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whytheylosttheirminds · 2 months ago

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happy birthday, baby (part two: birthday boy)

(boyfriend!rafe x girlfriend!reader two-shot) (18+ only)

summary When Rafe's birthday finally rolls around, it's your turn to show him just how much he deserves to be celebrated. you never expected to be the one whose deepest wish comes true...

content dirty filthy birthday sex, pinv, light bondage, m recieving oral, use of ‘daddy’ sorry, 18+ minors do not interact!

(part 2 to this fic, but can be read separately)

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“Tastes so good, baby.”

Little crumbs of red velvet cake collect at the corners of Rafe’s mouth. You laugh and brush them off with the pad of your thumb.

He’d made you swear not to buy him anything for his birthday, “‘s just another day…” he’d say. But it wasn’t just another day, not to you. Today was the day your universe began, all those years ago. So you’d made all his favorites, a five-course meal with a big finish: a triple layer red velvet cake, extra frosting.

“What did you wish for?” You ask hopefully, plucking the blown-out candles from the cake, licking the frosting off. A little dab of red frosting lingers on your cheek, making Rafe smile, but he doesn’t wipe it off, not yet.

“Nothin’,” he shrugs.

Your brows furrow in disappointment, you were trying so hard to get him to buy into the celebration of his birthday, to make him feel as special as he made you feel, and his answer seemed to confirm he wasn’t, “Oh. Okay.”

You step away from his hold and start to gather the dishes, failing miserably at hiding your disappointment. Rafe just smiles up at you, grabbing your wrist as you reach out to grab his empty dinner plate, pushing it out of the way with his other hand as he pulls you forward to sit on his lap.

Perched on his thighs, you avoid eye contact, feeling silly for being so emotionally invested in this. His grin never falling, he places two fingers under your chin, pulling your face to look at him.

“I didn’t make a wish,” he begins, using his thumb to pull at your pouty lower lip, “because I already have everything I could ever want right here in my lap.”

A blush tickles the apples of your cheeks, warming at his pretty words. You smile big, wrapping your arms around him and resting your head on his firm shoulder.

“Oh,” you laugh softly into the warm skin of his neck.

“Yeah, oh,” he teases you, his hand rubbing loving strokes on your thigh.

“Wait a minute,” you pull back suddenly, brow furrowed. “I’m supposed to be saying nice things to you!”

“No one’s stopping you,” he chuckles, lifting your hair and brushing it over your shoulder so he can kiss around the strap of your dress.

You pause him, hand on either side of his face to reclaim the moment. You lean forward so you’re the one kissing him, starting gently with his lips.

“I love you,” you whisper to him.

“You do?” He teases, as if you don’t already tell him twenty times a day and every single night.

“You know that I do,” you roll your eyes, reuniting your lips with his, then moving your kisses over to his cheeks and across his jaw, whispering sweet nothings the whole way.

When you pull back, his eyes are half closed, chest rising and falling heavily. He’s right where you want him, but tonight, the goal is to push him over the edge. You ponder what you can do to get him to let go completely, to give you the raw energy you know he’s been holding back.

Impulsively, you dip your finger into the thick icing on the edge of the cake, coating your fingertip in red frosting, and bring it to his lips. An incredulous smirk painted on his lips, his eyes narrow at you; the look a mix of what’s your game? and do you know how fucking hot that is?

After a beat, he draws your finger between his lips with a swirl of his tongue, the movement so sweet and so sexy you nearly swoon.

His hands grip your waist and he pulls you in closer, and you feel his hardness bury itself into the soft underside of your thigh. He has that familiar mischief in his eyes, like he’s scheming.

Then he leans forward suddenly, warm tongue licking the frosting off your cheek. You gasp and giggle, laughing loudly until your silenced by his tongue dragging its way across your cheek and into your mouth, kissing you slow and sloppy.

The two of you are always like this, all over each other, addicted. But something about tonight feels different. You couldn’t give him any presents, but you were ready to give him everything else you had. Everything you’d been too nervous to ask for, hoping he’d say it first.

He squeezes your waist, grinding you into him, and you know it’s time.

“I know you said you didn’t want any presents, but I got you a little something anyway,” you scrunch your nose with feigned guilt, though you weren’t actually sorry at all.

“Oh did you?” He tightens his grip on your hips, but you manage to wriggle away from him with some difficulty.

He scoffs in annoyance when he’s alone in the chair again, so you lean down and leave a peck on his pink lips, “I’ll be right back. Wait for me on the couch, yeah?”

“You’re real bossy for someone who was not born today,” he quips, not rising from the chair as instructed.

“And you’re very unspoiled for someone who was,” you explain, “I think we need to fix that.”

Rafe falls back onto the plush couch with a sigh as you disappear into the bedroom. The long, heavy day wears on him, his head falling back to stretch the tightness in his neck. He wishes he didn’t always feel so intensely, wishes a day could just be a day and not a weighted reminder of his messy past. He wishes, desperately, something could just drown out the noise, that someone could come take the weight of his shoulders.

Like an answer to his prayer, you appear in front of him.

You lean on the doorframe seductively, one arm up against the wood, popping out your hip, a silhouette he wishes he could bottle up and consume whole.

You’re wearing a silky, red lingerie set, the bra featuring a big bow tied in the middle, pushing your breasts together and begging to be untied. You do a little spin so he can see the similar bow tied over your ass, cheeks perked up nicely by the sky high heels you’ve added to the ensemble, clicking on the hardwood floor as you twirl for him.

“Holy shit,” he stammers, adjusting himself on the couch, already straining against his slacks just at the sight of you, all done up for him.

Rafe leans back on the couch, He raising both arms, fingers laced behind his head, doing everything he can to stifle the impulse to jump up and untie those fucking bows. He does that a lot, holds himself back, afraid to show you all of his fire and find out it’s too much for you.

“You,” he chuckles darkly, eyes twinkling with lust and impatience, “are unbelievable.”

“D’ya like it?” You bite your lip, fingertips twirling the ends of the ribbon innocently.

“Come here,” he raises his eyebrows incredulously, motioning for you, “come see just how much I like it.”

An excited giggle rises from your throat, your heels tapping as you hurry towards him. He opens his legs for you to stand between, rubbing your hands over his shoulders. The ridges of his taut muscles are visible under his black button down, still in his suit and tie from his long day at work. He turns his head to kiss the inside of your forearms, smirking knowingly as he snaps the silky pink scrunchie on your wrist, “what’s this for?”

“You know what it’s for,” you smirk, running your hands up the side of his neck and onto either side of his face, “gonna give you everything you like.”

“Yeah?” He asks in a low grumble, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as he examines the bow over your tits, now resting perfectly in front of his face.

One hand playing with the cartilage of his ear, the other runs up to the top of his head, lacing into his messy hair, tugging gently to lift his gaze to your eyes.

“Is that what you want? You want me on my knees for you, birthday boy?”

Steadying himself, he places his hands on your waist, the bob of his Adam’s apple prominent with the way you’ve got his head pushed back. He swallows, something holding back his answer.

“It’s okay, baby,” you reassure him, “you can ask for what you want.”

This is one of the many things you love about him, he’s so aggressive and demanding with everyone else in his life, but still hesitant to be too rough with you. Today, though, you wanted all his fire, craved that fury, determined to snap his restraint.

You tug a little harder on his hair, “I’m your present, Rafe. I want you to open me up and do whatever you want with me.”

His nostrils flare, sparks flickering in his eyes. His hands slip down to your barely covered ass, squeezing the soft flesh so hard in his broad palms you gasp and stumble forward slightly. He takes advantage of your body coming closer to his face, leans forward and sinks his teeth into the flesh of your hip, right above the line of your panties.

A high pitched gasp leaves you, picking up into an involuntary squeak as his teeth mark your skin. He pulls back and licks over the bite mark he’s left, blowing on it gently, lighting up your body with chills.

“Mine?” He double checks.

“All yours, always,” you nod, still breathless from his possessive display. “Tell me what you want, I’ll give you anything.”

“Get on your knees,” he finally demands.

“Yes sir,” you nod, unable to hide your giddy smile, releasing his hair from your hand and lowering to the ground.

“Wait, wait,” he says, and you almost let out a frustrated sigh, assuming he was changing his mind. Before you could remind him that you wanted this, he grabbed a pillow off the couch, placing it down for you to rest your knees on, still loving on you even when he was about to do filthy things to you.

Your eyes are full of hearts as you kneel down on the pillow, gazing up at him lovingly once you’re settled between his legs. You pull your hair up, putting the scrunchie to good use, and sit back on your heels to take him in.

The sight of you, perched for him, eyes full of lust as your chest rises and falls with arousal, is all the gift he needed. But you’re nowhere near done spoiling him yet.

Once he’s settled back on the couch, you sit up, running a hand up each of his thighs, stroking slowly as you near his belt buckle. His abs tighten as the tips of your fingers brush against his stomach. Your eyes go wide at the large indentation of his cock against his pants, thrilled that he’s so hard already, the thought of his perfect dick sending butterflies fluttering through your tummy.

“Got me so wet thinking about taking you in my mouth,” you confess.

“You don’t have to-”

“Shhh,” you shake your head slowly, not even entertaining the thought.

After pulling the button from its loop, you unzip his slacks slowly, Rafe lifting his hips from the couch so you can pull them down just enough to reveal the outline of his pulsing cock straining against his briefs.

Focused, you lean over him, fingertips teasing the waistband of his Calvin’s, and place the gentlest of kisses on his clothed dick.

“Just wanna be your dirty girl tonight,” you say before dropping another kiss to the very tip, savoring the salty taste of his precome seeping through his boxers. “You gonna let me?”

Rafe nods obediently, eyes wide with amazement that you’re this good to him, “yes baby, give it to me.”

With that request, you pull the band of his briefs down, allowing his cock to finally spring free, humming contentedly at the sight. Before palming it, you pull his hand from your throat and move it to your hair. He catches on and wraps his fingers around your ponytail.

You wrap your fingers around his base, dribbling a glob of spit slowly from your lips onto the head, using it to ready him with a pump of your fist.

Rafe’s eyebrows knit together, in awe of you as he always is.

“Such a pretty cock,” you hum, “been waiting all day to taste you. I think about this dick all the time.”

It isn’t just for show, though you are speaking a little filthier than usual to add spice to his birthday gift, you really do think about him so often. He’s given you so much, the life changing sex just one piece of the puzzle he’s assembled for you through his love and care.

Eyes darting up to lock onto his, you flatten your tongue and run a single stripe up the column of his shaft, finishing with a playful flick at the tip.

His whole body shudders, the fingers wrapped in your hair tugging so gently you wonder if you’re imagining it, his other hand balled in a restrained fist on the top of his thigh.

“You know I love you, yeah?” Rafe whispers, soft like a prayer, like they’re the last words he wants to say before his soul leaves his body.

“I love you more,” your lips curl into a smile, punctuating the statement with a swirl of your tongue over his now throbbing head.

“Not fucking possible.”

You slip the hand not holding his cock to your lips over his clenched fist, guiding him to unravel it and laces his fingers with yours. You finally hollow your cheeks and sink your head down on him, softly gagging as your jaw goes to slack to welcome all of him into your warm, wet mouth.

When he’s all the way in, you gag again, the motion of your throat clenching around him mixed with the pornographic sound forcing his eyes shut as he grits his teeth at the intense pleasure. You lift up slowly then bob at a steady pace, slurping and gagging as you go, making the prettiest sounds for him.

You pop off of him momentarily to catch your breath, “you’re so big, love. ‘M gonna have to go slow.”

“T-a-ake your time,” he stammers out, hips jerking up unintentionally as you wrap both hands around his shaft and begin twisting your strokes at a steady pace.

As you stroke him, you rise up on your knees so your tied up tits move with each stroke of his cock.

“You haven’t opened your present yet,” you angle forward, eyes drifting to your barely covered chest until he catches on.

Rafe pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, fingers twitching with every stroke of your hand on his cock as he tugs at the edge of the ribbon covering your chest.

Pulling the bow apart, your tits bounce slightly, spilling out for him, and he nearly busts at the sight.

“Fuck,” he moans out. “I swear to god, baby, it’s like I’m seeing you for the first time every time. You’re so fucking gorgeous.”

Still stroking him, you stretch up to kiss him, the soft skin of your nipple brushing against his leaking tip. Rafe gasps into your mouth at the sensation, and you look at him with wide, mischievous eyes.

“Did you like that?”

You let your hardened nipple just barely brush against his overly sensitive tip again, and he’s nodding his head rapidly, “ye-yeah, yeah, yes…”

Lip between your teeth, you drag your nipple across his tip a few more times, collecting his precum on the hard bud. He’s nearly crushing your hand, biting back whimpers. You’re gasping again and again as your sensitive skin makes contact with his, surprised at how good it feels for you, too.

“This shit making you wet, baby?” He asks, eyeing the way your thighs squeeze together, body rolling desperately.

With a wicked grin you drag his hands to either side of your breasts, guiding him to squeeze them around himself. He lets out an immediate groan when you hinge your hips to raise and lower your torso, dragging his cock, sloppy from your spit, between your tits.

“Yes, so wet, Rafe. I love watching you fuck my tits, it’s so fucking hot,” you choke out between strokes.

He’s never seen you like this, so filthy and forward. But the beaming grin on your face as you watch him panting for your touch tells him you’re doing just fine, enjoying it even. He wants nothing more than to keep you looking like that, to keep making you feel good.

“What’d you wish for?” He asks impulsively.

“What?” You’re pulled from your focus on his pleasure at the unexpected question.

“On your birthday, what’d you want me to do to you?”

Your blush is immediate, shame swirling in your belly at the filthy fantasies that flash through your mind. You’re supposed to be making him feel good, but it’s these kinds of gentle reminders that he’s still in control that make your thoughts spiral to the dirtiest places.

When you don’t answer, Rafe leans forward, grabbing your hair again and tugging your head back just slightly, making you gasp at the pull. He kisses you hard and fast, a string of your mixed saliva hanging between your lips when he pulls back, just barely, to whisper, “said you were gonna be my dirty girl, yeah? Tell me what you really want, and I might just give it to you.”

The whimper that slips between your spit-slick lips is involuntary, and tells him exactly what he needs to know - that there’s more you’ve been waiting for, that you want him to be rough. Your next statement seals the deal.

“I wa…I wished you would tie me up,” you confess, voice so wispy and hesitant he can barely hear it. “I wished for you to tie my hands and fuck me ‘til I scream.”

For a second, you think he didn’t hear it, until he rises from the couch, forcing you to sit back on your heels. Rafe towers over you, his still-hard cock angry in your face. You look up at him from your spot on your knees, perched before him, gazing at your man with wide eyes.

You gulp down the nervousness in your throat, knowing you and Rafe were about to enter territory you’d flirted with but never fully crossed over into before.

He looks down at you, tilting his head. You’re so fucking pretty, perched for him, glassy eyes trained on him expectantly. He reaches behind your head and pulls the scrunchie out slowly, tossing it aside so your hair falls around your face. Hand returning to cradle your head, he thumbs your bottom lip gently, dragging it down with the pad of his large finger.

“Is that still what you want?” He breathes.

“Yes,” you nod.

“Good,” Rafe grabs both sides of his tie loop, pulling hard, exposed forearms under his rolled sleeves flexing as he tears the luxury fabric from his neck with ease like it’s some flimsy knock-off.

You’re practically drooling for him at this point. He rips his shirt open, revealing the sculpted chest and rigid abs you’ve been thinking about all day. He looks so fucking strong and powerful above you, it’s thrilling - the man everyone is scared of, you’d trust with your life. With your body. Giving it to him tonight, along with your whole heart, is the best present you can think of.

“Stand up,” he instructs.

You rise slowly, knees suddenly weak, trembling under his frame. He notices.

“You know I love you right?” He repeats his earlier words, but there’s something different about the question now. It’s a confirmation, and a warning. The subtext is clear in his low tone: ‘cause I’m about to fuck you like I don’t.

You nod slowly, grabbing the hand that’s not holding his tie, “Mhm, I love you too.”

“Good.”

He takes over your hand, pulling so you’re forced to spin, facing away from him. He holds your hand behind you, leaning low to drop a kiss over the racing pulse point on your wrist, another reassurance that this was all done in love.

Holding the tie between his teeth, he draws your other wrist back. Swift hands twist the tie around your wrists to hold them together tightly.

“Lay down,” he instructs with a final tug of the tie that makes you gasp, making moving your hands impossible.

Your knees sink into the plush fabric of the couch, turned head resting against the throw pillows as you arch your back up, ready and waiting for him.

The rest of his clothes torn off and strewn about the room, Rafe approaches, one knee in the cushions behind you. It’s just now that he notices your panties are crotchless, untying the bow over your ass with a smirk. Fuck does he love you.

His large palms glide over your ass, stopping to squeeze hard, “goddamn, I love this ass,” one hand wanders down, sliding through your slick folds without warning, making you suck in a sharp breath. “And I love this fucking pussy.”

One finger slips in, access to your core easy as ever with how drenched you are.

“You this wet from sucking my cock? Of course you are because you’re always such a good girl for me.”

“I love when you call me that,” you whine out.

“I know you do. Keep being good for me and I’ll say it again,” he adds a second finger, pumping harder than before, preparing you.

You whine and writhe below him, your wrists already straining against the restraint of his tie, desperate for more, “please, fuck me, Rafe. Please don’t make me wait.”

“What happened to ‘it’s your birthday, Rafe. I’m your present, Rafe’ huh?” He mimics your earlier words with a chuckle. He’s never talked to you like this, but you love it, knowing it’s all per your request he goes rough this time.

“But, y’know what?” Rafe wraps his hand in the tie around your wrists, tugging you toward him and making you squeak out a strained groan. “You’ve been so good to me all night, so I’ll give you what you want.”

He fists his cock, still wet from your mouth, in the hand not gripping the tie, guiding it toward your entrance. He starts with just the tip, making you arch your back to take more of him, confused as he holds still behind you. Just as you open your lips to question him, he tugs on the tie, pulling your body back so your pussy swallows his cock whole.

“Gah, fuck! Ohmygod, ohmygod do that again, please.” This position is everything you’d hoped it would be, and he knows it, grinning like a mad man as you babble below him.

Rafe braces himself, one foot still on the ground for leverage, his other hand gripping your hip so hard the imprint of his hand is surely permanent. He slides back out slow before pulling you back again. And again. And again.

Skin is slapping skin, and you’re barely coherent, a string of praises for him that he can hardly make out. He’s panting like a dog, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip as he memorizes the sight of your hands tied over your lower back as your ass ripples with each smack of his hips.

“So good…b-baby,” you croak out, the edge of something unfinished in your words.

He knew you were holding back one last thing, one last fantasy that you were denying yourself for fear of being too much for him. He needed to hear you say it, to know you gave him absolutely everything.

“Say it. Call me what you really want to call me. Let me hear it, angel.”

“Feels so good…d-daddy.”

You worried it’d be too far, but it felt so good, like honey dripping from your tongue, and it sounded like music to his ears.

“Ahhh, yeah, shit. That’s my good girl,” he drawls, dropping forward to sprinkle kisses over your spine. “How long you been waiting to say that?”

“Since the day I met you,” you admit, your brain is too high off of him to filter your thoughts.

Rafe chuckles darkly behind you, picking up speed as he snakes his arm around your waist, fingers dropping low to run over your clit. And just like that, your wish comes true - he has you screaming for him now.

“Ohhh fuck me too, baby,” you can hear the smile in his voice. “Thought I’d met a goddamn angel when I first laid eyes on you, looking so good in that little skirt, I knew I needed to have you. I knew you’d be mine. But I never could have imagined it’d be like this. That you’d be my slut and the love of my life? I’m the luckiest fucking guy on earth.”

Tears slip from the corner of your eyes, a swirl of the overwhelming pleasure and the immense love you have for him. He’s still pistoning into you, lips dragging up and down your spine, hand around the tie securing your wrists.

Your orgasm is building like a tidal wave, growing impossibly large and looming over you with the promise of destructive impact. The pleasure he’s giving you is building so intensely, you wonder if you’ll be able to handle it when it crashes on your shore.

Rafe knows it’s coming, knows you like the back of his fucking hand.

“Come for me,” he asks with another pull of the tie, fucking himself into you so deep you feel like you’re one body. “Be my good girl and come.”

“Yes daddy,” is the last thing you say before it hits you, soaking his cock and forcing him to empty himself into you, groaning your name like a gospel song into your ear.

He unties you almost immediately, and you know as much as he enjoyed having you like that, he’s still worried.

You twist under him so you’re chest to chest, his face wrinkled with concern as he pants above you.

Resting on one arm, he grabs your wrist, pulling it toward him to examine it closely. There’s a slight red mark where the tie was tightest, but they don’t hurt and you know they’ll fade within the hour. His face, however, is twisted in worry like you’re terminally ill. He kisses over the red marks soft and slow, as if he can heal them with just his lips.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, your chest still rising and falling as you return to earth from the heaven he gave you.

“I- I just…” you lay silent while he searches for his words. “I’ve hurt people before, I never want to hurt you.”

You pull your wrist from his grasp so you can cup his face in your hands, pulling his forehead to yours, “you didn’t, you couldn’t. I wanted it, I’ve never done anything like that before.”

“You don’t have to do things like that for me,” he shakes his head, eyes closed with worry.

“You’re not listening to me,” you say a little louder, causing him to open his eyes into yours. “I’ve never trusted anyone enough to do something like that. I’ve never felt safe enough with somebody to ask for it. But I’d trust you with my life.”

“Really?” He mutters, jaw clenched tight, though his body starting to sink into yours is a telltale sign that he’s finally relaxing.

“I’m like over the top, disgustingly in love with you, actually,” you smile.

His lips quirk to the side, eyes twinkling with relief, “Oh yeah?”

Your eyes soften, arms wrapping around his neck to draw him closer, “I adore you, Rafe.”

“Babygirl, I adore you too, you have no idea how much,” he promises before dropping his lips onto yours, his kiss slow and unhurried, like he plans to stay here for hours. “And I think I’m starting to like my birthday.”

“Really?!” Your eyebrows shoot up in excitement, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Really,” he smiles. “As long as I always get to spend it with you.”

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november 4th december 4th same difference. happy birthday, sluts.

remember! writers live off of reblogs and replies, don't forget to feed your faves <3

#rafe cameron #obx #rafe x reader #rafe imagine #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron and reader #rafe cameron fluff #obx smut #obx fluff #rafe cameron concept #rafe cameron fic #drew starkey #rafe cameron x reader

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eevees-hobbies · 7 months ago

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Don't Threaten Me With a Good Time!

This is a response to this anon request: Hii can i request wind breaker boys : bofurin and shishitoren with a reader that love to flirt and hard to flustered although they tried to do it back? Thank you

Author’s Note: Thank you, Anon, for being my first Wind Breaker request! I feel like we were on the same wavelength because I was planning on doing a flirt fic/headcanon, but you beat me to it! Unshy and bold is how I like to write my readers, too!

Content Warning: Fem!Reader x Characters. Not smut but highly suggestive in some parts. Use of the word slut in the beginning background piece, a brief examination of the word and scenarios in which it’s weaponized. If you’re not into that, feel free to skip that part. But I’ve seen what some of you all are into and seen some of those reblogs—you know who you are, so spare me. You’re also a major flirt. Like, you’re at a 10 on the flirt scale. Go, you! Nothing too explicit, but here’s what we’re working with: mention of panties in Sakura’s. Kaji needs to learn to keep items inside of his mouth…unless? Suo intends to punish you so pick a god and pray. Hiragi needs you to chill out…but say more, please. Umemiya is too shy to ask you to call him Daddy (please call him Daddy). Togame tells you what you’ll be sitting on by the end of the night (also mention of alcohol in his). Nirei is a cute little bean <3. Minors Don’t Interact.

As always, I appreciate comments, reblogs, and likes. Requests are as open as my legs are for Haruka Sakura’s dick.

Word Count: 2.8K

Dividers by Saradika. Story banner by me.

Background: How You Got Here

You’ve always hated the word ‘slut’

It’s not that you wouldn’t personally consider yourself one. Depending on your ideologies, reclaiming the word can feel liberating and you find that to be true for yourself.

You consider yourself to be naturally flirty, sexy, bold, and charismatic. You can also be a bit of a tease and have slut-like-tendancies in the bedroom, so, sure, a slut. And for the right person or people, if you’re feelin’ nasty, you’re willing to be whatever they want you to be.

You’ve just grown to hate the word because slut is often used to mischaracterize a woman that men often can’t understand.

They can’t, or choose not to, understand a woman who is vocal about who she wants and how she wants it.

They call women sluts who do the chasing.

They call women sluts who fuck on the first date.

They call women sluts who don’t fuck on the first date.

The word slut has lost all meaning.

Patriarchy issues aside, this wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t also have a mouth on you. So when some low-life-loser cat calls you from across the street, asking if you got a man and then calling you a slut because you chose not to answer in front of his five loser friends, you turn around and yell, “Sorry, buddy! Experiencing disappointing sexual experiences isn’t on my bingo card for tonight!”

“What the FUCK did you just say to me?”

And contrary to what some may say, you aren’t fucking stupid. You know what happens to women when a man hates them and decides that you’re the object of their rage.

So, you often find yourself running in situations like this. Running until your lungs are about to explode and the only thing keeping you going is adrenaline and the fear that that word—and your mouth—might get you snuffed out.

You’re looking over your shoulder as your assailants close the distance, painfully aware that this can’t go on for too much longer when you collide with someone’s chest. Strong hands grip your arms, anchoring you in place.

You look up, expecting to see one of the men from the group but you’re instead taken aback by the stranger in front of you. He seems like the kind of boy you’d let call you a slut—-his close-mouthed smile disarms you, and even though it doesn’t reach his eyes, you’re almost certain he’s someone you can trust. You don’t have too many options right now, anyway!

His tassel earrings swing as he raises his head from looking down at you, and his eyes follow the sound of running feet emerging from the alley.

“Oh? You look like you could use some help. Stand over there for me?” He tilts his head when asking you the question, but part of you feels like he’s not really asking, so you nod and watch with bated breath as the young man methodically mows down every one of the men.

Afterward, he turns to you, pristine and perfect, “I can’t let you walk home alone after that.”

“Sure,” you say, taking his outstretched hand. What’s your name? I have to know the name of the person who just saved me.”

“Oh, I guess that’s a fair point. My name is Hayato Suo. It’s nice to meet you despite the circumstances.”

It’s not long after that event that you fall into the protection of the Bofurin & Shishitoren men; your natural charisma quickly gets you in their good graces and earns you a special spot among their ranks. You give off mascot vibes—if mascots were cute and didn’t have gigantic, scary bodies!

Hanging out with them means being yourself without experiencing judgment or retribution. Your laid-back persona and flirting are met with laughs, blushes, and even sometimes flirtation in return. You’ve never felt more at home than with them.

Haruka Sakura

Flirting with Haruka Sakura is like flirting with a brick wall; either he notices and chooses to ignore the situation as his face turns a crimson red, or he’ll yell at you for being a pervert in public. And both of those reactions are equally cute, so when one day you’re sitting at a booth at Cafe Pothos—-with Sakura, Suo & Nirei—-you decide that this is the perfect environment to get him riled up.

You gently knock your shoe against Sakura’s, which earns you an eyebrow twitch as he continues to shovel food into his mouth. Oblivious as always.

You do it again to prove that it wasn’t an accidental nudge. Sakura’s eyes shoot up to yours, frantic because this is something you would do. His eyes are met with your innocent smile and subtle shoulder shrug.

As you all continue eating (excluding Suo, who enjoys a cup of tea), you gradually move your foot up his leg until it rests between his thighs. Sakura is trembling like a leaf, eyes darting between the faces of your friends, who could very well notice that you’re trying to get him to play footsie under the table. What if they notice?

The meal concludes; Suo and Nirei exit the restaurant, and you and Sakura linger for a bit. Part of you hopes that he’ll call out your behavior, but he’s doing his best eye-avoidant routine. As you rise to leave, Sakura stops you, grabbing you by the hem of your sleeve and pushing you into the last booth at the back of the restaurant, where the line of sight is blocked.

Sakura climbs on top of you, your bodies crammed into the leather booths in a way that feels deliciously intimate. His hands are holding your arms at your sides, and his knee settles in between your thighs—and you are now more than ever painfully aware of how high your skirt has bunched up as his knee is dangerously close to brushing up against the seat of your panties.

“Y-you can’t control yourself in public, can you!?” Sakura practically spits out. He’d sound angry to anyone else, but that’s not what you see in his eyes.

You look up at him, mesmerized by his vulnerability and the proximity of his well-placed knee. "Do you want me to stop, Haruka?”

He again avoids eye contact with you, but the way he bites his lip gives him away, “No, I-i didn’t say that.”

Akihiko Nirei

“Have you added anyone else to that book of yours, Nirei?”

Nirei beams at you. You’re one of the few people who takes an interest in the compendium of facts and stats he’s collected about the others. He flips through the pages and starts pointing out information he’s added since you’ve last spoken.

You nod along, taking a genuine interest in what he says; you barely notice your hand moving up to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen out of place. His cheeks tinge pink, and he stutters as he continues to read to you.

After he’s done hyper-fixating, a comfortable silence sits between you.

“What do you have about me?” you say, leaning closer to him. You’re teasing him; you don’t exchange blows like the subjects in his journals, so there’s no practical reason for him to collect information on you. That’s what you think until he reaches into his back pocket and brandishes a small notebook with your name on the front.

“I-i uh have the basic demographics, but uh…still need the more personal things like your favorite color and food.”

“What about my bra size?”

“B-bra….” The pencil in his hand snaps, and he looks everywhere but at you. “I uh… s-sure! I’ll take that if you’d like me to!”

You laugh; you genuinely find him endearing. “I’m kidding! We haven’t even had our first date yet, Nirei!”

He looks at you, pulling out a new pencil from seemingly nowhere. “Well, once I find out what food you like, I’ll add the anniversary date of our first date here, too.”

Ren Kaji

Flirting with Kaji feels dangerous, but you do you, friend. You, as an individual, and the way compliments flow easily from your lips makes Kaji uncomfortable, and he admittedly doesn’t understand why someone as gorgeous as you gives him the time of day. It isn’t until you somehow become closer that the absence of your flirting with him sets off blaring alarm bells.

Are you ok?

Who did this to you?

Who does he have to kill?!

As you thumb through the vinyl at your local record store, you feel a bump against your shoulder. You look up and see your favorite platinum blond guard dog; his headphones are settled around his neck, heavy metal pouring from the earphones. His piercing gaze is a clear indication that you might be in trouble. Oops.

“You mad at me or somethin’?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Mad? Why do you think that?”

“You haven’t been pestering me lately, and it feels…odd.”

You can see him chewing on the inside of his cheek, even with the round sucker placed snugly in his mouth.

“Ohhhhhh, no, Kaji! I was giving you a break, but if you insist on flirting, how about-”

“Shut up,” he pulls the sucker out of his mouth and presses it against your lips, watching as you purse your glossed lips and kiss the candy. Neither of you breaks eye contact; an unspoken threat between you dares the other to yield first. His eyes narrow as you poke your tongue out and stroke the sides with intentional, slow licks.

“Tch!” he turns quickly, marching away from you. Despite his back being turned, you can tell by the way his arm raises that he’s now placing that saliva-soaked sucker in his mouth.

Hayato Suo

Suo might be one of two people on this list who might be a worthy opponent for you. How do you flirt with someone who is perpetually unbothered? Good question! I see your flirting as back-and-forth quips, playful jabs at one another that get increasingly sexual and oddly specific throughout the day.

If you meet up with the group and one strand of your hair is out of place, Suo chirps, “Bedhead, huh? What were YOU doing last night?”

If you see Suo break a sweat after an intense fight, “Wow, Suo! You really need to work on your stamina. I can imagine a few ways to help with that.”

Sure, it’s all in good fun, but there’s a sexual undertone to it all; between the smiles and sarcastic comments, you’re both participating in your special version of foreplay, and you have never been more turned on.

Everyone around you thinks you should get a room, and as sunset approaches, you two do exactly that.

“Ready to work on that stamina, Suo?” you chide as you push him against the wall in your apartment. You know you’ll pay for man-handling him later, but that’s part of the fun, isn’t it?

His earrings sway back and forth from the force, but he gazes down at you with smoldering ruby-toned eyes. Every smart-mouthed remark you’ve said that day replays in his head, contributing to his desire to make you atone for your brattiness.

“Yes, Y/N and I promise I won’t let you out of bed with your hair a mess like I did this morning.”

Hajime Umemiya

The complexity of Hajime Umemiya should be a case study. You’ve witnessed his laid-back nature as he jokes with friends, and you’ve seen the scary side of him that bubbles over when anyone threatens those he’s closest to.

You’re truly attracted to both sides, but when it comes to you and the way you tease him, running manicured nails through his gelled hair and scratching gently at his scalp, he’s putty in your hands.

One of your favorite ways to experience Umemiya is meeting him in his element: his garden. It allows you to bond with him, and he often shares information about his life. Somewhere, Sugishita is biting his fist.

“Big brother,” you whine as you plant okra, “am I doing this right?”

Umemiya’s eyes widen, and he looks at you across the garden. In what feels like seconds, he’s kneeling in front of you, your hands cupped in his own. “Y-you can’t call me that!”

You blink, confused, “you tell everyone to call you that.”

“I don’t want YOU to call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s weird when someone you…like…calls you big brother. It’s worse than being called a friend!”

You snort, but when you meet his eyes, you quickly straighten. Oh! He’s serious!

“So, not into me calling you big brother even during our ‘private moments?’ What about ‘Daddy?’ How do you feel about that?”

He laughs loudly—not because he thinks that was especially hilarious—but because you just make him nervous.

“You can call me Hajime or…’my boyfriend?’ Yeah, let's stick with my boyfriend!”

“Not Daddy?”

“I won’t stop you! Now, how about that okra???”

Toma Hiragi

“You’re a pain in my ass.”

Hiragi’s simultaneously rubbing a knot out of his neck while chastising you. You found yourself in an all too familiar situation, running errands when a drunken man approached you and began to hurl “that word” in your direction when he didn’t find your reaction to his advances to be appropriate: same shit, different day.

As you were looking for an escape route, Hiragi rounded the corner and snatched the man by the collar—it was almost comical to see the drunkard's feet dangle feverishly off the ground. With a scowl and a threat from Hiragi, he was stumbling off.

You sigh, “I don’t mean to be a burden, Hiragi. But something on my forehead must read, ‘fuck with me’ because this is becoming a common occurrence.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he grumbles, “I just find myself worrying about you too much. Might give you my jacket to keep these creeps at bay.”

Before the last syllable leaves his lips, he’s stuttering and trying to walk the statement back, “I mean uh…or any Bofurin jacket! We have boxes of these somewhere! Not mine, per se.”

You smile, placing a hand on his toned bicep. “I’d love to wear my protector's jacket.”

You need not say more. He removes his oversized jacket and places it over your shoulders. The smell of him and the warmth he left behind makes your heart flutter. You give him your best grin, “you know you’re never getting this back, right?”

“See? A pain in my ass. With a mouth like that, I’m goin’ to have to teach you how to fight.”

You lean into his arm, “With a mouth like this, you might have to teach me more than how to fight.”

“Jesus.”

Jo Togame

Jo Togame is the other person on this list who’ll give you a run for your money when trying to flirt. He may seem turtle-adjacent, but his rebuttals to your flirtation attempts are quick.

You’ve been shooting Togame smoldering glances for the entirety of the night, and even though Shishitoren men surround him, he’ll catch you looking, give you a lopsided grin, and then turn his attention back to the group,

You lick your lips. The draw of his signature sweatpants, black, loose-fitting tee, and Shishitoren jacket is doing something to you.

And maybe it’s because you’re on your fifth shot of mystery concoction, and the music they’re playing at the house party makes you feel bold and think that what you’re about to do is a good idea.

With all the courage you can muster, you walk up to Togame. He tilts his head in your direction, but you can see amusement in his jade-colored eyes.

“Took you long enough. Thought you were never gonna get tired of starin’ at me.”

“Dance with me!” you yell over the music. You can feel everyone in the group sizing you up and waiting to hear how Togame responds.

He puts his beer down and takes your hand. You pull him to the center of the room, where a makeshift dance floor has been constructed. You allow the music to move you before you can talk yourself out of whatever is happening. Togame puts his hand on your waist and allows you to grind against him and to the beat.

“You like the idea of making me nervous, huh?”

You stand on the tips of your toes to get as close to his ear as possible, “You caught me! Is it working?”

He chuckles and shakes his head, “No because I know exactly how this night is going to end.”

Your heart picks up a bit as his hands slide down from your waist and rest above your ass.

“How?” You squeak.

“With you grinding just like this on my dick.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he presses his lips against yours, his kiss hot and hungry.

Your eyes flutter closed, and you agree that this night will likely end how he prophesized.

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mischievousmoony · 4 months ago

Text

𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐

⟢ poly!marauders x fem!reader ⟢ you go costume shopping with your boys ⊹ 1.6k ⟢ warnings/tags: no warnings, muggle au, no use of y/n

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“RAHH!” James shouts, suddenly jumping out of an aisle and into your and Remus’ path. He has on one of those creepy rubber clown masks and his hands are up, his fingers splayed wide to accentuate the zombie skin gloves he’s wearing.

You and Remus stare blankly at him, unfazed by his attempts to scare you both. For a couple awkward seconds, he remains in his “scary” pose as if one of you will suddenly remember to react. Remus just pats him on the shoulder sympathetically.

James pulls the mask over his head with one of his zombified hands. “Oh come on. You can’t tell me this isn’t creepy!” he says, shaking the limp mask in front of your faces.

You watch the mask jiggle in his hands, the eye holes stretching under the weight of it.

“It’s actually much creepier like this,” you say, grimacing. Remus chuckles, nodding in agreement.

James look at the mask and turns his wrist so that the mask looks back at him. “Heh, you know we could hang this from the porch to scare trick-or-treaters.”

“We have enough porch decorations as it is,” Remus says. Although, he normally wouldn’t deny the purchase of a few additional halloween items every year. You and James share a certain enthusiasm for the holiday. By the time September rolls around, the two of you already have the house alive with Halloween spirit. And each year, you like to add some new decorations to your collection.

However, Remus isn’t partial to the idea of hanging up a rubber clown mask in front of his home. To be honest, neither were you. You’d much prefer new skeleton heads to adorn the graveyard display you’ve built in your front yard.

James could tell by your faces it’s a no-go, so he tosses the mask carelessly onto the shelf of the nearest end cap.

“Hey, hey, put that back where it came from,” Remus scolds him.

James smiles sheepishly, reclaiming the mask from the shelf and turning on his heels to return it to its rightful place. You and Remus follow him down the aisle and to the back wall where he hangs it back up, along with his zombie gloves.

“There you guys are.”

The three of you turn to find Sirius approaching from the same direction you’ve just come from, his arms full of several plastic costume bags.

“Oh boy,” you comment, already knowing what’s about to happen based on the devilish smirk Sirius is sporting.

“What’ve you got there?” James asks, snickering to himself, completely aware of exactly what Sirius has. It’s tradition at this point.

“Oh, just some costume ideas for our lovely girl,” he says. He holds one of the glossy plastic bags in front of you. “Wouldn’t this just look darling on her?”

You peer down at the costume, the upside down text just what you expected it to be.

“Sexy Nurse,” you read aloud, your tone a blend of distaste and maybe a little amusement. Sirius does this every year, and while he never actually expects you to wear any of these ridiculous costumes, he sure has fun imagining what you might look like in them.

“Or you could be the Hottie Doctor. I don’t discriminate,” he jokes, holding up a nearly identical costume, both being too-short white dresses. The only major difference is that the doctor one seems to come with a plastic stethoscope.

“Yes, because nothing screams gender equality like the… Naughty Maid?” you snort, carding through the other costumes in his arms.

“Don’t ignore the cop costume,” James snickers, pulling it from Sirius’ stack. His eyebrow quirks as he studies the garment. “Actually… yeah let’s turn our attention to the sexy cop costume please.”

He pulls the bag from Sirius’ arms, turning it around to show you the skimpy costume.

"On Duty Cutie?" you read from the bag. “No. No way am I being any of these for Halloween.”

“Oh, I’m not saying you should wear this for Halloween,” James says suggestively. “Do these come with the handcuffs?”

“Ha. Ha.” You make a show of rolling your eyes before swiftly averting your gaze, hoping he doesn’t notice the way your cheeks heat up.

But of course he does anyway. He smirks and reaches out to tilt your chin up, but you lurch away, and his face instantly falls at your rejection.

“You smell of rubber from those zombie gloves,” you complain, scrunching your nose in distaste.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” he asks, lifting his hand to Remus’ face.

Remus takes James hand to his lips, pressing a kiss on the back of his knuckles as he inhales. “You’re fine. You know how our darling is sensitive to certain smells.”

“Like my Christmas cookie candle,” James says sadly.

Your face screws up in disgust. “Eugh. Attempting to turn baked good into candle scents is a cardinal sin. They never smell right.”

“And that’s why I’ve banished my favorite candle to the guest bathroom.”

James’ pouty face pulls on your heartstrings. You sigh as you lift his hand and press a kiss over the same knuckles that were just upon Remus’ lips.

“We all make our sacrifices,” you say, trying not to grimace at the rubbery scent of his fingers or imagine how many other hands shared that glove before your boyfriend. But that’s neither here nor there, because his beaming smile makes up for it.

“Come now,” you continue, “let’s put these back and look for some real costumes.” Like James, Sirius isn’t likely to put much care into returning the costumes to where he found them, which is why you decide to take the lead.

You revel in the way they so quickly fall in line, the three of them instantly following your lead, becoming your doting shadows.

The four of you make quick work of replacing the costumes Sirius picked out on, and have moved onto perusing the nearby area for real candidates.

You pick up a Dorothy costume from the Wizard of Oz. You squish the bag as if you’ll be able to feel for the quality of the costume through the thick plastic.

From what you can see, the quality of the dress doesn’t seem to be half bad. And it’s actually quite pretty; not at all as revealing as most of the women’s costumes are.

“That would look nice on you,” Remus says as he comes up behind you and wraps an arm around your waist.

“If only Dorothy’s counterparts looked as nice,” you say, hanging the costume back up between a boxy, metallic tin man costume and a cheap-looking cowardly lion onesie.

You move on to the end of the aisle, where you find James and Sirius giggling to themselves in pointy hats.

“Look, we’re wizards,” Sirius as says as they turn around, revealing the long beards of coarse gray hair they’ve put on.

“How’s this for a costume?” James chuckles as he fits one of the pointed hats snugly over your head.

“You’d make a pretty witch,” Remus says as he allows Sirius to adorn him with one of the beards.

Sirius hums in agreement as he straightens out the beard. “And we're pretty much under your spell already,” he says adoringly.

You cast Sirius an amused glance as you remove the hat to inspect its quality.

“As much as I love the beards on you,” you joke, “witches and wizards are a bit overdone.”

“You say overdone, I say classic,” Sirius says, adjusting his hat pointedly.

You consider Sirius’ point. “Well, something classic could be fun.”

“Like vampires,” James says.

“Werewolves,” Remus says for the sake of listing classic costumes, but the scrunch of his nose tells you he doesn't like the sound of dressing in faux fur and flannels for Halloween.

“Or a witch and her wizards,” Sirius says, throwing his arms up to gesture at your current getup.

"You really want to hide that pretty face behind that beard?" you ask, slightly teasing.

Sirius defeatedly strips his beard and hat.

“What about zombies,” James proposes, half joking as he adds, “We could all get those gloves you like so much.”

Although those gloves were abysmal, the idea sparks some inspiration.

“Wait, are you seriously considering zombies?” Sirius asks, recognizing the pondering look on your face.

"Not exactly. It's definitely gonna be a 'no' to those gloves. But there are other ways we could do an 'undead' look."

"How do you mean?" Remus asks. The typical image of a zombie that pops into his head doesn't look to appealing, but he's sure you'll have some kind of spin on the idea that will make him love it.

"We could lean towards a skeleton look. Like exposed bones instead of rotting flesh."

"Doesn't exposed bones imply rotting flesh?" Sirius asks, being cheeky.

"Not if we do it right," you defend. "I think we could paint them on very tastefully. We could go for a cold, blue kind of dead look."

"Like corpse bride!" James lights up, listing one of your favorite halloween watches.

"Exactly!" you respond with just as much enthusiasm. "And we could do tattered, but fancy, old timey clothing."

Sirius nudges James. "If we go for this costume we could sit out in the graveyard the two of you put together to give out candy."

You didn't think James could possibly perk up more, but he manages to surprise you.

"We could play dead and scare anyone who walks up!" he says, practically buzzing with excitement. In another life, you think James would probably go into the haunted house business.

"So, it's settled then? We're being undead for halloween?" Remus asks.

By the grins on all of your faces, it seems you've come to an agreement.

"We should try the thrift store for clothing," you say. "I don't think I've seen anything that really aligns with my vision here."

The boys nod in agreement, but before you all head out you add, "Let's look at the face paint here first. And maybe some new bones for our graveyard?"

Remus smiles. "Of course, darling. Lead the way."

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

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spicymancer · 1 year ago

Note

So just wanted you to know, "yellow" is a common slur against Asian Americans and so Huang Feng, being a Bruce Lee (whos an Asian man) clone and all could raise some eyebrows to your intentions. And before i get accused of white knighting, i am Asian

Thanks for reaching out! This is honestly something that might be important to discuss and I appreciate your attempt at broaching the subject delicately. More after the jump.

So to start. I am also Asian. Specifically Chinese American.

As an American born Chinese, I have a weird relationship with my Asian heritage. I have a bad accent when I speak Chinese and most of my upbringing and cultural understanding is very American and western-centric. So I have certain biases at play here that I fully acknowledge. My experience is not universal. But these characters are drawn from that experience.

Huang Feng is a reference to Bruce Lee's performance as Kato in the Green Hornet. Dà Huángfēng being a Chinese term for a hornet.

The character is also narratively implied to be a secret moonlighting identity for the Yellow Ranger in my made-up sentai team. (Who, due to my own decision to always refer to the characters by their Ranger color, is literally just called Yellow by the other members of the cast.)

This is also a reference. Specifically to one of my greatest inspirations, Thuy Trang (Rest in Peace), who played the original Mighty Morphin Yellow Ranger. She was one of the first "Cool Asian Characters" that I encountered in media targeted at me as a child, problematic color choice aside. I sincerely adored her and her giant robot Saber-Toothed Tiger.

To be honest I have a complicated relationship with "Asian Themed" characters in media. So often saddled with cliché stereotypes: Martial Arts, dumplings, nunchucks, etc etc.

But the thing is, even as I roll my eyes whenever I see the Fighting Game character that is The Chinese One who wears a rice hat and a qipao. Or when one is literally just Bruce Lee. I do also immediately main that character. It's a bit of a guilty pleasure. Taking what representation I can get with mixed feelings. Similar to my enjoyment of sexy anime girl art even though it's all rooted in pretty uncomfortable sexist and objectifying aesthetics. A lot of my work comes from a place of exploring my own sexuality/identity. These characters are, partly, my own attempt to explore Asian themes and ideas for myself.

I would love to say that I'm trying to "reclaim" the term or something but I'm just some internet artist drawing cute anime girls and monster smut. For me, playing with these clichés is just another way of being self-indulgent.

Not really defending these creative choices so much as explaining my perspective on them. I totally understand if all this turns folks off! I fully respect those who don't vibe with my work and wish them all the best. It's a big internet and I'm sure they can find something super great to enjoy elsewhere!

Anyway, sorry for the long rambly post. Despite the fact that I'm posting this on Tumblr, I am not super mentally equipped to engage in Discourse, so forgive me if I don't respond to the tags on this.

So I'll just leave y'all with a neat article by Kat Chow discussing the history and usage of the color Yellow in regards to Asian Identity.

#oc questions #discourse cw #I love and appreciate all of you

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artsninspo · 4 months ago

Text

FORGIVELESS - IV - YOU DON'T MIND SECOND FIDDLE, THAT'S WHY YOU A BITCH 🎻

« previous part

➨ rio's library - good girl nbc

「 ✦ full library & archive ✦ 」

IV - YOU DON'T MIND SECOND FIDDLE, THAT'S WHY YOU A BITCH 🎻

Pairing: Rio (Good Girls) X Reader

Word Count: ~2.4K

Warning: Messy, mature themes & 🌶️ implied, a bit of a domestic situation.

Summary: The rendezvous with Rio continue causing James to spiral. only women are better cheaters. Rio proposes something outside of his previous boundaries. Japan is revealed while you get to keep your secret about Rio a little longer.

Sitting in front of the mirror pleased with your makeup you go over excuses in your head. You’ve set up the perfect situation. You’ve overheard James whispering and arguing on the phone. Japan’s been blowing his line up. You already know your husband is suspicious of you but everyday you care a little less. Your own indiscretions with Rio let you know how much work it is to be dishonest. Chasing the highs of being a well off young professional has your husband thinking too much of himself and now he’s paying with his eroding marriage. It’s Rio who’s been consistent for a man who doesn’t think he's the relationship type. Looking yourself, you smile, feeling sexy. It’s become a familiar feeling again with Rio. Heading downstairs you find James sitting on the couch which is a rarity for a Friday night. Usually he has some more important plans than spending time with you.

“Where are you going?” He asks.

“Friends bachelorette” you smile.

“Which friend?” he asks.

“Marlène from yoga, I was invited.” you tell him.

“Marlène” he says trying to register the name. “I can drive you there and pick you up” he offers.

“No need babe, I don’t drink” you remind him.

“How late?” he asks.

“Maybe 2 or 3 the latest” you tell him.

“Okay, maybe we should keep a calendar so we can keep up with each other's schedules. In case I want to surprise you” he suggests.

“Sure, I’ll see you in a bit” you smile waving.

“Hold up, we were invited to the wedding?” He asks standing as he makes his way over to you.

“I declined the invite. I know how busy you get.” You respond.

“Next time, ask me first. I love you and I want to do what it takes to make you happy. I know it’s been hard since the move but I’m here and I’m in this and I miss you.” He says. All it took was some distance for him to shape up and pay attention.

“Ok” you nod pecking his lips and when he deepens the kiss, it's all wrong. The passion isn’t there, or if it is it doesn’t mix well with his lies and betrayal. You’re relieved when he pulls away. Your heart isn’t racing, there's no tingles or butterflies. Your heart settles a little knowing the sun has set on your marriage. You force a smile heading out to the car. Standing there James is struck with panic, sure now more than ever he’s losing you.

Heading out you meet a new group of friends at one of Rio’s clubs. It’s a bachelorette party. You remember yours. You’d been too young to be considered someone’s wife and so excited to do whatever James asked of you. It’s bittersweet memories. Had you known then what you know now you wouldn't have walked down the aisle. A cheater, a liar, a coward and your husband. Mentally you decide to file the next time you have some free time or at least get the papers. Once the liquor starts flowing between the girls you call Rio as planned. The thrill is still there, it’s how you're making it through this tough time. Reclaiming your agency as a woman. Rejecting the treatment you once settled for. Doing James just as bad. It’s dark when Rio rolls up to the back entrance of his establishment. It's only been fifteen minutes since you made the call, he gets out his G-Wagon matching it in all black. His hands go into the pockets of his black denim jacket as he waits against the passenger door. You dont waste any time heading to him. His smile is the same as always as his eyes look you over in appreciation. Rio never misses the details. Stepping aside he opens the door helping you into the truck.

“You good?” He asks and you nod as he pulls off.

“You?” You ask.

“Mhm” he nods. The silence is comfortable and Rio keeps a hand on your thigh possessively as he drives to his place. You notice he’s not here with you and somewhere else in his thoughts when he passes the exit to his place.

“Rio, you missed the exit” you tell him.

“I’m taking you to my place” he mutters looking over at you. You swallow feeling the new reality between you has changed. You're no longer on quicksand, you're in it. You don't respond feeling comfortable with the decision. You place your hand over his on your thigh.

“I gotta go out of town for a few days,” he says, breaking the silence.

“How long is a few days” you ask.

“Three, I was hoping you could come with me,” Rio says, shocking you. It’s what had been on his mind. If he left it would give James the opportunity to slither his way back into your good graces and probably lead to a reconciliation. Something Rio didn't want to even entertain the possibility of for his own selfish reasons, among the principal of things.

“Come with you?” you ask.

“That’s what I said, what I fuck you so good you cant hear now?” he remarks and you hit him playfully.

“Shut up” you laugh.

“You coming or what?” he asks and you look him over.

“Where are you heading?” you ask.

“Mexico for my cousin's wedding. I have a plus one” Rio says casually.

“I would love to but with all I have going on it’s not the right time” you sigh.

Rio’s nostrils flare in frustration “So what?”

You sigh, “Rio, leaving the country to be your date looks bad.”

“Fuck everyone who would question you after you say he stepped out” Rio snaps.

“Rio you’re being unreasonable” you respond.

“What about me gives off reasonable?” he responds and you smile. He’s right from day one he’s been a handful.

“Rio” you start.

“Tell him whatever he needs to hear, then bring your ass to Mexico with me.” he demands like it's not even a question.

“You want me held up in your room like a sex slave for a few days” You scoff.

“Shit the roleplaying might get you off” he shrugs still upset that you aren't jumping up and down like most women. Rio doesn't like having to compete for your time with the ego of a man that doesnt deserve you even a little.

“You’re being an ass” you smile, rolling your eyes at him playfully. He comes in for a kiss and your phone rings. You look at the caller ID and see it’s James. Rio sighs and you follow suit. You let it ring out but he calls again. After the third ring Rio turns on his sound system to mimic the club before hitting the answer.

“James?” You say.

“What time are you getting home? It's after one” he says.

“I don’t know I’m having fun” you lie.

“I’ll come meet you” he offers.

“No, go out with your friends. Don’t wait up.” You shout.

“No, I miss you and I want to make love to my wife tonight.” The thought alone is off putting. When your eyes re-open from the disgusted shudder you find Rio watching you pissed.

“Sorry I can’t hear you, I’ll see you in a bit. Bye!” You shout hanging up.

“You’re gonna have to tell him you know,” Rio says.

“I’m not ready to play pretend with my family or his. It’ll take time away from you and I'm having fun.” You explain knowing how it’ll work. Women were expected to be distraught, hurt or psychotic after infidelity from their husbands. Your callously orchestrated revenge will be vilified and used as justification for his indiscretions in the beginning. You’ll be burned at the stake for not lying down and taking disrespect.

“Think he’s shitting himself now? When he knows you know and sees you riding around with me, me taking you out treating you right. Then what?” Rio says onto your lips kissing you. The thought of James getting his just due is desert for the both of you. Your moans are audible as his lips kiss you down your neck. His hands hold you there firmly.

“Are you listening?” He asks.

“Yes” you nod.

“Good” his voice softens his dark eyes holding yours.

“He doesn’t get to touch you, doesn’t get to sleep beside you, doesn’t get to see you undressed, nothing. His time’s up mama.” His words are slow and deliberate. He’s placed his claim. His possession is all in his eyes. “Handle it, Love, or I will” he warns, incapable of sharing. You don’t even make it to the bathroom. Rio has his way with you on the couch talking you through it. He fights for control over what he’s feeling and channels all his jealousy and possessiveness into making you feel good enough to want him. Enough to forget about the feelings of a man that did not consider yours or upkeep his vows. You spend the night christening his home and the morning is everything you hoped morning’s with James would be like in this new city. Slow and full of comfortable silences based on quality time. Rio typically did not talk too much, not needing to but today was different. He wanted to put an end to Jame’s hold on you. To James being a two timing fuck waling around like he owns the world. He wanted James to pay for blowing up your life. By the time you leave Rio’s place it’s 9am. That’s how little fucks you have left to give. You don’t expect James to be waiting at the house when you arrive but he’s sitting in the living room fuming mad. His eyes go to your rings first. When they are located he calms down just a touch.

“Where the fuck have you been!” He snaps through gritted teeth, standing and closing the distance and sniffing you like a dog. It’s how you should treat him.

“Don’t talk to me like that!” You shout triggered.

“You’re not walking out of this house again to go anywhere without me. Matter of fact, give me your phone!” He snaps grabbing your purse from your arm. He finds your phone unlocking it with Face ID and going through it. Instead of fighting him you go for his phone on the island knowing you’re in the clear. You search to find the messages have degraded into arguing instead of steamy exchanges. The blue flame between James and his mistress has faded into contention with him trying to be more present in his marriage. It’s against everything the mistress wants to hear. Little miss Japan is pulling out the stops. Her revised attempts at luring your husband away from you flip a switch. You clear the counter throwing two vases at him in succession. He fails to duck away from the first one hitting him in the chest. The other douses him with water before shattering on the ground.

“I should’ve known you were cheating!” you scream, snapping him out of his rage. Fear flashes in his expression. “All the accusations! Neglect, no sex, it was all here” you snap holding up his phone. Tears well as you release the secret you’ve been keeping in for the past few weeks. You send the phone flying at him too. The device hits him in the chest and you snatch yours from him. “That’s how you’d let some women speak about me and talk to you. You dirty low down fuck!” You add feeling your hands and face heat from the rage.

“Baby” he panics “It was a mistake.”

“Don’t call me baby, matter of fact don't call me anything! Don’t call me!” You cry getting your keys and heading out. “Japan, Japan, Japan, whole time Japan is a fucking woman that you’re seeing!” you continue your tirade.

“Y/N!” He snaps. “I’m sorry. I can explain, listen to me.” His words mean nothing and you keep on heading to your car. He grabs you violently.

“I said I’m sorry!” he asserts with a mixture of anger and panic.

“You are and I’m done with you” you pull away but he grabs you. You try to free yourself but he’s too strong. You struggle against him as you and him exchange unheard feelings at a high volume. He wins the struggle.

“I said I’m sorry! I made a mistake but I love you!” He shouts, shaking you and your heart races as you see all the threads you’ve been picking at are loose. You want to stick the nail in the coffin but you don't. Instead you look at him with all the hate you feel for the predicament his actions have created.

“I hate you and you’ll regret it I promise” you snap, turning to face him as you open the garage. Fear turns from panic to rage again at your threat. He grabs your arm unlike ever before. “Get out my face and let me go. Go be where you’ve been with her.” you snap pushing him off.

“Don’t walk away from me and don’t threaten me!” He snaps as you get to your car. Before you get in he grabs your hood, yanking you back.

“What’s going on here?” An officer interrupts. Just the way his eyes fall on you it’s clear he’s been sent by Rio. James steps back and you readjust your neckline.

“I’m trying to leave and he won’t let me” you speak frankly. You hear James gasp in shock at your betrayal.

“She’s my wife. Officer I just want to speak with her” James says. You look him over and see he’s all wet. It definitely looks like a domestic dispute.

“Do you want to speak with him?” the officer asks you.

“No” you respond and the officer opens your car door. You get in.

“Y/N!” James shouts.

“Keeping her here against her will with force is something I can charge you with” the officer informs your asshole soon to be ex-husband.

“It’s a marital disagreement,” James says, trying to turn on the charm. It doesn’t work on the officer who gives him a final glare before walking out with you.

“Stay put” he snaps at James. “Are you alright?” he asks and you nod, adjusting your sweater and clothes.

“Yes”

“Did he hit you?”

“No officer he didn’t” you confess honestly.

“Go see Rio” the cop whispers before closing the car door. You’re a little startled at how perceptive you are and pull out of the driveway to head to Rio’s place. You find him pissed and pacing. His eyes go to your stretched out collar but he keeps his thoughts to himself offering you comfort and a hug. He ignores his phone ringing and you ignore yours until James stops calling and it’s your mom. you already know. James is in damage control mode.

Thanks for reading my loves, theres more mess to come - I promise. Keep on, liking, commenting and sending over ideas. I hope those of you who send some in liked seeing them integrated in the story. What was your favorite part?

» next part

TAGS:

@meadows5 @wnbweasley @becauseimher @ariiaeltheedonn @woahthatshitfat @miniaturehideoutmentality

#rio good girls #masterlist #rio x reader #rio x you #good girls rio #manny montana x reader #manny montana fanfiction #rio good girls imagine #rio imagine #rio good girls fanfiction #good girls imagine

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captain-huggy-bear-interacts · 1 year ago

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Gosh I love Astarion's story and his romance. The idea of him reclaiming ownership of his body and of sex and it not having to be a performative act or something he has to do all the time because someone else wants it and being something he chooses to do because he cares about someone and wants to rather than because he feels it is something he has to do for various reasons. I love that we have this character who comes across so sexual and yet actually, has an arc that sees him finally having bodily autonomy and using it and utilising it.

Apparently people have complained about the fade to black in the scene after his quest if you convince him he's better than Cazador, the graveyard scene. Apparently, 'dark Astarion' scene is not a fade to black. But I had no problems with it. It's very symbolic of sex no longer being performative for him and I think, a character like Astarion actually benefits from that. You can write all the smut you want with him in your free time, but the reality is that it fits with his character arc, it makes sense for him to move away from performative sexual acts in the view of the audience, under a gaze, and move towards private acts which are wanted by him and which reflect his feelings towards the MC. I mean that whole entire scene is him talking about how he doesn't really know who he was or who he is and how he wants to move forward and grow.

Astarion can be sexy and hot and also not simply a sexual object for your MC and you to gawk at. I like the depth to him, I adored his story of taking ownership of his body. I adore that he loves the MC because they are kind to him and respect his boundaries and give him choice. I love him and I love him growing and discovering himself and taking back autonomy and I think if you care about a character and their arc and if your MC cares about that character then that character saying 'hey, I actually don't want to just have sex with you', shouldn't be something you whine and complain about, you should feel a sense of respect towards that. I think a sexy vampire actually caring more about you than sex or your blood is actually a great take for once, vampires are so symbolic of a lack of control, of uncontrollable lust and thirst and whims. So to see him have that sense of self and also sense of control about him is actually refreshing. He is in control, and he is learning what he wants and what he deserves.

Idk, I just really love his story and I fell so head over heels for the sassy vampire spawn and how he actually really cares and is deeply scared of so many things. I adore him and I think we should respect his storyline and enjoy it because how many times do we actually get a storyline like that?

#bg3 spoilers #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 spoilers #baldur's gate 3 spoilers #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion

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nekropsii · 3 months ago

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Hello! First of all, love your work. Wonderful takes and analysis on the alpha trolls, and also i’m a big fan of sovstuck - both the text and the awesome cool art. I love that every character gets introduced with their own unique artstyle, each oozing with character :)

I wanted to ask, - and please believe that i’m asking in good faith, - about your proship dni. I’ve been seeing discourse about ‘pro/anti ship’ for ages now, but i cannot for the life of me understand what the hell either side stands for. First i hear it’s about abusive or problematic (pedo/incest) ships in general, then it’s about the difference of portrayal/endorsement of those things, then it’s something else entirely and i can never fucking understand what the hell the issue is and why it is so heated.

By no means i’m asking you to speak for the whole discourse or even for the entire ‘side’ of it - if there’s one thing i got, it’s that no one can agree on their definition of what ‘their side’ stands for. But i would like to know what meaning you put into the terms, and what kind of ‘proship’ you would like to not interact with you; i trust that you know what you believe in and are able to put it to words in a way that makes sense and doesn’t contradict itself or common sense, as i sometimes see :”)

I.. understand that since the topic is so divisive, you may get a ton of bullshit in your ask box and notes, should you choose to answer this, both from people who disagree and those who choose to misinterpret what you say. So feel free to ignore this ask if you don’t want to deal with that. Still, i do hope i can someday gain some clarity on this topic haha.

Best wishes!! thanks for what you do :)

Hello! Thank you so much, the compliments mean a lot! They really keep me going, lol!!

First of all, congratulations on formulating the most normal ask adjacent to this topic. Since it's so god damn touchy, people have a tendency to start throwing rocks no matter what "side" they're on, and no matter if they know what the hell they're talking about or not. Frankly, some of the ruckus surrounding this circus act is embarrassing. On both ends. Second of all, while this isn't something I'm an expert in, I do know more than I'd like, so I'd be happy to give my perspective, even if it's potentially a bit limited/flawed.

Thirdly, I'm putting this under a cut, for anyone who doesn't want to read all that.

Content Warning: Discussions of Shipping Discourse, Sexual Assault, Abuse, Grooming, Incest, and Pedophilia.

Let me start this by defining what the Relevant Terms mean:

Shipping: The act of pairing two or more Characters together. Though the term is derived from "Relationship", and therefore is at its core - technically, theoretically - a Neutral Term, it - conversationally, colloquially - carries extremely heavy Romantic Connotations, with a strong implication that said Romance is found to be appealing - typically in the sense of being either Cute, or Sexy. Defining this is not me trying to condescend you - One of the key questions in this discourse is what it means to "ship" something, and whether or not the term implies the shipper is condoning the material inherent to the ship.

ProShip: Essentially means "All For All Shipping". It's the personal, discourse-based identity label equivalent to the phrase "Ship And Let Ship". There's a common misconception floating around that the "Pro" in "ProShip" stands for "Problematic", rather than simply being the positive antonym to the prefix "Anti". While I find this to be a failure of basic deductive reasoning, I can also understand how the conclusion was reached - Proshippers are most commonly associated with "Problematic Content"/"Problematic Ships", and they do tend to take pride in being "Problematic" themselves. Either way, the word "Problematic" is highly associated with them and often reclaimed by them. They also call themselves "Anti-Antis" (horribly stupid label, by the way), and "ComShip(pers)", with the "Com" being short for "Complex". To my knowledge, ComShip is a sect specifically trying to get away from the baggage that the term "ProShip" holds, and away from the very real predator problem within the ProShip Community. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

AntiShip: Essentially means "Against Certain Forms of Shipping". It actually used to be a term for people who were against specific individual ships, rather than a blanket discourse label - for example, rather than someone identifying as just an "Antishipper", they would typically label themselves as "Anti-VrisMeen", or a "VrisMeen-Anti", or whatever their focus was. An important thing to note is that Antis trend Young, and they trend Traumatized. They are typically Teenagers, and their stances are largely informed by their discomfort watching Adults Sexualize Characters who share their age or younger, and discomfort watching people Sexualize some kind of Trauma they've been through - and considering their general ages, it's not unlikely that that Trauma is either Fresh or Ongoing. This is not always the case, but it's such a large amount of the AntiShip crowd, and it's acknowledged so little, that it's worth mentioning. It's a very important piece of context to me.

The general Belief Systems of both sides, as they currently stand, are as follows:

ProShip: ==> Never Harass Anyone Over Their Ships: This is the bones of their beliefs, and where everything started. Essentially, it's rude and unnecessary to send people Harassment over a Ship they enjoy, because not only could you be doing something better with your time, but also it can be pretty difficult to tell the "How/What/Why" of someone's interest in such material. ==> All Forms of Shipping Should Be Allowed, No Matter The Content: This is the meat of their beliefs, and also where the arguing starts. It's exactly what it says on the tin - Anything Goes, including Rape, Abuse, Incest, and Pedophilia. This is why the label is so touchy - many people are extremely uncomfortable with the idea of Fandom going back to its habit of uncritically normalizing + romanticizing Rape, Abuse, Incest, and Pedophilia. Part of this is due to the fact that this uncritical normalization has led to genuine, tangible harm on people in Fandom Spaces, particularly Minors. ==> Being Problematic Is Based: The skin of their beliefs. Many people wrap up Shipping Discourse in terms that make it sound like engaging in it is Political Praxis, somehow. While your stance on Shipping Discourse can certainly be telling of your Political Beliefs, in the way that your stance on literally anything can be telling of that, calling Shipping Discourse on its own some kind of Radical Political Stance is... Deeply silly, and also keeps leading to people saying "Being into Incest/Pedophilia is Queer Nature", like, unironically. I keep seeing this happen. This part of it tends to be very... Spite-driven. ==> Fiction Is Not Reality: Basically their catchphrase - nothing that happens in fiction is real, and therefore has no tangible effect on reality.

AntiShip: ==> Please Tag Your Content Appropriately And Keep It Out Of The Reach Of Minors: The bones of their beliefs. Self Explanatory, typically followed up with "and if you can't do that, don't post/make it at all". To further illustrate this, I'd like to spark any reader's memory of the times where you couldn't Google search "Fluttershy" without being lambasted with hardcore porn. No additions of "R34", or "NSFW", just "Fluttershy". There was no SFW Filters. You just had to fucking fight for your life. Being a child on the Internet is and was extremely rough. There wasn't any Official Tag Filtering on Tumblr until... I think 2017. It was dark. ==> Abuse/Rape/Incest/Pedophilia Should Not Be Considered "Shipping": The meat of their beliefs. Essentially, these are extremely heavy, delicate topics meant to be treated with respect and tact, or not handled at all. This is not possible in Shipping Content. At least, not as we currently understand it, and will likely remain understanding in that way for years to come. They argue that Fanfiction is not ever going to be on par with Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita. Which is true. They also argue that it's impossible for most Fanfictions to treat these sensitive subjects with any respect, which is... Dubious, but also fair, considering the Sturgeon's Law of it all. ==> Ewwwww...: The skin of their beliefs. Disgust. It's a whole lot of disgust. Again, worth reiterating that the bulk of AntiShippers are quite Young and/or Traumatized, and the content they are reacting to tends to be Extreme, so a gut response of disgust is... Honestly, healthy. No 15 Year Old should be stumbling upon art of a child getting frisky with their dad and going "hell yeah, brother!". Though I wish they'd handle their disgust with more tact, I find that it's just... A fair response, given their age, what their backstory tends to be, and what content they tend to be reacting to is. ==> Fiction Affects Reality: Not necessarily their catchphrase, but definitely their counterpoint to the catchphrase of ProShippers. They do not say Fiction is real, just that it does literally have a tangible effect on reality, and point to cases where this is observable. The impact Jaws had on real life sharks is a favorite, as is The Birth of a Nation, and The Turner Diaries. And, of course, the ways that the works put out by ProShippers has tangibly affected the lives of others, especially children.

It is worth noting, I am neither of these things. I do not identify as a ProShipper, nor do I identify as an AntiShipper. I identify as a Horror Writer. I have "DNI: ProShip" in my bio because their stances make me the most uncomfortable, and I have been victimized personally by members of their crowd and the result of their beliefs.

I was Groomed by an Adult ProShipper when I was 14 Years Old. She used her ideologies as a ProShipper to excuse herself and the (sexual) content she forced me to Roleplay with her, and used it to pressure me into writing more and more extreme content. I did not want to do it even at the time - it made me uncomfortable - but she made the idea of saying "No" to her... Quite scary, and like I was the one in the wrong for being uncomfortable with it. After all, Fiction Isn't Reality, right? I am not the only person I know with this experiences. I have met and spoken to countless - and I mean countless - individuals who have had similar experiences with that crowd. The sheer distrust kids and teens tend to have towards them is learned through that crowd's propensity towards grooming them. Because the celebration and normalization of that content breeds comfortability with "the real deal", and comfortability with harboring predators.

I'm sure some ProShippers have noble intentions, and don't realize what the controversy is about. I'm sure some of them are deeply out of the loop, and still think it only means "Being Anti-Harassment". But I do not care enough to give people the chance, just... For the sake of my own sanity. You understand, I'm sure. I do not think that this rift between worlds is ever going to get closed, or that these sides are going to experience amicability, because the question is nuanced and about morality itself, and one side is full of defensive, traumatized teenagers trying to keep themselves and their friends safe from what they are perceiving as legitimate threats to their safety, and the other side is full of people who just wanna jerk it to weird porn.

I'm not personally comfortable with, like, any self-identified ProShipper being near me, just due to my own experiences. Some might try to identify me as one against my will, due to the fact that I am Anti-Harassment and a Horror Writer unafraid to touch upon every single one of the aforementioned sensitive topics, but... I am simply not one, because I don't identify that way, I don't believe in their beliefs, and they creep me out, lol.

My beliefs are that people should be able to write about whatever they want, as long as they handle things with the appropriate amount of care, and as long as they keep things tagged appropriately. I think that harassing people for shipping Stridercest in fucking 2024 is lame because you could be doing literally anything else with your time, and I think shipping Stridercest in fucking 2024 is lame because you could be doing anything else with your time. Like, come on, man, it's not even interesting. They're not even doing anything interesting with it. Where are the themes? There are no themes. It's just brothers mackin' on each other whitely. Come on.

No topic should be off limits, but you should at least give it the care and respect it deserves, and you should make it interesting. Nothing is interesting on its own. Rape is not interesting on its own. Incest is not interesting on its own. Abuse is not interesting on its own. Pedophilia is not interesting on its own. Taboo subjects are not interesting on their own. They're mundane evils that happen literally every day to regular people. In writing, they need to be paired with themes, and, hopefully, with good writing. People who have been through these things deserve not only to have their trauma represented, but handled with care, and also for it to be interesting to read. They deserve to have options. They deserve to have good literature to chew on, to help them digest and cope with their own trauma. It's difficult to do that when you feel invisible to everything but the camera lens of a Fetish Pornographer, and I know many people who are suffering with the fact that their traumas seem to only ever be represented or referenced in shitty pornography.

Sure, some people cope with their own trauma by sexualizing it. I know that's the case for some ProShippers, and their reason for being within that group. But it's certainly not everyone's method of coping, and it shouldn't be the only option... Which is why I'm advocating for safe, non-fetishized exploration of extreme themes.

I think the reason why the discourse is so unclear is because "ProShip" and "AntiShip" aren't very tangible, definite belief systems, and also the talking points are evolving and maturing over time. A few years ago, the beliefs of "Antis" definitely broadly leaned more heavily towards total rejection of those themes being present in any fiction, but their arguments seem to have matured lately into "the problem is the nature of the depiction, not the presence of depiction itself".

That's all I can think of saying right now that wouldn't just be me walking in circles. And don't worry, I can definitely take the hit. I'm not sure what here could be very arguable other than semantics, or maybe a history lesson or two.

Thank you for the ask! Hope this helps!

#shipping discourse #cw assault #cw child harm #cw incest #nekro.sms

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kaliforniahigh · 3 months ago

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- @stardustsirenmelody

Ok, but imagine tour shenanigans with Noah and the boys in the dressing room before a show? I bet they'd be so funny.

You don't know where this godamn katana - is it even a katana? - came from, but it got Noah feeling like a true Samurai.

You guess he got the Japanese part down, but everything else? It was so funny to you. The way he attempted to take it out of the case, with a serious face and doing some kind of fight pose, made you double over in laughter everytime.

You could tell he did it on purpose too, you loved that he was able to have a laugh with you.

When he sat down next to you, katana in hand, you decided to take a video of him. Before you started to record, you instructed him to "put on a serious face and then take the katana out very dramatically"

"Baby, I'm literally wearing a t-shirt, some shorts and a shoulder bag. How am I gonna look serious?", he rumoured you.

"It's not about the clothes, it's about the face card", he shook his head, but put on a serious expression anyway.

You aimed the camera a him and started to record, giving him a thumbs up.

The katana was halfway out when he looked at you behind the camera, containing your laughter, and he couldn't help but let out a loud chuckle, breaking character completely.

You laughed together for a few seconds, before Noah got up and said "I better return this to its owner"

When he came back and reclaimed his spot next to you, you leaned in a little closer.

"I know I was laughing, but I gotta say you do look sexy holding that katana", you peaked a look at him to see his reaction, and you saw a smug smile appear on his face.

"Should I get one for myself, then?"

"Yeah....", you hesitated. "Maybe a plastic one to begin with?"

"I think that would be a safe bet"

#bad omens #noah sebastian #bad omens imagine #bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian imagine #bad omens smut #noah sebastian smut #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fluff #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian one shot #noah sebastian headcanons #bad omens fluff #bad omens fic #bad omens one shot #bad omens headcanons #noah pic request

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yuri-for-businesswomen · 1 year ago

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its soooo fucked up how many women have internalised men‘s sexual desires as our own. women shave, dress sexy, buy lingerie, putting on makeup etc „for themselves“ and then you have liberal feminists screaming its empowering and theyre reclaiming their own sexuality. and sure clothes give you confidence and feeling good in your body is nice but what is considered desirable is a product of sociocultural processes.

women are not born with a desire to dress up - we are informed by our surroundings (that are dominated by men) of what is considered sexy in the first place. because why arent men dressing up sexy to feel confident? why arent men shaving in anticipation of sex? why arent men buying nice underwear „for themselves“ and tight clothes showing off their body to feel confident and put on concealer. at best they put on some cologne and thats about it.

we only really see this in gay culture - which is so interesting because i see a lot of what is considered „sexy“ for gay men (like harnesses and thongs) that is just what straight men find appealing in women but projected on men.

why are women the ones putting in so much effort „for themselves“ but we dont see the same for men? dont men want to feel confident and sexy?

the truth is men are considered desirable by default. men are raised to gain confidence from all sorts of other stuff, and that women are attracted to them for their wits and charisma and whatnot so they dont really need to do anything about their appearance. women are raised to see our value first and foremost in our submission and beauty. add this to male orgasm also being the default in heterosex and you understand why so many women treat ourselves like a sexual object while men are often the subject.

#rambling #mine

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houserautha · 3 months ago

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Life & Death

Summary: The God of Life and the God of Death must meet every year at Samhain together.

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x gn!Reader

Word Count: 857

Warnings: not really any, eluding to sex, some light angst

A/N: I’m taking my own twist on this story. With Samhain influencing Halloween so heavily, I thought it would be fitting for today🎃

(I intended this piece to be sexy and scary but instead it’s really flowery and romantic? Feyd just makes me feel things, okay)

Summer has ended. Winter lurks on the horizon with frost-tipped fingers, evident in the bite of the evening air across your skin. Laughter rises above the sound of the crackling bonfire and a trio of similarly-disguised children race past you, unaware of your true identity, which suits you just fine. You can move among the humanfolk and enjoy their revelry.

The Otherworld reigns, the veil thin, and there’s a wicked delight in the faces of those around you. As a God of Life, you are enthralled with death. The death of the old year, the dead who travel to this plane to visit, the God of Death himself. You can’t help but study every face for him. Tonight marks your annual union, a promise that he will watch over your people in battle and in death.

And you would be lying if you said you didn’t look forward to lying with him, your husband.

You drifted away from the center of the merriment, brushing back the apples tied to the branches of the surrounding trees, already stripped of their leaves. There is no light to guide you. Only eons of instinct, of familiarity, to draw you to him — the na-Baron, the Phantom King, the rustle of a crow’s wings above your head.

You turn at the sound and catch him mid-transition, feet touching the ground, shedding pitch-black feathers in favor of his humanfolk form. The God of Death is infuriatingly handsome, pale as the moonlight. His dark eyes fix on you and your traitorous heart flutters.

“I was afraid that you had forgotten about me,” Feyd-Rautha rasps.

“After all these years, I like to keep you on your toes.”

He crosses the clearing in two strides. Up close he smells, not unpleasantly, of fresh earth. “It’s cruel to make me wait.”

“Is that right?” You tilt your head back to regard him.

Feyd-Rautha brushes a calloused hand over your face, fingers burying into your hair, thumb cresting your cheek. You lean into his touch. It should be unnatural, life and death together, but tonight you will die in his arms along with the old year, to be reborn in the spring.

“I cannot stand another moment without you,” he bites out, coarse, like he wishes he could reclaim the words before even uttering them.

You don’t know who moves first. It doesn’t matter, not when he pulls you into his chest and kisses you until you’re breathless. You give yourself to him like the flowers have given themselves back to the earth, without concern, to be folded away in the darkness until it’s time to come alive again. And Feyd-Rautha, this God of Death and Battle, forged by war and sickness, lowers you so gently to the forest floor.

He nudges your legs apart. You gasp up at him, flushed with anticipation and the sheer force of being in his presence, your very antithesis. Feyd-Rautha touches you with reverence but, unlike everyone else, he does not treat you as some fragile, infinitesimal thing; you are Life, you are Light, polishing the jagged edges of him. He coaxes releases from you. The earth itself seems to quake with his ministrations, roots erupting to bring you even closer to him, the entire forest moving in tandem with you.

Do the humanfolk sense the change in the wind? In the essence of the night? When Feyd-Rautha pushes himself inside you, the old year wanes, brought forth anew with the waves of pleasure crashing into you. The snap of his hips is restorative, healing — he might be feared, might be thought of as the end of life, but you knew better. He gave life, nourished it, allowed it time to rest and then return with renewed beauty.

You might’ve facilitated life, presided over it, but death served it again and again. He thrusts into you until he’s spent. Both of you are breathless, wanting to linger in this moment, skin slick with sweat, lids heavy, making note of every detail on the other to sustain yourselves until next Samhain. He kisses you again.

“We don’t have to leave,” he says.

You smile softly. The canopy of branches above frame him like some crooked, twisted crown. “We both know that’s not true.”

“Do we?”

He helps you to your feet. You brush off your clothes, find your mask that you cast aside on the ground. Finally, when you can avoid it no longer, you meet his imploring gaze.

“I wish it was true,” you tell him softly.

But you could not be together. Not in the way he wanted. You would lead separate lives, crossing only to shepherd in the new year. Life and Death, always entangled, but never quite touching.

Feyd-Rautha presses his lips to yours. The warmth of him encases you and you wish desperately to preserve it, but then you’re met by the cool autumnal wind again and your last, fleeting glimpse of the God of Death is the silver of the moonlight on the wings of the crow as it disappears into the night.

Until next year.

#samhain #feyd rautha #dune #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd x reader #feyd x you #fanfic writing #writers on tumblr #fanfic #writing #halloween

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ayashitetsuko · 1 year ago

Text

An open letter to David Jenkins

Some fans believe that we should not vent our anger and frustration to show creators. I don’t believe that. The thing about being a professional is that receiving criticism is part of your job—especially if you have done a terrible job.

OFMD went from groundbreaking to disappointing overnight.

There was a momentum to create a queer media that is smart, fun, sexy, and most importantly, respectful. In the way they are writing these queer characters. Especially older and disabled queer characters, a reflection of a generation of marginalised communities that have gone through so much. To give audience a glimpse of hope in their escapism.

But sir, you choose to Remus Lupin him instead.

This is not just about killing off a character. Hell, I might be willing to accept it. After all, I have read and even written fics with MCD in it—involving my favourite character.

But I want you to know that this is a special case. It is not just another popular character being killed off to drive plots.

I have issue with how you kill off a queer character that represents many marginalised communities in his arc.

Izzy is an abuse survivor who becomes disabled as a result of it. Izzy is a queer elder. Izzy is suicidal but manages to overcome it with the healing power of love and community.

Having him killed off just like that is a huge slap for fans who have gone through what he has gone through. Turns out, even in fiction, in our escapism, there is no joy. Only despair.

Also. Father figure? Where does that come from? Ed has never been shown to have any level of respect for Izzy. So let me ask you again. Where does “father figure” come from?

You have an opportunity to make a difference with OFMD; to be remembered in history for the right reasons. Yet somehow you choose not too. You choose to turn this into cheap, sensationalist entertainment where death and torture are thrown around for shock value.

It is like you have no idea how much power you have by being a professional storyteller.

Let me break it down to you. For you as a writer, perhaps killing off Izzy is nothing but an artistic choice. A plot point to figure out. But for audiences in marginalised groups, stories are mirrors. They see themselves in stories. That is how stories give them hope. This is why OFMD has never been “just a pirate story”. Perhaps this is hard to understand if you have never been part of an underrepresented community in the mainstream media, but this is how many are feeling about your work now. Your legacy.

OFMD has truly become an overnight failure. I don’t know how this happened. I would like to blame budget cuts, but your Vanity Fair interview makes me realise this is all deliberate choice.

So, what is next for us Canyonites?

If anything, this convinced me that queer and disabled people should write. And continue to write.

We can no longer trust major media to speak for us. We definitely can never trust David Jenkins again. Any form of progressiveness that he showed earlier was just coincidence, apparently. Even worse, it was fake.

As my friend Sam beautifully puts it, Izzy belongs to us now. We reclaim that character and give him all the happy endings he deserves in our fic, our art. We transform the works. We write about queer, disabled, suicidal characters the way the deserve to be written. If being a published writer is the path you choose, make sure you make wiser decisions than David Jenkins.

Thank you, sir. It was good while it lasts.

But this is a terrible job that you’re doing.

#izzy hands #ofmd s2 spoilers

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muiitoloko · 7 months ago

Note

Please have a sequel of "Perfume of Deceit" 😭

Title: The Return on Investment

Summary: Discovering infidelity, a woman transforms her anguish into a strategic plan to reclaim her power.

Pairing: Lionel Shahbandar × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Jealousy, Revenge, Anger, Pain, and Angst.

Author's Notes: Y'all really like angst 😅

First, Second and Third part here.

Also read on Ao3

Lionel stood in front of the bathroom door, his hands clenched into fists as he listened to your anguished sobs. The sound of your pain tore at him, each cry a dagger to his heart. He brought his hands to his face, rubbing them over his eyes as if to wipe away the guilt that was etched into his very soul. With a heavy sigh, he sank to the floor, leaning his back against the door, feeling the cold wood press into his spine.

He knew he had screwed up—royally. He should have ended things with Stephanie the moment they began. It had been a mistake from the start, a slip that turned into a spiral of deceit and betrayal. He threw away his marriage for an illicit affair, and the realization made him feel sick to his core. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, squeezing his hair in frustration. "Why the hell couldn't I resist?"

You deserved so much more from him. So much more. The sacrifices you had made for him over the years, the dreams you had put aside, all to support his ambitions. And how had he repaid you? By falling into the arms of another woman. He tried to end things with Stephanie yesterday, he really tried, but she had a way of seducing him that he couldn't resist. Her touch, her scent—it was like a drug he couldn't quit. He even tried earlier that night, determined to put an end to the madness, but once again, he failed.

When he saw you outside his office, waiting for him with hope and love in your eyes, panic seized him. He felt disgusted with himself, a deep, gnawing shame that he couldn't escape. God, how could he do this to you? How could he betray the person who had given him everything?

Lionel squeezed his hair tighter, the pain a small penance for his sins. He still heard your crying, each sob a reminder of the hurt he had caused. A part of him, a dark, twisted part, wanted to blame you for his betrayal. "She doesn't dress up like she used to," he thought bitterly. "She's not sexy anymore. It's her fault I went looking elsewhere."

These thoughts were vile, and he knew it. They were the pathetic justifications of a weak man. But they gave him a way to deflect the blame, to avoid facing the full extent of his guilt. He remembered how things used to be, how you used to dress up for him, how you were always there, vibrant and beautiful. But over the years, that had changed. Life had taken its toll, and you had settled into a routine, a comfort that he had mistaken for complacency.

"Maybe if she had kept things exciting," he thought, the bitterness rising again. "Maybe if she had put in more effort, I wouldn't have looked elsewhere."

It was a lie, and he knew it. A dirty, self-serving lie. You had given up so much for him, and he had repaid you with betrayal. There was no excusing what he had done, no justifying the hurt he had caused. He was the one who had failed, who had let his desires override his vows, who had betrayed the trust you had placed in him.

Lionel leaned his head back against the door, closing his eyes as he tried to shut out the sound of your sobs. "I'm sorry," he whispered, knowing that no words could ever truly make up for what he had done. "I'm so sorry."

But deep down, he knew that sorry wasn't enough. He had broken something precious, something that might never be repaired. And as he sat there, torn between guilt and self-loathing, he realized that he had a long road ahead of him if he ever hoped to make things right. If he ever hoped to earn your forgiveness, he would have to face his demons, confront the dark parts of himself that had led him astray, and prove to you—and to himself—that he could be the man you deserved.

The next morning, Lionel woke up in pain from sleeping on the floor. He groaned, feeling sluggish as the memories of yesterday came rushing back. He glanced at the bathroom door, which was now open, and crawled there, wanting to talk to you. But you weren't inside anymore. Panic began to set in as he called out your name, receiving no response in return.

Fear gripped his heart as he staggered to his feet, leaning against the wall for support. "Did she leave?" he muttered, the thought sending a wave of dread through him. Desperation fueled his steps as he hurried upstairs to the bedroom, hoping to find some sign of you.

When he reached the bedroom, he froze in his tracks. Relief washed over him when he saw you standing in front of the mirror, applying lipstick. You looked stunning, dressed like you were going to an event, exuding an air of confidence and power that left Lionel confused.

Lionel stood in the doorway, utterly perplexed. You were a vision of confidence and poise, a stark contrast to the broken figure he expected to find after last night’s confrontation. Your red lipstick was bold, and your outfit was immaculate, accentuating every curve with a kind of power he had almost forgotten you possessed.

“Shouldn't you be suffering?” Lionel blurted out, unable to mask his confusion. “What are you doing?”

You paused, glancing at him in the mirror, your eyes cold and unreadable. Carefully, you capped your lipstick and tucked it into your purse, checking the contents of your wallet with deliberate calmness. “I’m leaving,” you said flatly, your voice devoid of the previous night's anguish.

Panic flared in Lionel’s chest. He took a hesitant step forward. “Leaving? Where are you going?”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you moved with calculated grace, adjusting your appearance and making sure every detail was perfect. When you finally turned to face him, your gaze was steely and determined.

“Last night, I realized something,” you began, your hands moving to smooth out the creases in his disheveled suit. “I’ve invested so much in you, Lionel. My time, my dreams, my love. And it’s high time I got my return on investment.”

Lionel’s face twisted with confusion and fear. “What are you talking about?”

You placed your hands firmly against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart under your palms. “You see, Lionel, you’re not just a husband. You’re an investment. One I’ve poured my entire life into. And now, it’s time for me to enjoy the returns.”

You leaned in, your lips brushing his ear as you spoke with a mixture of seduction and malice. “I’m going to take everything you hold dear. Your reputation, your comfort, your pride. I’m going to revel in the power I have over you. Every ounce of pain you’ve caused me, I’m going to repay tenfold.”

Lionel’s breath hitched, his baritone voice faltering. “You don’t mean that.”

You pulled back slightly, your smile cold and calculating. “Oh, but I do. It’s time for you to see what it feels like to be on the losing end, to watch everything you’ve built crumble. And I’m going to enjoy every single moment of it.”

He reached for you, desperation in his eyes. “Please, don’t do this. We can fix this. We can make things right.”

You shook your head, stepping out of his reach. “You made your choices, Lionel. Now, it’s my turn to make mine.”

With that, you turned and walked out of the room, your heels clicking against the floor with a finality that echoed through the silence. Lionel stood there, feeling the weight of your words settle over him like a shroud. He had always considered himself a lion, proud and untouchable. But now, for the first time, he felt truly vulnerable, stripped of his power and faced with the devastating reality of your revenge.

Meanwhile, you went to the garage, choosing one of the cars and starting it. As the engine roared to life, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what lay ahead. Just as your house disappeared in the rearview mirror, you allowed your tears to fall from your eyes, the pain and betrayal still fresh in your mind. But you quickly wiped them away, shaking your head. No, Lionel doesn’t deserve your tears. You would make him suffer, just like he did to you.

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, determination coursing through your veins. Today, you would start pampering yourself, something you hadn’t done in years. It was high time you used those joint cards. Let Lionel pay the invoice.

As you navigated the streets, the memories of your sacrifices and your dreams flooded your mind. The photography classes you never took, the children you never had—all because you had prioritized Lionel's ambitions over your own. But no more. Today, you would reclaim your life.

Your first stop was a luxurious spa. As you walked in, the soothing scent of lavender and eucalyptus enveloped you, calming your frazzled nerves. You approached the receptionist with a confident smile. “I’d like the full treatment, please,” you said, handing over the joint credit card.

The pampering began with a long, relaxing massage that eased the tension from your muscles. You let the therapist’s skilled hands work their magic, feeling the knots and stress of the past few days melt away. Next came a facial, the gentle scrubbing and moisturizing reviving your skin. You closed your eyes, letting yourself be transported to a place of tranquility.

Afterward, you moved on to a high-end boutique. You had always admired the beautiful clothes displayed in the windows but had rarely indulged yourself. Today was different. You walked through the aisles, selecting elegant dresses, stylish shoes, and accessories that made you feel like a queen.

In the dressing room, you admired your reflection. The new clothes fit perfectly, accentuating your figure and making you feel powerful and confident. You smiled at the thought of Lionel’s face when he saw the bill. Let him pay for once.

Next, you headed to a salon. The stylist greeted you warmly and you explained that you wanted a fresh look, something bold and empowering. As the stylist worked, you chatted, feeling a sense of camaraderie that you hadn’t felt in a long time. By the time they were finished, your hair was transformed, styled in a way that made you feel renewed.

The day continued with a visit to a jewelry store. You selected a few pieces that caught your eye—a delicate necklace, a pair of stunning earrings, and a bracelet that sparkled in the light. As you paid with the joint card, you felt a sense of satisfaction. This was just the beginning.

Your final stop was a fancy restaurant. You hadn’t dined out alone in years, but today was about reclaiming your independence. You chose a table by the window, ordered a glass of wine, and savored the exquisite meal. The food was delicious, each bite a reminder that you deserved to be treated well.

As you sat there, enjoying the view and the ambiance, you felt a sense of empowerment. Lionel had underestimated you, thinking he could betray you without consequences. But he was wrong. You were stronger than he knew, and you were determined to rebuild your life on your terms.

By the time you returned home, it was late evening. The house was dark and silent, a stark contrast to the lively day you had experienced. You felt a surge of satisfaction as you imagined Lionel’s reaction when he saw the charges. It was just a small taste of the payback he would receive.

You walked through the house, your heels clicking against the floor, a sound that now felt like a declaration of your newfound strength. You knew there would be difficult days ahead, moments of doubt and pain. But you also knew that you were ready to face them. You had taken the first step toward reclaiming your life, and nothing could stop you now.

Lionel heard your footsteps and immediately got up from the bed, his face a mix of concern and relief as he saw you entering the room with several shopping bags in tow. “It’s late,” he said, his baritone voice tinged with worry. “I was worried about you.”

You ignored him, walking past with an air of indifference, setting your bags down with deliberate calmness. “I’ll be sleeping in the guest room from now on,” you stated flatly, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Lionel’s eyes widened in shock, his hooked nose crinkling as he stepped closer. “I know you’re in pain, but please—”

You cut him off sharply, turning to face him with a fierce determination in your eyes. “You don’t know anything, Lionel. And frankly, I don’t care what you do from now on. If you want to have lovers, go ahead. Have as many as you want.”

Lionel’s face twisted with a mixture of confusion and hurt. “What do you mean? Are you saying—”

“Exactly what you heard,” you interrupted, your voice cold and unyielding. “You are not my husband anymore. You haven’t been for a long time. I will find men who can really satisfy me sexually, men who don’t just think about their own pleasure, who are not guided by their own dick.”

Lionel’s cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and anger. “And what does that mean?” he demanded, his voice rising.

“It means I will find someone younger, someone who will compliment me, appreciate me, take me to dinner, and fuck me in a way that you never could,” you said, your voice dripping with contempt. “Someone who doesn’t think he’s a lion just because he’s got a baritone voice and a hooked nose.”

Lionel’s eyes darkened with jealousy and a flicker of anger. “You think you can just find someone better? You think any man will satisfy you like I did?” he spat, stepping closer.

You met his gaze with a steely resolve. “Yes, Lionel. I will find men who know how to pleasure a woman, who don’t just rush to their own climax and leave their partner wanting. Men who will explore every inch of me, who will make me feel desired and appreciated, who won’t leave me cold and unsatisfied like you have.”

Lionel’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. The thought of you with other men, being touched and pleasured in ways he had failed to do, gnawed at him. He had always considered himself the best, the lion in your life. The idea of being replaced, of being outdone, infuriated him.

“Is that what you want?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “To be some cheap whore, sleeping around with whoever catches your eye?”

You smirked, a cruel glint in your eyes. “If that’s what it takes to find real satisfaction, then yes. I’ll be a whore, a slut, anything you want to call me. Because at least I’ll be getting what I need, what you’ve never been able to give me.”

Lionel’s face contorted with rage and jealousy. “You think you can just replace me? You think any man will ever measure up to me?” he shouted, his voice echoing through the room.

“I don’t need to think,” you replied coolly. “I know. And I will. I will find men who will make me scream with pleasure, who will make me forget you ever existed. And you will be left with your ego and your regrets.”

With that, you turned and walked out of the room, leaving Lionel standing there, seething with a mix of anger, jealousy, and fear. The image of you with other men, being pleasured and satisfied in ways he had never managed, tormented him. For the first time, Lionel felt the sting of his own inadequacies, and it burned deeper than he could have ever imagined.

Lionel followed you into the hallway, his face twisted with rage and desperation. “You think you can just run off and find satisfaction with other men?” he growled, his baritone voice echoing through the house. “They may satisfy you sexually, but they’ll never love you. You’ll never feel truly loved. If they stay with you, it will only be for your money.”

You turned to him, leaning casually against the door frame of the guest bedroom. A cold, mocking smile spread across your face as you began to laugh. “Is that so, Lionel?” you asked, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Are you speaking from experience?”

Lionel froze, his hooked nose crinkling in confusion and a hint of fear. Your laughter grew louder, filling the hallway with a cruel, mocking tone. “Who needs love when you have money, Lionel?” you continued, your eyes gleaming with malicious delight. “I think the term ‘Sugar Mommy’ suits me quite well, don’t you?”

Lionel’s face turned red with a mix of anger and embarrassment. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. The sight of him, so helpless and humiliated, only fueled your laughter. “You see, Lionel,” you said, stepping closer, your voice low and taunting, “I don’t need love. I need satisfaction. And I’m going to find it, no matter what it takes.”

With that, you turned and walked into the guest bedroom, closing the door behind you with a final, triumphant laugh. The sound echoed through the house, a reminder of the power shift that had just taken place. Lionel stood there, seething with a mix of anger, jealousy, and fear, knowing that he had lost control and that you were now the one holding all the cards.

In the weeks that followed, you transformed into a woman who loved spending money, living in luxury, and surrounding yourself with younger men. The days of being a faithful and devoted wife seemed like a distant memory. Lionel watched in silent agony as you flourished in your new lifestyle, flaunting your independence and the attention you received from attractive, younger suitors. He could hardly recognize the woman you had become, and it tore him apart.

Lionel missed your touch, your laugh, your warmth. He missed the way you used to look at him, with love and admiration in your eyes. But his pride kept him from admitting how much he was suffering. He couldn't bring himself to tell you how much he missed you, how much he regretted his betrayal. Instead, he bottled up his pain, watching from the sidelines as you lived your life without him.

One particular day, Lionel was in the office, seated at the head of the table in the meeting room. A shareholder had called an urgent meeting, and Lionel was forced to participate, despite the turmoil in his personal life. As the room filled with the other shareholders, Lionel tried to focus on the agenda, but his mind kept drifting back to you.

Just as the meeting was about to begin, the door swung open, and you walked in, removing your sunglasses and placing your designer bag aside. A tall, younger, blond man followed closely behind you. The room fell silent, and all eyes turned to you. With a playful smirk, you questioned, "Why is this meeting happening without me?"

Lionel blinked in confusion, struggling to process your sudden appearance. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, his baritone voice tinged with annoyance and bewilderment.

You sauntered up to him, ignoring Stephanie, his secretary, who stood nearby, ready to take notes. Leaning in, you kissed Lionel's cheek, your voice dripping with condescension. "Did you forget, silly husband? I own 50% of Shahbandar Corporation."

You turned and walked to the table, the blond man quickly pulling out a chair for you. "Isn't he cute?" you remarked with a smile, taking your seat.

Lionel's mind raced. He had always taken care of your share in the company, managing it with the same meticulous care he gave to his own. But now, things were different. The blond man seated next to you was a clear sign of the changes you had made.

"Everyone, this is Sinclair Bryant, my new secretary," you announced, your tone confident and authoritative. "He'll be handling everything related to my part in the company since, let's be honest, I don't know anything about it. Let the men work, right?"

The room remained silent, the tension palpable. Lionel's eyes narrowed as he studied Sinclair, who sat confidently beside you. This was a challenge to his authority, a statement that you were no longer content to let him manage your affairs.

Trying to regain control of the situation, Lionel cleared his throat. "Very well," he said, his voice strained. "Let's proceed with the meeting."

As the discussion continued, Lionel couldn't shake the feeling of unease. Your presence, and the introduction of Sinclair, signaled a shift in the balance of power. You were no longer the devoted spouse who stayed in the background. You were now a force to be reckoned with, and Lionel realized that he had severely underestimated you.

Throughout the meeting, Lionel struggled to focus, his mind plagued by thoughts of you with Sinclair. The jealousy and anger boiled beneath the surface, but he forced himself to remain composed. He knew he had lost control, and the realization gnawed at him.

After the meeting, as the other shareholders filed out of the room, Lionel approached you and Sinclair. "We need to talk," he said, his voice low and serious.

You looked up at him, your expression calm and collected. "About what, Lionel? My business affairs are being handled just fine by Sinclair."

Lionel's hooked nose crinkled in frustration. "This isn't just about business. We need to talk about us."

You dismissed him dismissively, grabbing Sinclair's arm as you told Lionel that the two of you could talk at home. “We have an urgent appointment,” you said, your voice dripping with condescension. “A business meeting, you know.” You winked maliciously towards Lionel, pulling Sinclair with you into the elevator. As the doors closed, you gave Lionel one last taunting smile.

Lionel felt another crack in his heart, the pain almost unbearable. He laughed bitterly, a sound filled with disbelief and anguish. He couldn't believe how far things had fallen apart, how the woman he once cherished had transformed into a force he couldn't control.

He walked back to his office, each step heavy with the weight of his emotions. Stephanie followed closely behind, her eyes filled with concern and a hint of desperation. She reached out to touch his arm, but Lionel shook her off, his face contorted with a mixture of pain and anger.

“Please, Lionel,” Stephanie began, her voice soft and imploring. “Let me help you.”

Lionel turned to face her, his hooked nose crinkling in frustration and sorrow. “Help me? How can you help me, Stephanie? Do you think a few kind words will fix this?” His baritone voice was raw with emotion, each word cutting through the air like a knife.

Stephanie's eyes welled up with tears, but she held her ground. “I know I can't fix everything, but I care about you. I hate seeing you like this.”

Lionel's laugh was hollow and devoid of humor. “Care about me? You’re just another reminder of my failures, Stephanie. Another mistake in a long list of them.” He turned away, walking to his desk and collapsing into his chair, his head in his hands.

Stephanie stood there, her heart breaking for him. She had never seen Lionel so defeated, so vulnerable. She wanted to reach out, to comfort him, but she knew that her presence only added to his pain.

Lionel’s mind was a storm of thoughts and emotions. He couldn’t stop thinking about you and Sinclair, about the way you had dismissed him so easily, about the malicious glint in your eyes. The jealousy and rage boiled within him, but so did the deep, gnawing guilt. He had brought this upon himself, and now he was paying the price.

“Get out, Stephanie,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Lionel, please—”

“Get out!” he roared, his baritone voice echoing through the office. Stephanie flinched, but she didn’t argue. She turned and left, closing the door softly behind her.

Lionel sat in silence, his mind replaying the events of the past weeks. He had always thought of himself as a lion, proud and untouchable. But now, he felt like a wounded animal, trapped and cornered. The woman he had once thought of as his partner, his confidant, had become his adversary, and he had no one to blame but himself.

Lionel clung to his desk, feeling the weight of his mistakes crashing down on him. He closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. His mind drifted back to the early days of their relationship, a time when life was simpler and love was pure.

He remembered the tiny apartment they had shared, barely more than a single room with a small kitchenette. They had next to nothing, but they had each other. He could still see the look of determination on your face as you insisted on splitting a single meal in half, making sure he stayed well-fed despite your own hunger. "You need your strength, Lionel," you had said, pushing the larger portion onto his plate. "You have dreams to chase."

Lionel's heart ached at the memory of your selflessness, the way you always put him first. He recalled the joy you both felt when you managed to buy your first sofa, a secondhand piece that was worn but comfortable. You had spent an entire weekend cleaning and rearranging the apartment to make it fit, and the pride in your eyes when you finally sat on it together was unforgettable.

One memory, in particular, stood out. It was a warm summer day, and you had decided to take a walk through the park. You were laughing and talking, so carefree and in love. But halfway through, you had twisted your ankle, the pain bringing tears to your eyes. Without hesitation, Lionel had knelt down and offered you his back, carrying you all the way home.

As you clung to him, murmuring apologies in his ear, he had felt a surge of protectiveness and love. "I'm sorry, Lionel," you had whispered, your voice trembling. "I didn't mean to ruin our day."

"Don't be silly," he had replied, his baritone voice gentle and reassuring. "I'd carry you to the ends of the earth if I had to. You're worth it."

The memory was so vivid, so filled with love and tenderness, that it broke Lionel's heart all over again. He had thrown all of that away for an affair with his secretary. What had he been thinking? How could he have been so foolish, so selfish?

Tears finally spilled over, and Lionel let them fall, his body shaking with the force of his sobs. He had always considered himself a lion, proud and untouchable. But now, he felt like a lost cub, abandoned and alone. The man who had once been cheeky and mischievous, who had carried you on his back and shared dreams of a bright future, was now broken by his own betrayal.

Meanwhile, outside the building, you let go of Sinclair's arm and offered him a sincere apology. Sinclair blinked in surprise, tilting his head to the side like a curious puppy. The gesture made you realize how much he reminded you of a Golden Retriever—cute, loyal, and a bit naive.

"Why are you apologizing?" Sinclair asked, his confusion evident.

You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "I feel bad for using you like that against Lionel," you explained. "I needed to make a point, and you were the perfect person to help me do that. But it wasn't fair to you."

Sinclair murmured an understanding “ah” as he opened the door of his car for you, addressing you as Mrs. Shahbandar. “Are you trying to make your husband jealous?” he asked, his eyes full of curiosity.

You got into the car and shook your head. “Please, just call me by my first name,” you said. “And it’s not about making him jealous. It’s about hurting him, making him feel the pain he inflicted on me.”

Sinclair got in on the driver’s side, his face reflecting a mixture of empathy and confusion. “I don’t understand,” he said, turning to look at you. “Why go through all this trouble?”

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the past few weeks pressing down on you. “Lionel cheated on me,” you explained, your voice trembling with emotion. “With his secretary, the only other woman in the meeting room. I found out a few weeks ago.”

Sinclair’s expression softened, a pained look crossing his face. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice sincere.

You shook your head, rejecting his apology. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

The car fell into a heavy silence, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Sinclair attempted to start the car, but it sputtered and refused to turn over. He broke the silence with a frustrated sigh. “Great, just what we needed.”

You chuckled dryly at the irony of the situation. “Seems like we’re both having a run of bad luck.”

Sinclair glanced at you, his eyes filled with understanding. “You know, I was cheated on too,” he admitted, his voice soft. “By my ex-wife. We’re in the process of getting a divorce now.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” you said, genuinely feeling for him.

He shrugged, a sad smile on his face. “It’s been tough, but I’m trying to move on. Hearing your story... it just hit close to home.”

You both sat in silence for a moment, sharing an unspoken bond over your shared experiences of betrayal. It was a strange comfort, knowing you weren’t alone in your pain.

“I guess we’re both trying to find our way through the mess,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his.

Sinclair nodded, his expression one of determination. “Yeah, and maybe we can help each other. At least we understand what the other is going through.”

You smiled, feeling a flicker of hope amidst the darkness. “Maybe we can,” you agreed. “Thank you, Sinclair. For everything.”

He returned your smile, his brown eyes filled with warmth. “Anytime. We’ll get through this, one step at a time.”

With that, Sinclair tried the ignition once more, and this time, the car roared to life. As you drove away, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of camaraderie with the young man beside you. Despite the pain and betrayal, you were determined to reclaim your life, and knowing you had someone who understood made the journey a little less daunting.

Lionel arrived home later that night, the smell of alcohol preceding him as he stumbled through the front door. You sat on the couch, engrossed in a bridal reality show, carefully filing your nails. The soft glow of the TV illuminated the room, casting a warm light over your focused expression.

Lionel swayed slightly as he made his way to the living room, his baritone voice slurring as he greeted you. “Evening, love,” he mumbled, his hooked nose crinkling in a sad attempt at a smile.

You didn’t bother looking up, your attention fixed on the TV. “Stay away, Lionel,” you said flatly, continuing to file your nails. The anger and betrayal still simmered beneath the surface, your heart hardened by the events of the past weeks.

Ignoring your command, Lionel collapsed onto the couch beside you, his body heavy with the weight of his guilt and alcohol. He laid his head on your lap, his arms wrapping around your waist in a desperate embrace. “Please, just for tonight,” he begged, his voice cracking with emotion. “Let me stay like this. You can hate me again tomorrow, but tonight, I just need to be close to you.”

You tensed, your initial reaction to push him away. “Go find comfort with your lover,” you spat, your voice filled with bitterness. But something in his eyes, a deep, vulnerable pain, made you hesitate. Despite everything, a part of you still loved this man.

Lionel clung to you, his body trembling with a mixture of desperation and the effects of alcohol. You could feel the tension in his muscles, the silent plea for forgiveness that he couldn’t quite vocalize. With a sigh, you gave in, allowing a truce for now. You rested a hand on his back, rubbing gently, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. He settled more into you, burying his face in your stomach, seeking solace in your touch.

“Please,” Lionel mumbled, his voice muffled against your clothes, “tell me you didn’t hook up with that idiot you brought to the meeting.”

You rolled your eyes, the bitterness in your heart surfacing again. “What does it matter?” you retorted, your voice flat and unyielding.

Lionel lifted his face to look at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of desperation and sorrow. “It matters because you promised,” he said, his voice cracking. “When we were younger, you promised that I would be your first and last. You swore that to me.”

You scoffed, the irony of his words not lost on you. “And you promised the same, Lionel. You promised that I was your first and would be your last. But you clearly didn’t keep that promise, did you?”

His hooked nose crinkled with remorse, and he averted his gaze, unable to meet your accusing eyes. “I know I broke my promise,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it doesn’t mean that I stopped loving you.”

Your heart ached at his words, the conflict of love and betrayal tearing at you. “Love?” you repeated bitterly. “Is that what you call it? Betraying me with your secretary? Making a mockery of everything we built together?”

Lionel’s eyes filled with tears, his baritone voice trembling as he spoke. “I was stupid and selfish. I let my pride and desires get in the way. But you—you're still my everything. I can’t bear the thought of you being with someone else.”

You shook your head, the weight of his words pressing down on you. “You don’t get to decide that, Lionel. You lost that right when you betrayed me.”

He buried his face in your lap again, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I need to know that you didn’t give yourself to another man. That I’m still the only one.”

You felt a pang of pity for Lionel, despite your anger. The truth was, you hadn't given yourself to another man. Lionel had been your one and only for a long time, and now the idea of sleeping with someone else felt foreign and strange to you. But Lionel didn't need to know that. In fact, this was the perfect opportunity to hurt him, to get back at him for all the pain he had caused you. And you weren't going to let that opportunity pass you by.

You ran your fingers through his hair, your touch deceptively tender. "Lionel," you began softly, feeling his body tense in anticipation. "Do you really think I would just sit here and wait for you to come to your senses?"

Lionel looked up at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and dread. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You met his gaze, your eyes cold and unyielding. "You think you're the only one who can seek comfort elsewhere? The only one who can feel desire?" you said, each word deliberate and sharp, like a knife twisting in his heart.

His face contorted with a mix of pain and jealousy. "No... please, no," he whispered, his hooked nose crinkling in distress.

You let out a bitter laugh, a sound devoid of warmth. "Oh, Lionel, you really are naive," you said, shaking your head. "I've had my fun too. And guess what? They were more satisfying than you ever were."

Lionel recoiled as if struck, his baritone voice breaking. "How could you? After everything we've been through?"

You shrugged, your expression indifferent. "I had to find out what I was missing," you said coolly. "And let me tell you, I wasn't disappointed. They knew how to make me feel desired, appreciated, in ways you never could."

Tears welled up in Lionel's eyes, and he clung to you more tightly. "Please, don't say that," he begged, his voice trembling. "I can't bear the thought of you with someone else."

You leaned in, your voice low and venomous. "Why not? You didn't seem to have any trouble when you were with Stephanie. Did you think I would just sit here and cry while you had your fun?"

Lionel's shoulders shook with silent sobs, his grip on you tightening. "I made a mistake," he whispered. "A terrible mistake. But you were supposed to be my one and only."

You pulled away slightly, looking down at him with cold detachment. "And you were supposed to be mine," you said harshly. "But you broke that promise, Lionel. And now, you have to live with the consequences."

He buried his face in your lap again, his body wracked with sobs. "I'm sorry," he kept repeating, his voice muffled and filled with anguish. "I'm so sorry."

You placed a hand on his head, more to steady yourself than to comfort him. "You should be," you said quietly, your voice devoid of emotion. "Because you've lost me, Lionel. I’m no longer your wife. You’re not my husband anymore. You’re my investment, nothing more."

With that, you pushed him away, standing up and leaving him on the couch, a broken man. As you walked away, you felt a sense of cold satisfaction. Lionel had hurt you deeply, but now he knew what it felt like. The pain you had inflicted on him was a small measure of justice for the betrayal you had endured.

As you entered the guest bedroom and closed the door behind you, you took a deep breath. The road ahead would be long and challenging, but for the first time in weeks, you felt a sense of control. You were no longer the victim in this story. You were the one holding the power, and Lionel would have to learn to live with the consequences of his actions.

#lionel shabandar x reader #alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #lionel shabandar #sinclair bryant

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