#Precision foam cutting

[as-enterprises]

A S Enterprises to Showcase Foam Machinery Innovations at UTECH India 2024

[screampied]

toji realizes he’s in love with you when he lets you shave his face for the first time,

he’s got the biggest grump of a scowl plastered on his naturally crooked lips. as he’s glowering, he’s also trying to prevent himself from smiling because you looked so cute. your touch with him was gentle—like it always was. after you wiped his face with a dampened face towel, you rub your hands against the lower part of his jaw. “soooo,” you utter, breaking the dead silence as he’s just peering down at you. “tell me ‘bout your day, toji.”

with the palms of your hands tenderly caressing against his chiseled jawline—you smear every part of his chin and cheekbones with shaving cream. even the secluded areas underneath his nose. as you do so, toji tchs. “day was fine, baby. ‘n i told ya i can shave myself.”

“i know i know,” you hum, creating a circular motion with your hands before gently making sure every sector near the lower part of his face was lathered with nice frothy amounts of shaving cream. “wowww, you’ve got such soft skin. skin routine when?”

“ugh, y’er insufferable,” he rolls his eyes. although, his skin was surprisingly clear. toji only had a bit of a stubble, hardly any facial hair but it was growing the more he aged. you took it upon yourself to ask to help him shave and he said yes, not realizing how much he’d soon grow to like it. the feeling of your delicate, warm hands rubbing against his face was somewhat . . soothing. with a deep, heaving sigh, toji’s hooded jade eyes meet yours. he spots your pout and his shoulders lower. “alright fine, i’ll teach you one day. only if ya stop poutin'..”

with a cheeky grin, your little pout falters and you smile. “okay,” and you wait for about a good three minutes to allow the spumous cream to souse everywhere on his pores. it takes a while—and as you wait, you take a moment to stare at his features. toji was definitely easy on the eyes up close. naturally long black lashes of his flicker as he returns your loving gaze, and he avoids eye contact for a moment. perhaps you were making him a bit . . nervous. darkened eyebrows of his arch into an almost sheepish raise while he watches your adorable curious simper stretch further. “don’t be so stiff, what are you, nervous?”

“not nervous. jus’ don’t want ya to cut my face off.” he grumbles in a hoarse tone, ogling intently at you opening the bathroom cabinet for his razor. “you know what y’er doin’ right? i’d like ‘ta keep my face.”

“oh, don’t be dramatic,” and now it’s your turn to roll your eyes. toji’s got a growing smirk tugging against his lips as he gawks you carefully start to shave in the exact sectors of where his facial hair resides. you did lots and lots of research—he knew this because he caught you reading various wikiHow articles on how to shave a guy’s face correctly. toji would never in a million years tell you, but he found that fact entirely adorable. you made sure you knew how to avoid burns and razor bumps. as you’re fixated on his chin, you mumble, “you’ll keep your pretty face, don’t cry.”

“aw, think ‘m pretty?” toji says, and you see the playful glint in his eyes. he’s easing up a bit, and he acknowledges that you were right. right about his stiffness, he was a bit tense. shoulders raised and all, but now—as of late, he’s starting to calm down a bit the more you talk to him. “i’d prefer the term 'handsome' but that works too, i guess.”

you deadpan, continuing your trail against his face—the razor sings out a shrieking tiiiing the more you gingerly shave with soft, gentle strokes.

it’s somewhat relaxing with the way the edges of the instrument adapts to the chiseled contours on his face. the foam starts to come off within each downward stroke and you’re very slow and precise. “okay, don’t be cocky,” you titter, and he feels his heart flutter a bit at how you’re just so dedicated. you’re so focused that your tongue briefly sticks out of your mouth, trying to make sure you do it perfectly. you tried your hardest not to cut him—you were so careful and that simple detail alone could have been enough for him to propose. “you should let me do this more. ‘s kinda fun.”

“eh. maybe,” toji shrugs, his voice coming out in a rough rasp. he doesn’t even realize it but his expressions significantly soften. he was only this way around you. to him, the thought of that was kind of scary. after you start to edge with the precision trimmer and reach underneath his nose and chin, you wrap it up. successfully discarding all of the foamy cream from his face, spotting his now clean jawline, you break away to rinse off the now grubby blades in the sink. “all done?”

“wait— don’t look yet,” you gasp, preventing him from gazing at himself in the mirror. “i still have to do the uh . . what’s it called again?”

toji snickers. “aftershave, baby.”

“aftershave,” you repeat. “right right,” and you’re so cute, kneeling down towards the wooden cabinet directly underneath the sink. you take out the mini bottle, pouring a nice goopy amount into your palm. you let toji wash his face with cold water first, patting it dry, and then you start to bedaub the facial balm in all the sensitive areas against his skin. he adores the mushy texture of your hands making contact with his face as each second passes. toji’s eyeing you, an almost grunt leaving his lips as a thumb of yours gently tickles against his infamous scar. the scar that slants itself near the right side of his lip. “thereee we go,” you give him a soft smile, the aromatic scent of tea tree oil setting against your nostrils. up close, his pores were now all so clear and you stare in awe for a bit at just how charming he was. the moisture that lays against his skin feels a lot more smooth. you grow silent for a moment before your own face softens. “okayyy, ‘m done.”

toji finally glances into the mirror, seeing his freshly new spotless face and he sees your proud toothy grin in the mirror’s reflection behind him. he cranes his neck to the side, feeling the once rough texture of his jawline now soft. he then lets off a tiny exhale. “looks good. y’er a natural,” and he turns to face you, he’s pondering on what to say. oh, your eyes sparkled with such admiration from his praise that it was just adorable. “thank you, sweetheart. for y’know . . takin’ care of me. y’er really . . sweet.”

and with that, his lips inch down to press a warm kiss against the crown of your head. your heart immediately swarms up with a frantic school of butterflies and so does his. toji prepares speak again and it’s an almost inaudible mumble. you could barely even register what he said at first because it was so hushed, but toji gruffs in a low tone. “i … love you..”

“h- huh?”

scoffing, he hides the burning embarrassed flush against his face by pulling you into his broad chest. you giggle at how he just abruptly snatches you close into his warm body before he slings a beefy arm around you. “i said, let’s uh.. do our skin care together later t’night.”

“awww i love you too toj—”

“oh my god, s-shut up..”

[devildomwriter]

Fill Your Hearts With Christmas Cheer | Raphael, Simeon, & Solomon x Reader

1.9k+ words | GN! Reader | Luke included platonically | CW: none

Summary ~ You and the purgatory hall gang are making ornaments but things don’t go to plan thanks to Solomon and a couple kisses.

The room smelled like a mix of cookies and burning skin as you dropped the hot glue gun again, stinging yourself for the ninth time.

“I think we need to revoke your glue gun privileges,” Solomon joked but Simeon nodded completely seriously.

“I agree. Why don’t you take a break and help Luke with the cookies?” Simeon suggested.

Raphael was quick to protest, “You want them near an oven after this?”

Simeon quickly draped a blanket over your shoulders instead, tempting you to stay seated. You sighed and held up your pinky to Simeon who gently kissed it, healing it instantly.

Raphael and Solomon glared and Simeon chuckled and set your hot chocolate next to you.

You think you’d just about had enough of hot things for now.

Apparently making ornaments wasn’t as easy as you thought. Luke got a brand new tree this year and hallmark ornaments were too expensive, so instead you, Solomon, Simeon, and Raphael collectively decided to make some.

Raphael brought out some of his less expensive fabrics and threads, Solomon collected a mixture of odd materials, some of them glowed suspiciously, and Simeon being a responsible adult had gone to the craft store to get beads, stickers, foam cutouts, glitter, and pipe cleaners.

You avoided the things that glowed but Raphael and Solomon were happy to use them and you stuck to stringing beans onto a pile cleaner to make fake candy canes. When you’d made enough you switched to cutting out foam and decorating it into different shapes, this however required your hot glue gun and it seemed to hate you.

Solomon headed you three times with a spell and Simeon and Raphael had kissed the injured area the remaining six times. Solomon was becoming upset he didn’t have an angel’s healing kiss. Luke had no idea this battle of sorts was happening in the next room.

The smell of cookies wafted more strongly in the air now as you heard the oven open.

Raphael got up to assist Luke taking them out even though the young angel was plenty used to this as well as oven “kisses” as he called them.

Simeon smiled at your current cut-out shapes of foam that remained unglued from each other.

“Is this a Santa hat?” He asked and you nodded.

“Are you putting it on a sheep?” Solomon laughed and again agreed with a big smile.

“Yes, I just need to glue it on—“

“Allow me,” Simeon intercepted your reach for the glue gun and did it himself with quick and delicate precision.

Seeing how well it turned out you decided you would give up on the glue gun, especially now that Luke was in the room. You didn’t need him to see his brothers and Solomon fighting over who got to heal your minor burn.

“Enjoy everyone!” He exclaimed and set the plated gingerbread cookies in the middle of the table.

“These look delightful, Luke.” Simeon complimented and you all reached for one.

You dropped the cookie, surprised it was still so hot.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry ___ they’re still kinda hot!”

Raphael, Solomon, and Simeon eyed each other and you quickly retracted your hand.

Luke got up from his seat and rushed over to you. He held your hand and mumbled words of healing over it, the slight heat immediately faded and you grinned.

“You’re the best Luke!” You cheered and kissed his forehead.

He blushed and pulled down his hat, “Y-yeah. It’s no problem!”

Solomon, Raphael, and Simeon appeared to sulk for a minute and inwardly scolded themselves for being jealous of a child. You snickered at their reactions and they quickly diverted their attention to the crafts.

“Oooh, who made this one!?” Luke asked as he held up a carved figure of Mary with a real cloth dress around her.

Raphael smiled and raised his hand slightly, just enough for Luke to notice and praise his hard work.

You looked at your overjoyed foam in contrast and sighed. You tried not to be jealous. After all these angels had thousands of years on you and so did the supposed human, Solomon.

Luke looked over the others and stared at yours with concern. “What smells like burnt flesh?”

You blushed and Solomon coughed to disguise a small laugh as you glared at him. This only made him laugh harder and Luke looked concerned.

“What? What happened?”

Simeon smiled somewhat sadly, “___ has had their glue gun privileges revoked,” he explained and Luke looked alarmed.

“Oh no! Are you okay, ___ you really need to be more careful! The glue gun is really hot!” He exclaimed and you turned red.

Luke may be thousands of years old but he was still a child and here you were a mildly responsible adult being told off by him for improper handling of a glue gun.

Luke quickly joined in the craft activities, excitedly kicking his feet as everyone smiled his way, focused more on him instead of their own projects.

You made more farm animals and handed them to Simeon to glue who would quickly set down what he was doing to handle it for you before you got impatient. Luke thought this was sweet but Raphael found it concerning and Solomon just snickered at you.

“What kind of ornaments are normal in the human world?” Raphael asked you after completing every single person and animal involved in the Christmas story.

“Umm well…red balls and golden balls are pretty normal. Santa is a big one of course but there are really random ones too.”

Raphael tilted his head curiously. “Oh? Like what?”

“Well, one time they were selling ornaments that looked like sticks of butter at a bookstore. There were also candy bars, beer, boots…lots of stuff.” You explained and he looked puzzled.

“And that’s…normal for Christmas in the human world?”

“Ornaments are about self-expression a lot of the time. My ornaments tell a story of my interests through the years. Things I liked as a kid to the modern day. It’s funny, almost none of it stayed the same year to year. One year was Care Bears, then NASCAR, then Starwars, that kind of thing.”

Raphael smiled at the thought. “In that case, I’d love to see your personal Christmas tree sometime, ___.”

“I’d love to show you! I almost don’t have room for some ornaments, maybe I’ll bring a few here,” you suggested and Solomon nodded.

“___’s childhood ornaments…” he mumbled to himself, his cheeks flushed pink.

“Solomon, why are you turning red?” Luke scolded and Solomon laughed it off and continued on his bizarre ornament instead.

Three hours in and you still had no idea what Solomon was trying to make. He hadn’t finished even one thing and was using most of the ominously glowing materials he’d brought.

“Solomon…your ornament is glowing…” Luke pointed out.

“Mhmm,” was all he had to say in response.

Raphael sighed at the sorcerer’s antics and about twenty minutes later you passed out.

When you woke up Raphael was leaning over you looking worried.

“Thank heavens,” he sighed and shoved his hair out of his face.

“What on earth…” you groaned and Simeon entered the room with a bottle of water.

“Well we found out why they were glowing…” he revealed and you arched a brow as you drank the water. Raphael helped prop you up, holding you in his arms. It was such a surprise you nearly choked on the water.

Simeon’s eye twitched slightly as he explained, “Those…things…were radioactive.”

You began laughing in sheer surprise. “What? Do you have any idea how radioactive something needs to be for you to pass out in its vicinity?” You gasped.

“I thought they’d be fine by now,” Solomon sighed entering the room with a large lump on the top of his head.

Luke puffed out his cheeks, upset with Solomon. He rushed to your side and hugged you. “I’m so glad you’re okay, ___!”

You sighed and rolled your eyes at the whole situation. “Honestly…I can’t even make ornaments without something happening to me…”

“That’s not your fault,” Raphael consoled, “it’s his,” he said with a strong bite to his words as he glared at Solomon.

“Whoops…” the sorcerer shrugged.

“You only lasted as long as you did because of our kisses,” Simeon sighed and Luke shot up.

“Wh-What! Your what!?”

“Oh dear,” Simeon mumbled.

“Really, Simeon…” Raphael sighed.

“Well the cats out of the bag now,” Solomon shrugged as Luke tugged on Simeon’s cape aggressively trying to get more information out of him.

You looked at Solomon who looked sincerely apologetic for once and he slowly reached into his pocket and handed you an ornament. The one he’d been working on.

“Why the f—“ You remembered Luke was next to you. “—uuuudge… would you put it near me!!” You asked him and he chuckled.

“Well, I decontaminated it so…it’s all good now.” He explained and your shoulders relaxed.

You took a good look at the ornament for the first time and smiled. Solomon had intricately placed the rocks together with bits of fabric to make the shapes of you and him together holding a sheep with a Santa hat. You chuckled and smiled at him. “Thank you Solomon… this is amazing.”

Solomon immediately brightened up, believing he was completely out of the dog house and Raphael mumbled something about it but you couldn’t make it out despite being in his arms.

Raphael reached for something behind him and handed it to you. He too had made an ornament of you and him together, both with white wings. You hugged his arms around you and thanked him sincerely. He gave you one of his small and adorably cute smiles as Solomon rolled his eyes.

Before you could set the two ornaments aside another one was placed in your hand by Simeon was a mischievous grin, a sight becoming less rare for him.

Raphael and Solomon looked surprised as you looked over his ornament. He was carrying you bridal style in this ornament and he clearly had a groom’s outfit. You snickered at how obvious he was being and thanked him through small laughs.

He tilted his head, worried you thought it was funny instead but Luke interrupted any questions he had.

“Wh-what’s wrong with you people! ___ have this! This one is normal!” Luke insisted and gave you his adorable ornament.

He’d neatly drawn the five of you on a piece of paper cut out in your shapes with foam clothing on top of you all. It was surprisingly intricate.

“Wow. Luke can use a glue gun,” Solomon said playfully and you glared at him. He laughed and Simeon held back a chuckle as you reached for Luke.

Luke ran up to you and you wrapped your arms around him and ruffled his hair.

“Don’t be jealous of a child…” you heard Solomon whisper to himself as he looked away and this time Raphael laughed, something so rare everyone looked at him in amazement.

“Sir Raphael laughed!” Luke gasped.

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” you laughed and Raphael immediately stopped and sighed exasperatedly instead.

You gently set your ornaments aside and stretched your arms out inviting Solomon and Simeon in for a hug too. You made a sincere wish that moment that days like this would always continue, not just at Christmas but throughout the rest of your years.

[teatroll]

+18 NSFW content ahead; MDNI

NANAMI KENTO SPICY HEADCANONS

Includes: fem!reader; inappropriate usage of showers and inaccurate depiction of shower shreks (water ain't lube, hons); unprotected piv; praising; + a bit more add-ons (headcanons, duh)

Note: should've been less detailed but i messed up halfway and it looks like a fic if you squint (oops?). anywho, thank my bestie, she buzzed off my ears 'bout this man and made this happen. (also not betaread) @cafekitsune and @saradika - banners ♡

♡ Nanami Kento is a busy man. So his world precisely revolves around his job as a sorcerer. So does his free time. Whenever he gets home, he's too exhausted to indulge into anything but sleep.

♡ Although, he's not opposed to taking a hot steamy shower or a relaxing bath with you. It's only logical - practical AND pleasant. Two birds, one stone. Quick and easy quality time.

♡ That's what he hoped for before he found his mind wandering places when your hands started massaging shampoo into his scalp.

♡ Steam fogging up the glass shower doors; hot streams washing off soapy foam down your naked form; your glistening eyes searching for his and that tender smile that he cherishes so much...

♡ Yeah, his mind was in the gutter straight away and refused to crawl out from that pit. And he knows that's on him, because it's been way too long since the last time both of you spent some actual quality time together. Better fix this now than never, right?

♡ His touches are slow and gentle as his hands start to roam free, fingertips caressing your skin with utmost care. Nanami's heart flutters as you softly sigh close to his ear.

♡ That gives him the confidence to take it up a notch and glide his hands down to cup your rear; your sweet mewls shortly turning into whimpers as you crook your head to the side, giving him access to leave teasing nibbles on your neck.

♡ It's not long before you feel his hardened length between your thighs as he deliberately rocks his hips into yours.

♡ The sound you made afterwards made him softly hiss through gritted teeth.

♡ Normally he'd choose a different (read as more secure, because he's intolerant to bullshit) place, but with the way you cling to him now, he decides to indulge into such a messy activity as shower sex. After all, he's got places to be tomorrow, so he needs to wake up early. Two birds, one stone yet again.

(This man is practical and rational from the top of his head down to his toenails, what did you expect?)

♡ You gasp when his cock starts to slide back and forth between your thighs, teasing your clit. Your pussy clenches over nothing as you let out a needy whine into his shoulder.

♡ "Shh, baby. It's okay." His voice is a bit raspy as he coos in your ear, caressing your sides. "Let me take care of you."

♡ Another gasp escapes from you as he scoops you into his arms and lifts you up by your hips. Your legs instinctively wrapping around him, so do your arms to support your weight on him.

(But, frankly, that much is not needed. Nanami can lift you up with a single hand and still be able to sip his morning coffee with a straight face.)

♡ With his tip now pushing past your entrance, he lets out a shaky breath; his eyes flutter shut for a brief moment. The sight is divine, least to say; and you'd gladly enjoy it all day long but the way his cock slowly stretches your velvety walls makes your vision blurry.

♡ You squirm and pant into the crook of his neck as his grip on you tightens ever so slightly while he slides all the way in.

♡ There's a pause as he lets you adjust to the feeling, whispering so sweetly in your ear it almost melts your brain into mush.

♡ That man will be giving you a praise kink of the century, there's ZERO debate here. And a simple "good girl" won't cut it either.

♡ He'll shower you in praises for how well you're taking him, for how delightful your moans are, for how cute the blush spreads across your cheeks and neck. Basically, anything his senses pick up on, he'll put on a pedestal.

♡ His thrusts are slow, deep, and so fucking sensual it almost feels like a torture. Of pleasure, obviously. Doesn't dismiss the fact you crave more and make it know as you pull him into the kiss by the back of his neck.

♡ He catches your moans with his lips, savors them like candy. It heats up every nerve in his body, makes his muscles tense as he picks up the pace.

♡ How can he not provide his sweet girl with what she truly wants? Denying you of anything feels so wrong that he can't help but indulge into it all over again.

(Is it a flock of birds, one giant rock now? Probably is.)

♡ He's definitely panting. Maybe even whimpers a bit, but the sound is muffled by your lips on his and hushed by the shower, so you can't really be sure.

♡ What you can be sure of, though, is that familiar knot forming in your core. And that feeling gradually increases with each grind of his. There's quite a bit more force to it now, so that previous tenderness is replaced by pure passion.

♡ There's no escaping a headcanon of Nanami guiding you through your orgasm. Because he definitely does so.

♡ "That's it, just a little more. You can do this, baby." AND "You're so precious. Let me hear those pretty sounds, come on."

♡ SPEAKING OF WHICH, definitely tries to maintain eye contact as you finish.

♡ He wants to feel as your walls clench around him, wants to hear you gasp a choked moan, he craves to watch you crumble on his cock.

♡ That sets him off more than anything as he follows you shortly after, spilling inside you with an ecstatic grunt.

♡ Normally, he'd pull out for sure. But since you're already in the shower, why not to indulge into yet another shower session? But this time, it's your turn to be on the receiving end.

♡ After a short cock warming session as you both try to catch your breath.

(And who knows, maybe this time he'll be able to contain himself and actually just do a simple mundane activity and not waste water for half an hour.)

(Fingers crossed, but the bill will be enormous either way.)

♡ Nanami would definitely kiss your jaw/line of pulse lazily and nibble on your neck.

♡ Praising is obviously a part of aftercare as well, how can he set that aside??

♡ Would leave a gentle peck on the sweet spot just below your ear.

"Now, now, darling. Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"

♡ EXTRA ♡

♡ Missionary is his "to go to", because that way he can witness every little change in your expression.

♡ He's leaning closer to vanilla tbh.

♡ BUT, if he's frustrated, there will be a quickie on his desk.

♡ Dead ass will ruin you. Your hips will be sore for a week.

(Everything will be sore since we're at it.)

♡ Not to mention there WILL be hair pulling. (I see you, horny people. I know what you want.)

♡ Aftercare now involves him doing everything in his power to soothe you.

♡ Will definitely think you're sobbing because he hurt you, when, on the contrary, that was pure bliss.

♡ Remind that man of it, he tends to forget that vanilla isn't the only thing that exists.

♡ High chance he adores watching you please yourself. Both with fingers and toys.

♡ Hey, he knows you'd rather feel full on his cock, but he's not opposed to teasing.

♡ He might be pure vanilla (hello cookie run lmao), but even so, Nanami can add some spice to your shared love life once in a while.

♡ Especially when it involves giving you the best of times. (Yes, with teasing too.)

♡ SUKUNA RYOMEN ♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO ♡

[miabbh]

Princess Skin 💈

husband!Baekhyun x reader

Synopsis: that your husband is a starved man when the matter is you, nothing new; sometimes, though, you need to remind him that you have a princess skin and it's sensitive & he needs to shave. it's okay to dely his morning banquet, you try to tell him; it actually is, he conforms, you're there to help.

Genre: playfull banter, slice of life, quite ⚠⚠ explicit smut ⚠⚠ (oral sex–fem!receiving) | ~2,5k words

A low, hoarse sigh escapes Baekhyun's lips, resonating from deep within his chest, filling the quiet intimacy of the bathroom. The sound lingers, blending into the golden warmth of the wall lights as you gently tilt his head to the side. 

He obeys without hesitation, his eyes fluttering shut, his hands resting firmly on your thighs. His grip is steady, grounding, hungry, fingers curling slightly over the hem of your oversized T-shirt—the one he used to wear but now lives permanently on your side of the wardrobe and makes a familiar sense of pride burn on his chest.

With careful precision, you trace the line of his jaw with the razor, your movement slow and deliberate as the white layer disappears to give way to his beautiful skin tone. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and the faint scratch of stubble yields easily to the blade in a dry sound.

You focus, the rhythm of the task drawing you in so you don't cut him. Or at least, you try. Maybe, you do focus—on the closeness of his body, his breath soft against your wrist, the way the tips of his fingers play with your skin, that threatens to distract you.

You take the blade to the basin full of water on your left, leaving the foam and the so short dark hairs floating in it. You can feel his eyes on you, following each movement with his gaze as your breasts gently sway beneath the fabric. The height difference is not significant, even with you sitting on the counter, but your gaze is slightly above his as you side eye him, arched eyebrow. 

Those dark brown chocolate eyes melt slowly as a smirk grows on his lips, the fire beneath them burning slow, low and that oh so well pretended good behavior of his.

It had all started that morning, not long before this moment, when you were stirred awake by the faint, bristling sensation of his stubble against your neck. The warmth of him pressed against your back was the first thing you registered—the solid weight of his chest rising and falling in the slightly accelerated rhythm you've learned to know too well its meaning. Half-asleep, you instinctively raised a hand to his face, your fingers brushing over the rough texture of his unshaven jaw hidden in the tangle of your hair.

A warm kiss pressed against your neck, right where the steady pulse of blood thrummed beneath your skin. His lips lingered, soft yet deliberate, coaxing your breath to hitch as the warmth of his mouth sent a gentle shiver cascading down your spine.

The sheets rustled as he shifted beside you before the soft moan leave your lips fully, the faint weight of them pulling away leaving you more exposed to the cool morning air.

You stirred, your body half-claimed by sleep, yet acutely aware of him. His hand slid along your thigh, the touch slow and unhurried, a silent request you couldn't deny. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he repositioned himself between your thighs, his movements purposeful but tender. Fingers brushed against the fabric of your shirt, the hem riding higher with every inch he claimed until his right hand cupped your breast, squeezing it with the whole palm.

Your back arched against the touch as you looked for a more comfortable position, already feeling a pleasant tingling in your stomach, your breathing quickening in anticipation, too drowned to him, to his touch, to all the things you knew he was caplable of doing and still surprised you every single time.

Your mind, intoxicated by expectation and not fully awakened sleep, took a while to register the muffled words coming from under the sheets. Before you could think to ask, the pressure from your panties on your hip bone as he pulled them to the side made you open your close your eyes again.

The tips of his fingers moved ever so slightly over your already wet clit, a gasp getting stuck in your throat. You could already imagine it—his face focused, his eyes wide and bright as he licked his soft pink lips, preparing to devour a feast. And oh my- you loved seeing him so hopelessly starved of you first thing in the morning.

You fought the instinct to close your legs when his index and middle finger slid between yours wet folds, caught by his teasing. Although, the soft satisfied sound that left your lips quickly turned into one of frustration, his fingers no longer touching you, the stubborn elastic of your panties covering your clit again.

The soft light from the room illuminated his face as you lifted the sheets, peeking at him. A wave of heat burned your cheeks as you caught him with both fingers on his mouth, lingering just against the tip of his tongue as he looked up at you.

Any complaint has left your being. You left him be, laying back down, his image stuck in the back of your mind.

But then you felt it—the rough scrape of his stubble, this time against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The contrast was exquisite, a deliberate tease that made your breath catch in your throat.

"Baby…" you murmured, blindly grabbing his hair as a shiver runned down your spine on a not-so-satisfying feeling.

He didn't seem to listen, his touch unrelenting yet gentle, his hands steady as they coaxed your legs further apart as his lips met your warmth, sucking it gently. A soft, low hum came from him, a sound that vibrated against your skin, reverberating through you.

You held back a melodic ah as the kisses and hickeys spread your leaking wetness, his teeth too teasing you, parted only enough to let the warm breaths of air chill you a little more.

You knew he had lost the patience to wait when both hands grabbed you, one by your thigh and the other by the curve of your butt, holding your panties with the thumb right before his tongue sinfuly make its way from your entrance up to the clit.

The sensation hand you shivering, the brown strands intertwined tightly in your fingers. But then, a burning sensation took over.

"Baek..." a slight frown wrinkle your forehead as you spoke. "You're scratching me."

He paused for a moment, just long enough to let the anticipation build, his warm breath fanning over your exposed skin. 

"You’re really making me stop to go shave?" he murmured from beneath the sheets, the rough edge of his stubble grazing your inner thigh again as be leaned on the elbows.

You tilted your head back against the pillow, your voice barely steady as you tried to pull your leg away.

"You already know my opinion on that."

You could feel him smirking against your skin, pressing another lingering kiss just above your knee. 

"If I even grow a beard someday, will you keep me away from you sweet pussy for at least three weeks 'til the beard no longer sting?" he teased, his hands sliding further up your leg, his touch igniting sparks which were all concentrated between your legs.

You tried to form a witty reply, the warmth of his breath and the deliberate hoarse words against your bare skin making it impossible to think clearly for a few seconds.

"Most likely." you managed to say, the mental image of a Baekhyun with a beard being difficult to conceive.

Baekhyun let go of your thighs, the warm sigh—more like a laugh—that left his mouth got you weak, and for a moment you almost pulled him back to you.

Reappearing from under the sheets scratching his chin, he looked at you. His lips found their way to yours, his whole body weighing you down against the mattress.

You could feel your taste on him, the growing hardness in his pyjama's pants pressing against you.

"Wanna help me?" he whispered, his voice low, thick with that sweet, convincing manipulation he wielded so well. His gaze moved down from your eyes to your lips, down to your neck—his thumb running through your clavicles. "Can't have my breakfast getting cold while waiting for me…"

And that is how you ended up here—perched on the counter, your legs parted to frame him as he stands between them. His gaze follows your every movement, dark and unwavering, as you dip the razor into the basin and wipe it clean on the towel. 

The room is quiet save for the faint sound of water droplets and the soft scrape of metal as you carefully slid the blade down the line of his throat. His pulse steady, though the faint rise and fall of his chest betrays a quiet anticipation.

His adam's apple shifts, slow and deliberate, as he swallows under your careful touch.

You pause for a moment, your thumb brushing over the smooth skin you’d left in the razor's wake. His eyes flick up to meet yours, holding you there with a look that is equal parts trust and something deeper—something raw, burning hot and leaving you nervous.

The corner of his mouth tug upward in a slow, lazy smile. 

"You like this, don’t you?" he teases, his voice soft, playful.

"You seem to be enjoying it more than me." you murmur, and his hands tighten ever so slightly on your thighs, moving further.

You roll your eyes, though the warmth creeping up your neck betrays your pretended annoyance. Carefully, you tilt his chin higher, exposing more of his neck, your fingers brushing against the sharp edge of his jaw. The moment is intoxicating, the intimacy—his surrender, your sense control, the quiet tension crackling between you like static electricity.

You can feel the tiny, slippery puddle forming in the marble under you, your panties—left somewhere you'll probably only find out after you get back from work— no longer being a protective barrier.

"You know…." he says, his voice low and gravelly. "...we could make of this a routine; I let my beard grow a little more than usual, you get all upset and bossy because I scratch your princess skin, and you get to see my face up this close while I-" he slides his thumb over your wetness, making you pull the blade away. A smirk grows on his face. "-til her royal highness authorize the presence of my mouth between her legs again. Huh? What do you say? Good deal?"

You sigh, spreading your legs slightly more. You try to disguise it, wiping the razor clean again, but the gaze is mischief enough for you to know you got caught.

It's not like he's in a place to speak: you could literally see the entire outline of his dick against the pants, his shoulders tense in an anticipation that you know too well. He's as needy as you, but his patience begins to inhibit itself—something you grow used to for good and for bad since he returned from the military.

"Stay still. I'm not done yet." Your eyes flicked back up to his, locking onto the dark intensity there.

A single line of shaving cream remained, stretching from his chin to the base of his neck, and you couldn't help but let your lips curl into a faint, teasing smile.

"My only intention is not to get all scratched up." you add, your voice light with a hint of mischief. 

His smirk was slow, deliberate, and maddeningly confident. His falsely shy fingers slide into your folds with a mix of restraint and indulgence that, he knows, leaves you aching for more. Looking into your eyes, he slowly curls them up against your sensitive walls.

"I think we both know you don't mind a little scratch." he says, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver up your spine.

You shift on the counter, your buttock slipping on the cold marble due to that messy puddle you forgot about. Baekhyun grabs your hip with the free hand, steadying you in place.

"Eager, baby?" he teases.

You narrow your eyes at him, looking down at his left hand under your shirt. With a silently warning—to which he responds with a firmer grip the stillness of his fingers and hiding the lower lip, stretching the chin skin—you take the razor's next glide, slow and steady along the smooth curve of his chin.

"Keep talking and I might 'accidentally' nick you." you warn him, though the way your thumb lightly brushes him betrays the care you are taking, trying not to squeeze his fingers, sinking them deeper.

His Adam's apple bobbed again as he swallowed, the movement deliberate.

"I'm not worried." he replies as the blade leaves his skin as you make him tilt the head back again to light, checking your work. His tone a mix of trust and something more playful. "You'd never risk ruining your masterpiece."

You snort softly, dipping the razor back into the water and wiping it clean on the towel. 

"Such confidence in me." you mutter, shaking your head, trying to deny the warmth curling low in your stomach at the way his gaze hadn't left you for a second. Only the grip of his on you is keeping you from moving by now.

He leans in slightly, just enough for the edge of his stubble to graze your wrist as you adjust his chin again. 

"Confidence, or just faith in you?" his voice a low rumble seems to vibrate through the small space between you. He digs his fingers into you, his thumb finding the pressure point just above your clit and moving in small circles. "You're my beloved wife, aren't you? So committed to keeping me in line... or at least keeping me smooth."

You pause, the razor held just above his skin, your breath catching as you close your eyes. For a moment, neither of you move, the air between you thick and warm.

"Baek..." His nickname falls from your lips in a barely audible whisper, the sound trembling in the quiet space. Your eyes flicker upward, struggling to meet his intense gaze as you steel yourself. "Lemme finish this and I'm all yours."

Baekhyun smirks, the curve of his lips both wicked and knowing. He shifts slightly, the smallest movement sending his thumb grazing over your clit—just enough to steal your breath and make you falter. Then, just as quickly, he pulls away, leaving a warmth that lingers long after his touch is gone.

"Go ahead." he murmurs, his tone laced with amusement.

And then, with deliberate care, you resume your work, the corner of your lips lifting ever so slightly.

"Not an easy job, to keep you smooth." you put down the blade, holding up the towel to clean his skin of any remaining cream and opening the moisturizing cream bottle. You apply a gentle layer of it on his skin, proud of your job, but it's quickly forgotten. "And it's probably over now…"

He grins.

"Of course it is." he leans against you again, his lips moving against yours as your hips are grabbed against his with a fast movement, taking you away from the counter. Your legs instinctively intertwine around his hips, you hands finding home on the back of his neck and hair.

The sensation is maddening, his lips finding their way downward, planting feather-light kisses along the curve of your neck, each one slow and deliberate, leaving a trail of warmth and want in their wake.

"Let me have my sweet treat now." he murmurs before making his way to the bed, sinking you into the pillows and crumpled sheets.

His body towers over yours, his broad shoulders pressing on your thighs open. His lips meet your stomach in a slow pace, his tongue pressing against your skin before sinking into your pussy again.

You glance down, your breath hitching as your eyes meet his—hungry, desperate, and unwavering. His starved gaze locks onto yours, the raw intensity in his expression sending a wave of heat coursing through your body.

The sounds of his tongue and lips working against you fill the room, unrestrained and unapologetic, echoing through the space with an intimacy that makes you see stars for a moment.

A moan escapes your lips, drawn out by the relentless rhythm of his movements. The sound seems to affect him too, and he answers with a low groan of his own, muffled against you as his hips press into the mattress beneath him. The sheets rustle under his weight, his movements restless, insatiable.

Your hand finds its way to his hair, tangling in the dark strands as his name falls from your lips in a breathless cry. He doesn't stop, doesn't falter; if anything, your touch spurs him further, his focus entirely on you, on this, on the unspoken connection binding you together, and on the way he seems go never get enough of you.

His hands roam over your skin, your thighs, your hips, your waist. His touch is almost frantic, fingers digging in as though he's anchoring himself, or perhaps losing control altogether.

You catch the faint glimmer of tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, his pupils blown wide with lust, his face flushed and utterly consumed by the moment. And oh... you're thankful you're also a pillow princess.

[burningcheese-merchant]

burningcheese evidence part 2 because yes

I'm kind of foaming at the mouth right now, I'm not really going to be 100% coherent in this post, episode 6 has melted my brain and I need to cool off (also I have actual work to finish irl lololol)

Spoilers under the cut, don't want to be That Asshole

Also for the 1,000th time, it is perfectly okay and understandable if you do not like this ship, I'm not holding a fucking gun to anyone's head, I know it's not really canon or anything, just let me have my dark hero/villain relationship in peace

"Hey where's Golden Cheese? Is Golden Cheese awake yet? Can she wake up now? No? Why isn't she awake? I want her to wake up already, why won't she wake up already? It's implied that I've asked this question multiple times, when will someone give me the answer I want? I want her here, I want her attention, I want her to wake up already-"

He thinks so highly of her in his Joker-esque way. She's so strongggg. He knows she's strong. Why wasn't she strong before? This isn't like her, he knows that. He knows her. He knows she's strong. He wanted to see her be strong. What happened?

Wanting to straight up get high with her. Wanting to watch her let loose. Calling her a combination of "little thief" and "little bird", two pet names the BurningCheese community (spearheaded by yours truly) has had Burning Spice assign to Golden Cheese

"I KNEW SHE WOULDN'T DISAPPOINT ME" bro thinks the whole damn world of her and had faith she wouldn't let him down, look how fucking happy he is she broke out of prison. She's just like him right now fr fr

She's giving him precisely what he desired, which is a struggle. Which is a chase. Which is a hunt. Which is a FIGHT. Which is HER. HE WANTS TO HAVE FUN WITH HER.

Bro is literally SMELLING her everywhere dude. He's attuned to her. To her presence.

"Hey bring her back to me, I miss her. But I swear to God, if y'all hurt her, if y'all ruffle a single one of her feathers, I will KILL YOU, YOU GOT THAT? SHE'S MINE! ALL MINE! BRING HER TO ME ALIVE AND THAT'S IT! YOU GOT IT?!?!?!"

God the cute sing-song voice I can't right now. Jesus Christ, my guy. Calling to her like that, really??

Sniffing her out again because he's fucking deranged and obsessed with her. He's got her whole essence on lock. Tracking her down like a fucking bloodhound. He's hungry for her, he's STARVING, he's BARKING MAD THAT ANYONE IS TRYING TO GET IN HIS WAY

Little bird? Little bird?? Little bird??? LITTLE BIRD??????????

THE NAME I HAD HIM GIVE HER IN MY FIRST BURNINGCHEESE FIC, WHICH I WROTE DAYS BEFORE THIS FUCKER EVEN RELEASED? THE NAME ALL THE OTHER SHIPPERS HAVE HAD HIM CALL HER TOO? YOU CANONIZED THAT? YOU MADE IT REAL? YOU MADE THE PET NAME HE HAS FOR HER REAL??? I CAN READ THIS IN A DIALOGUE BUBBLE FOR REAL? THIS IS IN THE GAME FOR REAL? ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME RIGHT NOW???

"How good it is to see you in one piece" SMILING AND LAUGHING BECAUSE HE'S GLAD SHE'S OK? TELLING HER SO TO HER FACE? MY GUY

Every step she takes that is wrong to others is right to him. Bust out of jail? Yes good I like that, I want it, I knew she wouldn't disappoint me. Lead him on, make him chase her, have them play hide-and-seek? Yes good, this is fun, I love the thrill of a chase, I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE I CAN FUCKING SMELL YOU I CAN FEEL YOUR FUCKING SOUL YOU CAN'T HIDE FROM ME LITTLE BIRD. Not taking his own goddamn power back? What kind of fool would make such a stupid, regrettable decisi- JK HE'S GLAD HE MADE THIS DECISION, THAT MEANS SHE CAN BE HERSELF AND KICK HIS ASS STILL, THIS IS WHAT HE WANTED, THIS IS EVERYTHING HE WANTED, SHE IS EVERYTHING HE WANTED! YES! (Also, one Freudian slip of several where he says it's HER Soul Jam and not HIS. He's already handing it over to her in his mind. Why? Why tho? Didn't he want it back? Guess not, huh? Guess having the pretty cheese lady beat his ass was too much of a turn-on, huh???)

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW? ARE YOU FOR FUCKING REAL? HE SAYS THIS TO HER? WITH THAT FACE? WITH THAT TONE OF VOICE? SAYING SHE'S LOVELY? THAT WHAT SHE'S DOING IS LOVELY? CALLING WHAT THEY'RE DOING A "DANCE"? TELLING HER TO KEEP IT UP? TELLING HER HE'S THOROUGHLY ENJOYING THIS?

HE KEEPS TRYING TO REASON WITH HER. HE KEEPS TRYING TO TALK TO HER, TO GET THROUGH TO HER, TO GET IT INTO HER PRETTY LITTLE BIRD SKULL THAT HE'S RIGHT. THAT DESTRUCTION IS THE ONLY WAY. Why go to that trouble? Why does he give a single, solitary fuck what she thinks or feels? Why even bother speaking on the matter at all, if it's a fundamental truth in his eyes already? WHY KEEP TELLING HER TO FIGHT, TO KEEP PUSHING, UNTIL SHE UNDERSTANDS HIM? WHY DOES HE WANT HER TO UNDERSTAND HIM? WHO GIVES A FLYING FUCK? And what's this about "and see the day"? Didn't you want to kill her, Burning Spice? Didn't you want to crush her, break her to pieces? Was that another Freudian slip there? Did your mask fall off for a second? DO YOU NOT ACTUALLY WANT HER TO DIE? DO YOU WANT HER TO LIVE, TO STAND UP AND FIGHT, JUST SO SHE'S FORCED TO RECKON WITH THE TRUTH OF YOUR PHILOSOPHY? WHY DO YOU CARE, MOTHERFUCKER? HUH? WHY???

"Stop teasing me" my brother in the Witches we ALL know you don't mean that. You've been BEGGING her to tease you the past two fucking chapters. Stop lying you dumb fuck, your face is giving it all away anyway

He's still clamoring for them to get fucking high together, honestly wtf is wrong with him? Drug-fueled combat, is that his kink? Also boy he sure has a vested interest in her enjoying their battle, doesn't he

She wants more? She wants more of him? She wants more of what he's got? She wants more fun? She wants him to strike a pose that clearly shows off his arms and chest more? YOU GOT IT BABYGIRL-

"You would destroy everything you have, just to get to me?"

"FUCK YES!!!"

My guy. My man. My cookie. My bro. My dude. Your mask fell off. Your mask fell off, my guy. You just told her point-blank that you'll kill people to get her. You'll blow up your own house to get her. You'll trash everything you ever owned to get her. You even have excuses ready to go to justify it. "Oh, it's all garbage, if you want it go ahead. This place ugly as fuck, I hate it, I wanted it gone anyway." Burning Spice. Burning Spice Cookie. You just admitted out loud that you are so obsessed with her that you will tear down your entire life for her. You just told her that to her fucking face, with a big, dumb grin. You've got the "happy" sprite equipped, buddy. You're HAPPY to tell her in no uncertain terms that all that matters to you is going after her. Fighting her. Getting to her. HER. ALL THAT MATTERS TO YOU IS HER!!!!!!!!! YOU JUST FUCKING SAID THAT SHIT OUT LOUD!!!! CAUGHT IN 4K AND YOU'RE NOT EVEN MAD!!!!! YOU'RE NOT EVEN DENYING THE ALLEGATIONS!!!! THIS CAN BE USED AGAINST YOU IN COURT, BURNING SIMP COOKIE!!!!!!

If he doesn't compliment her in some way, even indirectly, at least once per conversation, he will spontaneously combust. Pointing out how different and interesting she is, how she breaks the mold, how she defies the cycle of change and history even after it's already chewed her up and spat her out. Just say you want to put your dick inside of her, dude, please this is fucking embarrassing-

Ok nvm bro is straight up having the biggest, hottest orgasm of his entire fucking life right now, he's straight up speechless, he says like 3 coherent words to her after she awakens and then he's just looking like THIS and smiling so hard his damn is about to be split open by that ecstatic grin. Laughing his stupid, horny, obsessed, creepy ass off. Bro looks like he's CHEERING FOR HER in this shot, are you fucking kidding me? He's HAPPY she got back up, he's HAPPY she got a power boost, he's HAPPY she's kicking his ass, JUST LOOK AT THAT BEAUTIFUL SMILE, HE'S SO IN LOVE IT HURTS

And last, but not least:

Was this really necessary lol

BurningCheese is canon, Burning Simp Cookie is down terminal, we can all fuck off home and die now, I will now be ascending to Heaven (for 5 seconds before God smacks me back down to Hell, because no way I deserve paradise for all of my bullshit lol), thank you goodbye

[alwerakoo]

'Keep the car running'

TMNT 2012 Leonardo & Raphael & Donatello & Michelangelo Written for @tmnt-secret-santa-2024 PROMPT: Rainstorm

AO3

---

It's April who first finds the box.

The attic of the Farm House is a dusty place - full of sheet-covered furniture, old lamps, and cobwebs.

The winter air brushes past the small window - unfinished and bordered with yellow foam and insulation.

Leo has never been in an attic before. He wishes it wasn't so cold.

The chill settles in his bones like needles, digging into his muscles and making his knee buckle.

He knows April and Raph saw him limp up the ladder, but she didn't say anything.

He's not really sure why they brought him along.

Maybe to just get him out of bed.

The thought that he's now the type of person that needs to be tricked into getting out of bed makes him want to close in on himself until there's nothing left.

April looks back at him and smiles. It looks genuine. He's not sure what she's smiling about; he has done and accomplished exactly nothing besides staring out the window and turning an old toy car in his hands.

(He's still holding it. Mikey might like it.)

But she looks kind and pretty in the blue winter sun, so he forces a smile back.

It's not like Raph has been any help either.

He's currently sitting on the edge of an old drawer, and he almost has to bend in half to not hit his head on the slope of the roof.

He somehow makes it look almost casual, and if Leo were anyone else, maybe he wouldn't notice his sai, tucked away behind his wrist, carefully carving away at the wood.

“It must be somewhere in here,” April says, maybe more to herself than to Leo.

She reaches for another box, tucked deeper into the corner, pushing a stack of books over in the process.

That makes Raph look up, briefly.

They're looking for an old camera her family used to own, that probably doesn't work anymore but it's still worth a try.

The boredom really is rotting them from the inside out.

April cuts the tape holding the carton box together using a pocketknife - with the precision of a skilled fighter and the carelessness of a teenager.

She cuts her finger, but only a little.

Raph walks to stand behind her, maybe to make sure she doesn't take out a whole hand next - or maybe just to peek inside the box.

“Woah,” he says suddenly, which is an unexpected reaction. Then he laughs, which is more his style. “Is this yours?”

April scoffs, looking behind her shoulder to glare at him.

“What are you laughing at? You're a dick,” she says, without any real vigor, which means she's not really upset.

Probably. Leo doesn't pretend like he always understands his friend. Or girls, for that matter.

He walks up to them, and when his knee swells with pain, he doesn't let it show. If he did, they would start asking why he never uses the cane Donnie made for him, and he'd rather deal with hundreds of needles tearing his flesh apart, than to answer that particular question.

At first, he's not quite sure what he's looking at.

It's maps and books, handmade drawings, journals, something like suspenders, and strangest of all - a dusty pair of binoculars.

“It's my dad's,” April explains. “I think he used to be really into bird-watching when we still lived in the countryside.”

That makes a bit more sense. Leo was wondering why there were so many birds sketched onto the covers.

He goes to kneel down. It hurts, but if he doesn't sit right now, he might just fall over.

He's not really sure why he reaches into the box.

Maybe for something to do with his hands. Maybe he's just bored. Maybe it's already sitting right in front of him, and he'll die if he doesn't stop thinking about the pain.

He takes the first book in his hand.

It's small and heavy, and dusty; with a watercolor-ed bird looking right back at him from the cover.

He doesn't recognize it, which is not surprising because he doesn't know anything about birds.

The small text below the title lets him know it's a mockingbird, which might be a joke. He's not really sure.

“Wow,” Raph grins. ���Didn't know your dad was an elite member of the Big Nerd Club.”

“Come up with something original for once, I'm begging you,” April says.

Leo knows he's been a little too silent for a little too long, but he can't bring himself to put the book down.

It's stupid and he shouldn't care, because he's sixteen, the city he left behind is being devoured from inside out, his father might be dead, and this is the last thing that should be on his mind.

And yet.

On days where he wakes early, right before dawn, like he's still being pulled along by old habits, like trying on clothes that don't quite fit him anymore – he likes to sit on the porch.

He likes the cold sharp air, how it fills in his lungs, how it shakes up his mind from the fog he so often finds himself in nowadays.

And when he sits there, he hears birds.

He always liked it, in an off-handed, natural way; the way he likes to hear wood splintering in the fireplace or the rain knocking on a window. Something he and many others have filed away as ''nice'' and simply never thought any more about it.

He looks at the mockingbird on the cover.

But maybe, he thinks. Maybe it would be nice to see them for once.

All of a sudden, Raph quiets.

And then there it is, that small moment where Leo can almost feel him think, his brain too fast to turn back now.

“You know,” Raph says, very quietly.

Leo puts the book down.

“No,” he answers without even hearing the question.

Raph raises his hands in a defensive gesture. Or at least Leo thinks it is; with his sai still held between his fingers it really could go either way.

“I didn't even say anything.”

“You did,” April says for Leo.

She sounds a little more upset now, and Raph looks slightly apologetic.

It makes something in Leo's stomach twist, because it used to be so hard to make Raph look visibly guilty about anything.

He's been walking on eggshells.

***

They find the camera in one of the boxes, virtually indistinguishable from the rest. It's old and smells of rust, but April says Donnie might get it to work.

He probably will.

Leo's muscles tighten when he walks back to the ladder.

That same evening, there's a box left on his bed.

***

He doesn't touch it for the first week.

Mostly out of some sense of pride. And because the thought of walking up a ladder again makes the skin in the back of his knees crawl.

But a week passes and then he's laying wide awake in the middle of the night – mind uneasily blank and the taste of blood in his mouth.

He was granted the privilege of having a whole room to himself – a small guest bedroom with a pullout sofa.

(April wanted to let him have her bed, which just felt wrong in a hundred different ways.)

He and his brothers haven't shared a room since they were little. He never realized this was something he was going to miss.

He sits in his bed, and it’s the first thing he sees.

Leo watches the box for a moment, like he's waiting for something that never happens. He's been doing that a lot lately.

He scoots to the edge of the bed to pull it closer, his fingers shaky and face numb, reaching one hand behind to turn on the lamp.

The mockingbird stares back.

He might get the joke now. It's not very funny.

The paper feels thin in his fingers.

His eyes glaze over the text, too hazy to catch anything. But they stay on the drawings.

Leo sits on his bed and watches those watercolor birds until it's morning again.

***

When he first wanders into the forest, he's not really sure what he's looking for.

Bird, preferably.

There's fresh snow on the ground, and his breath turns into white steam.

He's quiet and soft on his feet after years and years of practice, even when his bones grind against each other in a limp.

When he first sees them, he doesn't really know what to do with himself.

He stands there, his face cold and wet against his itchy scarf, and watches them from afar.

It's just birds: perfectly ordinary; stark against the white of the trees.

It's the first time in his life that he has ever considered mistaking a crow for a raven as anything remotely important, or even of any particular interest.

And yet – here he is.

He can't make up his mind; the vague images from the book too far away in his mind to be of any real use.

He fails. In a soft, gentle way.

He's still there, they're here, and next time: he'll know.

They don't sing so much as they scream, and it's all perfectly familiar and predictable.

He doesn't notice the time pass until his knee buckles.

***

He spots the bird after a few days.

It's not all that surprising; judging by the fact that he's the one stumbling upon what is presumably already a perfectly established routine.

The bird lands on a branch, like it's been doing it its whole life – which is probably true. It ruffles its feathers, all pale blues and grays; wings patterned like stained-glass.

He brought a chair this time. He tells himself that this is the sort of hobby that allows a kind of glamorized laziness, which is true enough.

He watches it sit, thrill quietly like an old wind-up toy waiting to be picked up.

It always made him think a little – how much animals seem to just idle. But they don't, not really.

They're doing exactly what they're supposed to.

He comes back the next day, and there are binoculars hung from his neck.

***

He forgets this is something he should be embarrassed about.

He's always been like this; maybe a little too enthusiastic and explosive about everything that made him the way he is. He wears his love on his sleeve, seemingly much to everyone’s annoyance.

They must've noticed, but it's only after a few weeks that someone asks.

“So, like.” Mikey interrupts himself, stuffing a thick sandwich that is mostly unevenly cut bread into his mouth. “Are you, like, an optician now?”

Leo frowns.

“What?”

He picks up more eggs on his fork. He's going to the forest right after breakfast, and he already learned the hard way how hunger makes the cold stick to his bones.

He didn't even realize how little he's been eating until now.

Donnie puts down his fork, running a hand over his forehead.

“Ornithologist,” he says, a little tired. “Is that what you mean?”

“Hey, give him some credit,” Raph huffs. “I'm surprised he even knows what that word means.”

Leo sits on their words for a moment, absentmindedly watching Casey trying to slip more of his eggs into Donnie's glass.

“I just like going outside,” he says, finally. Then, just to be a little mean: “You should try it sometime, Don.”

***

The next time he leaves, he leaves behind a handful of seeds, shamelessly stolen from April's coop. He's sure she wouldn't mind.

When he comes back, they're gone.

He can't know, but he likes to think the blue bird was at least a bit grateful.

***

“It's a bluejay,” he says during dinner. He knows this now, and it fills him with unreasonable pride. “The bird I keep seeing.”

Raph raises his head, and almost imperceptibly – looks at Donnie. They share a glance, the sort they seem to exchange a lot of lately.

They must know Leo can see it, and that makes something angry and bitter spark up inside his chest. But it doesn't catch tonight.

“Cool,” Raph says.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Mikey asks, mouthful of Donnie's half-raw chicken.

Leo pokes at his empty plate.

“... I don't know. They're hard to tell apart.”

But that makes his brain tick.

***

It's a girl.

He spends hours poring over his books to figure it out, and it makes him wish he could call April's dad.

(That thought makes his stomach hurt until he lays down for the night.)

He tells Mikey over a game of monopoly, where half the pieces are long missing, and most of the rules are made up and change every time.

“That's so cool,” he says. “Can I name her? I'm great at naming things.”

Leo doesn't offer to let him see her, and Mikey doesn't ask.

***

The bluejay they named 'Clunk' likes to ruffle her feathers when she lands.

That's mostly how he tells her apart from the others.

There's a sort of foolish, egotistical part of him that likes to think he'd know Clunk even without it; that he'd be able to point her out in a crowd of others with his eyes closed. It's probably not true.

But he's able to point Clunk out when she sits on her branch and ruffles her feathers, and that's good enough for now.

He started to call her 'his'.

His Clunk.

She's not a pet. He's not sure she knows he's anything more than part of the everchanging background.

He thinks he likes it this way.

The thing is – he's not really sure why birds grab him in the way they do.

He thinks them pretty, sure. But there's also that itch he hasn't been able to scratch for so long; doing something new and doing it right.

Failing makes him want to come back over and over again, just to finally get it right.

There are no stakes. If he fails, there are no broken bones, no failed missions, no disappointed gazes. Her life doesn't weigh down on his shoulders with the force of an entire world.

He cares for her, of course. Maybe unreasonably so. But he could disappear, and her life would go on like always.

She'd ruffle her feathers, aim her gaze where his chair used to be, and maybe, for just a moment – linger.

And that's enough.

***

He measures time in pain.

Or more carefully – the lack thereof.

It's still rare, more of a sudden gasp than a deep breath, but his bones ache just a little less, his shell smooths just a little bit.

He started using Donnie's cane.

It's blue and fits into his grasp like a perfect mold, and he knows they're looking at him.

He knows the worry in their eyes looks deceptively close to pity; he knows they talk about him when he's not there.

But he lays it out for himself one night.

Or rather – Donnie does, rather incessantly, probably resisting the urge to hit him over the head with that cane.

It's this, or it's no cane, no walks, and no birds.

He hates that this is something they can hold over his head so easily now.

(Or at least, for the most part. It feels good to be known.)

April tells him he looks 'distinguished', which makes Raph laugh so hard he almost falls over.

Leo still takes that to heart. His chest is warm.

***

Months pass with winter, and the snow falls and melts.

There are more birds in the forest now. He notes them down, compares pictures in books and sketches, listens to so many new voices.

Clunk keeps coming back.

His heart feels full.

***

The rain starts out soft at first. He feels it coming in his knee.

He falls asleep to its rhythm, and it's still there in the morning, falling down the dusty windows they still hadn't come around to cleaning.

He only starts to worry in the evening.

The wind picks up, and April tells them it might be a storm.

It is.

Leo sits on the couch, rubbing his hands together.

He hasn't gone outside today, and his body itches.

“You good?” Casey asks when he starts to chew on his nail.

“... I'm worried about Clunk.”

Honesty is hard and it passes through his throat like he might choke on it.

His brothers quiet.

They're all sitting in the living room, and he can see their worry lines in the faint light of candles.

“... She's a bird,” Casey says.

April jabs him with her boney elbow for it, and he winces in pain, grabbing at his ribs.

“Yeah,” Mikey adds. “She's, like, built for this.”

Leo twitches.

His leg aches like a pile of old bones.

“She's gonna be okay. She's a tough lady, right?” Raph looks to Donnie, like he would know.

And Donnie nods, like he does.

Bluejays can mimic hawks. It's a defense mechanism. They open their beaks and make a sound that makes every small animal turn its head, fur stand straight on their collars, feathers ruffle.

But they're not hawks. They can bend their wings, break their bones, strain their voice all they want to, and still – they never will be.

Leo looks outside.

They forgot about the chairs on the front porch. The wind pushes them back against the railing, cold and loud.

The wood splinters.

Leo stands.

And then he runs.

***

The ground is wet and soft under his feet, and it's hard to imagine it was ever solid.

It's slippery and uneven, and he falls over himself over and over again.

His knee burns though his flesh.

He must've hit it somewhere. There's mud layering a patch of raw skin, pinkish and ugly.

He used to be the fastest out of his brothers.

Now, they catch up to him before he even gets past the tree line.

It's Mikey who grabs his arm first, pulling him to a harsh stop.

His hold hurts and Leo wants to scream. He wants to shred his throat raw, and he wants to dig into his own skin until he finds the part that betrays him again and again.

He thinks he might be angry.

Just maybe, because when Mikey turns him around to pull him into a hug, he falls limp.

“Dude,” Mikey breathes. Leo barely hears him over the wind. “What the fuck?”

“I'm”

He wants to say something, anything, but his face falls numb, stuck on his own thoughts.

Mikey shouts something over his shoulder. Suddenly, there's something wet and miserable that might've once been a blanket thrown over his shoulders.

“Fearless” Raph says, now in his line of sight. “She's not there, she's gonna be alright.”

“You don't know that,” Leo whispers.

He doesn't think Raph hears him over the wind. He's squinting at the harsh rain, leading Leo back to the house.

He supposes he'll have to trust Raph on his one.

Leo's cold.

He's cold, he's in pain, he's a useless son, he's a bad leader, he's a bluejay and he's so very afraid.

***

In the morning, the sky is clear.

He wakes up on the touch, feeling every muscle and joint in his body simmer like a burned-out cigarette.

Raph sits by the couch and doesn't say anything for a long while. Until he finally does:

“Do you want to see her?”

Raph takes him by the arm, which makes Leo feel like crying for a whole number of reasons.

But they don't get to leave before Mikey runs into them in the hallway, and subsequently – puts the entire house back on their feet.

April hands him tea in a pink thermos, before she even thinks to brush out her hair, and he takes it without a word, but a lot sitting on the edge of his tongue.

He never brought anyone else with him, and he realizes there's only one chair a little too late.

Raph doesn't seem to mind.

He crosses his legs on the ground, picking at his nails with his sai.

They sit and wait for hours.

This part of the forest doesn't seem all that changed, besides a few branches in places where they shouldn't be.

But it's unusually quiet, and Leo doesn't think to drink any of his tea before it grows cold.

Raph puts a hand on his good knee, opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything.

There are things Raph wants to say, want to ask – Leo knows. Maybe he'll let him, eventually.

But now, he feels like his lungs have run dry. He feels like he's been holding his breath for years.

“I'm sorry I didn't take you here before,” he says.

It means a lot of different things.

Raph turns to look at him, and with that – there's a soft whistle.

Clunk lands on her branch, her wings shiny and vibrantly blue from the rain.

She ruffles her feathers.

Her eyes fall to Leo's chair, dark and full of sun. She tilts her head, and it's almost like a nod.

Leo breathes.

***

Donnie does get the camera working, eventually.

Not that any of them had any doubts about it, not really.

He lays it on the dinner table, folding his arms over his chest.

“There,” he says.

April's face lights up, and he just shrugs, like it was nothing.

Mikey is the one to pick it up first, turning it over in his hands.

“What do we wanna do first?” He asks.

He holds up the camera backwards, like his own selfie is the most logical answer. But then he hesitates, and his face turns into something a little more thoughtful but not unkind.

He turns back to Leo and hands him the camera.

“You pick,” he says.

Leo smiles.

And he already knows the answer.

[cryptic-forge]

since all new 3d printing & photography is still in limbo, a throwback! this is the first doll i ever made. she is from a couple of years back, though a more precise grip on the timeline is lost to me.

i had a brief fascination with bjd head sculpts as a kid, and did a few frankenstein experiments on barbies, but was never really interested in dolls before. the hobby started in a flash when i happened to see a monster high custom video on youtube. i took one look at a cleaned abbey face, went "monster high face sculpts are like THAT?", and got my boots on to go to the nearest thrift store. did not find any monster high at that time, but bought a moxie girlz doll, and came home to make this.

the spider butt is insulation foam and clay, and the legs are worbla over a thick metal wire, which allows them to bend surprisingly well. also, the tattoos are patterns cut out of my childhood satin pajamas, which is an excellent example how a lot of my material storage may be Old As Balls, but eventually compelling things will have their use.

the arms are super charming when i look at them now; a relic from a time when i didn't just have a bin of spare doll parts to get new arms from. i thought about swapping them out now, but i think i'll keep her as she is, as documentation. the harness i do need to retie though, as i did not know shibari back then and it Could Be Much Better now that i do.

all told, i've made about 80 fashion doll customs. most of them have never been photographed, but i'll do some more throwback dollposting when me and/or my partner get time & motivation to take pictures.

[sennedjem]

Gale’s OG bracers are done! For when I don’t feel like wearing the fingerless gloves version.

These weren’t DIFFICULT to make per se, but they were Very Tedious. I ended up making seven of them - two in paper, one in foam, and four in leather (I had to downsize and re-do). So many hours of precision marking and cutting and weaving (pun intended). That said, I’m very pleased with the result, especially with how they’re seamless aside from the edge bindings, just like in game.

[frozenfries]

Cozy Café : A VALORANT Headcanon

It’s been a hot minute since I’ve written for this game, but inspiration struck at a random time. This totally hasn’t been sitting in my drafts since last January

Prompt: If the agents worked at a café, what would their roles and/or signature drink be?

Amidst the chaos of battle, a quaint café stands as a sanctuary for the weary agents. Here, they can take refuge from their high-stakes duels, and trade their weapons for aprons to pursue a different kind of mission: the art of brewing the perfect cup of coffee.

Phoenix: with his vibrant personality and quick reflexes, he’s the charismatic face of the café. Entertaining customers with his barista skills comes naturally as he conjures up dazzling coffee concoctions with a flair of his hand, a burst of flame and a confident grin. His signature drink, The Ignition Latte, is a fiery blend that invigorates even the most exhausted of patrons. Jett: agile on and off the battlefield, she brings her lightning-fast speed and precision to the café. With a swift motion of her finger, she effortlessly crafts delicate latte art, transforming each cup into its own masterpiece. Her Cloud Burst Cappuccino is a smooth delight, creating a moment of feather-light happiness for those who drink it. Viper: the formidable chemist brings her scientific expertise to the world of coffee. With a touch of her gloved hand, she infuses her creations with unique flavors and aromas, leaving customers in awe. Her Venomous Mocha is a mysterious blend that tantalizes the taste buds and leaves a lingering, addictive aftertaste. Sage: with her nurturing personality and herbal knowledge, she adds a touch of serenity to the café and its menu. Her Rejuvenation Tea is a calming infusion that restores both body and mind, providing a moment of tranquility amidst the chaos of everyday. Omen: ever the enigma, he brings an air of mystery to the café. With a flick of his wrist, he conjures up ethereal and smoky concoctions, leaving people wondering how he manages to capture such unique flavors. His Shadowy Cold Brew is a chilling experience that takes customers on a journey through darkness and light. KAY/O: the robotic agent assists in the day-to-day operations of the café, precisely measuring ingredients, ensuring efficiency, and maintaining the coffee shop's cutting-edge technology. KAY/O's presence adds a futuristic touch to the atmosphere, making customers feel like they've stepped into a realm where man and machine coexist harmoniously. Sova: a master archer, you can find him behind the counter carefully crafting his signature drink, The Tracker's Shot: a potent blend of espresso and a hint of blueberry syrup, topped with a delicate foam art of a wolf's paw print. Sova takes great pride in his creation, often using it as a conversation starter with customers, enthralling them with tales of his adventures in the wilderness. Cypher: the watchful surveillance expert provides security for the establishment. He has a keen eye for detail, which translates seamlessly into his signature drink, The Watchful Eye Latte: a meticulous combination of steamed milk, a shot of espresso, and a dash of vanilla spice syrup, served with a meticulous swirl of latte art depicting an intricate camera lens.

Chamber: the polished agent with a mysterious past has a taste for the unconventional, which is reflected in his signature creation, The Trademark Mocha: a rich concoction of dark chocolate, a double shot of espresso, and a hint of cinnamon, sprinkled with a dash of edible gold glitter that gives it an otherworldly shimmer.

Astra: with the ability to infuse her cosmic energy into any environment, she can elevate even a simple drink into an otherworldly experience. The Celestial Brew starts with a base of rich, smooth espresso, followed by a fusion of steamed milk and vanilla syrup, creating a swirling galaxy effect. To top it off is a dollop of homemade lavender-infused whipped cream, a touch of stardust and a sprinkle of edible glitter.

[as-enterprises]

Explore Circular Cutting Machine | A S Enterprises

Explore precision foam cutting with our Circular Foam Cutting Machine. Designed for efficiency, our CCM Basic Products deliver superior results, effortlessly handling circular PU foam sheets of varying thickness. Powered by a reliable electric motor, this machine ensures accurate cuts every time. Elevate your foam processing with advanced technology and trust in our Circular Foam Cutting Machine for unparalleled performance. Visit our site for the perfect solution in circular foam cutting technology.

[etradio]

Mina Ashido Support Item Ideas

Acid bombs

•Ashido now has capsules around her waist and her left arm. The capsules are made of a acid-proof glass.

•••I imagine her capsules would contain different things.

•her regular acid, in different viscosity levels for different situations.

Pepper Spray//Foam

•Since Ashido can control the viscosity of her acid, she could use it as a substitute for pepper spray.

{Notice the containers kinda resemble perfume bottles}

• She could also make Pepper Foam. It’d be useful so that she wouldn’t risk harming her allies with the spray.

Roller Blades

•every time I make a ‘character support items’ thing, I gotta do a random bull crap one.

And that’s the roller-blades.

•I thought it was cool.

•••She usually just slides on her acid, so I thought she could use the wheels to get around faster-or at least- I thought she was kinda at risk of slipping.

•keep in mind, this is coming from someone who fell flat on their face the first time they tried to roller skate. I fell while clinging to a wall. Pathetic.

Acidic Foam Spray

•Police Officers can use Pepper Spray but they can also use Pepper Foam.

•The idea here was that Ashido could adjust her acid’s viscosity into pepper spray/foam

•If she flexes her hand in a…idk the word for it- ‘squeezing motion’ ?

-then the foam would shoot out of the palm of her hand.

•She can also spray the acid out of the mini capsule as a longer range than her usual hand nozzle move.

Dagger Blade

•Ashido’s gloves store up acid, similarly to Bakugou’s gauntlets.

•The acid can then be used on her daggers.

{since she’s a hero she obviously wouldn’t use it on anyone,}

But it’d be useful for cutting something more precisely.

Tbh I was thinking of Kanroji from Demon Slayer.

I always got one where I add it because I just think it’s cool

So yeah. The sword also can connect to itself by the ends like a deadly hoola-hoop.

I used to play a game as a kid that was called ‘Soul Caliber 5’ and there was a character with a weapon like this.

I’d like to go back to this idea so I can make a new outfit design- this was just a base for the ideas. Meant to be easy to redraw over & over again.

I originally posted this on my Amino. So if you see it on there that’s likely my other art account.

[yurozo]

hang & bleed (req)

╔══《⚜》══╗ restaurant au!wesker x gn!reader summary: in the closed ecosystem of a restaurant, wesker is a god and you are nothing more than a humble servant. (1.5k words) tags: blood, religious imagery, no use of y/n, swearing, wesker's a little bit of an asshole, mentions of explicit content. a/n: for the anon who requested this, this honestly just kind of slipped through my hands. the tone is very different from the rest of the writing for the restaurant au, but i wanted to stay true to wesker's characterization. i hope you like it anyways!! see more of the restaurant au!! | 1 | 2 | ╚══《⚜》══╝

Sometimes, you think Wesker is God.

Over eons of evolution, humans perfected the ability of pattern recognition. The brain is wired to organize and explain sense information, extracting formulas for complex ideas to sort them into neat little boxes. Which mushrooms you can eat and which ones will have you foaming at the mouth, coughing out your innards until your corpse is cold on the floor.

When you picture a chair, there’s a certain image that will manifest itself. A flat surface, four legs, a curved back. Wrapped in red velvet, maybe, depending on how you feel that day. People learn through these patterns— you have seen a chair before, you know the attributes of a chair, and you know how a chair works. The more chairs you see in your life, the easier it is for those helpful little synapses to fire those images in quicker intervals.

You know a chair is a chair because you have tested the validity of that claim several times over. Even if it’s a different chair, maybe mahogany wood this time, it’s all conceptually the same thing. 

Sometimes, a chair is a chair, a mushroom is a death sentence, and a God is a man. 

Time to test a theory. 

Wesker appears, no, materializes behind you the second blood pools on your finger. A soft click of his tongue against his teeth is what makes you finally drop the broken shard of glass you hastily tried to pick up off the floor, and now the tile is splattered with red. 

“You’re making a mess,” he’s scolding you, pulling you up by the collar of your now-damaged work shirt. Crimson against grey and plasma against silk. Wesker’s glaring at you through his glasses, like some sad cat he found drenched in the rain. Pitiful and ever-so-eager to please. 

“Sorry,” is all you can mutter, stumbling forward on your feet. The defense is followed by a meager attempt to minimize the damage, shoving the side of your finger to your mouth to lick at the blood. 

He says nothing to your half-hearted apology, turning to rip the first-aid kit off the nearby wall and tearing it open. Ada’s watching too, eyes carefully watching your every movement as her knife flies across the cutting board. Her movements are always fluid and precise, a loud repetitive clacking of the blade cutting through the air as another vegetable meets its inevitable fate. The stems are sorted into neat piles and thrown in the trash, and the heads are quartered to be tossed into a pan. 

Something about her always unnerved you. Ada never disappoints Wesker, not like you. 

Another click of metal hitting wood as your hand is wrenched from your mouth and the alcohol wipe comes swinging down on your cut like a guillotine. The kitchen suddenly feels all too quiet, too separated from the chaos of the front, and even the line cooks fall silent out of respect. Disappointing the boss and making stupid mistakes on the job is a crime punishable by death. 

God is an executioner, a judge, and a manager at the town’s shittiest restaurant. 

“For someone as capable as you are, you would think to know better than pick up glass with bare hands.” 

He’s scolding you again as the bloodied wipe is unceremoniously thrown into the trash. You should feel ashamed, should feel repentant, but you hear the word capable and the soft hum of approval hums through your chest. 

“Didn’t want someone to slip,” you mumble,“I thought it would be fine.”

“It is decidedly not fine.” His voice is stern, but his hands are gentle. A bandaid is pressed onto your finger before you can protest, you’re more than capable of doing it yourself, but Wesker is not a man that can handle refusal. 

“I can see that.” There’s no polite way to tell God no. 

Ada scoffs as he’s dragging you off to the execution room, a small bunker of an office so meticulously organized that it feels like an entirely separate realm from the usual chaos of the restaurant. Folders and well-loved cookbooks litter every shelf, tabbed and colour-coded, and Wesker is still saying nothing as he sits you down in the chair and ceremoniously filters through a pile of paper. Red velvet, like you imagined. 

Sense information can often be distorted. The brain can’t catch up with what the eyes are seeing, or the nerves send the wrong messages, and the visual perception of an object appears larger than normal. When a man is coming towards you from far away, his image on your retina grows bigger and bigger until everything else feels miniscule in comparison. Shelves, desks, stupid servers who fall in love with God. 

Wesker is tripling in size, bleached blonde hair haloed by a shitty fluorescent light that should have been changed months ago, and you suddenly feel very, very small. 

“Incident report.” A paper is shoved in your face. 

You stare up at him for a moment, brow raised in curiosity. “It’s like, a one-inch cut.”

“Regulations,” is his simple answer, spoken like a commandment. “We used the first aid kit, and I don’t want your blood dirtying up my kitchen more than it already has.”

“It was barely a drop.” You know it’s a lie, and he knows it’s a lie. It was a lot more than that, and the tile can attest to it. 

He taps on the paper impatiently, and you get to writing. There’s no comfortable way to hold a pen with a bandage making it slip out of your grip with every slight amount of pressure, and you can only hope he doesn’t wince at your shoddy handwriting. 

Name, date, contact information. Nature of injury, small incision to the right hand. Cause of incident, being an idiot and believing you’re invincible. Before the incident, you accidentally dropped a glass on the ground, and after the incident, Wesker had complimented you. 

“What the hell are you grinning about?” He asks derisively, standing behind you with his arms crossed over his chest. 

You try to tamp the smile down on sheer force alone, but it’s a futile endeavour. “You think I’m capable.”

Wesker sneers. “I think you can do a lot better than this shithole.” 

“You run this shithole.” 

“I didn’t say I deserved better.” Wesker turns to pretend-sort through papers, lining up each edge until they’re perfectly aligned. He’s stalling too, the man who never seemed to fall downwards, fumbling about the small space looking for every imperfection just to avoid looking at you directly. 

Looking directly into the sun causes ultraviolet light to damage the retina, burning the exposed tissue. Factors such as depth perception and sight can be permanently altered, and you wonder if Icarus was blind when he fell from the sky. 

For a man who always seemed to be the smartest in the room, it really is a miracle he’s here, hunched over in a tiny office, wrangling a gaggle of twenty year olds into serving steaks. The more you look at him, the more he looks mortal. Too tight skin stretched over wiry muscles, dark bags pillowing under the eyes. 

You hum. “If I didn’t want to be here, I would just quit.”

The phrase gives him pause, and he finally turns back to you.  “Then quit.”

“Huh,” you say, like the thought of leaving here wouldn’t kill you. There’s an ironic sort of comfort in relying on the mayhem, managed only by the orderly system that the divine enacts. “You know, I dread the day that I wake up every morning just to take the same train line to work, talk to the same boring people, and sit in the same shitty cubicle.”

“People like us,”  he continues, crossing the chasm with all the graceful movement his long limbs will allow. He’s always been a little too thin on the bones, and all you can feel is the cadaverous feeling of his fingers as they grip your chin. “Are at least above office jobs.”

Those synapses start firing up images again, of Wesker leaning down and pressing against you, lifting you up on that perfectly organized desk and scattering those papers onto the floor. Humans developed pattern recognition for survival, and not imagining fucking your boss in his cramped office. 

Now you’re giving yourself away too, the way your eyes immediately flicker down to his mouth. It’s downturned, like it always is; reading Wesker is always about the eyes. They’re still half-hidden underneath those stupid glasses, but you can still see the way they’re watching you all the same. 

It’s an act of rebellion to kiss your boss, a death sentence like mistaking a death-cap for a puffball. You wonder if you should add this to the report, that you grabbed God by the collar and crushed him to your mouth post-incident. 

“You’re not fucking invincible,” he whispers against your lips, squeezing the fat of your cheeks between his fingers. Your lips purse at the force, and he grins at the sight. “Don’t do something stupid like that again.”

That stupid, unbidden smile rears its ugly head again. Sometimes death tastes like chapstick and not iron in your mouth. 

[atinycafe]

hard hours thought LORD all I can think about is cocky and mean dom wooyoung who teases the poor reader until their overstimulated and crying (if you can't tell I'm a slut for mean doms oh my god I'm foaming at the mouth)

warnings: nsfw under the cut, fem bodied reader, dom wooyo, slight dumbification, clit play, use of pet names (woo, wooyi, baby), mean wooyoung!!!, slight dacryphilia, overstimulation, unprotected sex (don't do that), multiple orgasms, dirty talk, reader lowkey has a degradation kink, cream pie, slight hair pulling, slight manhandling, 3.3k wrds author's notes: yes yes YES, bae you're a visionary i was alr writing something like that be4 you even wrote that request, mean doms r the best masterlist

"you're not going out wearing that dress," he says, as you step out of your hotel room and into the living room, having just finished getting ready with your makeup and hair done, holding your heels in your hands. perplexed, you glance down at the small, flowing white dress, then back up at him.

he sits on the white couch before you, legs spread wide, meticulously adjusting one of the cuffs of his snug white dress shirt. the shirt clings tightly to his well-defined chest and biceps, which flex as he tries to fasten a button at his wrist. you try to ignore the effect his physique has on you and focus on the matter at hand.

"what's wrong with it?" you inquire, a hint of uncertainty in your voice. you gaze down at yourself again and then turn to the floor-to-ceiling mirror beside you, searching for any flaw in the dress.

"you're just not going out dressed like that," he repeats, his eyes fixated on your exposed legs. the dress barely covers your buttocks, accentuating your thighs. once again, you shift your attention to the mirror, puzzled about what he finds objectionable.

"but it's a cute dress, bought it especially for our trip in venice," you reply tentatively, unsure if he genuinely dislikes the garment. your hands smooth over your stomach and love handles in an attempt to flatten any bumps caused by the fabric. "don't you think it's pretty?"

"yes, baby," he sighs, rising from the couch. he runs a hand through his purple locks and approaches you from behind, standing tall and strong as he gazes at your reflection in the mirror. he places his hands atop yours, just above your navel, and leans in to whisper in your ear, "the dress looks stunning on you. that's precisely why i don't want you to wear it outside. don't want men seeing all this, only i can do that baby"

suddenly, realization dawns upon you, and what wooyoung thought would be a sweet compliment strikes you in the wrong way. you push his hands away and turn to face him, gasping and lightly hitting his firm chest.

"you bought it for me!" you exclaim indignantly, and he responds with equal surprise, a pout forming on his face.

"i gave you my card, but i didn't buy shit," he places a hand on his chest, playfully brushing off imaginary dust.

"i showed you the picture before i ordered it!" you remind him.

both of you were lounging on the couch in your south korean home, shoulders brushing against each other. he was engrossed in the game displayed on the large tv screen, controlling virtual players as they chased after a basketball. his thumbs moved forcefully over the buttons of his controller, while you found yourself fixated on an online shop, absentmindedly nibbling on your thumb as you scrolled through various dress colors. "babe, should i go for the pink dress or the white one?" you had asked, holding the phone up to his face, partially obscuring his view of the nba 2k23 game. he whined, shifting to the side and slumping on the couch in an attempt to get a better glimpse of the ongoing match. you playfully straddled his lap, feeling the strength of his thighs beneath the shorts he wore, pouting at the lack of attention. when he continued to ignore you, you reached out and placed your hand on his bulge, successfully capturing his focus as he turned to you with surprise. he pushed his gaming headset microphone up, muting himself completely, and raised an eyebrow at you. biting your lip, you ground against his bulge, your skilled fingers knowing just how and where to apply pressure. he tossed the controller aside onto the couch, his now-free hands finding their way to your waist, pressing firmly against your flesh. just as he leaned in to kiss your neck, you pushed his chest away, firmly holding him against the couch. you thrust your phone in front of his face. "pink or white?" you scrolled between the two dress pictures, and wooyoung glanced at you, a hint of annoyance in his expression. he quickly glanced at the phone in a disinterested manner before snatching it away and tossing it beside his controller. "white, baby. now move and let me fuck you. my dick hurts," he exclaimed, his voice filled with desire.

wooyoung rolls his eyes, fully aware of what you're trying to do. "you damn well know i wasn't looking at no picture."

you move past him, making your way to the couch he had occupied just a moment ago, and begin slipping one heel onto your foot, struggling with the pesky little latch. you bite your lip, forcefully closing your mouth, briefly contemplating asking wooyoung for help with the heels. "i'm not changing, woo," you assert, not even bothering to look up from your task.

"baby, come here. let me show you something," he calls out in a gentle tone, beckoning you with two fingers. reluctantly, you get up, leaving one foot bare on the floor.

once you're within his reach, he swiftly grabs you and maneuvers you so that you're facing him. he bends you slightly, placing a hand on your shoulder and another on the lower part of your back. as you're bent, he moves his nearest hand to your face, forcing you to turn and gaze at your reflection in the mirror.

as you continue to stare at yourself, your eyes fall upon the edge of your dress, which does absolutely nothing to conceal the flesh at the bottom of your buttocks. you were aware that the dress was on the smaller side, but you didn't realize it rode up this high.

embarrassment floods your face as you imagine how mortifying it would have been to walk outside like that and only notice later. you notice wooyoung's smirk as he witnesses your expression crumble, and you bite the inside of your cheek. he's right, but you'd rather perish than admit it. so, you push his hands away, feigning indifference.

"my butt looks cute," you shrug nonchalantly, staring back at him. he gazes at you with annoyance, clenching his jaw, "i don't mind if people look at it." his tone is firm and leaves no room for argument as he issues his order.

"well, i do mind, so go put on some pants."

"or what?" you smirk internally, observing how his ears start turning red and the veins in his neck become more pronounced. he's so adorable when he's angry, and you can't resist challenging him. besides, he always fucks you exceptionally well when he's like this.

"watch your tone, i'm not playing with you."

bingo. now all you need to do is push him a little further until he snaps, and you know you're in for an unforgettable night.

"you're so insecure. do you think 'm going to find someone better than you out there? is that why you're acting like this?" you giggle mischievously, managing to attach the little strap to your ankle, stretching your foot as you admire your recent pedicure.

"one more word," he reaches for his patek watch, unlatching the lock and removing it. you stare at him, letting out a small hum of confusion. he remains silent as he places the silver watch on the nearby furniture, gripping the wood tightly until his fingers turn white. he chuckles, "one more word, and i'll fuck you until you're crying on my cock."

he notices the subtle clench of your thighs, but his expression remains composed, his gaze piercing through you. innocently tilting your head, you look up at him with big doe eyes for a moment before dropping the act and revealing a sly smirk.

"do you think i'll find a man with a bigger dick than yours out there?" you ask, resting your chin on your palm. in just two strides, he's in front of you, gripping your hair tightly in his fist. you bite your lip, fighting the urge to smile.

"such an attention whore," he whispers, and you hold your breath in anticipation. "should i fuck the attitude out of you? you'd like that, would you?"

you nod, and he snorts, but there's no amusement in his eyes, and his laughter feels purely mocking. "what a slut. i bet you're already soaking," he mutters, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. he lifts you up by your hair, making you whine before ordering you to be quiet.

he turns you around and forcefully bends you over the sofa, your delicate hands finding their place on the armrest. without giving you a moment to think, he swiftly pulls your dress up and yanks your lacy panties down to your heels. a dry chuckle escapes him as he notices the glistening trail of your arousal connecting your panties to your swollen pussy, and you flush with embarrassment.

"don't tease," you whisper as you feel him collect your wetness on his finger, gliding over your folds but intentionally ignoring your throbbing clit. he delivers a harsh slap to the inside of your thigh before tightening his grip on your hair.

"do you really think you’re in a position to give orders? know your fucking place," he growls, his voice laced with a commanding edge, as he swiftly retrieves the abandoned panties and tucks them away in the depths of his pocket. asserting his dominance, he places a strong hand on your back, urging you to arch your body in submission. enthralled by his forceful touch, you release blissful moans, your face seeking refuge in the shelter of your forearms.

"no you don't get to hide."

he raises you from your previous position, effortlessly hoisting you onto his shoulder, your body perched upon his frame. in a bold display of dominance, he delivers a stinging slap to your butt, evoking a surprised squeal to escape your lips. as he strides into the room, you find yourself airborne for a moment before landing upon the bed, the impact causing a playful bounce. your dress rides up, revealing your bareness, laying it bare for his eyes to behold.

with a gaze filled with smoldering intensity, he casts his eyes upon you. nonchalantly, he unfastens the top buttons of his shirt, revealing a glimpse of his chest, and methodically rolls up his sleeves, exposing the sinewy veins on his forearms. the sight of his pulsating veins elicits a whimper from deep within you, anticipation building as drool pools within your mouth. without hesitation, he seizes your ankle, firmly dragging you towards the edge of the bed.

"didn't shut your mouth when i told you so i'll shut it for you," he asserts firmly. swiftly retrieving your black lacy panties from his pocket, he presses them into your mouth with a forceful intensity, effectively stifling your cries, while the taste of your essence lingers upon your tongue. unzipping his pants, he exposes his fully aroused and throbbing member, its vibrant hue accentuated by its eager glisten, "so fucking loud."

he positions the tip of his member, allowing it to penetrate only an inch before he locks eyes with you, "beg." a smirk dances upon his lips, knowing full well your current predicament leaves you unable to utter a word. the fabric restricts the passage of air, pressing against the beginning of your throat. as he catches the sound of your muffled whimpers, he feigns concern and queries, "you don't want this dick? thought you were my dumb cockslut, thought you were my cum dump, you don't wanna beg?"

as you begin nodding frantically in response to his words, a smile creeps across his face. he observes the tears streaming down your cheeks, evidence of the ache within your pussy. despite his proximity, there remains a tantalizing distance between you, heightening your sense of helplessness. as you clench around his crimson tip, you feel the faintest of thrusts, the motion minuscule yet undeniably present, intensifying your sobs. his grin widens as he witnesses the drool spilling from your lips, relishing in the control he holds over you. "fuck, i love it when you cry, makes me so hard."

responding to your fervent plea, he swiftly retrieves the panties from your mouth, granting your desire to speak. without missing a beat, you launch into a desperate plea, your voice filled with longing and need. "pleaase please pleaseee, wooyi i need it so bad, give it to me." your begging appears to have an effect, as he places a hand upon your trembling thighs, parting them gently to create more space, heightening the anticipation. yet, despite the enticing position, he remains motionless.

"who's my dumb slut, mmh?" he grunts. in response, you mumble a string of submissive affirmations, your voice barely audible as you confirm your role with each whispered "me." finally, yielding to his desires, he thrusts deeply, fully penetrating you. "i've been too nice with you, too lenient you forgot your place." with each snap of his hips, you emit a piercing cry, your fists clenching tightly onto the blanket beneath you, lost in a whirlwind of overwhelming sensations.

"such an attention whore," he moans, "i thought you were mine alone, but clearly, for a cock-hungry slut like you, nothing is ever enough." his relentless thrusts reverberate through the room, the rhythmic collision of thighs filling the air, while his pubic bone grinds harshly against your sensitive bundle of nerves, sending waves of pleasurable fuzziness cascading through your body.

"'m sorry nngh only you," you whine, feeling the tightening in your stomach as your next orgasm looms near. "please, let me…mngh, cum. please, please?" you babble out, your desperation evident in your words. wooyoung responds with a hearty laugh, his large hands pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs.

"you're so fucking dumb, i can't even understand you. always talking back now look at you, y'can't even speak," he pants, his tone dripping with a mix of condescension and control. bringing his thumb to your swollen clit, he rubs it with a cruel and unyielding pressure. "baby wanna cum?" you nod eagerly, your hair swaying with the movement, tears streaming down the sides of your face, "then cum."

in just a matter of seconds, the overwhelming intensity engulfs you, causing your stomach to tighten and a high-pitched whine to escape your lips. expecting him to cease his actions and provide respite, you attempt to take a deep breath, but to your dismay, he continues without relenting. panic grips your senses as you desperately try to convey that it's becoming too much, that you need him to stop. yet, as you lock eyes with wooyoung's hooded gaze, a smirk playing across his face, the realization dawns upon you. this is your punishment. you should have known better. it had been far too easy to coax him into fucking you. normally, he would relish in being just as much as a brat as you, drawing out the tantalizing foreplay for hours, until your begging reached the point of voicelessness. fighting fire with fire.

"s'too much, woo, no, please," you plead, the desperation heavy in the room. however, since you haven't used your safe word yet, wooyoung's pace remains unyielding. he pinches down on your swollen clit, causing a silent scream to escape your lips, your back arching from the bed. your nails dig harshly into the skin of his hands. "why would i listen to you?" he taunts, his words laced with a hint of retribution. "you're nothing but a brat who refuses to listen to me, s'only fair if i get back at you, don't you think so? isn't that what you wanted."

you find yourself devoid of the strength to respond, only broken gasps escaping your trembling lips. your eyes roll back into their sockets as he lifts one of your legs, positioning your white heel on his shoulder, allowing him to hit a deeper spot.

the climax engulfs you once more, sweeping you away in a torrent of pleasure and desperation. a cry escapes your lips, a fusion of ecstasy and yearning. as you gaze back up at wooyoung, your chest rising and falling rapidly, he returns your gaze with a gentle smile. his cold hand brushes against your cheek, caressing it tenderly. finally you're done. you smile back, matching the softness in his expression. however, his laughter startles you, shattering the illusion. "you really thought we were done huh." your eyes widen when he snaps his dick into, the collapse harsh on your clit which makes more tears come out of your face.

the pain courses through your body, causing tremors to ripple across your trembling form, yet you know that the discomfort will soon transform into pure pleasure. wooyoung tenderly takes hold of your ankle, planting a gentle kiss upon it, momentarily offering a contrast to the intensity of his actions. a flicker of hope ignites within you, driving you to beg once more, maybe he'll stop after this one if you manage to convince him. "w-woo, baby, please," you stammer, your voice fractured and strained, your tongue heavy and uncooperative. "i c-can't do it anymore mnngh 'm sorry so sorry sorry s'too much,"

"my baby's so dumb, of course you can take it. i know your body more than you do. you can give me another one. acted like a slut now you get to be one, so take it." with a hand pressed firmly against your stomach, his thrusts begin to slow down, each one deep and forceful, "need to cum in you baby, can't stop until you're filled with my cum, need to see it dripping from your pretty pussy, need to see you cry."

as you nod, you release uncontrollable sobs, your tears intermingling with the shared intensity of the moment. your desperate desire to please him consumes you entirely. as he begins to vocalize his own pleasure, moans escaping his lips, you know that he's nearing his climax. your mind flickers in and out of consciousness, the sheer magnitude of pleasure rendering you temporarily lost in a blissful haze.

"you're so good for me, so fucking good around me, fucking made for me. only me, nobody else," he rambles, as he releases himself inside you, his head falling back to reveal the inviting expanse of his neck. the sensation of his warm seed filling your quivering walls pushes you to the precipice. overwhelmed by pleasure, your body convulses in a powerful climax, marking your third orgasm of the night.

after withdrawing from you, he maintains a firm grip on your ankle, using his thigh to keep your legs open. as he tucks himself back into his pants, his gaze remains fixated on the sight of his cum slowly oozing out of your well-used hole. a silent contemplation lingers in the air before a smile graces his lips. he tenderly pulls your dress back into place, ensuring your modesty is restored. bending down over you, he gazes at your exhausted visage, wet with tears and traces of drool clinging to your chin.

he affectionately licks your chin, savoring the remnants of drool before capturing your lips in a passionate and messy kiss. despite your exhaustion, you muster the energy to respond, your tired lips meeting his. within the intimate embrace, he smiles, his satisfaction evident.

"did so good for me baby, next time just shut your mouth when i tell you to."

[inoreuct]

undercover op with sanji in a dress?? i think judge would be pissed asf if he picked a backless one and decided to own that metal spine bcs he’s a badass 😏😏 (unless cyborgs are discriminated against. are they? are they common in this au?? or are sanji and his sibs the only ones?? I’M SO INVESTED PLS 🤲🏻)

ooooh anon anon anon,,, YOU READ MY MIND WITH THE BACKLESS DRESS also cyborgs are pretty uncommon but they aren’t really discriminated against— more seen as things to be put on pedestals and not people, though. some see them as feelingless machines, and sanji’s siblings definitely aren’t helping that rep :((

there are other cyborgs but the vinsmokes are the most well-known, and their power + skills and apathy (save sanji) have people kissing the ground they walk on with a mix of fear and reverence. sanji just wants to be a Normal Guy, though, and zoro treats him like one, and it both pisses sanji off and makes him immeasurably happy. make of that what you will 🤭

“Found him.” Zoro frowns at his monitor, double-clicking with his mouse to zoom in. “Grey jacket, next to the beer taps.” 

“Yeah, I see him.” 

He tracks Sanji over the security camera, watching the blond slink through a crowd that parts for him effortlessly without even seeming to realise. Zoro can’t blame them, seeing as he looks good enough to stop traffic. “Remember, he doesn’t know what’s—”

“Going on, I know, I know,” Sanji mutters under his breath, weaving around a woman who gawks with her mouth slightly open as he flashes her a soft smirk and a wink. “Keep him unaware and get the drive. I could do this in my sleep.”

“I know,” Zoro echoes, even as he holds back a scoff and an eye roll. He’s in a bad mood and he knows exactly why. 

He’s scrunched up in his chair in sweatpants and a ratty tank top, a half-drunk can of beer steadily forming a puddle on the desk next to his keyboard as he watches Sanji sidle up to the bar and order a drink. Their target sneaks a look to the side before ducking his head and taking a gulp from his own glass. 

The man’s a small-time photographer who looks clean-cut but understated— Insignificant. He’d been chosen precisely because of that fact; GERMA66 had deemed him acceptable as an oblivious carrier of a thumbdrive that supposedly contains plans for whatever the hell Judge is up to next. 

Their job is to intercept it before it gets to Charlotte Linlin, or anybody she’s affiliated with. 

The bartender returns with Sanji’s drink and he takes it with an elegant incline of his head. “Old fashioned?” he asks, gesturing to their target’s glass, and there’s a pause before the poor man looks around quickly. 

“A-Are you—?” he starts, pointing to himself. 

Sanji laughs, silky and soft. Zoro takes a controlled breath. “Who else?” He raises his own glass to his lips, and Zoro knows what’s in it. A rum and orange cocktail with Kahlúa and cacao nibs in the egg white foam on top. “That is an old fashioned, isn’t it? Yeah.” The blond’s lips curl up behind the crystal rim, a bold red and sharp at the edges. “You seem the type.”

“You seem the type,” Zoro mocks silently, scowling at the screen. He doesn’t even try not to scoff this time; his chair complains with a loud creak when he throws his weight back, sullenly crossing his arms over his chest. 

Look. He’s not sulking, alright? It’s just— difficult. Sanji twists sideways, leaning one elbow on the bar, and the back of his dress dips low enough for his entire spine to glimmer silver-wet in the dim lights. Where was he?

Right, difficult. Sanji’s over there buttering up a literal nobody, and Zoro has to sit here, in his apartment, in this shitty rolling chair with no back support where he’s close enough to go in if Sanji needs backup. He listens to his partner flirt over the comms and grits his teeth as he tries to consciously keep his fists unclenched. 

He’s not jealous. It’s just that he’d gotten used to the idea of there not being anyone else, he supposes. Neither of them have any time for romance outside of their jobs, and at some point being together had just become routine; and Sanji’s a flirt, sure, but at the end of the day it’s always Zoro that he ends up with. They have toothbrushes at each other’s places. Sanji has weights by his shoe rack and Zoro has a block of chef’s knives tucked into the corner of his kitchen counter.

Sanji’s laughter grabs his attention, and Zoro realises that at some point he’d lost the thread of the conversation. The blond pinches the collar of their target’s grey windbreaker between his thumb and forefinger, running down the length of it, and their eyes meet through the camera as Sanji pushes off the countertop and the man scrambles to follow. 

His dress drags along the floor. The red satin is made heavy by crystalline beading, draping down to just above his hips as he makes his way to the lift lobby, and the man trails behind hanging onto his every word like a starstruck fool; Zoro suspects he himself isn’t much better. The lights of the lift lobby are harsh as they make their way up to the hotel above the bar, and Zoro switches from camera to camera all the way until the man’s sliding a key card into a lock and disappearing when Sanji shoves him into the room with an exaggerated giggle. 

His expression sobers when looks directly at the camera across the hall. Strands of hair are drifting out of his chignon and catching in his lashes. “Sorry, mossy. Gonna have to sign off for now,” he whispers, and Zoro can hear the soft smile in his voice before he pulls his earpiece out and shuts the door.

Silence. 

…Yeah, Zoro’s jealous.

It’s enough to have him finishing his beer in two chugs, leaning back to drag his hands over his face and groan. He knows what it looks like. Knows what it’s supposed to look like; a hookup, plain and simple. Judge can’t know that Sanji’s the reason the drive won’t make it to Linlin. It’s risky, sure, but they’re banking on the fact that he doesn’t know that Zoro knows anything about how Judge still has Sanji under his thumb. And if Sanji gets some fun out of it, well— Zoro can’t fault him. 

It doesn’t change the fact that he feels sick to his stomach, and it’s pissing him off because he has no right. None at all. He isn’t entitled to anything; Sanji doesn’t owe him, or anyone, anything. It doesn’t matter how he feels. It doesn’t matter how close they sit when they’re falling asleep in the middle of a movie on Sanji’s couch. Sanji’s already been backed into a corner by his bastard of a father— Zoro refuses to complicate things for him any more. 

He’ll get up in a moment. Grab a bottle of something stronger this time. The apartment will be his till morning, anyway, so what’s the rush?

And then he hears the front door beep as somebody enters the passcode, and he nearly falls out of his seat sitting up straight. 

Zoro glances at the clock as footsteps echo through the entrance; it’s only been twenty minutes, give or take. 

Multiple hard somethings clatter onto his desk, and he looks up to find Sanji leaning against the doorway. “Help me out. I’ve got a screw loose,” he says, grinning, and then there’s a moment before Zoro groans.

“If you think that’s funny then you clearly do,” he replies tiredly, standing as Sanji sits on the other side of the table.

He picks up the screwdriver he’d been given, reeling a little. Sanji isn’t supposed to be here, and yet— Here he is, pulling pins from his hair left and right and dropping them all over Zoro’s desk as his chignon untwists itself. A weary sigh leaves Zoro’s lungs. “Where?” 

“L4, R6, L12 and 16, and… R23.”

“23?” He frowns. “That’s lower than usual.” 

Sanji grimaces. “Slept wrong last night, I think.” 

“Hm.” Zoro flips the tool in his hand as Sanji gathers his hair over his shoulder; it’s gotten long now, enough to dust the tops of his shoulder blades with soft, shimmering gold. He rests his thumb at Sanji’s hairline and drags down gently until he gets to the first corresponding vertebra and he’s careful as he fits the screwdriver head in, turning slowly until the joint tightens.

“Did you sleep with him?”

Sanji makes a pfft sound and doesn't even turn, used to Zoro’s straightforward questions. “‘Course not. What, not confident enough in my abilities?” 

“No.” Zoro clamps his mouth shut when he realises how defensive he sounds. “No,” he amends, voice marginally less tense, four fingers wrapped over the edge of Sanji’s ribs as he moves down. “I just thought… You were having a good enough time. He liked you. No reason not to.” 

“I didn’t want to. That’s the reason,” Sanji says, and it’s flat enough that Zoro knows to ease off. “When we got into his room I knocked him out before I nicked this,” he taps the thumbdrive he’d tossed onto the table with the screwdriver, “out of the lining of one of his jackets.”

Zoro narrows his brows. “Knocked him out how?”

Sanji shrugs a shoulder. “Compressed his carotid. Pretty sure the poor guy was enjoying it, honestly.”

They’re quiet for a while after that. Zoro holds Sanji’s side, elbows digging into the table as he crouches down to see what he’s doing. He resists the urge to press his nose to Sanji’s skin. Beading digs into his knuckles as the screw clicks into place.

“Zoro.”

He stills. They rarely use each other’s names. “Yeah?”

“Did you—” Sanji’s breath catches, the moment suspended until he shakes his head. “Nevermind.” 

He’s beautiful, Zoro thinks. The scarring that frames his spine is smooth under his thumb. “Did it hurt?”

“Hm?”

“When he…”

“…Yeah.” Sanji puts the heels of his palms on the table, fingers curling over the edge, thumbs pressing into the sides of his thighs. “He said it was my fault, anyway,” he sighs, letting his weight drop so his shoulders hunch up to his ears. “That I wasn’t even supposed to feel pain, but I ruined it before he could… perfect me.” 

Zoro lets his eyes flick up, gaze falling on the elegant curve of Sanji’s nape before he focuses on the last screw. 

He’d made a promise to himself on that fire escape. The metal melded to Sanji’s back is a constant reminder to both of them that he’s a double agent. Everything they do is a risk; hell, they both lose sleep over it. Zoro’s used to his phone ringing in the middle of the night. Sanji’s finally starting to allow himself to call. 

The blond’s head is hung low as the strap of his dress slips off his shoulder, and Zoro slides it back up and lays it in place. He’s done with Sanji’s spine. “How’s that feel?”

“Hm?” Sanji blinks as he looks up, before rolling his shoulders back. “Better.”

“Alright.” Zoro barely stops himself from drumming his fingers on the table as he bites his lip. He turns around under the guise of readjusting random things on his windowsill. “It’s late. You staying over?”

“…Oh, fine,” Sanji relents, waving a hand. “Too tired to go anywhere, anyway.” 

It’s second nature to leave a set of pyjamas on the bed; Zoro usually takes the couch, if only because the springs are hell for the tactile sensors in Sanji’s spine. He’s just leaving when Sanji steps out of the adjoining bathroom with a wash of warm air with a towel around his waist. 

“Pretty sure your bed’s meant for two,” he says lightly before grabbing the clothes and disappearing back through the door, and Zoro blinks. Sure, he’d splurged on a queen-sized mattress, but he’s never shared it. 

He ends up lying down anyway and swiping through his phone mindlessly until Sanji comes out again, hair brushed back. The covers pull as Sanji climbs under and he stretches to turn the lights off, before they’re laying there in silence. 

Zoro’s half asleep when he hears it. 

“We didn’t do anything in that room.” 

“It doesn’t matter if you did.” 

“But we didn’t,” Sanji insists, and Zoro hears I didn’t want to do it, any of it, and he doesn’t even realise he’s reached for Sanji’s hand until their fingers brush. 

“I know,” he says, gentle. Their hands lay in the space between them until Sanji threads their fingers together, rolling onto his side. 

“Just, uh,” he begins, clearing his throat gruffly. “Just wanted to clarify.”

Zoro laughs against his will. His shoulders shake with it, and he hisses when Sanji kicks his shin. He finds the knuckle of Sanji’s thumb as he brings their hands up between their pillows, rubbing over the bone. “Go to sleep, curly. We’ll go through the drive tomorrow.” 

Sanji’s lashes flutter before he swallows. “Okay.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, marimo.”

He turns his face into his pillow. He smells like Zoro’s body wash.

Zoro stares at his ceiling and wonders just how much he’d be willing to give to protect this man falling asleep next to him.

(He wakes not long after sunrise the next day. 

Sanji’s ribs rise and fall against his palm, the corner of his borrowed shirt riding up. He’d rolled over Zoro’s arm sometime in the night; his other hand is tucked close to his chest, his ankle skin-warm and pressed to Zoro’s shin. His hair is all over the place and Zoro’s pretty sure he’s drooling. 

He smells even more familiar now, like cheap lavender detergent that Zoro buys on a discount, leftover hair wax and orange from the night before. Just a hint of mint toothpaste. There’s the slight rasp of stubble when Zoro drags the heel of his hand across Sanji’s jaw, and the man mutters in his sleep, flipping over to face the other way and hug Zoro’s arm to his chest.

Well. Zoro doesn’t usually sleep in. He’s a busy man, he’s got weights to rep and evidence to process— But seeing as his arm’s trapped, there’s not much he can do, is there?)

(The next time he opens his eyes it’s past noon. He smells caffeine and hot butter, and it drags him out of bed to the kitchen; Sanji’s standing over the stove, hair shoved up into a haphazard bun with a blue ballpoint pen, spatula in one hand and Zoro’s laptop balanced on the other.

“About damn time, you log,” he huffs, jerking his head towards the table. “Coffee’s ready, help yourself. You won’t believe what bullshit Judge is trying to pull.”

Zoro raises both eyebrows and decides to save himself an ass-kicking by keeping his mouth shut. He pours himself a mug of coffee and sits down. “S’that my pen?”

“It’s—” Sanji frowns. “I picked it up off the floor.”

“Hm. I was wondering where it ran off to.”

Sanji rolls his eyes, leaning over to put the eggs down. “You’re fucking horrible. Are you telling me you only have one pen?”

“No. I was just looking for this,” Zoro reaches up and yanks it from his hair, “pen.” He yelps a laugh when Sanji swats him over the head and drags a chair out. “It looks better down, anyway,” he chuckles, wrapping a curl around his finger and tugging before he lets go. “Now run me through what’s going on.”

The blond gives him a stink eye and sighs, turning the laptop so it faces them both. “Okay. So…”)

(Zoro settles in, drinks his coffee, and he still hasn’t figured out how much he’d give. He’s starting to think there isn’t a limit.

He thinks he’d be okay with that, though.)

(part 1 | part 2)

[welcomingdisaster]

(ao3) There are no harbors in which a star may dock. There is no place in Middle-Earth that might tolerate the brilliant blinding light of the gem nor the white fire of the ship upon landing. No intermediaries, even, who may bear mail down from the sky, except perhaps birds. 

Elrond is almost sure it is birds, though he has never seen them. 

It happens once every few decades, usually, always on nights when a thick blanket of clouds obscures the sky. Usually he will be woken by the breeze; will find his window open, when he is sure he left it shut. And they will be there, tucked between his correspondence, or into the pockets of his robes, or laid out on his desk. 

(Once, only once, when he’d lived briefly on the outskirts of what would become Lindon, taking a year of solitude to pursue his studies, Elrond had awakened to the door unlocked and wet footprints on his floor, a puddle pooling by the bed where someone had stood and looked down at him, the tracks still so fresh it could not been more than an hour since his guest’s departure. He prefers not to think of it.) 

The gifts themselves vary, as do the accompanying feelings. 

A horrible gnawing grief strikes Elrond at the little ship carved out of a white wood he does not recognize, the craftsmanship precise on the front part, the tiny faces of each individual sailor so clear he can read their expressions, imagine the words they are forming with their lips. But the back is coarsely cut, as though the carver had hurried to finish it in time, the details lost. Elrond stares at two figures on the bow of ship, small and indistinct, and imagines them twins. 

He cannot help a childish, guilty resentment at the shimmering green blue tunic, a size too large for him. It is beautiful, woven of a material that is both light and warm, and seems to reflect water and light both. There is a note with it, as there are with so few of the presents; I thought of your favorite hue. But it is not, of course. It had been when he was four and endlessly enamored with the sea; when he was four and his father meant to take him sailing when he grew old enough for it; when he was four and his father had picked him up, kissed him atop the head, and promised to return soon; when he was four and the shore of Sirion was blue and green and peaceful, when children were snatched away only in storybooks and always returned by the end. 

Love and longing war for space in his chest at the comb, curved silver and set with pearl, exactly as his mother had worn though perhaps a little nicer; many overlapping layers of metal as waves, each bubble of sea-foam rendered carefully, tiny pearls scattered as stars fallen into the water. There is a single dark hair caught on a tooth, thick and gleaming in the light of his candle. He will not wear it, but tucks it against his heart, and carries it for years in that innermost pocket. 

Sometimes he tries to to leave his own gifts on his desk or in the messenger-bag. A poem, a bracelet made with red gemstones and wood in the Numenorian way, a white king carved in ivory. But he can never time it right, can never predict which rainy night will bring such correspondence, and they sit untouched for months before he puts them away again.