#Pre-Owned Luxury Bag

[confidential-couture]

Unboxing Chanel Classic Top Handle | Confidential Couture #luxurybags 

Chanel Hand Bags Online India Pre-Owned Luxury Bag | Confidential Couture Chanel Hand Bags Online India Pre-Owned Luxury Bag. Shop Pre-owned Chanel Luxury Handbags. Get the best deals on used Chanel handbags & fashion accessories with Trusted Authenticity & Money back Guarantee.  

[relovedluxury]

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[bagsbusiness]

Why Hermès Resale Booms: Become a Professional Reseller

Hermès handbags are coveted status symbols, and their resale market is a booming business. But why are pre-owned Hermès bags so expensive, sometimes even exceeding retail prices?  This article delves into the reasons behind Hermès' resale phenomenon, exploring the factors that fuel demand and uncovering potential business opportunities.

Remember that you can become an Hermès reseller and sell or buy your original Hermès handbags on Resellers Connector without commissions.

Decoding the Hermès Resale Enigma: Factors Driving High Prices

Several key factors contribute to the exorbitant prices of pre-owned Hermès bags:

Limited Availability & Exclusivity: Hermès enforces a strict production quota, particularly for iconic models like the Birkin and Kelly. This scarcity creates a high demand that outpaces supply, driving up resale prices.

Unwavering Brand Prestige: Hermès is synonymous with luxury craftsmanship and timeless design. Owning a Hermès bag signifies not just style, but exclusivity and social status. This brand cachet translates to a premium on the resale market.

Investment Potential: Unlike depreciating assets, some coveted Hermès bags, especially rare or limited-edition models, are seen as investments. Their value can appreciate over time, making them attractive to resellers and collectors.

Celebrity Influence: A-list celebrities flaunting their Hermès collections on social media and red carpets fuels public desire and reinforces the brand's association with luxury.

Business Opportunities in the Hermès Resale Arena

The booming Hermès resale market presents a wealth of opportunities for entrepreneurs and fashion enthusiasts:

Curated Resale Platform: Establish an online platform specializing in authenticated pre-owned Hermès bags. Offer a curated selection, detailed descriptions, and transparent pricing to attract discerning buyers.

Authentication Services: With numerous fakes flooding the market, authentication services are crucial for both buyers and sellers. Develop expertise in identifying genuine Hermès bags and offer verification services for a fee.

[seat-safety-switch]

For years, real estate predators have said they aren't making any new land. Today, I'm proud to tell you that this is, at long last, slightly incorrect. The seaborne microplastic crisis of abandoned fishing nets, old condoms, and 1996 Saturn SL1s has in recent months congealed into a single glorious island in the middle of the ocean, and we're doing condo pre-sales for it for just $350,000.

Now, I hear what you're asking on the message boards and at the town halls. Is this "land" consisting mostly of shopping bags and Garfield telephones actually sturdy enough to build several tonnes of condo building on top of? We simply don't know, but the important thing is that it doesn't keep you from speculating on the property. Buy one today, and then sell it in a month for twice what you paid, even before we broke ground on it. In fact, the price went up to $500k just while we were talking, so you better jump on it.

Don't worry, though. Just because we got the land for free, and are violating several hundred international regulations on human rights to build these buildings, doesn't mean that you're getting a bad deal. Sure, it's made of a flimsy reclaimed-timber frame made of old trees we found floating by, but if the walls ever catch on fire, the ocean is right there to put it out. Full of water. Couldn't be safer. Price is now $750k, to reflect the changing market dynamics of housing.

Investors, I mean homeowners, we regret to inform you that our esteemed construction partner, Scamco, has run away with the seed capital we paid them. We've got no way to get that money back, I'm totally gutted about it and we'll have to ask everyone for another $200,000 to resume construction.

After an audit conducted by our internal partners, it turns out that they had no expertise in this kind of construction in the first place, and couldn't build a 60-storey luxury condominium using my uncle's old bass fishing boat as a cargo barge. Why my uncle? Oh, my brother runs Scamco. Rest assured that we have no conflict of interest here, we don't let him sit in on board meetings that are held in the bedroom next to his. Come to think of it, in case any of you have family of your own that want to buy another of the condos in our building before we begin construction, it's only $1.5 million for the next week.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Long Time Coming

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x reader

Warning: slight angst (usual mentions of walking dead stuff), mostly fluff

Authors Note: this does mention pre breakout Daryl briefly but I was inspired by @dixons-sunshine I love their fics so check them out

Word Count: 1.4K

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

You and Daryl Dixon had known each other for as long as you could remember. Growing up in the same small, rough town, you both carried more bruises—both physical and emotional—than you’d ever admit to anyone else. Your families were the kind people whispered about, and no one in town expected much from either of you. That didn’t matter, though. You and Daryl understood each other in ways no one else ever could.

You spent most days together, wandering the woods on the edge of town, finding safety in the quiet and solace in each other’s presence. Words weren’t always necessary; there was a kind of silent understanding between you two. He wasn’t much for talking, but you’d learned to read him—by the way he moved, the set of his shoulders, or the way he clenched his hands when he was angry. Over time, he relaxed around you, and a friendship formed that was deeper than anything you’d ever known.

As you grew older, things shifted in small ways. You noticed the way he’d sometimes stare when he thought you weren’t looking, a kind of softness in his eyes you didn’t see anywhere else. You’d find excuses to brush his hand or linger a little too close, your heart hammering every time you did. Despite your unspoken feelings for each other, neither of you dared to confess. Each of you feared risking the one good thing you had.

When things got bad at his place, Daryl would come to your window late at night. You’d let him in without a word, and he’d curl up on an old sleeping bag on your floor. In time, you started keeping the little things he brought you from his walks—shiny rocks, a feather, even a small metal dog tag he’d found at a garage sale once. “Thought it looked cool,” he muttered, giving it to you with a rare, shy smile. On the back, he’d scratched his initials, *DD*, with his old pocket knife. You wore that tag around your neck every day, the feel of the cool metal against your skin a comforting reminder of him.

You thought you’d have all the time in the world to tell him how you felt, that someday you’d finally be able to put your feelings into words.

But then everything went to hell.

When the world ended, you were waiting for Daryl to come by, the way he always did. You hadn’t planned anything special—just another day spent together, escaping the world for a little while. But that afternoon, the world collapsed. Panic swept through the streets as people ran, screamed, and clawed at each other, desperate to escape the horrors that seemed to emerge from nowhere.

You barely managed to escape the initial chaos, fleeing into the woods where you and Daryl had spent so much time. You waited there for hours, hoping he’d come, but as the sky darkened, you realized you were on your own. Days passed, then weeks, and still, he didn’t show. You held onto hope, but each day without him made it harder. Part of you feared the worst, but the other part clung to the belief that he was out there somewhere, just as determined to survive as you were.

Months went by, and you learned to fend for yourself. In and out of groups, you never stayed anywhere long. Trust became a luxury you couldn’t afford, and you hardened, learning the skills you needed to keep going. The dog tag around your neck became your one constant—a small, silent reminder of what you’d lost and the person you couldn’t give up on.

That was where Carol and Maggie found you, holed up in the back of a crumbling grocery store on the edge of town. They convinced you to come with them, promising a safe place, a community. Their words stirred something in you—a spark of hope you hadn’t felt in a long time. You decided to follow them, if only to find out if “home” was something you could still have.

As they led you through the gates of the prison, Carol introduced you to a man named Rick, who assessed you with a calm, piercing gaze. “Daryl’s off workin’ on repairs,” he explained, “but he’ll be here soon.” Then he turned to someone nearby. “Go tell him to come help our new friend get settled.”

At the mention of Daryl’s name, your heart skipped. You fought to keep your expression neutral, reminding yourself that it was a common enough name. But a part of you couldn’t help hoping that maybe, against all odds, it really was him.

The minutes felt like hours. Then, finally, you heard heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. You turned, breath catching as he came into view.

There he was—older, rougher, with longer hair and sharper features. He’d changed, hardened by survival, but his eyes, those deep blue eyes, were still unmistakably him.

“Daryl?” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

He froze, his gaze locking onto yours, and you saw the shock, the relief, the unmistakable softness that was always there when he looked at you. “It’s…really you?” His voice was rougher now, almost hoarse, but it was still him.

You barely managed a nod before rushing into his arms, holding him tight. His embrace was just as fierce, his grip solid and real, grounding you after all the months you’d spent alone. He buried his face in your shoulder, his breath shaky as he murmured, “Thought I lost ya. Thought you were gone.”

You pulled back, your fingers instinctively going to the dog tag around your neck. You held it up, showing him. “I kept it,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I never took it off.”

His eyes softened even more as he reached out, fingers brushing the tag with a gentle reverence. “Didn’t think ya still had it,” he muttered.

“Of course I did. It was all I had left of you.” Your words were raw, spilling out without restraint, and you saw him visibly swallow, his emotions barely contained.

His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he gazed at you with a fierce determination. “Ain’t lettin’ you go again,” he whispered. “Not makin’ that mistake twice. You were gone too long.”

In that moment, the world fell away. You leaned forward, closing the distance as you kissed him, pouring all the words you’d left unspoken into that one moment. His arms wrapped around you tighter, his kiss deep and fierce, as though he was as desperate to make up for lost time as you were.

When you pulled back, breathless, he kept his forehead pressed to yours. “We’re gonna make it,” he promised, his voice barely a whisper. “Ain’t lettin’ you outta my sight.”

In the days that followed, Daryl’s protective instincts grew stronger than ever. To others, especially newcomers, he was cold and distant, rarely bothering to remember names. But with you, he was different. He softened, his usual roughness fading when he looked at you.

If you mentioned needing anything—medical supplies, food, anything—he’d make sure it got to you, no matter what it took. Whenever he returned from a supply run, he’d bring back something small for you—a shiny rock, a wildflower, a feather. They were things that reminded you of how he’d once come to your window at night, gifts in hand, and it warmed your heart that he still did it, even now.

One evening, he handed you a small, tarnished silver ring he’d found on a run. “Ain’t worth much,” he mumbled, cheeks tinged pink as he rubbed the back of his neck. “But…figured it might look good on ya.”

You slipped it on, smiling. “I love it,” you said softly. Those three words carried weight, and you saw him blink, the truth settling between you.

Daryl was everything to you now, your one safe place in a world that had torn itself apart. He watched over you with a quiet devotion, his gaze always tracking you in a crowd, his hand resting on your back whenever you needed grounding. If you felt uneasy or scared, he was there, his presence a constant reassurance.

Some nights, as you lay wrapped in his arms, you’d trace the scars on his skin, your fingers mapping the battles he’d survived. And sometimes, he’d open up, sharing things he hadn’t told anyone else. You listened, holding him close, letting him see that with you, he was safe.

In a world that had taken so much, you’d both found something unbreakable. No matter what came next, you knew you’d face it together. Because after everything, neither of you would ever let the other go again.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[itsjusthockey]

All I Need pt. 1 - Quinn Hughes

Hahhahahah angst

Not sorry

Enjoy

Part 2?

w.c: 1,141 (credit to gif maker) (don’t steal my work)

The smell of Kennedy’s expensive perfume hits you long before you see her. You know she must have arrived shortly before you, and her signature Tom Ford perfume fills the space and invades your senses, clouding your already scattered thoughts.

The man clad in his server tuxedo leads you through the luxurious space, smiling and making small talk, gesturing his hands toward the bar while he tells you about their specialty drinks. It’s almost fate, you think, because God knows you need one.

After a few more smiles and nods, you make it to the reserved table. It’s on the edge of the vast space, but it sits in front of a wall of windows. It shows off a beautiful afternoon, with sunlight filtering through sheer curtains, casting a warm glow on the table adorned with polished silverware and delicate china.

Sitting there, with a halo of light surrounding her, is Kennedy, digging through one of her Birkin bags. She flashes her eyes to you as you close in, and a broad smile dons on her signature red lips. She’s quick to her feet, and you can tell she chose her tallest heels for this special brunch occasion. She pulls you into a tight hug, squeezing the breath out of you.

“About damn time,” She lets out. “I thought I would have to drink all the bottomless mimosas myself.”

You bark out a laugh as you part, setting down your own bag on one of the empty chairs. You remove the light coat from your frame as Kennedy sits back down, eyeing your choice of outfit and subtly nodding her head.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” You answer her, meeting her stare fully for the first time.

When your eyes connect to her dark blue hues, she takes you in, baring into the depths of your soul. She knows you better than you know yourself, and you’re hoping the facade of normalcy you’re putting on is convincing.

“I always understand when you have to cancel, you're a busy woman.”

Here it comes.

“So,” Kennedy sips her mimosa and smirks. "How's Max and the wedding plans? Did the planer fix the fuck up with the flowers?”

A sizeable dry lump forms in your throat, and your stomach tightens into uncomfortable knots. You avoid the question for a brief moment and take a sip of your drink. The sugary concoction coats your throat as it slides down, and you wish you could stay silent forever. The moment of unease stretches, and you can almost feel Kennedy grow more impatient with the ticking seconds.

“Yeah, they fixed it.” You break, forcing a smile.” Everything's great, Max is great.”

The words taste bitter as they leave your lips, but the lie lips easily. Kennedy's corner of her mouth twitches, but she takes the answer. Only for a moment, though, before she searches your face again and raises an eyebrow

“Come on, (Y/N), you have to give me something here. I want all the details about my best friend's wedding.”

You swallow hard again and take another drink. Then another.

“Max is wonderful," you say, your voice cracking imperceptibly. "We're just dealing with the usual pre-wedding stress, you know?"

Kennedy nods, but you don’t miss how her eyes shrink slightly in suspicion. She knows something is wrong, but thankfully, she assumes you’re telling her the truth and that the stress is about the wedding and not the actual terrible truth.

You feed her a couple more details to derail the beast, and she’s gone off your scent as a server comes to the table. A few minutes later, the food collection comes, and between your bits of some slightly dry chicken, the conversation drifts through floral arrangements and the upcoming bachelorette party. You finish your plate, pushing it to the side as you deeply discuss the possibility of flying into Vegas for one night. You find your lips being too dry for your liking, so while Kennedy rants about which clubs have the best VIP section, you lean over to grab your Dior gloss from your bag.

“Jesus, is that a hickey?” Kennedy's voice is laced with disbelief.

You quickly swat your hand up to the side of your neck, shocked that you could have missed something like that, so you try to play it off.

“What? No, of course not.”

Ken begins laughing so hard that a snort lets itself escape. She continues her fit until she's clutching her side, and a few older ladies at neighboring tables give her dirty looks.

“Oh my god, I didn’t know Max had that in him.” She lets out another giggle. “You better hope his mother doesn't come to lunch here today; she’d have a stroke.”

You don’t find her remotely funny, and you wish for nothing more than her to drop it. But knowing your best friend, stopping your utter humiliation isn't an option, and the tension building in your chest keeps growing as she pokes at it.

“Enough, Ken, please.” You finally snap.

Kennedy ceases her laughter and sits straighter in her chair, a confused, then slightly hurt, look crossing her features.

“God, (Y/N), I’m just having fun. What's up with you today? You have a massive stick up your ass.”

You scoff at her and roll your eyes. You know she’s right, but you don’t want to give her the satisfaction, and you’re not about to apologize. Instead, you return a stern look, and she raises an eyebrow.

“Seriously, (Y/N). Are you pissed that Max had to go to that extra safety demo this weekend instead of staying back to help?”

You shake your head rapidly. That isn't what's bugging you. In fact, you were thrilled when he told you about the impromptu trip. You were fucking ecstatic.

“I’m fine, Ken; I’m just in a mood. Is that a crime?”

She rolls her icy eyes back at you.

“It is a crime when you're supposed to be having the time of your life. You’ve waited so long for this and have been acting weird for a while.”

That statement gets you.

“What do you mean?” You grit out between clenched teeth. “I have been the perfect little bride to be for everyone.”

Kennedy is quick to stick it to you. “Maybe with other people, not with me. You don't want to talk about the wedding. You don’t want to talk about Max. Like, what the hell? I’m your best friend, and we are supposed to be doing this together.”

Her face starts growing red as she continues. “Are you mad at me? Did I do something?”

“No.” You almost break down, knowing you have to tell her. “You didn’t.”

“Then what?”

It rises in your throat, and you know your entire world is about to burn.

“I’m cheating on Max.”

[confidential-couture]

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[nirvanawrites111]

Claim Me (Sub!Minho x Dom!Reader)

Pairing: Minho x Reader

No pronouns used. y/n is AFAB

Word Count: 2209

Smut warning: Pegging, fingers, phone sex, orgasm denial, handjob, cum eating, very light degradation, Y/N is called mistress, Idol AU

Minors Do not interact, please and thank you!!

"Tell me... I'm yours, mistress, please." Minho whimpers through the phone. 

He's trying his best not to wake anyone up in his house. Sure, he finally has his own room, but the walls are extremely thin. The last thing he needs is anyone hearing this conversation. 

His hand is wrapped around his aching length. He wants nothing more than your hands tightly squeezing it until he oozes his release just to lick it off your hand. 

You've made him like this. Never had he explored this type of desire with anyone else. But, with you, he opened himself completely to serve you and allow you to explore this side of him. 

Minho strokes his length nice and slow as you instructed, even though he wants to speed up and come. So, he can sleep and rest for his show tomorrow. 

The calmness and seductiveness laced in your voice are enough to tip him over the edge and push him to the limit. But, out of respect for you, he won't come until you tell him to. 

"Minny, I've told you several times you aren't mine until I've had your ass," you explain calmly. 

All Minho wants is to be yours and not belong to anyone else. He wants to be the source of all your pleasure and be exclusive with you. 

But, he knows that he has to earn that spot. That isn't something that will just be given to him. 

"Yes, mistress," Minho replies, still palming his dick and listening to your voice. 

The thought of you pegging him has him throbbing. He wants to be bent over his bed with his hair in your hand and throwing it back on your strap. He wants that more than his next meal. 

"Now, since you seem not to follow the rules. Stop touching yourself. We will pick up tomorrow when I come over to see Changbin, good night," you end the call without further explanation. 

The call ends, and Minho lays back against his pillow. His eyes are up at the ceiling, and pre-cum oozing out the tip. Why do you have him so eager and thirsty for you? Sure, he can have anyone, but none hold a candle to you. 

He takes a deep breath and sits up on the side of the bed. He grabs his underwear off the ground and looks down at his dick. 

You will know if he masturbated, so he decides not to push the envelope further or cross that boundary. He puts it back on and sends you a text. 

Minho: Good night, mistress. Thank you so much for your time. I promise tomorrow I will be good for you. 

***

You know that you must deliver a hand-painted jacket to Changbin today, so you will be in to see Minho. It's been hard keeping this secret from Changbin.

Maybe, because you and Binnie used to be friends with benefits a while ago. 

You know you want to explore with Minho, but you're unsure how you will accomplish this without Changbin finding out.

Sure, it would be easier for Minho to visit your place. But, with how nosey your roommate is, you would rather not chance it. You don't want him to have a scandal and lose everything because of you. So, you don't mind coming over to him. 

You knock on the door, and Changbin answers. "What's good, Y/n?" Changbin asks you, and by the way, he's looking at you. He probably thinks you want him. 

Changbin has a luxury Balenciaga tan sweater and black pants that perfectly hug his muscular thighs. Not to mention the Cuban link around his neck. 

"Nothing. I got your jacket." You lift the bag to show him, and he invites you in.

"Perfect. You are a lifesaver," Changbin hugs you. His firm tone body feels good against yours. But, you can't help but imagine what Minho would feel like. 

You sit in the living room, and Minho comes out in an oversized hoodie and tight boxer briefs. He walks into the kitchen. "Hey, Y//n," he greets you, but it is short and sweet. 

"Hey," you reply. 

"This is going to be perfect for my photo shoot, Y/n." Changbin is so engulfed in your artwork. 

Changbin is busy trying on the jacket, and he goes to the bathroom down the hall to look at the details. 

Minho comes into the living room with a blanket. He sits next to you. Now, this isn't the first time you've been over here. So, it's not like Changbin will think anything of it.

"Touch me, mistress," Minho whispers in your ear, and he's clearly horny for you.  

"No moaning, either." You grab Minho's face, and you remove your jacket. Minho turns on the television.

Your hand goes under the covers and over his boxer brief. He's already hard for you, but you aren't surprised. 

You hear Changbin on the phone arguing with someone. But, you don't care. Whatever it will take to buy you time with Minho is all that matters. 

Your hand dances along his crotch, and you rub your palm against his hard-on. 

You watch Minho's face to see if he will disobey you and moan. You tilt your head and give him a stern look. 

He's been whining for weeks about how much he wants to be yours, but he has to be able to follow directions if he wants the privilege of being considered yours. 

You feel a bit of pre-cum stain on the front of his underwear. You continue rubbing him until you feel the wet spot grow. You watch Minho swallow hard, trying his best not to moan, and it's cute. Commendable at best. 

You remove the blanket from Minho's lap, and his eyes grow. "Mistress?" he whispers. "What are you doing?"

"You don't trust me?" 

"I do... completely."

"I got you, don't worry."

You reach your hand into his underwear and stroke him fast. You like the slick sound of your hand rubbing him.

You use a bit of his pre-cum to make the interaction smoother. 

Minho bites his lip, and he looks down at you working your hand faster. His breathing quickens, and his hips start to buck, but you hold him down with your other hand. You want to make this last as long as possible. 

You can tell that he wants to moan your name so badly, and he appears to be fighting himself internally to be the obedient slut that you want.  

"Moan for me," you taunt him. 

Minho lets a low whimper as he enjoys your skillful stroke that he's thought about for weeks.

He's been dying for your soft and perfect touch against him. Feeling you connect with him like this is making his head spin. All while his roommate is in the other room. 

"Mmm.. sounds so good, baby. Do you want to come?" 

"Yess.. mistress." You can see the desire in Minho's eyes as he nods eagerly, desperate for release. 

His body is tense, and his breathing is heavy as he edges closer to the brink of ecstasy. 

You can feel his muscles tightening under your touch, and you know that he's close. 

"Y/n?" Changbin yells from the other room. 

"Yes?" you ask, but you don't stop stroking Minho. You want to finish the job. It's the least you can do. You can see how needy Minho is for your touch. 

"Baby, I gotta go to the studio. I swear they can't do shit without me." 

"Come," you lean over to Minho and whisper. You put your tongue in his ear as he comes all over your hand. 

"Lick," you tell him to clean it off, and he does it perfectly.

You toss the blanket over him and move to the other end of the couch as you hear Changbin's footsteps approaching from the different rear of the apartment. 

Changbin appears in the living room and grabs his keys off the wall. He comes over to you. "Can you wait for me?" Changbin asks. 

Changbin is starting deep in your eyes; you know he wants a taste of you like old times. 

"Of course. I'll be here."

"Perfect. Thanks again for the jacket. I'll see you soon," Changbin kisses you on the lips. He leaves out of the apartment. 

You stand up and grab your leash out of your bag. You put on Minho's collar around his neck. "You did really good, baby. He didn't suspect a thing. Let's go."

"Thank you, mistress."

Minho gets on his hands and knees. You walk him into his bedroom and close the door behind you. You lock the door just to be sure. 

You toss Minho onto the bed and stand over him. You want to do so much with him. But, those other things can happen another time. Right now, you only have time to fuck him. 

"You've been training, right?" you question him. The last thing you want is for him not to enjoy his first time. 

"Yes, mistress. I have my plug in now."

"Can I see?"

Minho removes his hoodie and then peels out of his cum-filled boxers. His body is perfect, and he turns around to show you he's indeed plugged. 

"So, do you want me to claim you?" 

"Yes, mistress." Minho nods. 

You can feel your own excitement growing as you take in the sight of him. 

You climb onto the bed and straddle him, running your hands over his chest and down to his hard dick. 

You kiss him deeply, feeling his hands grip your hips tightly. You break the kiss and move to his neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin.

As you go down to his chest, you take one of his nipples into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it before moving to the other. Minho moans loudly beneath you, urging you on. 

You continue down his body until you reach his plug, which is still firmly in place. You run a finger around it before slowly pulling it out, eliciting another moan from Minho. 

"Please, mistress. Fuck me."

"Gladly. Let's start with a finger, first."

You stand back and grab the lube off his dresser. You unzip your skirt to reveal you're already wearing your strap. He stares at you with his eyes widened at the sight of it. 

You apply the lube generously to your strap. You proceed to lube your fingers, so that you can feel him first. You tease his ass a bit with one finger. A cute moan escapes from his lips. You could listen to him moan all night like you've been for the last couple of weeks. 

"How does it feel?" You ask him. 

"Good.. I think I can take another."

You challenge his request and stick another finger inside of him. You move your fingers and lean down to kiss him. He looks so good sprawled out on his bed with a collar around his neck. 

You can feel his body tensing up as you continue to work him with your fingers. His moans are getting louder and more desperate, and you can tell he's close to the edge. 

"You are so naughty… about to come just from my fingers. I like this side of you."

You remove your fingers from him and pull his legs closer to you.

"Ready to be claimed?"

"Yessss." Minho whines out. 

You position yourself at his entrance and slide into him inch by inch. "Relax, baby. I got you."

You could easily go rough on him, but you consider yourself gentler than most. You start slow to get him used to having someone inside of him. 

As you continue to move in and out of him, you can feel his body start to respond. His muscles relax, and he begins to moan softly. You take this as a sign that he's ready for more, so you quickly pick up the pace.

Minho locks eyes with you, and shudders underneath as you set a steady rhythm, each thrust pushing him closer to the brink. He's writhing beneath you, completely at your mercy. You lean down and bite his neck as you pound into him relentlessly. 

You don't want anyone else on your strap, just him. 

 As you move in and out of him, Minho's moans fill the room. You can feel his body tense up as he approaches his release. You quicken your pace, knowing he's almost there.

"God, you're so beautiful like this. Taking all of me like a good little slut."

"Am I your slut?" Minho innocently asks. 

"Yes, all mine."

"This is all I ever wanted."

"Then come for me."

Leaning closer to Minho, you slip your tongue into his mouth, and he moans into your mouth as he comes. Minho's body shudders as he climaxes, his moans growing louder and more desperate. He comes hands-free just like you taught him to.

You pull out of him and lie next to him. You pull him into your arms. "You belong to me, Minny."

He nods, his breathing still heavy. "I belong to you," he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. You smile, running your fingers through his hair as he catches his breath.

[afterdarkprincess]

Between the Pages

Pairing: Bret Hart/Shawn Michaels (pre-relationship) Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3,427 Summary: Bret confiscates a copy of Shawn's Playgirl from the locker room and gives it a read in the privacy of his hotel room, discovering some things about himself.

AO3 link

Shoutout to @taydaq - your headcanon of Bret reading the interview directly inspired this 💖

This fic is Explicit and includes Masturbation and fantasies of Oral and Anal Sex- 18+ only. Full Tag list on AO3

tag squad: @feelschicken @elementaldoughnut12 @jeysbvck @harmshake @southerngirl41 @imabillyami @ambreignsfan4life (if you would like to be added to the list or I missed you please let me know!)

💗💗💗💗

Between the Pages

Bret Hart is a professional.

He comes into work, does his job, and goes home. He’s damn good at it, and he’s not one for gossip and drama. Whatever the rest of the guys in the locker room have going on in their personal lives that’s their own damn business as far as Bret is concerned.

Unfortunately sometimes they make their business his business.

Bret’s already not in the greatest mood when he gets to the arena for Raw that night. It’s been a rough few months with the contract negotiations, and his tolerance for bullshit has been pushed to the limit lately.

So when he walks past the door to the locker room, hearing giggles and tussling from the grown ass men he’s supposed to be coworkers with, his hackles are already raised.

He enters the room, unsurprised to find mostly the young and immature members of the roster playing keep-away with something.

“C’mon I wanna see-“

“I bet you do, Butch. Surprised you don’t have one of these in your gym bag.”

“No way man, Michaels ain’t my type!”

Bret fights the urge to roll his eyes at the Champ’s name. Of course that’s what this is about.

“Hey!” His voice bounces off the concrete walls, cutting through the noise and shutting everyone up. He stares at the guy whose clearly trying to hide something behind his back. “Give it here or I’m telling management to bench all of you.”

Sheepishly the man hands it over, Bret snatching it out of his hands as soon as it’s within reach.

“Bunch of children, I swear. Fighting over this garbage.” The shiny paper crinkles under his grip. “Who gives a shit what’s in here anyway, probably just Micheals on an ego trip as usual.”

A few of them start to protest but he just shakes his head and takes his leave, thankful that he and his brothers have the luxury of a separate locker room. He looks down at the crumpled magazine in his hand as he goes through the doorway, and of course he runs headfirst into someone.

“Sorry, are you—“ When he looks up, he finds the same face staring back as the one grinning up from the magazine cover. “Shawn, you good?”

He looks him up and down, the champ looks fine physically, no harm from the collision, but there’s an odd look on his face that Bret can’t quite place.

“Fine, fine.” Shawn replies, with a smile on his face that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Nothing that you need to worry about, Hitman.”

Bret hesitates. Something is clearly not right here, but his relationship with Shawn these days isn’t the greatest. He really doesn’t wanna push or pry where he’s not wanted and make things worse.

“Okay- I’ll, uh. See you around.” Bret takes a step back to leave and waves, realizing too late that the hand he waves with is still holding the trashy girly magazine. With Shawn on the cover.

If someone could just strike him down now that would be great.

Shawn laughs real and genuine for a moment before an almost sadness returns to his eyes. “Yeah, see you around.”

It doesn’t sit well with him, but he has no choice but to leave it at that.

They’d been almost friends at one point, years ago now, before things got all… complicated. They’d never been as close as Bret is to his brothers of course, but their chemistry in the ring had translated well outside of it too. They’d even tagged a few times, but then Shawn had made other friends and the business isn’t kind. It’s cutthroat, every man for himself. And Shawn had shown himself to be in it for just that, himself.

But still he wonders sometimes what might be if Shawn hadn’t fallen in with the wrong crowd.

Surely he wouldn’t be nearly nude on the cover of some porn magazine.

Thankfully the Hart locker room is empty when he arrives. He should probably just throw the damn magazine away, but instead he shoves it hastily into his gym bag, where it stays safely hidden away from his brothers’ prying eyes.

—

Bret doesn’t have a huge part to play on Raw that night, just a promo and a backstage spot before he’s done for the evening.

Usually he would hang around for a while to see the rest of the show, but he’d spent most of the day in a car and the comfort of a hotel room bed was calling his name.

He didn’t think about the copy of Playgirl hiding at the bottom of his bag, forgetting it’s existence entirely until after he’d gotten a nice hot shower and was getting ready to settle in for the night.

Bret dove his hand inside the bag, searching for a fresh pair of briefs and was taken aback by the sound of rustling paper.

“Oh yeah,” He mumbles out loud, rescuing the crumpled up pages before returning to his search. He tosses the magazine onto the bed and puts on the briefs before climbing in himself.

He’s tired, but it’s early still. And he has to admit his curiosity is piqued.

Bret smooths out the cover of the magazine, eyes roaming over his scantily clad coworker as he reads the various headlines about other male celebrities. It is a decent shot of Shawn, signature cocky smile staring out of the page.

The blurb about his interview reads “This Heartbreak Kid Is Single, Sexy, And Waiting To Get Wet With You!” the text tucked into the glistening curve of his armpit and ribs.

What a joke. Who on earth reads this stuff?

He flips through the pages, trying to avert his eyes as much as possible in case he gets an eyeful of more than he bargained for. He knows what kind of stuff they get away with in Playboy, who knows what they do in Playgirl. Mostly he just sees ads for perfume and razors among the articles until he finds the full page spread of photos of Shawn, in and out of the ring, that mark the beginning of his interview.

The insert proclaims, “the World Wrestling Federation’s CHAMPION LOVER had our hearts pinned to the mat in record time!!” right over a shot of Shawn stretched out on a bed, looking inviting.

“This is really what the guys in the locker room were fighting over?” He mumbles to himself in the quiet of the hotel room.

He begins to read the interview, which is mostly just vapid nonsense. How did he handle all the adoring women fans and being “single and searching”. and if he ever yearned for a normal life.

He flips the page and is confronted with a large photo of a clearly nude Shawn with only a bedsheet covering his crotch. He looks vulnerable, hair tossed delicately over one shoulder. If his exposed chest hadn’t been completely coated in a dark covering of hair, he could almost pass as a girl.

A tiny flame of arousal comes to life in Bret’s stomach.

“Huh,” It’s a tiny sound, no more than a grunt that escapes his lips. He tries not to think about that too much and reads on.

Does the idea of somebody biting at your heels, the next WWF Champion wanna-be ever worry you? You know what? I don't think so. I'm just confident in my ability. I don't sweat anybody. Nobody can wrestle longer than I can, nobody can make people yell louder than me for more. And if they can, I just work harder.

That gets Bret’s blood boiling. “Just who the hell does he think he is?” He scoffs at the page, unamused. That’s the exact kind of attitude in these up and comers that he just can’t stand, the kind of shit that’s gotten him and Shawn into disagreements in the past.

A voice in the back of his head, one with more rational sense than he has right now, reminds him that of course Shawn would play up his confidence in this interview for all the ladies.

It shouldn’t bother him.

He scans through the rest of the questions on the page, mostly inane things about pushy fans. The next page is mostly text with a few in ring photos, should be more interesting questions.

So what's the first thing that attracts you to a woman?

Or not.

Apparently Micheals likes smart girls. How interesting.

Back to the physical. What kind of hair and eyes? Brunettes first and foremost. That seems to be the pattern. Eyes…not really a color- it's just something about them, that there's something behind them. It's just one of those things that has to hit me immediately. That's how everything important has been in my life. If I don't get swept off my feet right away, I figure it isn't all that real.

Bret’s fingers wander to his own dark hair, tucking a loose strand behind his ear as his memory brings forth several occasions where Shawn lost his train of thought while making eye contact with him, in the ring or backstage.

But that didn’t mean anything right? Shawn’s talking about his taste in girls, that doesn’t have anything to do with him.

The heat in his gut grows a little bit, and he feels it in his face too.

Being the WWF champion makes you the best-known and most popular wrestler in the world, doesn't it? (Modestly) Well, I'd like to think so.

A better answer, a political one. Bret can’t blame him there.

He skims through the next few questions, flipping the page to be greeted with several shots of Shawn post-shower, dripping wet and wearing nothing but a towel. A sight he’s intimately familiar with from so many years of shared locker rooms, but never with Shawn looking at him like that.

Bret feels himself stirring a little in his shorts, and he tries desperately not to think about that too much, instead reading around the photos. Unfortunately they’re mostly silly ones about the hearts on his gear, if women get intimidated by him, so on and so on. Softball questions meant to titillate the target audience.

The interviewer asked how Shawn got the nickname “Boy Toy”, something Bret had been curious about as well, even though he’d been around when Shawn’s gimmick shifted. Apparently the moniker had been given to him by an older woman around that time.

Why do you think she called you that? I guess I was some form of object to her at the time.

He goes on to say that he doesn’t mind being objectified, which Bret can understand, it is part of the deal in their line of work. But knowing that his nickname, something Bret’s thrown at him both in ring and out came from such an unsavory comment; it doesn’t sit right with him.

Shawn hasn’t always been his favorite person, sure. And he had to have agreed to using the Boy Toy gimmick, which he plays so well. But something about that answer feels so sad?

Maybe it’s the lingering look of sadness he noticed in Shawn’s eyes, but there’s a soft undercurrent to some the answers that show a glint of the unsure young man Bret used to know. It’s far more compelling to him than the obnoxious act Shawn puts on, no clear line where his character ends and he begins.

Bret feels a tugging in his chest- maybe he’s been too harsh on Shawn these last few years. The soft spot he had for the younger man is still there underneath all the misunderstandings.

He’s also acutely aware that Shawn’s being objectified in these photos, and the insistent pressure in his groin proves he’s not immune.

The last page has another half-page spread of Shawn on a bed, covered again in a sheet, stormy blue eyes staring back at him.

The thumb holding the page brushes softly against the waterfall of Shawn’s hair almost against his will. Has Michaels always been this…. pretty?

Underneath the photo is a blurb, a quote from an answer he hasn’t gotten to yet.

”I’ve been told that for a man, I'm overly affectionate. I'm kissy-kissy, touchy-touchy, feely-feely”

Bret drops the magazine.

Every match, every practice, every scrap in the ring, all of it comes back to him now. The feel of Shawn’s body wrapped around him, underneath of him, beside him.

He doesn’t know how to process this wave of feelings, the weight of what this attraction means, how weak he feels to it. He’s never considered himself gay before, but can he really be that queer when Shawn is so soft and feminine?

He’s not sure but Bret wants him.

His dick is hard, aching. He sticks his hand under the fabric, biting his other hand to stifle the noise he makes as he takes himself in hand.

He doesn’t waste any time, gripping himself tight and screwing his eyes shut, his imagination running wild.

Shawn’s lips wrapped around him, staring up at him with those eyes, looking at him the way he looks in the damn girly magazine.

Shawn’s hands tangled in Bret’s hair as he rides him, hips bouncing as their lips connect, swallowing down his whines.

Shawn beside him in the bed, grinning as he jerks Bret off, poking fun at the noises he makes with a warm undercurrent of fondness.

Bret’s already getting close, between the visions of Shawn in his head and the sweet pressure and glide of his hand around him, eased with the copious amount of precum that leaks from his tip.

“You gonna come for me, Hitman?” Shawn’s breath tickles his ear before tugging his earlobe between his teeth playfully.

He lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a whimper and grunt as his muscles tense and he erupts onto his waiting palm.

Breathing heavily as he comes back down to earth, the reality of what he’s done settles onto his shoulders and shame floods in. What does this mean for his sexuality? How on earth is he going to be able to face Shawn in the locker room? In a match??

He covers his face with a pillow and lets out a long groan.

“Fuck!”

—

The next day Bret is tired. He’d been kept up, plagued by thoughts of Shawn in all kinds of compromising positions. When he did sleep they came again in his dreams, leaving him hard again when the alarm clock went off.

He took a cold shower before getting on the road. He had a three and a half hour drive to make it to the city where he’s set to perform tonight, just a house show but he’d like to hit up a gym before call time.

Bret resolutely tries not to think about Shawn Michaels or the magazine that’s tucked into the bottom of his suitcase. He blares the radio instead, letting the familiar noise drown everything out.

He wasn’t sure if Shawn was on the card for the show tonight, but with him being Champ at the moment it’s hard to imagine he won’t be.

Either way nothing had changed as far as Shawn is concerned. They’re still two guys who don’t particularly like each other.

He’ll just have to keep himself composed when he sees Shawn. Act like everything is normal and he didn’t spend the previous evening thinking of him while jerking off.

He can definitely do this.

“And that’s when I told the guy to buzz off and get out of the bar!”

The sound of Shawn’s voice is followed by laughter. He’s surrounded by his usual gang of friends- Hunter, Diesel and a few others, when Bret arrives to the arena.

He tries not to pay them any notice, hoping that he can make it to the safety of his private locker room without having to interact with them. For a minute he thinks he succeeded, keeping his head down as he walks past, only breathing once the sound of their laughter starts to fade.

But then he hears footsteps. “Ey- Hitman! Wait up, won’t ya?”

Of course.

Of course it’s Shawn.

Bret turns, watches Shawn jog to catch up to him. He’s not in his ring gear yet, instead he’s wearing a nearly see through muscle tank with sweatpants. His hair looks freshly dried, curls a little frizzy from the humidity.

“H-hey Shawn,” He tries for nonchalant, hopes that Shawn buys it. Thankfully he still has his sunglasses on so there’s no chance of Shawn seeing the panic in his eyes.

“Wanted to get your advice on somethin’-“ Shawn starts talking animatedly about a match idea he wants to pitch to management, but Bret loses track of what he’s asking almost immediately.

His eyes get lost somewhere between the light in Shawn’s eyes and the sultry curve of his lips as he talks. He thinks about how Shawn’s lips would feel against his, how Shawn’s curls would look after rolling around in the sheets underneath him.

Bret only realizes that Shawn’s stopped talking when his eyebrows knit together and he suddenly looks pissed.

“Were you even fucking listening?” He rolls his eyes. “And you claim that I’m full of myself, you know I don’t even know why I bother when all you do is act like you’re so much better than me-“

Fuck. He has to fix this.

“Shawn-“ He interjects but he gets steamrolled.

“But all you are is a fucking JACKASS, Bret.”

“You’re right.”

That gets his attention. “I’m right? You’re damn right I’m right.”

“I’ve been a jackass, Shawn. Yeah I wasn’t listening, but it’s.” He sighs, trying to decide how much to say. “It’s not what you think, I’m sorry, okay?”

Shawn looks wary. “If it’s not what I think then what is it?”

Bret feels panic rising in his chest. He can’t just fucking spill his guts to Shawn. He doesn’t know how Shawn will react, hell Shawn might not be gay at all, he did just do a whole interview about how great ladies are. He might punch Bret right in the face, have his friends beat him up, hell he could tell the whole locker room and make his life a living hell if he so chose.

No way he can tell him the truth. Not now anyway.

He searches for something to say, but he can’t find any good excuse. He’s terrified and frustrated and all he can do is stare at Shawn and think about just kissing that distrusting look of his face.

But he can’t of course.

When he doesn’t answer, the scowl on Shawn’s face deepens with hurt. “Fuck off Bret.” He spits before turning on his heel and heading back towards his friends.

He makes it a few feet before Bret realizes he’s fucked up even further.

“Shawn- wait!” He reaches out and grabs Shawn’s upper arm, holding tight even as Shawn tries to wrench out of his grasp.

“Get your hands off me-“

“I read your interview.” The words fall out of his mouth, hanging between them as Shawn goes still. “In the girly magazine, I read it, okay?”

“Oh.”

Bret’s fingers burn where they’re still holding on to Shawn’s arm. After a moment Shawn’s other hand moves slowly and wraps around his wrist, not moving to pull it off of him, just another point of contact between them.

Shawn’s eyes stare into his, like he’s sizing him up, searching for something. He stares right back, unable to look away.

For just a second he imagines that Shawn sways towards him, like he might bridge the gap between them, for what he doesn’t know.

But suddenly someone clears their throat and the moment is over.

Behind Shawn stands Hunter, with one eyebrow cocked, looking at them both suspiciously.

“Everything good here?”

The question is clearly aimed at Shawn, but Bret answers anyway. “Yeah man, all good. Was just leaving.”

He lets go of Shawn’s arm, taking a step back, but Shawn’s fingers stay locked around his wrist, not letting go.

“Shawn?” Hunter puts a hand on Shawn’s shoulder, and it seems to break Shawn from whatever spell he’s under.

His fingers release Bret’s hand, and he steps back into Hunter. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Bret watches as they go, befuddled as to what the hell just happened. Shawn looks back at him for just a moment, a small smile on his lips as their eyes meet.

His stomach is doing Moonsaults, but he feels something like hope.

He keeps the magazine.

[shih-coulda-had-it]

sorahiko and his shigaraki adoptees!au snippet, mostly fluff and domesticity despite the horrors. sorahiko has still not named the boys. wc: ~1.1k.

//

Sorahiko glanced over at the stationery aisle, largely untouched, even though the school year had definitely restarted. Economic downturns and inexplicable powers hadn’t permanently disrupted that aspect of society. He considered the bags of groceries, sighed, and shoved a few notebooks and packages of pre-sharpened pencils wherever there was room. He also swiped a manual sharpener; he suspected Chibi-AFO would be prone to snapping the lead.

When he got back to the studio, he was surprised to see the boys flipping through the large children’s anthology of fairy tales instead of, say, destroying the premises or having fled the location. Even the wireless camping light was intact. Maybe Chibi-AFO had finally gotten it in his head that Sorahiko was a guaranteed source of luxuries.

Or, he reflected as he kicked the door shut and jostled the lock in place, Chibi-AFO finally realized that Sorahiko could track a pair of preschoolers even on a rainy, miserable night.

“You’re back!” the smaller boy cheered.

Automatically, Sorahiko said, “I’m home,” and his heart winced. Chibi-AFO glared at him, as per usual, but they both got to their feet and toddled to him at the door. He knelt down to their level and let them dig through the groceries while he loosened his boots’ laces.

“Safe?” the smaller boy asked. He linked his tiny spindly fingers around the handle of the half-gallon of bottled water; Sorahiko swiftly moved that aside. Chibi-AFO was industriously sifting through the dry goods to find the snacks, and had apparently ignored the stationery. 

“Eh,” Sorahiko answered. The apartment complex he’d stashed himself and the boys in was largely abandoned—condemned, really—which meant that the surrounding area was antsy and looking to uproot communities to find safer enclaves. Sorahiko had left the convenience store a hefty payment for the stolen goods, but he couldn’t kid himself. A neighborhood being haunted by a thief who could break in and out of businesses without a trace would eventually try to drum up a Meta X squad.

“No blood,” said Chibi-AFO dismissively. “Tou-san’s fine.”

“It’s Torino.”

He collected everything too heavy for stick-thin limbs to carry and navigated around the children to the kitchen. It didn’t take long to shelve them away, though; Sorahiko left the dry goods at the genkan and retrieved the notebooks, pencils, and precocious brats. Ignoring the shrieks (one indignant, one delighted), Sorahiko set them at the low coffee table and sat, crosslegged.

The boys took it as an invitation to climb onto his lap, perching one to a leg. They still hardly weighed anything, and they paid attention like starving baby chicks.

“What’s that?” the smaller boy asked, pawing for the pencil blister pack Sorahiko had just tore open. Sorahiko tucked it to the side and withdrew a pencil for himself. “What’s this?”

“This is a notebook,” Sorahiko said, tired beyond belief. Why was he in charge of raising two street kids? Why did he sign up for this? He flipped the thin cardboard cover to reveal lined pages, and because he wasn’t immune to wanting to look cool, Sorahiko twirled the pencil around his fingers. “This is a pencil.”

“Notebook,” the smaller boy echoed. “Pencil. What for?”

Chibi-AFO grasped for a pencil of his own, clearly wanting to copy Sorahiko’s trick. “Gimme.”

“Watch first,” he said, jostling the terror until Chibi-AFO grouchily settled. Sorahiko put the pencil to paper, then hesitated. Reading and writing was pointless for their age. His handwriting, while not as garbage as Shuuzenji’s, wouldn’t be legible to a pair of preschoolers anyway. 

He was also a shitty artist. Grimly, Sorahiko persevered. He drew a misshapen circle for a body, and a smaller circle within it. Two notches for eyes and two more for the nostrils. Small triangles for the ears, rectangles for the legs, and a squiggly line for the tail.

The smaller boy brightened and slapped an enthusiastic hand over the doodle. “Pig!”

Sorahiko said, “Yeah. Good job. Want to draw me one?”

“No,” said Chibi-AFO, but he lunged for Sorahiko’s pencil first, quicker to react than his brother, who cringed back against Sorahiko’s chest. The sour tone struck Sorahiko as something he should deal with, but honestly… He gave the gremlin the pencil, and then picked a new one for the other boy.

“You too,” the other boy insisted. He held the drawing tool like a hammer, but he seemed wary of putting pressure on the paper. Chibi-AFO, on the other hand, had the confidence of a master calligrapher and the ego of his future self. The second pig was… large. “Tou-san, you too!”

“It’s Torino,” Sorahiko grumbled for the thousandth time.

Chibi-AFO’s heavy hand broke the lead, as predicted. “No!” He thrust the pencil backwards, and Sorahiko jerked from the jagged point with a bitten-off curse. “Tou-san, help.”

He’d been cursed with brats. Sorahiko took Chibi-AFO’s offering and reached for the manual sharpener, and since there was hardly any space with the two boys sitting on his legs, he lowered himself to lay flat on the floor and twisted the pencil into the sharpener above his head. The transparent yellow plastic cylinder filled with shavings as he sought to get a blunter point on the lead itself.

“One pig, two pig, three pig, four,” the smaller boy sang, and Chibi-AFO miraculously did not move to shut his brother up. Instead, he twisted round, pointy elbows and knees digging into Sorahiko’s soft spots, and sprawled on top of Sorahiko’s chest.

“Mama said thank you,” Chibi-AFO reported. His sour tone went acrid. “She said to thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Sorahiko managed, dryly.

“You’re welcome!” the smaller boy parroted. “What’s welcome?”

He inspected the pencil and studiously ignored the eerie white eyes pointed at his face. “It’s what you say when people thank you. And people say thank you when someone’s done something for them. Understand?”

“Mm!” There was a whole future of ‘why’ and ‘what does that mean’ ahead of Sorahiko, and he dreaded the entire thing. Weren’t kids supposed to magically pick this shit up? He didn’t remember anybody teaching him manners. 

Then again, Sorahiko mused. Shimura had made it an annual tradition to haul him into the workshops regarding courtesy and PR handling. Apparently, a pro-hero wasn’t ever supposed to express a genuine opinion about shitty regulations and the existence of government red tape.

“Always?” Chibi-AFO probed.

“No,” said Sorahiko. “But it’s polite.” He brushed the white fuzz of Chibi-AFO’s hair with the pencil until Chibi-AFO growled and grabbed it. Pointedly, Sorahiko asked, “What do we say…?”

“Thank you,” the kid said, sulky. 

“Is tou-san drawing?”

“I’m drawing,” Chibi-AFO insisted, and he turned back around with his toothpick limbs, and he practically bristled when he saw whatever his brother had wrought upon the page. “You!! What’s that?”

Sorahiko gazed at the ceiling and prayed for an untapped well of patience to be found. It was somewhere in him. Shimura would have bet on it, and Lucky Number Seven tended to win against the odds. As the children’s bickering grew louder because the smaller boy had become bolder with the safety Sorahiko provided, he heaved himself upright to survey the scene.

[Sorahiko's pig, top left. Chibi-AFO's pig, top right. Yoichi's four little pigs, bottom row plus the small pig top center (mama pig who went to heaven).]

[keeppushingthelimits]

Illusions - Max Verstappen & ?

Hello & Welcome

I hope you enjoy

Comment & talk to me baby

I don't know who the other man is yet, any ideas?

w.c : 1,141 (credit to gif maker) (don't steal my work)

The smell of Kennedy’s expensive perfume hits you long before you see her. You know she must have arrived shortly before you, and her signature Tom Ford perfume fills the space and invades your senses, clouding your already scattered thoughts.

The man clad in his server tuxedo leads you through the luxurious space, smiling and making small talk, gesturing his hands toward the bar while he tells you about their specialty drinks. It’s almost fate, you think, because God knows you need one.

After a few more smiles and nods, you make it to the reserved table. It’s on the edge of the vast space, but it sits in front of a wall of windows. It shows off a beautiful afternoon, with sunlight filtering through sheer curtains, casting a warm glow on the table adorned with polished silverware and delicate china.

Sitting there, with a halo of light surrounding her, is Kennedy, digging through one of her Birkin bags. She flashes her eyes to you as you close in, and a broad smile dons on her signature red lips. She’s quick to her feet, and you can tell she chose her tallest heels for this special brunch occasion. She pulls you into a tight hug, squeezing the breath out of you.

“About damn time,” She lets out. “I thought I would have to drink all the bottomless mimosas myself.”

You bark out a laugh as you part, setting down your own bag on one of the empty chairs. You remove the light coat from your frame as Kennedy sits back down, eyeing your choice of outfit and subtly nodding her head.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” You answer her, meeting her stare fully for the first time.

When your eyes connect to her dark blue hues, she takes you in, baring into the depths of your soul. She knows you better than you know yourself, and you’re hoping the facade of normalcy you’re putting on is convincing.

“I always understand when you have to cancel, you're a busy woman.”

Here it comes.

“So,” Kennedy sips her mimosa and smirks. "How's Max and the wedding plans? Did the planer fix the fuck up with the flowers?”

A sizeable dry lump forms in your throat, and your stomach tightens into uncomfortable knots. You avoid the question for a brief moment and take a sip of your drink. The sugary concoction coats your throat as it slides down, and you wish you could stay silent forever. The moment of unease stretches, and you can almost feel Kennedy grow more impatient with the ticking seconds.

“Yeah, they fixed it.” You break, forcing a smile.” Everything's great, Max is great.”

The words taste bitter as they leave your lips, but the lie lips easily. Kennedy's corner of her mouth twitches, but she takes the answer. Only for a moment, though, before she searches your face again and raises an eyebrow

“Come on, (Y/N), you have to give me something here. I want all the details about my best friend's wedding.”

You swallow hard again and take another drink. Then another.

“Max is wonderful," you say, your voice cracking imperceptibly. "We're just dealing with the usual pre-wedding stress, you know?"

Kennedy nods, but you don’t miss how her eyes shrink slightly in suspicion. She knows something is wrong, but thankfully, she assumes you’re telling her the truth and that the stress is about the wedding and not the actual terrible truth.

You feed her a couple more details to derail the beast, and she’s gone off your scent as a server comes to the table. A few minutes later, the food collection comes, and between your bits of some slightly dry chicken, the conversation drifts through floral arrangements and the upcoming bachelorette party. You finish your plate, pushing it to the side as you deeply discuss the possibility of flying into Vegas for one night. You find your lips being too dry for your liking, so while Kennedy rants about which clubs have the best VIP section, you lean over to grab your Dior gloss from your bag.

“Jesus, is that a hickey?” Kennedy's voice is laced with disbelief.

You quickly swat your hand up to the side of your neck, shocked that you could have missed something like that, so you try to play it off.

“What? No, of course not.”

Ken begins laughing so hard that a snort lets itself escape. She continues her fit until she's clutching her side, and a few older ladies at neighboring tables give her dirty looks.

“Oh my god, I didn’t know Max had that in him.” She lets out another giggle. “You better hope his mother doesn't come to lunch here today; she’d have a stroke.”

You don’t find her remotely funny, and you wish for nothing more than her to drop it. But knowing your best friend, stopping your utter humiliation isn't an option, and the tension building in your chest keeps growing as she pokes at it.

“Enough, Ken, please.” You finally snap.

Kennedy ceases her laughter and sits straighter in her chair, a confused, then slightly hurt, look crossing her features.

“God, (Y/N), I’m just having fun. What's up with you today? You have a massive stick up your ass.”

You scoff at her and roll your eyes. You know she’s right, but you don’t want to give her the satisfaction, and you’re not about to apologize. Instead, you return a stern look, and she raises an eyebrow.

“Seriously, (Y/N). Are you pissed that Max had to go to that extra safety demo this weekend instead of staying back to help?”

You shake your head rapidly. That isn't what's bugging you. In fact, you were thrilled when he told you about the impromptu trip. You were fucking ecstatic.

“I’m fine, Ken; I’m just in a mood. Is that a crime?”

She rolls her icy eyes back at you.

“It is a crime when you're supposed to be having the time of your life. You’ve waited so long for this and have been acting weird for a while.”

That statement gets you.

“What do you mean?” You grit out between clenched teeth. “I have been the perfect little bride to be for everyone.”

Kennedy is quick to stick it to you. “Maybe with other people, not with me. You don't want to talk about the wedding. You don’t want to talk about Max. Like, what the hell? I’m your best friend, and we are supposed to be doing this together.”

Her face starts growing red as she continues. “Are you mad at me? Did I do something?”

“No.” You almost break down, knowing you have to tell her. “You didn’t.”

“Then what?”

It rises in your throat, and you know your entire world is about to burn.

“I’m cheating on Max.”

[bitchfitch]

Abandoned bunkers were a common sight. The bombs dropped so long ago that even the most paranoid communities had left them to rejoin the larger population on the surface one or two generations ago.

Abandoned bunkers that hadn't been picked clean by scavengers like Lino were a different story entirely.

He crept through the eerily quiet halls looking for whatever might be worth taking. The lights flickered on as he triggered their proximity sensors. The place was finely decorated to look like the homes of the wealthy who lived before the war. Crown molding covered in cobwebs, statues caked with dust, paintings who's varnish was so yellow you could barely see the image beyond it.

Lino pulled the strap of his cross body bag a little tighter. The off white marble floors were pristine. His own muddy boot prints being the only source of filth. The floor cleaning bot must still be functional.

The doors to this place had been wide open. Maybe it was only recently vacated? The air didn't hurt, the circulation and vent systems were still doing their jobs all these years later. It was pleasantly cool with none of the humidity or mildew smell that came from broken climate controllers. It was still serviceable when so few other bunkers were. He'd need to return with tools to strip the mechanisms for parts.

Those might be the only thing worth the effort. Pre war art had value, but everything was so heavy he'd only be able to carry one delicate piece at a time... The math on that effort to return ratio wasn't favorable. There had to be more. Something of actual value he could pay his dues with today.

He stepped into what was once a massive living room. The ancient, rotting, couches were pushed up against the walls, side tables and other bits of decor piled atop them to make more space in the center for the army of... Mannequins? Dolls? Scarecrows?

They were made from torn down tree branches, dried plant matter, and hope. Haphazard creations meant to display the clothes they wore. Beautiful dresses, finely tailored suits, ensembles that blurred the line. Each one constructed as a masterpiece of form with no eye given to the horribly clashing colors found within their materials.

Lino didn't know who they would fit.

No one looked like That anymore. Two arms, two legs, a single head atop a neck connected to a straight back. He was the most 'classic' looking human he had ever seen, but even he wasn't the right shape for so many of these.

It was a shame really.

It meant their only value was in the fabrics they were made from.

Lino pursed his lips, looking from the one garment that Might fit him to the mirrors hung either side of the faux fireplace. Luxury and fine items that exist just to be beautiful weren't unheard of concepts anymore, they just weren't things he had ever had the money to know. His leader had told him he would have been beautiful if he'd been born into one of the higher families who could have afforded to decorate him and sell him for his 'classic' looks. The leader offered him that wealth once. If Lino would just dye his albino white hair and let the surgeon remove his extra arms, the leader would have gladly decorated him themself.

He wasn't going to dismember himself to be pleasing for another. He was fine. Constantly living on edge, scouring the lands for any tiny scrap of value left over after so many other hungry scavengers had done the same before him. He was fine. He didn't need to be beautiful to survive.

The dress was shiny and silky smooth when he brushed his fingers along the stormy grey fabric. The fabric from all the other garments would pay his way for the month probably... He was the only person who knew this dress existed.

He didn't need to be beautiful to survive.

He undid the fastens around the dress form's neck and lifted the piece off, laying it over the form's shoulder before shucking off his own shirt. The dress was meant for someone taller than him, his muddy boots and damp pant cuffs would ruin it. Those went off next, then his discolored socks that he didn't want to see poking out beneath the hem, all were dropped in a messy pile beside him. He pulled the dress on as he stepped away from the filth of his own garments and towards the mirror.

The dress was backless. The side hems brushed the bases of his extra arms. It was too big. It would buy his dinner for weeks. Lino didn't want to look in the mirror, but when he did his gut twisted.

He looked gorgeous, the contours of the bodice following the lines of a body he often felt too scrawny to be anything other than awkward looking. The collar was pleasantly firm against the front of his throat, not tight, but present enough to make him feel it every time he moved to find a new angle. Even his extra arms were made to look right in it. The back of the collar came down in a slight point that fell perfectly between his misshapen shoulder blades. It was too big, but it was clearly intended for a woman who looked like the models of before. His longer torso and flat but broad chest meant he'd only need to take in a bit around his hips for it to look perfect... Even the skirt being meant for someone a foot taller than him wouldn't be a problem, it just looked like a fine train. He couldn't stop smiling. Guilt ate at him. He didn't need to be beautiful. He was wearing so much money. The panels weren't even pieced, the skirt alone had to have more pristine bolts in its gathers than most saw in their lives.

It was just a dress.

He twirled in front of the mirror to make the too long skirt flare out around him. His bare feet padding on the hard stone, his own reflection distracting him, his guilt making him focus in on the price something so beautiful would go for if he could just make himself destroy it.

Lino didn't hear the breathing until it was already too late.

A scrambling form shot around the corner, its growling tearing through the still air as it launched towards Lino with more speed than something so twisted looked like it should be able to.

Lino was so grateful his fear response had always been flight. He bolted to the side, the badly mutated man careened into the mirror, shattering it across its massive shoulders. Lino didn't look back. He could hear the man panting and snarling like an animal as it gave chase. Its hands pounding on the stone as it dragged itself behind him. He could hear it gaining on him. The door was in sight. Would it follow an intruder out of its home? Lino had to hope not. The threshold was under his foot. A harsh tug at his skirt. He came crashing down, his jaw knocking hard against the concrete porch sent his head spinning with painful disorientation.

"Auth Code 1756" The man spat. Lino had thought him too far gone with his mutation to be person enough to speak. The bunker beeped in response, something mechanical thunked. Gears ground.

Lino kicked, his leg was grabbed. He turned to see the featureless face of his assailant for a split second before it was blocked from view by the closing door.

Lino's vision whites out, he heard screaming. The man was still holding him trapped by the leg when the multi ton hunk of metal shut atop it.

[uhohbestie]

There Are Monsters Nearby [Chapter 18]

🏜 Pairing: Grian/Scar

🧟‍♂️ Tags: zombie AU, zombie apocalypse, lovers to exes, slow burn, eventual reconciliation

📖 Summary: The day after Scar breaks up with Grian, the dead come back to life. Knowing that venturing out alone is a death sentence, the sudden onset of the apocalypse forces them to stick together despite the tensions between them. In the wreckage of the world, they're forced to survive side-by-side, coming to terms with the fact that—try as they might—there's still no one they trust more than each other.

Chapter 18 - On their own again, with everything that implies, Grian is forced to grapple with the consequence of his actions, and realises– maybe too late– the magnitude of what he's done.

📝 Words: 4,375

🔗 Link: Read Chapter 18 on AO3

—

Quietly, Grian crawls out of his sleeping bag and rolls it up.

A part of him can’t help but notice how many supplies he has. How difficult it is to fit his sleeping bag in amongst them.

At the very least, the grocery run wasn’t for nothing.

There’s no effort to make any semblance of a meal. No bleary conversation on what to have, no fond commiseration over favourite snacks they once took for granted and now may never have again, and no fake cooking show banter. If Scar’s eaten something, he did so before Grian got up.

Or maybe he also doesn’t have an appetite.

It takes a couple of minutes before Grian straightens up, hefting Scar’s backpack onto his back, not yet having returned it after the mess that was last night. He feels the weight settle heavy on his already sore shoulders.

“I picked up some of the Reese’s you like,” he offers, the words stilted in the grey light of pre-dawn. The sun hasn’t yet broken over the horizon and there’s a lingering haze around them—not quite a mist, but something unfocused and arid, atomized in the stillness of the desert.

He used to lay in a bed with so many pillows it felt excessive. He used to sleep in until noon.

That world is gone now. Out of reach, like so many other luxuries from a time before that will never come back again.

Scar fails to give him any sort of reaction, refusing to look at him.

“Let’s get going,” he says, and it sounds like he’s talking to a stranger.

—

Aaaaand we're back! With a new chapter, even! As sad as we both are to say goodbye to Karlnapity, I can't even express how satisfying it was to write Grian finally realising he has to lay in the bed he made for himself. Oh, Grian :') If only the words "I'm sorry" existed in your vocabulary.

You can read the whole fic thus-far in the link below!

You may not rest now, There Are Monsters Nearby (on ao3!)

[cum-a-calla]

Roman headcanons plsss 👽👽👽 from the most mundane to the freakiest go wild

Roman only enjoys parties and big groups of people because even though he’s intimidated and uses his dark humor as a shield/defense mechanism, the big heavy blanket of noise and chatter and being surrounded by people helps him feel less alone, even though he has no interest in getting to know anyone at all

Roman is a bath man. when he knows he has a lot of time alone where nobody will be interrupting or stopping by, he goes full fucking bath mode. mood lighting, candles lit, maybe even a little wine. lots of bubbles, water hot enough to scald his fucking flesh off. he’ll stay in that bath until his fingers and toes are pruned and he’s practically falling asleep. and it’s not just the bath - he uses expensive, luxurious oils, exfoliates, lotions. i’m talking using those shampoos and conditioners that have placenta in them typa bitch. also, since money and being conscious of the environment isn’t his bag, he’ll drain and refill the water as many times as he needs to keep it boiling hot lol

Roman isn’t a person who masturbates a lot, per se. he has had his calls with Gerri, and some chance encounters of course, but he isn’t a man who boots up whatever hub on the computer and cranks one out. he has 100% masturbated in a public setting multiple times. sometimes that means flexing his cock in his slacks until he cums hands-free in the back of a limo on the way home. sometimes that means humping against furniture in random hotel rooms and watching himself stain the fabric, turned on just by the thought of doing something he shouldn’t be, imagining that somebody is going to find it later and have to clean it up. sometimes he’ll strap a little vibrator around the base of his dick during zoom meetings, rocking very subtly in his chair until he cums - or doesn’t. it doesn’t matter. it’s the thrill alone that’s enough for him.

Roman sometimes uses toys in his ass and will literally moan and whine until he’s crying, it feels so good. naked, dick leaking all over his thighs, toy fully seated inside of him as he rocks on it, dripping sweat and tears and pre-cum until he ropes all over his own belly.

Roman really likes to be hurt, especially slapped. it makes him angry. it makes him feel absolutely fucking alive and electric, and that’s so much better than feeling nothing

Roman actually really likes animals. he’s always a person animals are attracted to. cats like him, dogs like him. birds like him. he’s like a fucking modern day Snow White, but he hates being teased or looking weak so he doesn’t love on animals around other people and maintains that he hates them.

much like the animals he pretends to hate, Roman enjoys being pet. fingers through his hair transports him to a kind of calm he can’t get to on his own. it’s like his baths but a thousand times over. if Roman could lay in a lap and be pet until he falls asleep, he would be able to die happy on the spot.

Roman is artistically talented. he has deft fingers and natural artistic ability, but dropped it as a teenager after feeling like it was too prissy, too gentle and feminine. sometimes when he’s bored he still finds his hands doodling but throws them away. he doesn’t even like art; it’s just in him.

those deft fingers - paired with his mouth - are also talented at pleasure. he’s a fantastic giver of head. dicks, clits, pussies, whatever - he’s focused, knows how to draw it out, how to read the flesh and give it what it needs. but he is so terrified of being vulnerable and rejected or judged that he doesn’t do it much, even though he really enjoys it.

[confidential-couture]

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