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#the rite of movement

tightjeansjavi · 1 month

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The Rite of Movement | drabble

“oh sweet, sweet, dark haired man”

A/N: what’s crazy is that this idea came to me because I was watching Iron Man 2 and when Tony Stark is drunk at his birthday party?? I also do not understand the correlation whatsoever, but here we are 🤣 and Mai Tais are no joke lol

~word count: 1k~

Summary: it’s the first night of yours and Joel’s honeymoon, and he’s had a few too many Mai Tais tonight, baby love.

Pairing | pornstar!husband Joel x pornstar!female reader

Warnings: alcohol consumption, implied smut, established relationship, dirty talk, teasing, flirting, language, breeding kink??, Joel forgets you’re his wife in an endearing way, he also wants to pump you full of his babies, Joel is in his 40’s reader is in her 30’s, reader has no physical descriptions, readers nickname is baby love, +18 minors dni!

series masterlist

“Baby loooove.” He hummed into your ear, arms looped around your waist for support in his drunken stupor.

Joel had a few too many Mai Tais the first night of your honeymoon. Combined with hours laying in the sun, endless amounts of delicious food and love making with you, he was in a syrupy sweet, love sick haze.

“Let’s get you back to the room, okay baby?” You had your arm wrapped around his middle, guiding him towards the direction of your private honeymoon suite.

“Can’t feel my legs.” He giggled, burying his face into your neck, steps staggered as you guided him along, “and you smell fuckin’ delicious! Jesus fuckin’ Christ, what perfume are ya wearin’, baby love?”

“That would be the rum talking, baby.” You giggled with him, giving his waist a gentle squeeze. “It’s your favorite perfume, Joel.”

He chuckled, peppering kisses against your exposed neck, leaning further into your supportive hold around him, “Well, ain’t I the luckiest man alive. Where ya takin’ me, pretty girl?”

“To the room, baby. And then we’re gonna get you some water, okay?”

“And you’re coming with me?” He questioned softly.

“Course I am. Gonna get you nice and comfy and we’ll have a good snuggle.” You promised him.

“Oooh! A snuggle with my baby love? Well, now I’m really lucky!” He chuckled. “Man, this place is so beautiful, isn’t it?” He detached his lips from your neck and tilted his chin upwards so he could look up at the millions of stars and the gently swaying palm trees.

“It’s very beautiful, baby.” You agreed.

“Not as beautiful as you, of course. You’re like—the most beautiful person ever, so beautiful that sometimes my brain turns to absolute mush when you’re around me! Isn’t that crazy?” He said with a lopsided grin, eyes barely peeked open as he looked over at you and leaned in to nuzzle his nose against your cheek.

“You wanna hear something just as crazy, baby?” You met his hazy gaze with a soft smile tugging on your lips as you reached your freehand up to brush away a few stray curls from his forehead that were obstructing his view.

“What could be crazier than that, baby love?”

“Sometimes my brain turns to mush when you’re around me too, Joel.”

He gasped in surprise, not believing the words leaving your mouth, “whaaat? No way! That is crazy!” He hiccuped, “‘scuse me baby love, m’ a bit drunk right now. Too many Mai Tais.” He rasped.

“It’s okay, baby. That’s why I’m here. Getting you back to the room safely.” You reassured him.

He nodded, crouching down a little so he could bury his face into your neck once more despite the faint strain in his lower back that he was feeling at this angle. “Baby love, I may be super drunk right now, but imma tell you somethin’, ‘kay?”

“I’m all ears, baby.” You mused.

“One day, and I’m hopin’ it’s soon, m’gonna ask you to be my wife and we’re gonna have lots and lots of babies—if that’s what you want, of course. Hopefully my swimmers are healthy n’such but if not, then there's other options. Hey—why are you gigglin’ over there?” He pouted his lips against your skin, tilting his head back so he could look over at you.

“Baby, my sweet, sweet, dark haired man, I am your wife! We’re on our honeymoon right now, Joel.” You softly reminded him as you held back your giggles as best as you could.

“WHAT? Oh my goodness—you’re my wife? Oh, goodness! I really am that lucky, huh? Wait, lemme see the ring! I better have picked out a good one or so help me—”

“Joel!” You giggled, “those Mai Tais really got to you, huh? You had the ring custom made, baby.” You stopped walking, letting him grab your left hand in his big warm palm and ogle at the dainty rock on your ring finger.

His eyes were dazzling like the stars glimmering above as he brought your hand to his lips and pressed his lips to your fingers and one to the ring. “Very, very, beautiful.” He hummed. “I have good taste, huh?”

“You do, baby. You have wonderful taste and I’m so lucky.” You preened.

“No, no, I am the lucky one here, baby. And tomorrow mornin’ when I wake up hungover, imma treat you sooo fuckin’ well. Breakfast in bed, mine between your thighs, of course. And then I’m gonna feed you my cock—”

You shushed him with a sweet kiss to his lips, “I love you so much, my sweet dark haired man.”

“Mmm.” He hummed against your lips, pulling you in closer, “I love you more, my baby love. Can I pump you full of my babies tomorrow mornin’, please?”

“You’re such a horndog, Mr. Miller.” You giggled against his lips, kissing him deeper, “You can pump me full of your babies, okay? And maybe we’ll get lucky and one of them will stick?”

“Jus’ how you like me, Mrs. Miller. Oh, and one of ‘em will stick. I believe in my trusty little swimmers.” He slowly pulled back from the kiss so he could look at you.

You took all of him in from his messy hair, to his beautiful brown eyes, the flush to his neck and the apples of his cheeks, his swollen lips from your kisses, and his glistening tanned chest peeking out through the opening of his shirt.

“You’re so beautiful, Joel.” You breathed out, and you could feel tears begin to prick in the corner of your eyes.

He sniffled, eyes equally as glassy, and he brought his warm palms to rest along your cheeks, and gently pressed his forehead against yours, “my baby love, if you don’t quit that sweet talkin’, I’m gonna turn into a puddle of waterworks.” He playfully warned you.

“Okay, Mr. drunk sappy pants, let’s get you home.” You pecked his lips one last time before wrapping your arm back around his waist so he could lean into you.

“Lead the way, baby love.” He whispers soft and sweet, drunk on Mai Tais and your love.

Banners made by the lovely @saradika-graphics 💕

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itsokbbygrl · 21 days

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Sunday Scheming with @tightjeansjavi for the PSJ-verse 👀 spoiler redacted. Keep ya eyes peeled though.

#having a haha hehe #while watching the Red Wings game #and trying to shake off the bad mood having my parents in my space put me in #the rite of movement

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a-typical · 4 months

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Many children and grandchildren of immigrants, have, like Sarah, found themselves severed from their family’s cultural rituals. The funeral system in the United States is notorious for passing laws and regulations interfering with diverse death practices and enforcing assimilation toward Americanized norms.

In a particularly heartbreaking example, many Muslims would like to be able to open funeral homes in the U.S. and serve their communities as licensed funeral directors. Islamic custom is to wash and purify the body immediately after death before burying it as quickly as possible, ideally before nightfall. The Muslim community rejects embalming, recoiling at the idea of cutting into the body and injecting it with chemicals and preservatives. Yet many states have draconian regulations requiring funeral homes to offer embalming and all funeral directors to be trained as embalmers, despite the fact that the embalming process itself is never required. Muslim funeral directors must compromise their beliefs if they want a chance to help their community in death.

— From Here to Eternity: Traveling the World to Find the Good Death, Caitlin Doughty

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intheseautumnhands · 2 years

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always fun: spending three hours miserable from a headache only to realize I haven’t had caffeine in two days, and it starts to clear up once I get coffee

I was dreading the absolute lack of ability to do anything I was going to have tonight and now look at me! the internet is my oyster!

#and by that I mean #I might try to get more words in on the blades post-finale fic #and/or some no true pair fic #eventually if i give up on that I may play some Sunless Sea or Skies but I would really like tow rite #now that every noise and movement doesn't feel like a sledgehammer to the brain

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newsworth · 2 years

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* @halechief 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 : are you sure you didn’t want to mention something to me?

“ i did , i just i don’t really know how. “ 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬. that itself was an alien , oil in water sort of feeling that he had been wrestling with. the last few days were a stiff state of nerves with exchanges being kept brief , sharp even , to distract from the separate bed of nails beneath his frigid expression and avoid provoking the frightened snake in his stomach.

she notices , like she does with all things. suppose he could had hid his teeth better , if he really hadn’t wanted her to , but they’re beyond that. in fact , he feels silly for even having waited for her to bring it up first , silly in a way that threatens a hot , pink stained cheek look about him. he aims it at the floor at the last second and worries his molars into the thrust of a ball point pen. “ it’s nothing to do with you. i’ve just been a little on edge , lately , i’m sorry. did i tell you that he asked me to marry him? jayne did. “

#halechief #* 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐞 : you are the rite of movement.#i posted this without any tags ... how uncivilized #i know i said i probably wouldnt have this posted for a while but ...#whatever ! im a liar ! we know this about me #i love u #its ok if u snore

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darksigns-exe · 3 months

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Could I get a mood board for rite of movement 2 please??

#wip weekend #answered #fic: rite of movement

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hedgehog-moss · 15 days

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My self-imposed chore for today was to clean the donkey's shelter + 1/4th of the pasture, use the most composted manure that's basically already soil for my potato growing bags, and use the rest to shut down (and fertilise) one of the llamas' bathtubs.

See, the llamas dig these grassless circles with their pointy camelid nails so they can dustbathe like giant gerbils to keep parasites away. I fully accept that it is a healthy and normal llama behaviour but I wish they'd dig one bathtub and stick to it. Instead, every few months they abandon their bathtub and go dig a new one, and never seem to wonder how the sterile moon craters they leave behind end up magically fertile and grassy again.

It's not magic! It's me. I keep moving your (excellent, nutritious, full of plant seeds) poop from one spot to the other so the pasture doesn't become a polka-dotted graveyard of former bathtubs. I understand that if you were wild llamas you would abandon the bathtub and not return for months or years so grass would have time to grow back (I have read Pampe's 600-page manifesto on the health & environmental benefits of wild roaming), but surely you could notice your habitat has changed, and change your behaviour accordingly.

Use your abandoned bathtubs as latrines, for example, so I no longer have to move the poop where it is needed. Or at the very least set up your latrines uphill from the bathtubs? so I can push my extremely heavy wheelbarrows of manure down the slope? 🙏 There are options.

(In the foreground of this video you can see a former bathtub that was covered in manure a few months ago and has begun to heal, and in the background, Pampy happily starting a new one.)

Another thing: there is no need to act like I'm committing a crime when I cover an abandoned bathtub with manure. I only do it once I'm sure everyone has moved on from this one and yet it often prompts Pampelune (Bathtub Administrator) to start digging several new ones like she's convinced I have been gripped by a mindless bathtub-confiscating frenzy and if she doesn't outpace me she'll never get to feel the soft caress of dirt on her wool again.

Sometimes it even triggers protest movements.

Not really—I thought this was a protest involving a lie-in, or maybe a lock-on. In a complex triangle formation around the terminated bathtub (and I was going to say, that's not how this works. You're supposed to glue yourself to the ground of your bathtub to obstruct my work and refuse to budge even when I start shovelling manure on your heads. Protesting after the fact and from a safe distance is pointless and performative)—but then I realised my interpretation was clearly wrong. This was a llama mourning rite to honour last summer's bathtub, and the triangle symbolism simply represents the three stages of life, and the fact that everything, even beloved dust bathing spots, has a beginning, heyday, and end.

#crawling along

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humanpurposes · 5 months

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Mine All Mine

Michael doesn't have a lot of friends, nor does he want them. Now he thinks he might have found his perfect match, and he has no intentions of letting her slip away

Main Masterlist

Michael Gavey x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, Michael Gavey being a little shit (affectionately), possessive behaviour (yk the drill here)

Words: 7k

A/n: This ended up leaning into more of a cuter side, I definitely wanna do something creepier with him at some point! Also available to read on AO3.

He gets to the room early, before the tutor has even arrived. It’s his first tutorial of the year and his first ever at Oxford. He stands straight with his head up and his hands unmoving, a picture of neutrality. He has his problem sheet in his satchel and runs through the questions in his head, not because he needs to, not because he doubts himself, but simply because he can.

He doesn’t even like maths all that much, but he’s always been good at it. He had considered doing something a little less straightforward, physics or economics, but then what would be the point in getting into Oxford to be anything less than perfect?

He knows his tutor’s name from his schedule, Stephen Breyer. He arrives only a few minutes later and they go inside. The tutorial room is small, with three of the four walls covered in bookshelves. In the centre of the room there is a table, an armchair on one side and a small sofa on the other.

Michael takes the seat closest to the door. It puts him in a slightly more direct line of sight with Stephen. It also means his tutorial partner will inevitably have to climb over his legs to sit down and the thought amuses him.

“How are you finding it so far?” Stephen asks, unpacking a thermos flask and a notebook from his bag.

“It?” Michael repeats.

Stephen pauses and looks at him, slightly bewildered. “Well, the course, the college, Oxford. All of it.”

“Right,” Michael says. He takes his time taking out a pencil and his problem sheet before placing them on the table. He sits back against the sofa and rubs his lips together in thought.

He supposes it’s been exactly as he had expected. Lectures have been fairly straightforward, Lincoln college looks the same as it had in the prospectus, and so far, most of the people seem insufferable. So many of them have no sense of urgency, no drive to truly succeed because to them, Oxford is a rite of passage rather than an earned privilege. He’s met maybe one person he’d consider worthy of his time, and even then, Oliver Quick is only a literature student. He might as well get a degree in overthinking.

Stephen is looking at him like he is still expecting an answer. Michael stares back. He’s never been one to bother with smalltalk.

“Alright then,” Stephen says, then nods to the empty place on the sofa. “Do you know if–”

The door opens and a girl walks in, closing it gently behind her. “Sorry I’m late,” she says, eyes flickering around the room and settling on the space beside Michael.

He’s seen her before, in lectures, in the dining hall, walking around the college with her little group of friends. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were all Cheltenham girls by the way they talk and dress in the stupid outfits rich girls wear to make themselves seem like normal people.

He watches her as she walks towards him, the awkward little smile she gives him before she steps over his legs.

“Sorry,” she says again, falling onto the sofa. Michael almost winces at the sudden jolt of movement and the faint scent of a sweet perfume drifting from his left. “Had some trouble finding the room.”

“You’re right on time,” Stephen says, “we haven’t started yet.”

She’s better at the smalltalk than he is. She has a constant smile on her face and a bright look in her eyes, already having plenty of humorous anecdotes to share, despite the fact it’s only their second week.

As they go through the questions on the sheet, comparing calculations and answers, Michael is horrified to find that he’s a little nervous. His throat feels dry and he can feel his heart pulsing in his chest. It’s her fault, he thinks. Everything about her is distracting, the sound of her voice, the satisfied little hum she makes when she realises she’s got another question right. Her black tights, the way her skirt rides up her thigh when she crosses her legs.

He wants to think she’s vapid, a pretty face dressed up in black boots and a denim jacket, but to his dismay, all of their answers are the same, down to every detail in their calculations.

That is until they reach the last question. It’s terribly complex and he had almost struggled with it. Almost.

He steals a quick glance at her sheet and notices their answers are different. Because she’s missed a step, he realises. He feels a smile creeping across his lips.

He proudly goes through his working out, delighted at the surprised look on her face as she goes over her own sheet.

“I got something different,” she says with a shrug.

Stephen invites her to talk through her answer. Her voice is quieter and softer than it was before, but not as defeated as he’d like.

“She has you beat there, Mr Gavey,” Stephen says.

It’s like being punched in the gut. “What?”

“Overextend yourself a little,” he explains, drawing a line through the last few calculations on his paper. “Make sure to read what the question asks of you.”

His blood is boiling and his fists are clenched. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been wrong. A dangerous impulse in the back of his mind wants to scream his throat raw and tear his paper to pieces.

Then he feels a warmth settle over his knuckles. She’s placed her hand over his.

“It’s a compliment, really,” she says to him.

He looks up at her, only more infuriated by the gentle expression on her face. But he knows better than to let anger get the better of him. It will only leave him feeling ashamed. So he forces a smile and nods. “Thank you.”

She smiles too, sweet and reassuring.

He can’t bear the humiliation. Once they’re dismissed he packs up quickly, practically storming out of the room before she even has a chance to stand up.

He spends the rest of the day in his dorm, looking over the same problem and pulling at his hair, because now his mistake seems glaringly obvious. How could he be so useless? So careless as to not even read the fucking question properly?

His room is on the second floor, overlooking the quad. There are always people around, walking between classes, sitting on the grass, their voices and the smell of cigarette smoke rising and drifting in through his window. He hates it. He hates the noise, the distraction.

But as he goes to close the open window he spots her. It’s only for a moment. She’s walking towards the library with her hands in the pocket of her jacket and her backpack slung over one shoulder. She’s not with any of her preppy friends, in fact she looks rather solemn.

He feels a slight twinge of guilt in his gut. Perhaps he had been a little unfair to her in their tutorial.

He keeps noticing her, especially at meal times and during lectures. Whenever he enters a room he finds himself searching for her, and if he cannot find her, he waits for her to appear. He plays guessing games with himself, waiting to see what outfit she’ll wear, the pretty mini skirt or a pair of faded blue baggy jeans. If she’ll be with her friends or if she’ll be alone.

He never approaches her. He waits for her to look at him, and once they’ve made eye contact she’ll smile at him.

He likes watching her, and comes to the conclusion that she is charming and polite, but not overbearing, and that’s what's so intriguing about her. She knows how to talk to people, even the most insufferable of their peers, but she’s not nearly entitled enough to truly be one of them.

It’s a Friday evening the next time they actually speak. The library tends to be quieter at this time and he has a textbook to look over before his next lecture. Only, when he goes to find the book, he discovers the last copy has been checked out a matter of minutes ago. Fucking typical.

He goes to stalk out of the library, debating whether or not he can be bothered to ask Oliver if he wants to grab a drink in The King’s Arms, when he sees her.

She’s alone, with her chin in her palm, writing in a notebook as she looks at the textbook open in front of her. He’s willing to bet that’s exactly the book he needs.

He approaches her slowly, waiting for her to look up and notice him, but she seems utterly absorbed in what she’s doing. Only when he puts a hand on the back of her chair and leans over her shoulder does she react to him.

He sees her jump when he gets too close. “Jesus Christ!” she hisses, clutching her hand over her chest.

“Sorry,” he mutters, still hovering over her. “Did I frighten you?”

She hums a laugh but composes herself quite quickly. She turns her head to look at him. “I’m guessing you want the book?” she says, her breath fluttering over his cheek.

He straightens his back so he can look down at her. “Will you have it for long? Only I think I’ll get through the reading quite quickly.”

“Oh yes of course, you’re a genius, right?” she says with a grin.

Irritation scratches under the surface of his skin, hot and restless. That’s how he usually introduces himself, but it’s the truth.

“We could just share,” she says, gesturing to the empty seat beside her, “that is, unless you don’t think I’ll be able to keep up.”

There’s something exciting about the way she holds his gaze, the hint of a smile on her lips.

She offers to go back a page so he can catch up and admittedly, he skims through, only writing down a few notes before he tells her to move on. He can find the book again if he really needs to.

He has to lean over his left arm rather significantly to read the book properly. She notices this, and pushing it closer to him, shuffling her chair over to follow. They’re close enough that he can smell her perfume again.

“None of your little friends around then?” he asks quietly, so as not to disturb the other students.

“What?”

“That group of girls,” he says, “I’ve seen you sitting with them in the dining hall.”

She brings her chin back to her palm but doesn’t look up from her notes. “They live on my floor. I don’t need to spend every waking moment with them.”

“Touchy subject?” he asks, perhaps a little too hopefully.

His heart leaps in triumph when she looks up at him. “No. I’m just not sure I’d count them as friends, necessarily.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“Not my kind of people,” she says.

“Why not?”

She frowns briefly. He thinks she might scold him for being so direct, for asking so many questions, for being too intrusive. But she doesn’t.

The textbook is forgotten. She tells him about the village where she grew up, a sad little place by the sounds of it. She spent most of her schooling surrounded by the same twenty or so kids.

“For a long time, I knew there was something people didn’t like about me,” she says. “I didn’t understand why. I was never rude or cruel, I just kept my head down and did my work. The other girls told me I was a freak, the boys used to tease me, pull my hair, tear pages out of my books. Mum said people hated me because I was clever. Dad said I should stop complaining. So I did.”

He can’t help but draw a comparison to himself. He can feel it when he meets someone new, the inherent distrust, the sense that there is something inherently unlikeable about him. In a way he likes that people are unnerved by him because at least it’s something he can control. He has never been one for friends or common ground, a consequence of being the smartest person in every room.

He watches her intently as she tells him about a private school a few miles outside of her village, a proper posh place, Victorian buildings and sprawling estates. For her, it was her one chance of escape, and while her parents worked hard to make ends meet, the only way she was going to get in was with a scholarship. So she worked for it, got all A*s in her GCSEs, started at the posh school, and from there, set her sights on Oxford.

“You’re rather deceptive,” he says.

She smiles at him. “It’s not like I lied. Were you expecting a daddy’s money brat?”

“There’s enough of them about,” he says.

She huffs a laugh and rolls her eyes. “Fucking tell me about it.”

They start to make a habit of studying together, at first it’s by coincidence, and then she gives him her number so they can organise themselves more effectively. They meet at the library every Friday to share a textbook or go over problem sheets, in preparation for their lectures. They even start to meet before their tutorials together, to compare answers and make sure neither of them are left out. Sometimes they go for coffee after their classes, and branch off to chat about things that aren’t maths.

He tells her about the grammar school he went to, that most of the boys there were rugby playing morons. He tells her about his family, his mum, his dad, the family cat that’s been around longer than he has. He tells her about his summer, running numbers for his uncle’s accountancy firm.

She tells him about the posh school, that starting at a boarding school was like being thrown into a different universe. Sure, she had been the odd one out and got the odd “povo” comment, but it was the first place where she had felt like she didn’t have to be ashamed of her own intelligence. She learnt how to fit in, to the point where he can’t tell if she actually likes her preppy friends or if she just puts up with them for the sake of it.

He starts to wonder if he could consider her a friend. He likes that she’s smart and sharp, the slight air of competition when they compare notes or go through a problem together. He likes challenging her, making her second guess herself, watching the way she squirms and tries to hide that she’s flustered. Just once, he thinks it would be fun to one-up her, but of course, she never slips up, and she never makes a mistake.

On Halloween she mentions a party at Magdalene College being hosted by one of her old school friends. Of course he’s sceptical. Hanging around a bunch of stuck up posh kids, who no doubt will all be in slutty costumes and getting off on each other’s egos, isn’t exactly his idea of fun. Although, part of him is intrigued to see her in a different setting.

So he agrees to meet her outside her dorm at 10pm exactly. He doesn’t bother with fancy dress, opting for jeans and a black jumper so that he can just fade into the background.

She appears with some of her preppy friends. They’re all in pastel dresses of differing colours, matching wings strung on their backs, glitter on their cheeks, a little pack of fairies. She’s in white mini dress that floats around her thighs as she moves, more like an angel.

She introduces him enthusiastically to the girls, already giddy from their pre-drinks, pink gin and rosé. None of them seem that interested by his presence and he grunts in response.

She links her arm through his as they walk over the cobbles, through the maze of ancient buildings to the dorm where the party is being held. She talks about everything and nothing. She tells him who’s going to be there, who’s been uninvited but might show up just to stir shit, how many girls are going to be there and that they’re all going to be trying to get into Felix Catton’s Calvin Kleins.

“Are you going to get with anyone?” she asks.

He makes a sound of disgust.

“Come on, Michael, live a little!”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think– I don’t know–”

She puts her hands on his shoulders and turns him to face her. “Have you kissed anyone before?”

He swallows thickly. It’s not something he’s ever been ashamed of before, now it feels like a weight crushing down on his chest. “No,” he says, simply, determined to remain indifferent.

“Get with someone tonight!” she says excitedly, “just for the fun of it, we’ll find you someone good.”

He hates the idea, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell her. Perhaps it seems like fun to her, but to him it seems like an impossibility, and he thinks he’d rather have the consistency of being unwanted.

The party itself is loud and sparsely lit by neon lights. He starts off on bottles of beer to ease himself into it, but seeing everyone else is doing pills and white lines, he thinks he might need something stronger to get through the night, especially when she keeps getting distracted. The angel is quite the social butterfly and insists on saying hello to everyone, even the people she’s never met.

He finds himself in a common room and reaches for a bottle of whisky and a cup when he spots her. She’s leaning against a wall, wings discarded on the floor beside her. A tall boy, wearing nothing but jeans, a pair of feathery costume wings and a horrible Carpe Diem tattoo on his forearm, has his hands on her waist. She’s smiling and giggling into his neck every time he goes in to kiss her. Of all the girls Felix could go after.

His skin feels tight. He fears if he keeps having to watch this little display he’ll retch his guts up, and yet he’s utterly hypnotised by it, the way she had her arms around his shoulders, the way her fingertips trace the base of his neck. And fuck, he’s never seen her look so beautiful.

He ends up downing the rest of the whisky straight from the bottle and most of the night becomes a blur after that. At some point he thinks he starts trying to talk to one of her pastel fairy friends. He doesn’t catch her name, and he wouldn’t care to remember it anyway. She plays with his glasses, tries them on and giggles hysterically. He thinks she must be completely off her face, considering the look of utter disgust she had given him at the start of the night.

Somewhere in the noise of the party she throws her arms around his neck and they sway clumsily to the overwhelming bass of the music. He thinks he feels her lips graze his cheek, his jaw, his neck, but where he can help it, he keeps his eyes on his angel. Felix has one of her legs around his waist and his hands halfway up her skirt.

Fuck this.

He pushes the nameless girl off him and storms over to put an end to the scene before him. He grips Felix by his shoulders to pull him off her, grabs her by the arm and drags her out of the dorm. He doesn’t look back to see if Felix protests, he’ll probably find some other throat to stick his tongue down.

She tries to shout over the music. “Where are we–”

“I’m tired,” he snaps, bringing his face in close to hers. He gets closer than he means to, pressing his nose and his forehead against hers. He’s breathing fiercely, he realises, desperate to contain the full extent of his anger, his jealousy. “I want to leave.”

She stares back at him with parted lips, and nods.

He feels better the moment they’re outside, away from the disorientation of the party. He takes deep breaths of the night air, cold and sharp in his lungs. He snatches off his glasses, runs his hands over his face and his hair to find himself drenched in sweat.

His angel tucks herself in against him, under his arm, huddling her arms around herself and shivering.

“Do you want my jumper?” he says. His voice and the words on his tongue feel strange. His limbs feel weightless as he pulls it off and helps her into it.

“Hmm, thank you,” she says dreamily, clinging onto his arm as they stumble back to Lincoln College. He burns where she touches him, her fingertips digging into his skin. He loves it, and hates that her hands were on someone else before him.

“You were getting rather cozy with Miranda,” she says.

“Who?”

“Lilac fairy costume,” she says, playfully hitting his arm. “Did you kiss her?”

His heart sinks. He presses his lips together but she doesn’t seem to pick up on his annoyance. “No,” he says with a tight jaw.

“Oh no,” she says, looking up at him with a comically sad pout.

“It’s not important,” he says.

“It’s your first kiss! Or should have been your first kiss. It’s important. Did you at least have a good time before you got tired?”

“No,” he says, “your friends are all imbeciles.”

They walk the rest of the way back to her dorm in silence. He makes sure she has her keys, holds her face between his hands and tells her to drink a whole glass of water before she falls asleep.

She leans into his touch with a sleepy smile. “Yes, yes, I will,” she whines.

The sound stirs a wanting in his stomach. Suddenly his heart is beating faster than it ever has before.

“And call me if you need anything–”

“Would you want to kiss me?” she asks.

His eyes flicker down to her lips. His hands are still cupping her cheeks. “What?”

Her eyes are wide and alert. “I just mean, I could be your first kiss, if you wanted to.” She places her hands on his wrists, tracing her fingertips over his skin, along his forearms. It’s such a simple touch, and yet he can feel it driving him slowly insane.

He imagines her hands running over the rest of his body, down his chest, his stomach, teasing over the growing hardness in his jeans.

“You’re drunk,” he whispers, terrified of how desperate his voice might sound.

She rises onto her toes, inching her face closer to his, drawing her nose over his cheek. “So?” she says, lips brushing over his skin, “I promise it’ll feel good.”

Their lips find each other in a simple movement. It’s easier than he thought it would be, following the movements of her mouth, letting his hands fall from her face and rest on her waist. He can feel her breathing, the little hums she makes as she kisses him and runs her hands through his hair.

He decides, in that moment, that she is perfect. She is bright and beautiful, passionate and kind, soft and sharp, everything he wants for himself, the only person he has ever felt a need for. That need burns through his bloodstream, goes straight to his head and makes his mind hazy. It tightens in his gut and only makes that wanting feeling in his chest feel emptier. His heart races, his trembling hands graze over the thin, silky material of her dress.

His glasses come askew. He feels her smile against his lips and it feels good. Really fucking good.

His hands clench into a firmer grip on her waist. He needs to keep her close, to touch her, feel her, know she wants this as much as he does.

Only she’s slipping away.

Her hands come away from his neck and the cold night air stings his skin in her absence. She pulls her head away, not abruptly, but that’s the pain of it. He leans forward to chase her lips but he has no choice but to let her go in the end.

She looks up at him with a vague smile. “See? It’s nice, isn’t it?”

Nice in the moment. Pure torture that he’ll have to spend the rest of the night clinging onto the memory, only able to imagine how good it felt.

After that night he cannot escape the thought of her, when he’s in his lectures, when he’s in the library, when he’s walking between classes, when he’s in the dining hall. If he’s with her he cannot help but notice every little detail about her, her clothes, her hands, the colour of her nail polish, every micro expression, every word, every laugh, every sigh.

And when he’s alone, he can’t help but picture her in that white dress, the sound of her voice, the feel of her lips. He can’t help but imagine what it would be like to run his hands over every inch of her skin and make her a breathless, whining mess. When he’s in his dorm, it’s inevitable that his hand will end up dipping into his boxers, stroking himself until he spills over his knuckles with a grunt or a whisper of her name.

He’s never known himself to be so distracted.

Worst of all is the rage that comes with the wanting. He hates walking into the lecture hall to see her chatting to someone else, seeing her with her preppy friends around the college or drinking with that old school friend in the King’s Arms. None of them deserve her. None of them. Does she even realise it? How long before she loses herself, before she decides she doesn’t need him?

He knows he’s not a sentimental person. He doesn’t have a lot of friends nor does he want them. People have come in and out of his life, but this girl is different. He feels a draw to her, a hunger that he can’t satiate with his own imagination. She is everything he wants for himself, and he has no intentions of letting her slip away.

As Michaelmas terms comes to an end, the colleges and libraries are covered with garlands and wreaths. Despite the lingering worry in the back of his mind, Michael is rather happy with his collection of outcasts, though poor Oliver Quick seems rather unhappy at being a designated Norman-No Mates.

He finds it easier to get her attention as the term and the workload progresses. They’ve had tutorials and summative assignments, and she’s finally starting to struggle.

And then there was the incident about the scholarship. One of the preppy friends let slip that she wasn’t paying for her tuition fees or her accommodation, likely done out of jealousy after she’d gotten close to Felix at the Halloween party. He was there for her with a perfectly good shoulder to cry on when half the girls in her dorm started teasing her for it.

He tells her that she doesn’t have time to get distracted with parties or friends who won’t help her succeed.

He’s sitting at a table in the library, ready for one of their Friday evening study dates. She’s late but soon hurries in, pulling off the thick red scarf she has wrapped around her neck and shrugging off her denim jacket.

He has the textbook open at the right page and places a Crunchie in front of her when she sits down.

“Did you know there was a college Christmas party tonight?” Michael asks as she takes down her notes. “We’re NFI, apparently. Not fucking invited.” He’d checked his pigeonhole, and Oliver’s for good measure.

In the corner of his eye, he sees her look up from her notebook.

“As if we’d actually want to hang out with those vapid cunts,” he says, laughing to himself. He turns his head to check if she’s laughing too.

She doesn’t look very amused. “Actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me,” she says.

He pauses, hovering his pencil over his worksheet. “You got an invitation?” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” she says, “I was chatting with some of the literature guys the other day, you know Farleigh Start–”

“What the fuck were you talking to him for?” He asks in a voice like ice.

She stares at him with wide, almost accusing eyes. “What, am I not allowed to talk to anyone besides you?”

“They’re not worth your time so stop acting like a fucking bootlicker” he hisses. “They’re all self-obsessed and cruel, and I don’t know why you’re so desperate for their approval.”

“Desperate,” she echoes.

The silence of the library is screaming at him. He has an awful feeling in his stomach, like he’s done something wrong, like he’s pushed a little too far.

It’s Halloween all over again. He can feel her slipping away, and he can’t reach out for her, can’t hold onto her and make her stay where he wants her. He curls his fists as he feels his body start to tremble.

“I guess I won’t waste any more of your precious time then,” she says sharply as she starts to pack up her things.

“No,” Michael utters. He reaches his hand up as if to stop her but she stands up, out of his reach. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

She throws on her jacket, wraps her scarf around her neck and turns around, glaring down at him with sad, glassy eyes. “I need to get ready,” she says. “Enjoy the rest of your night.” Then she sweeps out of the hall with a cold rush of air and a slam of the doors.

Michael groans and lets his head fall into his hands. How had he managed to fuck up that badly?

He can’t think about the problems on the sheet in front of him, or think about the reading from the textbook. All he can picture is her in some skimpy dress, letting some sick trust fund baby put his hands all over her. It makes him want to tear his hair out.

He stays there until the evening has turned to night, until any other stragglers have left the library, to attend this stupid Christmas party or to make their own fun.

He can’t understand why she keeps trying to befriend the people who would abandon her the moment they got bored of her, the very same people who shamed her for her scholarship.

He’d never leave her, never let her feel anything less than worshipped.

When he finally packs up his bag he finds himself walking to her dorm. A few girls are leaving as he arrives at the building and he easily slips in while they’re busy chatting. He knows which floor she’s on, and then all he has to do is find her name on one of the doors… and there it is, under the number 205. Perfect.

He glances up and down the hall. It’s deathly quiet. He wonders how many students have already cleared out of their rooms, how many will be at this party, at the pub with their friends.

He can hear music on the other side of the door, a voice singing softly to a song he doesn’t know.

He brings his knuckles up and taps four times against the wood.

She seems happy when she opens the door, but her face falls when she realises it’s him.

He buries his hands in his pockets, keeps his chin down as he looks up at her. “I need to talk to you,” he says.

She sighs and purses her lips, but steps aside enough for him to come into her room.

It’s not as neat as he imagined, but it’s cosy. There are photos and posters all over the walls, clothes strewn everywhere, an opened makeup bag on the floor by the mirror, pieces of paper and used mugs on the desk. His eyes are drawn to her bed, to the colourful comforter tossed carelessly over the duvet and the pile of mismatched pillows. It smells like her perfume, and something else that is distinctly her.

A red dress hangs on the front of her wardrobe, her outfit for the party, he guesses. For now she’s dressed in her favourite pair of baggy jeans and a tank top, her hair slightly damp and her skin dewy.

She sits on the edge of her bed with her legs crossed. She doesn’t prompt him, but he knows what she wants to hear.

He stands in front of her, his knees almost touching the bed. He tries not to look at the cut of her tank top, the way it clings to her torso and teases the swell of her breasts.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “You were right, I was being unfair.”

She looks up at him, furrowing her brows and catching her lip between her teeth, like she always does when she’s thinking. It makes his stomach drop.

“You can be cruel too, you know that?” she says, “and so full of yourself, but you hold it against everyone else you meet.”

“But I’d never lie to you,” he says, “and I’ve never pretended to be someone I’m not.”

She keeps frowning. “Neither have I.”

He hums a laugh. He can’t help but reach for her, taking her chin between his fingers. She doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t question it when he gently strokes his index finger over her cheek. “Silly girl,” he says, “you care too much about what people think of you. You’re smarter than that, but you’re happy to hide it.”

Her breath hitches as tilts her head further back and lets his thumb drag over her lower lip.

“Michael,” she utters, pressing her palms against his chest, but not enough to push him away. Her hands grip at the collar of his jumper and she nudges her nose against his.

He doesn’t know where the sudden recklessness comes from. Perhaps it’s in the way she said his name, the way her eyes are gazing up at him, but every part of him feels hollow.

He leans in closer. “Why bother? Why do you want to dumb yourself down when I could just fuck you stupid?”

She leans in to kiss him and he indulges her, letting his hand settle against her cheek as they clash together in a mess of lips and tongues. It’s more frantic than the night of the Halloween party, wetter, clumsier.

She comes up onto her knees, snaking one of her hands down to the hem of his jumper.

“Have you fucked a girl before, Gavey?” she says between their kisses. He can feel her smiling.

“No,” he says, practically tearing his jumper and his shirt off, “but I’ve thought about it a lot.”

“Anyone in particular?” she says, palming over the bulge in his jeans.

“Who do you fucking think?”

His hands are on the buttons of her jeans, ripping them open, dragging them down her legs before she’s on her knees again. He slips his hand between her legs, against her clothed centre and she ruts against him like a bitch in heat.

With his other hand he grabs at her waist, impatiently pulling her tank top over her head to reveal a lacy black bra underneath. He can’t stop himself, planting firm, desperate kisses over the flesh of her chest as he undoes the clasp.

He tosses her bra aside and takes one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking and circling his tongue over the sensitive bud. He loves how she whines for him, how she runs her fingers through his hair and pulls when it feels good.

And then her phone rings.

She sighs in frustration before she shoves Michael away and crawls over to the table by her bed.

Michael groans at the loss, wanting nothing more than to grab her and pull her back across the bed. “Who is it?” he asks, adjusting his glasses.

“Could be Farleigh, or one of the girls, I said I’d meet them before the party–”

That’s all he needs to hear. In an instant he’s on top of her, pinning her wrist to the mattress so she can’t reach her phone, legs on either side of her body as he presses her down.

She writhes underneath him, unintentionally grinding her rear into his crotch. She tries to turn her head over her shoulder, but it’s hard when she’s caged in underneath him. “Michael! What the fuck are you–”

“When are you going to get it into that pretty little head that you don’t need them?” he says, letting his lips brush against the shell of her ear. He feels her shudder, feels her heartbeat racing against his chest.

“I know I don’t need them,” she says.

“Hmm,” he says, leaning back to undo his jeans enough to free his hard and eager cock. I’m not convinced.”

He takes his time pulling her panties down her legs, kneads at her thighs and her ass, pulls her hips up and parts her legs so he can get a look at her slick, glistening cunt. He’s almost fascinated by it, drawing his thumb through her folds, noticing how she reacts to his touch, the sounds she makes, the way she fists the bedsheets when he gets close to her clit, but just enough to keep her on edge.

“I could be so good to you,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to her shoulder, “so fucking good, so why do you act like you don’t need me?”

“I do,” she breathes, interrupting herself with a light moan when he presses firmly against her clit. “I do need you.”

“There you go, you’re starting to get it,” he coos, circling over her most sensitive spot with the pads of his fingers. He may not have the practice but he has the knowledge, and he needs this to feel good for her.

She responds beautifully, sighing and rocking her hips against him, and she just melts when he presses the tip of his cock against her entrance.

He has to push harder than he expects, pausing when she gives a little yelp of what sounds like pain, but she assures him she’s fine.

He grabs her hip for leverage, hissing through his teeth as he pushes in deeper. She’s so tight, so wet, so warm.

“You can move,” she says, letting her head fall against her arm. “Please, I need it.”

He starts slowly, focuses on the drag of his cock through her, the way she stretches around him, but he can’t hold back for long. Once he finds a rhythm he gets a little more reckless, snapping his hips against her rear, keeping his harsh grasp on her flesh as he fucks her into the mattress.

Her moans are heavenly and obscene. She’s given up struggling but she’s trying to look at him, trying to touch him but she can’t. She calls his name and it sounds so pathetic but so endearing.

He chuckles lowly to himself. “Silly little slut, didn’t know what she was missing, did she?”

“No,” she whines. He can feel her clenching around him and he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to last. “Fuck, Michael, it feels so good…”

He pulls out of her, only to turn her back and slam back in. Suddenly she’s all over him, running her hands down his torso, wrapping her arms around his neck. She has her face buried into the crook of his neck, grazing her lips, tongue and teeth over his skin.

It feels good to have her close, but he’s still not entirely satisfied.

He pulls away to hold her down again, one hand on her throat, the other on her stomach. “Mine.” he huffs as he picks up the pace of his thrusts. “All mine. Fucking say it.”

She places her hands over his, urging him to hold her tighter, press harder. “Yours,” she utters, “all yours.”

“Good fucking girl,” he groans, and feels her respond to his voice, cunt fluttering, back arching, another whine sounding in her throat— maybe she likes that. “My clever little girl.”

He feels her come undone around him, back arching as he lets out a breathless moan, practically squeezing him to his own release.

He pulls out and with a few strokes of his hand, paints her belly and her thighs with his spend.

She’s trembling, smiling, reaching out to touch him again, grabbing at his wrists and pulling herself up. She guides him to lay back in the bed and straddles him, tracing her finger over his lips, his jaw, along his nose to push his glasses up for him. He can hardly see through them, the lenses fogged up and smeared with sweat.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” she says.

“Yeah,” he breathes, pawing at her hips, watching his cum as it drips down her body. He can feel a sense of pride swelling in his chest, the arousal in his gut starting to tighten again.

He gasps when she drags her wet cunt over his already hardening cock. “You.. want to go again?”

She tilts her head, looking down at him with that familiar excited look in her eyes as her mouth spreads into an eager grin. “You’re adorable,” she says, tracing her fingertips over his chest, down the lines of his abs, to the trail of thin hair on his navel.

She leans down, reaching between them to take his cock in her hand, moving with agonisingly slow strokes. When he tries to protest she silences him with little more than a peck on his lips, before she trails down to his throat. “I stand by what I said, Gavey, and you’re not leaving this bed until we’ve taken that ego of yours down a notch.”

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria

#michael gavey #saltburn #saltburn fanfiction #michael gavey fanfiction #michael gavey fanfic #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey x oc #michael gavey x ofc #ewan mitchell #michael gavey smut #my fics

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tightjeansjavi · 13 days

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the absolutely amazing, sweet, and talented @kenobiwanx has finished my commission of Joel and baby love from my pornstar!joel fic: the rite of movement 🥺 y’all—aren’t ready for this because I am still in tears over how perfect it came out!

*disclaimer* baby love has no physical descriptions such as skin color, height, or body type! Her face claim is just for fun and I absolutely adore her! (And so does Joel & Artemis! 🥹💓)

#screaming crying throwing up #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #pornstar!joel #baby love #the rite of movement #commission #joel miller fanart #support your artists!!#pedro pascal characters

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tanadrin · 4 months

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There is a great engine beneath the North American continent that drives people to insanity and spits out new religions on a regular basis. Maybe the lingering tectonic energies of Yellowstone, worrying at us just below our conscious awareness and driving us to a quiet, gibbering fear like rats scurrying about just before an earthquake. Maybe a kink in the Earth's magnetic field that affects our brains in some way. Maybe just the shock of agoraphobia, of wandering out into wide open spaces and going mad beneath the vast and starry sky.

Over in Europe they spent a thousand years fighting wars and piling up the dead in hills of gore, all to determine trivialities like the true nature of the Eucharist, or who really had the authority to appoint bishops. Muslim kings killed each other by the score over who was the rightful successor of the Prophet. The scholar-officials of China carefully composed the orthodox interpretations of the rites and laws, and then the Emperor had everybody who disagreed beheaded. Oh, there were heretics all right, but the stakes within each tradition were low--is Christ of one substance or two? Which hadith are valid? Is there a true and eternal self, or no?

In the United States, though, people sought the edge of civilization, declared that here lay the Frontier. They stepped beyond it, and then they went stark raving mad. They declared the ghost of Ben Franklin was telling them how to build a mechanical Jesus. They said an evil scientist created white people as soulless devils on the Greek island of Patmos. That all our anxieties are caused by the restless ghosts of alien political prisoners, executed by volcano. That God was once a man, and we too might become gods someday, as long as we remembered that coffee-drinking was a sin.

And it's no coincidence that every major American religious movement seems to be founded by an obvious con man. I think that's the secret to being a prophet. You have to learn to lie. To lie so nakedly and so intensely that the things you are lying about appear before your very eyes, become tangible to you and to everyone who believes. Ordinary, simple, sincere faith will not do. You must learn to lie with such intensity that you can change the world.

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bell4donn4 · 1 month

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Like a god - Luke Castellan smut blurb

Tw: masturbation, use of religious imagery, body worship, Luke being lowkey sub

<<take your panties off>> and you did.

You spread your leg open for Luke, who sat inches away from you.

His boxers were down to his knees, cock red and aching for attention.

you touched yourself, immediately moaning at the sensation of your cold fingers on your bare pussy.

He stared at you and every movement you made with a certain hunger in his eyes, like a starved man who’s being denied of a last meal.

He bit his own lip as he watched intently; you looked majestic- divine, almost. Luke assumed that that’s how Eve looked as she bit the apple.

And the feeling he had must have been the same Adam had as he watched his lover sin, moments before following her act.

He palmed himself, restraining from throwing his head back. He needed to see everything. He couldn’t let himself look away, not even for one second. He wanted to print the sinful image inside of his mind, he never wanted to forget.

He would’ve damn himself if he lost one your moans- one of the disperate whispers you made as you pushed two fingers in.

What a turn, for a good boy like him. The Camp’s golden boy sneaking around after curfew to consume his fantasies. You made him give in to his darkest desires.

His hips bucked forward, and in that moments his mind was emptied from thoughts. Finally feeling free from the constant pressure of the role he had, and from the cruelness of his absent Father. Of the God who created him.

If he could, he would’ve made you his God. He would’ve made altars and temples to worship you; A much more deserving creature.

He would’ve dedicated his whole life to you,like people did to Gods.

He would’ve prayed to you ever night.

But in fact, he did. To him, looking at you, touching you, making love to you felt like a rite, like a prayer.

A tail old as time, he liked to imagine the filthy things you did as that; a sacred action.

<<you look so beautiful>> he whispered.

And you nodded, taking in the compliment, speeding up.

He did as well, teasing his own self, torturing his angry tip.

The cabin was full of sounds, of short breaths and mumbled words.

The nonsense filled the silence.

<<you look so good too Luke- so god damn good>> you said, and it filled him with pride, making him almost chock.

He craved you more than anything else in the world, yet, he didn’t dare to touch you. That’s not what he needed in that moment, not what he wanted.

Luke has always wanted to feel seen, to feel safe and loved, and sitting at your feet, like a Christian sits at the feet of the Cross was enough for him to feel exactly that.

You, his God, stared at him like Jesus would stare at his disciples.

<<Y/n- I’m- >>

You nodded frenetically, your own orgasm getting closer and closer by the second.

<<yes! cum for me Luke>> you said, not as a demand, not as a order. You were so good to him, always merciful, always lenient; never mean, never demanding.

He came fast, as soon as you asked.

He complied at all of your requests, like a good follower does. He came, smearing his load in his own hand and on his stomach.

You did the same right after, a lewd moan leaving your mouth.

He still stared at you, chest rising and falling down at a fast pace, waiting patiently.

<<you did so good Luke>> your voice was broken by the fatigue.

<<t-thank you- ah- >>

#luke castellan #percy jackson #pjo series #luke castellan smut #pjo x reader #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan pjo #luke castellan x you #percy jackson smut #pjo smut #pjo tv show #pjo boys #pjo disney+#charlie bushnell x reader #charlie bushnell #charlie bushnell x you

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odoraful · 3 months

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Mortal Expertise

before his nightly patrol, xiao needs help from you to understand something he observed among mortals.

word count: 1011 a/n: my wish is that we can all meet xiao again at the lantern rite event coming up; i miss him too much :'( this is my first post writing one of my favourite genshin characters, so i hope it's alright! will be writing lots more in the future ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و

Xiao had been wiping his jade spear in the same spot for the past minute. You angled your book down and peered towards him, looking at his back as he sat on the side of the bed.

Strange. Usually he’d be gone by now, you thought, turning a page and skimming over words that escaped your focus. Xiao was always efficient when preparing for his nights of patrol. No matter how many times he had gone out to vanquish the monsters that crept too close to Wangshu Inn or Qingce Village, his routine had never changed. Stranger still, he was deathly silent. This wouldn’t have been odd during those first few exchanges between you and him, where conversations had to be coaxed out of him through reassurances and almond tofu. However, with your growing relationship, he would always tell you what he saw on his trips out (in his own unembellished way).

“Did you see any crystalflies yesterday evening?” you asked, putting your book aside and swinging over to sit next to him. “The weather is warming up, so I imagine there must be lots of them out.”

You tipped your head to try and see his eyes hidden behind his hair. Xiao gave an affirmative grunt. “Yes, I did.” His gaze never left the blade of his spear, fixated on his seemingly onerous polishing task.

“Xiao, is there something wrong?” You put a hand on his forearm, immediately halting his movements. “You’re much quieter than usual, and your spear is so well-polished I can see your own reflection in it”. You chuckled, hoping to ease any tension. He softened at your concern.

“I’m alright, you needn’t worry. I just had something I need your… mortal expertise on.”

Ah, of course! You felt relieved. It was only natural for Xiao to be nervous about confiding that. He had only begun to be open about his curiosity with humans.

“There is a mortal tradition,” he began slowly, picking his words carefully. “When someone must leave their partner for the day, they usually engage in a kind of… affectionate physical exchange to mark their temporary absence.”

You paused. A physical exchange?

“Well, yes! Before they leave each other for a day, a couple will typically kiss each other,” you mused, “It’s seen as a romantic gesture since it signifies-”

You heard Xiao suck in a breath as he tipped his head forward, further blocking out your view of him. He held his face in one gloved hand.

“I- I see,” he stuttered, the words tumbling out of him to prevent you from further elaborating. He suddenly stood up. His spear disappeared as he willed it away and he turned to face you. “Well then, I will be leaving for the night”.

You had a clear view of him now. His cheeks were flushed a bright pink and his eyes darted everywhere besides your face. He finally risked a glance at you. Realisation suddenly hit you.

“Xiao, are you asking for a kiss from me before you leave?” You couldn’t even finish the question without cracking a smile. You were practically beaming at him. The weather tonight was warmer, but he felt like he was suddenly heating up at how brightly you grinned.

“Perhaps, yes,” he admitted. Quickly, he followed by saying, “It was something I observed from afar from those similar to us in closeness, but you do not need to…”, his voice dwindled a little, “indulge me if you do not want to partake in similar actions”.

You stood up, closing the gap between the two of you. Xiao was startled by your movements.

“Your study of mortals is an accurate one indeed.” You wrapped your arms around his neck. A dangerously close distance that had Xiao holding his breath. His arms instinctively circled your waist. Xiao knew that he was, regrettably, a novice at these sorts of things. It brought a great struggle within him when he saw your hands resting idly against a railing, or your hair falling loose against your face. In his mind, he would picture holding your hand in his, or brushing your hair away, but when it came to actioning these moves, he felt flustered. The fear of making a wrong move was too great for him to do anything. However, he always found comfort in your words.

‘Don’t force yourself, okay?’ You had told him this after one of the first times you suddenly hugged him, and he had stood stiffly in your arms. Xiao remembered mentally punching himself after the encounter. ‘We have all the time we need, there’s no rush.’

Could he be the one who initiated these types of things? He pictured himself leaning down and kissing you. Stealing the move away from you. There was no mistaking your intention in wanting this too. All he had to do was do it. Your voice brought him away from his thoughts.

“And of course I’d like to kiss you!” You said fervidly. “You’re my partner, I’d do anything-”

Your words were cut off. Oh, was all that passed your mind when Xiao leaned in. Your mind spun. His lips were gentle against your own, but hesitant. His worries felt palpable against your skin. Slowly, you deepened the kiss. It was an assurance of many things. That you were proud of him for opening up to you, that he wasn’t messing anything up, that you were enjoying his company. His lips… are surprisingly soft… Did he apply some kind of balm to them beforehand!?

Xiao’s heart hammered in his chest. He was beside himself with uncharacteristic elation. The only things he could sense now was the electricity between your bodies, and the subtle, violetgrass scent of your hair. He pulled away first, fearing that he would not be able to leave for patrol that night if he stayed. Looking into your eyes for any sign of disappointment, he saw only the way your eyes sparkled with delight.

“I… I hope I didn’t scare you,” Xiao whispered, holding you tighter. “May I have another tomorrow night?”

#✏️〰odorawrites #genshin impact #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #genshin impact xiao #genshin xiao #xiao fluff #xiao x reader #xiao x y/n #xiao x you

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tylermileslockett · 5 months

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"The Orphic Mystery Cult" Illustrated by me

Whereas Hellenic Polytheism was a public belief system guided by civic duty and open to the general populace, The Mystery Cults, were secret organizations offering a more personal experience to its selected members such as initiation rites, esoteric spiritual knowledge, and salvation in the afterlife. Let’s look at a few famous movements and their worshipped gods and goddesses.

The most famous Mystery cult was the Eleusinian Mysteries which was centered around the Demeter and Persephone myth. Initiates, known as Mystai entered a sacred hall called the Telestrion, where they experienced or were shown a revelation referred to as the Epopteia. As sharing the secrets of the initiation ceremonies was punishable by death, very little knowledge of what initiates saw or experienced has survived.

The Dionysian Mysteries was a cult where initiates would drink wine, dance, and play music, ultimately reaching a frenzied trance state of ekstasis (ecstasy) by channeling a divine union with Dionysus, God of wine, fertility, festivities, and theater. This loss of inhibition into a wild, animalistic state gave followers an opportunity to liberate themselves from society’s social norms.

Orphic cults were centered around the myths and teachings of Orpheus, the most famous music lyre player of Greek myth who journeyed into the underworld, seeking his lost love, Eurydice. The philosophical beliefs and practices of the cult consisted of; purification rituals to cleanse one’s tainted soul, metempsychosis (reincarnation) and the path to escape this cycle, ascetic practices, such as abstaining from certain foods and other worldly pleasures, and teachings of secret, esoteric knowledge in regards to the salvation of the soul.

Thanks for looking and reading! 🤘😁🏛❤️

Want to own my Illustrated Greek myth book jam packed with over 130 illustrations like this? Support my book kickstarter "Lockett Illustrated: Greek Gods and Heroes" coming in early 2024.

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fullfriendnerdclutch · 1 month

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Rites: St Patrick's Day

It's a day celebrated by many people, especially Irish community. And in such a blessed festivities, several Irish-descent gained some kind of magical development blessed only on the time window of St. Patrick Day.

I've been hella distracted all day long, and it's all because of my roommate Patrick. He's always been a rather sporty guy from the get go, and I'm pretty much used to the fact that we're not necessarily that close as a roommate since we have totally different interest anyway. But, ever since he walked back in to the dorm after his shower this morning only rocking that towel, I simply couldn't take my eyes off him.

He's pale as fuck, yes, and not like that muscular or anything, but it's just super enchanting to see him glide around our dorm and dress himself up for the day. Since we have separate bedroom and only connected by this study-common section, we have our privacy and moments to ourselves rather easily. He decided to be a bit loud with all the oohs and aahs as he probably checked himself out. I was sure I heard him say something about his "slightly tanned skin" or "veinous muscular arms that make people feral" or even "my fat and girthy uncut cock" but well.....I think I would be a bit proud too over my body development if I have a studly physique like his

I remembered some of our final convo before we left for our respective schedule as he exited his bedroom and ready to leave earlier than me

"Clean the bathroom before you leave for your class, okay?"

"Can you take care of my laundry first? You don't have class till 2 PM, right? You can sniff it if you want HAHAH! Nevermind, just do my laundry, okay?"

"Come and watch me play with my buds after your class, okay? We'll play in the outdoor field, then we can head back to the dorm together, sounds nice, right?"

And I simply said yes to all of that. On top of that, even when he left, the obsession remain for me. I bet I spent most of my day daydreaming about him rather than putting on any substantial work whatsoever to my classes.

I found myself scrolling through IG and rewatching his stories upload about his workout session before I eventually dashed to the basketball court to watch him play as my classes wrapped for the day.

I followed all Patrick's movement on the court and practically ignored the other players, it's like as if he's my world and I need to focus all my attention to him. Eventually, when the sweating, post-basketball-reek Patrick brought me to his car, he simply put me in my place as he said

"Now be a good faggot and start huffing. This is the shit that keeps you going, this gives you satisfaction when you can prove that you served me well, right?"

And just like that, I accepted that as my truth

#male transformation #male muscle growth #reality change #oblivious #male mind control #male manipulation

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