I can't eat this it's too childish or drinking something a way you don't like to seem more mature is a waste of your own time..if it doesn't taste good don't eat if you don't want it politely decline. If you actually do want it eat it.

Mikoto respects Futa's behavior here but ultimately gets the point that Shidou has been failing to get with Amane. If the problem is the act of consuming certain things has been intrinsically tied to a person's age you should remove that pretense entirely by going,

"I don't think it relates to being a kid or an adult."

Taste is just taste. Instead of continually pushing like you're a child, children like sweets come have some pancakes. Can I tempt you into these childlike pleasures, Amane? Shidou they're fucking pancakes they don't have an age restriction you absolute tool. A lot of adults enjoy them, too. Shidou goes through every possible reason Amane should try these things while missing the point of why she ultimately doesn't taste it. Because he's arbitrarily decided she should like and try these things because she's a child and has consistently chosen to ignore the fact she declined.

Unlike Mahiru, who gets yelled at and just leaves. To the point that even Mikoto says Futa should apologize for that. This is why I find the dynamic between Amane and Mikoto, and Futa and Mikoto so interesting. Because when they get upset he stays leveled for the most part and gives them space to be themselves without outwardly labeling their mindsets as childish and immature. Because on some level he gets it which makes him more likely to talk it out to them like they're people instead pf just blatantly lecturing them about being roo childish or immature.

Instead of going you're acting like a child he'll just bluntly go its a bother having you be angry all the time in a way of seeking attention.

20/06/15

Mikoto: Hey, it’s kinda a bother having you be so angry and tense all the time. You should stop trying get everyone to pay attention to you. You’re a uni student, right? You can’t act like that once you start working properly.

Futa: Huh!? Shut up. Not like I care what you say. Even though we’re in this shitty situation, you’re just chatting away, it’s stupid. Aren’t you the one who’s acting out of place here? ……also the fact you give everyone nicknames is just gross.

Mikoto: *sigh* It’s more stupid to be taking this all so seriously. I mean, it’s definitely just a reality TV program. There’s no way a real prison exists that’s this lax. Also, I don’t give nicknames to everyone. I don’t give them to young kids like Amane, or to the hard-to-approach types like Shidou-san. I mean, I’m not giving you one, right?

Futa: ……oi, which group are you trying to say I am?

Futa "I don't care what you say" Kajiyama. Also how do you feel about coffee, which group do I fall under there. You called out my anger as attention seeking well the way you nickname people is gross.

*sigh*

Is right Mikoto it's absolutely right. Even when reprimanding him and bringing something adjacent to age Mikoto still focuses on social standing. How it won't be beneficial and instead inappropriate for Futa to behave how he is here when he does join the workforce. It's a perspective hard to combat because it's reasonable and straightforward. It's also something Mikoto doesn't have to say at all unless he is genuinely concerned in some way. Futa's behavior can lead to him being ostracized or deemed unapproachable and rude in a work environment who cares it's not his job to correct that. He can just learn the hard way like everyone else has to.

Haruka's social skills are kind of poor and could lead to problems with others.

20/06/05

Haruka: Ah…… ah, u-um, Mikoto-san. The c-communication……? thing, that you were saying was important. I-I thought, I’d give it my best…… Um, so, Mikoto-san, what’s your favourite food……?

Mikoto: Ooh? Nice going, Haru-kun~

Yeah, we still have no idea how long this lifestyle will go on for, so it’s best if we all get along together here.

My favourite food…… I like pasta and horse-meat sashimi. Also bubble tea, and recently I’ve been big on custard puddings. What about you?

Haruka: ……ah, I, I wonder…… H-hamburg steak, and omurice, a-and also…… what else? Ah. Cotton candy……

Mikoto: C-cotton candy!? That’s the first time I’ve met someone who has that in their top three favourites!? ……man, Haru-kun, you really are hilarious.

Who cares it's not his job to tell him how to practice that or make sure everyone is communicating well with others. He is in this weird situation it would ve so much easier to just keep to himself and mind his business. Like Kotoko does at the start but instead he behaves in a way similar to Mahiru.

Yet, instead of just talking with others to include them, Mikoto gives them pointers on how to further include themselves. Whether they're talking with him or not. He goes well- Here are these tools that could make communicating easier and more beneficial to you. This is important to setting the right atmosphere now off you go. Then when it works out he's proud of them.

He states they've grown and changed into good people and he doesn't shove the thing in their face or even take any credit for it.

22/10/06 (Mikoto’s Birthday)

Haruka: Mikoto-san. Um, are you ok……?

Mikoto: Ah, Haru-kun. It’s been a while since we last talked, huh. Yeah, I’m fine. Are you doing ok……?

Haruka: Ah, I’m fine. I’ve been enjoying myself, a lot. Um, I’m sorry, for avoiding you. I was a bit scared. Of you, honestly……

Mikoto: Ahhh, yeah. I’ve been lashing out whenever I go to sleep, right? ……it’s fine. Even I think you’re right to be scared.

You know, I kinda just hate that I don’t even know what’s going on myself…… haha.

Ah, but despite all that you still came and talked to me because it’s my birthday, right? Thank you, you’ve grown into a good man.

Then he just continues living like oh that's good proud of you for coming so far back to the suffering I go now.

Haruka: Wait you said you were fine.

Mikoto:

Even when it comes to welcoming Amane back and seeing that she was upset after her interrogation. Why was Mikoto the one who did that and not Shidou?

Why did Mikoto see Amane being quiet and clock that something was up and not the guy literally attempting to force himself in a parental role over her. Why was it when Amane was actually upset he was the only one to take a second and go hey are you good oh wait yeah the interrogation of course you're upset- my god it must have been terrible for you!

Why was he here in regard to any of these situations? When literally anyone else could have been noted. Because Mikoto, unlike Shidou and possibly to Shidou's annoyance- Is good with those Shidou regards as children. When he talks to Amane, she listens and takes him seriously. She even takes notes when Shidou talks to her he gets pancakes thrown in his face. This is all because Mikoto's way of speaking respects that someone is a person first and doesn't emphasize the things they don't have control over and may be sensitive about.

Outside of blatantly telling them like here, being an adult or a child isn't tied to things like that. Because it's not tied to food preferences it's tied to the choices we make and why. Anyone can be a better and more considerate person if we just work on communicating properly with those around us. That sort of mindset and knowing when not to rub someone's face in something because he doesn't rub in Futa's face that he complains about the drink being bitter after complaining about being asked if he wanted sugar which at that point he clearly needed it. No he keeps that's shit to himself and just thinks pinpoints what caused Futa to respond in such a hostile way and goes I don't think that's how that works. He goes to the root insecurity and goes no what you like to eat is not tied to whether you're a child or an adult. It's just what you like to eat or don't.

Which is really good on so many levels and highlights so well why he does get along with most of the younger prisoners.

#milgram #mikoto kayano

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