laura1633 · 2 days ago
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i need to say this somewhere and i hope you won’t mind if i send this “rant” here. bc this is just a stupid smut pet peeve that i let annoy me so much.
but anyway every time i go to the lestappen tag i get really disheartened bc there is such a imbalance. there is so much bottom charles and omega charles and charles being loved and worshiped and i honestly wouldn’t mind that at all but the number of fics where max gets the same are pretty much nonexistent compared to charles-centric fics like there are bottom max fics but they get drowned out. pretty much all the popular fics that have thousands of kudos and that ppl recommend to everyone are bottom charles. seriously i saw a rec list once where the few bottom max fics had the fact that they are bottom max mentioned in the same manner as content warnings for some other fics. it was super weird but maybe the person who made that didn’t think it would come across like that.
i know there are lots of bottom max fics (i’ve probably read them all lol) and ppl who like both, like you. i’m happy about the ppl who comment on bottom max fics those fics still get a lot of love even when it seems so little in the grand scheme of things. but i’m just annoyed and a bit confused that it’s so disproportionate. probably bc charles is more popular than max and bottom charles has gotten so popular ppl are inclined to it and it's "safe" and gets more love.
then again there’s so much talk about omega max on tumblr and then none of that shows on ao3 weirdly. (except maybe on the maxiel side i literally became a maxiel shipper bc i wanted more omega max lol) some ppl on here who say they’re bottom/omega max “truthers” have like several top max fics on their account and no bottom max fics which literally not that deep everyone should write what they want and what they are inspired to write but not practicing what you preach confuses me a bit not gonna lie haha. i’ve written my own fics which are pretty much premises i want to desperately read but no one has written them (like fine i'll do it myself) and i've gotten a good response but i’m a slow writer so i haven't written everything i want to write. thank you for everything you’ve written laura!
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I don't mind at all anon, I have added your second ask too <3 Sorry this ended up being a lengthy reply. I love that we can yap about the bottom or omega Max agenda though 😂
I started writing maybe about two years ago and at the time a lot of the Lestappen stories were definitely bottom Charles and omega Charles. I started writing because a little bit like yourself there was some stuff I wanted to read that didn't exist so I just wrote it myself. At the time I had no clue how to write but I have hopefully improved over the past couple years! I was just desperate for there to be some more soft Max or Max being looked after and cared for. I just think Max doesn't get enough love and there can never be enough fics where it's pointed out just how hot he is!
I also like the idea of sexy, hot alpha Charles and think it's fun to not always see him in that 'babygirl' role if that makes sense. Although I can see why he ends up in that role a lot, he is also very pretty
I used to read a lot of Maxiel for the same reason as yourself, in fact I do still read Maxiel because of that reason and also because there are some very talented writers writing it. (although I also think of Daniel as being quite omega like!)
I definitely agree that there is a lot more bottom and omega Max within the lestappen tag now compared to a couple of year ago.
For me, I like to swap it around. I like to write soft alpha Max and even bottom alpha Max. The main thing for me is that the dynamic works for the story I want to tell. I have started leaning more towards omega Max though because I know that there is plenty of omega Charles out there and there are plenty of people who can write omega Charles much better than I can!!
You are absolutely correct about the comments and kudos thing. Firstly I should say that there are some amazing writers writing some amazing bottom and omega Charles fics that deserve all the love in the world and I am not for one second suggesting that they only have so many responses because of the dynamic but (at least to start with) I found that my omega Charles fics got more kudos than the omega Max ones. That might have just been a coincidence but when I start writing a story I know it will get more attention if I write it with the omega Charles dynamic. I'm not for one second suggesting that that is what people are thinking about btw, it's just a fact I have noticed with my own work. These days I just write what I like and hope some other people like it. If I ranked my fics by kudos they definitely wouldn't be in quality order so I don't worry about that now 😂
Like you have said, everyone should write what they like as it's all for fun. I am just glad there are other people out there reading and writing bottom/omega Max or even just Max getting the love and attention he deserves.
I will read top Max and I enjoy top Max. The only Max fics I don't like are where the writer clearly doesn't like Max and is making him unnecessarily aggressive or just making him the butt of the joke in a mean way. I prefer to read Lestappen when I can tell that the writer likes both of them if that makes sense (obviously people have a favourite but that's different. )
The content warning for the bottom Max fics made me giggle. I don't know what context that was in as I didn't see the post but it definitely made me laugh. Maybe it needs a content warning because its likely to alter your brain chemistry and you'll not be able to see him topping again 😂
I will always write some bottom Charles and some omega Charles because it just works in certain contexts for me but I have felt myself leaning more towards the other dynamic. Hopefully most people don't mind because there are so many Lestappen writers these days so there is definitely plenty of omega Charles to chose from.
I am shocked there is not more Omega Max x Omega Charles though as that seems to fit quite well.
Sorry, I totally rambled there but I am a huge lover of omega and bottom Max and always will be. I am also a huge lover of Max being treated nicely and softly and getting all the attention and affection in the world.
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canines-crown · 6 months ago
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Art piece I did! 👑☀️
I hope it's enjoyable hehehe
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stromblessed · 11 months ago
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Mizu, femininity, and fallen sparrows
In my last post about Mizu and Akemi, I feel like I came across as overly critical of Mizu given that Mizu is a woman who - in her own words - has to live as a man in order to go down the path of revenge.
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If she is ever discovered to be female by the wrong person, she will not only be unable to complete her quest, but there's a good chance that she'll be arrested or killed.
So it makes complete sense for Mizu to distance herself as much as possible from any behavior that she feels like would make someone question her sex.
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I felt so indignant toward Mizu on my first couple watchthroughs for this moment. Why couldn't Mizu bribe the woman and her child's way into the city too? If Mizu is presenting as a man, couldn't she claim to be the woman's escort?
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However, this moment makes things pretty clear. Mizu knows all too well the plight of women in her society. She knows it so well that she cannot risk ever finding herself back in their position again. She helps in what little way she can - without drawing attention to herself.
Mizu is not a hero and she is not one to make of herself a martyr - she will not set herself on fire to keep others warm. There's room to argue that Mizu shouldn't prioritize her quest over people's lives, but given the collateral damage Mizu can live with in almost every episode of season 1, Mizu is simply not operating under that kind of morality at this point. ("You don't know what I've done to reach you," Mizu tells Fowler.)
And while I still feel like Mizu has an obvious and established blind spot when it comes to Akemi because of their differences in station, such that Mizu's judgment of Akemi and actions in episode 5 are the result of prejudice rather than the result of Mizu's caution, I also want to establish that Mizu is just as caged as Akemi is, despite her technically having more freedom while living as a man.
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Mizu can hide her mixed race identity some of the time, and she can hide her sex almost all of the time, but being able to operate outside of her society's strict rules for women does not mean she cannot see their plight.
It does not mean she doesn't hurt for them.
Back to Mizu and collateral damage, remember that sparrow?
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While Mizu is breaking into Boss Hamata's manse, she gets startled by a bird and kills it on reflex. She then cradles it in her hands - much more tenderly than we've seen Mizu treat almost anything up to this point in the season:
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She then puts it in its nest, with its unhatched eggs. Almost like she's trying to make the death look natural. Or like an accident.
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You see where I'm going with this.
When Mizu kills Kinuyo, Mizu lingers in the moment, holding the body tenderly:
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And btw a lot of stuff about this show hit me hard, but this remains the biggest gut punch of them all for me, Mizu holding that poor girl's body close, GOD
When Mizu arranges the "scene of the crime," Kinuyo's body is delicate, birdlike. And Mizu is so shaken afterward that she gets sloppy. She's horrified at this kill to the point that she can't bring herself to take another innocent life - the boy who rats her out.
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MIZU'S ONE MOMENT OF SOFTNESS AND MERCY, COMING ON THE HEELS OF HER NEEDING TO KILL A GIRL TO SPARE HER THE WORST FATE THAT THIS RIGID SOCIETY HAS TO OFFER WOMEN, AND TO SPARE A BROTHEL FULL OF INNOCENT WOMEN WHO ARE THE CASTOFFS OF SOCIETY, NEARLY RESULTS IN ALL OF THEIR DEATHS
No wonder Mizu is as stoic and cold as she is.
And no wonder Mizu has no patience for Akemi whatsoever right before the terrible reveal and the fight breaks out:
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Speaking of Akemi - guess who else is compared to a bird!
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The plumage is more colorful, a bit flashier. But a bird is a bird.
And, uh
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Yeah.
I like to think that Mizu killing the sparrow is not only foreshadowing for what she must do to Kinuyo, but is also a representation of the choice she makes on Akemi's behalf. She decides to cage the bird because she believes the bird is "better off." Better off caged than... dead.
But because Mizu doesn't know Akemi or her situation, she of course doesn't realize that the bird is fated to die if it is caged and sent back home.
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Mizu is clearly not happy, or pleased, or satisfied by allowing Akemi to be dragged back to her father:
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But softness and mercy haven't gotten Mizu anywhere good, recently.
There is so much tragedy layered into Mizu's character, and it includes the things she has to witness and the choices she makes - or believes she has to make - involving women, when she herself can skirt around a lot of what her society throws at women. Although, I do believe that it comes at the cost of a part of Mizu's soul.
After all, I'm gonna be haunted for the rest of this show by Mizu's very first prayer in episode 1:
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"LET" her die. Because as Ringo points out, she doesn't "know how" to die.
Kind of like another bird in this show:
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acid-ixx · 4 days ago
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ch.4: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)
directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four
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read until the end for an author's note.
tw: self-esteem issues, alcohol abuse, allusions to self-harm.
"baby bird, i know i haven't been talking to you much as of lately. but i just want to let you know that we miss you alright?"
not delivered.
"i really regret ignoring you, we all do. i'm-"
he hesitates, then deletes the last word of his message.
"—we're the ones in the wrong for everything, alright? you blocked me, i'm sure you did for everyone else too, i get that, but we care for you now and that won't change anytime soon. please remember that."
not delivered.
"and it pains me seeing that you're not replying to my messages at all, baby bird. but i promise i'll-"
dick bites his lips at the mistake of addressing himself only rather than that of the family, but a greedy part of him wants you to read the messages and to see only him in spite of everything rather than them, feeling a sense of... need to be the first and only one you see when you think about accepting their apologies, even if he's writing to you whilst simultaneously trying to get his family in your good graces.
dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.
nobody saw you outside of your status as the manor's ghost— but compared to your other siblings, he knew you the most. he wants to be the only man good enough to be considered your brother, your oldest brother; an obligation he's willing to uptake just for you. he wants to be the only one with the authority to call you his baby bird. he doesn't know why, despite the thirteen and a half years, it's him wanting, no, needing to see you again.
you, just you.
every bits and pieces of you.
in his mind, it's just him and you. in your tiny little bedroom, with your dozens of sketchbooks and diaries, with only your brother, dick, to accompany you. in your own little world, as you speak to him of your dreams and passions with nothing else in your mind. you'd look up at him with sparkling eyes, look at him like he means everything in the world to you, and he'd see you as his world.
when he thinks of that, the more he hopes of the possibility of you reading his messages; his declaration of never leaving you alone anymore. and with hope comes along this dread that you'd reply with a nasty reply, or that... you'll never bat an eye him anymore.
dick doesn't take a second glance to correct his mistake again this time.
"i promise i'll be better for you baby bird. my little hatchling, my little one. i discarded you, someone so precious. you must've felt hurt, no? i get that, i'm so sorry you have to go through that because of me. but look! you have me now, we have each other now! and that might not be enough yet to mend the bridge i left to fall, but if you just, please reply to me, or anyone else, then we can fix this. i promise, baby bird."
not delivered.
"you won't ever feel hurt anymore, or sad or lonely. hell, even bruce is getting you a new bedroom fixed up, isn't that great!? i'll even convince the old man to make sure your room is close to my old one so you can visit me anytime. i'll even stay over at gotham for even longer, just for you! and i'll spend my time with you, with just the two of us, okay? nobody else can disturb us. i'm sure you'd like that too."
not delivered.
"and we can hang out anytime you want, no? sleepovers, movie nights, journalling— all the cool stuff you wanted to do with me in the past, we can do now! and it'll be fun with you, i can see it happening alrrady, i just know it. you can't convince me otherwise, baby bird."
not delivered.
"that's why i'm begging you to unblock me, little one, or to at least read all my previous messages, please? :( i'm still so sorry over how i treated you in the past. i've nothing to defend myself over how i acted towards you. i was so delusional, ignoring you when all you clearly wanted was to spend time with me, with the family."
not delivered.
"we can even have that dinner together, remember?! at that fancy restaurant you talked about, yeah? my treat, of course. you can order the entire damn menu and i'll leave you room for seconds and desserts. i can even make arrangements to get bruce to rent out the entire restaurant so it would just be the two of us plus the family, but mostly just us— that would be good! then you can sleep at my room after we get home to the manor since we're turning your old one into an atelier just for you! i'll even carry your cute little figure up any flight of stairs whenever you get tired."
not delivered.
"i promise i'll really make it up to you baby bird!!! <3"
not delivered.
"for all the times we neglected you, left you thinking you didn't deserve a spot in the manor (which you truly do, it's us to blame for never seeing it that way), made you feel negative emotions towards us— i'll take your pain and turn that into joy, i promise."
not delivered.
"and if you do manage to read through all this, please remember..."
not delivered.
"i love you so much, alright? we'll find you soon, and you'll be happier with us, i'm sure of it. i love, love, love you so much my baby bird."
not delivered.
he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.
and anything is better than the pain inflicted on him when it comes to the thought of you ignoring him.
because after all, he does mean it when he says he loves you, his baby bird, his adorable little sibling.
he'd rather hell than you seeing him any less of an older brother.
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what takes longer? is it a seed growing into a bud, a bud into a bloom, or a flower to fully shrivel and die?
how long does it take for it to be considered worthy? deserving of attention and the rightful spotlight to attain its needs for life?
what takes its time? what other variable does it need for it to survive in such harsh conditions? if it's forcefully pried open as a seedling, as a bud growing in a field full of weeds sapping, draining it of its nutrition, or in a scorching, desolate desert, or pestilent lands; would it still be considered a flower?
what does a seed need to grow into a flower? beautiful, treasured, with vibrant colors reflecting off the surface of each petal, growing pollen for every pollinator to spread its bountiful success you call development?
what does it require?
everyone knows the answer, some could only be ignorant enough to turn the other way and reject the idea altogether.
it needs care, nourishment — healthy soil building a strong foundation, its home with roots carefully embedded in the ground, then it also requires water, a source of life given to it in specific times with just the right dose, and sunlight kissing its stems and petals warmly — and finally, love.
lots of love, attention, and patience from mother nature herself and its caretakers we call humans.
but how could a flower receive any, if not, all it needs, if it's raised under a marshy, overgrowth rainforest that speaks of death and cruel poachers that could step on the bloom of any moment?
how could a flower live, let alone survive, if its careless caretakers who took it away from its fertile lands neglect it of its requirements to grow and bloom into its rightful imagery?
just how?
you are a flower.
and you will wilt soon the longer you live in what you once thought was your home.
growing in cracked, dry soil, with no water nor sunlight aiding your growth.
you are a flower.
who had been loved by your creator, mother nature herself; your mother. but you've never once felt the care nor love of your cruel humans you call family, your father had never once saw your budding petals, kissed it, patiently watered or spent time outside in the sunlight with you. your brothers don't notice your dehydrated pets, shriveled leaves and bent stems, nor do they tend to it. your sisters don't decorate the pot you reside it, they don't talk to you every time you sag down in loneliness and isolation as you are forced to stay in the same place and witness the same scenarios over and over again.
not much knows it, but flowers, much like any plant, can communicate, they can feel. and when they do, they do deeply.
and you are a flower. a flower worthy of being pressed into books, storing your beauty forever. a flower worthy of being situated into a stunning arrangements of bouquets, worshipped through birthdays, dates, weddings, and even funerals.
you're a flower, and you're beautiful and deserving of praise and honor from your stages in life as a seed, from a bud, to a blooming flower. yet you're neglected the same way ignorant trespassers would step on growing blooms, uncaring for sabotaging their life completely, and oh-so easily.
you're a flower, a symbol of nature's fertility, resilience, and tranquility.
you symbolize your mother's long standing determination to care for a child whose father looked other ways but her. who raised her seedling with care, watered them with stories of fairytales: fantasies about prince charmings who take their flowers away from barren lands to spoil them with rich soil and neverending sunlight, about princesses who stop by flower shops to awe at the arrangements of bouquets, eyes glazing with fervor as they recount each and every symbolism every unique flower shares.
your mother places you in your favorite, decorated pot: your shared bedroom with her, and she kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your chubby little fingers, the same way the illuminating sunlight kisses at your flushed body whenever you two would go out for your walks.
she was your mother nature, and you were her precious flower.
you were once a blooming bud then, and you wished you would still bloom now.
how could you grow into what you're worth, when even you couldn't grow without the love that was taken from you?
what about the care, the patience, the determination she once held in her warm gaze, now cold and fading with life the last time you saw her; would it all be a waste?
how could you grow now?
and yet you don't even need to ponder for solutions. the answers were clear, clear as the water your petals used to bathe in, clear as the rain that pitters against alfred's car windows the same day you were taken away from your mother's hold—
you simply wilt.
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8:31PM.
your friend said she'd pick you up quarter to nine, so you'd at least have the time to prepare and make yourself look good. but right now...
god, right now, you don't feel anything good, not even a wee bit of it at all. ever since he texted you, you feel like shit, utterly repulsed. vile, like the image of you vomiting every contents of your stomach— and now you're going out drinking with an empty one. you can already feel the bitter taste of heavy alcohol mixing in with the acids of your stomach.
you can already feel the breakdown you're having right now as you remember how fucking broke and useless you are for having to ask your friends to treat you to drinking because you have nothing left to offer beyond the fucking taxes you have to pay and the nearly due rent and bills.
you have nothing to offer. you're so shitty. you deserve to die.
the more you stare at the mirror, the more your eyebags seem to deepen, your lips began to dry, and the pit in your chest sunken.
and that makes you exhale even deeper, ignoring the way your throat constricts on itself in instinct.
your eyes flitter to your fingers, nails bitten, skin ripped at the seems with dry blood staining chipped cuticles.
when you looked back at your reflection, you want to cry even more, seeing an image of a moving pile of flesh. all puffy skin and sagging eyes.
you don't remember the last time you felt pretty about yourself.
whether it was in the manor, or back when your mother was the only one raising you— it seems like your memories are in shambles right now.
you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...
because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.
yet you're uglier because you're not them, you couldn't be them. you're not picture-perfect brucie with slick-black hair and a face like fine-aged wine, or the image of your sultry, "man-eater" mother in her lingerie. you're just, you— you've inherited all the stupid flaws you wished you could shave off your damn body.
you remember seeing your father's face in television with your mother beside you by the couch, combing your hair and giggling when your eyes had lit up at the sight of the rich man. you haven't once took your eyes off the news channel whenever he appeared, looking at bruce, always enamored with his aesthetics, only to never notice your mother's tired eyes, or how shaky her fingers would sometimes become.
"momma, that's daddy, right?!" you asked her whilst the side of your body was pressed against hers, with all the enthusiasm a child could muster. your grin was wide, eyes peeled to the screen, enough to ignore the flinch in your mother as you had once thought it was her igniting with the same excitement as yours.
she simply leans down and kisses your cheeks, her eyes, a beautiful shade of your eyes color, albeit lighter in hue, never once left the crown of your small head, ignoring the headline for the news about 'brucie's new fling caught on camera!'.
your mother was so glad you were still illiterate at your age. she wish she could never break off the illusion that it was her who simply birthed to you, with no face for a father. maybe you would've never ask her about why he had never once came to visit your small family, why you could never meet your other siblings, or why he's seen with multiple other women by his side every time you open the television.
you ask at frequent intervals; it makes her wish to strip away the past in which she chose to tell you who your father was. you would've experienced less heartbreak, she would've never seen the way your eyes would dim at her every excuse, or the way she felt your heart crack at the seams, only further breaking hers.
yet after a while, she replies and buries her thoughts, ignoring the tears that lid her eyes. with not so much enthusiasm in her light voice, with the undertones of guilt and sorrow digging deep throat her throat, but it was enough for young, little you to jump on your springy couch with her response.
"... oh, yes, that's your papa...! isn't he so nice looking—?"
"and handsome! i'm so lucky to have such beautiful parents! i wish i was as pretty as you, momma, and daddy too!"
when you had looked up with haste, glinting eyes staring up at her with a wide grin, some baby teeth still present, others absent from your gums, yet you displayed admiration no less; your mother just as quickly wipes her red eyes and sniffling nose with the worn sleeves of her sweater and reciprocates your beaming energy with a small smile.
she wishes you'd dismiss her previous melancholic expression, replacing it with the same fond, yet tired gaze she always offers you, wishing you'd be as oblivious to the pain it brings her to see your hopes and dreams of meeting a father you could only admire through a screen or article. yet you're always so perceptive, so interlinked with her reactions that she's sure that one of the few positive traits your father had given you. she should've expected your words, yet her broken heart finds a path to heal whenever you sense her pain and soft a bandage to the cracks of her bleeding scars with your kindness.
you would always be her little flower. the one she'd nurture in a garden filled with rosy bushes and scarring thorns.
"—you're so beautiful, momma, even if you cry because daddy isn't here with us, or you're too tired taking care of me. you're beautiful because you're my mother, and i'll take you over everything in the world..."
and you tell her, an inaudible whisper to your voice, with eyes that were once wide, beaming with joy, now gazing at her with softness like the wind kissing blades of grass in a gentle dance. you look at her, and she stares back, eyeing your chubby cheeks and lips the same shape of hers, the ends of your lashes curves the same way as hers, and your voice matches her like a lullaby when you speak every vowel in a soothing lilt.
you calm the hurt in her chest, replacing it with a mellow warmth. she even forgot the tears that slowly dripped her eyes, all replaced with the comfortable softness of her precious child's palms, smooth and cozy, resting on both of her cheeks as you pepper her crying face with kisses.
she holds both your palms caging her, and allows the your hold to linger for longer. the silence ensues, yet you both embrace the unsaid assurances.
it's times like these where she realizes you encapsulate the beauty of both worlds.
it's moments like this, she sees herself in you, and maybe she could lead herself to believe that she is beautiful, because she sees her beauty through her child, her grace.
the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.
if there's one word to describe you now. it would be disgrace. to your father's honor, and your mother's legacy. for easily letting yourself go, for being so weak, for being the line that jumps between two polar opposites of one another; trying to traverse their path of belonging.
you're a disgrace, a mistake, and you deserve to be treated as such.
it was why you never find yourself beautiful. a person such as yourself would always find allure, worth in all things chaotic - you live in gotham after all - but never find that same value in yourself as you look at your reflection that distorts your image even more, making you uglier and uglier the longer you look.
split ends everywhere, hand tangled, reddish eyes from nearly crying again.
even if you beat at yourself, erratic and impulsive, even if your skin is colored an ashen blue and purple, rotten shades of yellow and red, you think of yourself ugly and repulsive.
no matter how much color you try to bring into your bleak, repulsive life, at the cost of hurting yourself to become pretty— every part of you will always be that ugly, little duckling in comparison of your siblings who always outshone you.
dick with his playboy body, jason and his towering one, tim with soft boyish features, damian's silky tan and smooth skin, and duke's baby face.
you couldn't even have your hair frame you as perfectly as steph's light blonde hair does, or share barbara's proportionate face, or look as gracious yet deadly like cassandra.
you're nowhere near as special, you're not like them. you have features too unique, yet out of place, and you couldn't bring yourself to be conventionally good-looking.
you hate yourself so much. you hate every little mole, every little pimple, every damn imperfection that litter your body, making you even lesser than what you already are.
your family; mother, father, brothers and sisters, god, even your fucking friends! every time you sit by them side-by-side, you'd feel insecure, imperfect, an eyesore and you just want to strip away every part of your limbs one by one if that meant replacing it with even better ones; all for the sake of at least feeling pretty.
you remember the first time you tried to find a sense of style, and damian's comment and– god fucking damn it—!
your hands found its way to your brushed hair, tangling itself through already fragile strands to rip at the seams. you don't care, you don't fucking care, you pray to any god out there to get them out of your head, pleas unheard, you're always left to hurt.
"what are you trying to achieve with that, huh? what even are you trying to think with that horrendous color combination? what are you, a clown? even that damned joker has more coordination than you think you could achieve."
in front of his friend, jon kent, with a scowl on his ever-so angry face and his hand already making a way to grip his sword; an absolute threat to dice you up shall you ever bother being in the same room as him.
he said that to you... you're older, you could've been stronger, could've at least found a semblance of fight in your bones. but no! god, no. your life was ruled with fear with damian wayne being the demon haunting you in the manor, always making living harder, making breathing a heavy task.
how could you ever fight back? not when you've conditioned yourself to tear up at the slightest bit of noise, feel goosebumps prick your skin when you hear someone raise their voice at you, and your heart rate hasten at the slide of a knife against any surface?
you! you who's so fucking weak to even make a comeback. you, who ran away with wide, traumatized eyes. because you're scared, so fucking fearful of an even bigger cut to your skin marked by damian— even if you're accustomed to cutting yourself with even deeper gashes.
because it's him that you fear, not the pain, not anymore. just him and his contempt at you for ruining his pure bloodline just by you being his half-sibling.
you don't want a repeat of your first meeting, or any meeting with him at all. not when you'd drown even deeper in a pit of fear every time you stare at his glaring, emerald eyes. one that tells you he chose to merely not kill you out of the goodness of his heart. but he will, god he will if he feels you've been too comfortable in his presence.
every damn time, everytime you feel fear, you see green. you hate green, any literal meaning of it, every implication of itx even seeing it, and fuck! your outfit has green embellishments.
you feel even uglier, yet the twinge of fear immediately overpowers any concern your had with your appearance. it's as if eyes were suddenly on you, and it's not only yours staring at you in the mirror.
your lips wobble, snot began blocking through the passage of your nose.
fuck, fuck, fuck.
why?! why can't you just forget about them all. why, why, why?!
you bite your lips harshly to conceal the pained whimpers from the back of your throat, but it doesn't work. it only makes the fear worse.
tears rim at your eyes, you merely wipe them away. your heart attempts to beat out of its gilded cage, yet you swallow your quivering chokes and proceed to continue staring at yourself in the mirror, dressed in a rush, with nothing to conceal your ghastly eyebags and sunken skin.
and green. you'll see it everywhere now. fuck, would dick send out damian to kill you now? you don't know, you're scared but you can't chicken out, not when your friend is already near to your apartment. god you wish you had beer in your cabinets instead, but you're broke and unprepared for life and your hair's all in a tangle and you just fucking want to die.
your hands grip at the edge of your sink, you look at your mirror and see the blood on your already bitten lips.
not even concealer can cover the damn scars all over your face all through the neck.
calm down.
you stare even deeper at yourself and ignore the green, trying to think of something else—
something less emotionally scarring, like your appearance. even if it brings you great pain, too, you'd rather that than your family. no more of them, fuck, no more. even if you stare at your eyes and see that familiar mix of colors of your mother and bruce's eyes. the shape of your face, even the curve of your brows all resembled your late mother— and you miss her, her captivating beauty that you never saw aged like fine way before she was taken away from you. you see bruce in the strands of your hair and the way it sometimes fray when too stressed. you see them in every image you wish to erase of yourself.
yet your genetics are nothing to them, not when you can't even care for your tangled hair or ashen skin.
even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.
with a pale complexion, with scars that litter all over your shoulders, wrists, and hidden parts of your body, one you're too ashamed to show anybody— it was no doubt that you looked pathetic and erased the beauty that both your parent's cultivated. and it makes you wonder; would it really be worth it?
would it be worth it if the people around you see you?
you with your melancholic eyes, trying to find an escape in a maze you call your mind? you can picture yourself drinking alcohol until you reach the domain of death, sitting in a stool, alone, as you nearly empty the contents of your stomach remembering the sole reason why you're there in the first place.
would it be worth it if all eyes suddenly were on you? they turn to you to gaze at the ugly bruises on your body, they mock your appearance, call you names, look at your sniveling, red nose and warm cheeks intoxicated from all the heavy liquor you'd down, and whisper. they'll whisper insults, slurs, and every known jab until it's all their words that pierces through your eyes, until the loud bass becomes mere background chatter for all the gossips that ensue.
are you actually going to do this right now?
you don't know, you don't know and you wish never cared as much.
all you could really focus on was your eminent goal of getting out of your stuffy apartment, to rid of the paranoia that somehow, you're being watched over in the confines of your four walls and that the familiar image of green will come attack you. the more you think, the more the hairs on your skin start to raise with every known intention to signal you of your anxiety.
eyes, they may be everywhere.
eyes, eyes, eyes. as you stare at your eyes, you try to ignore emerald eyes, they dilute even further. you gulp, yet your focus remains distorted. images flash at the mirror, and suddenly they're here, with you, with their eyes. bright blue for some, dark green for another, and they all gaze at you with contempt. one's hand claws at your throat, the other pins your wrist down on the edge of the sink. the eyes glare, and they never soften. yours merely shook, unblinking as your breathing becomes heavier; trapped in the cages of their wanton staring.
you yelp, then blink. when you did, they're gone. and you're back to looking at the same image of yourself. you grimace slowly.
ugly, with dry skin and falling hairs. the worst version of you, the normal version of yourself— there was never a best version for you.
as long as it's you, you'll never be enough.
all you wanted was to drink with your friends at a club; some working nightshifts at the location you're going to— yet you want to back down. want to take your phone by the corner of your vision and cancel your sudden plans.
but you're scared, you're so fucking scared of any new messages.
hell, even finding the contacts for your friends was a task in itself you wish to never repeat. with jittery fingers trying to type of messages and blurry eyes navigating through the screen of your slippery, glass screen protector.
you're scared, rightfully so.
you're scared to find his message once more suddenly popping up, your fingers accidentally pressing on it like the clumsy swine you are, and rereading that damn heart over and over again.
you slam your dominant hand against the tiled sink, hard and uncaring for the pain it induced all throughout your body. the tremors of the impact shook you to your core, yet you seethe in your breath and don't allow yourself respite to let the tears flow freely from your already red eyes. you feel your heart beating erratically through your chest, the shivers controlling your body, the shrieks that you contained within you— and you enchain them all with no respect for yourself.
you deserve this. you deserve to be hurt, to be punished for your actions, for your mistakes, for your sins.
even if your hand became swollen, splotched with varying shades of disgusting purples and yellows, you won't treat it with medicine. even if the sharp edges of the sink broke the fragile layer of your already scarred palm, and bled profusely with that familiar shade of red; you won't rush to wrap it with gauze or even spare a droplet of betadine. even if by the next day you'd have to write out your overdue assignments with that specific hand, then you'll force yourself to learn through the other and punish yourself again if you fail once more.
you deserve this.
and as your phone pings, lighting up to show you a notification of one of your friend's messages about being ready to pick you up by the lobby of your apartment's ground floor, you ignore your injured hand and the bruises on your knees from falling so abruptly on tiled floors just moment's ago. you dismiss the ache of your head, the soreness of your eyes and the disgusting beat of your heart.
you ignore the pain that wrecks at your entire body, in favor of destroying it even more, just as you deserve.
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you don't recall how many shots you had before you're nearly passed out by the bar, sitting on its stool with your head leaning on one both your arms crossed, drool close to slipping out of the corners of your mouth and heavy eyes lidded, about to fall into the depths of sleep.
you're sure you looked wasted, absolutely drop-dead drunk with no thoughts circulating in your head other than the pleasant buzz in your ears and the flash of colors in the disco balls blanketing the entire room with its neon lights. your face must've been an unearthly shade of red, and you can already feel just how blazen it is, and how your fingertips are ice-cold to the touch (probably colder than the marble you lay your arms upon). in other words, you're actually wasted.
and it's so worth it if it means it gets you to forget. and forget you did, because you can't even dig deep into your head to even remember a single memory of whatever grief you went through earlier in your apartment. not even the throb of your head from when you pulled your hair from its roots, all to the way you slammed your dominant hand on your bathroom sink, bruising it with unnatural shades of purples and yellow.
it makes you omit every type of pain, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. it doesn't cure you of your ails, but god forbid you if you just want to savor moments where nothing but a mind numbing headache is the only feeling present in your current state.
the remix of songs were long forgotten in your mind, they all become an amalgamation of miscellaneous sounds. your body is so inclined towards the flat, rectangular cool surface of the marble glass of the bar that you can guarantee you could sleep here, especially since black behan to cloud both your vision and your mind.
everything feels so hazy, and pleasant, and straight-out peaceful that the screaming tandems of equally drunk clubbers and the occasional sobers holding up their friends who sang along with whatever remix the dj comes up with, or the forming crowd as people began to rock and dance to the bass that shakes up the entire floor to the point you can feel vibrations run along your spine— didn't register within the crevices in your mind.
all you can focus on, is the gratifying pleasure ll alcohol induces in your body. gone is the feeling of fear that emanates off of every inch within your body. your bones don't feel as if it's locking up everytime you feel eyes on you, and your throat doesn't certainly feel constricted with the lack of flow of blood anymore.
god, this is why you've never once regret drinking right after the moment you turned eighteen— not when it's positive effects outweighs all the negative emotions that rule over your body.
you couldn't even notice a man with shades (seriously, who wears that to party? isn't the club dark enough?) sitting beside your drunken form in the corner of your eyes, raptured in the thin line between focusing on reality and drifting off to dream world. you don't even bat an eye to his muffled giggles and the way he twisted his stool just to admire the view: you.
you're oblivious to the entire commotion happening within the depths of his mind because you couldn't feel any aptitude to danger right now— thanks to the effects of the hard liquor overtaking whatever fear you've felt being watched long ago.
or maybe you just felt safe beside the stranger. or, you're merely drunk. you don't know.
fuck, you're so close to passing out.
you don't know where your friends are, where they came running off to but you know you won't be getting out her sooner or later and you definitely don't have a ride home. so your only way back without getting ambushed as a completely vulnerable citizen of gotham, is by a safer, more convenient means of a ride— but that certainly wouldn't be safe if your friends are as equally drunk, or even more so, as you. but does your hazy mind care? no. not when you flip your head to rest on the other side once the other side became hotter that you notice a conveniently attractive man staring right back at you with an entertained grin.
as if your existence alone makes him happy. as much as your mind keeps blanking out, that mere implication made your heart pang just a teensy bit. of pain, or pleasure, or mere joy, you don't know. but you do know that it triggered some unknown feelings and you don't want to feel.
you want to drink some more, feeling solemn all of a sudden just from staring at him. you're sure the obvious frown on your quivering lips and the heavy, hot sigh
and it doesn't help that his face seems similar. the longer you stare, the more his grin seems to sharpen. confidently? or shyly? you can't seem to gain a clear image of him; what when rainbow lights are blazing out through the holes of the disco ball and your eyes recently just opened to your near journey to traverse through sleep.
all you can make out to be is his jet-black hair, side bangs framing the left side of his face, a faint outline of an eyebrow piercing
you also took note of his spiky jacket— yet what draws you the most to him are his sunglasses that he chose to wear conspicuously in a damn club of all places.
he's attractive, to say the least, but he triggers a set of emotions deep into the cages of your imprisoned heart that sets itself free. he gives you a sense of nostalgia, of familiarity that you can't pinpoint but feel; like you've seen him before but don't know when. your eyebrows furrow in and your eyes squint at him, unknowing to the judgement you're subjecting him in. your lips wobble, though, because his presence just makes your heart feel something, akin to pain but not quite, and makes your head buzz that you just want to cry as a reaction.
he, the stranger, don't know it, but he makes you all sad, primal emotions overtaking any drunkenness you feel as deep tremors buzzed into the confines of your chest, until all you're doing is staring at him with pouting, downturned lips and sad, puppy eyes; rimming with salty tears.
you don't know why you feel sad all of the sudden, and you can faintly see through blurry, watery vision how his face shifted from entertained to worry, eyebrows raised and eyes wide open at your sudden mood shift.
maybe you or him could've spoken up, you more so, but you're just so emotionally drained and overwhelmed today that you began sobbing silently without breaking eye contact with the man.
despite you wanting to say anything: an introduction, a question opening up as to why he's staring at you, or even a mere phrase telling him to "back off"; the only words that came out from your parched throat, all from trying to reason in your head on what a proper sentence should be, were:
"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.
"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"
"you're so hot, god, please. i don't know..." you gave him no time to speak as you hiccupped, lips wobbling even more than you can imagine. and you're trying your damn best to rid of the urge to punch at your chest as a coping mechanism through the multitude of emotions eating you up and away. but you never realized you were trying for an absolute stranger, palms fisting into itself as he stares at you worriedly all of a sudden.
"like... you're familiarly attractive, i—" the next few sentences were incoherent as your words bubbled around you like detergent soap. your fingers found itself into your face as you try to wipe off both tears and nearly dripping snot as you continued rambling drunkly.
"you just! you're hot, for me, i don't know... i'm just, we all—eughh... i don't know, i'm so sad..." and you truly are, for no reason at all other than seeing the man. poor him, must've felt so ashamed that he's the reason you're crying but at the same time... nothing can really stop you from ceasing your tears.
at least, that's what you've convinced yourself to believe in. that you're truly incurable of the ailment of being constantly depressed with nobody to aid you with your troubles. not even your friends, nor past therapists that you've consulted.
you've nothing to comfort you, and that makes you even more solemn than ever.
the simplest of emotions felt, the deeper and complex you take it out to be. sadness, or moreover depression, the horseman of apocalypse that destroys any hope you've tried to kindle with your life.
it makes you all the more burst into a wave of even more tears.
"... okay, okay, wait here for me, alright?" he suddenly stood up, hurriedly, probably unsure, or disgusted by you. you're unsure about what he's saying, too caught up crying that you simply nod to whatever he said and continued on with your episode.
as you're left alone, you allow your tears to dry only cry once more. when he left you, you weren't aware but you just felt even more lonely. at pushing away the only company you had after your friends left you in the dust, you feel depressed and regretful and all emotions related to grief and you just want to drink some more but you don't know if you can take it anymore!
god, it all returns to pain. pain you thought you could bury deep once you took multiple swigs of alcohol.
pain that makes you want to bang your head against the marble of the bar—
and you're so close to doing so, but only stopped when your blurry vision sets itself on the man returning with a handkerchief and a cold glass of ice water. at his kind gesture, you simply teared up even more, pouting when he walked your way and looked at you with a sheeping grin.
when he sat right back up on the stool seated to your right, he hesitated with his hold on the handkerchief near your face. but the moment he gathered up his pride and pressed it against the unnatural blaze of your cheeks, you merely leaned closer to his palms, eyes closing as you can feel the tears cease itself finally at the blind comfort he's unknowingly providing you.
"there, there... be careful, 'kay stranger?"
he mutters, a light chuckle accompanying him. it's only now you can finally focus on the cool churn of his voice and the , with your eyes close and the haze of your thoughts washing away, leaving you breathless in your respite— not restrictive, nor lonely, but still short of breath.
this reminds you of the times alfred had to hold you in his arms everytime you threw a tantrum at the manor.
it made you realize that the months, a near year even, after leaving the manor, made you crave physical affection. making you feel like a husk of yourself when not given. you feed off of the scraps of physical lovez to the point that even this man who's wiping away the tears from your cheeks makes your heart beat faster, in a comfortable manner.
sensations. he once told you that if you feel too deeply within, then to ground yourself you must feel beyond interior ranges of emotions.
and that's the technique you've been willing away from your head for so long. because it always requires another person in the room to comfort you, to simply touch you softly, gently like you're porcelain the same way the stranger is pressing damp fabric against your tearstained cheeks and hollowed out eyes.
the pain you've felt was because you're merely touch starved. alone, in a space where everyone has someone, and a no one can't have anyone.
but now that you do have a someone, no matter how dangerous he could've been outside of your impression of him, you feel the pain lessen, the heavy burdens become featherlight at his kind gestures of wiping all the salty tears from your face, the runny snot from your nose with no rush whatsoever.
"feel better now, hon?"
"mhm..." a long, drawled out yawn emits from your mouth, yet you're too comfortable with him to even care, suddenly feeling a wave of drowsiness after your emotional episode.
after he finished wiping your face, and felt it considerably cool down from the damp fabric, he placed it on the bar, one hand on your face keeping you stable. yet his other hand promptly went back to your cheeks.
he chose to do this of his own volitions, even leaning closer as your head finds itself slowly dropping to his clavicle (careful to avoid the spikes from his peculiar designed jacket), looking up at him and staring at his gray eyes.
the man looks down at you as you now realize he's cupping your face. at the implication of your entire ordeal with him, you might've felt flustered sober, but you're just so drunk that any spacial awareness for the proximity between your bodies just disappeared and left you with the need to sleep within the confines of the safety this man left you with.
you don't know it, but yet again the man smiles down at your adorable antics, finding the way you're absolutely trusting of a stranger both stupid, yet endearing. because he's no more stranger, and heaven bless him because he's so glad he's the person who approached you rather than anyone else because you looked so cute, and his crush on you may have lead him to stalk you occasionally just to ensure you're safe— that doesn't erase the gesture that he did it purely because gotham is too dangerous for your own good. and he's glad he trusted his human side of intuition, rationalizing with himself that today just seems to be the day you'd bump into danger if he's not there.
you're so stunning up close... how come tim never once found interest in someone as admirable as you is a mystery. but you trusting a stranger in your vulnerable state is much more.
and he's grateful he's that stranger.
because he may be a stranger to you, but a familiar one. and you feel safe, a feeling you haven't felt in so long that you simply just melt against him like clear putty; because you're transparent with what you feel right now.
and right now you feel warmth. not the uncomfortable one that blazes through your (now) cool face when you were drunk, nor the burning one whenever you thought of your family— but a pleasant one. like sitting near a fireplace as you watch the embers crackle, drinking hot cocoa whilst a quilt covers your body from the cold of the winter. you feel this way at his kindness, at his efforts to help you contain your emotions to a reasonable degree.
"what's your name, kind stranger?" you mutter on his chest (how come your head is laying on it, actually?) hearing the soft thumps of his heart. it's warm, he's warm and every bit of comfortable, as he does his best to move slightly back to remove his jacket and drape it over your body before he could reply to you, chuckling whilst doing so because you looked up at him with your eyes conveying every damn emotion that made you feel soft.
"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you." he purrs. it took you a minute to register his obvious flirting but what comes after is an absolute flush on your body and you recoiling from his hold as you look back at him, mouth agape. the tips of your ears were warm, and every bit of
an overexaggeration to his flirting, sure. it makes you look less appealing in your eyes, extra sure! but it's been so long since someone last attempted to flirt with you; but most were under the guise of when you were still a wayne and... and not as yourself. you! you who sports so many imperfections that—
"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"
he slides in through your train of thoughts before you could delve even deeper through self-deprecation. and you're glad that he did because... god, he makes you want to shamelessly gloat as a reply. you've never had someone complement your eyes before, actually...
"i'm..." you look back at him after you stared down at your palms, heat overtaking your entire body. yet again it wasn't uncomfortable, and just the right temperature. you stutter your name afterwards, making sure it's your mother's last name that you highlighted implicitly and not bruce's.
he seems to grin even wider when you introduce yourself. that's when his next reply generally warranted you to nearly burst off your seat out of sheer diffidence.
"well," he says your name, tasting every syllable in his pierced tongue. "your name tastes sweet, dove. but i think your face is even sweeter now that you're not crying — not saying that isn't cute too but you're so stunning now that i look closer at you without any barriers. your eyes, especially, they're like some mix doe and siren eyes, or whatever my other friends talk about in social media. point given, you're drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes."
it all comes naturally from him that your brain merely shortcircuited and fried itself comprehending his message, forgetting you were drunk in the first place replacing it with a flush in your heart, the pit of grief and despair replaced with the lighthearted need to banter or reply meekly at his shameless flirting right after he comforted you.
this is the first time you felt something for someone's romantic gestures, instead of that wave of nausea that accompanies you.
he makes you feel... pretty about yourself. in a good way, in a way you don't feel the need to hide your insecurities for once and instead allow his eyes to flitter around your entire face, analyzing your features because... because he simply makes you feel pretty the more he stares at you.
yet all you did was take his hand on your own, a sudden burst of confidence even you couldn't explain, and played with it, as you pouted in reply before thinking— using his hand-now-turned-fidget-toy — of a good enough response.
you simply said, coughing before continuing, "i don't take back what i said moment's ago. you're hot too, even if my vision was obstructed by my tears."
"oh, really?" he smiled gently and allowed your hands autonomy to play with his. it's like telepathy, he knows it's automatic that you crave physical affection and attention and he's willing to provide you that solace.
"now that you're not crying— you think i'm even more handsome?"
you snort at his question, then took a step back with your thoughts to properly study him. neat, yet messy hair, piercing on the eyebrows and on his tongue (hot), sunglasses and spiky jacket draped upon your shoulders— goddamnit, of course he's hot! and you made it efficiently clear that he is, with your hands fiddling pattern against his soft, yet calloused hands, by squeezing it.
"yes, you are even more handsome, kon..." brief and concise, just how you like it. even if he gave you an entire essay describing you in his eyes, for you, you prefer actions; and you did so by simply being affectionate with the stranger, now acquaintance you have a slight crush on.
you'd never expected this turn of events, but it was a pleasant one and one you'd never really want to trade with anything else now that you've met kon.
so when he opened his mouth to spew something else, your ears perked up to listen and your mind, albeit slowly sobering up, prepared itself to reply to whatever flirting, conversation topics, and anything random it is that he wishes to talk about to you.
you smiled at him whilst he talked, he reciprocates as always.
yet this time, you weren't afraid to hide just how joyous you feel, for once, having a person interested in you not only physically but with your interests, too, as your conversations kept shifting to things about you.
it made inclined to learn about yourself, too. and that makes you happy, and fuzzy in the insides the more he asks you questions beyond your favorites. like in movies, he didn't simply just ask your favorites and you replied with an answer and moved on, no! you both discussed the emotional depth it impacted you with, why symbolism matters so much, and why in the near future you'd both inevitably meet up, you'll both watch it together.
that makes you feel excited.
you even forgot the main reason why you're here in the first place; to drink. now, though, it seems like you just wanted to talk to kon all night long.
fortunately for you, that's how the rest of your night went. with a pleasant buzz in the background, the sounds of remixes all drowned out in your ears as you favor the chatters of the man beside you, with the tremor of his voice a comfortable volume and his tone laced with freshly made honey.
when your friends finally ran back to the bar where you all collectively agreed to meet up at once everyone's shenanigans were finished, they giggled drunkenly whilst some sober ones whistled at seeing your hand unknowingly massaging his palms like a stresstoy and the jacket draped upon your shoulders.
the moment you returned it to him, he joked about wearing it every second now since it reminds him of you, and how it's his favorite piece of attire now beyond all his other clothing. you merely blushed and ignored the cooing of your friends behind you.
you didn't feel concerned over not seeing him anymore, as he had given you a slip of paper with his number on it in through a tissue with paracetamol pills wrapped around it (like the thoughtful gentleman he made himself out to be when he excused himself a second time to get those items, since you'd left your phone with one of your friends; you swore you felt a blush creep into your cheeks and heating the tip of your ears), you instead felt a pang of longing and furrowed your brows, looking at him as if asking if you'll see him around anytime soon as he reciprocates with a sure grin that makes you feel a wave of feather like affection.
he left shortly after, striding to you as your group recollects all your stuff and whispering a, "text you later, dove. stay safe for me, alright? don't let any other strangers get to you."
you're glad this night would end on a good note, willing away any prior doubts towards spending the night in a completely foreign street and expecting fir criminals and thugs to break in but no! you can't help but admit that your new... interest, conner, made your night a thousand times better.
and his little nickname for you... haha, you're so flustered thinking about texting him tonight. you'd neglect your assignments for now if it meant messenging him right after you get home, safely, for his sake.
when your group all came outside though, that's when things shifted.
time is a construct. it's complicated and structured like that as well. it can either be too fast, or too slow. when your friends had taken their sweet time to spend the night dancing about the dancefloor, when you'd taken the precious time to flirt and talk to kon; that's when you all collectively realized that their damn cars were stolen.
the air suddenly shifted to this thick atmosphere when you all stepped out, one that can be sliced through with a sword, and you swore—
god, you swore this night couldn't have been any better with the turn of things, but now. right after you got out the club, it all took a turn for the worse.
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this is it.
you're going to die today.
you're going to die, in some dirty ditch, your friends nowhere to be found, with nobody to save you.
nasty bruises already began to form on your skin, one with harsher colors of purple, blue, and yellow on your wrists and other patches of skin; way harsher
the man in front of you was gnarly, but you've no time to judge as he kicks you in the guts.
matted brown hair lay atop his head like a bird's attempt at a near, he has an odor that reeks of sewer rats, piss, and feces, and an unruly beard that houses bits of his leftover.
he holds a weapon whose shape you couldn't make out with your hazy vision, body nearly cramping in on itself once he kicked you again.
straight in the abdomen, with brute strenght accompanied by his worn leather boots decorated with glinting spikes that sparkle under the moonlight's glow.
in the abdomen, spikes.
blood first, then curdling pain next.
no noise rips through your ears, only wringing ever present, but your mouth opens, and you can feel its tender chords crack as a scream erupts from your throat, shrill and resounding from the deepest depths of the cockpit your mouth has to offer you; uncaring for the man in front of who who suddenly covers his ears and grits his teeth, who looks at you like you're mad, yet unlike same way his two other lackeys from behind look at your like you're the creation of carnage itself.
pain shot throughout your body, most especially at the core of the holes that pierced through your clothes and right inside your skin. and as your bulging, teary eyes try to look down with an agape, whimpering mouth, his shoes still connected to your body; you could only hold off so much of that familiar taste of acidic bile paired with that lingering scent of cheap booze.
tears were a byproduct of the misery, as it began to escape from your already puffy eyes. when the man released his legs fron pinning you down, your sobs only worsened as your unpinned, shivering arm try its damned best to cover the already leaking blood.
six holes, the diameter of the more than half of your finger, was what you could make out in your line of sight. the blood that leaked from them looked black, you couldn't find where the gradient of black and red connects, your only certainty in this situation was that you'd bleed to death before help could come to you.
the spikes were as long as a toothpick, a crimson puddle lay dripping on the floor.
your legs were shaking against your will, your eyes frantically search around you yet your pinned once more, his larger body framing against your own, providing no room nor qualms for an escape.
but the only escape you wanted was one from the pain of his pressing against your injury, even more blood spilling out of its confines. your tears only hastened its descent from your shaky eyes.
when your mouth opened for the nth time to wail out, he seethed in a breathe and threatened you, with his breath as vile as his entire being, that smells like every mix of synthetic chemicals from cigarette flavors, all expired, with teeth rotting and sporting yellow and black wallpaper.
gross, so gross. you want to die when the stench hits your nose. you shrivel in yourself, you couldn't breath.
"listen here, little bitch, you quiet down or i kill you. and 'ya either give me everythin' you own in your damn possession, or i'll kick you even more until a thousand little holes will fuckin' make you bleed to death, hear me?"
hearing his statement only made the adrenaline pump even more fight of flight into your heart. but you can't do either, you can't, not when you're still hazy from the fucking alcohol and the self defense tools in your tiny pouch were thrown a few feet away from you.
you've nothing to defend yourself.
oh god, oh shit, fuck.
you want to die, you want to so fucking die than go through the same pain of nearly being abducted or held hostage again.
yet your eyes could only close, your teeth kissing your bottom lips, biting hard to drown out another pained scream. whimpers, god, they're so loud yet you can't help the whimpers and the broken faucet from your eyes. even if you beg your own body to stop, it doesn't listen to the pleas of your mind.
the only thing it can focus on is the pain. recreant, volatile pain.
a moan escapes you, shaky and prolonged. the only other emotion that you could experience after is sorrow.
you didn't expect your pleasant night to end off in such a tragic note, but as your attacker held you by your throat with one hand, a knife pointed against your face, the next that happened was your head slammed roughly against the wall; a dull, beating ache lulling the back of your head after the momentary spark of pain— you're reminded that this is reality, and you're close to losing consciousness quick.
you're going to die.
bloody, a sobbing, dissociating mess, with your thoughts spinning around the same way the stranger and his lackeys laugh — bared yellow teeth, with the smell of ichor prevalent in their clothes, predatory eyes leering at you like you're prey — at your drunken moans of pain.
you're going to die.
"well, you gonna answer me or what, bitch? you wanna die!?"
he shouts you with spit that sprays all over your face, flashing you a grin and by extension flashing you his ugly, bared teeth. some missing were in his gums, others were artificial, most rotten like him.
you're going to die.
alone, in a ditch. bloody, laying in a pool of your own crimson the same way you saw your mother drowns in a puddle of hers.
you'll die like her—
what an honor.
the more you think about the situation, the more you're led to believe that the only way to solve this was through death alone, with no restrictions, no buts or ifs. you've no fight left in your body, or any weapon to fight. you're drunk, defenseless and if you actually managed to escape, you'd still bleed to death in some unknown alleyway. if you're lucky, a stray police may find you and give you a proper burial. but you remember you're in the living incarnate of hell in america, you'll never have a proper death.
this was night in gotham. your death alone only adds to the already astounding high percentages of all the other lives lost to the same twisted fate. you were no different. and to die early than to suffer from torture is better.
i mean, who would give a shit if you die tonight, right? your family— wrong! alfred would panic at your disappearance, but he'll forget about you like he did others, you're sure of it. that's why he still chose to fucking serve the wayne's instead of fully taking your side. if he had to choose between saving you or the people he swore his loyalty onto, he wouldn't hesitate. you're sure. even if the thoughts made the doom in your heart heavier. even if you know your story would never be covered nor acknowledged, you still year
but life is unfair, everything is. that's why you're here now, in a dark fucking alleyway with men who'll more than take advantage of your dying body and leave your corpse in the dump after. life is unfair, yet it's even more cruel in gotham. you should've expected this, should've known that a turn of events could be possible. you'll feel regret in the afterlife, only for a life that could've been well-lived, but never for the choice of living through the torture you call being a wayne.
so you came to the conclusion; confident for once after living for thirteen and a half years walking on eggshells around a manor.
this is not as bad as their neglect.
you smile in response to the guy, genuine and filled with grace as your heart that once pounds against your chest now slows down to a calm pace, finally at peace. with no other intention than to rattle him even more, to the point of choosing you to kill with his own hands as brutally as he likes— so you finally take a well deserved rest from life.
you gather saliva at the center of your tongue, ignore the taste of blood that swirls, nor the soreness of your throat and the crimson dripping down your nose.
when he looks down at you, disoriented at what you're doing, you spit at him, all the beating in your heart hastened, yet slowed down as quickly as you heave in a final breath.
... you're finally going to die.
"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"
you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would hopefully stab you in the face, or the chest, and think of your last thoughts. you thank alfred for caring for you for those thirteen years, you hope you win your mother's graces in the afterlife even if she discovered your deliberate choices for killing yourself in the spur of a moment, and you wish your old family a happy life living without you, even if they already did so for so long.
all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.
but they weren't answered as you wanted them to be, not when you open your wide eyes to what was supposed to be a glint of silver piercing through the middle of your face was replaced by a bullet, quick and precise, shooting through his cranium without mercy, body immediately laying limp within those seconds.
the other two behind him were good as dead, too, your savior not wasting any moment to end their lives then and there.
and as you stumbled from the grip released from your body, your torso nearly crumpling in on itself, a flash of familiar, metallic red enters your vision when you'd look up from your savior who's huge form now meticulously acts as your shield from the brutal carnage that lays upon your line of sight and a pillar of protection trying to help you stand from the pain that shot through your lower abdomen.
but you don't want to stand, you want to drop dead right now. you don't want this, you didn't want this to happen.
instead of gratitude, dread fills your lungs with water and your fingers were left to tremor.
he looks down at you, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could feel the anger coursing through his body, the same as the day you first met him when he was still newly rebirthed, like it's telling you of his unadulterated rage at witnessing the scene before him. his body shakes, heavily, and his grip on your hands tighten, a mechanical groan drawling deep from his automated voice banks that changes his voice.
yet all you feel was fear overtaking your entire body prior to the comfort at the prospect of death.
you'd rather die than this.
even you couldn't believe the whimper of his name from your wobbling lips, as your body, out of instinct despite the pain, tried to push itself against the wall, away from him.
he only moves to hold your waste protectively, like a... brother suffocating his younger sibling with blankets when they complain it's cold. overbearing, disgustingly affectionate; you don't want it.
you feel cold.
this day could've been any worse— and it took a turn to the all worse scenarios you could imagine.
"jason...?"
"angel..."
a single familiar name was spoken, yet a new nickname was introduced. angel: the same way jason swore what you looked like when he sped through his motorcycle after hearing a shriek from all across the streets, finding you, bleeding and beaten to a pulp, with your attacker almost stabbing you.
of course, who wouldn't hesitate pulling a gun against someone trying to kill your precious? jason doesn't even need to choose.
and whether he did it in the name of justice and respect to his moral code, or because finding someone with a familiar face, sharing the same hopeless, yet death-accepting expression as he did back when he died— it all doesn't matter in the heat of the moment now.
what matters is that his angel is hurt and the madness in him festers the longer you bleed out in his arms, defiant and fearful all the same.
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reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
PLEASE READ: 11,000+ words. AND I LITERALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER (new least favorite fr) 😭 this decision is so impulsive i gonna regret it soon. chapter 5 will be released after a few days and i promise it has more action than this I SWEAR. first parts are always boring. anyways, there're so many song references in this chapter and for the next chapter. if any of you could guess what they are, i'll be rewarding all of you with something special. otherwise, please leave comments for this chapter! what motivated me to write was reading everybody's comments and inputs, about the love they have for this series as much as i do. interactions, asks, comments, they're all important and dear to me and i heavily appreciate it. so more interaction = more content. after all, i'd rather a post with little likes but with no interaction than a post with no interaction but all likes.
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candy69gurl · 6 months ago
Note
Noncon w gojo but reader is resisting the whole time so he ends up tying them down. And he’s not even trying to be nice about it, he’s degrading her and choking her all that stuff 🤭
BREAKPOINT
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PAIRING yandere Gojo Satoru x f!reader
WARNING non/con, unhealthy relationship (red flag Gojo), use of vulgar words, manipulation, humiliation, fingering on kitchen counter, bondage (hands only), blowjob, cumming in mouth, raw sex, breeding kink, orgasm denial, forcing to say stuffs, clit rubbing, pussy eating, nipple play, choking, degradation, lactation kink, multiple orgasms, oversensitivity, creampie, manhandling, so much yanderee
NOTE twitter link here.. sorry for posting late
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Dating Gojo, the incredibly good-looking and powerful guy, isn't as simple as you'd think. He frequently reminds you of your perceived inferiority compared to him, and that he could find someone better.
Every time you're with him, he's makes you feel insecure. He keeps putting you down for your mistakes and flaws, always reminding you of all the things he can do that you can only dream about. He often says mean things about how you look and what you can do, making you feel like you're not good enough for him. Even though he's rude and acts like he doesn't care, Gojo still wants you around, making sure you know he's more important in your life.
He's always flirting with other people, which makes it clear he doesn't respect you. When he's with his friends, he completely ignores you, leaving you feeling invisible and unimportant. Your feelings never seem to be a priority for him. It's clear he's more focused on other things, yet he still wants you to stay. You're beginning to realize this relationship isn't healthy for you, but you still crave his approval and validation, hoping he'll see you as worthy.
Your best friend advises, 'You should leave him, girl.'"
"But I love him," you counter.
"But does he love you?"
You stay quiet. Gojo's words may say one thing, but his actions speak differently. Your best friend is right; you realize you need to do something about it. So you send him a text asking to meet at your place, you need to talk to him over this.
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Satoru arrives at your house, his long legs carrying him up to the door with an air of confidence. Knowing he's the strongest sorcerer in the world makes him feel untouchable. As he knocks on the door, a thrill of excitement courses through him, anticipating what awaits inside. The familiar scent of your perfume greets him as you open the door, and he smirks, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
He takes off his dark blue jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a nearby chair. His gaze lingers on you for a moment, taking in your appearance before he speaks in a low voice, ... "Been missing my dick, huh?"
"What the hell is wrong with you?" you snap, glaring at him. He smirks, stepping closer to you, his body heat enveloping you as he looms over you.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" Satoru repeats, a hint of amusement in his voice. He raises an eyebrow, letting the question hang between them, challenging you to elaborate. When he doesn't get an immediate response, he crosses his arms, sitting on your couch and regarding you with a cocky grin.
"So, why the fuck did you call me if you're gonna give me this attitude? " he asks, feigning ignorance. His eyes gleam mischievously, daring you to confront him about your issues head-on.
You stand there, silent for a moment, searching for the words to express your frustration. Before you can say anything, Satoru turns away, sauntering towards your kitchen like he owns the place. He opens the fridge, pulling out a beer and cracking it open with a satisfying sound. Your heart pounds in your chest, your frustration mounting as he drinks it so casually.
As he turns back to you, he raises an eyebrow, the unopened beer in his hand. "You gonna talk, or are you just gonna stand there?" he asks.
"This...this relationship isn't working," you finally manage to utter, your voice wavering slightly. Satoru freezes mid-drink, the beer halfway to his lips. The surprise in his eyes fades quickly, replaced with a cold, hard stare. He sets the beer down on the counter, taking a step towards you.
"Break up?" He repeats, the word hanging in the air like a challenge. "You think you can just toss me aside like an old toy?" He growls, his eyes burning with anger. The force of his personality filled the room, making it hard to breathe. Satoru leans in, his face inches from yours, his blue eyes burning with a fire that matched his temper.
"You better think twice about this, princess," He snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "Once you break things off with me, you'll be all alone. No one is going to love you."
"I'm sure," you say firmly, standing your ground despite the fear in your chest. Satoru's eyes narrow, a dangerous glint flickering in their depths. He steps back, a sardonic smile playing on his lips.
"Did you find someone better than me?" He asks, his voice dripping with disbelief and accusation. The air around you thickens, the tension palpable. Satoru crosses his arms, leaning against the counter, his expression a mix of amusement and contempt. "Tell me... Is his dick bigger than mine?"
You shake your head, your voice trembling as you reply, "No, I just..." Satoru cuts you off, gripping your wrist harshly and pulling you towards the counter. You gasp in surprise, trying to pull away, but his grip is too strong.
He pushes you down on the counter, his dick pressing against your ass, the intensity of the contact leaving you breathless. His eyes bore into yours, the challenge in them undeniable. "Does he fuck you better than me?" he growls, his lips grazing your ear.
You struggle against him, your heart racing as you beg him to let you go. "Please, Satoru...let me go!" You plead, your voice shaking with fear and desperation. Satoru chuckles, his grip tightening around your wrist.
"Not until you realise, what a huge mistake you did by making me mad." he growls, grinding his erection against your ass harder. His eyes bore into yours, daring you to defy him.
Satoru pulls down your pants, revealing your ass. He smacks it hard, the sting of his hand making you yelp in shock. Before you can react, he slides his long, cold fingers inside you, groaning softly at the wetness he finds. His eyes gleam with satisfaction as he mocks you, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Well, well, looks like someone wants more of my cock even after saying she wants a break." He chuckles, twisting his fingers inside you roughly. His eyes are full of malicious.
You can't help but moan in spite of yourself, your body betraying your intentions. Your mind screams at you to fight back, but your body responds to his touch, betraying your resolve. Satoru's grin widens, his eyes gleaming with triumph.
"Looks like you can't resist me, princess," he taunts, thrusting his fingers deeper inside you. "Maybe you don't want a break, maybe you just want me to praise you while I go down on you."
Satoru grips your head tighter against the counter, his fingers thrusting into you relentlessly. Your body buckles under the onslaught, each thrust bringing you closer to the edge. You moan loudly, unable to hold back your pleasure.
Within moments, you're screaming his name, your body convulsing as you cum hard. Satoru watches you with a satisfied smirk, his thumb rubbing your clit in time with his fingers. He continues to thrust into you, milking every last drop of your pleasure.
Satoru carries you mercilessly to your bedroom, leaving you with no time to rest. He quickly sets you down on the bed and his hands rich to unzip his pants. Desperate to get away, you try to crawl away, but he grabs your ankle and uses his weight to pin you down. With a flick of his wrist, he removes his blindfold, revealing his piercing blue eyes. Your heart races, fear and desire warring within you as he takes his blindfold and ties your hands above your head, effectively immobilizing you.
"Please, stop!" you plead, tears streaming down your face as you beg him to release you. "I'm sorry, I take back everything I said! I don't want this!" Your words hang in the air, heavy with regret and fear.
Satoru leans down, his gaze hard and unwavering. "The only sorry I accept is by your mouth showing me how sorry it is by sucking me off." He growls, his finger tracing the shape of your lips. Your heart races and your body trembles at the command.
He pulls himself in front of your head, and you hesitate, your heart racing in your chest. The room spins around you, and the scent of him overwhelms you. You understand you have no choice but to obey, swallow your pride, and submit.
Taking a deep breath, you wrap your lips around his shaft and reluctantly start sucking him off. Satoru growls in approval, his hand entwined in your hair, guiding you. Your mind screams at you to resist, but your body obeys him, your mouth moving rhythmically, pleasing him.
As you continue to suck him off, Satoru's grip in your hair tightens. His movements become more erratic, his breaths growing heavier. Your heart races, a mixture of fear and arousal coursing through you. You're determined to make this quick, hoping he'll release you soon.
You rest your head, waiting for him to untie you. But instead, he parts your legs, grinning wickedly as he rubs his cock against your clit. You flinch, but he doesn't hesitate. With a swift movement, he pushes into you, stretching you painfully. A cry escapes your lips, tears streaming down your face. You beg him, your voice trembling with fear and desperation. "Please, be gentle..."
Gojo grins, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Well, well, I thought you'd be fucking other guys, but you're still tight as hell." He says, thrusting harder into you. "Feels so fucking good." His voice is thick with lust, his movements becoming more aggressive.
Your body tenses, your mind spinning in the turmoil of conflicting emotions. You're angry, yet you can't deny the pleasure he brings you. His words fill you with shame, your skin burning with embarrassment. Despite your struggles, his grip on you is ironclad. You moan, a mixture of pain and pleasure washing over you as he continues to thrust into you. Your mind screams for him to stop, but your body betrays you, responding to his touch.
Every thrust is a reminder of your weakness, your inability to resist him. You can't help but wonder who else he's been with, who else has shared in this intimacy. A wave of jealousy washes over you, your heart beating wildly.
"Fuck, you're gushing," he growls, his hips thrusting into you with increasing intensity. He reaches down, pushing your top along with bra up, his fingers roughly pinching your nipple, twisting it. Your eyes widen, a gasp escaping your lips. "Yet you say you don't want it?" He grunts, his voice thick with dominance.
You can't help but moan, your body betraying your anger. His words echo in your mind, reminding you of your place. Despite your struggling, your body responds to his touch, your clit throbbing with each thrust.
Gojo mocks you, his voice dripping with venom. "What's that, are you enjoying it, slut?" He asks, his movements becoming more frenzied. "You think you can find someone better than me? Someone who fucks you better than me?"
His words cut deep, your heart racing with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. You can't help but moan, your body betraying your anger. He laughs, his eyes gleaming with malice.
"Look at you, begging for my cock, you worthless slut." Gojo sneers, his movements growing rougher. "I'm the strongest sorcerer in the world, and you think you can insult me? Ha!" He laughs, his eyes shining with malicious delight. "Listen up", he slows down his thrust making sure you listen to him instead of moaning, "Don't you dare bring that break up again, I own you, I own this pussy, I own your fucking heart, I know it, you love my baby and I love you too.. So let's.. let's be like before, me and you, together.. We can have a baby too, our own family .. so beautiful.", with that he starts pumping into you again hard and fast, desperate to fill you with his fertile seed.
Your cheeks burn with shame, your toes curling as his thrusts grow stronger and rougher, and just before you hit your orgasm, he pulls out, "That's what you get for disobeying me."
You gasp, your pussy gripping on to him as he pulls out. "That's what you get for disobeying me," he growls, his eyes blazing with anger. You feel a wave of disappointment wash over you, your orgasm cut short.
He stands over you, his chest heaving, his gaze locked on your face. You shrink under his gaze not daring to question him why he stopped, you know everything is your fault. NO, he made you believe everything is your fault, but you cannot help but accept it, you cannot help but accept his cock inside you.
Gojo leans down, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight. "Look at you, clenching around nothing, desperate for my cock." He mocks, his hands gripping your thighs. "Worthless slut."
He licks your clit, a cruel smirk on his face. You whimper, your body trembling with need. His tongue teases your clit, your moans growing louder. He chuckles, enjoying your helplessness.
Gojo's hand glides over your body, his touch electric. "Do you want me to finish you off?" His voice is a combination of cruelty and seduction.
Your heart races, your body trembling with need. You nod, unable to speak, your mind filled with a mix of shame and lust. He grins, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
Gojo raises an eyebrow, his gaze locked on your face. "Beg for it, slut." He demands, his voice thick with lust.
You hesitate, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. He slaps your pussy, making you jolt. "Beg," he repeats, his voice cold.
You swallow hard, your heart pounding, "please, make me cum..." You whisper, your voice barely audible.
Gojo's eyes squint, "Hmm, how about you say you love me 69 times then I will think of it."
Your eyes widen, your heart racing with a mix of anger and desperation. You know you have to do it. "I love you," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "I love you... I love you... I love Satoru..." Your voice grows stronger as you continue, each 'I love you' more genuine than the last.
Gojo watches you, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He leans down, his tongue darting out to trace the curve of your clit. "Keep going.." He orders, his voice rough with desire
You nod, your face heating up with desire and shame. "I love you... I love you... I love Satoru..." You repeat, your voice growing stronger with each word.
Gojo's tongue traces your clit, his movements slow and deliberate. You moan, your body trembling with need. He smiles, his eyes locked on your face. "Good girl," he growls, his voice thick with lust.
He slips two fingers inside you, his movements slow and deliberate. "Keep going..."
Your heart races, your body trembling, "I love you... I love you... I love Satoru..." You repeat, your voice growing stronger with each word.
Gojo's fingers slide inside you, his movements slow and deliberate. You moan, your body shaking with need. He smiles, his eyes locked on your face. "Yes.. yes" He encourages, his voice rough with desire.
You continue to profess your love, your body trembling with a mix of desire and shame.
After what feels like an eternity, Gojo slides his fingers out, replacing them with his tongue. You whimper, your body trembling with anticipation.
He licks your clit, his tongue tracing the curve of your most sensitive spot. "Good girl," he praises you, his voice thick with lust. "Sixty-nine times, I counted each 'I love you.'" He chuckles, his eyes locked on your face. "That's a lot of love for me, baby," he teases, his voice filled with satisfaction. "Now, let's make you cum."
His tongue traces the your walls, his movements slow and deliberate. His eyes locked on your face for your reaction. "You taste so good, so wet and needy."
Your abdomen shaking as you move your hips against his face, you cry out, your body trembling with pleasure as you cum. You collapse there, your heart pounding with a mix of ecstasy and shame.
"Untie me now," you plead, your voice shaking with emotion. But Gojo shakes his head, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, "Nah uh, not till I cum, filling your little pussy."
He inserts himself back inside you, his movements slow and deliberate. Your pussy is oversensitive, making you cry out in pain. "No more," you beg, your voice filled with desperation.
Gojo grits his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut as he feels your walls clenching around him uncontrollably. He slows his pace, allowing you time to adjust to your oversensitivity.
As you recover, he starts thrusting into you, his movements slow and deliberate at first. His pace gradually increases, his eyes locked on your face. "You like being a slut for your boyfriend, isn't it?" He growls, his voice thick with lust.
You moan, your body trembling with a mix of pleasure and pain. "Yes," you admit, not caring about your self respect anymore.
As he thrusts into you, his movements become faster, his eyes locked on your face. "Good girl," he growls, his voice thick with lust. "You're such a good little whore, aren't you?"
You moan, your body trembling with a mix of pleasure and pain. "Yes," you admit, not caring about your self-respect anymore. "I'm your little slut."
Gojo chuckles, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Hmphh, keep squeezing me.. A-ah," he growls, his pace increasing even more.
Your eyes roll at the way he's choking and fucking you like a monster, his hands around your neck, his thrusts relentless. Gojo leans down, his lips colliding with yours in a rough kiss.
You moan into his mouth, your body trembling with a mix of pleasure and fear. He pulls back, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Hah! You gonna cum again?," he mocks.
You groan, your body trembling with a mix of pleasure and fear. "Yes.. Hngh- please I am gonna cum again" You admit, your voice shaking with emotion.
As he thrusts into you, his movements become frenzied. "Y/N, let's... try it again.. together... Can't you imagine? How lovely you will look with your tummy swollen and round with my baby, and milk flowing from your breasts. Just think of it", he bites his lips imaging all of that. He unties your hands, letting them grip onto anything they find.
Your mind is unable to make out his words, you just nod, taking his cock like a doll.
He leans in, his lips brushing against your skin as he sucks on your nipple. "Gonna fill you, hmmph," whimpers escape his lips, "You are so obedient for me baby."
As Gojo nears his climax, his thrusts become frantic, his movements fierce. You cry out, your body trembling with pleasure and pain.
His thrusts become stronger, his movements more intense. Your walls clench around him, milking him as you cum again. He roars, his eyes locked on your face. "Yes, cum for me, baby, cum for your strongest boyfriend," he growls, his voice thick with lust.
He fills you with his seed, his movements slowing as he finishes. "You did well, baby," he pants, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He loosens his grip on your neck, allowing you to breathe.
You collapse against him, your heart racing with a mix of pleasure and fear. "F' me, am your little.. slut.. ." You whisper, before passing out .
Gojo's lips caress your bruised neck, licking them before giving you a small peck on your lips. "I love you, Y/N, I appreciate you," he mutters, his voice thick with lust. "But I ain't gonna spoil you."
He wraps his hands around your waist, pulling you closer to him. Both of you fall asleep in each other's arms, exhausted from the passionate night.
In the darkness of the night, he whispers in your ear, "Never gonna let you escape me, my little play thing."
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sevilynne · 2 months ago
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"B—but... Snivellus is a death eater..."
Listen here, you little shit. For Severus, he got neglected by BOTH parents (and it was implied that he was abused both physically and mentally as well.), gets bullied by two boys because he wanted to go to Slytherin (who sneers back and ends up getting bullied), almost gets killed and Sirius nor Remus gets any consequences other than detention (Really? Is his life worth detention and not Azkaban?), James flexes it to Lily and Lily starts believing James over the victim, Severus accidentally calls his bestfriend a mudblood over the heat of the situation (Lily was about to smile, when James literally used scorgify in his mouth), loses the person thay cared for him the most compared to others (Which Lily isn't even a good friend, so his life is messed up), with Remus and Sirius not maturing (Sirius still calls Severus "Snivellus", and Remus and Sirius spreading lies like "Severus was jealous of James" or "Lily never hated James," when it's the other way around!!! James was jealous of Severus because he existed and Lily was his best friend!
Now his blood supremacist friends are basically recruiting him, and helping him on the way! Basically, the "bad side" is his good side! They are the only ones who "cared" for him when he needed help! He was a death eater for a reason, and people manipulating him because he was vulnerable is a reason.
The audacity of stans trying to make a hotter version of Severus—Regulus? Regulus is basically a walmart Severus but Timothée Chalamet dressed up in wizard robes! If Regulus was told as ugly, nobody would boohoo care about him.
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Y'all only hate Severus and love Regulus because J.K. Rowling never made a Marauders era movie! Regulus is basically a blood supremacist with Voldemort shrines and posters who'd call Lily a mudblood! While Severus is basically bullied on a daily basis.
You guys got to see Severus's good and bad things! Like him "bullying" children, but saved the wizarding world. Literally, maybe he targeted children, but so did Minerva! Minerva literally targeted Neville and locked him outside of the Gryffindor common room when there's an apparent psycho killer, and humiliated him infront of everyone! But we all never see that because we are in Harry's POV, she favours him—she only took points and she was apparently fair because Harry's BIASED!!! Just like how all Slytherins are portrayed because of Hagrid and Ron!!! She favours Gryffindor just like how Severus favours Slytherin, except she takes big points away (which is from Gryffindors she doesn't like) and when she's infront of the professors!
Severus is a morally grey character, and Regulus? We basically time skipped him, we skipped all of the bad things he has done while we never skipped Severus's, that's why you don't have a bad opinion about him, but really! In the Marauders timeline, Regulus was a Voldemort fanboy while Severus literally had stuff happening.
This is why you don't hate James Potter, you guys basically skipped HIS timeline and moved to Harry's, which Severus is portrayed to be this big bad bully until DH! And that's why Harry "Snape's #1 Biggest Hater" Potter's vision changed to "Snape's #1 Biggest Defender", just like how his vision changed from "My father is a great man" to "I fucking hate my own father".
But you guys are so deep into these fanfics like CR (Crimson Rivers) or ATYD (All the Young Dudes) that you all forget about canon lore! He physically assaulted, sexually assaulted, and mentally exhausted Severus! We're not throwing the SA word around, because lets think of this:
———
Lily let out a stream of mixed swearwords and hexes, but her wand being ten feet away, nothing happened.
“Wash out your mouth,” said James coldly. “Scourgify!”
Pink soap bubbles streamed from Lily’s mouth at once; the froth was covering her lips, making her gag, choking her —
“Leave her ALONE!”
James and Sirius looked around. James’s free hand jumped to his hair again.
It was one of the boys from the lake edge. He had black hair that fell to his shoulders and startlingly onyx eyes.
“All right, Snape?” said James, and the tone of his voice was suddenly pleasant, deeper, more mature.
“Leave her alone,” Severus repeated. He was looking at James with every sign of great dislike. “What’s she done to you?”
“Well,” said James, appearing to deliberate the point, “it’s more the fact that she exists, if you know what I mean...”
Many of the surrounding watchers laughed, Sirius and Wormtail included, but Lupin, still apparently intent on his book, didn’t, and neither did Severus.
“You think you’re funny,” he said coldly. “But you’re just an arrogant, bullying toerag, Potter. Leave her alone."
Behind her, the Impediment Jinx was wearing off. Lily was beginning to inch toward her fallen wand, spitting out soapsuds as he crawled.
“Bad luck, Prongs,” said Sirius briskly, turning back to Evans. “OY!”
But too late; Lily had directed her wand straight at James; there was a flash of light and a gash appeared on the side of James’s face, spattering his robes with blood.
James whirled about; a second flash of light later, Lily was hanging upside down in the air, her robes falling over her head to reveal skinny legs and a skirt.
Many people in the small crowd watching cheered. Sirius, James, and Wormtail roared with laughter. Severus, whose furious expression had twitched for an instant as though he was going to smile, said, “Let her down!”
“Certainly,” said James and he jerked his wand upward. Evans fell into a crumpled heap on the ground.
Disentangling herself from her robes, she got quickly to her feet, wand up, but Sirius said, “Petrificus Totalus!” and Lily keeled over again at once, rigid as a board.
“LEAVE HER ALONE!” Severus shouted. He had his own wand out now. James and Sirius eyed it warily.
“Ah, Snape, don’t make me hex you,” said James earnestly.
“Take the curse off her, then!”
James sighed deeply, then turned to Lily and muttered the countercurse.
“There you go,” he said, as Lily struggled to her feet again, “you’re lucky Snape was here, Evans —”
“I don’t need help from filthy little Mudbloods like him!" (Severus is canonically a Mudblood because he has dirty blood—Muggle blood)
Severus blinked.
“Fine,” he said coolly. “I won’t bother in future. And I’d wash your skirt if I were you, Evans.”
“Apologize to Snape!” James roared at Evans, his wand pointed threateningly at her.
“I don’t want you to make her apologize,” Severus shouted, rounding on James. “You’re as bad as she is.”
“What?” yelped James. “I’d NEVER call you a — you-know-what!”
“[...], walking down corridors and hexing anyone who annoys you just because you can — I’m surprised your broomstick can get off the ground with that fat head on it. You make me SICK.”
He turned on his heel and hurried away.
“Snape!” James shouted after him, “Hey, SNAPE!” But he didn’t look back.
“What is it with him?” said James, trying and failing to look as though this was a throwaway question of no real importance to him.
“Reading between the lines, I’d say he thinks you’re a bit conceited, mate,” said Sirius.
“Right,” said James, who looked furious now, “right —”
There was another flash of light, and Evans was once again hanging upside down in the air.
“Who wants to see me take off Evans’s skirt?”
———
Now, let's see if this isn't messed up. This is humiliating! Why did Severus leave his female best friend when she was being PA'd and SA'd by a male! Why did he take out his wand too late? Why is he such a coward?
Gender roles do matter in this context, no matter if Severus considers this as SA or not, it's SA and he got his pants stripped down, but it doesn't matter, he's a boy isn't he?
If this was Lily, everyone would care, but no! It's greasy, slimy, old Snape, and he's a boy.
Sirius nor James used dark spells, but they were pretty much using hexes so it doesn't matter—they are basically baby DE bullies but Gryffindors.
Stop attacking Severus and start thinking about this, because he was just a boy.
A lot of people (Not all) cared for Harry when Myrtle basically tried to SA him, why not Severus? He was stripped infront of the whole school! (Not invalidating Harry's trauma), this is just so messed up.
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patricia-taxxon · 30 days ago
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Sorry people are being hostile in the notes of your recent AI post! Your points are really interesting and I hadn't thought about it like that (referencing the "..."it's theft" isn't a good argument when much of the greatest art to ever be made is also largely theft" part)
I agree with what you're saying about theft/ creative use of someone else's stuff (or even un-creative use of someone else's stuff, looking at John Williams fully ripping off Holst in the imperial march)
But something about generative AI still rubs me the wrong way though (re: taking people's work), and your comparison has made me question more specifically what it is that I'm uncomfortable with. I think it's the lack of intentionality behind the theft? Coming at this as a composer, if someone stole like, a melody I wrote, I would be happy that they had thoughts & ideas about the thing I made & interested to see what they did with it. I think the thing about generative AI that I don't like (on a personal level) is the lack of intentionality, like, both not knowing if my work had been fed into the training data + if someone rips me off it wouldn't be a choice they made specifically, but just a thing that mysteriously happened.
Idk if I'm making much sense, I'm not really engaged with the online discourse about generative AI because (from the bits and pieces that I've seen) it's a lot of people getting really angry and shouting the same x5 things at each other, rather than like, a discussion.
Anyway sorry for rambling, I appreciate your perspective! hope you have a good day! ♪ヽ(´▽`)/
Yeah, this is mostly where I'm at as well. Even purely secular people tend to invoke the concept of a "soul" when talking about "AI" art, and I'm pretty sure this is what they mean. Soul as in aggregate experience, perception, taste. People want copying in art to communicate something, they want to consider another human's notions of beauty and ugliness. That's why I describe it as modernist, it extricates taste. It copies accidentally with no bridge to the source, not even an implied one. I compare it to generative art a lot, but even that doesn't really reach the level of randomness and diversity of output as these image synthesis engines do. Morton Feldman's pieces still exist within the formal framework of orchestra, after all.
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hug-your-face · 8 months ago
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Insight today while washing the lettuce and thinking of my friend who doesn't want to vote.
They are an otherwise intelligent, responsible, generous person, who appears to be socially conscious. They have worked hard and long for their position in their profession. They express concern for the planet. They get twitchy if you use too many paper towels.
But they don’t want to vote for Biden for reasons, and quote "doesn't like the whole system where the parties take turns swinging things back and forth" unquote.
I have been dumbstruck at their attitude for about two months now. I've been thrashing back and forth trying to reconcile this person I love with their attitude:
If you care abt the planet enough to conserve paper towels, don’t you care enough to stop a Repub administration from raping the land?
If you don’t like how things can swing back and forth, don't you want an administration that's going to work to shore up, rather than dismantle, more lasting democratic systems of governance?
If you understand the value of the long game, why are you only satisfied with instant results from a single election rather than viewing that election as a single move in an ongoing process?
The insight came to me as I used an extra set of paper towels to dry my lettuce:
These people are not motivated by outcomes. They are motivated by how their choices make them FEEL.
Not how the outcomes of their choices will make them feel. But how the action associated with their choices makes them feel.
In terms of outcomes for the environment, saving paper towels doesn't do shit compared to pushing for restrictions on oil companies. But using half a paper towel is an instant dopamine hit: "Ahhh, I am caring for Mother Earth. I care. I am a good person. Ahh yes that's the stuff."
This model fits for voting too. We know that The Only Votes That Count Are Those Cast. We know that Dems Go Where The Votes Are Not Where The Votes Aren't. We know that voting in every election, every time, in numbers, is a very low-effort way to contribute to moving the Overton window farther left.
But in the moment, for people who are motivated by how their action associated with their choice makes them feel... the absolute best move for their dopamine supply is to abstain: "I am NOT supporting an old fart; I am NOT supporting genocide; I am Challenging The System; I am a good person. Ahh yes, that's the stuff."
At the time, when I challenged my friend on their position, they held up their hands and said "look, I'm not saying I have any answers, I'm just saying I don’t like how the system works."
They didn't like how participating in the system made them FEEL in the moment.
For those of us who think this is madness, hey, we aren't off the hook entirely. We are basing our choices and actions off of outcomes, true. But there's probably a feeling/dopamine component in there too. "I am holding my nose and voting Blue; I am doing my part to actually affect the future even if I hate some things abt my choice; I am a good person. Ahh yes, that's the stuff."
So maybe the difference isn't in the motivation (my feelings and self-image) but in what motivates us (my action vs the outcome of my action).
I don't have an answer to the question at this time and this post is already long enough. But I'll think on it. And I invite you to do so as well:
For these people (who seem to be a sizable part of the population), how to outweigh the choice where their action preserves their self-image, doesn't cost them dopamine for having to take a "bad" action, and maybe even gives them a happy boost for "not being part of a flawed system?"
For these people, how to help them connect more to the outcome?
Off the cuff, I can't think of any means other than cognitive-behavioral therapy. :/
EDIT: Apparently there's a term for this and it's called Emotivism -- ethics isn't abt effects but abt feelings.
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mcflymemes · 2 months ago
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THE MUMMY (1999) PROMPTS *  assorted dialogue from the film, adjust as necessary
looks to me like you're on the wrong side of the river!
by the way... why did you kiss me?
it seemed like a good idea at the time.
that's called stealing, you know.
is it dangerous?
stop it! you'll kill them!
get me a glass of bourbon.
this just keeps getting better and better.
this door doesn't open.
who opened that chest?
i only want four!
the map! i forgot the map!
i think he's filthy, rude, a complete scoundrel. i don't like him one bit.
i guess we go home empty-handed... again.
look what i got.
i think you found something.
what exactly is this man in prison for?
you just got promoted.
you're with me on this one, right?
keep him busy.
we are in serious trouble.
this creature is the bringer of death.
you must not read from the book!
where are they taking him?
there's only one person i know that can possibly give us any answers.
can you look me in the eye and guarantee me that this isn't all some kind of flimflam?
i'm a very lonely man.
look at my library!
you're gonna get yours, [name]!
never did like camels.
what do you suppose killed him?
time to go.
take my hand, and i will spare your friends.
will you look at that?
do they know something we don't?
i need a new job.
have you no respect for the dead?
i've dreamt about this since i was a little girl.
you dream about dead guys?
patience is a virtue.
any last requests?
loosen the knot and let me go.
i don't think we need to know this.
ooh... that's gotta hurt.
you... i just don't get.
you probably won't live through it.
everybody else we've bumped into has died. why not you?
you're wondering... what is a place like me doing in a girl like this?
yeah, i was there.
can you swim?
of course we don't let him go!
you'll be dead when they do this.
i think i'll kill you.
think of my children.
i only gamble with my life, never my money.
i may not be an explorer or an adventurer, or a treasure-seeker or a gunfighter, but i am proud of what i am.
give me frogs! flies! locusts! anything but you!
compared to you, the other plagues were a joy.
i am so very sorry. it was an accident.
you are a catastrophe.
oh my god, i hate it when these things do that.
is he supposed to look like that?
of course i can swim, if the occasion calls for it.
now, because of you, we have failed.
you think this justifies the killing of innocent people?
what did you say?
i don't want to tell you.
let me get this straight.
you don't have any children.
you lied to me.
i lie to everybody.
what makes you so special?
sorry. didn't mean to scare you.
the only thing that scares me are your manners.
have you got any bright ideas?
i'm thinking. i'm thinking!
you'd better think of something fast.
what are we going to do?
wait here! i'll go get help!
i thought you said you didn't believe in all this fairy tales and hokum stuff.
forget it! we're out the door, we're down the hall, and we're gone!
i told you not to play around with that thing.
you heard the man. no mortal weeapons can kill this guy.
listen! we've got to do something!
is that my problem?
i appreciate you saving my life and all, but when i signed on, i agreed to take you out there and bring you back. end of job, end of story, contract terminated.
that's all i am to you? a contract?
you can either tag along with me or stay here and try to save the world.
do something!
you know, nasty little fellows such as yourself always get their comeuppance.
what's the challenge then?
rescue the damsel in distress, kill the bad guy, and save the world.
death is only the beginning.
why are you going back?
i'm going downstairs to get me a drink. you want something?
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astorianyxkings · 10 months ago
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Oldest Daughter Dick™ is probably one of my favourite things ever. And it always will be and here's why:
Of course Dick loves his siblings and of course he loves that they know Bruce as the father he is. But it won't stop the jealousy he feels. And no one gets it, not even Jason. They were all raised by Bruce Wayne, he was raised by Batman.
When Dick came to live with him, Bruce had no idea how to he a father. How to handle normal kid stuff like sicknesses and school events let alone the fact he was an acrobat. He was Batman and Dick was raised to be not just his successor but the only contingency plan he had against himself.
Bruce never held his punches ("That was a good block but I still got you, didn't I?" Bruce had said, rubbing cream into the blossoming bruise on Dick's side. "I'll get you next time," Dick had promised, young eyes challenging. "You better." Bruce had grinned back.) All attacks were to remind him that he was at a disadvantage strength wise and thus needed to re-evaluate his lines of defense and offense.
Dick was raised by the paranoid-in-his-late-twenties-probably-shouldn't-be-a-dad-despite-what-Marisol-said Bat. A fun game of catch? He was dodging Batarangs. Learning to drive? It was the Batmobile and he was age 14 (and a half). School events? He was fumbling, awkward and did not want to be there (but still was because he'll be damned if his boy didn't have his support.)
And you know that's fine, Dick was fine. It wasn't Bruce's fault he didn't know how to be a proper dad, despite Alfred's parenting books and videos. And he did try, he was always there. But it just really hits a sore spot everytime he sees Bruce hold a punch before he knocks Tim out cold or when he's behind the wheel with Steph telling her what not to do. Or even when he's at school with Damian and Duke making Marjory and her cupcakes look ridiculous compared to him and his coconut crumble cakes.
It also irritates Dick beyond senseless whenever the topic of sparring with Bruce is mentioned. ("We can all beat the old man Goldie, he's ancient." Jason shrugs off and Dick wanted to scream.) The only one who even tries to sympathize with him was Cass. More than likely because she'd seen him fight as Batman The Dark Knight before seeing him fight as Bruce The Father of Six-Almost-Eight.
And it just really stings because he can't relate to being raised by Bruce the way the others can't. Bruce changed for them, not him. And maybe that kind of hurts. But maybe he's overreacting.
What he doesn't realize is he's the reason why Bruce changed. Bruce saw the hurt and anger in Dick's eyes when he fired him from Robin (Think Shifu denying Tai Lung the Dragon Warrior scroll). He knew the second he saw the betrayal in Dick's eyes after seeing Jason as Robin, that he'd have to change. (The same way Shifu should've changed for Tigress but I digress, not that fandom).
Bruce pulls his punches because he hated seeing Dick limp away from their sparring matches—despite the fire and promise of a rematch in his eyes. He teaches them how to drive regular cars before the Batmobile because the one time Dick crashed (while trying to avoid some of Poison Ivy's vines) his heart rate skyrocketed so high Clark had called him up demanding to know if he was okay. He shows up for Duke and Damian and Cass and Tim because Dick's smile whenever he saw Bruce in the parent's lounge never failed to make him melt.
Bruce stands firm on the fact that while he may have made a hero out of Dick, Dick Grayson made a father out of Bruce Wayne.
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withlove-xixi · 2 months ago
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— SANJI NSFW THOUGHTS: sanji x reader
ᥫ cw: nsfw, pet names, praise, also cum, roleplay ★ my favorite white guy ... sanji my darling boyfriend ... i miss him i need to start watching one piece again — MINORS DNI! —
first things first, i'm putting my foot down and saying sanji is simply too service top for me to see as a power bottom. im sorry, as much as i know he would be wrapped around your finger, he's not completely powerless. sure if you told him to bottom, he'd be bent over and spread open before you've even finished asking.
that being said, his submissiveness is done completely out of love. he's always treating you like you're the most precious thing in the world, because to him, you're nothing less.
hes definitely not that kinky i'd say, hes just willing to try things you'd like. sure, there are some things that would turn him on (doesn't everything lol?) but i think there would be very few of what hes actually into and definitely some he'd absolutely refuse to do.
ive seen other people say it, but idt he'd be big on like spanking or other kinds of pain play, simply because the idea of hurting you (consensual or accidental) will actually drive him insane and he'd explode. he's a bit wary of things like bondage too because what if you get hurt? your safety is always his priority, he'd do anything to ensure it.
idt he's keen too on the idea of threesomes, voyeurism, etc because hes a bit .. possessive of you. at least, maybe he would allow sharing you if he had the reins. like if he was able to dictate how things would happen and stuff, because otherwise he wouldn't dare even entertain the idea. i think sanji finds sex to be intimate more than anything, it's a way for him to show his love to you, so why must he share that? that isnt to say he hasnt thought about having multiple partners during sex, the idea's passed through his mind once or twice before and it's gotten him flustered, but it's hardly anything he'd really want to do (again, unless he had control of things or if you really begged him for it)
oh and he is so good with praise. he's always showering you with complements even outside of sex. it's always "good job, darling" or "i've got you, sweetheart" and aughhh!! he's just sweet like that. he's always planting kisses on your thighs or chest, on the back of your hand on against you palm. PLUS PETNAMES! he loves calling you all sorts of things, comparing you to summer days or sweet flowers. it was like he was always finding new ways to tell you he loved you.
i think sanji likes looking at you too. sometimes he could be a bit too mesmerized by you, staring intently, hungrily with those pretty blue eyes. he's taking in every detail of your face and body, every bead of sweat on your skin, the shine of slick on your thighs, the rise and fal of your chest. sometimes he gets too busy staring he stays completely frozen lmao.
and ... i think he likes watching you covered in his cum. like he'd cum as deep as he can inside you snd spread you apart just a bit to watch it ooze out, or he'd cum on your belly and smear it over your skin eith his fingers, or he'd cum all over your face and watch it drip off your chin (oh he is definitely getting a nose bleed from all that)
his favorite thing though is when you dress up for him. whether is frilly revealing tops or lacy lingere, he's getting hard as soon as he sees you. again, idt he's got too many kinks, he's just willing to try things out with you, but if there was anything he liked the most it might be roleplay. there's something about seeing you in different outfits and seeing you play the role of a nurse or a doctor sends his blood rushing to his dick lol.
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logansargeantsbabymom · 3 months ago
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We Did It
Lewis Hamilton x Fem!Reader
Hurt/Comfort
Follow my instagram account (THATS STRICTLY FOR THIS BLOG) for updates on when i post and fun stuff like that!
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F1 Masterlist
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The paddock buzzed with the usual pre-race energy, fans and media crowding around their favorite drivers. Walking hand-in-hand with Lewis Hamilton, my boyfriend and a Formula 1 legend, I tried to focus on the excitement of the day. Though I was used to the limelight as a (your/age) pop star, the world of F1 was a different beast, and the media frenzy always made me a little anxious.
It had been a whirlwind few months. My Eras Tour had taken me around the globe, performing in sold-out arenas and stadiums. For four months, I had barely seen Lewis, our time together limited to hurried phone calls and stolen moments. The exhaustion from relentless travel and performances weighed heavily on me, but I had managed to carve out two weeks off, just in time for the Silverstone Grand Prix. It was a precious window of time, a chance to reconnect with Lewis and support him at one of the most important races of the season.
We navigated through the crowd, stopping occasionally for photos and autographs. Eventually, we reached the media pen. Lewis was always calm and composed in these moments, but I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as we approached a familiar interviewer known for her biting questions.
"Y/N, can I ask you a few questions?" she began, her tone laced with a sugary sweetness that felt anything but genuine.
"Of course," I replied, forcing a smile.
"First, I want to congratulate you on your tour, The Eras Tour! It’s been impossible to get tickets to!" she exclaimed, her smile not reaching her eyes.
"Thank you," I said, feeling a bit of pride seep through my anxiety. "It's been an incredible journey."
She nodded, then shifted her weight slightly, her eyes gleaming with a different kind of interest. "So, why are you guys dating? You’ve had quite the dating reputation, and you’re only (your/age). Having gone through six boyfriends, it’s probably why we all think Lewis was better off with Nicole, but oh well."
Her words hung in the air, a cruel barb meant to wound. My heart plummeted, and I felt my face flush with a mix of embarrassment and hurt. The cameras were rolling, capturing my every reaction, and I struggled to maintain my composure. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I blinked them back, trying to stay strong.
Before I could respond, Lewis’s voice cut through the tension. "That's an incredibly disrespectful question," he said, his tone icy. "Y/N is an amazing person and a phenomenal talent. She doesn't deserve to be compared to anyone, especially not in such a hurtful way."
The interviewer looked taken aback, and I noticed other drivers stepping in, voicing their support for me and their disapproval of the interviewer's conduct. Despite the solidarity, I couldn't shake the humiliation.
Later that evening, back at the hotel, I sat on the edge of the bed, replaying the moment over and over in my mind. My confidence, usually unshakeable, felt shattered. The tour had been a grueling endeavor, and this time off was supposed to be a break, a chance to feel normal and loved.
Lewis sat beside me, taking my hand in his. "Y/N, you mean the world to me. That interviewer was out of line, and you have nothing to be ashamed of. I only have eyes for you, and you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me."
Tears welled up in my eyes. "But what if people agree with her? What if they think I'm not good enough for you?"
Lewis cupped my face gently, his gaze unwavering. "You are more than enough. You're incredible, and anyone who can't see that doesn't matter. I love you, and I want you there with me on Sunday, but only if you feel ready."
Looking into his eyes, I saw the sincerity and love reflected back at me. Slowly, I nodded. "I'll be there."
Race day dawned bright and clear. The stands at Silverstone were filled with roaring fans, the air electric with anticipation. I arrived at the paddock, still feeling a bit nervous but buoyed by Lewis's unwavering support.
As the race began, I watched from the Mercedes garage, my heart racing with every lap. Lewis drove with his usual skill and determination, and as the laps dwindled, he surged ahead, crossing the finish line in first place.
The crowd erupted in cheers as Lewis took the checkered flag. I felt a swell of pride and love, tears streaming down my face. When Lewis climbed out of his car, he immediately sought me out, pulling me into a tight embrace.
"You did it," I whispered, my voice choked with emotion.
"We did it," he corrected, kissing my forehead. "Thank you for being here. It means everything to me."
———————
taglist:
@luckyladycreator2 @itsmiamalfoy @jeffs77 @ilivbullyingjeongin @forevercaffeinated-lee @daemyratwst @gulphulp @callsignwidow @f1wintermoon13 @teenwolf01 @victoriassecret101 @hiireadstuff @formulaal l l @kazza72584 @zabwlky1999 @dark-night-sky-99 @rougekiki @xoscar03 @jess-wither @bountychanti @dhanihamidi @tellybearryyyy @a-panseuxalmess @love-simon @tallrock35 @iiaik0ii @Milkyymelanine @ilovsyou3000morgan @styl1shl1v @eddieharrington @hellowgoodbye
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possiblylando · 2 months ago
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HTP; Ghoul Lore Audio Log Spoilers/Analysis/Discussion
Dude holy shit uh Spoiler barrier and then all in cause
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Okay Okay fuck where to begin this episode literally changes everything okay I guess lets start at the Draught. Based on what we know about this unique Draught, it means Grimal might not be the ghoul?? If the ghoul potentially has this Draught (which I vaguely doubt will come into play in this arc specifically) it could mean anyone could be the ghoul so long as they were only in a place without 1 other person. Atleast I assume so because if they could use this high power Dominate on multiple people simultaneously then this whole operation would be cooked from the start. While I was very mixed on the idea of Gloria as the Ghoul previously, I think its far more possible now. This high level Dominate (Lets assume 4 dots) This ghoul could have access to Rationalize or Forgetful Mind, Or any others in that category. If Grimal is was being commanded to act that could explain why everything is so suspicious around her. Have someone else go in and take care of Occam while the ghoul sits with someone else and has the perfect alibi. So now I think the possibilities for Ghoul are; 1. Grimal is the Ghoul (The Draught is a red herring and simply setting up something in a future arc instead of this current one.) 2. Gloria is the Ghoul & has this Draught; this is based more on Vibes and the fact Gloria doesn't actually do too much in part 1 outside checking Occam's pulse. If she's the ghoul and commanded someone (Namely Grimal) to attack Occam, she would have a vested interested in knowing if the attack was successful. Okay thats about it for my thoughts on the Ghoul right now. Onto the far more important bit of this episode. Because this was not simpyl a Ghoul Lore episode, THIS WAS A MARCKUS LORE EPISODE TROJAN HORSE.
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But before the deep Marckus shit- Markus was 12 in 1988. Door was present and seems to be in his 20s or 30s. Boy has not been born yet and Boy is 11 in 2006 so he was born in like 1995. So I think its reasonable to place door as being in his 20s here, having Boy in his 30s. This means Door is probably 8-15? (Maybe) years older than Markus which would make him roughly 40 in modern day. D does look markedly younger in these photographs but I'm not sure if thats art style or actually because he's aged. It does put a damped on my thoughts about D being MUCH older than he seems. But we do know his previous Ex-Wife Rozalia (The Ghoul) is roughly 108 in modern day. It seems to be implied D had met & later married her after she was pretty deep into being a ghoul so there probably was a large age gap already. But it still kinda stands out to me. D is very afraid or Marckus becoming a Ghoul because he sees himself in him. I don't necessarily think D was a ghoul (thought it could explain his weird age). Thought all this might be confirmation Bias as in the more recent episodes D's hair has been more consistently colored with grey streaks when compared to earlier episodes where it was more like a sheen in his hair. It just feels like D has done too much to only be roughly in his 60-70s and very fit. While older people can certainly be in good physical condition it doesnt seem like D has suffered any real negatives from aging? He's MINIMUM 18 years older than Door who is in his 40s but again that's a low ball. I don't know. Alright time for the Marckus stuff. So its rather basic background knowledge that HTP's main cast is inspired by the cast of Warhammer 40k TTS. Now up until this point I had thought it was mostly a baseline thing. Only really carrying over personalities and vague relationships between characters while having the freedom to change them with that background knowledge. But based on this episode it appears to be more relevant.
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Whatever the fuck Marckus managed to summon, It was something not even D understood. This is in directly parallel with 40k's Magnus who Marckus is based on. For those who don't know about 40k lore (I don't blame you its VERY long.), Magnus is a Primarch (Emperor's special kids) who ended up being manipulated by 40k's god of trickery and ended up fucking up literally everything because of his lack of thinking things through and the influence of said trickster god. Gods in 40k are manifestations of humanity (and alien's) collective subconscious minds and often take the forms of their most volatile negative aspects. They're entited formed from 'The Warp' which is the source of magic in 40k. Magnus is very naturally tuned to the warp. Almost all the issues in TTS (and 40k) relating to Magnus are because he has a MASSIVE complex. He craves parental affection and affirmation but in TTS every time he thinks hes denied it, some shit goes wrong. When he actually gets that parental affection (Earlier season 2 iirc) he mellows out alot until finding out the only reason the emperor (D's counterpart) brought him back was so that Magnus would act as a pawn and decoy in his 5d chess game to deal with political enemies. Magnus is not happy about this. With all this background information, whats present in this episode slots into place. Marckus seems to have forgotten about the incident yes. The better case is that he blocked out the memory due to trauma. But the worse possibility is that a seed was planted. One that's been festering within him since that time. D may be planning to tell Marckus everything in a few months, But I get the feeling before those months are up, That seed will sprout. In one form or another, Marckus will be given the option to go down the same path of darkness as his predecessor. I don't think Marckus would go for such a path without a push but the one providing that push might be D, even if unintentionally. D is so focused on the forest that he's missing the trees.
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casscainmainly · 4 months ago
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Bruce Wayne & Cassandra Cain in Batgirl (2000)
My last post covered the top 10 moments overall, but I had to skip a lot of my favourite moments involving specifically Batman and Batgirl. So here's a non-comprehensive, chronological list of great Bruce & Cass moments!!
Who Does She Remind You Of?
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One of the most interesting things about their relationship is that initially, Cass doesn't have a name and doesn't know Bruce's name; they are purely Batgirl and Batman. This lack of alter ego allows Bruce to identify very heavily with Cass, and sets up the foundation for why Bruce acts the way he does later. He views Cass as a mirror of himself, which has both positive and negative repercussions.
You Can't Understand A Word I'm Saying
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EXTREMELY underrated Bruce and Cass moment from Issue #2. Though I believe they fundamentally understand each other, there's still a disconnect between them (a disconnect Cass shares with everyone). But this disconnect goes both ways - Bruce is the one having trouble communicating here, saying 'I don't know how to say this' and pausing frequently (this speech pattern is very reminiscent of Cass' inner monologue towards the end of this run!). A great example of how neither of them are fully able to express the depth of their feelings towards each other.
Denial
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A pivotal moment in Bruce's conception of Cass. When confronted with evidence that she killed a man, Bruce goes into complete denial. She's 'gentle', fully understanding his rejection of murder; how can she be a murderer? It's indicative of just how much he's projecting onto Cass, but also how much he genuinely cares about her. The second panel is underrated too - like David Cain, Bruce sees Cass as 'perfect', a word that will haunt Cass for arcs to come. This is where we start to see how Bruce's belief in Cass' perfection and morals negatively impacts her self-conception (as a perfect tool/weapon).
Good Answer
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An incredible moment that's classic for a reason. Perfectly encapsulates both Cass' instinctive desire to protect, and Bruce's recognition of how similar Cass is to him. Also how his belief in her, however unintentionally, feeds into her death wish.
Jason Todd
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Another underrated moment!!! This is the first major instance of conflict between death-wish Cass and no-more-dead-kids Bruce, and it's delicious. Bruce willingly opens up to her about Jason's death, and moreover, by comparing Cass to Jason, positions her as his child as well. It's sweet and sad and explains some of Bruce's more overprotective moments.
Denial 2
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Not really denial but thematically it fits. When Bruce is framed for murder, the Batfam try to figure out what really happened. Cass sees that Dick has doubts, and helps him re-enact the murder so that he can believe in Bruce again. Not only is it a super sweet Dick-Cass moment, but it also shows how Cass believes in Bruce just as much as Bruce believes in Cass.
Good
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A short and sweet moment that showcases how similar these two are. Bruce isn't exactly being a good dad here, but Cass genuinely DIDN'T enjoy that vacation. They just get each other. This is one of many, many times that Cass answers one of Bruce's questions perfectly (and makes Bruce smile).
Overprotective Dad Mode
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In the second part of Batgirl (2000), Cass begins to explore her sexuality. This leads to issues of varying quality, BUT we do get tons of overprotective Bruce. A nice showcase of Bruce doing typical dad stuff, and Superman looking SO done. Also Cass in that first panel is hilarious.
Realisation
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After lots of (rightful) heckling from Babs, Bruce finally realises that the way he's been using and treating Cass isn't right. Though this speech is couched in a lot of dismissive language ('disobedient', 'she was loyal'), I think that's just Bruce's inability to communicate. He cannot admit how much he cares for her. So he decides to fire her and tells her she jeopardises the MISSION (which, obviously, makes Cass feel terrible). Even when he's trying to put her first, his lack of communication skills only hurts her.
He Never Let Me Touch Him
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The Bruce and Cass scene to END all Bruce and Cass scenes. Each panel is loaded with meaning. The first shows that despite Bruce's similarities to Cain, he still IS different; he is willing to be vulnerable around her, and allows her to do the same around him. The third panel is particularly interesting. Underneath all the ideological sniping between him and Babs, Bruce is jealous - he wants to be the centre of Cass' life and loyalty. Cass, however, doesn't fall into the trap. By pointing to the Bat, she both affirms her loyalty to his mission but also refuses any box he can put her in. She is his daughter, but she is not only his daughter, and never will be.
Honourable mention: the only reason I didn't put the Father's Day panel here was because I've already written about it. Also the scene where they mutually touch each other's faces and turn away of course!
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cillianhead · 1 year ago
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Heeyy, love your work💜 aaand I was wondering could you write dad's Bestfriend! Cillian and how your dad keeps asking Cillian to go on a double date with him and his wife since he's been single for a while, but Cillian doesn't want to and (you're at your house) or then somehow you and him end up in the same place later and talk about it? one of you confesses they're glad he didn't go cos they had feelings for the other and then things get heated 😉😉
Sorry if it's all over the place, I have so many little ideas in my brain rn lol
Thank you☺️
Thank you so much for your request, I've literally been thinking sooooo much about the idea of Dad's BestFriend! Cillian and how I wanted to write about it, I hope this is what you were looking for!
Enjoy <3
Illicit Affairs || Dad's BestFriend! Cillian Murphy x Reader
warnings: SMUT, age gap (Cillian is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s), taboo relationship, unprotected P in V, oral sex (f receiving), a bit angsty, having to hide their relationship, jealousy, some homophobic comments I guess?? (not from Cillian), general adult content!! (Cillian isn't an actor/famous in this also he moved to America... in this!) (Also this fic is quite long... so that's a warning!)
18+ Minors DNI
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Cillian Murphy was that charming Irish man who lived just down your street. He had moved there around five or six years ago, you couldn't really remember, it was when you were just seventeen. He had moved here in the hopes of getting away from his ex-wife back in Ireland and starting over. Your dad was incredibly welcoming to him when he first moved in and they quickly became good buddies. Your dad was into sports and drinking beer, cooking out on the grill, and all that classic dad stuff. Cillian enjoyed that stuff too but he was much more into the arts than your dad ever could be. You two bonded over that. Cillian taught you how to play guitar, you'd write songs together, you'd go to concerts of bands you both liked.
Now you were twenty-four, in your last year of college and Cillian was still around, you still got together and went to concerts or played the guitar together every now and then, though you were more busy now and so was he. You'd had a crush on him ever since you had laid your eyes on him but you understood why it was wrong, understood why he was off limits. You couldn't help but grow jealous though when you'd see him bring home women every now and then and then see them leaving in the morning. It wasn't an occasion that happened often but it got on your nerves regardless, you knew you had no right to feel that way. But it still made you feel sick to your stomach.
Of course, you'd had a couple of boyfriends, none of them were all that serious. You hated yourself for comparing them to him, knowing no man could ever compare to the man that Cillian is. Your dad was oblivious to your (not-so) little crush. You had to keep it that way, not that anything was ever going to happen between you but you knew your dad would be uncomfortable with the idea of you having a crush on one of his best buddies.
"Cillian's comin' over tonight, Y/N." Your dad popped his head into your room, you just nodded and smiled before he left. You still lived at home since you studied not too far from home, your parents were more than happy to let you live there for as long as you needed but you had plans of moving out soon, as soon as you graduated.
"Thanks, Dad... I already know that." You chuckled. Your mom was downstairs cooking dinner and you had also received text messages from the man himself, earlier that day informing you he was coming over, so you were very much aware that he was coming over.
Cillian: Can't wait to see you. It's been a while, kid. xxx
You'd read the message over and over and over again. Your heart fluttered each time you did so. You hated how he called you 'kid', you were a grown woman, you weren't a kid anymore. You really hated it because you knew you didn't hate it. In fact, the nickname made you all shy and giggly, it made you like him even more.
It was around six when your mom called out for you that dinner was ready. You had tried your best to look nice, for whatever reason that may be. It wasn't anything too crazy or too dressy but it was definitely nicer than how you'd normally dress when you had guests over. A small black skirt that was a bit risky with how short it was but you could definitely get away with wearing it and a tight long-sleeved black shirt, tucked into it. You could hear chattering from the dining room, the sound of Cillian's chortling made you smile as you entered the room to find yourself meeting the back of the head of an unfamiliar blonde woman, sitting next to Cillian, and making him laugh. Your smile had dropped.
"Oh, sweetie!" Your mom waved you over to the table, the food had been served, both parents sitting on either end of the table while you had to sit and face Cillian and this strange blonde lady. Was this his girlfriend? You knew it had been around a month or so since you'd last seen him but surely he hadn't gotten a girlfriend in such a short amount of time. "This is Cassandra... we've been friends since college, I thought it would be nice to introduce her to Cillian... I've always said how I thought they'd get along."
You just nodded politely, looking Cillian in the eyes to see the discomfort staring back at you. Cassandra was beaming, as any woman should be if she sat beside Cillian, you just glared as you prepared your plate of food. You remained civil, of course, nodding along to things being said and laughing extra hard at jokes your dad tried to make. But you couldn't get rid of the big fat elephant in the room, Cassandra. She was pretty enough, with long blonde hair (obviously bleached, you thought), and makeup done elegantly but it was a bit much. Lip fillers to the max and smooth botox-filled skin. But the thing was... her perfume was obnoxiously loud for a smell. It filled the room like someone had bombed the place with perfume-scented grenades and it absolutely ruined the food. You don't know how Cillian could just sit there, breathing in her perfume without vomiting all over the place. You were sitting across the table and it was horrible, practically on the verge of a migraine, how bad must it be having to sit right next to her?
You scolded yourself silently for trying to put down this woman in your head. She hadn't done anything wrong except breathe near Cillian. It wasn't her fault you had some sort of weird jealousy issues when it came to him.
"...What... what do you do for work, Cassandra?" Cillian asked politely before taking a bite from his fork, looking at Cassandra with genuine interest. That made your gut churn.
"Oh... well I actually work for the Catholic church just around the corner," Cassandra smiled. "I actually go around... um... telling people about Catholicism and its benefits, trying to get them to join." You took a sip of your wine with a cheeky grin on your face as you saw Cillian's discomfort with her response. You knew fully well he had no issue with people practicing religion but you knew how he felt for people to go around and shove their beliefs down people's throats. With the slightest bit of alcohol running through your veins, you found some courage to feign interest in her line of 'work'.
"That's really interesting, Cassie," You hummed delightfully, your parents looked over at you cautiously. You knew you had crossed a line by calling her 'Cassie'. "What are your thoughts on gay people?" The room went silent. The drop of a pin could be heard.
Her face went beet red at this question. Your mom gave you a disappointed look before faking a smile. Cillian looked amused before turning to Cassandra, everyone waiting for her response.
"I... erm...." She was looking around the room. Now maybe you had guessed wrong, maybe she was totally fine with gay people but you had a feeling her answer was going to be the complete opposite of that. "I think... if someone wishes... to live that lifestyle... then they should... keep it to themselves..." You cringed at that response. "I think God... I think God would not approve of... that sort of lifestyle." Bazinga. Cillian was immediately put off.
"I didn't realize you spoke for God himself." Cillian chuckled as he looked down into his glass of wine with that mischievous smile that mirrored your own. The two of you giggled at each other, Cillian seemed sort of relieved in a way that he didn't have to deal with this bozo of a woman anymore and your jealousy had disappeared along with the food on your plate.
Eventually, Cassandra left hurriedly. Your mom scolded you for being rude but you just shrugged it off. Cillian stuck around to hang out with your dad as you and your mom cleaned the dishes, you could hear them chattering on the back porch, probably about the latest baseball game or your dad trying to convince Cillian to come over one day for a barbecue.
"Go bring these to your father and Cillian, sweetie." Your mom hands a pack of beer which you take carefully as you nod.
Walking out to the back veranda, Cillian sat with a cigarette in between his lips. How could someone be so pretty? You sat the beers down on the small coffee table before turning back around to keep helping your mom but were quickly stopped by Cillian's hands curling around your wrist. Electric jolts ran through you with his touch. "Why don't you join us, kid?" Cillian hummed.
"Alright." You politely sat down beside him, he sat in between you and your father. It was a lovely summer's night, the crickets chirped and the sun was only just setting at almost nine at night. It was quiet and peaceful and warm. Cillian's presence especially helped provide that atmosphere.
You tucked your legs up into your chest, you and Cillian occasionally sharing glances at each other while your dad and he continued to talk about subjects that didn't capture your interest. Every time he looked at you, you felt like you could explode, his eyes so captivating and simply electrifying. "Here, love." Cillian passed the cigarette over to you, and you took a small drag. Your dad gave you a disapproving look but shook it off as you passed it back, letting out the bellowing smoke from the chambers of your lungs and mouth.
"Weird seein' my little girl smoking a cigarette," Your father grumbled, cracking open a cold one and handing it over to Cillian. "S'not right, you've grown up too fast." While he opened himself a beer, Cillian laid his eyes on you, sucking in the thick smoke of his fag.
You just rolled your eyes at your father's comment. "If it makes you feel better... the only time I have ever smoked a cigarette is when I've been around Cillian." You giggled, looking over at Cillian to see him tilting his head at you, playfully nudging you.
"Hey," He whispered. "Don't dob me in, kid!" His voice was low and husky, you felt yourself squeeze a little at the tremor his tone caused.
Grasping your lip in between your bottom lip you just shook your head as you leaned your head against the wall of the house, staring out at the sunset. You sat out there for a little while, sharing puffs of the cigarette with Cillian until your dad got up, grumbling somethin' about how he was going to help your mother. Leaving you and Cillian alone together. Alone.
"Your parents are pretty eager to hook me up with someone," Cillian said, breaking the silence between you.
"Yeah?" You sucked in a breath.
"Yeah," He took a sip of his beer, setting it down on the table before stretching an arm back and laying it behind you, his hand gently resting on your shoulder. You were flustered, being so close to him, in this sort of dim lighting. "Apparently, I'm goin' out this Saturday to go on a double date wit' your folks... and some woman named Naomi."
You bit back a scowl. "Oh... that's nice..." You lied through your teeth, Cillian just let out an amused huff. It gave off the impression he was irritated with something but you couldn't quite pick up on why he would be annoyed. He wanted you to stand up and tell him to stay, to tell him to be with you instead, he wanted you to be angry, he thought.
You knew who Naomi was. She worked with your dad, you had met her a few times. She was incredibly bright, charming, and nonetheless beautiful, ageing gracefully. Cillian and her were going to get along quite well, in fact, you felt yourself grow sad over the fact they would probably flourish as a couple. You and Cillian sat in silence for a little while longer, you didn't know what else to say. You felt ashamed that this wasn't just a crush you had, you harbored genuine and strong feelings for him that you knew he could never reciprocate. It was wrong. But how could you not want to be with him? He was the best man you'd ever met. Cillian was kind, he understood your silence, and he made you laugh until your ribs hurt. He comforted you like no other, without even trying and god... he was magnetic, the most handsome man you'd ever seen.
"She's not the woman I'm interested in though," Cillian groused, his fingers fiddling with the sleeve of your shirt, his thumb occasionally brushing over the bare skin on your shoulder. You turned your head to look at him with a frown. His face perfectly aligned with yours, hot breath on your face, his pale blue eyes lit up by the rising moon. You could kiss him at that moment... but you wouldn't. You shouldn't. "Y/N..." He took in a deep breath, and your heart raced, it seemed like he was about to confess something. "I..."
"Come on! Let me walk ya home!" Your dad stepped out, and you immediately hopped up and out of the seat, not wanting your dad to see the close proximity you and Cillian were in, not that anything was happening between you two. Not that your dad would see anything you were feeling at that moment. "Sorry was I interrupting something?" Your dad murmured obliviously, disappointment painting both of your faces.
"No... no... I'd better be goin'," Cillian stood up, brushing himself off before pulling you into a tight hug. "See ya round, kid." He whispered into your hair before letting go of you, he gave you a longing stare before turning away.
"Bye, Cillian..."
Your heart sank as you watched him go. Curiosity that ate away at you bubbled in your stomach. What was he going to tell you? Surely... it's not what you were thinking? Sitting in your room that night, you struggled to think about anything else. You hated the idea of Cillian meeting this Naomi woman and falling in love with her. You hated that you felt like you had some sort of possession over him, he wasn't yours and he never would be.
Stormy Saturday rolled around and you had no plans, you just watched your parents get ready for this double date of theirs as you wallowed in self-pity and the sky opened up, just as moody as you were. They pestered you on why you were so grumpy, you just shrugged them off, blaming it on hormones. With every step they took towards the door, your heart broke more and more. You wished them goodbye before sitting on the couch with a tub of ice cream to soothe away the pain. An hour went by and you figured the date had started by now, Naomi and Cillian were probably planning their marriage straight away and you would have to watch him give himself away, you would have to sit in the church pews and resist from standing up and screaming when the minister asks if anyone has any objections. You imagined yourself watching their first dance, watching Cillian stand up and tell the world how she's the most amazing woman he's ever known and that he loves her. You imagined having to congratulate him, you imagined growing old and alone, still just as in love with him as you are now. You groaned at your silly thoughts.
"Get over yourself." You said through gritted teeth, talking to yourself as you bit back tears.
You had some stupid rom-com on, only further reminding you of how painfully alone you were and how desperately you wished to be the one Cillian wanted. You were quickly pulled out of your thoughts by your phone buzzing beside you, quickly picked it up when you saw it was your dad calling.
"Hey dad, how's it going?" You asked with a casual hum, plopping another bit of the vanilla ice cream into your mouth.
"Have you seen Cillian? He's yet to arrive." Your dad sounded worried, he was never a worrier. "He said he was going to show up earlier but we haven't heard from him since... have you heard from him?"
"No, I haven't, is he okay... do you think?" You sat up fully now, setting the ice cream aside. It wasn't like Cillian to not respond at all for so long. If he wasn't going to show up, he'd at least let the people know. You hear a loud strike of lightning outside, shaking the room.
"I don't know, I don't know, Y/N, it's been an hour and a half, he should be here..." Your dad grumbles. You can hear the sound of your mom apologizing to someone else, no doubt Naomi was the person she was apologizing to. Sorry, your future husband hasn't arrived, you imagined her saying. "Alright, I'm gonna go, we're gonna stick around here for a little longer... call me if you hear from him."
The call ends and you're left with an uneasy feeling in your chest. What if Cillian was hurt? You tried to brush away that feeling, getting up and putting the ice cream back in the freezer and the spoon in the sink. A knock at your front door, as loud as the thunder outside made you jump about halfway across the kitchen. Who would be knocking at this time? Especially during this weather?
You rush to the door, the rain pouring out, the trees just about to be ripped out of the ground with how harsh the wind was and you open the door, scowling at the wind.
"Y/N." Cillian gasped out, he looked straight out of a movie scene. Soaking wet. He took a step in, dripping all over the place. His eyebrows furrowed together as he approached you.
"Cillian, what? What are you doing here?!" You exclaimed, shutting the door. "My parents are worried sick about you!"
"I...."
"Why aren't you at your date?" You interrupted, scolding him like a naughty child. He was shivering as he took off his sopping coat, leaving him in a white button-up shirt that was equally soaked. It didn't leave much to the imagination, with the already somewhat translucent material and the water leaking through. It stuck to every inch of his skin like cellophane, his nipples peeked through, his chest and stomach on full display. You stopped yourself from checking him out any further, growing flustered as you felt him corner you in the living room. He had a wild look in his eyes.
"Cillian?" You ask again, concerned. His hair was sticking to his forehead, his eyes locked on you. He didn't seem to really care that he was as wet as a dog.
"Y/N..."
"Cillian..." You repeated.
His eyes said everything he was thinking. Hunger, love, and deep untamed desperation. You winced a bit at the feeling of hand cupping your face. "I love you." He whispered and you gasped.
"Cillian..." You whispered back, hesitant to respond to what he just said. "Have you... have you had something to drink tonight?"
"I'm completely sober, kid," He grunted as he leaned in to kiss you, hot breath on your neck as you quickly turned your cheek to him. You pushed him away, you knew this was wrong. You took a step away from him, and Cillian gave you a look of hurt. "Y/N, baby, I need to tell you this. I have to know you feel the same way." His voice was shaking. The room shook with him, you sat down on your sofa and curled your body up into a tiny ball. "Look at me, kid, look at me." "Don't call me kid!" You yelled with tears in your eyes, finally looking him in the eyes. Cillian jumped a bit at the sudden outburst, it wasn't like you to yell.
"Y/N..." Cillian whispered, a look of hurt.
"We... we can't... I don't know... what's going on right now... but this isn't right... you're my dad's best friend..."
"And you're my best friend's daughter," He sat beside you, placing his hand on your thigh and the other on your chin, making you look at him. "But it doesn't.... it doesn't change these feelings... I have for you."
"Why?" You shook your head away, trying to hide the hot tears that slipped down your face. "Why would you have feelings for me? You could have anyone... and you decide me." "I didn't decide this," Cillian sighed, he leaned in and pressed his face into your warm shoulder. His cold wet hair tickles along your jawline. "But I want you... it doesn't matter... any woman could beg to have me... I'd still want you, Y/N. No one else matters... I need you." Your heart ached. It felt like Cillian had wrapped his warm hand around your poor heart and squeezed it until warm raspberry jam spilled out of his fist. You felt torn.
"Don't cry, baby..." His voice was low and every bit of you wanted to fling yourself at him, to confess your undying love, to run away to Paris with him and never come back. The way he called you baby was delectable. But you couldn't stop thinking about your parents, about the look on their faces if they saw this. "Y/N... baby..." "Stop calling me baby..." You cried, turning your face full of anguish towards him. Cillian's lip quivered, thumb swiping away your tears. "I don't... I don't get it. I just don't get it, Cillian... why... you? Why... me?"
"You are the most extraordinary person I have ever met, kid..." Cillian's petal-like lips whispered to you oh-so-gently. Your eyes locked on the way his mouth moved as he spoke. "I... I know it's wrong, I know I'm a fuckin' creep... for feeling this way for you... I'm old enough to be your goddamn father... I've known you since you were... just seventeen-"
"How long... have you... you known...?"
"Since you came home from your trip to California last year..." He replied all too quickly. "I saw you with that stupid boy... Kyle or whatever the fuck his bloody name was and all I saw was red... I didn't... I couldn't handle seeing you with him." You bit back a smile. "You're too good... for any of those college boys..." He grumbled. "A lady like you... she needs to be treated right."
You can treat me right Cillian, you thought. "I've never wanted them... the way I've wanted you..." "Fuck..." He let out quietly, biting his own lip in response. "You can't say things like that." His blue eyes were just a sliver of what they once were, pupils were blown wide as if he were high from just staring at you. "Most brilliant girl... fuck... that last gig we went to... I wanted to wrap me arm around you and kiss you silly... claim you as mine... but... I was too afraid."
"What gave you the courage?"
"I've just had enough," Cillian swiped another tear off your cheek. "Had enough of waiting... I can't wait any longer..."
"I can't wait any longer either... it's been eating away at me, the idea of you with anyone else. I just... I can't picture you with anyone else."
Cillian grinned at you, still shivering from his wet clothes. You put him out of his misery, connecting your lips. After all this time, what felt like an eternity, you kissed. The oxygen around you no longer mattered, you had each other to breathe in now. This kiss was not slow and romantic, it was violent like you were trying to consume each other, trying to see who could win in this cannibalistic fight. His hands grasped at your waist, pulling you onto his lap and wetting your clothes with his soggy ones.
"Take my shirt off..." He whispered, he didn't have to ask you twice.
You unbuttoned his shirt as best you could while it was wet before ripping it open and revealing his delicious skin. "You're so pretty, Cillian..." This moment was surreal. The man of your dreams, twenty years older than you, with crow's feet and grey hairs, and the most beautiful soul you had ever found, sitting in front of you with his body on display for you. Your soulmate. You both had known it for a long time now. Making out on your couch was unacceptable to Cillian so he picked you up and carried you upstairs with your legs wrapped around his slim waist.
He had been in your room plenty of times before but never for reasons like this. Never with the desire to rip all your clothes off and crawl inside you. Cillian closed and locked the door behind you before throwing you down onto your well-cushioned bed. You watched him slide out of his shoes and pull off the sticky shirt that draped off his shoulders. Now he was completely shirtless and was prowling towards you like a tiger to its prey. "Gonna take your clothes off of now, love, is that alright?" He asked quickly, fingers slipping underneath the waistband of your shorts. You nodded desperately, your brain lost in some sort of fog of disbelief and horniness.
"God..." You whispered as you helped him shimmy off your shorts and you pulled your shirt quickly over your head. Leaving you in nothing but some small boxer shorts. He grinned madly.
"S'pretty..." His hands slid up your waist until both hands cupped each of your tits in his hands. "Fucking hell, kid." You rolled your head back at him calling you that, groaning at how it turned you on and gasping as you felt his hot mouth latch itself onto your hard nipple.
"Cillian... oh my god!" Your fingers tugged on his hair before he pulled off of you with a pop.
His lips were quickly back on yours as he pulled down your shorts, now you were completely naked and he knelt down on his knees so his face was perfectly aligned with what was between your legs. Your pussy was already soaking wet for him, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your clit. "You are the most beautiful thing..." He whispered, staring directly at your throbbing cunt. "And the sweetest." His mouth worked deliciously on you and as if his tongue wasn't already enough, he slipped a finger into you, fingering at your g-spot.
"Oh!" You writhed around on the sheets, thighs tightly locked around his head, wet hair sticking to your soft skin. He was truly devouring you, like a man who had been malnourished for years, he feasted on you as if you were his last meal. And when you came on his face, he moaned loudly. The orgasm crept on you and hit you out of nowhere, you couldn't hold in the noises that came out of your throat.
You were delirious as you lay there, whining as he continued to finger you. "Fuck... I could eat your pussy all night long, baby," Cillian panted, chin dripping in your juices. "But I've gotta be inside ya."
"I'm... on the pill..." You murmured out, he pulled his finger out of you, sucking it clean as he undid his slacks. He moaned lowly at your words, letting his pants and underwear fall to his ankles. Cillian carried you up until your head rested on the pillows now. It was romantic the way he was handling you, the moment was so intimate as he stroked his cock, lining it up with your wanting hole. "I've thought about this... for so long..." "Me too, baby." Cillian huffed, rolling his eyes back into his skull as he fit the head of his cock into your pussy, pushing the rest in there slowly but surely. You arched your back against him, whimpering as he pressed fully into you. "So good." Cillian groaned as he leaned down and bit down on your lip, pulling it away and watching it pop back into place before properly kissing you. You made out while he remained still inside of you, his hands on either side of your head as your tongues twisted together. The first thrust sent your body into a state of euphoria as he began picking up the pace, rocking his hips in and out of you. Your fingers ran scratches up and down his back. Your bed old and creaky, slamming against the wall as soon as he fucked you hard and fast while remaining still so painfully romantic.
"I love you," You gasped out. "I love you... Cillian!"
"I fuckin' love you so much," His head hung low, and you got the perfect view of him above you. His face flushed and his eyes fixed on your own face full of pleasure. "You're mine, all mine... and I'm yours."
"All mine..." You repeated with a moan, clenching around him, feeling your own high slowly begin to grow.
"You're takin' me so good," Cillian's praise made you throb, his grunting making you gush around him. "My good girl, my best girl."
The look of love in his eyes and in your own could be seen a thousand miles away. Your souls' grand reunion, your bodies becoming one, and your love finally coming out into the open, like a beautiful fruitful spring after a long and dark winter. "I'm close, Cillian."
"Cum around me, love, I wanna feel you come undone." "I want you to cum inside me..." "Fuck," He groaned, hips stuttering into you. "I'll give ya what you want since you asked so nicely." Your vision went white, ears ringing as your hot sweaty bodies pressed together, fitting so perfectly together. Never had anyone made you cum like this before. Your orgasm washes over you in foamy waves, like a stormy ocean hitting the shore over and over and over again. Cillian's rhythm slowed down as he rutted into you, warm cum filling you, and you felt so relieved, this was how it was always meant to be. His lips pressed sloppy kisses to your neck, moaning directly into your ear, both of you riding out your intense highs.
He stilled, letting a bit more of his seed spill into you before he hissed as he pulled out. Cillian lay beside you, wrapping an arm around you as shook softly, still feeling the effects of your own orgasm hitting you. His eyes examined you so gently, a dopey smile on his fairy-like face and his hair beginning to grow curly from how wet it was.
"Cillian..." You whispered, rolling over onto your side to look at him. "I love you." "I love you, kid." He whispered back, holding you like he had the world in his arms. To him, you were his world.
"We'll be okay, right?" "We just... have to keep this a secret... from your parents..." Cillian said, disappointment evident in his voice.
"Yeah... I know..." You pressed your face into his bare chest, loving the warmth. "Cillian... I wish you knew how strongly I felt about you."
"I feel the same way."
You shared sweet nothings with each other. Still, in disbelief, this was actually happening as you fell asleep with smiles on your faces, in each other's arms. Unfortunately in the morning, you'd have to suffer the consequences of your dad walking in on you and Cillian resting peacefully in your bed.
-
hi! sorry this was so long but i hope you enjoyed <3
also sorry if there are any major mistakes!
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get0sfav · 1 year ago
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hii hope you’re free to do my req!!😭 its alright if you’re busy but you should do jjk men hcs when they take you to the mall!! 🩷
AT THE MALL | multi.
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↳ toji fushiguro, satoru gojo, suguru geto, kento nanami, sukuna x f!reader
JJK men when they take you to the mall!
slightly suggestive!
warnings! slightly suggestive for satoru and suguru (mentions of handjobs?), pet names (princess, baby, doll, love) other then that none :)
a/n: also please tell me if I should do part two with the younger boys like megumi/yunji too or not!
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Toji Fushiguro!
He's broke as shit how do you think he's supposed to take you anywhere, especially a mall.
Anyways, when you ask him "could you take me to the mall please?" he scoffs lightly, mumbling a low "go by yourself." in between whatever is it that he's doing (probably watching TV). However, once you say that you'd get him food, his ears perk up, but he ignores, which causes you to simply shrug and go get ready.
However when you're at the door, calling his name so he can shut the door, you see him picking up his jacket, you ask him where he's going, to which he responds "can't let ya go alone." and you have to stop yourself from laughing at his antics.
He spends most of the time complaining as you drag him from store to store, grumbling about how you're indecisive as hell and should've just ordered stuff online rather than coming all the way here.
Notices you eyeing something which was a little expensive, and he internally gets sad knowing he couldn't buy it for you even if he wanted, and he knows you would literally dump his ass if he were to threaten the employees to give it to him for free.
Acts like a total baby, annoying you and whining until you get him food, which shuts him up for a while.
Absolutely HATES when you try to buy stuff for him, because he doesn't need that. So when you drag his ass to Sephora, he's grossed out at first, yapping about why he was there and how awkward he looked (which he did) there as compared to everyone, his giant and buff figure something you wouldn't see in Sephora of all places. Although you end up buying a cologne and a skin moisturizer for him apart from everything you got for yourself, to which he kept saying that he didn't need it and all that, but he knew he did, because deep down he wanted his skin to be soft for you to touch.
When you're about to leave the mall, he unexpectedly drags you to an ice cream shop, getting your favorite flavor. It was a silent way of his for thanking you for buying that stuff for him
"thank you for getting me that stuff princess, though I didn't need any of that, I'm naturally gorgeous, but still, thank you" He'd say while pressing a kiss to your head, one of his hands carrying all your bags while the other draped around your shoulder, pulling you into him while you smiled at his words, appreciating the small gesture from his side.
Satoru Gojo!
He takes you to the mall, every week, even if you didn't need anything, making up excuses that he needs to buy something, grumbling things like "gotta get me some new shades/shirts" and he drags you along everytime.
Of course, it's just an excuse, he simply wants to treat you like the princess you are <3
He loves seeing you poke out your tongue in concentration while trying to choose any shirt for him, and oh how his heart melts at that. His heart fluffs up at the fact that you're doing so much just to make sure he ends up looking good (despite the fact he looks good in everything)
What starts as his shopping soon turns into him taking you to the most expensive stores at the mall, and it's his turn to dress you up now.
"hmmm, turn around for me?" He motions his fingers in a circular motion, and you twirl for him. A smile spreads across his face, "You look absolutely gorgeous, and your ass looks great in that dress I swear." He refers to the baby pink dress you wore, slowly walking up to you and pulling you in for a hug, rocking you back and forth "you're so gorgeous, so pretty I can't stop complimenting you, that's how awesome you are baby, I'm so glad you're my girlfriend." He then pulls you in for a kiss, holding your face in both his hands
Gets absolutely everything and anything your eyes linger on for more than 2 minutes, he doesn't care how expensive it is, he's way too rich to care about the price, and of course, there's nothing more important than what you want, that's how much he loves you.
Whatever you want, you just need to name it and he'll be getting it for you immediately, doesn't care if it isn't available because he will make it available. Anything for you.
Would 101% drag you to the lingerie store, getting you new sets because he's torn way too many of your sets. His favorite one is the blue one you choose, which matches the color of his eyes. After you walk out of the store, he bends down to whisper in your ear with a grin "I can't wait to rip that one off of you."
Takes you to the best restaurant after shopping, getting your favorite dishes and drinks because "he just felt like it"
He's the best <3
Suguru Geto!
Suguru takes you out almost every week, but rarely to a mall, so when he asks you whether you wanted to go to the mall, you were a bit shocked. He looked at you with his eyebrows raised, and you shrugged, agreeing to go with him because it wasn't everyday he wanted to go to a mall.
The two of you mostly just walk around, window-shopping rather than actually buying anything. His hand stays in yours at all times, occasionally bringing it up to his mouth to kiss on your knuckles.
Though what attracts you both is an accessories store, where the two of you get all kinds of jewelry and stuff. Suguru gets new earrings for his piercings, while you get necklaces, bracelets and whatever catches your eye.
He pays for everything, of course.
After exiting the store, he remembers how you wanted to get your nails done, so without a word he takes you into the opposite direction towards a nail salon. He helps you out with everything, sitting by your side with his head leaned on your shoulder, and he helps you with everything.
"what color should I get?" You ask him while the lady adds the nail extensions. He thinks for a while, before his thoughts wander to that one video he saw on social media, where the girl got her nails painted with the color of her boyfriend's tip. He smirks and leans into your ear, "get the color of my tip, you know what it is, right princess?" Your eyes widen at his words, shifting in your chair. You ask the lady to apply the color of his tip (or what you think it is, based on your memory) He smiles, he'd know whether it is or it isn't when your hands would be stroking up and down his dick.
Treats you to McDonald's after you've gotten your nails done, repetitively asking if you wanted anything else. He helps you eat your burger because he implemented that you had just gotten your nails done and it'd be a shame for them to break before he got to see whether you picked the right color or not.
Kento Nanami!
Absolute sweetheart. All you had to do was mention that you wanted to go to the mall once and the next day he's taking a sick leave to skip out office and take you to the mall.
He doesn't get the hype of malls, but he's ready to do anything for you.
You guys don't do much shopping and stuff, simply choosing to walk around talking about anything and everything, mainly it was you talking and him listening, but it was okay because he loved the way your voice flowed into his ears. It was music to him. If he could, he'd record your voice and hear it all the time while he was at work, so that he could feel grounded to who he loved, despite the stressful environment.
He's wearing a casual white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and more importantly, his hair was down and he wasn't wearing his glasses. Your arm was looped into his at all times, telling the lookers that he was taken.
After a while, you two decided to eat something. You got yourselves a table while he went to order donuts for the both of you.
While you sat there, your eyes remained focused on your boyfriend, and your brows furrowed as a girl approached him, twirling her hair and what not. You were almost ready to walk to her and tell her to back off, but before you could get up, Kento and the girl looked towards you as he pointed at you, and then made eye contact, waving his hand with a soft smile.
You felt a smile creeping up on your own lips as he walked back towards your table, the smallest hint of smile still plastered over his face when he sits down with your donuts, handing you a spoon.
"Don't think about it doll" His words caught your attention, and as always, he knew exactly what you were thinking about "She came up to me and asked me if I was single, I simply told her that I have the most perfect girlfriend ever and I didn't plan to leave her anytime soon." His words made your heart flutter as a faint hint of blush creeped up on your cheeks, his hand brushing behind a few loose strands of hair from your face.
On your way back to your shared home, Kento got your favorite flowers for you, as a token of his love, "This was one of the best days in my entire life, thank you love." He kissed your cheek, looping your arm in his once more as the two of you walked back
Sukuna!
he doesn't.
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