#Skylight Dinner

[hellonew-yorkgirl]

2. Die Bahnfahrt nach New York und ein erster langer Spaziergang auf der Highline

[aro-ortega]

it is "time to write"..... but i dont wanna

[textmel8r]

[ DRABBLE ] 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 ! ( ninth installment ) in which you find toji fushiguro’s number off a sugar baby site .

୨୧˚ part; one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. nine. ten. eleven.

୨୧˚ incl; toji fushiguro

୨୧˚ cw; sugar mommy! reader , sugar baby! toji , mentions of sex , profanity , crying , angst

୨୧˚ an; does anyone even care about this anymore LMDOAOO but for real, i’m sorry for how late this part got out. i am battling severe writers block it is dangling me by the BAWLLSSS,, im thinking that this series is coming to a close soon and i never meant for it to get this deep but here we are 🦝 thank you all for being so patient with me i lob you

୨୧˚ join my discord server ! we share headcanons, fanfic recs, color roles, and more drooling emoji

There was something about thunderstorms that Toji always felt drawn to. They were great; overbearing in a way, rolling through and burying a perfectly fine day under gallons of rainwater and gray skies. Authoritative, condemning humans to take shelter lest they wish to drown in its fruits. Suffering the consequences; soaked-through clothes and sopping hair. He watches the pane of glass at the roof, a skylight barred into the flat of your high rise ceilings. The rain storm had reduced it into nothing but a drab, dusty square, baring the pelts of precipitation like punishment. Toji holds you in your bed. Your weight drapes across his chest like a blanket, your head tucked beneath the cut of his chin.

“Do you like the rain, Toji?”

He felt naked, both in the literal and metaphorical sense. The silken sheets that wrap your mattress were unfamiliar against this flesh, cold and slippery. Regretting the forfeit of pajamas. You two had shared a shower after dinner, of which you held him with all the sentiment in the world. Toji fucking hates when people stand at his back. He doesn’t like it, feeling a presence before seeing them. But he let you stay centimeters behind, working peach and ginger scented shampoo into the roots of his scalp. When he was a boy and his mother had yet to find a place in the Zenin's private graveyard, he vaguely remembers receiving analogous strokes of care from the only family member in his life who didn’t see him as a filthy disgrace. Mom bathed him like this, scrubbing blood and tarnish from his cheeks with a threadbare handkerchief in that tin can he called a tub. All that fucking family money, but a new washcloth or a proper bathtub was never in the cards for him. He remembers mom apologizing often when she washed him.

Toji fucked you in the shower. A difficult means of having sex, sure, but slippery surfaces and soap in the eyes weren’t enough to quell that undying twist of hunger. So he took you against the sleek porcelain wall with his hands shelving beneath the curve of your ass and your legs constricting at his waist. You guided him to a quick orgasm with spouts of hushed praises spoken to his ear; he was certain you didn’t cum, didn’t feel that cute clench you did the first night you two slept together, but you lied and told him you did with a reassuring grin. Why did you lie?

“It’s fine, I guess.” A hand caressed your thigh, the one that was slung over and hiked up onto his stomach. Toji grazed his nails over your flesh, mindless and dejected.

Thunder clapped, then lightning struck, and all Toji could think in the moment was about you and him. Together. Stark nude in bed with limbs entwined. He, the thunder; loud and fierce. Scary, enough to make little children and small animals shake and cower in the corner with fear. You’re more like lightning, he supposes. Elegant and powerful, something so naturally beautiful. 

You will hear thunder and remember me.

More thunder boomed. Toji squeezes your body tighter. “I like that.”

“Like what?” He asks.

You trace wobbly circles against his collar bone, avoiding the slices of silvery skin that raised off the plain of skin. Scars, Toji was doused in gauges. Scraped up head to toe, and he could feel your eyes dart lazily between each and every one of them. “I like the thunder,” comes your reply, followed by a small, bashful shrug. “Ever since I was a kid.”

Toji scoffs. Fuckin’ mind reader. “Liar. Nobody likes thunder.”

“Don’t call me a liar,” you slap his cheek playfully. “I mean it. The quiet can be disturbing sometimes. But to me, thunder is so… human-like? Makes me forget I’m alone.”

This has the man tossing his head back against your feathered pillow. “You’re so full of shit.”

Another stroke of brooding thunder rapped against the window like knock, and if Toji was a believer in the Gods above, he’d curse every last one of them for their shitty comedic timing. You’re giggling into his neck; Toji can feel warm puffs of breath fan over his pulse point. “See?” You ask through a grin. “He came back to yell at you.” He, referring to the crack of thunder. Toji rolls his eyes. Leaves a pinch at your thigh.

“Hey, what did you say before?” Toji walked his fingertips down the curve of your spine, stopping just above your ass. “The fuckin’—the french thing?”

How did it go again? Tu mas something?

It took a moment for you to decipher what he was talking about.

“Tu m'as manqué, Toji?”

Toji bit down on the tip of his tongue, stifling a smile at the grandeur in which you held when speaking the delicate French language. He nods, “what’s it mean?” 

“Means ‘I miss you’.” Is he melting? Liquifying into a disgusting puddle beneath your prying palms, soaking into the bed sheets. You lament over his absence, spitting such pure genuine inflections that Toji is inclined to believe you when you tell him just how much you missed his unlawful presence. Like a stray dog that you offhandedly feed every now and again, praying for its safe and soon return back on your doorstep, digging into the leftover scraps of meat you’ve so kindly plated on the stoop. He’s that washed-up, flea ridden, unabashedly feral mutt that can’t help but crawl back to the idea of home. “I missed you. A lot.”

Toji doesn’t think you’ve ever sounded so vulnerable. Not even in the throes of passion when he’d had you spread and wet for him did you sound like this. Small and volatile, yet self-assured all the same. How the fuck do you manage to balance such contrasting notions? A witch, you must be something of the sort. 

There’s a gap of longing silence that fills the room; Toji concludes that you wait for him to return the gesture. So he does, “I did, too.” It’s the cold, hard truth, and he gives it to you on a silver platter. “Thought about you.”

And he’d leave that there. It was a much sweeter sentiment than to admit that he thought about you particularly often in those bloody showers with his hand wrenched around his hard on. Leaves much room for you to wonder. 

You hum. 

More quiet. He is fond of the quiet moments with you. 

“This looks fresh.” Ruined peace. He feels your thumb pad prod ever so gently at the teared flesh of his pec, the same one you used as your own personal pillow. It was inflamed, red and angry unlike the plethora of other battle scars which have now faded into a cooler pinkish tone with time. You were right; it was new. Nothing but a little switchblade slash—one of the men Toji had decimated this past week was armed. It was a careless mistake, one that had no real impact or effect, Hell, he barely felt the paper cut. But it impacted you, he noticed. “Does it hurt?” A fingertip whispers over the wound, and he flinches. 

Not because it’s painful, but because your gingerness made him sick to his stomach. Never more than in this moment did Toji feel so guilty for accepting your tender touches, wishing to holy Hell his conscience would allow him to bite his tongue. To let you keep thinking of him as some down-on-his-luck middle aged man with a shit job and no money to his name. 

“Don’t touch,” it’s quick, the way he snatching your wrist. Sturdy bone crushed under the bruising grip of his shaky fist. He didn’t mean to grab you so roughly. You’re taken aback by the outburst. 

“I’m sorry.” It’s a meager apology that doesn’t sound right spilling from your lips. It’s trembly and skittish, and your eyes widen coquettishly to flit between his face and the iron-clad grip that joins you together. “I’m—I should’ve asked you first.”

His breathing pattern was off its axis. Shit, shit what is he doing? Toji let’s go, flinching his hand far from your arm like you burned him. He shakes his head. “Didn’t mean to grab you, I didn’t mean to.” Toji pushes up from the warmth of your bed—from the warmth of you—and scans the floor for his boxers. 

You reluctantly part from him, gathering the blanket up over your chest as a makeshift barrier between bare flesh and the chilled air-conditioned bedroom. “What are you doing, Toji?” You sound sad. He finds his boxers. They’re balled up, discarded on the far end of your too-fucking-gigantic bedroom. “Toji!”

He keeps his back toward you, mechanically stepping into his underwear and dragging them up over his hips. It’s fucking gross, feeling the crunch of dried semen as the fabric contorts, but it’s ultimately ignored. “Thanks for dinner, you’re a fuckin’ A chef.” Toji spots his sweatpants nearby. 

“You got that new cut at work.” You’ve made a power move to ditch the comforter, stepping down into the carpet wearing nothing but your birthday suit. The tone of yours shifts, a steep incline from sweet and patient to demanding and accusatory, and Toji doesn’t like that one fucking bit. His sweatpants on, he tosses you a glance over his shoulder. 

“It was an accident.”

“Is that right?” Your brows furrow, gesturing to his torso. His marred, battered, abused torso. “Just covered in accidents then?”

Now he faces you, looks you in the eyes despite your naked form. “Pretty much.” Each lie tastes acidic, like that soupy bile he spits out before vomiting. “Thanks for dinner.” He makes an attempt to stalk past to the door, foregoing the shirt because he couldn’t give less of a fuck about it. Probably lost in a forgotten corner of your room, and with the way his heart raced against his rib cage, Toji wasn’t sure he’d survive long enough in this stuffy room to find it. So he thanks you again with an air of finality, only to be stopped. Your hand is flat against the center of his chest, pressed over the beat of his heart. No doubt about it, he’s sure you can feel that manic tempo. 

Beat, beat, beat. 

“I really thought we were getting somewhere.” You start quietly, voice hovering just above a whisper. His eyes stay fixed on the tiny hand that has glued itself to his sternum. “I thought we… I thought… I don’t fucking know, okay?

I like you. I like you so much, Toji.”

I like you too. “I…” like you I like you I like you. 

“Don’t feel like you have to reciprocate anything. These are complicated feelings, I know that. It’s a lot to spring on a person, but it’s the truth. I’m giving you my truth, and I need you to do the same because I don’t know if I can take another week of you disappearing for however long only to return like… like this!” You gesture to the red gash. “I care about you, and I want to help you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, but you make it so fucking difficult.”

It felt as though every saliva particle had been vacuumed out of his mouth, leaving a dry desert plain for a tongue. He's never been so at a loss for words before, you actually rendered him speechless. Finally, finally, after a minute of gaping like a stupid fish out of water, Toji finds his bearings. 

“You’re a good person, Y/n.” He peels your hand off him. “And I’m not.” Toji moves to disconnect hands, but yours follows him, clamping them back together. He can’t find the strength to let go, knowing good and well that his palm was clammy as shit. 

Your brows pinch, knitting with confusion at the seemingly random proclamation. “I mean, sure you can be kind of a dick sometimes, but I don’t think—”

You don’t understand. So unscathed by the bleakness of this world, your definition of a bad person is someone who’s ’kind of a dick sometimes.’ Toji’s frown deepens, and he shakes his head, bangs bouncing with the movement. Your fancy conditioner made his hair feel soft against his forehead. “That’s surface level shit. You don’t understand what I’ve done.” 

“So tell me—”

“I can’t.” The word cracks in his throat, and he coughs around it. Choking on it like he did your pretty fingers in the kitchen. “Don’t you get that? If it was that easy…”

“Tell me.” Your voice grows calm, yet stern. Aggressive in the gentlest of ways, coaxing the truth to light. Arms crossed over your bosom, you jut a chin in Toji’s direction. “Because I’m really sick and fucking tired of you treating me like I’m incapable of comprehension. I’ll understand.”

You won’t. He knows you won’t. 

Time grows slow and thick like molasses; Toji feels caught in the midst of an unwinnable battle. Either direction he takes—to come clean, to dance around the truth some more, to lie—will only serve to worsen things to an unfortunate degree. He stalls. Scratches at his jagged jaw dusted with faint stubble. Then, he paws over the masculine plates of his abdomen, feeling his own flesh. There isn’t any warmth to him anymore. Every ounce of humanity had leaked from Toji’s soul, leaving him to become this cold, withering husk of a man. 

When his mouth finally peels open, it takes effort. Like his teeth had been welded together by one of those chewy caramel-coated candies Shiu keeps in his glove compartment. 

“I’m a killer.”

A strange sensation splashed over Toji. Maybe it was relieving to finally share that tidbit of himself, to get his shame out in the open and off his chest. His shoulders felt a little lighter, his joints felt a little looser. This high didn’t last forever, though, and soon he was plummeting back down to Earth when your horror-stricken voice shook in his ears. 

“That’s not a funny joke.”

“Wouldn’t joke. Not about that.” He swirls the built-up saliva in his mouth.

Your eyes were wide, never leaving him. “You… you kill people? For money?”

Begrudgingly, “yes.”

You sputter. “How do you expect me to believe something so—so unimaginable?” Your brows sewed themselves, drawn close in absolute bewilderment. Hinging on the cusp between puking and laughing in his stupid face. “This is insane, Toji.”

He scoffs quietly. “Ain’t fuckin’ lying woman.” No saccharine ma’am. “Wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I had to fight to live.” A low blow, but you didn’t seem to take it to heart, far too distracted by your own disturb. 

Toji wasn’t prepared for how much this was going to hurt. The disgusted way you looked at him, something you’d never ever done before, made him barely able to contain his quiver. He deserves every morsel of your animosity, but knowing he deserved it didn’t make it any less painful. Toji felt you scanning, analyzing every scar wedged into his torso. His arms. His neck. His face. He sees you making connections, noticing healed-over bullet wounds and knife attacks for what they were: hideous. He watches you make connections, visualizing a new scenario for each scar; for each life he’s taken and how they desperately fought back against him for mercy. Toji’s body bears the story of hundreds of deaths, and you look sick to your stomach at the realization of what he truly is. 

An ugly monster. 

“Oh my God.” You’re hushed, speaking to yourself. “How many people, Toji?”

He grimaced. “I lost count.”

“Oh my God…” Your hand is pressed to your hairline, and you look exasperated to all Hell. Crazed, maybe. As though he’d just rocked your entire world.

Toji interjects with unnecessary commentary. “I told you. I said you would never understand.”

“No, n-no I understand plenty.” Then, you smile, but it’s not one you’d ever bore to Toji before. It lacks any kindness. It’s empty and unloving. “You’re a murderer.”

He winces. Killer and murderer were synonymous, but for some odd reason being called a murderer was a different type of wrench to the gut. “Yeah.” Toji nods. For the right price, he has slaughtered, fucked, and even sold a few peripheral organs. Because money is everything. Money is food. Money is shelter. Money is life itself. But money isn’t you. 

“Get the fuck out of my home.”

You look terrified of him. Toji is frozen stiff.

“I said go! Fucking leave!” Suddenly, you're rushing to collect your crumpled outfit from the floor, feeding your limbs through the small pair of panties and that oversize bed shirt. Amongst the frenzy to get dressed, you snatch your phone from the bedside table and frantically scrawl over the screen with clumsy fingers. Toji sees tears track down your cheeks, they glint from the light emanating off the cellphone. “Or I’ll call the police.”

And turn in what evidence? He’s too good at what he does, Toji doesn’t leave paper trails behind. But he lets you think you have the power to get him in cuffs. You’re already so frightened, clinging to your phone with trembling hands.

“Go ahead. Call them.” His words are lifeless. Lifeless with a touch of irritation. Spat with malice because you would never understand the life he lives, despite how much you’ve preached to him that you would. You teased him, dangling this idea of a normal life in front of his face. One without lies and secrecy, just you and him and this almighty penthouse. This would more than likely be the last exchange between the both of you, the last time Toji would ever look you in the eyes again, and it angered him. All good things have expiration dates. “You know where I live.”

“Just… Fucking leave.” Christ, you were shaking like a leaf. Was it out of fear? Or anger, maybe? Probably a combination of both. Toji gets a few more seconds of stillness in, spent entirely on gulping down eyefuls of you. Even now, face twisted up and cheeks wet from tears, you look so fucking gorgeous. His savior, the one who showed him how to feel again. 

“Okay.” 

He collects himself, puts on a presence of nonchalant coolness. Like walking out of your bedroom wasn’t the most difficult thing he’s had to do in years. Never-minding the shirt, he walks to the door without sparing a glance back over his shoulder. 

Toji leaves. It’s raining, and he is shirtless and sopping wet. Thunder rumbles. 

You will hear thunder and remember me. 

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[smuttysabina]

A Month With Aespa (Ch 4): What Goes Ning In the Night

(Ningning x Male Reader, 3.7k Words) Tags: Diva sex, Spectacular sex, Surprise Sex, Anal Sex, Squirting, Like a lot of squirting, This one sure took a while to come out didn't it, More Aespa sex, Drama-ma-ma-ma-ma, The girls may not be in the back, but they are taking it in the rear, creampies.

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

Nothing can quite equal the sublime joys of waking up on a cold morning. The stuffy heat of your blankets, the faint glow radiating down from the skylight, the cool air against your face, the stiffness of your manhood, and perhaps most of all, the transcendent joy of someone's warm lips wrapped around it. You sigh, relishing in the sensation of your maid's mouth sloppily bobbing up and down your length, her body nestled between your legs. You feel another pocket of heat brushing up against your left leg, no doubt another one of your servants had wriggled her way under the covers to join the fun; and a passionate ménage-a-trois beneath the sheets was hardly a poor start to one's morning. You must admit though, that the lady hard at work between your thighs was unusually enthusiastic; gasping and slobbering noisily as she sucks you off. Somewhat bemused by her ardor, you pull up the duvet, cracking open an eye and glance down to see what all the fuss was about (not that you would complain of course, but matters were usually much more relaxed at the start of the day). You blink at the sight, and blandly open the other eye to provide reinforcements to your beleaguered first, hoping that would clarify the situation. Giselle beams innocently up at you, her hand pistoning the head of one of your maids against your crotch; who gags and squirms as she struggles to breath. You stifle a groan as pleasure shoots along your length, causing the idol's smile to turn predatory,

"Good morning, I thought I might help out a little, to make up for yesterday..."

Giselle smirks with serene indifference as she presses the maid's head down further onto your manhood, holding her down so that her nose is buried in your (nicely trimmed, thank you!) bush, "After all, dear Karina seemed ever so upset after dinner, and why, Ningning looked as if she were about to murder you!" The idol giggles demurely, "Not that Winter minded though, I'm sure she was feeling quite smug that she avoided getting her asshole despoiled- Oh, oopsie, I forgot about you." Giselle finally deigns to notice the maid who was now clawing at the sheets as she tried to pull up, her eyes rolling back as she labors to breath around your meat in her throat. Giselle blandly hauls the poor asphyxiating girl off of you, tossing her aside like so much trash as she gracefully slides herself atop of you. You groan as she smoothly mounts you, her sex devouring every inch of you until she has sheathed fully inside of her. You manage a pithy remark as your mind whirls, commenting on her unusual enthusiasm considering her conduct the day before. Giselle bashfully covers herself as well as a smile, her bared breasts squishing together most pleasantly, before answering your question by starting to ride you. Further interrogation is put on hold however, as she expertly maneuvers her way up and down your shaft, banishing any notions of matter more complex than the act of breeding.

The sex was quite different compared to your earlier dalliance with Giselle, instead of the sordid passion that had accompanied your forced anal coupling, she was now entirely professional and composed. If anything she seemed bored as her hips described non-Euclidean paths through the air that would have had your old physics professors frothing at the mouth (and no doubt masturbating furiously), her body performing gravity defying feats as she skillfully rode you. You reach up to grope her swaying breasts as they wobble enticingly around her chest, an act which seems to add a hint of enjoyment to her coolly mocking demeanor; not that it changed the inevitable outcome one iota. Unlike your meeting with Karina, which had transformed from a clinical milking into something more enjoyable, Giselle was this time utterly merciless in her technique to drain you. She completely disregarded her own pleasure, as she steadily dragged your unwilling balls upwards, fucking you as if you were nothing more than a practice dildo. But as you enter into the final stretch, she slows enough to plateau your building climax, leaning down to whisper conspiratorially, "So you are going after Winter next, hmm..." This non sequitur was sudden enough to cause your brain to click back into its usual habits, and you breathlessly request some advice on the matter then. Giselle stops cold, her waist bent at what must be a painfully angle as she stares at your incredulously, "Advice? I simply want to watch you fuck that cold bitch until she squeals," She resumes as suddenly as she halted, now with a bit more vigor than before, "I don't particularly care really, so long as you keep busy rutting with the others, which allows me to keep to myself." Giselle pats your chest without much affection, cocking her head as she feels your manhood begin to pulse rhythmically. At that she abruptly unmounts you, leaving your cock twitch against your chest in the cold morning air; her body twirling as she swiftly hops off the bed, striding gracefully towards the door. Giselle pauses at the doorway, glancing back at you with a mischievous smirk on lips, "What? I helped, a little," She leaves you with her delighted laughter ringing in your ears, as your member mournfully starts to shrink back on itself. It seems of late that your mornings have been quite unsatisfactory.

You leave your room with a mind heavy with thought, though not before tending to the poor dear who still lay gasping upon the sheets. It would have been ungentlemanly to take advantage of her after she had so valiantly braved asphyxiation; and more notably refrained from gnawing upon the delicate flesh filling her mouth. You ponder upon what Giselle had told you, and trusted her "suggestion" not in the slightest; no doubt she hoped to stir up more trouble as seemed to be her wont. You muse upon the issue as you take your breakfast in the library, peering out of the frosted windows as sunlight fills the sprawling gardens behind your residence. No doubt pursuing Winter would only needle both Karina and Ningning more than you already had; and while revisiting Giselle held a certain appeal, it would not mend your relationship with the other pair. Speaking of which... Karina had seemed oddly affected by the revelation that you had been with GIselle, and if anything Ningning appeared as outraged. She had been quite receptive that morning though, at least until you had started questioning her about the maid Giselle had ravished. Perhaps you should pay Ningning a more, attentive, visit then...

Though the sun had been shining for several hours now, the idol who cracked open her door bore little evidence that she had even bothered to leave her bed. The stale reek of alcohol invades your nostrils as Ningning squints unhappily up at you, peering suspiciously around her door. Her response to your cautious advances is nearly as crass as her appearances, "Shouldn't you be fucking that whore's asshole right now, or was even that hole too loose for you?", with that she once again slams the door in your face, leaving you somewhat piqued. Evidently there is little love lost between the two, or perhaps something else is at work here... So you return to the library, slowly wandering the bookshelves as you plan your next move, taking inspiration from the romantic titles gracing the novels there. You nod to yourself, before motioning a waiting maid over, and after jotting down a quick note, you direct her to take it to the recalcitrant idol. The maid scurries off, and you return to your perusing, running your finger along the spines of the books as you chuckle nostalgically upon remembering their sordid contents. You raise an eyebrow when the maid returns, the poor dear drenched with whiskey but most importantly, returned without your note. You thank the darling girl as best you can, hoisting up her skirt and plying her cunt until she gushes all over the floor; delicious. To tip the scales, you send another maid (the slut no doubt giddy at the thought of being rewarded for her troubles), under strict instructions to visit Ningning. With the trap baited, you merely need to wait.

An hour later Ningning swept into the library, her earlier slovenliness banished as the dawn dispels the darkness, now as radiant as the day she had stepped into your abode. Her sapphire outfit clings to her curves, its cascade of beads shining brightly in the noon sun, her makeup had been applied to perfection, her hair pulled back to roil down her shapely back. Ningning glares at you as you genuflect towards her as if she were of the divine, her foul mode seemingly undiminished as she demands your reasoning for requesting she join you. You attempt to sooth the furious idol, protesting grandly that it should be obvious, why should you not wish to be graced by such a beautiful lady's presence? Her eye twitches slightly, as rank jealousy passes over her face, "Have you not enough sluts to vent your lusts upon? Or have you tired of their slack holes already?" You murmur some soft platitudes on behalf of the other members of Aespa, and are rewarded with a look of smug superiority; it truly was that simple then... So with a submissive smile you beg of her to let you accompany her for the day, to allow you to bask in her radiance and wait upon her every need. Ningning preens at your grandiose declaration, no doubt unduly pleased that she has your full attention, and acquiesces to your request with ill-concealed delight. She puts her leg up on a chair, tastelessly dirtying its fabric with her footwear (though to be frank, that old thing was bleached white for a reason), inadvertently showing you a flash of skin, and grandly orders you to give her a tour of the gardens. However could you refuse?

With the haughty idol on one arm, you graciously escort Ningning through your expansive greenery, showing her all of the little nooks and hidden glades she missed when she rampaged through with her fellows days ago. There were dozens of intimate areas scattered throughout the gardens, where lovers could slip away into so as to enjoy one another in relative privacy; relative being the operative word here. Before grassy hollows, marble benches, and outdoor mattresses, you would pause and subtly inquire if the lady required your services, which Ningning haughtily refused of course, though your fervent attentions visibly pleased her greatly. Eventually she grew tired of erotic statuary and gently burbling fountains (which helped immensely in disguising the sound of vigorous lovemaking), and demanded a repast to sate her hunger. It was little trouble to organize a luncheon for her, the pair of you comfortable resting under an awning as your maids fill the small table between you with a bountiful spread, the harlots bustling to and from the kitchens to accomplish this feat. Meanwhile you and Ningning chatter amiably about a variety of topics, until she eventually begins to gossip incessantly about the girls of Aespa, which you listen to with rapt attention. Which invariably led to prying into your own encounters with the other idols, while the one in front of you leans back with interest, revealing a surprising amount of bare skin leading up around her crotch...

Ningning unerringly interrogates you about the other girls' performances, nodding amiably as you slowly tell her of your sex with Karina in the showers, and your much more brutal session with Giselle in the theatre, and then the unexpected pleasure you had with her this morning... The idol unconsciously strokes her thigh as she listens to how you had made love to her dear friends, smirking as you describe in detail how roughly you had take Giselle; evidently there was little love lost between the two. She smiles dreamily as she imagines how it played out, "You know, that whore gets turned on by shit like that, no matter how much she wails about it, if you just force yourself on her she fucking gushes," Ningning nods as she notes the realization in your eyes, "Oh yes, if you had just held her down and fucked her this morning, she would have loved it, you should try it more often," then she frowns, jealousy flashing behind her eyes, "I have no idea what Karina's problem is though, you should just avoid her if she's being difficult. After all," her expression growing smug once more, "why bother with her, when you could have me." At which Ningning leans back fully in her chair, opening her legs for you and revealing the glisteningly wet flesh between her lithe legs. She glances down before giggling seductively, "I knew I forgot something."

Your eyebrows are practically at your hairline, and you must admit that your pants are currently enduring a rather great amount of strain as you struggle to contain your growing arousal. You had thought that Ningning would require far more wooing before she would acquiesce to your intentions, that it would take a herculean effort to sooth her ruffled ego into submission. Instead she was practically gleeful as she flashed you, as if the thought of showing her fellow idols up aroused her to an unbearable degree. So you are more than pleased to simply watch with rapt attention as Ningning seductively slides her hand down her supple thighs, and you idly wave to dismiss the crowd of maids fluttering about. But the idol opposes their departure vehemently, as she arrogantly proclaims, "I require an audience," before starting to touch herself more sensually. And my, what a show she was putting on. Ningning's sex was as showy as her personality, with a prominent mons supporting a magnificently puffy pair of lips, squished together like a clam, opening eagerly to reveal the pearl within its gooey depths. She licks her lips as drinks in the sensation of being watched by a dozen people, reveling in being the center of attention as she seductively begins to pleasure herself. You are enraptured as the idol shamelessly masturbates in front of you, her performance as eye-catching as it would be on a stage in front of thousands, staring directly at you as her breath quickens and the sloshing noise coming from between her nubile thighs grows ever louder. With a pleasant moan Ningning climaxes, squirting spectacularly all over your brunch as her shuddering legs make the table tremble unsteadily.

A younger you would have filled your pants at such an arousing scene, embarrassingly wasting your precious semen into the fabric as you joined Ningning in orgasm. Luckily for you both however, your mast stood unbowed and undiminished (admittedly, you had leaked a fair amount, but that is not important), and as you wrenched off your pants to reveal it the idol looked entirely too pleased with herself. Of course, the dear maids around you both had fared less well than you, with several of them having produced their own messes on the stone tiles; four of them were still energetically going at it! No matter, as you rise to join Ningning though, the lady in question stops you, and instead saunters over and straddles you, the dark lips of her slit softly kissing your tip. Shaking slightly, you feel your hips treacherously thrust upwards, your member boorishly eager to feel the warmth of this diva wrapped around it. Smirking smugly, Ningning gently rocks her hips, smearing the head of your penis with her fluids, laying her own claim to your manhood; until with an indulgent sigh, she slowly sits on it. You groan as her fleshy folds swallow every inch of your cock, slathering it with her divine nectar and leaking more out onto your crotch. Your balls twitch faithlessly, only too eager to empty themselves into such a fertile woman, uncaring of the gentlemanly need to pleasure your partner. You needn't have worried much however, as Ningning starts to ride you it soon becomes evident that she is relishing this as much as you are. Moaning lewdly, she bounces vigorously atop you, her showy pussy slobbering fluids all over your stomach as she drowns your dick in her cum; her cunt was astoundingly wet. Soon her dress was soaked where it had pooled around the site of your joining, but neither of you were interested in removing it; the both of you aroused by dirtying such an expensive garment. Groaning, you grasp her waist to guide her movements, and to guarantee that this idol would not be jumping ship before you finished properly. But Ningning was as intent on receiving your seed as you were to giving it, and she keeps up her pace even as the first ropes of semen erupt inside of her. Both of your eyes roll back as your load paints her insides, even as she squirts so much it drips down out of the pool forming in your chair, her pussy spasming pleasurably around your cock.

Breathing heavily, Ningning wears a triumphant grin as she looks down at you, "I told you I was better than Karina, now let me put that whore Giselle in the shade as well..." Shivering slightly, the idol promptly unmounts you, staggering a little as a gush of your conjoined fluids comes out of her hole, before turning about and clambering back into your lap. Grasping your still-sensitive manhood firmly, Ningning promptly inserts the quivering length into her anus, letting out a modest yelp as it slides inside of her. With the slop of your previous joining still coating your cock, there was little need to worry about lubrication, which she swiftly assures you, "Fuck me harder than that bitch, I can take it better than she can!" You are hardly one to disappoint, so you comply with her wishes. Ningning's squeals of pleasure echo through the gardens as you relentlessly pound away at her guts, her cries loud enough to be heard over the burble of fountains; and much like a fountain, the idol was producing an impressive quantity of liquid. Stirring her clit constantly, she hoses down the pavement continuously, her fluids spraying wildly over the stones until a vast area in front of her was damp. The thicker juices coursed down her asshole and onto your balls, further lubricating your already messy sex. Grunting, you tirelessly plow Ningning's ass, working out any lingering frustrations you had with Giselle's teasing on her groupmate's rear; who to her credit, had only continued to urge you on. The stimulation of railing her tight coils was fast growing unbearable though, and the excitement from using the prima donna of Aespa's anus like you would a cheap whore's was too delicious to resist. But you knew that more than anything, she would want to put on a show, so you make sure to loudly announce your intention to orgasm some time before you reached that point. Upon hearing this, Ningning cranks things up to eleven, no longer content to simply take your plowing with idle passivity, now she through herself back against your thrusts as if she was attempting to impale herself. Her sweet moans grow ever louder, supported by a choir of wailing coming from your maids, and her urgings to creampie her grow increasingly salacious as the supreme moment approaches. Ningning screams in exultation as your semen spews into her guts, squirting far enough to splatter over the maids as they watched in awe, her body writhing atop yours as your second load fills her stomach with sticky warmth. Purring in the afterglow of her orgasm, the idol is content to lay back against your chest as your balls slowly empty themselves inside of her.

Once she was satisfied that you were finished, Ningning gingerly unmounts you once more, your cock exiting her with a sordid pop that presages a somewhat fouler slick of fluids than last time. Her posture betrays her immense satisfaction with her performance, as she glances around as if expecting rapturous applause from the maids. The perverse ladies had shown their appreciation in a far more honest manner than banal clapping though, as the resultant messes coating themselves as well as the floor gave evidence to their passionate enjoyment. Ningning gives you a look of utmost cockiness as she vainly attempt to smooth down her now ruinously stained dress, grossly confident that she had superseded her compatriots in raw sexual ability. Perhaps she had, you muse, as she languidly makes her way through the gardens back to the mansion, no doubt intent on washing the mingled sweat of your coupling off of herself. Your train of thought is interrupted as one of your maids begins to dutifully clean you off with her mouth, and you recline with a sigh on the soggy seat of your chair as her head bobs energetically upon your cock. You relax as the other maids gradually finish masturbating and start to clear the table, until with a grunt you fill the one kneeling between your legs' mouth with your now thin seed. What a pleasant morning it had been...

Back inside of the mansion, you make your stately way towards the public showers, you yourself were as messy as Ningning had been, and were eager to clean yourself off (not that you minded being coated in sexual fluids of course, it was the height of fashion in some circles). Dumping your soiled outfit into the laundry bin, you enter the main chamber and to your surprise find yourself confronted by the idol in question once more. Nor was she alone, as she had someone's head pinned against the wall, and seemed to be forcing them to clean out her used anus. Ningning glances over at you when you enter, biting her lip and groping her modest breasts as her perhaps unwilling partner gorges upon your leavings. You greet her with a polite nod, before heading to a shower on the opposite side of the room, content to allow the idol to enjoy herself. As you wash yourself off, and your mind wanders, you realize that the body of Ningning's lover had looked somewhat familiar, but when you glance over to confirm your idle thoughts, they had already vanished. How odd.

You could but hope that tonight's dinner table would be somewhat more subdued than the last, but from what you knew about Ningning, you had little confidence that it would be so...

A/N: Haha well this one took a little longer than expected... it took a while for me to figure out how exactly I wanted to write dear Ning2, and even longer to find the time for it, I have been a touch busy writing other girls cough cough. But hopefully the next chapter will cum sooner rather than later, heh

[sovietpostcards]

Yesterday I visited the Penates - the house of Russian painter Ilya Repin. It stands surrounded by pine forest, and the Bay of Finland is a 5 minute walk from the house.

The wooden house is very Russian style with little roofs and multiple terraces and enamel fireplaces in every room. There's a large studio on the second floor with large windows and skylights to allow as much natural light in as possible.

Repin was a very prolific painter and a huge name in his day, but also a bit of an eccentric. He always slept in a small unheated terrace, even through the winter. Him and his wife were vegetarian and practiced no-help dinner parties (with no servants at the door or the table). His weekly dinner parties on Wednesdays were attended by a multitude of artists, musicians, scientists. He was friends with Gorky, Mayakovsky, Chukovsky, Tolstoy, Yesenin etc. etc.

(Last picture: Ilya Repin paints opera singer Fyodor Shalyapin in his studio, 1914.)

[ratatouillewastakendammit]

Could you possibly do head canons or a fanfic of Ghostface! Keigo(Hawks) x reader?

You have free creative control to what would happen and stuff like that (I just think the idea would be interesting) but you don’t have to do it if your not comfortable.

(Also I love your work)

Thank you so much!! (I"M BACK BITCHES FR THIS TIME! Also this is my very late Kinktober contribution because college is kicking my ass rn)

He would wait until a day you knew he wouldn’t be home.

“Kei, I promise, it’s alright."

Your boyfriend whined into the receiver. “Yeah, but we had plans tonight."

“And sitting in front of the tv with a bowl of candy and some Jordan Peele movies tomorrow night will be just as lovely.” You reply. “Besides, you gotta protect us from all the toilet-papering teens terrorizing the city tonight.”

“Hardy-har. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Love you.”

“I love you back.”

Preferably at a time when your other emotions were likely to overwhelm any idea of his plans.

Setting the phone down, you allowed your body to slouch into a sigh, one final act of disappointment that you didn’t want your boyfriend to see.

While one could argue that you were technically used to his fluctuating schedule, it still didn’t make it any less disheartening when he was called in last minute on holidays. Of course, you didn’t let him know that.

Then he'd play with you just a bit, letting your sense of anxiety spike just the slightest by leaving the overhead skylight ajar.

Had he really left it open?

“Dumbass,” you muttered with a grin, quickly standing up to grab a ladder.

A chill rattled through your spine as you climbed, fall wind blowing through your hair and poking goosebumps in your skin as you pulled the window closed, making sure to lock it before wandering into the kitchen for an after-dinner snack.

A bowl of cereal was always an easy solution, especially when it was accompanied by a spooky flick and a comfortable bar seat at the counter.

Your phone would ring at exactly midnight, a voice he knew you'd find familiar, yet still unable to place, would answer.

Unknown Number.

"Hello?"

"Hey there," the voice was masculine and deep, like the sound had been covered with a sheet of gravel before being released.

"I'm sorry, who is this?"

"Oh, come on, don't you recognize me?"

"Uh, no. I think you might have the wrong number."

"No, I don't." Silence followed for a few moments, just enough for a touch of unease to stir in your gut. "What's your favorite scary movie?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You gotta have a favorite. I know you like them."

"And how would you know that?"

"Because you're watching one right now."

He also knew how well you liked horror films, how easily you would recognize the reference and think of the surprise call as a prank. Then he'd make sure to get your heart beating once more.

"I also know your boyfriend left the window open on his way out. That's dangerous, dontcha think? Leaving a pretty thing like you all alone with the door locked?"

"What do you want?" Fear shook your vocal cords, the question coming out in a ridiculously less forceful manner than you would've liked.

"You."

Being the over-protective boyfriend he was, you had been taught how to react to a situation like this beforehand. That just meant he had to move quickly, sliding a hand over your mouth to smother a scream and prying the phone from your fingers before you could even think of calling for help.

"Calm down, sweetheart." The masked figure tossed the voice changer away, black fabric tickling the rim of your ear. "I've got ya."

Keigo was thoughtful. He'd give you a moment of realization, and another to stop struggling, before forcefully turning you around and lifting you on top of the counter, one hand encasing both of your wrists and the other toying with the end of your sleep-shorts.

Eyes widening in shook, you took in the white mask in front of you. Lifeless black eyes and a horrifyingly exaggerated mouth, one that left the expression into one of pure terror for eternity. The dark fabric surrounding it just exaggerated that pristine look, one of perfectly untouched cartilage.

Still, despite its velvety presence, you recognized the hands poking out from the robe. Bronze skin kissed by years in the sun, interrupted by the lines of scars that you had spent countless nights running your fingers over.

The hands were warm, just as they always were, as they slid over your thighs, forcing them open before sliding underneath the bottom hem of your pajamas.

He would watch you try not to moan as he brushed his thumb over your clit, caressing gentle circles over it before pushing a finger inside. The soft whimper he earned made his cock jump.

"That's right, gorgeous." The masked figure slid another digit in, undoubtedly smirking as he felt you clench around him.

"I wanna hear you scream."

[fiction-quotes]

M. Todgers's Commercial Boarding House was a house of that sort which is likely to be dark at any time; but that morning it was especially dark. There was an odd smell in the passage, as if the concentrated essence of all the dinners that had been cooked in the kitchen since the house was built, lingered at the top of the kitchen stairs to that hour, and, like the Black Friar in Don Juan, 'wouldn't be driven away.'  In particular, there was a sensation of cabbage; as if all the greens that had ever been boiled there, were evergreens, and flourished in immortal strength. The parlour was wainscoted, and communicated to strangers a magnetic and instinctive consciousness of rats and mice. The staircase was very gloomy and very broad, with balustrades so thick and heavy that they would have served for a bridge. In a sombre corner on the first landing, stood a gruff old giant of a clock, with a preposterous coronet of three brass balls on his head; whom few had ever seen – none ever looked in the face – and who seemed to continue his heavy tick for no other reason than to warn heedless people from running into him accidentally. It had not been papered or painted, hadn't Todgers's, within the memory of man. It was very black, begrimed, and mouldy. And, at the top of the staircase, was an old, disjoined, rickety, ill-favoured skylight, patched and mended in all kinds of ways, which looked distrustfully down at everything that passed below, and covered Todgers's up as if it were a sort of human cucumber-frame, and only people of a peculiar growth were reared there.

  —  Martin Chuzzlewit (Charles Dickens)

[turbotaxevasion]

400 Word DC Drabble

Nightwing and Robin respond to an SOS for a college party turned hostage situation. Turns out, they didn't even need to show up.

Inspired by this post from @thebirdsandthebats ! Thank you for the idea, I hope I did it justice :)

Nightwing stood over the skylight, looking down at the situation below. There had been a normal college party going on that Tim had told him about, but things quickly went sour. A low-rank villain – some new guy Nightwing couldn’t bother remembering the name of – had attacked the party, taking most of the kids inside hostage. There weren’t many of them left. Most had escaped when the villain first attacked. Those who hadn’t were backed into a corner, huddled together as the D-lister hemmed and hawed about … something. Nightwing couldn’t really make out the words.

Robin stood next to him with his arms crossed. He frowned down at the new villain, sneering as he waved a gun around.

“He really does not have awareness, does he?”

Nightwing knew the question was rhetorical, a dig at the guy in the mask. Still, he said, “Apparently not. Shall we?”

Before they could break through the skylight, shattering the glass and making a grand entrance, one of the students broke away from the pack. Something about him seemed familiar. The villain had his back turned, so he didn’t see the guy pick up a folding chair. He also didn’t see the blonde guy take a full swing at the back of his head. The blonde guy clocked the villain over the head with the chair. A loud clang followed by the dull thump of a body hitting the floor resonated through the warehouse. Nightwing could see a noticeable dent in the chair’s frame. It was partially bent.

‘Damn,’ he thought. ‘That kid’s got a lot of anger.’

Then the student turned, and suddenly everything made sense. He was familiar because he had seen him before. He was the same guy that Tim had brought over for dinner, the same guy that Tim gushed about constantly, the same guy that collected every vigilante in Gotham to go beat up a cult of monsters and their masters just to get Robin back. The same kid – Bernard – that figured out Robin’s identity and loved him just as much as he had before the revelation. Nightwing was well aware, especially given the unhinged glint in his eyes, that Bernard had a lot of pent up anger and was angry enough to use it when the situation called for it… And sometimes when it didn’t.

‘Yeah,’ Nightwing thought. ‘We didn’t need to come. He had it under control.’

Nightwing stood over the skylight, looking down at the situation below. There had been a normal college party going on that Tim had told him about, but things quickly went sour. A low-rank villain – some new guy Nightwing couldn’t bother remembering the name of – had attacked the party, taking most of the kids inside hostage. There weren’t many of them left. Most had escaped when the villain first attacked. Those who hadn’t were backed into a corner, huddled together as the D-lister hemmed and hawed about … something. Nightwing couldn’t really make out the words.

Robin stood next to him with his arms crossed. He frowned down at the new villain, sneering as he waved a gun around.

“He really does not have awareness, does he?”

Nightwing knew the question was rhetorical, a dig at the guy in the mask. Still, he said, “Apparently not. Shall we?”

Before they could break through the skylight, shattering the glass and making a grand entrance, one of the students broke away from the pack. Something about him seemed familiar. The villain had his back turned, so he didn’t see the guy pick up a folding chair. He also didn’t see the blonde guy take a full swing at the back of his head. The blonde guy clocked the villain over the head with the chair. A loud clang followed by the dull thump of a body hitting the floor resonated through the warehouse. Nightwing could see a noticeable dent in the chair’s frame. It was partially bent.

‘Damn,’ he thought. ‘That kid’s got a lot of anger.’

Then the student turned, and suddenly everything made sense. He was familiar because he had seen him before. He was the same guy that Tim had brought over for dinner, the same guy that Tim gushed about constantly, the same guy that collected every vigilante in Gotham to go beat up a cult of monsters and their masters just to get Robin back. The same kid – Bernard – that figured out Robin’s identity and loved him just as much as he had before the revelation. Nightwing was well aware, especially given the unhinged glint in his eyes, that Bernard had a lot of pent up anger and was angry enough to use it when the situation called for it… And sometimes when it didn’t.

‘Yeah,’ Nightwing thought. ‘We didn’t need to come. He had it under control.’

[random-imagines-blog]

Imagine being a thief in Atlantis, and letting Arthur Curry catch you so you can steal a kiss.

“Arthur,” You say with a smile as you’re leaned up against the display case for a treasure that you had recently stolen. Well, stolen is an intense word. Taken it so that it could be returned to the people that it really belongs to, is the better word for it.

The handsome superhero had strolled inside, his eyes settling on me before you even spoke. You knew that he was coming - as slow as he was. The stolen item was already stashed off of your person and you’d been waiting around, counting ticks from the clock, and checking twitter on your phone.

“... Thief,” He says, since he doesn’t know your name, doesn’t know your identity. You’re not prolific enough to have one like Selina Kyle does. “What have you taken now?”

“Does it look like I can fit much in this suit?” You ask, doing a little spin for him. “Maybe I’m just here to learn a little culture.”

“I don’t find that very likely,” Arthur said with a chuckle. “You’re usually gone by the time one of us gets here, what’s the deal today? Feeling lonely?”

“Something like that,” You said. “I thought I’d come to steal something else today...” You walk in closer to him, knowing that he could grab you at any time, use his strength to turn you into the authorities. You’re close enough to where no matter how fast you were, you wouldn’t be able to get away from his reach. Keeping it risky.

“I don’t keep my wallet on me when I’m working, sorry,” Arthur said, surprising you with a broad smile. Oh, he had my sense of humor. I liked that.

“I was thinking something a little less tangible...” You said, your lips pouting. Your mask only hid three quarters of your face to protect your identity, but your mouth was very much exposed. Arthur was about to ask what you were thinking when you decided to steal it just then and there. It’s not really thieving if its just given to you, and charity is not your expertise. What you stole was a kiss from his plump lips. And he didn’t seem to mind. He was surprised but then he returned it, walking you up against the wall so that you had no place to escape from, your tongues in a frenzy. No, you don’t think he minded at all.

However, it did kind of sound like the police minded, since you could hear their sirens. You ended the kiss with a pop, and lightly patted his cheek. “That’s my cue. Let’s do this again sometime. Maybe you can buy dinner first,” You grinned, rolled between his legs before he could comprehend what was happening and was out of there. Once you was back onto the rooftop, you looked through the skylight to see him staring up at me with a grumpy expression. You blew him a kiss, and then set on your way home, hiding in the shadows. Oh, what a man. He doesn’t seem the type to kiss and tell so you should be in the clear.

Requested by: Anonymous

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Satisfaction

Summary:

Selina had not been a little girl who dreamed of white dresses. The marriage of Selina Kyle and Bruce Wayne, from Selina's POV. For @audreycritter and @frownyalfred

Selina had not been a little girl who dreamed of white dresses. She had not filled her idle musings with bouquets of flowers and tiny cakes. Her interest in diamonds had always been professional, not personal, waxing and waning in sync with whatever artificial value the De Beers were enforcing in the moment. A wedding had never been on her list of goals, a marriage even less so. She had craved luxury, security, independence, autonomy. Nothing she had seen as a child, watching forgotten in a corner, nor as an adult, peering through the windows of strangers, had indicated that marriage could be anything more than a gilded cage at best, an end to all she guarded fiercely at worst.

And yet here she was.

Selina had been determined to be present and fully engaged in the consequences of her decision. She had made this choice, herself, fully and of her own free will, and yet the muscle memory of her soul twitched, threatening flight at the first suggestion of a trap. If she detached herself, she risked reacting instinctively, spirit engaging in the gaps where the will faltered. So she had cataloged each moment, each sensation, carefully, a discreet notation in her mental dossier, a bespoke placard hung alongside the framed piece—the feel of her dress being zipped into place, velvet and lace pressed to skin; the clouded smell of the roses in the bower over her head, their blossoms full and heavy; the whirr of insects beneath the stringed quartet that beckoned her down the aisle.

It still felt like a dream. Selina felt herself doubled, reverberant in mind and body. She was present, present, present, and yet outside herself, forever echoing outward with a ringing ripple of awe. She smiled at all the right moments, true and real, and noted the faces that reflected their joy back from the seats on the lawn. She marveled at herself from afar. She spoke her vows, repeating solemn phrases of partnership, devotion, binding loyalty, and meant them even as her insides quivered. She heard them as if from someone else’s lips.

She was getting married.

She was getting married.

She was married.

Selina Renée Kyle, the Wayne silent but wrapped around her heart like silk, a band on her left hand and a kiss pressed to her lips. Married.

Bruce, as always, was her bolt, her fixed point as she swung through space. He had taken her hand in his at the altar and kept it through the ceremony, the vows, the walk back down the aisle, and the final round of photos that followed, letting go only briefly to sign the license. The prolonged touch might have felt restrictive, but instead it felt like the final check on her lines before rappelling through a skylight, that superstitious tug and the feedback of an anchor point that would not fail. He held her aloft.

Their rehearsal dinner had been small, intimate, restricted to the cherished few that knew who was truly getting married the following evening. Bruce, to Selina’s surprise, had chafed against the wedding pageantry his status demanded and had made a bid for the ceremony to mirror the dinner, held before no more than a handful of witnesses.

“You and me,” he had said, words breathed into the side of her neck. “The kids. Alfred. That’s all we need.”

Selina knew better.

Read the full fic on AO3

[mirl0-turdusmerula]

Been thinking a lot about where Kim would live pre-canon.

A tiny matchbox appartment in the Industrial Harbour.

So yeah, I wrote a ficlet. Slice of life / long ass description of a normal evening and Kim arriving home, making dinner, revising notes and doing Volta do Mar.

1200 words. Full text below the cut.

Midsummer night

The heavenly sound falls out as the motor carriage's engine comes to a stop. Inside the Precinct 57 garage, the Coupris Kineema stands out among the four other non-sports model MCs. Although different models, they all share the same blue paint and bear the corp's halogen white stripe across their side. The five of them also sleep there (guarded), to the Lieutenant's dislike. But he understands. Neither he nor his station can afford to be the object of street junior delinquency.

The Lieutenant steps out—end of the day.

He mutters a goodbye to the security guard and closes the Station's service door behind him. If it weren't for the white rectangular sign bearing the RCM initials and new motto ("Justice, Union, Prudence and Force"), this repurposed industrial warehouse could be mistaken for any of the similar buildings that surround it. The streets are wide and level, but the asphalt leaves almost no room for the sidewalk. He marches home late August evening, dodging vans, containers, and badly parked MCs trailers.

He makes a stop at a little green kiosk in the corner of an intersection, –"Evening, officer"– and buys the usual newspaper, and today too, a pack of 'Astras' (it is Friday). Back straight, steady voice, firm hands.

He finally arrives at his destined warehouse. Once housing an R&D department of the Feld-Electric company, its old-style brick atéliers have been repurposed into apartments.

Black mailboxes sit at the side of the main barred door. One of them, in the third row says: "Kim Kitsuragi". The Officer produces a key from a pocket in his aerostatic jacket's interior lining and unlocks the door. A long and narrow hallway extends before him, with storage rooms opening on either side. At the end of it, there is a not-too-dirty communal bathroom and a spiral metal staircase that leads to the upper floor. The Officer takes a quick detour to the communal bathroom, and his boots make a thump, thump noise as he comes up the stairs. He produces another key. This one is smaller and more intricate and unlocks a reinforced wooden door.

With a soft click he eases himself inside. The matchbook-sized room is orderly, bright, and well-kept. In just 6 by 2'5 meters, Kitsuragi's private life unfolds. Being a repurposed industrial atélier, the construction is sturdy: brick walls, exposed cables and plumbing, and hydraulic tiles floor, in the old-fashioned dideridada style. Opposite to the door, a grand paneled industrial window covers the entire wall, from floor to ceiling, where it bends and becomes a skylight.

Kitsuragi closes the door behind him and locks it. Two turns. Key left in the keyhole. Still on the doormat he takes off his uniform. Black heavy police boots, off. Orange aerostatic pilot jacket, off. Utility belt off. Under-arm holster and pistol off. Everything is neatly left on a shelf and some hooks beside the door.

Kitsuragi's bare feet make straight for the workbench on the left wall. On the shelf above it, is a Wowshi 12-Prefect two-way radio system for station calls. Long-cable headphones are firmly attached to the 4.5 mm port. The sound system is never used without the headphones, and the headphones never leave the room. He dones them, and the long chord follows him around the room. Kitsuragi presses the saved station button, and after a moment of static, he begins to hum half-consciously to the familiar sounds. The room is filled with ecstatic vibrations, totally translucent to the rest of the world.

He starts cooking dinner.

There is not a kitchen per se, but the original atélier's stainless steel sink and worktop, paired with a portable gas stove serves the purpose well. It also serves as a wash basin, in tandem with the mirror cabinet mounted to the wall next to it.

Rattling pots, a flame, boiling water. His foot taps along the beating pulses.

Kitsuragi leads a steaming plate of Samaran fast noodles to his wooden workbench (and only table) and sits in a rolling steel chair that probably came with the tenement. He sits crouched, one leg hugged and the other one hanging, headphones still on his head, although he has stopped the music. He is revising notes from his blue A6 Mnemonic, jotting down more nearly illegible lines, careful not to drop the spicy sauce on it. Filled (and yet to be filled) similar notebooks rest in boxes beside the table.

Above the workbench, a corkboard and some shelves. Pinned in the center, between other notes, is a map of Revachol West. Boroughs, streets, and motorways cut across the web of canals. It's up for display rather than reference. The 8/81 traverses Kim from the base of his column to the top of his skull.

On the shelves, Kim's quaint collection of hobbies: some Wirrâl dice, tiny franconigerian figurines, Jamrock Slam tabloids, some second-hand mechanical manuals, Jacob Irw's Tiptop Tournée racecar miniature, some sci-fci novellas… Most of these bric-à-bas are from the last few years when his higher lieutenant's salary allowed him some stability. With the raise also came a tiny black box that now sits in the corner, bearing a white halogen rectangle. Inside, a mémoire.

He lights an 'Astra Menthol', and absent-mindedly taps the ash onto a tray in between inhalings. The noodles grow cold as Kitsuragi writes and rewrites in his notebook. No crosswords for tonight. He doesn't mind, and his gaze certainly does not fall on the tiny black box.

Sometime later, when the Astra is consumed, the chair rolls back, and Kitsuragi stands and reignites the music. The multi-purpose pre-installed sink becomes the star of the room again. Dishes and then teeth. He does not have a personal shower (he uses the communal one in the morning), but fenilely takes advantage of his private faucet to wash off the usual dirt, sweat, and grime. Blood sometimes.

One last stretch and Kitsuragi sits legs-crossed on the steel-framed bed below the window. He takes off his glasses and headphones. No verres, no smokes, no music, no gloves. He settles down for Volta do Mar.

Y del trueno,

al son violento,

y del viento

al rebramar,

yo me duermo

sosegado

arrullado

por la mar.

(And from thunder, to the violent tone, and from the wind to the roar. I sleep, soothed, lulled, by the sea. )

It is an old boiadero song. Written by a man in the Plains who never saw the sea, now popular among entroponauts who long for the day they see the open sky again.

Outside the window, the summer sun is setting down in the Great Industrial Harbour, and the low rumble of cranes and lorries is slowly fading out. A shimmer in between two eternite rooftops: the sea. The sound of cargoships horns arriving at the port and the screeching of seagulls. Smoke rising from the chimneys fades into lazy clouds. High above, the sound of rotors and the beams of floodlights. Although Kim is not able to see the Coalition airships, he is acutely aware of their presence.

An empty pot on the windowsill. No flowers grow here anymore.

Kim's breathing steadies, his chest rising and falling as the sunlight recedes and the stars appear. Invisible, obscured by the helium streetlights. Next to him, a nightstand and two objects on top: a pair of hyperopia diamond-shaped glasses, and a single-shot Kiejl A9 Armistice. Loaded.

[dairy-farmer]

That ask about public incest being normalized has gotten me thinking: an AU where the pecking order is instinctually determined via sex. Who can mount who.

-

Try as he might, Tim just can’t seem to move up the ranks.

Bruce fucks him almost clinically. Mostly to reaffirm his place at the top, to remind Tim that he’s in charge when he thinks Tim is getting out of line, picking unnecessary fights with his brothers, or not obeying their “reasonable” orders. (He’s above you in rank, Timothy. If you don’t want to have to listen to him, then maybe you should mount him.) He’s thorough and deliberate, but almost impersonal about it in a way. It’s his duty as the head of the family.

Dick fucks Tim slowly and lovingly, though firmly, to remind Tim that he’s part of the family, that he belongs to them. He takes Tim whenever he catches Tim hiding an injury or not taking care of himself. To keep Tim from withdrawing. A reminder and an order. Often times it’s fun and playful, which Tim enjoys most.

Jason mounts him roughly and often. Whenever he needs to let off steam. To keep the Replacement in his place, not that he ever gives Tim time to forget it. Whenever Jason even imagines that Tim is challenging him, or thinks he’s mouthing off. If he even catches sight of Tim on his really bad days. If he’s annoyed at Bruce. He makes Tim kneel under the table at his feet every time he comes to family dinner. When he’s frustrated with a case. If he’s just plain bored. And without fail, every time Bruce takes Jason, Jason makes a beeline to Tim and bends him over and mounts him hard and fast. Sometimes he toys with Tim, letting him think he might actually win, but it always ends the same way. Tim thinks he might spend as much time under Jason as he does talking to him.

Damian takes him fast and quick, almost as aggressively as Jason. He ambushed Tim the first few times, pinning and mounting him before Tim even realized he was there. He really shot up in size during puberty, and now that he’s outgrown Tim, he’s difficult to pin in return. Damian also takes his frustration out on Tim, and likes to remind Tim of his status. Growing up in the League left him with certain expectations.

Tim has never tried challenging Cass, but luckily she doesn’t take him often, preferring to watch. Sometimes she’ll ride his face when she needs control in her life, but at least that’s a nice change from getting fucked by his brothers.

It even extends to costumes, though not as much as it’s dangerous to get too distracted.

Batman will only ever fuck his throat and has him swallow it all down (to not leave DNA evidence). He mostly leaves Red alone unless he catches him doing something stupidly risky or disobeying his orders.

Nightwing is much the same, preferring to take him in the cave where he can stretch Red out on the mats or have fun on the ropes course. Nightwing prefers keeping it light and fun when he’s in costume, and mainly leaves Red alone in the field.

Robin follows in both his mentors’ footsteps. He will not allow himself to become distracted in the field by the likes of Drake. (Only at home)

Hood, though, is a bit closer to his civilian identity than the others. He’ll hunt him down on patrol if he really wants him. He’ll happily bend him over a skylight on slow nights. If he catches Red close enough to his territory, he’s been known to actually drag him in and fuck him where his people can see. Tim says it undermines Red Robin, but Jason insists it helps keep crime down; his people seeing him mount a Bat. (Tim has run the numbers. Jason is right. Jason has no idea that’s true-he just said it so Bruce would stop bitching about him distracting Red).

(Spoiler sometimes ambushes him on slow nights too.)

-

Tim (and Red Robin) has never really been able to rise in the ranks. Once, Tim was seconds away from taking Damian, but Jason came by and pulled Tim off and mounted him then and there, while Damian then took his mouth. Jason thought it was funny, laughing while Damian gloated as they used Tim. Dick, with his soft spot for Damian, also helped him sometimes, especially at first. Letting Damian pin Tim right after Dick was finished with him without giving him a chance to get up, and giving Damian a thorough demonstration on how to get Tim down.

It’s not fair. Dick and Jason have both fucked each other, and he’s even caught Dick letting Damian take him on occasion (how else is he going to learn, baby bird? He needs to have more experience than just you!), but nobody ever goes easy on him. Anytime he gets close to winning someone else seems to come by and step in and then he’s suddenly under both at once.

The rest of them have a slightly more fluid pecking order, but Tim is just so fun to fuck (and fuck with). They have an unspoken agreement to step in if it ever seems like he might actually win. Everyone feels more secure knowing they will never be at the bottom, knowing that at least one person in their life has to listen to them. They all know Tim’s proper place and they will keep him there.

yessss!!!!!!!!!yesssss!! this is so good!!!! an established pecking order that is maintained and determined by who is mounted and poor tim being at the very bottom of that order because of sabotage from his family that never lets him rise up because they all find a comfort in knowing that THEY will never be at the bottom and that THEY all at least have some power and control in their lives because they know that at least, at any time of day, they can fuck tim to remind themselves of the control they have even with a control freak like bruce for a father.

i LOVE that bruce would be the most clinical about it. he does it more as procedure, making sure to work in a weekly mounting with tim no matter how busy he is because bruce has learned his lesson about allowing people in the family to go too long without being mounted. if only he'd been as diligent with jason and dick as he had with tim then maybe things wouldn't have turned out the way they did with them. so when bruce has tim and sees tim beginning to try and stretch his wings out and test his limits as robin- well bruce makes sure to mount him. sure, tim was a little young but maybe if bruce had started mounting dick and jason when they were younger they would still be alive or talking to him. for the longest time tim was the only family member around and whenever things got slightly unstable or bruce was scrambling for control because his personal life and professional life was out of whack he'd mount tim. being robin initially had been made harder because of that because it seemed like bruce's struggle with reining in violence also translated to him roughly mounting tim. eventually he calmed down. he got less...mean about mounting tim and pretty soon it tapered off to only weakly or occasional mountings from him.

with dick too. as nice as he became with tim and was gentle when mounting him, he still also had his phase of waking tim up from a deep slumber to press into him and whisper about how its okay and tim could go back to sleep, dick just needed to do this. those times almost always coincided with bruce and dick having another fight which involved bruce storming off to patrol early and returning when dick had already left. unluckily for tim though it would mean bruce mounting him and shoving his cock into tim's tender hole and grunting at the thick spurt of dick's cum that would get pushed out.

jason hardly waiting for the family the open their arms in welcome before he was mounting tim. often he and tim would get into arguments that would end with jason grunting and fucking tim harshly into the floor, stairs, or roof of wherever their spat was all while tim just huffed, irritated, and swearing he'd get jason the next time.

damian is arguably tim's hardest pill to swallow because he was cheating!!! he was getting help from dick and jason who would gang up on tim and hold him open, allowing for damian to press his baby cock all the way inside and hastily mount tim. it would barely be longer than a minute or two because damian was young and he came fast but tim would still be stuck with the indignity and shame of having damian's cum drip down his inner thigh. but then damian gets a growth spurt, grows bigger and now he doesn't need jason or dick's help to mount tim. once he realizes he can mount tim whenever he wants to, he makes it his mission to try and mount tim as often as he can....though that might just be damian working off sexual frustration brought on by puberty by using tim.

tim!!!! just being placed at the bottom of the pecking order by his brothers who would greatly prefer to not be in his place and because they love the ease of being able to fuck him and knowing he will always be there ready to take a cock.

[candychasse]

Splendor Mansion Head Cannons.

Splendor used to share Slendy's mansion, separating it into West and East wings respectively. However after a not so friendly incident in the 80's involving laughing jack and Jill, Splendor chose to move himself and his proxies/helpers to a mansion he built himself.

Speaking of the proxies/helpers.. The reason why he 'collects people' so to speak is because he feels the need to give people who usually don't quite fit in a soft place to land.

Splendor's mark so to speak, takes form of multicolor polka dots in a straight line wrapping around usually one's wrists, waist, ankles, or neck.

He also uses his Proxies/Helpers to send out on missions to go fetch him a magical artifact or two. Usually something particularly dangerous which he doesn't want falling in the wrong hands. This usually causes his Proxies to step on Slender's proxies toes quite a bit.

Anyways onto the house itself. I believe that the respective mansions can travel to wherever Slender or Splendor wants them to be. Splendor rather likes parking his house on the west coast in red wood forests or beside Rocky beaches.

Splendor's mansion itself is rather hard to find if you don't know what your looking for. Basically, if you actively look for it, you'll be lead in circles, but if you could care less, congrats you found it!!

The mansion itself has colorful walls of neon and pastel hues with various plants scattered about.

Splendor asks every new person in the mansion what their preferred decorating style is. And by the end of the initiation dinner, they'll have a whole bedroom styled to their personal taste.

^ because of this, many ghosts inhabiting the mansion get very disoriented when phasing through walls.

Due to the mostly pacifist nature of the residents in splendor mansion, most of the food made is vegan or at the very least vegetarian. Although for the residents who choose to eat meat/animal products there is a separate fridge for them.

There's a chicken coup in the front yard, where in which one particular black silkie rooster is named Jeff.

Has a walk in fridge mostly dedicated to ice cream, sherbet, and popsicles.

The pantry is always fully stocked with every comfort food imaginable.

Splendor's mansion has a lot of natural light coming in the form of, a ridiculous amount of stain glass windows that are downright impressive, various skylights on the second floor, floor to ceiling windows, two different sun rooms, and while not attached to the mansion a very big greenhouse.

The mansion regularly smells like freshly baked bread, desserts, and pastries.

I feel like the decor room by room is from completely different decades, but all goes together because it's so colorful.

Like the kitchen looks like a kitchen from a 2000s sitcom. With those themed kitchen appliances sprinkled in, like a hello kitty beldner, coca cola microwave, a my little pony waffle maker, and toy story pizza maker.

Meanwhile the main living area is very Victorian. (They even have a radioactive clock!)

And the hallways kinda look straight out of a weirdcore Pinterest board.

Has first aid kits in every bathroom. (For obvious reasons lol)

[arobinwithoutbatman]

My muse was unexpectedly kidnapped, and was never able to be found. A year later, your muse comes across an old abandoned building, and finds my muse tied up, wounded, and barely alive. What is your muse's reaction?

@dramatisperscnae

Tim missed Gotham. His Dad Jack. Call him Jack. That monster isn't his Dad anymore had sort of... snapped a while back how long has it been now? Time isn't real anymore and pulled Tim out of school, sold their town house in Bristol and just. Left. He was fairly sure they left the State but he wasn't sure where they ended up. Tim wasn't allowed to know. He spent the entire ride asleep against his will. His room had a skylight so he could see the sky and get vitamin D from the sun but it didn't open and Tim couldn't reach it. He had a couple of windows too but they were high up on the wall, too high for him to reach and only showed him sky and the very tops of what could either be trees or hills. He definitely wasn't in a city, he could say that much.

His door was locked, as always. Dad Jack kept the key somewhere; upstairs in the main house probably or on his person. Tim was pretty sure he'd been up there? For meeting the neighbours and other guests? Maybe? It was hard to say. He was in a constant haze of drowsiness these days, it slowed his mind down in a way he despised because it meant he couldn't form a plan of escape, couldn't keep track of what he was seeing or even what day it was. The only method of time keeping he had was the passing sunlight and Dad Jack! He's not Dad anymore! The more I call him Dad, the closer I am to giving in entirely! stopping by with his food. His empty dinner tray was on his desk.

His room wasn't empty, far from it. Plenty of room to move around and stretch, build legos on his carpeted floor, a big comfy bed, a big fancy desk for studying and doing his online classes. Heavily monitored of course. If he even started typing anything that wasn't approved, Jack would knock him out. Sleeping gas usually. Mostly to avoid drugging him more than he already was. Tim had tried figuring out which of his various medications was responsible; he didn't wasn't allowed to leave his prison room so took various vitamins and other things to make sure he was getting the nutrients he needed. Which wasn't enough because Tim had long since lost the muscle tone of being Robin. Which sucked because he'd been pretty proud of that.

Tim shifted on his bed, the oranges and pinks he could see through his skylight told him it was sunset. May as well get comfy. He didn't exactly have anything else to do. He rolled onto his side, the cuff and long chain around his ankle didn't bother him anymore. It was long enough to allow him to comfortably move around in his sleep and walk freely around his room. Couldn't quite reach his door though.

Hazy ice blue eyes blinked slowly as he took in the figure before him.

"Oh. This hallucination again. Or lucid dream? I can't tell the difference anymore. I'd say your name out loud but I'm pretty sure my Dad is listening and I don't feel like losing more time as punishment for not agreeing with him. Not so soon after last time." He yawned. "What are we talking about tonight?"

[jessefandomunited]

Library Vibes

I had a very short idea about being a librarian starting to close up for the night and realizing Spencer is still there. I was at work late and my brain is mush so bear with me lol

Spencer Reid x GN reader ( I made extra care to not put anything regarding gender, race, or name .trying to be as inclusive as possible enjoy)

It was a cold rainy night , one that always caused my mind to wander. The sky darkened much quicker and I thought of nothing but the rhythmic thrumming of the rain pattering against the expansive windows and skylight. The thunder rumbled as I finished putting another book back into its place and casually checked my watch. " ITS NINE," I Gasped much louder then I mean to which made, probably the last person here, drop their book , startled.

" I'm so sorry," I apologized walking towards the man hunched over picking up his book," the rain made me lose track of time, we've been closed for thirty minutes." He stood up and I knew who he was. Instantly I was flustered. Spencer Reid of the BAU came here often when he wasn't busy to just read surrounded by books. I noticed he'd always grab about ten thick books and get through them all quicker than I thought anyone could read. We've had a few conversations about books and his job but nothing more. I wanted more , so much more . I wanted to pluck up the courage to ask him on a date, but I just didn't know how, but this may be my best chance.

" hey im sorry too i should have known to leave i just assumed you'd kick me out whenever it was time to close up," he said awkwardly piling the stack of books he had been reading ," im typically very good at keeping track of time." I laughed ," I'm sure you are the genius that you are." I swore I saw him blush when I said that . Instead of brining it up though I began gathering the books he had been reading to put them in the return basket for me to resell later. " I can do that , I shouldn't have kept you here so late," he blurted scooping up the remaining books, " I mean , I remember where got them all too." I smiled and instead of telling him what my original plan was I nodded and said ," I'd love that."

As we methodically put back each book I noticed that he had been reading a series I'd mention was my favorite. It was a bit childish compared to his other ones but I felt touched. " so how did you like it,"I pried handing him each book in the series. " not what I normally read but it was fun, I thought the story was very fanciful and reminded me of being a kid again, at least the good parts of that," he said stumbling over his words. "Oh," I said not wanting to pry into his childhood," well I'm really touched you read it." Red was creeping up his face again ," it's no problem, I enjoyed it." I felt this push in my gut saying " here is your chance." " you know .... I havnt had dinner yet have you," I pressed measuring out my words carefully. He shook his head," no ." " perfect, would you like to go out then," I blurted feeling a bit foolish. He looked stunned like he couldn't believe I had actually said that ," yes... like out out , like a date or like a friend thing?" My smile broadened," a date, I am asking you, Spencer Reid, on a date." " I'd be honored," he said almost giddy.

With that we walked to the front of the library, I locked up, and we were officially on a date. Now I just needed to find a place that was open

[worrywrite]

I'm still trying to wrap my mind around Men at Arms.

It's a fantastic book, but it is also so different from Guards! Guards! in tone. And maybe that's where the key is. It's not that the villain of the story is perhaps one of the most proficient killers in all of Discworld (all two and a half of them... D'Eath, Cruces, and The Gonne) and their goal is to actually kill. It's not even that the crimes that the watch are investigating are murder, because even though paid assassinations are legal death and murder are part of the setting. Death is literally a character here, though much more briefly than G!G!. Frankly, I don't even think it's because of the racial allegories.

The tone in Men at Arms is different because the first one to die is a clown. Because Pratchett literally killed the joke (the entire thing and all of its subsets). There's nothing funny about a clown funeral, the dogs are the biggest allegory for racial issues, a gun really is evil, Cuddy literally draws the short straw. It's all literal. Everything is extremely literal. For once, Ankh Morpork isn't a joke. For once, the city feels like a city. And it's the book where Carrot, the most literal character there is, becomes a man (literally and in every sense) and takes his mantle of leadership.

Everything in Men at Arms is literal. Because the villain killed the joke to death and it was the shining moment for Carrot to step up.

There's also an extensive running bit that even the silly construction of the silly, courtesy of Bloody Stupid Johnson, is actually stupid. Within the narrative itself, the book is calling itself out. It is saying that this absurd veneer that we have found ourselves on is just that. This city was built on itself, on its own bones, on the the bones of empires--fueled with the blood of many. The architecture beneath Johnson's flawed works, the aqueducts and sewer systems below the city, are vast and strong and powerful--maybe even beautiful. But they're dangerous. The past is incredibly dangerous. Even Carrot, whose potential is very much rooted in the past of the city, is dangerous. His victory is not one I expected in the moment it came. The line about how you must hope that whoever is looking at you from the other end of their weapon is an evil man... Was harsh and true and honestly a little frightening for a story which also contains a scene where a sentient rock man chucks a dwarf through the skylight of Schrodinger's pork warehouse to save both of their lives.

Perhaps this puts the rest of the book in context as well. Especially the things that made me cringe when I read them. Like everything about Coalface, Angua being included in the story because she was a woman and every book needs at least one (preferably one that can leap over a building or deadlift a draft horse), the high school clique-ificarion of all the guilds, Vimes talkin to the nobles after dinner and almost letting himself believe he could be like that (even though he ends up laying into them with some excellent biting sarcasm), Vetinari not being in control and not realizing it. It's all very real, but real like a real serial killer in real life and not a crime drama. Maybe even real like a normal guy in a costume with their mask off.

Maybe not.

It's not a perfect book (which bites, because G!G! was nearly there), but it remains a very intentional book. I feel like less people have read it than G!G!, and I can see why. It's messier, it's not as funny, there's a lot more allegory and it's a lot more blunt.

But it's still extremely topical (sadly). I retain my opinion that it may be one of the most important books I've ever read. And I'm beginning to understand, finally, why.