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#specialty fabric
closet-keys · 9 months
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#in the tags cause I'm fully acknowledging I don't know enough about this intersection yet & need to read and learn more#so cw- potentially ignorant stream of consciousness incoming:#but something I've been thinking about lately is the intersection of fatphobia and sizeism#and how my size as a very small person (under 5ft)- which disadvantages me in some ways also privileges me in insulating me from fatphobia#I feel very aware lately that my body type would be viewed more negatively and subject me to more attention if I were taller#like sometimes I look at photos & art of like 'fat positivity' and I see my body type-- I see my big round belly and my back rolls etc.#but then I read stuff by like fat theorists & think about how I usually don't need to buy specialty sizes for shirts & stuff for example#cause I'm so short that wearing 'regular' men's sizes are functionally very big! on me#the hardest part is just that if pants fit my waist/hips then they will 100% be way too long and I need to pay extra to get stuff altered#which is annoying but it's nowhere NEAR what large fat people go through to find pants that fit y'know? like I can still buy off the rack#and it will have enough fabric to cover my body#I don't face the kind of discrimination on airplanes or busses or anything because I'm small enough that people don't process me as fat#because my body will not be touching theirs- there is enough room in seats for me#(seats aren't built for me in other ways-- my knees ache all the time because my feet can't touch the floor for example--)#maybe all of that means that on the level of genuine oppression I am functionally skinny regardless of my actual proportions#part of me says if I am not--in aubrey gordon's words-- 'undeniably and unquestionably fat' then I am not politically fat#which does make sense#& even if I WAS considered politically fat by some I would be the most privileged demographic of small fat there is#to be clear: my thoughts here aren't like wondering about my own label or privilege (I am very aware of my privilege in this area)#but more thinking about how my body's shape and size is considered within our society as a jumping off point of trying to learn more about#maybe what the interactions of those two things suggest about the actual material realities of anti-fatness & sizeism?#idk it's something I need to read more about#open to resources; esp interested in like discussions of anti-fatness as it intersects with Little People/people w dwarfism#and also intersections with giantism which I think might be equally revealing of how that intersection might function
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junkart96 · 4 months
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I’ve been seeing a lot of cowboy turtles as of late… where are the saloon girls at?
Idk, I wanted to draw a classic saloon dress and since most are red, Raph came to mind
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the-fibre-stuff · 5 months
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Have I ranted to you lot about the person who was looking for donations of "cotton" (fabric)?
I'm like sure, I have lots of cotton fabric. What kind are you looking for? I have jersey, I have quilting cotton, etc.
Turns out that she didn't actually know much about fabric (good for her for taking on sewing projects like this anyhow), and as far as I can tell meant quilting cotton specifically. To quote: "I'm honestly not sure what you mean about woven - cotton fabrics are woven, I thought..."
And like, I get it. It's hard to learn that sort of thing. I've read multiple guides on different fabric types and still can't recognise most of them. And the fact that I'm embarrassed that I can't recognise what counts as a shirting-weight fabric, or that a fabric is chambray should help me have compassion for someone who didn't have enough, frankly rather esoteric, knowledge of fabric types to know what they didn't know.
But cotton. Have you never read the tag on a t-shirt and seen what percentage cotton it is? Of all the fibre/weave/fabric type mix ups, cotton?
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modernmaenad · 2 years
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im a fucking dumbass
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dragonwithafez · 3 months
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i have more dresses i wanna post pics of too but one of them is uh Complicated to put on and i dont have the energy for that rn. the other one is much simpler and ive worn it out already and love it but uh when i wore it out i got. ketchup on it. so i need to wash it.
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Unveiling Opportunities in the Textile Finishing Chemicals Market
The global textile finishing chemicals market is projected to be worth USD 11,983.2 million by 2030, growing at a CAGR of 3.8%, according to P&S Intelligence. These chemicals are consumed in significant volumes in furniture, textile, and other sectors. In this regard, the growing demand for unique finishes for residential upholstery and advanced textiles is propelling the market. The main aim of…
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apsocial · 5 months
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The Power of Design Brand Print and Its Multifaceted Benefits
In today's hyper-digital age, one might think that physical branding elements such as print design have become obsolete. Yet, the very opposite is true. Design brand print remains a potent tool in the brand-building arsenal, allowing businesses to connect with their audiences in tangible and memorable ways. Let's delve deeper into the realm of design brand print and explore its unparalleled benefits.
1. The Tangible Touch
Unlike digital ads that fleetingly appear and disappear, printed materials have a physical presence. Brochures, business cards, posters, and other printed collateral can be touched, felt, and even kept for future reference. This tangibility creates a stronger sensory connection, leaving a lasting impression on the recipient's mind. For instance, a beautifully designed business card handed over during a networking event can leave a far more memorable mark than a simple digital contact exchange.
2. Elevated Credibility
Printed materials inherently feel more official and trustworthy to many people. A well-designed brochure or company report indicates effort, investment, and commitment. When customers see that a brand has invested in quality print design, it boosts the brand's credibility and evokes a sense of trustworthiness.
3. Breaks Through the Digital Noise
The online world is saturated with ads, pop-ups, and banners vying for attention. While digital marketing has its merits, it's easy for messages to get lost in the noise. Print design offers a refreshing break. A captivating poster or an engaging brochure can capture attention without the distractions of the digital sphere, ensuring that the brand message stands out and remains front and center.
4. Provides a Long-lasting Impact
Printed materials often have a longer shelf life than digital content. Think about magazines in waiting rooms, posters on community boards, or branded calendars on office desks. While a digital ad may last a few seconds, a printed piece can remain in view for days, weeks, or even months, continually reinforcing the brand message.
5. Encourages Focused Engagement
Reading printed material generally requires more focus and attention than skimming through digital content. Without the constant barrage of notifications and other digital distractions, the reader is more likely to engage deeply with the material, absorbing and retaining more information.
6. Versatility in Application
Design brand print can be utilized in various ways, each serving a unique purpose. Business cards facilitate networking, brochures provide detailed information, posters generate awareness, and branded stationery keeps the company's image consistent. Each of these applications can be tailored to meet specific audience needs and brand objectives.
7. Aesthetic Appeal
There's something undeniably appealing about a well-designed printed piece. The combination of textures, colors, typography, and the physical feel of the paper can be a sensory delight. This aesthetic allure not only attracts attention but also enhances the perceived value of the brand.
8. Encourages Brand Consistency
Having consistent branding across all touchpoints is vital for brand recognition and trust-building. Design brand print allows companies to ensure that their visual identity remains consistent, from business cards to billboards, fostering a cohesive brand image in the minds of consumers.
In Conclusion
While the world increasingly shifts towards digital mediums, there's an undeniable charm and effectiveness in design brand print that simply cannot be ignored. Its tactile nature, combined with its ability to break through the clutter, makes it a valuable asset for brands aiming to make a lasting impact. As with all branding efforts, the key lies in understanding the target audience and crafting designs that resonate, inform, and inspire. In doing so, brands can harness the myriad benefits of print design to solidify their presence in the market and the hearts of their consumers.
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smugglerofsass · 1 year
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Sometimes cosplay is like I impulsively made this garment in three days and SOMETIMES cosplay is like I ordered swatches three weeks ago, they just got here, and they all suck
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nanaslutt · 1 month
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ʚ nsfw under the cut,, minors and ageless blogs dni
Thinking about Gojo getting you two matching Bluetooth vibrators for Valentine’s day....
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・°❀⋆.ೃ
Gojo’s body jerked forward when you upped the intensity of the toy from the little remote in your pocket. The man behind the counter was turned around, pointing at some specialty dessert as he explained it, so he unfortunately missed the way Gojo’s jaw fell open in a silent moan before he corrected himself.
His jaw muscles clenched under the weight of his teeth, his eyes briefly rolling back in his head as the tight cockring vibrated intensely around his sensitive shaft, vibrating his balls along with it.
Turning his head to the side inconspicuously, Gojo gave you a malicious smile, silently cursing at you before he stuck his own hand into his pocket and gave you the same treatment.
Luckily there was no one behind you, so they were unable to see the way you fell against Gojo, your inner thighs pressing together as you gripped harshly onto the sleeve of his expensive jacket, wrinkling the material. You could feel the small bullet vibe shaking against your walls as well as the flat piece stimulating your clit, pressing firmly against it. 
“I-“ Gojo cleared his throat before he finished speaking, noticing how hoarse and unused it sounded. “I’ll take that one, and the brown sugar boba milk t-tea.” Gojo smiled politely, his muscles flexing under your arm.
You gripped him harder, praying he would take mercy on you and order for you with the state you were in. 
Unfortunately for you, Gojo was at his limit as well. He was worried if he tried to speak for you he would cum in his pants before he even finished ordering. "What about you baby?" He asked, looking down at you, trying to turn his head as far to the side in your direction and away from the cashier as possible. This fucking asshole.
Swallowing hard, you went to open your mouth when you shut it just as fast. Gojo had started to slide the intensity up and down, up and down in a wave-like motion, making you feel weak in the knees. Biting your lip as inconspicuously as possible, you stuck your hand out in front of you and waved it, dismissing the attention on yourself by feigning like you didnt want anything.
Gojo smiled to himself when you started repeatedly tapping agaisnt his arm, silently begging him to turn down the vibrator as he took out his wallet to pay. Wanting to show you could be could, you turned him down as well, which made his body visibly relax.
Gojo cracked his neck to the side before he tapped his card quickly and shoved his card back into the sleeve before he turned the intensity of your own vibrator down, to match your energy. Gojo grimaced when he felt a fat bead of pre-cum spill out from his cock, undoubtedly staining the inside of his boxers even more. The softer intensity was arguably more painful and hard to endure than the faster one. The soft, barely there vibrations made his cock throb, begging for more.
After waving thanks to the worker, Gojo turned the two of you around and walked you over a few steps to the side of the building, letting you lean back against it. You took the opportunity to squeeze his arm hard, your lip trembling as you turned your face away from the street and buried it in his arm. "Satoru take me home right now." You begged your hands shaking as you gripped onto him, your legs matching.
Gojo looked down at you and cooed before biting his lip. Caressing the side of your face Gojo made you look up at him, his blue eyes finding yours from under his dark shades. "You sure? Seems like you were havin' fun teasing me back there. Almost came in my pants in front of that poor guy." He joked, his cock throbbing at your pathetic and desperate face.
"Toru, please. Please take me home right now I- I can't stand anymore." You begged the fabric wrinkling under your fingers more. With a soft kiss to the top of your head, you were lifted into Gojo's arms in a princess carry as he started off in the direction of the nearest alleyway so he could teleport the two of you home without being seen. "You can dish it but you can't take it huh princess? Did I play with you too much?" Gojo whispered as he strolled down the sidewalk. 
You nodded into the crook of his neck, ignoring his irritating words. "Don't worry baby, I'll fuck you nice and good when we get home." He reassured you, making you whimper in response before Gojo turned abruptly and walked into the dark shade of the alleyway. He leaned his face close to yours before he added, "But the vibrator is staying inside."
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ellastone-olsen · 3 months
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Fucked my way up to the top - Wanda Maximoff
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DO NOT COPY ANY OF MY WORKS. MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY
Summary: You just got your first job in your life and suspiciously quickly became an assistant to the director of the company. Where's the catch?
Pairing: ceo!Wanda Maximoff × f!reader
Warnings: NSFW, dom!Wanda, sub!reader, age gap (W34 R21), mommy kink, strap on usage (W), blow job (R), pet names
DISCLAIMER: ENGLISH ISN'T MY FIRST LANGUAGE SORRY FOR GRAMMAR OR SPELLING MISTAKES
Word count: 1.2k
AN: inspired by lana del rey i really love that song
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You just graduated from a college you didn't even want to go to. Wrong college, wrong specialty, but as a result, very much the right job. After one day you began to believe in fate and that this entire chain of events in your life was a blessing from above. After all if it weren’t for the strong nature of your parents who sent you to study, you would never have met Wanda.
At some point, you thought that you would never find a job in your specialty until you saw the ideal vacancy: the salary, the location of the office, the schedule, the educational requirements, everything suited you. There definitely had to be a catch somewhere. And it definitely was.
“No, put it in its place, I don’t need these papers and coffee right now. I have a meeting Y/N, why answer me i need coffee? Just think for once with your pretty little head.” That catch was your boss, Wanda Maximoff. That's what you thought at first.
You trotted behind her on the way to the conference room; in general, the very fact that the director of the company took you on as her personal assistant was already a great success. Some worked in one place for years and remained as an office clerk. And then Wanda Maximoff took you to bring her coffee, not the hardest job, especially for the money that you were paid.
When you entered the room, the hall was empty. One characteristic feature of your boss was excessive punctuality, you realized this in your first week of work. You took your place at the head of the table next to her when you felt manicured hands rest on your shoulders, stroking them. That was the second thing about Wanda Maximoff, she loved to touch you, a lot. Sometimes she would tuck a stray strand behind your ear, sometimes she would stroke your thigh; in general, such touches from her were nothing new. If you said you didn't enjoy it, you'd be lying. Wet dreams with her began to visit you in the third week of work.
And now, from her touch, you could feel your core throbbing. To your great regret, at that moment the conference room began to fill with people. As important and powerful as Wanda. To be honest, you didn’t understand that such a small employee like you was even doing here.
The meeting lasted about an hour and during this time you could feel with your whole being how tense your boss was. Everything was definitely not going the way she wanted; one of the men opposite was already starting to scream, unable to prove that he was right. The deal was on the verge of failure. “Okay gentlemen, I think that’s enough for today. We’ll continue tomorrow.” Wanda could not stand it and marked the end of this meeting.
When the hall was empty, the woman sat down in a chair with her legs spread, a sigh escaped her lips and one hand again lay on your thigh, squeezing it. "Fucking bastards." She muttered and your gaze caught the older woman's pants. She wore an expensive formal suit with a bulge imprinted on the trousers. Your eyes widened, your breath caught in your throat as you wondered what her purpose was..."See something you like?" You jumped at the question, scared that you had been caught. One of Wanda's hands strokes your thigh, moving up closer to your already dripping pussy while the other massages her fake cock through the fabric of her pants. You look at her expressionless face and nod in response to the question.
"On your knees". The chair moves back with a creak, giving you space. You stand in front of her to look into her eyes, darkened with lust, for a second and fall to your knees. Hands immediately reach for her trousers, sorting out the belt and pulling them off along with her underwear. A red strap jumps out in front of your face and you start to get nervous about the size. “I don’t think it will fit..”. You are interrupted by a grip in your hair. "Don't worry baby girl I'll make it fit now suck my cock."
She guides your head towards her length and you curl your tongue around the tip as if she can feel it. You raise your eyes and look at her, and then shut your mouth on her dick, feeling tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. Her palm cups your cheek and her thumb wipes away drops of moisture, “Oh my sweet girl wants to please her mommy so bad.” She helps you by guiding your head up and down her length, your panties are hopelessly ruined and you squirm, looking for some kind of relief. Wanda lifts her hips so that your nose touches her stomach and holds you like that for a few seconds. When your boss lets you go, your makeup is hopelessly ruined and you gasp for air.
"Such a good sweet girl. Do you want mommy to put her dick inside you? Do you want me to stretch you out and fuck you until you forget your name?" You are still kneeling in front of her and a pathetic whine comes out of your mouth, “Please mommy I really need you to fuck me.” Wanda likes your answer and growls, she pulls you to your feet and then bends you over the large office desk. Your cheek is pressed against the cold surface, the older woman has already hiked up your skirt to your waist and is stroking your throbbing pussy through the fabric of your cotton panties.“My, my, you’re already absolutely wet and I haven’t touched you yet. Do you like sucking mommy’s cock so much? Maybe next time should I fuck this beautiful, capable mouth mmm?" A sharp slap on your ass makes you gasp. "Yes yes please I will like it so much.”
Your underwear falls to your ankles and the tip of her cock teases your throbbing clit and then runs through the folds, collecting your arousal. Without warning, she fills you to the edge and started to pound at a slower pace than you would like. You gasp from the stretch "Mommy it's too big. Feel so full." Her pace increases, her hand finds your swollen clit and rubs it making you cry. "That's my good girl. Taking me so well. Come on baby mommy needs to de-stress after these bastards." Wanda leans over you and bites your neck as she continues to pound into you at a faster pace, your velvet walls starting to clench around her length. "Oh fuck Ms. Maximoff I'm close I gonna cum." Wanda’s cock hits that nice spot inside you so deliciously, pushing you inexorably to the edge. "Come on baby, cum for me. Show mommy how good she fucks you." Her fingers rub your sensitive bud faster and you see stars cumming all over her cock, crying out inaudible curses into the silence of the office. She continues to move, prolonging your orgasm until your breathing evens out.
She pulls out her faux cock and then a pair of strong arms turns you around so you're face to face so she can press her lips to yours in a leisurely kiss. Wanda walks back to sit back in her chair, holding you by the waist, pulling you behind her so that you sit on her lap. “I was not mistaken in choosing you as my assistant.”
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tensilesystems · 1 year
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With #tensilestructures we are leading the way into the architectural future and providing creative and dynamic solutions with every new project. #Tensilefabric offers distinct advantages over traditional materials while also being cost-effective, easy to install, and are 95% recyclable.
There are so many opportunities that come with tensile structures!
Please contact us if you are interested in opening up or expanding your space to provide a beautiful outdoor environment: tensilesystems.com / 410.814.7525
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ioniiaa · 2 months
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My Darling, My Honey
Alastor X Fem!Reader (Part 3)
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Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Quick Notes:
This is when both reader/you and Alastor are both alive. (... we'll probably end up in hell later on btw so stay tuned...)
Reader is an artist/painter.
Part 3:
Shutting the door to your house, you slide down to the floor, back against the door. Your hands come up to your chest, clutching the fabric of your shirt, heart racing.
Looking around the room, you felt suffocated. Every inch of the wall had some reminder of your husband, paintings, photographs, newspaper clippings of every accomplishment and accolade of his. It made you want to tear your hair out.
A silent scream leaves your throat as tears run down your face. Silent crying was something you've mastered after all these years..
But never have you cried and broken down like this, with something giving you a glimmer of hope. That something was Alastor, he made you feel appreciated, you felt free when you were with him, like all your worries were washed away and you were helplessly in love.
With the realization that you were in love, your hands fell to the ground with a quiet thud. For too long had you suffered the control, the physical and mental abuse at the hands of your husband and your family that only saw you as a pawn- a means to an end for them.
The tears dried up as you sat there silently for hours till the sun rose, feeling like an empty husk of a human. It took you a long time before you could collect yourself.
Though you felt so weak, you had to go out and do some errands. Having to keep up the image of perfect housewife, after all.
With a vacant and empty look in your eyes, you left the house, barely presentable.
You didn't even know what you were going out for, but you'd find something, anything.
During your walk around town, looking for something to buy so you wouldn't go home empty-handed, an odd feeling and urge came over you to take a route home that you've never taken before.
The way you took this time was full of twists and turns, leading to many shady backstreets and alleyways.
One sign reading "Arabella's Apothecary" caught your eye, prompting you to enter.
The door opens with a chime, the shopkeeper giving you a smug smile, "Welcome in dear, how can I help ya this fine morn'?" You nervously tell her that you were just looking around.
The shopkeeper, who you found out was indeed Arabella, like the sign outside indicated, "You know, people don't just come in here for nothin'... Hun, I think we both know you're looking for a key to freedom."
Arabella's words shook you to your core, "A... key? T-to freedom?" You laugh nervously, wondering if this woman was a witch. But then it came to you, maybe you did need... something.
She laughed at your face, "Bwahaha, I can read you like an open book! I'm no witch, I just deal in... specialty medicines, you might say."
After a short conversation with Arabella, you find yourself in possession of some arsenic. This little powder was your freedom, and you thank your lucky stars that fate guided to this back alley hidden apothecary shop.
During the week of your husband's absence, you didn't visit Mimzy's bar at all, actually. You were planning your husband's demise. You had to be methodical, careful, every single minute detail needed to have a plan and a backup plan- including your escape and how you would remove yourself from suspicion of being involved in your husband's death.
When your husband opened the door, announcing his return, you felt a pit form in your stomach. The bile rose in the back of your throat at the thought of freedom being so close and yet so far.
According to your plan, your husband would be dead in the next couple of weeks. It would be hell to not visit Mimzy's bar in hopes of seeing Alastor again, but if everything went according to plan, you'd be free of your shackles. So two weeks, give or take a few days, was nothing compared to the near decade of pain you've had to endure.
There were a few close calls during this time, but your husband was just diagnosed with food poisoning each time until he was found dead at his desk at the office he worked at.
You had slowly poisoned him slowly and consistently enough to evade suspicion. You knew this much when the police came knocking on your door informing you that your husband was found dead. The gates holding back the flood were unlocked, and you crumpled to the floor crying. The police tried to console you, but little did they know that you secretly crying from being overjoyed at the news.
At the funeral, your family and in-laws looked at you with distaste and all they did was tell you to get out of their faces, telling you what a disappointment you were for failing as a wife to keep your husband happy and healthy.
That was all you needed to hear. You turned away from them and left town, not bothering to stop by your home. You left only with the clothes on your body, making your way to Mimzy's bar. If anyone was able to help you, it would be Mimzy, your only true friend in the world.
You get to Mimzy's bar a bit too early, sometime in the evening, as usually the bar only opens late at night. So Mimzy was prepared to ward off any suspicious people that could get the bar/speakeasy in trouble, but she rushed up to you immediately, fawning over you, seeing you in all-black funeral attire with puffy eyes, " (Y/N)! Darlin'!! What happened to you??"
Mimzy ushers you into her office, gives you a warm cup of tea and a blanket as she barrages you with more questions. You smile weakly at her and make her promise not to tell a soul, and she pinky promised that she would take your secrets to the grave. And she kindly offered for you to stay with her as long as you needed.
You took Mimzy up on her offer, but you offered to help out at the bar for as long as you did. It was the only way you would accept her generosity.
-> Part 4
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femmefatalevibe · 7 months
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Femme Fatale Guide: How To Master An "Effortlessly Elegant" & Put-Together Look
Table of Contents:
Treat your skin like royalty
Take ample care of your natural hair
Dress in crisp neutral outfits that cater to your body shape
Choose your accessories wisely
Embrace feature-enhancing makeup
Keep your nails clean, filed, and simple
Regarding your signature scent(s)
Follow your dental & bodily hygiene routines religiously
Treat your skin like royalty:
Use high-quality skincare twice a day
Wear sunscreen every day
Remove your makeup every night before bed no matter what
Use makeup that doesn't clog your pores/irritate your skin
Change your pillowcases weekly
Eat plenty of produce & drink lots of water
Prioritize sleep
Limit or eliminate alcohol, cigarettes, caffeine, and processed foods/sugary drinks
Keep your skin exfoliated/derma-planed
Take ample care of your natural hair:
Use high-quality shampoo/conditioner combos that suit your hair type & don't cause build-up
Hydrate with a scalp mask 1-4 times a month
Use cold or lukewarm water to wash your hair
Apply shampoo to the roots/hair covering your scalp and conditioner only on the "ponytail" section of your hair
Use a specialty hair towel after getting out of the shower
Always comb wet hair and brush 1-3 times a day when dry
Limit heat on your hair when possible & always use a heat protectant every time you do
Use non-elastic or silk hair ties
Get regular trims at least 3-4 times per year (get your hair layered if it's very thick)
Try to limit how much you dye or, especially bleach, your hair and do elaborate styles with tons of heat & harsh products
Dress in crisp neutral outfits that cater to your body shape:
Embrace minimalist basics (tees, tanks, blouses, sweaters, jeans, trousers, blazers, leather jackets, coats, etc.) in high-quality fabrics (Pima cotton, Merino wool, Tencel, mulberry silk, etc.)
Choose options in black, white, grey, charcoal beige, navy, burgundy, or cream depending on your skin tone and preferences
Invest in a collection of sleek footwear options (black boots, loafers, black pumps, white sneakers, etc.) in minimalist, timeless styles that suit the color palette, hemlines & proportions of your go-to outfits
Ensure your shoes and accessories feel proportional to the weight/silhouette of your outfit, color-coordinate with the rest of your look, and have streamlined hardware from head-to-toe (all silver, all gold, or one piece that mixes silver/gold and another gold & silver piece each to balance out the color palette)
Keep all of your clothes steam and lint-rolled, so they look crisp & fresh all-day
Befriend your tailor to take in or let out clothes as needed when purchased off the rack
Choose clothes/styles that flatter your body shape and proportions
Utilize belts and bra tape to adjust the waist, keep shirts tucked in, and keep straps from falling down or create an impromptu cuff/hem on your pants
When in doubt, select a neutral head-to-toe monochrome outfit
If on a budget, consider choosing black, grey, camel beige items to hide fabric imperfections that could cheapen your look
Choose your accessories wisely:
Select sleek, simple neutral (& almost exclusively) monochrome shoes made with smooth (recycled/vegan) leather with
Pair almost any outfit with a shoe featuring a slight platform, block heel, kitten heel, and/or a sharply pointed toe to elongate your silhouette
Complement your outfit with structured, pared-back handbags with no logos (Focus on quality and construction, not the brand name) in a neutral shade and timeless silhouette
For jewelry, choose at most one statement piece and all others should be focused on different areas of the body (e.g. don't mix statement earrings with layered/bold necklaces or stacked rings * bracelets). When in doubt, choose simple diamond chains or earrings, sleek bangles or chainlink necklaces & bracelets, simple pendant necklaces, and minimalist rings in hardware that all go together
Embrace feature-enhancing makeup:
Cover up any dark circles, blemishes, or hyperpigmentation with a color-matched concealer
Lightly contour with a bronzer that complements your skin tone
Fill in your brows for a naturally full look (or get them professionally tinted)
Apply a light wash of rose, coral, or mauve blush
Use black mascara with a little bit of eyeliner and/or a subtle wash of brown eyeshadow on the lids
Apply a "your lips but better" nude shade or "just kissed' berry lipstick or pigmented lip balm for a subtle wash of color
Keep your nails clean, filed, and simple:
Maintain cut, cleaned, and filed short nails
Opt for a square or almond nail shape
Choose a timeless nail shade (pink, nude, red, beige, dark cherry, navy, dark purple, black) with no nail art
Hydrate your hands and scrub under your nails daily
Regarding your signature scent(s):
Ensure your body wash/lotion and perfume scents don't clash
Test perfumes for a trial day to ensure they smell divine with your unique pheromones
Choose a fragrance appropriate for the seasonal/occasion
Apply a dab on each wrist and on your neck/behind the ears. If the scent doesn't project well on you, try applying these small dabs on the cuffs and shoulders of your jacket/walk into it to get it on your hair (if it would stain your clothes)
Don't layer more than one heady perfume at a time or scents that don't have complementary and/or shared notes
Follow your dental & bodily hygiene routines religiously:
Floss every day (after each meal if possible)
Brush your teeth with an electric toothbrush twice a day
Have mints on hand if you're a garlic, spice, or coffee lover
Keep your lips & hands well-moisturized and protected with SPF
Shower your body daily and be extra diligent in scrubbing your privates, everything behind, and under your arms
Don't use very hot water in the shower (it burns/dries out your skin)
Exfoliate 2-3 times a week with a sugar scrub
Moisturize daily or anytime you get out of the shower
Apply SPF on any exposed sun (especially in the summer or when the UV index is high in your area)
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devilmademewriteit · 1 year
Text
Pretty When You Cry
part 2 of Dark But Just A Game
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pairing: (pre-ellie) joel miller x afab!fem!reader
summary: after getting a taste of dad’s associate, Joel Miller, facedown on a desk, you can’t seem to stay away. despite his best efforts, he can’t seem to, either.
warnings: rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration, unprotected sex) so 18+ only content; fem afab reader; mentions of reader having long-ish hair; alcohol consumption; pet names (sweetheart, angel, baby); dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance); age gap; dbf!Joel.
beta reader: @millllenniawrites aka bestie4lifie
word count: 4.7k
no use of y/n in this fic
Click to read part 1: Dark But Just a Game
Click to read part 3: Let Me Love You Like a Woman
ok y’all here she is!! thank you thank you for the reblogs on part 1! this piece and the last were slightly inspired by the dbf!joel miller drabbles by @anchoeritic, which you can read here. once again, love hearing your feedback, negative and positive, & my requests are always open<3
-em<333
It had been months since you’d last seen him.
Joel and Tess had a tendency of disappearing for weeks on end, taking the riskier smuggling jobs that nobody else dared to. How they managed to fly under FEDRA’s radar time and time again remained a mystery to all. The pair had to be extremely well connected on both ends of the spectrum.
It was easy to pretend that nothing had changed. He’d left without a word the morning after the party, taking Tess and a great deal of your father’s ammo along with him. It’s not like you’d expected a warning, much less a goodbye, but his departure still felt so sudden, so pointed. The next day, all he’d left you with was a constellation of light bruises between your thighs and a small, white pill in a dime bag tucked under your bedroom door.
So you went on with your life, only allowing your thoughts to wander in his direction when you’d had too much to drink or whenever you heard the word ‘sweetheart.’
Then, this morning—rubbing sleep from your eyes, you’d stumbled down to the main floor in a scant excuse for pajamas, failing to register the multitude of voices at the base of the stairs in your half-awake state.
And there he was, his spread legs taking up half of the shabby couch, one arm draped casually over the back, his other relaxed at his side. A deer in headlights, you screeched to a stop as soon as you were conscious enough to recognize him, frozen in his gaze as he briefly took you in—one hand shifting subtly to pull at the fabric of his jeans. Then, he looked away, his features hardening into a mask of nonchalance and indifference.
No acknowledgment, no greeting, no nothing.
Great. Things were back to how they’d been before he’d fucked you dumb on a wooden desk.
Scampering back up the stairs, you sealed yourself back into your bedroom, doing your very best to ignore the heat building between your legs.
A heat that only Joel-Fucking-Miller could entice from you.
Leaning your forehead against the door, you kicked yourself mentally for running away from the (non)interaction like a scared little kid. Where had that bygone, unchecked confidence gone? Where was that fearless playfulness you’d so often used against him?
Fine. If Joel wanted to pretend that nothing had happened between you two, he was leaving you with two options.
The first was to ignore him back.
No, you decided. That would be exactly what he’d want of you—what he’d expect of you.
To make things easy for him.
Conveniently, your second option was to make things really, really hard for him. To make it impossible for him to ignore you.
Good thing you were exceptionally well versed in what made Joel Miller incapable of disregarding you. Getting him to snap was practically your specialty, your carefully crafted home-made method.
After all, your incessant teasing had gotten you facedown on a table before, maybe it could get you on your back this time.
Smiling mischievously, you felt your old confidence soar back to its former standing.
“What could possibly be more fun than watching a building explode?”
Emma punctuates her tone with incredulity like a needle passing through silk—she was always doing a poor job of managing her attitude when it came to peer-pressuring you.
“C’mon, you know I can’t leave the boss here with all these people,” you lie effortlessly. Of course, you could leave. Hell, your dad probably would’ve preferred it that way. There weren’t many parents who enjoyed or encouraged the presence of their child while they were—oh, just committing criminal offenses—and your father was no exception.
Under normal circumstances, gallivanting around the moonlit city with Emma would’ve been your bread and butter, especially when she had intel on a firefly operation that would be (she hoped) culminating in a few explosions and a ton of rounds fired. But it wasn’t every night that your old man hosted a soirée for the best bandits in the city to congregate, getting them to drink shit liquor and make shit deals.
And Joel Miller was in your home, drinking the strong stuff and actively avoiding you.
So, these were not normal circumstances.
“That’s so lame,” she whines, brow furrowing in anguish as she mourns her mission.
Guilty eyes to the floor, you toss her a placating smile, thankful for her poor observation skills. Despite being raised in a family of highly successful criminals, Emma seriously lacked in the whole ‘perception’ department.
As it happened, you were just about ready to give up on your own mission. Despite going bra-less in the tightest top you owned and wearing the most ass-hugging jeans you could find, Joel hadn’t spared a mere glance in your direction all night.
In fact, you hadn’t even seen the guy. He’d been M.I.A. all night.
Frustrated, you decide to play your final card. Joel Millers aside, it was a fun card to play, even if you ended up losing the game.
Someone was going to have their hands on you tonight.
Scanning the bustling room of criminals, worn-in faces and worn-out hands gliding across your field of vision, your gaze lands on an unfamiliar young man. Tall, blonde-ish, lanky—looks like a toy still in its box, begging to be taken out and played with.
Perfect.
“Give me an hour,” you murmur urgently, catching Emma’s wayward attention, “no questions asked, and I’ll watch the damn shoot out with you, sparky.”
She looks at you, a bewildered smile creeping onto her expression. “But I thought—you just said—”
“Without asking any questions, Em.”
She puts her hands up in mock surrender and backs away, subsequently tapping her wrist and mouthing ‘one hour.’
Straightening yourself out, you ease your way toward your target, landing in the unoccupied space between the young man and the out-of-commission fireplace. He eyes you up before quickly looking away.
Nervous. Good.
“He waters down the drinks, y’know.”
Looking up at him through your eyelashes, the stranger returns your attempt at conversation with a puzzled glance. Jerking your chin, you gesture to his cup, full of a light-brown liquid that was once a spiced rum or a bourbon, now a glass of water barely seasoned with dark liquor.
“Saves the good stuff to repackage and resell to soldiers. His crime co-conspirators get stuck with the weak shit.”
You keep your tone casual, half focussed on the art of flirtation, half eyeing the room for a pair of angry, dark eyes. The boy sizes you up, nodding with sudden respect and understanding.
“You’re the boss’s daughter.”
You smile half-heartedly, a twisted part of you enjoying the look of amazement on his face. “Guilty,” you respond, shrugging sheepishly. Angling your body towards him, you flash him your most exquisite expression of interest.
“Meet him, yet?” You ask, curious to hear his thoughts. After all, your old man never failed to make an impression—nine times out of ten, it was an extremely negative one.
He shakes his head, explaining, “I only know about him ‘cause I’m here running my first job for him.”
“Interesting. And you are…?”
He stares down into his cup.
“Just passing through,” he answers quietly.
“Just-Passing-Through—what an interesting name!” You tease, hand landing gently on his bicep. “Is it foreign?”
The stranger snorts. Eyes darting across the space, you scan the room again for Joel, giggling artificially with the stranger.
“So,” He gestures awkwardly to the dusty, yellowing, crowded room. “You live here?”
You nod, gazing intently into his hazel eyes. The boy’s cute, there’s no denying it, and a tiny voice in your head tells you to forget about Miller, to actually try with this guy and experience something normal, something simple for a change.
But it is a tiny voice, and quickly, another louder, deeper and richer one reemerges to dominate over the softer echoes in your head. “I like needy” “you think of me when you’re touchin’ this pretty pussy?” “Takin’ it so good, pretty girl—”
The pair of bandits in front of you inadvertently shuffle a few feet to the left, clearing a direct path, right down the center of the room. You’re graced with an illuminating glimpse through the disorderly crowd.
He’s leaning against the old gas stove, burly arms crossed over his chest, apparently deep in conversation with your father. Shit. He looks so fucking fine in that dark t-shirt; your breath catches slightly as you trail your gaze up to his face, remembering the way his soft stubble felt against your neck, the way those hands felt on your tits, your ass, your waist, buried inside you…
Cool it, you scold yourself. We’ve still got work to do.
“You like music?” You ask abruptly, returning your attention to the lanky boy at your side.
Taken aback, he rubs the back of his neck, replying, “Uhh, I guess?”
“Great.” Plucking his cup from his grasp and placing it above the fireplace, you hold out your hands to him. He smiles a soft, sweet, shy smile—excitement burgeoning in his timid eyes—and links his fingers with yours.
Pulling the stranger across the room, you briefly lock eyes with Emma, whose mouth gapes open as she relays her classic what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you-and-also-you’re-my-hero expression, which you return with your own specialty, an I-don’t-know-how-we-got-here-but-here-we-are shrug. You make a point not to look in Joel’s direction, giggling affectionately as you climb the stairs with your gaze fixed on the boy’s. It was better if he thought you were doing this because you wanted to and not just to make him jealous.
So what if it was a petty game to play? Games had won you Joel the first time. They could sure as hell win you him again.
Your door creaks on its hinges as you press your free hand to it, the occupied one still interlaced between gentle, long fingers. Guiding the boy into the room, you make a conscious choice to leave the door ajar. Sure, it felt riskier (and that alone was enough to entice you), but it also seemed more natural—something a stupid, horny youngster would do.
The stranger stands self-consciously in the middle of your room, taking in the unmade bed, the faded, distressed curtains, and the old cassette player on your dresser. Shuffling over, you hit play, and Jimi Hendrix’s skilled fingers work their magic over the ancient speakers.
Spinning around to face him, you lean back casually against the hard, wooden edge of the dresser.
“You know it?” You ask, voice infused with seduction, intrigue, and mystery—all those things that men seemed to enjoy.
He frowns in concentration. “Heard it, probably couldn’t name it.”
“Can’t name Hendrix?” You gasp, feigning offense with a hand over your heart. He shrugs shyly, smiling down at his feet.
He really was sweet. Something extremely gentle dominated his disposition, something that pulled you in and asked you not to leave. He’d watch meteor showers with you and lend you his jacket if you shivered within a 10-mile radius of him. He’d ask, “is this okay?” before laying you down and making sweet love to you—missionary, of course, so he could look into your eyes and steal soft moans from your mouth with passionate kisses. Hell, he’d probably get straight for you, ditch the fast life, build a nursery and raise babies with you.
You fling out your hand, daring him to take it. Hesitantly, he moves to grasp your fingers in his, looking down to search your softened stare.
“You’re pretty fearless, huh?” He strokes your index affectionately with his thumb.
Chuckling under your breath, you lift a curious hand to trace his cheekbone. “I know what I want,” you reply in a partly seductive, partly earnest whisper. He ducks his head, and you rise onto your tippy toes to press your lips to his, butterflies dancing in your stomach.
“M’I interrupting somethin’?” A deep voice booms from the doorway.
The stranger swings around, revealing one half-annoyed, half-amused Joel Miller, arms crossed, leaning informally against the frame. Your heart lurches in your chest, drumming hard and fast. Stifling the reaction, you fix your eyes unabashedly onto his, recognizing the unchecked danger roaming his gaze.
Oh, fuck.
“Joel.” You acknowledge him coolly. “Nice to have you back.”
He ignores your reproachful taunt and the pointed tone you deliver it in, breaking away from your glare. The tense, tall form next to you shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
Joel draws an understated smirk, drinking in the effect of his presence. “You’re needed downstairs.”
You raise an interrogative eyebrow at him. “For what?”
“Not you, sweetheart,” Joel condescends. “Him.”
You gape at him, gaze darting between the two men, not comprehending a damn thing.
“Oh!” The boy lunges forward, extending a gangly hand toward Joel. “You must be the boss, then, yeah?” He gestures back to you. “Told her earlier I was startin’ out with you tonight. Thanks a lot for the opportunity, man, really—” he rambles.
Joel shows no signs of acknowledgment aside from an inconspicuous twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you snort involuntarily—defensively—as over-correction corrupts your tone, gushing, “Joel is not my dad.”
Subtle amusement flashes across Miller’s expression.
“Oh,” the boy responds, hands dropping to his sides in embarrassment.
Joel clears his throat, interrupting the brief interlude of painfully awkward muteness. You think a silent thank you to Jimi Hendrix’s guitar for making the moment a tad less excruciating. “Down the stairs and to the left,” Miller instructs. “They’re waitin’ on you.”
The stranger nods. Shuffling towards the door, he spins on his heels, relaying to you a sheepish wave, mumbling out a hopeful “see you around.”
He leaves. The din from the main floor and the music from the speakers punctuates your tense stand-off with Joel Miller as genuine annoyance clouds your thoughts.
You simmer speechlessly.
“Good song,” he mentions off-hand. Stifling a scoff at the nonchalance, the cockyness, and the sheer casualness of his demeanour, your annoyance swells.
“You’re needed downstairs.” You mock his deep voice, throwing up air quotes to drive the derision home. “Really, Miller? That’s the best you could come up with?”
A shrug.
“S’true, sweetheart. Go n’ see for yourself if you want.”
“Bullshit.”
Again, he shrugs, eyeing you up hungrily, visibly entertained by your flustered state.
“Y’know, Joel, I actually liked this one,” you mutter coolly, realizing the genuine truth of the sentiment as the words roll off your tongue.
“You could do better.”
Huffing a quick breath, you cross your arms and roll your eyes dramatically.
Joel bathes in your ire for only a moment before pushing off the frame and shutting the cracked, dilapidated door behind his back. A familiar tingling spreads through your core, mounting to a buzz as he closes the distance between you. He weaves a hand behind your back—there’s a click, and then the music’s stopped.
“So, that’s it?“ You challenge, Joel’s proximity doing a number on your nervous system. “Just gonna keep ignoring me til’ I’ve got my eyes on someone else?”
Tone both sincere and playful, he rumbles, “jus’ cause I can’t have you, angel, doesn’ mean some other jerk-off gets to.”
Damn it. Damn it right to hell.
Joel’s downright possessiveness makes you weak in the knees, ringing in your ears like a bible hymn. The ridges and valleys of words spell out come home; you think a silent prayer to God, begging him for the strength to resist them. But Joel’s magnetism beckons you towards sin, and no God stands a chance against the unholy look in those darkening eyes.
It serves no use, fighting against it. You craved Joel like a smoker craves nicotine—and you’d risk it all for one more fix.
You needed the man to cave.
“You can have me, Joel.”
A dangerous smile teases his lips. Then, he ducks his head, slowly shaking it side to side.
“Trust me, angel—you don’t want that.”
A huff. “Yes, I do,” you insist.
“You want me to fuck you, that’s it,” voice deepening a near-octave, he straightens to tower over you. “‘Cause if I actually had you…?” He whistles under his breath as the sentence trails off.
A hand cups your face, one wanton finger absentmindedly tracing your cheekbone.
“I’m not a good man, sweetheart.”
Determination courses through your blood as his warning sets your nerves alight. You grasp his thick wrist, turning to place a soft kiss on the skin of his palm. His shadowed eyes lock onto yours, drinking in the sight of your lips dragging across his hand.
“Well,” you purr, seizing what you recognize as the perfect opportunity, “I’m not a ‘good girl,’ either.”
“And I never asked for good, Miller.”
A moment passes—only Joel’s breath, your heartbeat, and the echoes of your invitation disrupt the heavy silence.
And temptation wins him over, once again.
A powerful arm snakes around your back, spinning you around easily. The backs of your knees hit the edge of your mattress, and before you know it, Joel’s pushing your waist down roughly, settling himself between your legs as he looms over your body.
“Y’know,” he muses darkly, eyes wild with lust. “You got some serious fuckin’ daddy issues.”
He undoes the button of your jeans, grabbing the denim at the waist and yanking it unceremoniously over your hips, your ass, and halfway down your thighs. Without wasting a second, he pushes your dampened panties to the side, easing a thick finger between your dripping folds.
“Remind me to thank your old man for that.”
He groans with approval at your wetness, your readiness for him. Crying out “Joel!” in surprise and pleasure, you dig your fingernails into his forearm.
“Fuck, angel,” he breathes softly, watching his digit pumping in and out of you, “Jus’ can’t bring myself to let anyone else touch you like this.” He palms himself through his jeans to relieve some of the building arousal.
“Wanna be the only man this needy lil’ pussy comes for.”
It’s not enough. Tears leak from your eyes and your knuckles go white as you squirm on the unmade sheets—Joel’s touch fills you with ecstasy, but it’s still not enough.
“Joel—” you whine, fighting to prop yourself up on your elbows, forcing yourself to meet his lust-filled gaze before wandering first to the sight of his fingers fucking you, then to the bulge in his pants.
You need more of him.
“I know, sweetheart,” he coos, following your line of vision. ”But I’ll split you right open f’I don’t warm you up first.”
When he slips another finger between your walls, your back collapses against the mattress. Mewls and whimpers tumble from your lips—male satisfaction darkens Joel’s complexion with every moan you give him.
“Know what I thought about, away on the job?” His fingers alternate between curling roughly inside your cunt and rubbing your own slick against your swollen bud. “Thought aaalll about this pretty fuckin’ pussy, takin’ my cock from behind.”
“Pictured it when I used my hand.”
Mouth frozen in a silent “ah,” you look into his hungry, heavy eyes and the grey-speckled hair falling into them.
“Yeah?” You manage, voice involuntarily sliding up an octave.
He cups your cheek and nods.
Your eyebrows knit together in euphoria as his talk and his tantalizing fingers bring you right up to the edge of your climax.
And then Joel’s abruptly pulling his fingers out, leaving you gasping for air on the damn brink of bliss. He drags your jeans and underwear towards your ankles, tearing them from your body and tossing them carelessly onto the bed.
“You take that pill I left you?”
You nod enthusiastically, watching intently as Joel’s wet, wide fingers work impatiently at his buckle. “S’good, baby.” He pulls his own denim over his hips, smirking arrogantly as amazement crosses your expression. You’d forgotten how big he was. “‘Cause I’m gonna need you to take it again.”
It feels like the first time all over again, watching his heavy length bob up and down in front of you. You wonder what he tastes like.
Before you can find out, he’s yanked your legs over his hips, leaning forward to guide the tip of his manhood between your aching folds and teasing you with the dark head of his cock.
You’re moaning a soft “feels s’good, Joel” when he pushes himself entirely inside you, eliciting a sharp squeal from your lips as the curve of his cock grazes that spot inside you—as he bottoms out completely. He releases a low groan; it sounds like angels sighing.
Needing to see more of you, he bunches your shirt above your breasts. “Look at you, baby,” He palms one roughly, teasing and pinching the nipple as his thighs snap against your ass, the torturous combination bringing you closer and closer to oblivion.
“S’fuckin’ pretty with your tits bouncin’ for me.”
Lost in his eyes, expression frozen in ecstasy, you anchor your nails into his forearms, responding to his thrusts by grinding your hips against his.
“Fuckin hell, sweetheart.”
Joel’s eyebrows knit together as he gives you every inch of himself without holding back; your body responds to him—muscles quiver uncontrollably, cunt squeezes devotedly around his cock. The only word you seem to remember is ‘Joel.’
“Squirmin’ like crazy, baby,” he mumbles. “Been waitin’ for me?” His harsh, rhythmic strokes fuck you mute—but that was never an excuse with Joel. A calloused hand circles your gasping throat, pressing softly against your windpipe in an unmistakeable command.
“Words, angel.” Possessiveness underpins his husky demand. “Anyone else fuck you while I was gone?”
You meet his shadowed eyes, gaze hazy with pleasure. “N-no, Joel.”
He groans with approval.
“Fuckin’ right. That’s my girl.”
Your breath quickens as your clit begins to twitch, release simmering between your hips. “Oh god, Joel, I-I can’t—”
When he ducks his head into your neck, the scent of sandalwood soap mingling with his sweat overwhelms you with need; Joel’s teeth nip at your skin affectionately, beard brushing your collarbone as his thumb finds its way to your throbbing bud.
“Ohmygod—Joel, Joel, Joel—” uttering his name in worship, you reach your climax the second his finger presses into your clit—toes curling inside your socks, fingernails digging into the soft cotton of his t-shirt.
“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, growing harder and harder as his name tumbles from your lips, punctuating the rhythmic sound of his broad thighs slapping against your skin. “Jus like your lil’ pussy.” His hands move to your waist, squeezing your hips between his calloused hands as he bounces you up and down his pulsing cock.
“Fuckin’ young n’ needy.”
As he fucks you through your orgasm, you feel Joel working another one out of you. Wanton whines and moans escape your throat. Catching glimpses of his broad, towering form over you only makes the fluttering more intense—meeting his wild eyes only brings the simmering heat inside you to a downright boil.
“Please—come inside me—want it so bad—Joel—”
“Keep fuckin’ quiet,” He growls. “Tryna make your poor fuckin’ dad hear you beggin’ for my cum?”
Joel loved fucking you like this.
He loved fucking you with only a shitty, thin door separating your naked, eager body from all the blissfully ignorant assholes he worked with. He loved watching you writhe pathetically under his weight, cunt wrapped around him so desperately.
Made him feel like a man.
“Gonna give me another one?” He goads, voice straining slightly as his own release builds fast between his thighs. “C’mon, baby, wanna feel this pussy comin’ on my cock—js’one more, sweetheart, that’s right—”
His breathing turns shallow as his words tumble out; your eyes roll to the skies as he takes you there again, your near-sobs of “thank you thank you thank you” stifled just in time by the rush of his hand to your lips. Cradling your head, he pulls you into his shoulder and buries himself impossibly deep inside your cunt. You distantly register his muffled “shit—s’fucking good, baby” as his seed soaks your walls. Joel pushes his cum right into your guts with a couple of final, decelerating strokes.
Head still cradled in his neck, stars dance before your eyes. Joel’s chest heaves with every breath he takes, and his exhalations tickle the top vertebrae of your spine. You let your heartbeats settle together, frozen in place as he slowly softens inside you.
Finally, he pulls out with a gentle groan.
“Gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”
You slump onto the mattress, a cocktail of his cum and your slick leaking out of your pussy, still unable to string along a cohesive sentence.
Softly smiling, he adds under his breath, “Be at the wrong end of every conman and criminal’s rifle f’anyone ever found out about this.”
You prop yourself up on trembling elbows, watching Joel pull his jeans back up over his hips.
“I guess we’ll just have to run away together,” you hum, half-joking, half-serious. “You can teach me how to be a big-bad-smuggler.”
He chuckles, the rumble in his chest blanketing your still-pulsing body with an unfamiliar warmth.
“Yeah, you’d sure like that, huh?” His eyes dance with playfulness, a rare vision of Joel Miller. It suits him. “Wouldn’t last a damn day with you teasin’ me on the job.” He kneels down, finding your underwear and slipping it onto your ankles, wriggling it up your calves—a practiced movement, like something he’d done a million times before. “M’not sure you’d be too crazy about the clickers—though sick n’ decaying does seem to be your type.”
You giggle, lightly slapping his firm shoulder as he bends over you, pulling your damp panties up. His fingers smooth the distressed fabric delicately, lingering on the skin of your hip for a brief, cherishing touch. Silence settles between you as Joel’s thumb strokes your hip absentmindedly. Glasses clink and laughter erupts downstairs.
Brusquely, he clears his throat and straightens up, a hard mask of apathy descending on his features once again.
“Clean yourself up, alright?” He smooths his hair back, heading for the door.
“Joel.”
He knows the meaning behind your tone before you do.
It’s not that there’s anything, in particular, you need him to hear—you just don’t want him to leave.
Not yet. Not now.
Hand on the doorknob, his looming form stills.
“You should…” he begins, eyes glued to the door, throat constricting around his words. “You should go out with that guy. From earlier. Be good for you to see someone your age, y’know.”
“Well, I don’t want that guy,” you respond, sitting up on the mattress, fixing your stare on his back. “Do you really need me to say it, Miller? I don’t care how old you are, or that you’re friends with my dad, or how many people you’ve wasted,” you ramble, the taste of exasperation and agitation building on your tongue. “Hell, I wouldn’t even care if you were fuckin’ infected. I like you.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyebrows furrowing together in frustration.
“Well, don’t.”
He exhales, shaking his head with frustration.
“Shouldn’t’ve let this happen again. Made a damn mess of things by fuckin’ you.”
For some extremely unwelcome reason, his words bite like hell. You’d borne your soul to him, been vulnerable with him, had him inside you twice now, and all he viewed you as was a regret. Crestfallen, tears stinging your eyes, you roll onto your side, facing away from him, still half-dressed. You don’t have the capacity to care about how pitiful a sight it is, only wanting the man to leave you to tend to your wounds in peace.
But, of course, he doesn’t.
He won’t.
That hand just can’t seem to twist that fuckin’ knob. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he mutters. “Okay.”
Something like hope begins to bloom in your chest as you hear the concession leaking from his words. You try to beat it down, focussed on the cracks and divots in the wall facing your tear-lined eyes.
“Tess is gone for the week—job outside the Zone.” Despite the tortured strain in his voice, it tastes of desire. “Place’ll be empty. Jus’ don’t let anyone see you.”
With that, he wrenches the door open; a brief swell of noise floods the room before he seals you back in. Still curled up into yourself, the beginnings of a smile etch their way onto your lips. You turn into your pillow, grinning into the linen, unable to contain it.
Victory.
Joel Miller was a hard man. Of that, you were certain. absolutely certain.
But you were also certain that he was soft on you.
And that felt like winning.
Read part 1: Dark but Just a Game
Read part 3: Let Me Love You Like a Woman (Let Me Hold You Like a Baby)
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TAGLIST: @witchy-jadda @ninebluehearts@jbcalway @jasminedragoon@mads-grace4 @anyas-stuff @liviloo94 @ninebluehearts
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wordstome · 3 months
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könig as the nutcracker 🥹🥹
you just brought some terrible sleeping beast out of me, anon.
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nutcracker prince König x fem reader (mostly gender neutral but you're wearing a dressing gown)
tw: mouse murder???
He's a very odd looking nutcracker, all things considered, but you can't take your eyes off of him.
"If it's a nutcracker why does it have that stupid veil over its face?" Your brother asks, noisily crunching candies between his molars. You glare at him, both for the rude remark and for chewing with his mouth open.
"This is a special one," your aunt gushes. "He's based off of a legendary soldier who never showed his face on the battlefield. One of a kind, from a specialty toy shop.”
"How interesting..." You muse, gently rubbing the fabric of the veil between your fingers. It's sturdy fabric, but still soft to the touch.
"He was probably ugly as hell," your brother declares. You swat him, and he only cackles and gets up to graze at some more sweets.
"Maybe you should try covering that ugly mug up once in a while," you call after him. He pelts you with a walnut shell.
Your aunt shakes her head fondly. "This one's not just decorative," she says. "He's a real nutcracker by Steinbach."
You look at her, wide-eyed. "So he can crack nuts?"
She nods and tosses you a hazelnut. "Try it."
You lift the wooden man's veil a little to put the hazelnut in his mouth. You could just pull the whole thing up and out of the way, but that feels almost...forbidden? You're not sure why you feel this way—he's just a piece of wood, after all, and he probably doesn't even have anything painted on underneath the veil other than those vibrant blue eyes. But even so, you're hesitant to unmask him.
Cracking the nut works like a charm, though, and some childish excitement bubbles up inside you as the remnants of the cracked hazelnut spill into your palm. "That's incredible!" you gush, running your thumb over the nutcracker's lacquered uniform.
"What do you mean incredible, that's what nutcrackers are for." Your brother returns, a few walnuts rolling around in his palm. He holds his other hand out. "Give him here."
"No. You called him ugly, so he's mad at you," you say, teasing him by holding the nutcracker out of his reach.
Your brother rolls his eyes. "Give it here, you little shit."
"Crack your own nuts," you shoot back. "This is my nutcracker."
He makes another grab for it, and this time he manages to grab the nutcracker's arm. It's only a lighthearted tussle between siblings as you shove at your brother and he refuses to let go of the nutcracker's arm—until it's not.
A terrible snapping of breaking wood causes you to gasp. The two of you stumble away from each other from the force, your brother holding a tiny wooden arm in his hand. He's just pulled it clean off. On closer inspection, your idiot brother has somehow managed to Hulk-rip the arm piece off of the piece that fits inside the socket. "This is a brand new nutcracker, how did you fuck it up?!" you cry.
"Hey, you should have—" Your brother takes one look at your expression and decides not to give you a hard time. "Look, I'm sorry. I was too rough on it. Sit tight for a second." You sit there, numbly staring at the pieces of your poor nutcracker. Really, it's your fault too—why didn't you just let him have the damn thing?
And why is this upsetting you so much? The nutcracker's just a decoration, albeit one with a little more function than most. You feel a sort of attraction to this little wooden man in your hand, though. Maybe it's because his unique design is interesting, or maybe it's because you're intrigued by the idea of a masked soldier who never shows his face. Either way, he was your gift anyway, so it's not that unusual that you're attached to him...right?
"Here, let me see him." Your brother's back, but to your horror, he's holding a pair of needle-nose pliers. "Absolutely not," you respond, jumping up from where you were sitting on the floor. "You are not getting anywhere near my nutcracker with those things. You're just going to fuck it up even more."
"It'll be fiiine," he insists, clicking the pliers open and closed like some maniacal toy surgeon. You're not sure you like the devious glint in his eye. Your brother's a nice guy for the most part, but sometimes he gets this look in his eye that you imagine Dr Frankenstein must have had when he was assembling his creation.
You hold the nutcracker and his detached arm protectively to your chest. "I'll figure out how to fix him in the morning with glue or something," you insist. "I don't need you poking around with pliers and splintering the wood."
"Are you sure? I am sorry, for what it's worth."
You wave him off. You're still kind of mad at him, but you're both adults. You'll live. "Don't worry about it. I think I'm going to head to bed soon, anyway."
"You should keep his arm with him, dear," you aunt pipes up. She had gone into the kitchen during the whole ordeal, but had probably heard everything go down. "Tape it to his side or something. You wouldn't want to lose it."
That's a good idea, you muse, examining your poor amputated nutcracker. You're just about to take her suggestion when you get an idea.
Your brother checks in with you later, right before he goes to bed as well. "You can't be serious," he says. "You made him an arm sling?"
You tie the knot on the little scrap of cloth around the little wooden man's arm nice and snug. "Oh, I'm dead serious," you say. "Doesn't he look cute?"
Your brother lets out a resigned sigh. "Yeah. Sure."
The rest of the evening is relatively uneventful. You put the nutcracker in your room, right on top of the dresser, while you go about your bedtime routine. It always brings you a bit of joy to walk out of the bathroom and see him there, standing tall and proud.
Well, your evening would have been uneventful...had you not bolted awake in bed an hour or two later.
You're groggy and confused, trying to figure out what the hell is going on, when you hear the cacophony of noise. It sounds like footsteps, dozens upon dozens of them, stampeding through your walls. And then the mice show up.
They crawl up from the corners and the floorboards, swarming across your room. You're too terrified to move or even scream out, sure that you must be having some terrible nightmare or hallucination.
And then your nutcracker moves.
You're absolutely positive now that you must be dreaming, watching frozen from your bed as your nutcracker leaps down from your dresser as if he's a living, breathing man and beginning to fight the mice. And he's even...talking?
"Finally, some worthy adversaries!" you hear him cry. You gape at this bloodthirsty little soldier as he beats through mouse after mouse with his tiny sword.
It's an impossible battle, you think. There's no way he can take all those mice alone, and with one injured arm aside...you're usually pretty squeamish when it comes to dubious little animals, but you can't just leave your nutcracker to be overwhelmed. Besides, this is all a dream, so nothing matters, right?
There's one mouse, larger than the others, who's at the back of the pack, squeaking as if giving orders. You're having quite a wild dream, honestly, because the mouse is even wearing a little crown. Like a king, you think with some amusement. You reach over the edge of your bed to pick the mouse up by the scruff.
You're not quite sure what happens next. One moment, the mouse is chattering angrily at you, the next you're on the floor. At first you think you've simply lost your balance and fallen onto the floor, but when you scramble to your feet, you nearly fall over again as you take in your surroundings.
You've shrunk.
Your bedroom is cavernous above your head, your bedposts and furniture as tall as skyscrapers. And worse still, the mice are huge too: the once palm-sized mouse king is now as large as you are, sneering down at you from his snout. You didn't even know mice could sneer.
You yelp and throw yourself to the side to dodge one of the mice lunging at you. "It's time to wake up," you mutter to yourself through clenched teeth. "It would be really really nice to wake up right about now...!"
The mice are unrelenting, a vicious gleam in their eyes as they nip at your heels. They manage to corner you against a piece of furniture, snapping their jaws menacingly. All you can think to do is pray as they draw ever closer, their breath hot as they crowd around you—
A sword neatly lops off the head of one of the mice in front of you.
You gasp and look upwards to see your nutcracker looming above you, his sword gleaming in the low light of your bedroom. He's incredibly menacing at this size, his veil becoming intimidating rather than charming. You're far smaller than him now—if he had been a normal sized man, he would have easily cleared six feet. His eyes are vibrant and intense, staring down at you for a brief moment before they turn back towards his enemy.
You sit there, stock-still in awe as you watch him mow through his adversaries. It takes you a moment to realize you probably shouldn't be hanging around and gawping. Good thing, too, because your knight in shining lacquer is too distracted to notice he's being snuck up on. The larger mouse is creeping up behind him, a wicked glint in its eye.
"No!" you cry. Thinking fast, you pull off your slipper and chuck it at the mouse's head, stunning it. I can't believe that actually worked, you think.
You have to give your nutcracker some credit, his reflexes are wicked-sharp. In a single heartbeat, he's run the mouse king through with his sword. He cuts an imposing figure, his eyes sharp and deadly. But there's a sort of glee in them as well, the kind of thing that should make you uneasy.
It doesn't.
The rest of the mice, seeing their leader fallen, beat a hasty retreat, tugging the corpses of their fallen comrades along with them. You watch them, fascinated, until all that remains of the bloody conflict are a few tiny pools of blood streaked along your floorboards.
"I must thank you," comes the voice of your nutcracker. You look at him, unsure of what to say. You're welcome for throwing a shoe at a giant mouse to keep it from killing you?
"I...of course," is what eventually comes out. You smooth out your dressing gown in a futile effort to look presentable. "I couldn't let him hurt you."
The nutcracker tilts his head curiously. "You don't know me."
"Of course I do. You're my nutcracker," you say, instantly feeling silly once the words leave your mouth. You just received him as a gift, and you only just found out he was sentient anyway. You don't know why you feel so protective...
He shifts his injured arm, the sling still in place. "You bound my arm, as well."
You flush with embarrassment. "I-it was the least I could do," you stammer. "I shouldn't have let my brother do that. Really, it was my own fault—" Your words die in your throat as the nutcracker moves in close to you, so close that you can feel his body heat. Since when did he have body heat?
"Pretty," he murmurs under his breath. You stare at him, dumbfounded. Is your nutcracker...hitting on you?
Suddenly, you snap back to your senses. "Oh my God," you exclaim, staring down at yourself and then back towards your surroundings. "I'm still small. And I haven't woken up yet. Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming. Please tell me I'm dreaming." You pinch your skin, letting out a small exclamation when it hurts. But you still don't wake up.
"Hmm...you won't solve your predicament that easily, little one," the nutcracker muses.
"Wha—do you know how to fix this?"
"I have a hunch," he responds, brow furrowing. You hadn't noticed eyebrows on him when you were examining him earlier in the evening, you note.
"Do tell."
"You've had a curse placed on you, but I don't know how to break it. I do, however, know someone who might know how."
"Well then take me to them!" You stare at him beseechingly. You watch as several indecipherable emotions run through his eyes, then he nods.
You visibly relax. "Thank you."
"You'll have to trust me. You may find the whole process a little...fantastical."
"More fantastical than my nutcracker coming to life and fighting an army of mice on my bedroom floor?" you ask, cocking an eyebrow. His eyes crinkle in a way that must mean he's smiling.
"More fantastical than that," he says. He offers you a hand like a true gentleman, and to your shock, it feels like flesh, not wood. His grip is firm but soothing, his hand so huge it dwarfs your own.
"Let's do this, then."
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uhhhhhhh wow this got kinda long I had to cut it short. I'll probably write a part 2? But it's gotta wait because I've got a gazillion other things to write first :P Thank you for the inspiration, anon! 🥺
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optimisticbearsheep · 2 years
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