henry reacting to your whimpers while you fuck, he'd be so cocky fr
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wow, what a thought. and what an excruciatingly accurate one, too. i can picture it perfectly.
because i believe him to secretly thrive on validation, your quite profound verbal responses to his efforts would thrill him greatly. it would go straight to his head, despite the stoicism and whatnot. after all, we all want our certain portions of affirmation at times. your various sounds, laced with pleasure and yearning, would breathe life into him. but also hubris. on specific occasions, he would even mock you for them.
at first, it'd be a mere grin. his face, tense and furrowed due to the exertion, would be brightened by melting into a smug, knowing semi-smirk. you wouldn't even register it at first. with time, as he'd go harder, you'd mewl even louder and more desperately — given that he's had a little bit to drink, i guess that he'd be dangerously likely to deride you verbally, as well.
in less memorable cases, it'd be mere ridiculing hisses like mmhm? that good? or yeah?. on other, notably monumental occasions, however...
"how very responsive," he'd utter, voice breathy and low. at first, you'd mistake his claim for praise, only for him to continue, "quite pathetic, though, if you ask me." all that would come filtering through his tight lips, still strung up in a smirk that would be too uncharacteristically vain. in spite of obviously intended to be derisive, it'd intrigue and excite you fully. who knows — maybe you'll theratrically increase your volume, just to see where that might lead.
in addition, imagine how that would pan out if he was angry... and i'm talking when he's completely letting it all out on you... perhaps in an environment not entirely private, like the nightfallen kitchen of francis' country house or a not exactly thick-walled hotel room... in such instances, combined with his previously established irritation, soft whimpers would already be enough to land you on his bad side, and thereby in the realm of degradation. good god, just shut it... you filthy-mouthed, disobedient thing...
but, y'know, just a notion. all hypothetical. nothing too serious.
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My best friend is uttara phalguni and all of his ex’s were uttara bhadrapada nakshatras sun or moon. He bullied everyone of them for looking like a fish. The way astrology never miss 😅
🤭🤭🤭lol
day 1 of me manifesting a Venusian simp LEZZ GOO
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you guys won't believe this but y'all what a miracle..... God's grace always seems to come in floods when you least expect it. The boy problem is now resolved and at rest (well. somewhat.)
I somehow got around to talking to him yesterday about the disastrous conversation (the one where he went on at length about my age) and, God bless him, it was all ignorance rather than malice. He listened for a while, his face becoming more and more drawn and appalled as I explained how X thing came off, and at one point he just put his head on the table and was very, very upset because he hadn't thought about it from my perspective and hadn't realised the effects of his words. It was a surprisingly comfortable conversation (it is always easy to talk to him), and it was a relief to hear from his lips that he hadn't meant any of it in a hurtful way - he hadn't thought about how his words might sound at all.
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Did you know Chat speaks Chinese? Because I, dear fellow citizens, did NOT UNTIL TWENTY MINUTES AGO
The story, so you can share my misery: it is Wednesday. I'm helping out my old Asian gran in her flower shop. It's almost closing time.
Hurling in comes CHAT NOIR. He is panting. His eyes are wide. He is desperate. He says.
"how do I say 'I'm so sorry I fucked up big time' in flower."
Well.
I, of course, jump into battle mode.
There are pink roses. Carnations. Lily of the Valley. Columbines. All of it. We're assembling the perfect 'i fucked up and I know it' bouquet and we're doing well. I don't ask for whom it is or what he did. A good soldier doesn't question.
Then, from the back, my gran says this very valid thing in Chinese. "You're making a monstrosity. That's 200 Euros upwards."
I freeze. So what do I tell Chat now? Do I awkwardly ask him how much cash he has? Do I suggest that a tomb might be cheaper? I'm lost, staring mutely at him.
When this happens.
In the most desperate, polite, fluent Chinese I've ever heard:
"Madame, do you see the amount of flowers I need. Do you see my plight. What I need to rectify."
She nods.
I nod.
We make his bouquet. He pays. He thanks us. He runs out, almost crashing into a bucket of dandelions.
And that, dear fellow citizens, is how I know #onlyinparis is CN fluent in Chinese if he fucks up badly enough.
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when children go to war.
a drabble: following round 1 of boel this year.
word count: 353 words
Valter didn’t stick around after his victory.
There was no point—to waste time on waiting, on watching when he could be out there in the brawl. Already, this year’s bout was turning out better for him than the last: he’d even had the chance to avenge himself, in part, about his prior loss to the Golden Deer. (He would not be satisfied, of course, until he brought the Lions to victory as well.) The task was a simple one, really, and he would continue this road until the end.
Lance shatters the grass, crunching dirt; an odd angle. (It’s mostly the result of the suddenness with which he sent it flying.) Iron stood not too far away, easily within hand’s reach if he dashed, but for now–
‘You know, I still treasure that flower crown.’ (A self-absorbed scoff.)
For what was the purpose of such an asinine comment? To remark to a stranger that you ‘cherished’ something from them—really, it only spoke of her more than anything. (To value it to begin with was a foolish thing, but to bring it up as they were opponents, combatants, enemies–)
A crunch from a near distance. Head jerks around, spotting pink—flames conjured to descend; the Moonstone steps back, using the magic as cover. The crackle becomes footsteps, the light casting shadows—he always had thoughts on forests, but for now, it was the sight of an attempted ambush. Hand draws the new weapon acquired from the Golden Deer.
Click.
And the student falls—not dead though, importantly. (It didn’t take much analysis though for Valter to recognize the ease with which it could happen.) Instead, they are only disarmed; rendered incapable of fighting but not of committing the long trek back to camp. It is not the priestess, of course, for he had already defeated her. (The thought isn’t even worth having, to be frank—that somehow, he had not succeeded.) Eyes widen in the shadows, locking for but a moment before Valter smiles, stepping back.
Because in the end, the fight is all that matters. (Sentimentality could find a place in the heart of a weaker man.)
Imitation Dakka acquired!
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