#TODAYS SPECIAL IS DOUBLE STANDARD?

[gingergofastboatsmojito]

Carmy is a hypocrite

Like most cowards are

But unlike most cowards, he had a point.

Carmy was quick to judge his brother and get out of the family household to "show him".

But he didn't take this into account:

Michael Berzatto is immortal

Carmy expects Syd to be legally obligated to push him and let herself be pushed, but when he's pushed he can't handle it:

Carmy wants to change the menu every day but when Syd wants to make changes, he prefers to go his way:

Granted there is a valid explanation for that I already went over

Here → Yeah, right.

And Syd can easily put an end to it by signing the agreement and exercising her rights as a partner. But she's avoiding it and delaying it and making things worse as time goes by, so it's a 50% / 50% here.

But in terms of Carmy's discourse, it's nothing but hypocrisy, no matter how unconscious his behavior is and what reasons he has to justify it.

Carmy wants Richie to accept his apologies because he loves him but he won't accept Donna's who clearly wants to reconnect with her strange son, while he avoids her:

And the list can go on and on and ooooonnnnnn...

Because he is a HYPOCRITE and as with all hypocrisy, it's rooted in what in essence can be labeled as a "lack of balls".

He's clearly not the kinda guy who avoids conflict, as a matter of fact, he's the opposite because he's → Donna's son and → reactive in nature.

But he's scared shitless of true mature behavior, he's not ready for that, as I explained here. And if we dig deeper, we can clearly see that part of his fear has to do with his mommy issues, which I mentioned here. And of course, also with his many psychological conditions that remain untreated, which I elaborated on in previous posts such as:

Let's put the ship in partnership

Carmy Berzatto and his erotic transfer

Or are being incorrectly treated, because the AA meetings are like trying to put out a wildfire with a glass of water, in his case. He needs a whole team of professionals who develop a personalized healthcare plan for him and follow up regularly with him to help him stick to it. Especially since changing his surroundings is not an option.

So summing up, he's a hypocrite.

BUT

He has a point, which is, that if he stops being a hypocrite, he will have to change his ways, which requires courage, and balls, sure, but most importantly, he will have to face the truth about his feelings for Syd, face the C person and act like a man and go on an apology tour, which is something that requires something he doesn't have yet:

MADURITY

He's a kid trapped in a 30-31 year old body. And that's exactly what happens to abuse/trauma victims. There's this arrested development that mentally freezes them up in the time of their lives when the abuse began. And they can look like very adjusted people for most of us, they can look like accomplished chefs, like wannabes who are really into their artistic hobbies that are actually nothing but escapism, like people who "just want to do what's right", perfectionists even, etc... but in their case, that's nothing but a mask that hides their level of immaturity. They can ONLY HANDLE getting their asses kissed all the time, anything else is something they just can't take. Imagine a toddler: if you go and say (in a baby voice, ofc): "Oh you're soooo cute, I love your drawings! Wow! Did you make this? I love this! OMG! It's soooo cute! Awwww" the kid will be all smiley and over the moon, right? They will love it.

But try telling a 5-year-old:

Don't yell.

Stop.

Drop that.

No, you're not right.

Etc.

They will always find a problem with accepting limits and behaving BECAUSE THEY ARE TODDLERS. They will probably even throw a TANTRUM, even in public sometimes... They won't care how it looks. They are not above making a scene. All parents have to deal with that for a few years, no matter how well-adjusted and healthy their kiddo is. It's normal behavior IN A TODDLER.

Well, adults can be toddlers too (mentally). And that leads to HYPOCRISY. Like in Carmy's case.

Fortunately, maturity levels and development are dynamic. Hardly ever static. So Carmy is not a hopeless case.

I'm confident that S4 will be the season in which he will FINALLY GROW THE FUCK UP.

Because he has already reached his breakthrough.

Remember to follow my tag #Gingerpovs

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ see me through the morning glow | gojo satoru

wc: 1.0k summary: you and gojo have a slow morning.  contains: f!reader in mind, suggestive if you squint, food descriptions. a/n: unedited, i honestly dk what this is i just really needed to get this out of my system! this is how i cope with 236.

re-uploaded because i accidentally deleted!

You slip out of bed faced with the promise of sunlight. 

The curtains in your bedroom radiate a glow that bounces off the man lying next to you; it’s soft, near-white, almost ethereal, the color of his skin, hair, and bones. His back is exposed, arm reaching out over the (now) empty space beside him—the crinkles and folds where you once were. 

You’ve always thought your bedroom had good lighting, and now you can confirm why: in the shadows, deepening the line that runs down his spine; in the highlights, guiding your eyes to the pockets of muscle behind his shoulders. 

You look away, trying your best not to stare; the only reason he’s undressed is because of a cold sweat, from the nightmares—and the very need for skin-to-skin, to ground him in your touch. 

On mornings like this, you let Gojo sleep in. 

(Because you’re lucky if he can fall back asleep again). 

It’s slow today—no work, no missions that need you or him. It’s your favorite kind of day, and Gojo’s too (once he wakes up and smells the waffles you’ve prepared, double topped with whipped cream and maple syrup—his special, of course). 

A steady stream of warmth flows through the window to your kitchen countertop, the marble glimmering as light hits. The material was his choice; you don’t care much for glamor but Gojo likes pretty things—you especially, he likes to say. 

The batter is quick to prepare, a recipe you’ve done many times before, so you ladle it into the waffle maker before letting it set on its own. Then, you grab a pan to heat up, spooning in last night’s leftover rice, some soy sauce, and mirin, adding salt to taste, as needed. A standard fried rice breakfast, with a yolk to mix in later. 

The sound of his footsteps are concealed by the sizzles of the pan in front of you, but you’re caught off guard by arms wrapped around your waist, and his chin nestling itself into your shoulder as he nuzzles you. 

He’s still shirtless, you notice, so you inch backwards in case of any oil spatter. 

“Good sleep?” you mumble, certain that he heard you. 

He hums, before whispering, lips tickling the edges of your ear on purpose, pouting, “Not anymore when you left.” 

This man—a giant baby, puffed cheeks with long limbs hunched over you. 

Your big baby. 

Despite his whines, he’s telling the truth, you know, and you feel warm because of it, affection seeping in the cracks between his arms and the kitchen stove. 

You blow on a spoonful of rice before lifting it up to his lips. Gojo’s breakfasts are always sweet, but every time you cook, he looks forward to this: waiting right behind you to be fed over your shoulder.

His review will always be the same, of course, everything you touch turns out good. 

He reaches for the waffle maker with one hand while the other keeps you close, and you plate his little breakfast for him, whipped cream with little hearts drawn in maple syrup. 

You grab a bowl for your rice and sit by the counter, Gojo sitting thigh-to-thigh beside you despite the abundance of space around you. 

You realize then, that Gojo tends to hover. 

Not necessarily in a bad way, just that, he does it all the time—always wanting to be near.  

And for someone so perceiving, practically all-seeing, he doesn’t really have to for him to know what you’re up to, but with every opportunity he has, he never misses a moment to be close to you.

When you wash the dishes by the sink, he stays beside you, shoulder-to-shoulder, even when the sink is wide enough to accommodate him a few inches farther. 

Even the walk to the bathroom has him tailing you, following your footsteps as he traces the footprints of slow mornings with you. 

Your bathroom counter has two sinks, but of course, today, he chooses to stay by yours. 

“Skincare?” you raise a tub of face mask. 

He doesn’t need it, but you love pampering him, so he nods, whatever you want. 

You struggle for a bit (he’s just too tall), so he picks you up by the waist and rests you on the bathroom counter, against the mirror.

He stays in the space between your legs, hands flat against your thighs. His thumb kneads your skin gently, and any other time, this position would end very differently, but there’s a look he’s giving you—all words without speaking. 

And—

“Quit staring,” you mumble, turning shy. You’re about to rub the product onto his cheeks, under his eyes. 

“What, I can’t look at you?” he moves closer, keeping his eyes locked on you as he rubs circles on your thighs. 

“No, you can, but,” you swallow, “you’re looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” his brows furrow. 

“Like that.” you sigh, gesturing to his face. 

“Like I love you?” 

And it is like that. Like he loves you. That’s why he says it so casually. 

Because he does. 

You stay quiet, stunned, before you clear your throat and finish up the final area on his face. 

“Yeah.” you mumble, reaching over to wash your hands on the sink. 

Gojo waits for you to finish before he takes a small towel to dry your hands with it. 

“As if you don’t know.” he scoffs, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter. 

He’s right—it’s been said before, but there’s something else in his eyes right now, shiny and devoted, as if this is all he could ever want. As if you, on this slow morning, in this too-big bathroom is all he could ever need. 

But he doesn’t say anything. At least, not what he really means. 

“Not my fault you’re so pretty today,” he adds on, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

It should be funny, that he’s telling you all this with a mask slathered all over his face, but his compliments always speak to the depths of you, even when you don’t expect them to. 

His fingers mold against your cheek, to your ears, down to the back of your head, bringing you closer until he kisses you softly, a gentle peck. 

Bits of the face mask transfer to your nose and you giggle, wiping it off. 

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say.” you joke.

Gojo smiles, that look on his face, “Good for you then, you’re the only one I see.”

re-uploaded because i accidentally deleted!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[faebled-stories]

Beneath Her Empire

Soloist IU (Lee Jieun) x Male reader

AN: Today is a CEO Double Header. First, it was Kinkvember with Miyeon, and now… it’s IU! 🎉

As promised, here’s the surprise I teased earlier to celebrate hitting 1K on one of my stories. Thank you all so much for your support—it means the world to me! I hope you enjoy this special treat. 💖

Happy reading! 😊

Jieun was a powerhouse. Her name commanded respect across industries, her reputation a flawless blend of ruthlessness and precision. In the sprawling glass tower that bore the insignia of her empire, her presence was omnipresent—etched into every polished surface, woven into every hushed whisper that echoed through the hallways. Her heels clicked against the marble floors like the tick of a clock, each step a deliberate reminder of the relentless drive that had built her kingdom brick by uncompromising brick.

The building itself mirrored her persona: a towering, modern monolith of steel and glass that loomed over the city like a sentinel. Inside, the air was sharp with the faint scent of expensive coffee and ozone from constantly running air purifiers. Every detail had been meticulously curated to exude authority and power—chrome fixtures that gleamed under sterile, white lights; floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of a city that bent to her will; and sleek, minimalist décor that refused to accommodate frivolity.

Her office was the crown jewel. It was a shrine to control and dominance: walls lined with perfectly organized bookshelves, black leather seating that offered no comfort, and a custom mahogany desk that seemed more like a throne than a workspace. It was a space that demanded deference from anyone who entered. The city stretched endlessly beyond her glass walls, sprawling out like a kingdom laid bare before its queen. To stand inside her domain was to feel dwarfed, insignificant—a single note in the cacophony of her power.

Everyone under her command scrambled to meet her impossible standards. Emails, reports, presentations—each was a gauntlet of scrutiny. A single misplaced decimal or poorly chosen word could summon her icy disdain, her criticism cutting and precise enough to leave even the most seasoned executives reeling. Entire departments moved like clockwork, their precision fueled by the fear of falling short of her expectations.

But amidst this kingdom of submission, one anomaly existed: you. Her assistant. The enigma.

Where others flinched under her cutting words or broke under the weight of her relentless demands, you remained unshakable. Orders that would send lesser employees into a tailspin were met with swift execution, often completed before she could even voice them fully. “Rewrite this report by midnight” or “Fix this mess before the meeting in an hour” were challenges you dispatched with quiet efficiency.

Her sharpest critiques, the verbal scalpel she wielded so effortlessly, glanced off you as though they were mere observations. Your calm unnerved her. It was maddening.

“You didn’t even flinch,” she remarked one late evening, the office silent save for the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint murmur of the city beyond. Her voice was velvet wrapped around steel, her gaze sharp as a knife as she leaned against her desk. The air between you crackled with tension. “Do you enjoy being impenetrable, or is it just your nature?”

You didn’t pause, your fingers moving fluidly across the keyboard as you adjusted her schedule. “I enjoy doing my job well,” you replied evenly, your tone polite yet distant, as though her words were just another task to process and file away.

Her jaw tightened. That calm—that maddening, unflinching calm—gnawed at her. Others stumbled, fumbled, groveled, but you… you stood like a mirror, reflecting her intensity without wavering. And she hated it—or so she told herself.

Because in truth, you fascinated her.

Her empire was built on control. Control over her competitors, her boardrooms, her subordinates. Every variable in her world bent to her will—except you. She couldn’t manipulate you. Couldn’t predict you. And that made you dangerous in a way no hostile takeover or market disruption ever had.

As she watched you work, her gaze softened despite herself. The glow of your computer screen cast a subtle light across your face, and for the first time, she noticed the details she’d overlooked: the faint shadow of your lashes against your cheek, the subtle curve of your lips as you focused, the quiet strength in the way your fingers moved with precision over the keys.

Her chest tightened. The sharp edges of her thoughts dulled into something unfamiliar, unsettling. You weren’t just efficient; you were graceful. And that grace, that quiet defiance of her expectations, made her pulse quicken in a way no competitor or hostile boardroom ever had.

“Is there anything else?” you asked, breaking the silence as you looked up, meeting her gaze. Your voice was steady, even, but there was something in your eyes—an unreadable flicker that made her breath hitch.

She straightened, brushing the moment aside like a stray thread. “That report for tomorrow’s investor meeting—have you double-checked the figures?”

“Triple-checked,” you replied without missing a beat. “It’s already in your inbox.”

For a moment, she felt the faintest flicker of satisfaction. But it wasn’t just your competence that stirred something inside her—it was the unspoken challenge. The quiet question that seemed to linger between every interaction: What will it take to crack you?

She didn’t just want your skill. She wanted your vulnerability. Wanted to see what lay beneath that impenetrable calm. And it terrified her as much as it intrigued her.

The office settled into silence again, the tension lingering like an unanswered question. Beyond the glass, the city pulsed with life, a sprawling testament to her dominance. But inside these walls, her thoughts were consumed by the one thing she couldn’t conquer.

You.

-----

The next day began like any other. You delivered her morning coffee—black, two sugars—and placed a stack of meticulously organized reports on her desk. The room was pristine, her fortress of control reflected in every gleaming surface, the faint hum of the air conditioning blending with the rhythmic clicks of her pen. Each detail in her office was an extension of her, an embodiment of her ruthless precision: the stark black-and-white palette, the pens aligned perfectly parallel, the faint scent of jasmine and amber that lingered in the air. Yet, despite the perfection, the tension was undeniable—thick and unspoken, crackling faintly like a distant storm.

Jieun glanced at the clock, her expression neutral, though the subtle tightening of her jaw betrayed her simmering irritation. Her fingers wrapped around the porcelain mug with just a touch more force than necessary, her knuckles whitening against the delicate surface. “You’re late,” she said, her tone clipped and precise, her eyes darting toward you briefly before returning to the reports. But you knew better—she wasn’t irritated by the time; she was irritated by you.

“Three minutes early,” you corrected, your voice smooth and calm, as unruffled as still water. The slight inflection, the subtle edge, carried a quiet defiance that danced on the line between professionalism and provocation.

Her fingers tightened further around the mug, her irritation bubbling beneath the surface. She looked up at you, her gaze sharp as a blade. “Cheeky, aren’t you?” she said, her voice dropping lower, almost a growl. “Maybe I should assign you an extra project—something to keep that sharp mouth of yours busy.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. Instead, you met her gaze with the faintest flicker of a smirk—a silent challenge that made her pulse stutter, though she would never admit it. “I’m here to do whatever you need, ma’am.”

The words hung in the air, thick with an unspoken tension that neither of you acknowledged but both felt acutely. Her cheeks flushed faintly, a delicate bloom of color that she was quick to disguise by turning her attention back to the reports in front of her. She shuffled the papers with unnecessary force, the soft rustle filling the silence as though to drown out her own thoughts. But you saw through her; you always did. She wasn’t fooling anyone—least of all herself.

Her voice came sharper now, as though trying to reassert control. “Close the door.”

The soft click of the door shutting seemed louder in the stillness of the room, the final note of an unspoken symphony of tension. When you turned back, she was leaning against her desk, her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed. The faint gleam of the cityscape beyond her glass walls illuminated her features, casting a subtle glow that softened her otherwise hard expression. Yet there was something different about her—an almost imperceptible crack in her icy composure, a vulnerability she fought to keep buried.

“Do you enjoy being so… untouchable?” she asked, her tone sharp, her words biting, but beneath them was something else entirely. Curiosity? Longing? You couldn’t quite place it, but it was there, glinting faintly in her eyes.

“Untouchable?” you echoed, stepping closer, the faint scent of her perfume reaching you—a rich, heady blend of jasmine and amber that seemed to fill the space between you. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Her lips parted slightly, as though she wanted to respond, but the words faltered. Instead, she clenched her jaw, frustration mounting like a rising tide. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” she snapped, her voice sharper now, laced with irritation and something else—something she couldn’t name. “Always so composed. So… perfect.”

You moved closer still, your steps deliberate, your presence filling the space between you. Her back straightened instinctively, her breath catching, though she didn’t move away. Her chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms, the subtle crack in her control widening.

“You’re the one always testing me,” you said softly, your tone steady, as calm as the eye of a storm. “Are you upset that I pass every time?”

Her hand twitched at her side, her knuckles brushing the edge of the desk as though seeking stability. For a moment, she looked ready to retort, her lips parting as sharp words formed on her tongue. But when you leaned in, the heat of your body brushing against hers without touching, she froze. The air between you grew heavy, charged with an electricity that seemed to hum in the silence.

“You think you can—” she began, her voice strained, caught somewhere between anger and uncertainty.

“I know I can,” you interrupted smoothly, your tone firm but calm, your words like a scalpel cutting through her defenses. Her eyes widened slightly, her breath hitching as you continued. “But let’s not pretend you’re helpless here. If you really want me gone, fire me.”

The suggestion landed like a challenge, and her breath faltered. For a split second, her composure cracked, her expression flickering between control and something raw, something vulnerable. “You think I won’t?” she shot back, her voice sharp but unsteady, her tone betraying her hesitation.

You tilted your head, studying her intently, your gaze unyielding. “Go ahead,” you said softly, your voice even but weighted. “But we both know that’s not what you want.”

Her back hit the edge of the desk as you stepped forward, your proximity dissolving the last remnants of her icy veneer. Her breaths came quicker now, the faintest quiver in her chest betraying her. “You’re insufferable,” she said, her voice trembling slightly, the words lacking their usual bite.

“And yet,” you countered, a faint smile tugging at your lips, your voice carrying quiet amusement, “you’re still here.”

Her fingers gripped the edge of the desk tightly, her knuckles whitening as though bracing against the weight of her own emotions. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she muttered, but even as she spoke, the quiver in her voice betrayed her, her gaze locked on yours as the tension between you reached a breaking point.

“You’re enjoying this,” you observed, your voice low and deliberate, like the steady tide lapping against her crumbling walls.

“I’m not,” she shot back quickly, her tone defensive, but the hitch in her breath and the faint flush creeping down her neck betrayed her.

You stepped closer, your presence overwhelming in the otherwise silent office. The warm scent of her jasmine and amber perfume mingled with the tension in the air as you leaned in, your lips stopping just a breath away from her ear. “Prove it,” you murmured, the words carrying the weight of both a command and a dare. “Lift your skirt.”

Her entire body went rigid, her sharp eyes narrowing as they locked onto yours. “Excuse me?” she demanded, her voice sharp and biting, though the faint waver beneath her words spoke of the battle raging within her.

“You heard me,” you replied, your voice calm but unyielding, the suggestion hanging in the air like a challenge she couldn’t ignore. “Unless, of course, you’re too scared.”

Her cheeks flamed, indignation and something deeper flashing across her expression. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared you down, her grip tightening on the edge of the desk behind her. For a moment, you thought she might unleash her infamous temper, driving you back with the full force of her authority. But then, after a tense pause, her breathing grew uneven. Slowly, reluctantly, her hands moved to the hem of her skirt. Her fingers trembled as she lifted it just enough to reveal the delicate lace of her panties.

A soft, almost inaudible chuckle escaped your lips, and her head snapped up, her glare fierce, though tinged with embarrassment. “What’s so funny?” she demanded, her voice shaking but still defiant.

“How easy that was,” you said, your tone a blend of mockery and quiet satisfaction. “For all your resistance, look where we are.”

Her glare burned brighter, her defiance a flickering flame against the onslaught of her own body’s betrayal. She tried to steel herself, but her knees quivered, and her breaths came faster, shallower. The flush creeping down her neck deepened, and her lips parted as if to retort, but the words never came.

You leaned in closer then, your face mere inches from hers, so close that she could feel the warmth of your breath against her skin. Her eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, her lips parted slightly, tilting toward yours in unconscious surrender, her body leaning forward as if seeking what she swore she didn’t want.

But you didn’t give her what she was hoping for. Instead, your hand moved deliberately, brushing over the damp fabric of her panties, the heat radiating through them impossible to miss. Her body jolted slightly at the touch, her breath catching audibly, a strangled gasp escaping her lips.

You withdrew your fingers, holding them between you both as you met her gaze. “Here,” you murmured, pressing your fingers lightly to her lips. “Taste what you’re feeling right now.”

Her eyes widened in shock, her lips parting instinctively as she stared at you, her expression a tumultuous mix of humiliation, arousal, and disbelief. Her body didn’t pull away, though. If anything, she froze, caught in the intensity of the moment.

“You’re losing control, Jieun,” you whispered, your tone steady, a quiet dominance threading through every word. “But don’t worry. I won’t take it all from you… not yet.”

Her response was immediate and raw—a sharp, trembling inhale as your words sent another wave of tension through her. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, the edges of her nails pressing into her palms as she fought to hold on to the frayed edges of her composure.

“Don’t act like you don’t want this,” you said, your voice calm, almost soothing, but heavy with authority as your hand returned to her waist, your grip firm but unhurried.

Her eyes flashed with defiance, even as her body betrayed her again—her breathing was shallow now, her chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms. “You’re insufferable,” she spat, though the tremor in her voice softened the bite of her words. “This—whatever you think this is—ends now.”

You tilted your head, studying her, your gaze steady and unyielding. “Then stop me,” you said softly, the calm power in your tone making her breath hitch again. “Push me away. Tell me to leave.”

Her lips parted, sharp words poised to cut, but they never left her tongue. Instead, silence filled the space between you, heavy and charged. The flush deepened in her cheeks, and her fingers twitched as though to shove you, but her hands hovered with uncertainty, suspended near your chest.

“Exactly,” you said, a faint smirk tugging at your lips. “You don’t want me to stop.”

Her body tensed, her jaw tightening as though she were bracing herself for a fight she wasn’t sure she could win. “You’re so full of yourself,” she muttered, but the quiver in her voice betrayed her growing surrender.

“And you’re trembling again,” you replied smoothly, leaning closer, letting your breath tickle her ear. “Admit it.”

“I’m not—” Her protest dissolved into a strangled moan as your other hand moved lower, tracing the line of her hips before stopping just short of where she wanted you most. The shift in her stance, the faint quiver in her knees—every reaction spoke louder than words.

“You’re so tense,” you murmured, your tone teasing, as your fingers ghosted over her inner thigh. “Always in control. Always the one calling the shots. How does it feel to let someone else take over for once?”

Her jaw clenched, and for a moment, she looked as though she might fight back. But when your hand pressed closer, her body melted into something softer, more pliant. “This isn’t…” she started, her voice cracking slightly before trailing off into a strangled moan as your fingers finally brushed against the damp lace again, teasing with deliberate slowness.

You chuckled softly, the sound low and deliberate. “That’s all it took?” you teased, each word cutting through the haze between you both. “For all your fire, all your resistance…”

Her glare flickered weakly, but it was drowned out by the way her body leaned instinctively into your touch. Her breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps, and her hands gripped the desk behind her as though it were the only thing keeping her grounded.

“Look at you,” you said, your voice laced with quiet amusement, your fingers moving deliberately slow, drawing shivers from her with every teasing motion. “All that power, all that fire… and yet here you are.”

Her lips parted again, a sharp retort dying on her tongue as a soft, desperate sound escaped her instead. She was trembling now, her knees threatening to buckle as your touch brought her closer to the edge.

And then, in one fluid motion, you slid her panties to the side and plunged a single finger inside her. The sharp gasp she released was almost a cry, her walls immediately clenching around you as if they had been waiting, anticipating. The heat and wetness that greeted you were overwhelming, her body responding to your touch as though it had been longing for this exact moment.

Your movements were deliberate, unhurried as you curled your finger against the perfect spot inside her, pressing firmly with an accuracy that made her entire body jolt. Her legs trembled, her back arching slightly, and the sound she made—a raw, guttural moan—was one you knew she hadn’t planned to release.

Her climax hit her like a wave, crashing over her with an intensity that seemed to ripple from her very core. Her cries were unrestrained, unguarded, each one tumbling from her lips in a way that seemed to shock even her. Her knees buckled beneath her, her grip on the desk the only thing keeping her from collapsing entirely.

You didn’t move your finger. Instead holding it there, pressed against her most sensitive spot, letting her ride the full force of her release. Her body pulsed around you, clenching and releasing in rhythm, and you stayed perfectly still, letting her shudders tell you just how devastatingly effective you had been.

“Perfect,” you murmured softly, your voice calm and deliberate, cutting through the haze of her climax. You felt every ripple, every quiver as though her body were speaking to you directly. “It’s like I’ve known you all along.”

Her head slumped forward, her forehead brushing against your shoulder, her entire frame leaning heavily against you as if her strength had been completely drained. Her breaths came in short, frantic bursts, her chest heaving as she tried to recover. Even now, her body trembled uncontrollably, the aftershocks of her release rippling through her with a relentless rhythm.

You stayed where you were, your finger still pressing lightly against her, not withdrawing, not relenting. Each faint motion, each slight tremor from you sent another shiver coursing through her body. Her hands clung to the desk, knuckles white as if it were the only thing tethering her to reality.

Her breathing began to even out, though the tremble in her frame remained. Slowly, shakily, she straightened, her hands still gripping the desk as she attempted to reclaim some semblance of control. Her legs felt weak beneath her, and her gaze stayed fixed downward for a moment, as if gathering herself.

When she finally spoke, her voice was shaky but carried a thread of defiance, that sharpness she clung to like armor. “This doesn’t mean anything,” she whispered, the words almost bitten off, as if saying them would rebuild the walls that had so clearly shattered.

You chuckled softly, the sound low and intimate, letting the air between you grow heavy with unspoken understanding. Leaning in close, your lips brushed against her ear without touching, the heat of your breath making her shiver again. “You’re body’s seaking me out,” you murmured, your tone steady and deliberate, like a truth she couldn’t escape. “And we both know that doesn’t lie.”

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the desk as though it were the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Her jaw set stubbornly, her breaths shallow and uneven. “You’re wrong,” she said, her voice strained, defiance dripping from every syllable, though the faint shivers running through her body betrayed her.

You tilted your head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Really?” you asked, your voice softening into something darker, more deliberate. Without warning, your finger moved, a quick series of three pumps, nothing more nothing less, curling expertly each time to press against the perfect spot inside her.

Her reaction was instant. A loud, raw moan tore from her lips, her head falling back as her knees buckled slightly. Her body clenched tightly around your finger, gripping you as though she couldn’t bear for you to stop. Her hands scrambled against the desk, her nails pressing into the smooth surface as if anchoring her against the force of her own response.

You stilled, watching her carefully, your gaze steady as her body continued to tremble. She didn’t try to pull away. If anything, her hips shifted slightly toward you, her walls fluttering against your finger with an unmistakable need she didn’t dare voice. The sight of her—weak, exposed, yet still trying to hold onto her pride—made your smirk deepen.

Slowly, deliberately, you withdrew your finger, letting her feel every inch as you pulled it free. The wetness clung to you, glistening in the dim light of the room. Holding your hand up, you let her see it, the evidence of her arousal undeniable as her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths.

“You’re not even trying to stop me,” you murmured, your voice low and steady, each word measured. “Do you know what that tells me?”

Her eyes followed your movement, wide and unblinking, as you brought your finger to your lips. With deliberate slowness, you licked it clean, your tongue dragging over your skin as her taste lingered—intoxicating, unmistakable. She inhaled sharply, her breath hitching audibly as she watched, her cheeks flushed with both humiliation and something far deeper.

“Delicious,” you said softly, your tone dripping with quiet dominance. The word lingered in the air, heavy and intimate, wrapping around her like a tether.

Your gaze flicked downward, drawn to the way her lower folds quivered, visibly pulsating with need. The sight made a soft chuckle escape your lips as you straightened, the sound low and intimate, meant only for her.

“You love the idea of me taking control, Jieun,” you said, your voice firm yet calm, the quiet authority in your tone slicing through the charged air between you. Leaning in, your breath brushed against her ear, the heat sending a visible shiver down her spine. “Keep telling yourself otherwise if it makes you feel better. But the way you’re holding onto that desk like it’s the only thing keeping you upright? The way you’re clenching and pulsing, even now?” You let the words hang, heavy with meaning, the unspoken truth settling between you.

Reaching out, you tilted her chin up with a gentle but unyielding grip, forcing her to meet your gaze. Her eyes burned with defiance, sharp and fiery, but it was the kind of fire that flickered, the kind that threatened to extinguish under the weight of her trembling body. Her lips parted slightly, her breathing uneven as though she wanted to speak, to fight back—but no words came. The tension in her body betrayed her, speaking louder than anything she could say.

“It’s all the proof I need,” you murmured, your voice like velvet over steel, unrelenting and sure.

Her gaze locked onto yours, and for a fleeting moment, the defiance cracked. Her body swayed slightly toward you, drawn in despite herself. Her lips moved, as if to form a retort, but silence claimed her, leaving only the faint tremble of her knees and the shallow rise and fall of her chest. She was exposed in every sense of the word, her usual armor shattered in the wake of your calm dominance.

Without breaking eye contact, you reached toward the hem of her skirt, lifting it slightly higher to see her soaked panties clinging to her. The evidence of her arousal was undeniable, a mark of surrender she couldn’t deny. You raised a brow, a faint smirk curving your lips as your fingers brushed lightly over the lace. She jolted slightly at the contact, her breath catching audibly.

“Take them off,” you said, your tone calm but commanding, the words hanging in the air like an inescapable truth.

Her eyes widened slightly, her breath quickening. “You can’t be serious,” she muttered, the faintest quiver in her voice betraying her.

“I don’t like to repeat myself, Jieun,” you replied smoothly, stepping back just enough to let your gaze sweep over her trembling form.

Her fingers tightened against the desk, knuckles whitening as she fought the impulse to push back. But after a moment of hesitation, her hands moved toward her waist. Slowly, shakily, she hooked her fingers into the waistband of her panties and slid them down her legs. The lace slipped away, damp and glistening, and she stepped out of them with a soft, almost inaudible whimper.

Without breaking eye contact, you extended your hand toward her, the weight of your command leaving no room for argument. “Hand them to me.”

Her fingers hesitated, trembling slightly as she held the damp lace in her hand. Her gaze flicked to yours, her eyes wide with a mix of embarrassment and resistance, but she didn’t dare refuse. Slowly, she extended the panties toward you, her lips pressing into a thin line as though holding back a protest.

You took them from her, your touch deliberate as your fingers brushed hers. The lace was damp and warm, and as you inspected it, the glistening evidence of her surrender was undeniable. The corner of your mouth tugged upward in a faint, knowing smirk.

“Open your mouth,” you said, your tone calm but firm, each word an unspoken challenge.

Her eyes widened slightly, her hesitation evident in the way her lips pressed together momentarily. “What?” she stammered, her voice cracking just slightly, a rare break in her usual composure.

“You heard me,” you replied, your voice unyielding as you stepped closer, towering over her as the weight of your presence filled the space between you. “Tilt your head back. Open your mouth.”

She froze for a moment, her pride warring with the command. But slowly, reluctantly, she obeyed. Her lips parted, and she tilted her head back slightly, her breath uneven as her chest rose and fell in shallow waves.

You held the soaked lace above her, the tension in the room thick enough to steal the air. Her lips parted slightly, her tongue peeking out in hesitant obedience, though her wide, uncertain eyes flicked between you and the fabric. Every movement, every unspoken word, heightened the weight of the moment.

With deliberate slowness, you brought the lace closer, the damp material glistening in the dim light. A single drop of her arousal clung to the edge, threatening to fall. Her breath hitched audibly, and though her body remained rigid, you could see the faintest tremble in her shoulders, her vulnerability laid bare.

“Keep your mouth open,” you murmured, your voice low but commanding.

She obeyed, tilting her head back slightly, her jaw tightening with the effort to maintain her composure. Her tongue twitched faintly, her breaths uneven as her chest rose and fell in shallow waves.

Your fingers pressed into the lace, a deliberate, controlled motion as you wrung it ever so slightly. The drop fell, cutting through the charged silence like a stone into still water, landing with precision on her tongue. The faint sound of her sharp inhale followed, her lips trembling as the unmistakable taste of herself spread across her senses.

“Good girl,” you murmured, your voice low and smooth as the corners of your mouth curled into a faint smirk. “Do you taste it? That’s all you. That’s what I bring out of you.”

Her cheeks burned a deep crimson, the flush spreading down her neck as her eyes darted away briefly before returning to yours, wide and uncertain. Her trembling lips remained parted as though she couldn’t decide whether to protest or remain silent.

You tucked the lace into your pocket as though it were the most natural thing in the world, the gesture deliberate and final. Reaching out, you brushed a finger under her chin, guiding her gaze back to yours. “Clean yourself up,” you instructed, your voice steady and authoritative. “I don’t want anyone else seeing you like this.”

She blinked, her breath uneven as the weight of your command settled over her. For a moment, she didn’t move, as though her mind was still catching up to her body’s overwhelming reactions. Then, with trembling hands, she reached for a tissue from her desk, her movements slow and shaky as she dabbed at her thighs, avoiding your gaze all the while.

Satisfied, you straightened your sleeves, your posture immaculate as though the entire exchange had been just another task in your day. As you turned toward the door, you paused, glancing back over your shoulder one last time.

“Next time,” you said, your voice carrying quiet authority, “don’t hesitate when I give you an order.”

And with that, you stepped out, leaving her standing there, trembling and exposed, the faint taste of herself lingering on her lips and the weight of your dominance etched into her very being.

-----

The next day, Jieun entered the office like a storm wrapped in silk. Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floor, their rhythm precise and unyielding. Her tailored suit fit like armor, her every movement calculated to command attention. Colleagues instinctively straightened as she passed, their murmured greetings met with curt nods. To the outside world, she was the same Jieun—immaculate, untouchable, and utterly in control.

Yet beneath the surface, the cracks were there. Her gaze lingered longer than it should have, catching on the way your shoulders moved as you bent over a file, the curve of your neck, the efficiency with which your hands moved as you typed. There was an intimacy to the way you worked—practiced, composed, deliberate. It made her pulse quicken in ways she couldn’t ignore.

When you handed her the morning coffee—black, two sugars—your fingers brushed hers. The contact was fleeting, but the heat of it jolted her like a live wire. She froze for half a second, her grip tightening on the porcelain cup. You stepped back, the perfect picture of professionalism, your tone smooth and detached as you said, “Your schedule’s clear until eleven.”

“Fine,” she replied curtly, her voice clipped, though her throat felt tight, her chest heavier than she would ever admit. She turned toward her desk, her back rigid, but her focus was elsewhere entirely. The memory of your touch, the way your voice had commanded her, the way her body had betrayed her that night—all of it played on a loop in her mind. Her knuckles whitened around the cup as she gritted her teeth, trying to banish the heat rising in her chest.

The tension between you was tangible, like an invisible string stretched taut. Jieun threw herself into her work with ferocity, her words sharper than ever as she snapped at her team for minor errors. Reports that would have been accepted with a terse nod now earned icy critiques. But no amount of work could distract her. Every glance your way, every quiet moment, only brought the memory of your hands, your voice, the devastating control you had over her.

That night, alone in her starkly minimalist penthouse, the ache became unbearable. The lights of the city twinkled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but they offered no comfort as she lay in her immaculate bed, staring at the ceiling. Her fingers curled against the sheets, and her mind betrayed her again, replaying every word you had said, every touch, every look. She squeezed her thighs together, the tension unbearable.

Her hand drifted downward, her fingers brushing against her skin as she tried to mimic the way you had touched her. Her movements were hesitant at first, then desperate, but it wasn’t the same. Her breath hitched as she tried again, pressing harder, angling differently, searching for the precision you had wielded so effortlessly. But no matter how much she tried, the release she craved remained elusive. Her frustration bubbled over as she flung the covers off and stalked to the bathroom, glaring at her flushed, disheveled reflection in the mirror.

Pulling open a drawer, she retrieved a sleek, expensive toy. It gleamed under the bathroom light, a piece of technology she rarely used. She returned to the bed, her movements stiff with frustration. Pressing the toy against herself, she let out a shaky breath as the vibrations buzzed against her sensitive skin. She moved it in slow circles, mimicking the rhythm she remembered, trying to summon even a fraction of the sensation you had evoked.

It wasn’t enough.

Her jaw clenched as she pushed the toy deeper, angling it to mimic the way your fingers had curled inside her, pressing against her in ways that left her trembling. But this was hollow, mechanical, and the spark she craved was nowhere to be found. She threw the toy aside with a frustrated growl, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. The ache remained, gnawing at her resolve, a constant reminder of what she couldn’t replicate.

The next night was no different. She tried again, her fingers this time, her movements more frantic. Then the toy. Then both. Still, nothing. The emptiness mocked her, her body betraying her again and again. She pressed harder, her breaths ragged, but the hollow frustration only grew. With a strangled noise, she shoved the covers away and stalked to the window, glaring at the city below as though it could offer her some answer.

By day, she tried to maintain her façade. Her heels clicked against the office floors, her commands sharp and efficient. But the cracks began to show. Her sharp retorts to her team lacked their usual edge, her words often trailing off mid-sentence as her mind wandered to you. She found herself stealing glances, her gaze lingering too long in meetings. The tilt of your head, the calm authority in your tone, the way your hands moved with steady confidence—it maddened her how unaffected you seemed. As if nothing had changed. As if she were the only one consumed by what had happened.

She stayed late at the office, hoping you might linger as you had that night. But you didn’t. The emptiness of the space only amplified the ache, the silence pressing against her as she stared out the window, her hands clenched into fists. The lights of the city blurred as her vision wavered, her breath uneven.

Even as she left the office, the echo of your voice followed her, filling every quiet moment, every still space. And no matter how much she tried to deny it, no matter how much she tried to distract herself, the truth gnawed at her with relentless persistence.

Then, one morning, you didn’t show up to work.

At first, Jieun dismissed it. Perhaps you were late, caught in traffic, or dealing with some mundane emergency. But as the hours ticked by, a strange unease began to curl in her chest. You were never late, never absent without notice. You were the definition of reliability—steady, unshakable, always one step ahead.

By mid-morning, her irritation had grown into something sharper. The absence of your calm efficiency left her world slightly off-kilter, like a watch with a missing gear. Tasks piled up on her desk, unanswered emails blinked back at her, and she found herself snapping at her team for minor mistakes. She couldn't focus, the edge in her voice cutting deeper with each passing hour.

Where were you? Why hadn’t you called or emailed?

By the time the afternoon sun cast long shadows across her office, she couldn’t take it anymore. She sat at her desk, fingers drumming against the sleek surface as she stared at her computer screen. Your name was highlighted in your employee file, the information a mere click away. For a moment, her hand hovered over the mouse, hesitation creeping in. What was she doing? This was unprofessional. Reckless.

But the need gnawed at her—the unanswered questions, the silence that amplified her already simmering frustration. She clicked. Your address filled the screen, a piece of information she had no business using. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she grabbed her coat and left the office without a word, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

The drive was a blur, her thoughts spiraling as she gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary. The logic she prided herself on, the control she wielded like a weapon, seemed to dissolve with each mile. What was she doing? Why did it matter so much?

When she arrived at your address, the reality of her actions hit her like a cold wind. Standing in front of your door, her confidence faltered. Her hand hovered over the handle as her breaths came uneven and shallow. What was she expecting? An explanation? A confrontation? An answer to the ache that had plagued her since the last night she saw you?

Her teeth clenched as she pushed the doubts aside. She didn’t chase after people. She didn’t lose control. And yet, here she was.

The door was unlocked.

Her heart jumped in her chest as she turned the handle and stepped inside. The air was warm, carrying the faint scent of coffee and something distinctly, undeniably you. The space was quiet, calm—a blend of simplicity and understated authority that mirrored your demeanor perfectly. Every detail, from the neatly arranged bookshelves to the small but deliberate decorations, felt like an extension of you. It was intimate in a way that made her feel like an intruder.

“Hello?” she called out, her voice steady despite the way her pulse raced.

There was no answer.

She hesitated for a moment before stepping further inside, her heels muffled against the soft floor. Her sharp eyes scanned the room, taking in the small but significant signs of your presence. A book left open on the coffee table, a jacket draped neatly over a chair. It was so distinctly you that it made her chest tighten.

And then she heard it.

Soft, muffled cries coming from a room down the hall.

Jieun froze, her breath catching in her throat. The sound was faint, almost drowned out by the silence, but unmistakable. It was laced with desperation and something else she couldn’t quite place. Her pulse quickened as she took a step forward, then another, each movement feeling heavier than the last.

Her hand hesitated on the door handle. For a moment, the remnants of logic screamed at her to stop, to turn around and leave. This was a line she shouldn’t cross. But the sound—those muffled cries—pulled her forward, her curiosity and something far more visceral overriding her better judgment.

She pushed the door open.

What she saw made her breath hitch audibly, her chest tightening in a way that was equal parts shock and something darker, something she couldn’t yet name.

The room was dimly lit, bathed in the warm, flickering glow of candles that cast dancing shadows across the walls. Racks of tools were arranged meticulously—a showcase of control and intent. Ropes coiled neatly, paddles hung like an artist's brushes, and cuffs gleamed under the faint light. The air was thick, carrying the intoxicating mix of leather and something deeper, more primal, that made IU’s chest tighten the moment she stepped inside.

Her breath hitched as her eyes landed on you. You stood in the center of the room, sleeves rolled up, the definition in your forearms catching the dim light as you gripped a paddle. Your posture was calm, exuding an effortless dominance that seemed to fill the space. Every movement you made was deliberate, a symphony of control that left no doubt as to who was in charge.

Bent over a padded bench was one of her coworkers—a junior team member, a woman Jieun recognized immediately. The coworker’s wrists were tied securely to the frame, her back arched, her body trembling. Her cries filled the room, raw and needy, echoing with every measured strike of the paddle. The resounding smack reverberated through the air, followed by a gasp that sent a jolt through Jieun’s chest.

“Please,” the coworker begged, her voice trembling with desperation. “More—please, Master.”

The word hit Jieun like a physical blow, her body tensing as an unfamiliar heat flooded her chest. She knew she should leave. This was private, intimate—a moment she had no right to witness. Her logical mind screamed at her to turn away, to back out of the room and forget she ever saw this.

But she didn’t.

Her feet stayed rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before her. She watched, her breaths shallow, as you paused, your eyes narrowing slightly as though gauging every flicker of emotion, every tremor in the body before you. The paddle struck again, and the coworker cried out, her voice laced with pain and pleasure. It was impossible to ignore the authority you commanded, the calculated precision in every motion.

Jieun hated how her body betrayed her. Her breath caught involuntarily, her cheeks flushed with heat she couldn’t suppress. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, the ache low in her abdomen building with every soft cry, every gasp that left your coworker’s lips. She clenched her fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms.

Why couldn’t she look away?

Her throat tightened as she stood there, watching the scene burning itself into her mind. The sound of the paddle striking flesh, the way your expression remained calm and deliberate as if nothing could rattle you, the way you exuded complete control—it all gnawed at her in ways she couldn’t name. The coworker’s cries of “Master” rang in her ears, and with each plea, a sharp, biting feeling twisted in her chest.

Jealousy.

The realization hit her hard, a visceral, raw sensation she didn’t want to acknowledge. Her fingers twitched as she clenched her fists tighter, her entire body stiffening as she fought to push down the wave of emotions. She couldn’t be jealous. She shouldn’t be jealous. Yet the feeling remained, simmering just beneath her skin.

Her gaze darted back to you. The way you leaned down slightly, whispering something inaudible to the coworker that made her body shudder with anticipation. The way you stepped back, your posture unshaken, as though every second was choreographed to perfection. It was maddening.

Why was she still here?

Her pulse quickened as her eyes flicked toward the coworker again, her body trembling, her cries growing louder as she strained against the bonds. Jieun’s hands shook faintly at her sides. She didn’t know why she stayed—why her feet refused to move, why she couldn’t tear her gaze away from you. But every second she lingered, the emotions grew stronger, more unbearable.

The coworker gasped again, her voice soft and breathless. “Thank you, Master,” she whispered, her tone dripping with surrender.

That was enough.

Forcing herself to take a step back, Jieun turned and slipped out of the room, her movements hurried and unsteady. Her heart pounded as she moved down the hall, her heels clicking softly against the floor. The sound felt deafening in the heavy silence. She didn’t stop until she reached the front door, her hand gripping the handle tightly as she drew in a shaky breath.

But even as she stepped outside, the scene played on a loop in her mind. The flickering candlelight, the raw cries, the way you had commanded every moment with such authority—it haunted her. Her hands trembled as she gripped the steering wheel on her drive home, her breaths uneven.

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

The ache in her chest remained, gnawing at her resolve. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw you. Saw the way you had dominated the room, the way the coworker had surrendered so completely, calling you “Master” as though it was the only name that mattered. She hated the way it lingered, the way her body burned with unrelenting need.

Her fingers curled into the sheets as she lay in bed, the tension unbearable. She tried to mimic what she had seen, pressing her hand between her thighs, but the movements felt empty. Her breath hitched as frustration built, and she flung the covers off with a growl, glaring at the ceiling as the memory of your calm, deliberate control consumed her.

No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t shake the thought that kept echoing in her mind.

That should have been me.

Her fingers twitched at her side as she lay in bed, the ache in her body impossible to ignore. She tried to imagine herself in that room, her wrists bound, her voice trembling as she begged for more. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, and she hated how much it aroused her.

She reached for her bedside drawer, pulling out the same sleek toy she had discarded nights ago. This time, she didn’t bother with slow circles or precision. She pressed it against herself with a desperate urgency, trying to recapture the intensity she had felt while watching you.

But it wasn’t enough.

Her frustration mounted as she adjusted the angle, increased the speed, but no matter what she did, the sensation felt empty. She threw the toy aside with a muffled curse, her breaths ragged as she pressed a hand to her forehead.

It wasn’t just the touch she craved—it was you. The control, the way you had commanded every second of that scene. No toy, no amount of imagination could replace that.

The jealousy lingered, sharp and bitter, even as exhaustion finally overtook her. She fell into a restless sleep, her dreams filled with flickering candlelight, muffled cries, and the sound of your calm, deliberate voice.

-----

When you didn’t show up again the next day, Jieun’s frustration reached a breaking point. The unanswered questions gnawed at her, the simmering jealousy flared hotter, and the aching memories of your touch refused to leave her alone. Her sharp temper lashed out at anyone who dared cross her path, her clipped words leaving stunned silence in their wake. By midday, she couldn’t concentrate, her carefully maintained composure unraveling piece by piece.

Enough was enough.

Her decision was swift, driven by desperation she refused to fully acknowledge. She grabbed her coat, her movements sharp and decisive, and left the office without a word. The city blurred around her as she made her way to your place, the familiar unease in her chest tightening with every step. By the time she reached your door, her mind was a whirl of justifications she didn’t fully believe.

Storming inside, she went straight for the room she had seen before, the memory of its dim glow and charged air etched into her thoughts. But this time, the space was silent, empty of the intimate scene she had stumbled upon. The candles were gone, the tools hung neatly in their places, and the padded bench sat undisturbed at the room’s center, a ghost of the moment that haunted her.

Her breath came uneven as she stopped in the middle of the room. A strange mix of relief and disappointment churned within her. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms as she scanned the quiet space. What was she even looking for? Why had she come?

“You came back,” your voice broke the silence, calm and deliberate, cutting through her thoughts like a blade.

She froze. The air seemed to shift, growing heavier as her heart leapt into her throat. Slowly, she turned, her breaths shallow as her gaze locked onto you.

You stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, leaning casually against the frame. There was an unmistakable ease in your posture, a quiet authority that commanded the room as naturally as the flickering candles once had. Your expression was unreadable, but a flicker of amusement danced in your eyes, sharp and knowing.

Her cheeks flushed with heat, a mix of anger and humiliation rising to meet the calm challenge in your gaze. “I—” she started, but the words faltered.

“Don’t bother lying,” you interrupted smoothly, your tone firm but laced with faint amusement. “I know you were here yesterday. I have cameras.”

Her eyes widened briefly, the flash of shock betraying her before she masked it with a glare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped, her arms crossing defensively.

You stepped into the room, closing the door behind you with deliberate finality. Each step brought you closer, the space between you shrinking as your steady gaze pinned her in place. “You’ve been thinking about the office,” you said, your voice low, deliberate, each word a calculated stroke. “About how I made you feel. And now you’ve seen more. You’ve seen what I’m capable of.”

Her breath hitched at the accusation, her jaw tightening as she fought to maintain control. “You’re so full of yourself,” she spat, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.

“Am I?” you replied, arching a brow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. You stopped just short of her, your presence filling the space between you. “Then tell me why you’re here, Jieun. If it’s not because of me, why didn’t you just stay away?”

Her mouth opened as if to fire back, but no words came. The heat in her cheeks deepened as she looked away briefly, only to find your gaze following hers. Memories of your voice, your touch, the way you had undone her so completely, crashed over her. Her breathing quickened, the tension in the room coiling tighter around her.

“You have two choices,” you said calmly, each word deliberate. “You can leave, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

The pause stretched between you, the weight of your ultimatum sinking in. “Or…” you added, your voice dipping, charged with quiet authority, “you’ll strip. Kneel. And let me finish what I started.”

The room felt impossibly still, every second drawn out. IU’s breath hitched, her hands clenching at her sides as she wrestled with herself. Her pride screamed at her to walk away, to turn and reclaim the control she had prided herself on. But her body betrayed her, the ache of need overwhelming the thin veneer of resistance.

Her trembling hands moved to the buttons of her blouse, her motions slow and hesitant at first. Each button she slipped free seemed louder in the silence, the sound echoing in the charged air. Her gaze remained fixed on yours, sharp and fiery, her defiance flickering even as her resolve crumbled.

The blouse slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet as she stood exposed, her chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths.

“Good,” you murmured, the satisfaction in your voice unmistakable. “Now, kneel.”

For a moment, her pride flared again, holding her in place. But the pull of your authority was undeniable. Slowly, she sank to her knees, her hands resting uncertainly on her thighs. Her head tilted upward slightly, her gaze locked onto yours with a mix of defiance and surrender.

You stepped closer, your presence towering over her as you looked down. The faintest hint of a smile curved your lips, and she shivered under the weight of it, knowing that this was her final undoing.

“Stand up,” you commanded, your voice steady and firm.

For a moment, she didn’t move, her lips pressing into a tight line as though she was deciding whether to resist outright. Her fingers flexed, and her jaw tightened, but then, with deliberate slowness, she rose to her feet. Every movement was a calculated effort to hold onto her composure, but her hesitation was unmistakable—the slight falter in her breath, the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes as she stood before you.

Her skin was warm, the faintest sheen of perspiration catching the dim light, and despite the heat in the room, goosebumps spread along her arms. Her breaths came shallow and uneven, though her sharp gaze tried to mask the undercurrent of vulnerability.

You gestured toward the wooden sign near the door. “Read it,” you instructed, your voice calm but imbued with a quiet authority that left no room for refusal.

Her eyes lingered on the sign, her posture stiffening as though weighing whether to comply. Finally, she spoke, her tone low but laced with a faint edge of defiance. “Red means stop.”

“Good,” you said, taking a deliberate step closer, the tension between you thickening. “That’s all you need to say. If you do, everything stops. No questions, no hesitation.”

Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, and her lips pressed together in a thin line. Her gaze remained locked on yours, but the flicker of resistance was tempered by the faint quiver in her shoulders, a telltale sign of her inner turmoil.

“Say it again,” you pressed, your tone quiet but insistent.

“Understood,” she bit out curtly, her voice sharp.

You tilted your head, studying her for a moment before your lips curved into a faint smirk. “Not like that,” you murmured, stepping closer until the heat of your body brushed against hers, forcing her to tilt her head slightly to meet your eyes. “From now on, you’ll call me ‘Master.’ Do you understand?”

Her lips parted as though to argue, and her eyes flashed with a defiance that burned bright, but no words came. Instead, she exhaled shakily, her voice quieter now, tinged with reluctance. “Understood… Master.”

A satisfied hum escaped your lips. “Good girl,” you said, the approval in your tone soft but unmistakable. “Let’s see how long you can keep that up.”

You gestured toward the restraint frame mounted on the wall. She hesitated for a beat too long, her eyes darting to the frame and then back to you.

“Something wrong?” you asked, your tone calm but edged with a faint challenge.

“No,” she muttered under her breath, her pride flickering again before she added, quieter, “No, Master.”

Your smirk deepened. “Better.”

You guided her to the frame, her movements stiff with resistance even as she complied. Raising her arms, you secured her wrists into the padded cuffs at the top, her arms stretched taut above her head. She shifted slightly, testing the restraints, but her motions only highlighted the vulnerability of her exposed position. You stepped down to secure her ankles to a spreader bar, forcing her legs wide apart. The position left her completely open, her back pressed against the cool wall as her breathing quickened.

“You look tense,” you remarked, running your hand lightly down the length of her arm. “Feeling nervous?”

“No,” she replied quickly, too quickly, her voice sharper than intended.

You paused, raising a brow. “No… what?”

She clenched her jaw for a moment before muttering, “No, Master.”

“Good,” you murmured, stepping back to admire her. “Let’s see if you’re as brave as you think.”

From the rack, you selected a suede flogger, letting the soft tails trail over your palm as you turned back to her. Her body tensed as you approached, her eyes flicking between the tool and your calm expression.

“Relax,” you said evenly, brushing the tails lightly over her shoulders and down her arms. “This is just the beginning.”

The first strike was a gentle flick across her stomach, more of a tease than anything else. She inhaled sharply, her body flinching at the contact, but her gaze remained locked on yours, defiant. The next strike landed with more force across her ribs, the soft tails snapping against her skin and leaving faint red streaks in their wake. A soft gasp escaped her lips, unbidden.

You alternated strokes, trailing the flogger over her thighs, her hips, and up to her shoulders again. Each strike grew in intensity, the rhythm deliberate and unrelenting. Her breathing quickened with every hit, her body reacting involuntarily despite her efforts to remain composed.

“Still holding on?” you asked, your tone edged with amusement. The next strike landed across the curve of her breast, drawing a sharp cry that she bit down immediately, her lips pressing together as though to suppress the sound.

You leaned in slightly, brushing the tails of the flogger against her inner thighs before snapping them lightly over the sensitive skin. She jolted, her thighs trembling as she let out a shaky breath.

“Still defiant,” you murmured, striking her hips next with more precision. “But your body’s already telling a different story.”

She didn’t respond, her jaw tightening as she gripped the cuffs above her head. But the faint sheen of sweat on her skin and the way her thighs quivered betrayed her.

When you finally set the flogger aside, her skin was flushed, streaked with faint red marks that stood in stark contrast against her pale complexion. Her chest heaved as she tried to steady her breathing, her body trembling slightly as the aftershocks lingered.

“You’re doing well,” you remarked, your voice calm but laced with challenge as you reached for the riding crop. The sleek leather gleamed faintly in the dim light as you tapped it lightly against your palm.

Her eyes flicked to the crop, her lips parting slightly as her breathing grew shallower.

“I can handle it,” she said quickly, the edge in her tone betraying her uncertainty.

“Yes, Master,” you corrected smoothly, trailing the crop lazily across her stomach.

She hesitated, her lips tightening before she repeated, “Yes, Master.”

“Good,” you said softly, the faintest smile tugging at your lips as you delivered the first strike. It landed sharply across her chest, just above her breast, drawing a loud gasp as her body jolted. You followed it with another, the sharp sound of leather meeting skin echoing in the room.

The rhythm was calculated, each strike building in intensity as you moved from her torso to her thighs, then back again. When you snapped the crop directly against her nipple, she let out a broken whimper, her back arching involuntarily. Her cries grew louder as you focused on her sensitive peaks, each strike deliberate, calculated to push her further.

“You’re a mess,” you said softly, trailing the crop down to the slickness glistening between her legs. Her hips strained against the restraints, her body trembling with need and frustration as the tip of the crop grazed her folds before delivering a sharp, precise smack.

Her cry was raw, her voice cracking as her body jolted. “Master,” she whimpered, her voice trembling with need, defiance, and surrender all at once.

You paused, watching her chest rise and fall, her breaths measured but strained, her body taut as if holding back the inevitable. Her lips pressed tightly together, and her fingers flexed faintly within the restraints, the only sign of the battle raging inside her. Even now, she clung to the veneer of control, refusing to let you see the cracks beneath her composed exterior.

You approached with a pair of metal clamps, the soft clink of the chain between them drawing her eyes. Her body stiffened, her breaths quickening ever so slightly as she tracked your movements.

“Breathe,” you murmured, your voice calm but edged with authority, a reminder more than an instruction.

Her lips parted, and she drew in a shaky breath, her hesitation clear. You attached the first clamp to her nipple with deliberate slowness, the sharp pinch drawing a high-pitched gasp that she couldn’t suppress. Her back arched reflexively, her body trembling against the restraints. The second clamp followed, the chain swaying lightly between them as she exhaled in shallow bursts.

“You’ll feel this with every move you make,” you murmured, tugging the chain gently to emphasize your point. Her body jolted at the sensation, another faint whimper escaping her lips despite her best efforts to stay silent.

Returning to the riding crop, you let its tip trail along the inside of her thigh, your movements unhurried, almost teasing. Her muscles quivered under the light contact, her breath catching as the crop hovered near her folds. Then, without warning, you delivered a sharp, precise strike.

The leather connected with her slick skin, the sound loud and sharp in the still room. She jolted, a choked sob breaking free as her body tensed violently. Her slickness made the crop gleam faintly in the dim light, a visceral reminder of how her body was betraying her.

Another strike landed, followed by another, each one deliberate and relentless. Her cries grew louder, raw and broken as she writhed against the restraints. You dragged the crop lightly over her folds, the touch featherlight before snapping it against her again.

“Please, Master,” she sobbed, her voice trembling, caught between desperation and defiance. “I—I can’t take it—”

“Yes, you can,” you replied evenly, delivering another sharp strike. Your tone was steady, unyielding, each word punctuated by the sting of the crop. “Admit it.”

Her head shook faintly, her lips trembling as she clung to the last shreds of resistance. “I—I cant’t—” she whispered, her voice breaking under the strain.

The next strike landed harder, the sting radiating through her as a broken cry tore from her lips. “Admit it,” you growled, your tone sharper now, the command cutting through her defenses.

The crop hovered just above her slick folds, the leather tip angled with surgical precision. Jieun’s breath hitched, her body trembling in the bindings as anticipation coiled inside her, every nerve on edge. Without warning, you brought the crop down in a sharp, deliberate strike.

The leather snapped against her folds with precision, the sting radiating through her most sensitive area. Her reaction was instant—a strangled cry tore from her lips, her hips jerking violently against the ropes. Her body tensed, every muscle coiling tightly as the pain and pleasure fused into something overwhelming. Her head fell forward, and for a moment, it seemed like she might endure.

But as you raised the crop again, angling it for a second, more deliberate strike, the tension in her broke.

“Master, you’re right!” she cried out, her voice raw and trembling. “You’re in control—I’m yours!”

You paused, tilting your head as you studied her, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. “Keep going,” you urged softly, delivering a lighter spank that still drew a gasp.

Her breaths came in ragged bursts as she continued, her voice quieter now, tinged with submission. “I’m yours. Completely. I… I surrender.”

You slowed the strikes, letting her words settle between you, her trembling form a picture of surrender. But there was still something in her tone—a flicker of hesitation, as though she were saying what she thought you wanted to hear rather than what she truly felt.

Setting the crop aside, you stepped forward, beginning to undo the restraints with deliberate slowness. Her arms dropped as her wrists came free, her chest heaving with each shaky breath. Her legs quivered as you released the spreader bar, leaving her momentarily unbound. She shifted slightly, testing her freedom, her gaze wary as though expecting judgment.

Without a word, you turned back to the rack, retrieving a length of soft crimson rope. Its vibrant color stood out against her flushed, glistening skin. Her eyes followed your movements, a flicker of apprehension crossing her face as you approached.

“Please—” she started, her voice soft but uneven.

“Shh,” you murmured, your hands already guiding her wrists behind her back. Her body tensed faintly, the smallest resistance lingering before dissolving as you looped the rope around her wrists. Your movements were precise, each knot deliberate, the soft fibers pulling snug against her skin without causing discomfort.

You worked methodically, weaving the rope around her arms and torso, framing her chest with intricate knots that pressed lightly against her skin. Each loop was calculated, the tension just enough to hold her securely without pain. The crimson bands highlighted every curve, every tremble, her breaths shallow as she adjusted to the restraint.

“You’re safe,” you reminded her, your voice steady and commanding.

The rope coiled around her torso, framing her body with deliberate precision. Intricate knots traced the curves of her shoulders and crossed her chest, cinching her breasts upward. Each tug of the rope pressed the soft flesh outward, accentuating her sensitivity. Her breathing quickened as you worked, her body responding to the careful tension of the bindings.

“Master…” she whispered, her tone soft but uncertain as she tested the bonds.

“Don’t move,” you instructed calmly.

Guiding her toward the suspension frame, you positioned her carefully beneath the ceiling anchor. The room was quiet save for her shallow breaths as you worked, securing the ropes to the anchor point. Her feet remained firmly on the ground at first, her body tense as she glanced upward, realizing what was coming.

You began to hoist her slowly, her toes lifting off the ground as the ropes bore her weight. Her back arched slightly as the bindings cradled her torso and thighs, supporting her in perfect balance. She hung suspended, her chest rising and falling rapidly as her exposed body swayed faintly in the air.

Kneeling, you reached for her left leg, guiding it outward and securing it with more rope to the left side of the frame. The crimson rope pulled taut, holding her leg firmly in place. Then, moving to her right, you repeated the process, spreading her wide as you tied her right leg to the opposite side of the frame.

Each knot was deliberate, leaving no room for resistance. Her thighs were stretched open, her body now completely exposed in midair, vulnerable and helpless. The tension in the ropes framed her like an intricate work of art, every line emphasizing her submission.

You stepped back, surveying your work as she hung suspended, her body trembling faintly against the bindings. Her breathing was shallow, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted as she adjusted to the complete loss of control. The crimson ropes, contrasted against her bare skin, highlighted every curve, every quiver.

“Perfect,” you murmured, your voice low and steady. You stepped closer, letting your fingers trail lightly along the curve of her thigh, sending a shiver through her. “You look stunning like this.”

Your gaze shifted hardening as you stepped closer, the intensity of your presence making her shrink slightly in her bonds. Her lips trembled, and her head dropped lower, but you weren’t going to let her retreat. Not now.

“How dare you,” you said, your voice low and sharp, laced with a restrained anger that sent a shiver through her body. “How dare you try to lie to me.”

Her head lifted slightly at your words, her wide eyes meeting yours for a fleeting second before dropping again, guilt flickering across her flushed face.

“You think I don’t know your body?” you pressed, stepping even closer, your hand grazing the ropes framing her thigh. The softness of your touch belied the steel in your tone. “Every twitch, every tremble—your body tells me everything, Jieun. And it’s telling me the truth, even when your mouth won’t.”

Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, the weights on her nipple clamps swaying slightly with each movement. Her cheeks flushed a deeper shade, and she bit her lip, struggling to maintain her composure.

“Master, I—” she started, her voice faltering.

“Stop,” you interrupted, your tone cutting. Your hand reached up, fingers brushing her cheek, forcing her to meet your gaze. “Don’t insult me with empty words just because you think they’re what I want to hear. I don’t need your lies.”

Her lips parted as if to respond, but she faltered, her body betraying her. The tension in her thighs, the slight quiver in her legs as she hung spread and bound, the slickness glistening between her folds—every detail betrayed her surrender.

“You’re mine,” you said firmly, your thumb brushing her cheek before trailing down her neck, over the ropes framing her chest. Your fingers tugged gently on the chain connecting the clamps, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips as the weights shifted. “Every inch of you belongs to me. Your body, your pleasure, your submission. All mine.”

She swallowed hard, her eyes glassy as the weight of your words settled over her. “Yes, Master,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

You didn’t let her off so easily. “Say it like you mean it,” you growled, stepping back slightly to retrieve the clitoral suction toy. Its faint hum filled the room, the sound alone making her thighs twitch against the ropes.

Her lips parted, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as you hovered the toy just above her aching clit. Her body strained instinctively toward the device, seeking relief, but you pulled back, the motion deliberate and taunting.

“Say it,” you commanded, your tone unrelenting.

“I… I’m yours,” she whimpered, her voice barely audible.

You narrowed your eyes, circling the toy teasingly close to her folds but never making contact. “Louder.”

“I’m yours, Master!” she cried, her voice cracking with desperation.

Satisfied for the moment, you leaned forward, pressing the toy lightly against her clit. Her reaction was immediate—her body jolted violently against the ropes, her hips straining as the suction sent waves of stimulation coursing through her. Her cries filled the room, raw and unrestrained.

But you weren’t done.

Your hand reached for the chain again, tugging firmly as the clamps bit deeper into her sensitive flesh. The added pressure sent her spiraling, her cries blending into soft, broken sobs. “You’ll take this for me,” you said softly, your voice calm but unyielding. “Because I said so.”

Her body trembled uncontrollably, the tension in the ropes accentuating every shiver, every desperate movement as she tried to hold on. The suction toy continued its relentless work, drawing her closer to the edge, her moans growing louder with every passing second.

“Master, please,” she sobbed, her voice breaking under the strain. “Please, I can’t—”

“You can,” you interrupted, increasing the intensity of the toy. “And you will.”

Her body convulsed against the bindings, her cries turning into incoherent pleas as you pushed her further, commanding every inch of her. This was no surrender forced by words—this was her body, her soul, bending completely to your will.

You pressed the toy harder against her clit, the suction drawing another strangled cry from her lips. Her body jolted violently in the ropes, the sensation relentless and devastating. The rhythmic tugging was precise, sending sharp waves of pleasure through her trembling frame.

Her moans grew louder, desperate and unrestrained, as you slid two fingers inside her. Her slick walls clenched immediately, gripping you tightly as though her body was trying to draw you deeper. The combination of the suction and your curling fingers was merciless, her back arching as she spiraled toward the edge once again.

“Master, please!” she sobbed, her voice trembling and raw. “I’m so close—please let me—”

Without hesitation, you withdrew your fingers and the suction toy at the same time, leaving her dangling in frustrated desperation. Her cry was loud, ragged, and broken, her head falling forward as her body trembled in the bindings.

“Not yet,” you said firmly, stepping closer. The calm authority in your voice was unshakable, cutting through the chaotic haze of her emotions. Leaning in, you brushed your lips close to her ear. “You don’t get to cum until I say. Not until you stop lying—to me, and to yourself.”

Her chest heaved, every breath labored, the weights on the clamps swaying with her trembling body. “Master… I can’t… I can’t take it anymore…” she whimpered, her voice barely audible, shaking with exhaustion and need.

“You can,” you countered, pressing the suction toy back against her clit. The rhythmic pulsing resumed instantly, and her body jolted as though shocked. Her cries were louder now, her head tossing weakly as her hips strained against the bindings, desperately seeking relief she knew you wouldn’t allow.

Sliding your fingers back inside her, you thrust slowly, curling deliberately to press against her most sensitive spot. Her walls fluttered, her arousal growing wetter with every motion. Each time her body tightened, every time she edged closer to the climax she craved, you stopped again.

Tears streaked her flushed cheeks, her sobs echoing through the room as she begged. “Master, please… I’ll do anything—please let me cum!”

You reached up, tugging sharply on the chain between her clamps. The sharp jolt drew a choked scream from her lips, her body jerking as the combination of pain and pleasure pushed her closer to breaking. Her thighs trembled violently, her slickness glistening under the low light.

“Admit it,” you said softly, your tone a low growl, increasing the intensity of the suction toy. “Stop pretending. Tell me who you really are.”

Her head shook weakly, a fresh sob escaping her lips as she stammered. “I… I can’t—”

You pulled your fingers away again, leaving the suction toy on its lowest setting. The gentle pulses teased her, enough to keep her simmering without granting release. Her body shuddered, her head hanging forward as her sobs grew louder.

“Admit it,” you growled, sharper now, your hand gripping her chin and tilting her head up to meet your gaze. “Stop lying, or this will never end.”

Her moans turned to frantic cries, her body writhing in the ropes as the suction toy teased her swollen clit, the clamps pulling with every movement. “Master, please—” she gasped, her voice breaking under the weight of her desperation. “You’re right—Master, you’re right!”

You didn’t relent, your fingers plunging back inside her with precision, curling against the spot that made her body seize. The suction toy pressed harder against her clit, the rhythmic pulsing relentless and exact. “Tell me everything,” you commanded, your voice firm and unwavering. “No lies this time.”

Her body jerked violently, the ropes tightening against her trembling limbs as she convulsed. Her sobs turned into raw, unrestrained cries, her head tilting back as her voice cracked. “I’m yours, Master!” she screamed, the words rushing out in a desperate, frantic confession. “You have all the control—I need you—I can’t… I can’t fight it anymore!”

Her walls clenched hard around your fingers, the first wave of her climax threatening to break, but you stilled your movements, holding her right on the edge. The suction toy pulsed mercilessly against her clit, her body trembling and writhing as she hung suspended in the intricate web of ropes.

“Do you want to cum?” you asked, your tone calm and deliberate, a stark contrast to her frenzied cries.

“Please, Master!” she sobbed, her voice breaking under the weight of her need. “Please—please let me!”

You paused, letting the silence hang between you, your fingers pressing just enough to keep her teetering. “Admit it,” you said, your voice low and steady. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“I’m yours!” she screamed, her voice hoarse and desperate. “Only yours, Master! I need you—I can’t take it anymore!”

“Good girl,” you murmured, a faint smirk tugging at your lips. You leaned closer, your breath warm against her ear. “Now… cum for me.”

The permission was all she needed. Her body tensed for a heartbeat, every muscle seizing as if holding its breath, before releasing in an explosive wave of pleasure. Her scream ripped through the air, raw and primal, as her climax tore through her. Her back arched against the restraints, the ropes digging into her flushed skin as she convulsed uncontrollably. Her walls tighten around your fingers with a force that leaves no doubt about the intensity of her release, each pulse sending a ripple of wet heat against your hand.

The slickness of her arousal coated your fingers, a testament to how deeply she had succumbed. Her thighs quaked violently, the trembling so pronounced that the bindings holding her legs apart strained slightly. Her toes curled, her entire body caught in the throes of the orgasm that consumed her completely.

The suction toy added to the onslaught, the pulsing rhythm over her clit extending her release far beyond its natural limit. She jerked violently in the ropes, her cries turning into broken, breathless whimpers as the pleasure became almost too much to bear. Her head fell forward, her hair clinging to her sweat-slicked face, her lips parted as she gasped for air.

Wave after wave continued to ripple through her, her body quivering uncontrollably even as the climax began to subside. Her thighs twitched reflexively, her hips bucking weakly as if chasing sensations she could no longer endure. Each breath she took was shallow and uneven, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the effort of catching her breath evident in every ragged exhale.

You withdrew your fingers slowly, the slick heat coating them glistening under the low light. She whimpered softly at the loss, her head lolling forward, too spent to protest. As you turned off the suction toy, the silence felt almost deafening, punctuated only by the faint sounds of her labored breathing.

But even now, her body betrayed her. As your fingers grazed her inner thigh, slick with the aftermath of her climax, a faint moan escaped her lips—soft, involuntary, and entirely revealing. Her thighs quivered again, a subtle tremor that spoke to the lingering echoes of her release.

“You’re still hungry for more, aren’t you?” you said softly, observing her closely. Her body jolted faintly at your words, and though her lips trembled as if to protest, no sound came. Instead, her head nodded weakly, her voice cracking as she whispered, “Yes… Master.”

You smirked, brushing a finger lightly over her still-sensitive clit, drawing a sharp gasp from her. “Even after all that,” you murmured, leaning closer, “you’re not done.”

Her body shuddered under your touch, her surrender absolute. “Good,” withdrawing your fingers again. Her cry of frustration was raw, her hips jerking futilely as she sought her next release. Instead of indulging her, you stepped back toward the rack, your movements deliberate as you selected the next tool.

Your gaze landed on the perfect choice: a sleek, polished butt plug adorned with a heart-shaped jewel at its base. Its elegance stood in sharp contrast to the raw, primal energy radiating from IU as she trembled in the suspension. Picking it up, you turned back to her, holding the plug up so the jewel caught the light.

Her eyes widened slightly, her lips parting as her breath quickened. Even now, a faint flush spread across her chest and cheeks, and her body betrayed her further—a faint twitch, a pulsing tension that radiated from her most intimate places.

“Oh? Is that excitement I see?” you teased, your voice low and intimate as you knelt in front of her. The cool metal of the plug brushed lightly against her inner thigh, earning a sharp gasp and a shudder from her body.

Without a word, you spread her cheeks gently, exposing her fully to your touch. Her breaths came unevenly, her body tensing at the intimacy of the moment. Slowly, you pressed a finger against her tight ring, teasing the rim with deliberate circles before sliding inside.

She gasped sharply, her muscles clenching reflexively before gradually relaxing. “Breathe,” you murmured, your voice steady yet soothing. “Let your body take it.”

She whimpered as you worked her carefully, preparing her inch by inch until her body began to yield. Once you were satisfied, you withdrew your finger, wiping it clean before adding lube and pressing the tip of the plug against her entrance. She jolted at the cool touch of the metal, her breaths growing faster as you began to push it in.

The cool, polished head of the plug pressed against her hole, her body instinctively tightening in resistance. The tension was palpable, her ring clenching stubbornly as if defying the inevitable. You paused, letting her adjust, your hand steady and patient. Slowly, with deliberate pressure, you pressed again, coaxing her body to yield.

The resistance lingered, taut and unrelenting, until a soft, trembling moan escaped her lips. Gradually, her muscles gave way, her ring stretching wider, surrendering inch by inch. Her breaths grew shallow, each one hitching as the sensation built, the sharp edge of discomfort melting into something deeper, more consuming.

When the widest part of the plug finally slipped past the threshold, her body seemed to shudder in relief, the resistance fading as her ring closed around the narrow neck, swallowing the plug entirely. A low, quivering gasp broke from her as the snug fullness settled deep within her, the weight and pressure sending a visible tremor through her frame. The cool jewel at the base nestled perfectly against her, its presence both a reminder of her surrender and a promise of the sensations to come.

Stepping back slightly, you admired the sight before you. The polished jewel nestled between her cheeks glinted faintly in the dim light, a beautiful contrast to her flushed, glistening skin. “Beautiful,” you murmured, letting your fingers trail lightly over her hips and down her thighs.

“How does it feel?” you asked, your voice calm but laced with intent. The answer was evident in the tautness of her trembling body, the slick arousal dripping down her inner thighs betraying her overwhelming need.

“It’s…” she stammered, her breath hitching between syllables, her voice shaky and thin. “It’s so full…”

“Good,” you murmured, your hand gliding over her side, a deliberate contrast to the intensity she was feeling. Your other hand moved to the base of the plug, gripping it firmly. “Let it amplify everything.”

Without warning, you gave the plug a gentle tug, testing its resistance. Her gasp was sharp, her body jolting against the ropes. The snugness of the plug resisted at first, the tension building until it relented slightly, the motion sending a deep, jarring sensation through her core. The muscles of her entrance quivered around the intrusion, the combination of pressure and movement drawing a sharp moan from her lips.

“AGGH!” she cried out, the word leaving her as both a plea and a surrender, her voice trembling with the strain of holding herself together.

You chuckled, a low, deliberate sound, twisting the plug slightly. Her reaction was immediate—her hips bucked reflexively, and a louder, more guttural moan spilled from her lips. The sensation was maddening, the plug pressing firmly against her sensitive inner walls with every shift, each movement pushing her closer to unraveling.

With another slow, deliberate tug, you teased her further, letting the plug stretch and stimulate her before it settled back into place. Her thighs trembled uncontrollably, her body writhing in the bindings as she whimpered. The snug fullness combined with the constant stimulation made every sensation feel sharper, deeper.

Your gaze shifted to the rack, landing on the wand vibrator. Its sleek design promised power, the hum of the motor filling the room as you turned it on. Even the sound made her tense, her head snapping up weakly as her eyes widened in alarm.

“Please, Master, no,” she whimpered, her voice raw and hoarse, the strain of her begging breaking through. Her thighs twitched as though trying to close, but the ropes kept her wide open, her vulnerability laid bare.

“Shh,” you said, stepping closer, your tone calm but unyielding. The wand hovered just above her swollen clit, the anticipation making her body quake. “You haven’t used the safe word, Jieun,” you reminded her, tilting her chin up gently with your hand. “You could stop this anytime. But you won’t. Will you?”

Her head dropped forward, a quiet, broken whimper escaping her lips as she shook her head faintly.

Without further hesitation, you pressed the wand firmly against her clit. The immediate pulse of vibrations ripped a strangled cry from her throat, her body arching violently against the ropes. The wand’s relentless rhythm sent sharp, focused waves of pleasure coursing through her, magnified by the plug nestled deep inside her. Every tremor of her hips caused the plug to shift slightly, the dual sensations amplifying each other until her sobs turned into breathless, incoherent gasps.

Her thighs trembled against the restraints, her body jerking as though trying to escape the overstimulation, but the bindings kept her perfectly in place. “Master… please!” she wailed, her voice trembling as fresh tears streamed down her flushed cheeks. “Please stop—I can’t—I can’t do this anymore!”

“Yes, you can,” you murmured softly, your tone steady as you pressed the wand harder. “You’ll take it for me. I know your body better than you do.”

Her stomach clenched visibly, her hips twitching violently as the wand assaulted her most sensitive spot. The vibrations, relentless and unyielding, dragged her closer to the edge. “Master!” she cried out, her voice cracking with desperation. “It’s yours—everything is yours! My body… my tits, my pussy, my ass—it’s all yours! Please, Master—I love being yours, but please, no more!”

Her words came in frantic sobs, each confession spilling from her lips in raw, unfiltered emotion. The plug, snug and unrelenting, seemed to vibrate in sync with the wand, the pressure inside her building to an unbearable crescendo. Her chest heaved as her hips jerked reflexively, her sobs dissolving into a broken chant of “Please, Master—please no more—I can’t cum again!”

Leaning in, you brushed her sweat-damp hair from her face, your voice soft but commanding. “One more,” you murmured against her ear, the words firm and deliberate. “Give me one more, Jieun, and then I’ll stop.”

She shook her head weakly, her sobs growing louder, but her body betrayed her. The relentless vibrations, the overwhelming fullness of the plug, and your fingers curling back inside her pushed her to the brink. Her cries turned desperate as the climax overtook her, the final release breaking her completely.

Her scream filled the room, raw and unrestrained, as her body convulsed violently in the suspension. Her thighs quivered uncontrollably, her walls clenching around the plug as wave after wave of overstimulation wracked her frame. Even as the climax faded, the wand continued to torment her, every shuddering aftershock heightened by the unrelenting vibrations.

Her head fell back, her cries tapering into soft, broken whimpers as her body sagged completely in the bindings. The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the sound of her uneven breaths and the faint hum of the wand as you finally turned it off. You stepped back, watching as her trembling form hung limp in the ropes, every inch of her glistening with sweat and arousal.

The scene before you was one of complete surrender. Her flushed, tear-streaked face, her trembling thighs, and the faint quiver of her chest told you everything you needed to know. She was yours—utterly and completely.

You stepped closer, the slickness of her release coating her inner thighs as you gently removed the plug. A soft, almost inaudible whimper escaped her lips as her body shuddered one final time, her exhausted form limp in the bindings. She hung there, surrendered, her every breath a testament to the intensity she had endured.

“You did so well,” you murmured softly, brushing your fingers along her trembling thigh. “Every part of you is mine—and you love it.”

Carefully, you began undoing the ropes, each knot falling away as her exhausted body slumped further into your arms. When the bindings were completely removed, she collapsed against you, her legs too weak to support her.

Her head rested weakly on your chest, her breaths shallow and uneven. Her voice was too broken to speak, but the way she clung to you said everything—she was yours, completely and utterly.

By the time the final waves subsided, Jieun was utterly spent, her body sagging completely in the suspension ropes. Her head hung forward, her damp hair clinging to her flushed cheeks as shallow, uneven breaths escaped her parted lips. The delicate impressions of the ropes were etched into her skin, a testament to her surrender. Each faint line emphasized her vulnerability, the undeniable proof of how far she had let herself go for you.

Reaching over, you turned off the wand, the sudden silence almost deafening after the relentless hum. You set it aside, your gaze drifting to the jeweled plug nestled snugly within her. As you stepped closer, her head lifted weakly, her glassy eyes flickering with awareness as she saw your hand reaching toward her.

“No… please, Master,” she whimpered, her voice hoarse and trembling with exhaustion. “Don’t take it out. I… I want to keep it.”

A soft chuckle escaped your lips, the sound low and indulgent as you trailed your fingers along her hip in reassurance. “It’s covered in too much of you,” you murmured gently, your tone soothing. “We’ll clean you up, and I’ll give you something fresh.”

She whined softly, a faint, needy sound as her hips twitched in protest. But she didn’t resist as you began to ease the plug out, the snug fit providing resistance that heightened her sensitivity. A low gasp escaped her lips as it slid free, the polished jewel glistening with the evidence of her arousal. The emptiness left her trembling, her body shifting slightly as she tried to adjust.

“You did so well,” you said, your voice warm with approval as you brushed a hand over her thigh. “Let me take care of you now, my good girl.”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered faintly, the words spilling out with automatic sincerity, her voice barely above a breath.

You began undoing the intricate knots with deliberate care, ensuring that each release was smooth and unhurried. As the ropes fell away, her body slumped further, her limbs trembling from the strain and exertion. When her wrists were freed, her arms dropped uselessly to her sides, her strength completely drained. You moved to unstrap her legs next, supporting her weight as her knees buckled the moment the bindings were removed.

Guiding her toward a nearby chair, you eased her down into the plush cushions. She melted into them, her body folding into the soft embrace as a quiet sigh escaped her lips. Her head fell back, her eyes fluttering closed, and for a moment, she seemed completely at peace.

You stepped away briefly, cleaning the used plug meticulously before retrieving a fresh one from a nearby drawer. The sleek, polished design matched the previous one, adorned with a delicate jewel at its base that shimmered faintly in the low light.

Returning to her, you knelt before the chair, the new plug resting in your hand. Her eyes drifted open, her gaze falling to the plug. Her thighs twitched instinctively, a soft, shaky breath escaping her as anticipation flickered across her expression.

“Ready?” you asked, your voice calm and steady.

“Yes, Master,” she murmured, her voice faint but unwavering, her trust in you palpable.

Parting her legs gently, you brushed your hand along her inner thigh, your touch slow and reassuring. As your finger pressed inside her, you prepared her carefully, her walls clenching briefly before relaxing under your guidance. Her soft whimper filled the air, a quiet sound of surrender as you withdrew your finger and positioned the cool tip of the new plug against her entrance.

The jewel slid inside slowly, her body resisting momentarily before yielding, the snug fullness making her hips shift instinctively. A soft, trembling moan escaped her lips as the plug settled firmly into place, the weight of it amplifying her awareness of her submission.

“How does it feel?” you asked, your voice low and intimate as your hand brushed lightly over her thigh.

“Full, Master,” she whispered, her tone faint but sure, a lingering shiver running through her body.

“Good,” you replied, your hand trailing up to cup her cheek briefly, your touch warm and grounding. “Let it remind you who you belong to.”

After securing the new plug in place, you carefully guide her into your arms as she collapses against your chest. “You’ve done so well, Jieun,” you murmured softly, your voice warm and soothing. “It’s time to rest now.”

She nodded faintly, her cheek pressing against your shoulder, her breaths shallow and uneven as her body tried to recover from the intensity of what she had endured. You lifted her effortlessly, carrying her toward a nearby couch. The soft cushions enveloped her as you lowered her gently onto them, her body curling instinctively as she sought the comfort of your presence.

Stepping away briefly, you returned with a glass of cool water and a small lozenge. Setting them on the table beside her, you knelt down with a warm, damp cloth from a basin nearby. Brushing the cloth tenderly over her flushed skin, you wiped away the remnants of sweat and arousal. Every motion was deliberate, your touch careful and steady. She flinched faintly at the initial contact, her hypersensitivity evident, but as your gentle ministrations continued, her body began to relax.

“Breathe,” you reminded her, your tone calm. “You’re safe.”

She exhaled shakily, her chest rising and falling in a more even rhythm. The cloth moved over her thighs, her arms, and finally her face, wiping away the streaks of tears that clung to her cheeks. Her body softened further under your care, surrendering fully to the nurturing calm you offered.

When you were finished, you set the cloth aside and wrapped a soft, plush blanket around her shoulders, cocooning her in warmth. Lifting the glass of water, you held it to her lips as she weakly reached for it. “Drink,” you instructed gently. “You need to rehydrate.”

Her trembling hands steadied as you helped guide the glass. The cool liquid slid down her throat, soothing the rawness left behind from her earlier cries. She let out a faint sigh of relief after a few sips, her lips parting to murmur, “Thank you, Master.”

You smiled softly, brushing her damp hair away from her face. “You’ve done more than enough for me,” you said quietly. “Now, let me take care of you.”

Picking up the lozenge, you pressed it into her palm. “This will help your throat,” you explained, your thumb brushing lightly over her fingers. She nodded, placing it in her mouth and leaning back against the cushions with a faint, contented sigh.

Her gaze met yours briefly, the vulnerability in her expression tempered by a quiet trust. You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, your hand stroking her hair in slow, soothing motions. Her eyes fluttered closed, her breathing deepening as exhaustion began to claim her.

As she drifted off, you stayed at her side, your hand resting lightly over hers. The room, once filled with raw intensity, now carried a profound calm—a sanctuary for her, where she could surrender completely, knowing she was safe and cherished.

-----

The following morning, Jieun strode into the office with her usual commanding presence. The sharp staccato of her heels against the polished floors echoed her precision and confidence, her posture straight, her gaze cold and assessing. Every detail of her appearance was immaculate—the crisp lines of her tailored suit, the glint of her polished watch. In meetings, her voice sliced through the air with crisp directives and sharp analysis, brooking no argument. No one dared to question her authority.

But beneath the surface, something was different.

Her legs, still unsteady from the previous night’s intensity, wavered faintly with each step. The residual ache in her thighs and core lingered, a reminder of her surrender. She moved with the same poise and precision, but her steps carried an almost imperceptible hesitance. Every shift of her body demanded a conscious effort to conceal the jelly-like weakness threatening to disrupt her perfect composure.

She refused to let it show.

Her head was high, her strides measured, her mask of control firmly in place. To anyone else, she was as composed and formidable as ever. Only you would have noticed the way her fingers flexed faintly at her sides or the brief pause as she adjusted her weight onto one leg at her desk, seeking reprieve from the strain.

When her gaze landed on you, though, there was no hiding the shift. It lingered a beat too long, her sharpness softening in a way imperceptible to anyone else but unmistakable to you. The sharp edge in her tone dulled slightly when she addressed you, her words still commanding but carrying a subtle warmth, almost deference. Every glance, every interaction betrayed an unspoken acknowledgment of something shared—a dynamic only the two of you understood.

For the rest of the office, Jieun was untouchable, an unyielding force of nature. But for you, the faintest flicker in her eyes and the carefully hidden tremor in her movements told the truth: beneath her flawless façade, she carried the quiet aftermath of surrender.

The day moved seamlessly until Jieun walked past the open door of the conference room. She paused mid-stride, her gaze flicking inside. At the table sat one of her female coworkers, her laugh light and easy as she gestured animatedly. It was the same woman she had seen that night in the private room, her voice etched into her memory alongside her cries and pleas.

The sight sent a jolt through her chest—sharp and visceral. A possessive heat flared within her, unbidden and irrational, twisting her thoughts into a tangle she couldn’t unravel. The coworker’s laughter carried softly into the hallway, her oblivious ease grating against the turmoil building within.

She forced herself to turn on her heel, her steps measured and deliberate, her head held high. But the tension in her shoulders betrayed her composure. The weight of that moment stayed with her, gnawing at her as she returned to her office. The door clicked shut behind her with uncharacteristic sharpness, the sound echoing through the quiet space.

Minutes later, a timid knock interrupted her thoughts. The intern stepped inside, carrying a stack of reports. Their hands shook slightly as they approached, the air thick with Jieun’s unspoken mood.

Her eyes scanned the reports quickly, catching a minor formatting error—something she would usually note quietly and set aside. Today, though, the simmering frustration boiling under her skin found its outlet.

“Did you even look at this before bringing it to me?” Her voice was icy, her words cutting with surgical precision.

The intern stammered, their cheeks flushing as they tried to form an excuse.

“This is unacceptable,” Jieun continued, her tone unwavering, her gaze sharp enough to draw blood. “If you can’t even deliver the basics correctly, why are you here?”

The intern stammered an apology, their voice trembling, but she dismissed them with a curt wave. The door closed behind them with a faint slam, doing nothing to alleviate the frustration twisting in her chest. Jieun leaned back in her chair, exhaling sharply, her eyes falling to the stack of papers as though they were the source of all her irritation.

But no matter how she tried to push it aside, the image of that coworker lingered, feeding a jealousy she didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone understand.

Jieun stared at her phone, her finger hovering over the screen for a moment before she typed the message:

Come to my office. Now.

Moments later, you arrived, pushing the door open without hesitation. Jieun was seated behind her desk, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable. But the tension in the room was thick, hanging between you like an unspoken challenge.

She gestured for you to close the door. As the latch clicked, she stood, her gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made the air seem heavier. Slowly, deliberately, she stepped out from behind her desk. Without a word, she turned to face you and lifted her skirt.

The heart shaped jewel of the plug gleamed faintly in the warm light, snug and perfectly in place.

“Still in place, Master,” she said softly, her voice steady but laced with a faint vulnerability. Her gaze remained on yours, unwavering.

You stepped closer, your fingers grazing the curve of her hip as you studied her. “Good girl,” you murmured, your voice low and warm. “Does it remind you who you belong to?”

“Yes, Master,” she replied, her tone quiet but resolute. “Every time I move, I feel it. It’s… grounding.”

“Grounding,” you repeated, tilting her chin upward to meet your gaze fully. “Then why are you distracted today, Jieun?”

Her composure faltered slightly, her lashes lowering as a flicker of hesitation crossed her features. “It’s nothing, Master,” she said quickly, though the faint quiver in her voice gave her away.

“Tell me,” you commanded, your tone calm but unyielding.

Her lips parted, and the truth spilled out in a rush. “It’s that coworker. The one from that day. Seeing her… I know it’s ridiculous, but it bothers me.”

You studied her for a moment, your thumb brushing lightly along her jawline. “You’re jealous,” you stated, your voice firm.

Her hesitation was brief before she nodded, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Yes, Master. I know I shouldn’t be, but I can’t help it.”

You leaned closer, your breath brushing her ear as you spoke. “You have no reason to be. You’re mine, Jieun. Fully. And no one else will ever have what you do.”

Her shoulders relaxed, the tension visibly melting from her frame as your words sank in. “Yes, Master,” she whispered, her gaze steady and filled with quiet trust.

“Good,” you said, stepping back slightly. “Now lower your skirt and sit down. We’ll address this properly another time.”

Her fingers trembled faintly as she obeyed, smoothing her skirt before settling back into her chair. The fire in her gaze had returned, not in defiance but in renewed resolve.

-----

Later that day, Jieun sat in her office, her posture as precise and flawless as ever, a picture of control to anyone who might glance in. Yet beneath the composed exterior, tension simmered. Her gaze, fixed through the glass wall, betrayed the turmoil inside. The faint hum of the office—the murmur of voices, the rhythmic tapping of keyboards—blurred into the background. Her world had narrowed to you.

You stood among a small group of coworkers, the easy confidence in your demeanor commanding the space effortlessly. The faint smile on your lips as you responded to a comment drew their attention naturally, as it always did. Jieun’s eyes lingered on you, her focus unrelenting as she tracked your every movement.

And then, her gaze shifted to the woman standing closest to you. She laughed lightly at something you said, her voice lilting and cheerful. There was nothing overtly unusual about the sound, yet it grated against Jieun in a way she couldn’t explain. The tilt of the woman’s body, leaning toward you ever so slightly, struck Jieun as far too familiar.

Her fingers tightened subtly around the pen in her hand.

Another laugh followed, the woman’s body language relaxed and open as she turned toward you. Her hand, gesturing as she spoke, lingered briefly against your arm. The touch wasn’t blatant, yet the intimacy of the motion was unmistakable in Jieun’s eyes. Her breath hitched slightly, her chest tightening as jealousy surged despite her efforts to suppress it.

Her grip on the pen grew firmer, her knuckles whitening against the polished surface.

He told me not to be jealous, she thought bitterly, her jaw tightening as her eyes darted back to the scene. He said I had no reason to be. But reason had little bearing on the emotions that churned inside her. The logical part of her knew the interaction meant nothing. The woman’s laughter, the casual brush of her hand against your sleeve—it was all meaningless.

And yet, it wasn’t meaningless to Jieun.

Her gaze returned to you. The faint curve of your lips, the slight tilt of your head as you engaged with them, made her chest ache with something deeper than irritation. She clenched her jaw tighter, the control she prided herself on slipping further out of reach with every passing second.

The woman’s laugh rang out again, light and carefree, her body leaning just a fraction closer to you. It was casual. Innocuous. And infuriating.

The pen groaned faintly in her grasp, the sound lost in the din of her own thoughts.

When the woman’s fingers brushed your sleeve once more, lingering for just a moment too long, it shattered the last thread of Jieun’s composure. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her breathing shallow as her mind waged a losing battle against the heat rising in her chest.

Why am I like this? she thought, angered at herself as much as at the scene before her. Why can’t I just let it go?

With a sharp snap, the pen broke in her hand.

The sound, though soft, seemed deafening in the stillness of her office. She stared down at the two fractured pieces in her palm, her expression frozen, her chest rising and falling as she tried to steady herself. The sharp contrast of ink against her pale skin mirrored the turbulence roiling inside her.

Outside the glass, the group continued their conversation, your calm presence unchanged, the woman’s laughter carrying faintly into the room. They remained oblivious to the storm behind Jieun’s closed door, unaware of the fire they’d unknowingly stoked.

[fluffyfantasticducky]

Reasons to Like You

☆ Pairing: Loki x Reader ☆ Synopsis: Loki isn't the most laid back person, he is hard on others but mostly on himself... That is, until someone even worse than he is catches his little heart. ☆ Word Count: 3,313... sorry it's a bit short, huh? ☆ Notes: Another request for the lovely @blehblahsworld. Loki is shy ler, mutual pining idiots. I promised it'd be posted today and there's still like 30 minutes left of the day so I honoured my promise. ☆ Warnings: None, I think. Loki is a mess cuz he can't handle having a crush.

Oh, the comfort of a life on Earth. Not something any Asgardian would have expected when they arrived after all they had been through. Much less… this Asgardian.

Loki expected anything but bliss when he came to live among the Avengers. When he woke up living in the house of his enemies, he was rightfully on edge. Although Thor quickly wrapped his arms around him and filled him in. He had been saved after 5 years of becoming dust during the snap of the 5 infinity stones, which ironically spared his life.

But after his physical recovery and adaptation period with living in the compound… And there was a little someone who made the whole process much easier. A special little someone.

You were… Norns, where could he start? You were… a lot. In the best and worst sense of the word.

On one hand, you were messy, energetic, loud… just a smaller and slightly less annoying version of his brother. In fact, you two were great friends, much to Loki’s dismay. Loud nights of karaoke and dancing in the leisure room, begging for Tony to organize parties that would give Loki a headache. You constantly interrupted Loki’s reading to come chat or beg him to play together to some nonsense game or watch a movie. The amount of times you’d invade his personal space with hugs, pokes, grabbing his arm to take him somewhere… it was all unnerving.

On the other hand, and even worse than all he mentioned, Loki couldn’t get you out of his head. Your loudness, your playfulness, that smile of yours, your goofy laugh so out of place when you got nervous, the way he wanted to run his hands along your body… ah! It was too much!

And it wasn’t that Loki hadn’t been interested on others before. He had had more lovers than the average human lifespan. So why were you so difficult to handle? What was so special about you that he’d be turning in his bed late at night thinking about you? He couldn’t quite put it into words.

“Loki? Brother?” a voice snapped him out of his thoughts, along with a gentle knock on the door. “It’s late, are you not having breakfast with us?”

Loki stood up and opened the door to join his brother in the hall.

“I apologize brother, I must have lost track of time.” Loki shrugged it off as he ran his hands through his hair to fix it.

“No kidding,” Thor chuckled. “Look at you, when was the last time you slept?”

“Oh, like you would be one to judge me” Loki scoffed. “When did you all go to bed last night?”

“Not as early as you, old witch” Thor laughed. “It’s a shame you didn’t stay longer, our little friend was really upset you didn’t dance together.”

Loki had to fight an ear-to-ear grin. You had been looking for him? To dance… together? The way you all dance in Midgard these days? Oh gods, the one night his patience had run thin and made him excuse himself to go to bed.

It was still engrained in his brain.

You had jumped onto a coffee table, shaking your hips to the beat of the music, your body moving in perfect sync to the melody. And to be perfectly fair, it wasn’t anything outrageous to Earth’s standards, you were mostly goofing around and more often than not you’d double over laughing, flustered at your own antics. Unfortunately for his heart, Loki wasn’t from Earth, and he was not at all accustomed to those sights that kept him awake all night.

“I apologize for my unfortunate coordination with the mortal’s plans” Loki responded simply, despite mentally cursing himself.

Thor chuckled.

“I’m sure it will all be forgiven by the end of the week” he assured Loki. “You may get another chance to dance together.”

“What? Again? Don’t mortals tire out faster than us?” Loki asked. “How is it that there’s always some new event approaching?”

“It sure is lively around here, isn’t it?” Thor laughed. “Stark said it was a last-minute invitation, but Rogers mentioned it’d be important for us to assist, improving the opinion of the locals. Which you could still benefit from…”

“I suppose” Loki muttered. “Still… I hope it’s the last one in a while, it can get frustrating having to put up a perfection facade…”

“You are being dramatic brother.” Thor laughed.

“Am I?” Loki asked sarcastically. “Does it really not remind you the the banquets at the palace, always having to make political relationships by…”

“Oh brother, you are being dramatic. You really shouldn’t overthink all you do, if you think like that of course you won’t enjoy these silly Midgardian parties, for me, it reminds me of that tavern we used to go when we were younger. A chance to dance and perhaps flirt around every night with some nice ale and good friends.”

“Flirt around?” Loki chuckled at the Midgardian expression. “Don’t let Lady Jane hear you, brother. I thought you imprudent, but never to such an extent.”

“Oh, no, no.” Thor shook his head. “Those days are behind me, I am quite content in my relationship. I meant for you, brother.”

“Why would I want to flirt around?” Loki raised an eyebrow.

“Well, it is true you already have your interest captured by a local…”

“I have no clue what you’re blabbering on about, brother” Loki assured him. “And for your information, I am perfectly content the way my life is right now.”

Thor burst out laughing.

“That is splendid news brother” he chuckled, wiping a tear of mirth. “But I’ve been by your side since you were a small baby, I know when you’re interesting in someone.”

“You’ve never seen me interested in anyone” Loki retorted.

“Sure I have.” Thor chuckle. “Beyond the romances that lasted a single night, let’s see… You saw Angrboda for a while but it ended in nothing, you had a crush on Sygin for while but she was with Theoric which you tried impersonating but guilt ate you up, I recall you and Sif saw each other secretly when…”

“Alright, I got it!” Loki cut him off, not exactly eager to hear all his past romantic miseries all over again. “You are aware of my past, understood.”

Loki was a bit surprised, though. He always thought he was being discrete. Unlike Thor, who would shamelessly (and rather loudly) flirt in the tavern or at royal parties with whoever he wanted; Loki had an infinitely more subtle approach. Loki would strike conversations with his interest, in a much more subtle seduction. Loki was more the type to swoon with his wit and the perfect praise, taking advantage of being the less favored prince in terms of affection to escape into the night to seal the deal. He was so sure no one noticed his absence, much less Thor, who Loki thought too busy being the center of attention to care if Loki left the party early. Especially Sif, which was a whole new ordeal he didn’t even want to talk about.

He was a bit moved, really… in a very weird way, but it was moving.

“See? I know who you have a crush on” Thor chuckled. “You should really go for it.”

“Can you stop talking like a Midgardian?” Loki groaned. “It’s unnerving.”

“Sorry brother, it’s entertaining to see how much it frustrates you.” Thor grinned like a cheeky brat. “But I mean it, you won’t know if your feelings are reciprocated if you don’t ask.”

“Alright, alright.” Loki scoffed out a laugh. “Can’t believe I’m taking advice from you imbecile.”

“I would be offended, but I know the satisfaction of seeing you frustrated over being the idiotic one is more than enough.” Thor smiled and turned around.

“Weren’t you gonna have breakfast?” Loki asked.

“I already did” Thor smiled. “But I know of someone who will be happy to have some company during breakfast.”

Loki felt his heartbeat accelerating as he turned around the corner and saw you, finishing a sandwich and grabbing a mug of coffee. Your hair was messy, the pajamas you were wearing were a couple of sizes bigger than your frame and your eyes were half closed.

It was adorable.

“Good morning” Loki bowed his head politely.

“Mo—” you were cut off by a huge yawn. “Morning, Loki. Slept well? You left the party earlier last night.”

“I’m terribly sorry” Loki apologized timidly. “I didn’t feel well.”

“It’s okay…” you smiled at him and took a sip of your coffee, and Loki felt the energy from the coffee. “It wasn’t as fun once you left.”

Loki’s breath hitched and smiled nervously at you. He looked around, unsure if he was allowed to look at you more than a few glances every so often. But he caught the sight of you making a sandwich.

“I’m gonna eat breakfast on the loungeroom, wanna join me?” you offered with two more slices at bread for him.

“A-Ah, sure…” Loki nodded.

You made him a sandwich and served him a mug of coffee. Loki smiled at you and bowed his head gently at you in a thank you.

Both of you walked to eat by the TV. You handed him the remote control for him to choose. He gulped and looked at the screen, he swore his hand was shaking like a Chihuahua. He had no idea how to use modern technology… or well… not day to day technology.

Spaceships? Sure. Hacking the security of a overly complex computers? Piece of cake. But using his own cellphone or browsing the internet and a smart TV? Oh, honey…

And then he heard you giggle.

“What?” Loki asked, unable to fight a nervous smile.

“Oh nothing” you giggled. “Nothing…”

“No, what? Tell me…” he chuckled and scooted closer to you.

“N-No, nothing…!” you giggled nervously.

Now, smitten or not, mockery was something he would never tolerate unpunished… not fully anyway.

“Oh, you’ll regret that” he growled and before you could ask, straddled you, wiggling his fingers at you.

“E-Eh?” the way you smiled was tense, but also skeptic, like you didn’t believe what was clearly about to happen.

Before you asked, his fingers shot to your sides, poking and prodding the sensitive skin, immediately making you squeal.

“Lohohohoki! Whahahat are you doing?!” you protested.

“You asked for it, you menace.” Loki chuckled, drilling his index fingers to your sides, still careful enough to avoid hurting you.

“Lohohohohoki! I’m sorry!” you whined, sounding more lost than actually apologetic.

Loki made his distaste for your actions clear by tickling you mercilessly. But it was clear you weren’t sure what you were apologizing for, and it still sounded honest.

Seriously, it should be considered foul play being endearing like that.

“I can’t go around letting cheeky mortals like you think they can disrespect the God of Mischief without consequence.” Loki spoke in a low, teasing tone.

He let it slide the fact that anyone else would’ve ended with a dagger on their gut or at least an insult so vile that would have made them storm out of the room. But it’s not like Loki was going to notify you over the little soft spot he had for you… although, to balance things out, it was easier for you to provoke him into this sort of silly “punishments”.

“Whahahahahat did Ihihi dohohohohoho?!” you complained, your hands latching to his wrists in a weak attempt to push him away.

“I saw you laughing at me, so by simply logic, I had to give you something to really laugh about.” He growled maliciously as his fingers continued their malicious dance along your skin.

Loki was skilled with his hands and fingers, double entendere aside. Being a sorcerer required precision of mind and hand movement, given a wrong angle could make a vanishing spell burn your eyebrows instead. As a proper prince, he was skilled with the quill and had a neat and elegant handwriting as well as an at least decent skill with the flute, the lute and the piano. Which Loki loved to clarify that by “proper prince”, he actually meant “not Thor” whose handwriting was a illegible and could only play percussions like a toddler… But he was a stronger fighter, Loki could give him that.

But it also meant he was a deadly tickler. Being perceptive and cunning like a good trickster didn’t really help your cause either.

He raised upwards, giving you a sort of break, reducing the intensity of the tickling. But his hand soon lowered ceremoniously back to make deadly contact with your skin again. This time gently wiggling behind your earshell.

“EEK! W-What are you doing?” your shoulders shut up, before your hands reached to cover your ears with your hands.

“Mmm, it was just a little test.” Loki hummed. “And I must say, I’m more than pleased with the result.”

Loki chuckled and his hands went to your sides, squeezing and kneading your ribs like dough.

“AIEE!” you squeaked and your arms went down to protect your sides. “Loki!”

Loki smiled menacingly and decided a new course of action.

He tickled your sides for a couple of seconds, before going back to tickle your ears so you’d raise your arms to protect them, just to go back to your sides after a bit.

“Hahahahahaha! L-Loki! P-Please! Hahahahahahaha! S-Stop it! Hehehehe! Hahahahaha!”

The pokes and tickly caresses went all over your skin, making you squeal and screech. But there was nothing you could do against someone stronger than you.

“Lohohohoki!” your hips wiggled from side to side in a helpless giggle fit.

But just when you thought it couldn’t get worse…

“EEEEEEEK!” you screeched when you felt Loki’s hands sneaking under your armpits, it was so loud and high pitched that Loki was startled.

“Oh, my my my…” he grinned mischievously. “What was that?”

“N-No… Loki! L-Loki…!” you pleased your hands before you, trying to protect yourself. “Loki! LOKI! LOHOHOHOHOHOHOKI!”

You didn’t have to be a detective to figure out that Loki, being the cheekiest of souls, would take advantage of this new tickle spot.

“NOHOHOHOHOHO! NO LOHOHOHOHOKI! PLEHEHEHEASE! HAHAHAHAHA! NAHAHAHA!” you squealed and squirmed like a fish out of water. “LOKI! LOHOHOHOKI! PLEAHAHAHAHASE!”

His fingers traced along your armpits, he was excited like a little kid finding the secret hiding place of the birthday presents. You were going crazy. He couldn’t stop himself, gently caressing and scratching the sensitive skin on your underarms to make you squeal until your face was bright red and your eyes were glistening with tears of mirth.

“PLEASE! AHAHAHAHA! OW! PLEASE! HAHAHAHA!” you guffawed and kicked your legs around as if that somehow would ease up the tickly sensations. But your sides were burning from laughing and it wasn’t pleasant. “OW! P-PLEASE! HEHEHEHE!”

“Oh, alright…” he smiled softly and retreated his hands from you.

Your chest was heaving from laughter and giggles were hoarse and tired. You wiped the tears off your face placed your hand on your chest to feel your own accelerated heartbeat.

“Hahahaha…!” you giggled and panted, trying to control yourself from the aftermath of tickly giggles. “Alright… I had that coming… I- I guess. Hehehe…”

“Oh gods, I adore you…” Loki blurted out, freezing at the weight the honesty of his words carried.

Simply because that was him. He was a deceiver, a conniver, a scammer, a trickster. But now? Truth had poured out of his mouth like a waterfall, cold and refreshing… He loved you. He had been lying to himself for so long that once he said it out loud, to you no less, it felt good, more than good.

“What?” you asked.

“I love you” he repeated.

But the look on your face made his stomach sink. You looked horrified.

“…why me?” you asked.

“What do you mean?” he asked, already feeling the crushing weight of rejection weighing him down.

“What do you think I mean?” you grumbled.

Of course you wouldn’t like him. You were the sunshine incarnate, you were kind and friendly, you were smart enough to crush down any silly preconception of human life being dull and silly like it had been thin and cheap glass, to the point of him feeling like the fool. You had brought him down to his knees. You had a power of a goddess.

No way you would reciprocate his feelings.

“What could you see in me…?” you smiled, but your eyes revealed distress. “I- Loki… look at me!”

Loki blinked at you, speechless. Which unknowingly giving you a window to keep talking.

“I’m everything that annoys you. I like going dancing, I like singing and being loud. I hate being around people but being alone stresses me out.” You huffed out. “Loki… I’m…”

“Perfect.” Loki finished for you, breathless.

“A nuisance.” You corrected him. “Loki, you’ll get tired of me by the end of the week.”

Loki felt angry, how could you speak so ill of yourself? You are a balm in chaotic world. And you hated every bit of yourself, every sweet and lovable inch of yourself. It was a self-hatred he knew very well. One type of felt hatred he lived with every day.

And he knew often there was only one way to help.

He pulled you against his chest and jabbed your sides.

“EEEEEK!” you screeched. “L-LOKI?! What are you doing?!”

“Mm, just helping your thoughts shut up…” Loki smiled cheekily as his fingers danced along your armpits once more.

“AIIIIEEEEE! LOKIHIHIHIHIHI!” you squealed.

“Yes, my darling?” he purred.

“S-STOP IT!” you cried. “HAHAHAHAHA! NOHOHO! WHY?!”

“I’m merely providing a pleasant distracting you from those nasty thoughts of yours” he said in a faux innocent tone.

“PLEHEHEHEHASANT?!” you whined between your loud laughter.

Loki nodded but agreed that maybe it wasn’t the nicest thing to do going for the spot that made you nearly burn out your lungs. So, being the angel he was, he moved down to tickle your belly giving you a break… sort of.

“Lohohohoki! Hehehehe! Hahahahaha! Oh my gohohohod!”

Loki chuckled at your laugher, that, in his defense, came down an octave after moving to a less deadly spot. But your rich giggles kept pouring out like a waterfall, fresh and healing to him.

His finger gently tickled around your waist line, which made you squeak and giggle in a high pitch.

“EEK! Heeheeheehee! EEP! Heeheeheehee!”

“Norns…” Loki complained quietly.

“Lohohohohoki!” you giggled when his fingers pinched around your navel. “P-Plehehehease, n-no more…! Hahahaha!”

“Oh, alright” he smiled lovingly at you.

As he saw you trying to catch your breath again, the loud drumming of his own heartbeat became overwhelming. Oh, how helpless he was… Yes, he had been the one tickling you silly. But, truthfully, he was the one at your mercy here.

“Hehehehe… ohh… hic! Hehehehe! Hic! Hehehehe!” you giggled. “T-That w-was hmph!”

Loki could take it anymore, he had pressed his lips against yours, a bit panicked at first… Did he read the room wrong? Did you not like him like thaaaaat…

Feeling you kiss back was… in a single word: mind-blowing. On one hand, it melted away all his fears, all the tension, all the mess he had been since his heart fell on his knees at your mercy… just undone… like the most powerful magic he could do. On the other hand, kissing you was like a dream, you were sweet, passionate, loving. Although he’d never admit it, he got a little flutter on his stomach thinking maybe… just maybe, you had liked him back all along.

“Ah… heh… um…”  you looked at him nervously. “D-Do you think maybe… would you like to come to the party with me? You know… t-together… officially…”

Loki smiled fondly and leaned in for another kiss.

“I would be honored, dear.”

Masterpost

[wutheringcaterpillar]

18 years

Summary: After 18 years of marriage Thomas plans a special day just for you that he wants to be perfect even if that means keeping his kids out of trouble.

Warnings: Slight misogynistic Thomas, talk of termination.

Side Note: This is my first fic in awhile since I stopped writing two years ago on a different account, I hope it's okay! :)

The Shelby household was anything but perfect but for today Thomas was going out of his way to ensure that it was. Being a housewife and a mother was by far not an easy job.Thomas and you had been married for eighteen years. Did it get ugly sometimes? Absolutely. That didn’t change the adoration and love you shared for each other.

While you were out running some errands with Ada, Thomas has quite a few helping hands in cleaning up the house, and decorating it to the 10s. “Well brother, how’s it lookin’ eh?”

The silver chandelier presented the dining room with a warm glow that made the silver set table look ever so inviting. All the rooms were vacuumed and mopped, not a crumb in site. The floors glistened beautifully to his high standard. “Never did I think that my incompetent brothers would use their brains for a day and the outcome be satisfactory.” Arthur laughed in response, before giving Thomas a playful nudge. “Alright, that’s enough out of you.” Thomas rushed to the kitchen once he remembered he left the kids in there unattended. They were being not very helpful to say the least.

Annabeth, and Edward were now teenagers full of hormones and outbursts. It seemed like they would argue every day about the smallest things but today Thomas wasn’t allowing there behavior especially today.

“Does dad know about Jackson?” Annabeth scoffed at him with a disgusted face. Thomas did not allow her to date unless he appointed the young man to her. The same could not be said for Edward’s late night shenanigans that Thomas was aware of and Annabeth despised the double standard. “No, and I’d appreciate if you kept your fucking mouth sh-“

“Now, now. No need for bickering on a day that’s about your mother and all she has done for you.” Thomas entered the room dressed in a black and white suit and tie that fit him snuggly, giving off his normal professional sense. “I wanted to have a word with the both of you before your mother arrives which should be-“ He pulled his watch out of his suit to get a glimps of the time. “In ten minutes precisely.” Edward opened his mouth to speak but Thomas raised his hand to stop him. “I don’t want any interruptions I want you both to listen to the words that are about to come out of my mouth and I highly suggest you take them seriously or you will not enjoy the consequences. Eh?” He eyed them both with his eyebrows raised, both of them stayed quiet as they lightly cowered in there seats to there father’s stature. “Stand up. Both of you.” Without hesitations the teenagers stood up, not slouching but standing to s perfect straight line.

“No. Fucking. Fighting.” Thomas walked around them in a circle menacingly never taking his eyes off of them while they stared at the ground and listened to their fathers words. “I don’t care, if you don’t like the food. I don’t care if you don’t like sitting next to each other. More importantly I don’t care how either of you feel today. Today is about your mother. There will be no games, no arguments, no sports. More importantly-“ He stopped in his tracks now in front of them, hands on his knees as he leaned down so they had no choice but to look in his demeaning eyes. “No. Fucking. Fighting.”

There was a brief silence, as if to let the air settle and for what he said to soak into them. “We’re clear eh?” They both nodded and Thomas dismissed them. “Great now, go get formally dressed.” He watched as they both walked out of the kitchen. He greatly appreciated how much time and effort you spent in taking care of them and it’s time they return the favor for at the least one singular night.

Edward shoved his sister playfully into a wall, just around the corner to where they thought Thomas wouldn’t hear. Annabeth shoved him back and pointed up at him. “If you say one thing about-“

“Who your late night squeeze?” Edward began to laugh and Annabeth shoved him again.

Thomas heard from the kitchen and raised his hands in the air, disposing of his cigarette before he spoke to himself, annoyed. “What did I just say?” Thomas was going to let it go until he heard something break that sounded expensive.

In a quick pace to the hallway, he saw the both of you attempting to round the corner to the next room but they should know who their father is by now that nothing goes uncaught. “Eh! Over here now!” The siblings shamefully turned awaiting for all hell to break loose. Thomas was the strict parent, and that frightened them, which is what he wanted.

Glancing to the ground, an expensive, rare crystal dish was shattered on the floor, and he was going to be damned if Frances was going to clean it up. For Thomas’s sake he just hope you wouldn’t notice until after his surprise. “I said three, fucking words to you.”

“No. Fucking. Fighting.” He hit the both of them on the back of their heads. “Yes I’m aware of Jackson, I was hoping to avoid the subject today but I have ears so I suppose this will be addressed right fucking now to clear the fucking air. I pay close attention to anyone and anything around me and my family. You both should know that more than anyone. Seeing Jackson stops now. I don’t approve of him, my daughter will not be marrying some useless sack of shit like that. See him again. You will never leave this house again, got it?” Annabeth nodded with her heated cheeks. Edward began to quietly laugh to himself while his sister was being reprimanded.

That’s when Thomas was quick to call him out too. “I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re giggling at like I don’t know what you do with the little whores from school, sneaking them into my fucking house.” All grins from Edward diminished immediately.

“What you do is your business but in my fucking house. That’s my fucking business. Clearly your mother and I have given both of you too much privilege. I don’t care who you fuck but I’d be careful if I were you because the first girl you get pregnant, you’re marrying whether you love her or not. You know why? Because I say so. As for sneaking them in my house. Good luck with that from now on I’m sure you haven’t noticed but maybe you should take a look at the new people I hired if you could find them to watch the house whilst your mother and I are away for our anniversary.” Both of them were speechless and Thomas sent them up to their room. Thomas may be older than them but he wasn’t born yesterday. After all he spent plenty of those nights sneaking in and out of your house when you first started dating. He knows all the ins and outs of scheming.

The sound of car door closing grabbed his attention and panic mode slightly set in for him. Thomas Shelby didn’t panic but in the event of there being a chance that something may not be to your standard, he panicked. “Hurry on, your mother is here! Get dressed in proper clothes and not some skimpy, raggedy mess for once!” He yelled after his children.

The weather was chilly as winter was approaching in Birmingham. The snow was falling delicately from the sky once you pulled in with Ava and to say you were freezing was an understatement but the new brown wool blanket, she has gotten you should do more than help. “Ada you didn’t have to buy me anything. I have money.”

“Oh being married to my brother, believe me I know you have money, just wanted to treat you today is that so bad?” You shrugged, smiling at your sister. “C’mon let’s get inside.”

“Oh I hope Thomas was okay with the kids today, I know he’s hardly taking care of them alone without needing my help.” Ada set a comforting hand on your shoulder before reaching for the door handle. “Y/N if Thomas can’t handle them for a few hours, I don’t know how you’ve gotten this far.” You both laughed and once the door opened, you were met with a warm embrace there must’ve been a fire lit in the living room. Thomas came abruptly from around the corner after yelling something at Arthur that you weren’t able to make out. “Y/N! My dear loving wife!” Thomas pulled you to his side, and had Ada remove your jacket.

He was freshly shaven, and showered, smelling of mint and tobacco. His smile pierced your eyes, and he leaned down to kiss you softly. “How was your day out with Ada love?”

“Wonderful, was nice to get away from all the testosterone for a bit.” You giggled and then started noticing your surroundings. The floor was sparkling, not a sign of dirt or mud. The laundry basket was empty, the kitchen spotless, you went to turn into the dining room but Thomas quickly placed his hands over your eyes. “Thomas, what’s going on the house looks-“

“Happy anniversary sweetheart.” He removed his hands and the sight of the dining room was absolutely breathtaking. The curtains looked brand new, a dark cherry red colored that allowed the sun to poke through in a welcoming manner. The chairs were painted black and with gold patted seats to sit on. The food arrangements looked more than delicious and most importantly your whole family was there. Annabeth dressed in a a beautiful gold gown and Edward dressed in a suit and tie matching his father. Even the Shelby brothers looked showered and dressed to the tens. “Thomas I-“

He guided you to your seat, pulling out the chair for you. “Don’t say anything love, just enjoy dinner and don’t even think about doing dishes or cleaning up after this. We’ve got it.” Thomas winked at you as he took his seat beside you, the glowing of your smile and surprise leaving him just as happy as the day you said yes to marrying him.

18 years, and he still found time to manage to make it feel like the first day you fell in love with him. “I just want to take a moment to thank Frances who will also be joining us for this lovely meal. I couldn’t have put today together without any of you. Thank you for taking them time to assist me in doing this for Y/N, my beautiful wife whom I adore and admire more and more every day. Thank you for being such a wonderful mother to our kids and dealing with me. Not sure how you quite do it but I’m glad you’ve stayed and put up with me.” Thomas raised his glass of whiskey in honor of everyone.

Your eyes began to water to which he’d caught your tear of joy with his free finger. You mouthed a thank you to him and an I love you and dinner began. Once dinner was over Thomas made a final announcement. “Tonight Y/N and I will be leaving for Bali for our anniversary.” You gasped, hand covering your mouth in disbelief. You’d never gone and you had never found the time. Thomas wasn’t giving you an option to not have time. “We’ll return Wednesday afternoon and I’d just like to take a minute to thank Pol and Frances for watching the kids. Thank you all for coming, and I appreciate every one of you bastards.” Laughs filled the room while Thomas extended his hand for you to take and help you out of your seat.

Once upstairs you stared at your body in the mirror, just getting the feeling that something was off but putting it off your mind. “You didn’t have to do all this Thomas.” He came up behind you in the mirror, wrapping his arms around your waist, snuggling his head into the crook of your neck. “I did love. You do so much and never take time for yourself, always putting I and the children first. You need to be put first too.” Swinging around, you stared into your husband’s crystal blue eyes.

It has been a long, long ride for the two of you together, that will keep going. But this soft, sentiment man had taken awhile to appear and you’re not sure how you got him to come out but you were glad you did. “I love you Mr. Shelby.”

“And I love you Mrs. Shelby.” You giggled as he smiled down at you in awe, before placing his lips on yours, connecting them in a chaste, delicate kiss. “Mom, Dad the cab’s here!” Annabeth called.

“Would you shut up you idiot, dad probably already knew that.”

“Eh! No fighting, right?” There was a silence before they both responded in unison. “Sorry dad!”

“I don’t know how you managed to get them along for dinner but kahoots to you my dear husband because that’s something I could never do.” Thomas wrapped his arm around you, as you walked down the stairs together. “I’m Thomas Shelby. The name alone fucking scares anyone.”

“Well I guess I’m not anyone then am I?” Thomas shook his head smiling. “No, no you’re not. You weren’t even frightened of me when I screamed at some whore, for thinking she could seduce me.”

“Fuck no, if you hadn’t I wouldn’t be Mrs. Shelby now would I?” Thomas laughed once more before opening the car door for you. The snow covered ground glistened from the bright night sky as you scooted into the cab.

The ride was quiet whilst you rested in Thomas’s arms which he thought was rather odd, that usually meant something was on your mind. “Are you alright love?” Breaking a part from, you took his hand in yours. “There’s been something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Worry etched over Thomas’s face but it didn’t compete with the level of anxiety you were feeling. “Whatever it is you can tell me Y/N, we’re celebrating eighteen years of marriage nothing is going to run me off now I can assure you that.” You stared down at the seat, eyebrows etched together in concern of his reaction. Patting his hand you looked up at him slowly, paying close attention to his eyes. “Thomas I think I might be pregnant. I know it's a big age gap for Edward and Annbeth to be close with them but I still want to have this baby." Thomas didn't hesitate to speak as he did not want to worry you. "Sweetheart, how long have you known?"

"I think I've known for about a week and I know it sounds silly that I was nervous to tell you but I didn't know if you'd want me to get rid of it because I know we didn't plan for this."

"Darling we didn't plan for the first two." You laughed and Thomas pulled you into his arms, resting his hands on your stomach. "I'd never ever want you to think I'd want you to get rid of our child besides, I love when you're pregnant, your swollen tits, your glowing smile and glowing tummy. I love every part of you Y/N nothing is going to change that. Okay?" You couldn't help the tears that began to stream down your cheeks, that Tommy once again wiped away, and he smiled lovingly at you. You nodded and leaned into his chest. You were going to be okay, and today was more than amazing. It was perfect.

[nomiqbomi]

Updated designs for Fophid and Lepignito commissioned by my friend @plus-sizedscribe! Plus a new middle form, Impodster, and 4 distinct formes that Lepignito can take, based on the environment it evolves in.

More info under the tab!

Fophid are timid creatures with many predators. Their carapace has evolved to blend in perfectly with an arboreal environment. When provoked, it wields the branch-like appendage on its abdomen like a lance. It has no venom, it's quite sharp!

Impodster attaches itself firmly to tree limbs, disguising itself as a small branch. Once it has done this, it is impossible to detach until it evolves. (It would be much easier to take the entire branch with it!) It does not budge, even after being discovered. Individuals who have camouflaged themselves poorly can often be found with leaves full of holes, made by bird Pokemon that attempted to carry them away.

When Impodster evolves into Lepignito, it takes on a perfect likeness of its immediate environment. Four unique patternings, based the biomes it occurs in naturally, have been officially recorded; however, it is believed that new patterns could be created by evolving the pokemon in a unique environment.

Even when their immediate environment does not match the markings on their wings, they somehow still manage to obscure themselves from view. Many theories have been pose as to how they are able to do this, but none have been proven, as this behavior is quite difficult to observe.

It prefers to sit motionlessly and evade detection, but when provoked, it uses its stealth to confound opponents and catch them unawares. Once the opponent has become disoriented, it flies off into the shadows, never to be seen again.

---

The line is based on the Peppered Moth, which are a famous example of natural selection that has actually been observed and recorded in real-time. The moth originally evolved to camouflage against lightly-colored trees, but a melanic mutation became more genetically favorable during the industrial revolution, when the trees became blackened with soot. After environmental standards were introduced, the white variant became common again. Today both variations can be found, and they are often mistaken for different species!

Plussized-Scribe helped conceptually with the variations/typing, with his own rom-hack in mind. I may add more variations for my own fan project.

I had originally designed Fophid to camouflage with the forest floor, but during my redesign I found out that the peppered caterpillar camouflages itself as a tree branch. I thought that was neat, to I went with that angle instead.

I also added a middle form to make it a better counterpart for the Pareyeva line who use the opposite form of self defense!

Edit: @plus-sizedscribe wrote some really great Pokedex entries for his hack that he allowed me to share here as well:

"Unlike Sewaddle, the leafy bits Fophid sport are not fashion statements, but specialized organs for camouflage. In autumn, their bodies release chemicals to redden the organs and match the foliage.

The base of the headcrest pulls double duty as a third mandible. Thus, Fophid can chew better while also maintaining camouflage, as the shaking of the crest resembles a leaf trembling in the breeze."

"Having secured themselves on a sturdy tree trunk, Impodster steadfastly await evolution. Very little can dislodge these Pokémon, which are nearly helpless if they happen to end up on the ground.

Impodster with poor camouflage are often found with leaves full of holes. These are made by naïve bird Pokémon attempting to carry them away, only to realize they picked almost the worst prey they could."

"Some people claim to have fallen for a person who always wore a long coat, only for their lover to turn out to be a Lepignito. The veracity of these bizarre anecdotes is suspect, to say the least.

Lepignito live in trees whose bark match their wing patterns. They boast different patterns to blend in with the available types of trees in the regions they inhabit. At least 25 different varieties are known."

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 1

Rowan is an activist with the Pet Liberation Front. He has spent the better part of a decade assisting the cause as a multimedia specialist, but never spends much time with the victims he is so intent on saving. After going undercover as a buyer to capture systemic abuse on camera, he finds a broken boy that steals his heart. Before Rowan knows it, he has a rescue pet at home. Both Rowan and his new houseguest must take steps to heal and adjust to their new normal.

Masterlist

// Chapter 2 (tbd)

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, mention of noncon, noncon touch, sexual and nonsexual nudity, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

“ID, please.”

Rowan handed over his driver’s license with a smile to the woman behind the counter. Marie, her name tag said, with a smaller typeface beneath that read she/her/hers. A faded cartoon sun sticker was wrapped halfway around the edge of the badge, almost completely covering the familiar WRU logo.

“Mr. Bailey,” she said with a soft smile in return, “welcome to today’s Opportunity Sale. Is this your first time attending one of WRU’s most special events?”

“No, I’ve been before.” 

It was hard to keep his voice level, especially at first. He’d been to dozens of these events around the country, and each was proving to be harder on his spirit than the last. The weight of the phone in his shirt pocket, already recording, weighed him down as much as his words.

Opportunity Sale. He loathed the euphemism. It was a liquidation, a fire sale, a last chance for the souls the institution had broken beyond repair. These so-called pets up for sale today were what WRU considered damaged goods, defective products. These are pets who don’t live up to WRU standards of excellence, they’d say, so we’re offering them at a discount, each sold as-is.

The “defects” varied. Some were marred by years of physical abuse, no longer able to perform the tasks they were trained for as their bodies failed. Others had simply lost their minds, slipped into catatonia, a permanent dissociation that rendered them a husk of the person they’d once been. Sometimes, albeit rarely, there were victims that WRU couldn’t fully break and bend to their whims, pets who were marked by attitude and defiance that no typical buyer would tolerate. Some were simply old, the incessant labor and abuse having weakened their bodies, unable to fulfill their purpose with the grace and ease that was expected.

They called it an opportunity, but It was nothing more than a last-ditch effort to recoup the costs that went into each “product.” Fully breaking a person’s mind took considerable time and money, and a broken pet sold for pennies on the dollar was still better for WRU’s books than a total loss. 

Those pets that weren’t sold before the close of business would be unceremoniously euthanized before the next sunrise. 

“If you’re familiar, then I’ll spare you the usual spiel about how this works,” Marie continued as she ran his ID through the desktop scanner. If she noticed the edge to his voice, she didn’t show it. “But I’ll give you a few reminders, just to refresh your memory. WRU salespersons will be stationed throughout the sales floor, wearing yellow shirts and WRU name tags just like mine. They’re available to answer any questions about merchandise or to help close any sales. We also ask that you refrain from live video or photographs for the privacy of our staff.”

“Got it.” Rowan felt the lie sticky on his tongue. The staff present today would be afforded no privacy, not if he could help it. Their atrocities, their complicity in this system, would soon be aired to the growing world of people who cared. Even this interaction at this front desk would be on tape, ready to share with the world in a matter of days. 

“Wonderful,” Marie said as she handed his ID back with a pamphlet tucked beneath it. “You can find the map of our sales floor in this brochure. Domestic will be in the front right through the double doors, Platonic towards the center, Romantics and all other classifications behind the black curtain on the left. I will say that we’re particularly low on Platonic inventory for this event, so if that’s what you’re after, I’d recommend coming back for next month’s Opportunity Sale. If you’re looking for anything specific, a WRU salesperson would be happy to assist.”

Rowan retrieved his ID and the map out of her hands, and he silently hoped she wouldn’t notice his fingers shaking. 

“Got it, thanks for your help.”

A final smile was all he afforded her before turning to the heavy double doors beyond the entryway. 

As he stepped closer to the threshold of purgatory, a familiar memory rose from the back of his mind. It always did at these places, the familiar sensation overwhelming him as his subconscious dragged him back nearly fifteen years.

---

“Hey, prof, are we there yet?”

Benny’s familiar voice cut sharp through the otherwise low murmur of conversation on the bus. 

“Benny, please,” Professor Engelhardt groaned, exasperation obvious in both her face and her voice. “I would appreciate it if all of our volunteers could act their age. You’ll know when we get there, I promise. In the meantime, try and exercise even a modicum of patience”

Rowan felt Grey squeeze his knee, and when he looked over the other young man gave him a toothy smile.

“For once, the loud-mouth has a point,” Grey said as he stifled a giggle.

“I have to agree,” Rowan agreed as he swallowed a laugh of his own. “It feels like we’ve been staring at nothing but cornfields for the last two hours. Where could we possibly be going this far out of the city?”

“Professor Engelhardt did say it was essential to our training as PLF volunteers, and I know that it’s a requirement for anyone who wants to do investigative work for the PLF. But as far as I know, there’s no WRU facilities out west of the city like this.”

“You’d be correct.”

Rowan looked up as his ears burned in embarrassment, the tired professor looking down at both him and Grey from the aisle. She continued, seemingly unaware of the blush that also tinged Grey’s cheeks. 

“This is a required journey for all volunteers who are looking to take the next step in their PLF activism. We’d rather you each know now whether this kind of environment will be too much for a sensitive stomach. And you’re also correct on a second count, Greyson. We’re not going to any WRU facility, at least not yet. You each have a considerable amount of training ahead of you before you go quite so far.”

By now, Professor Engelhardt’s voice had grabbed the attention of the other volunteers squeezed into the rattling and repurposed school bus. Faces of all ages, from the hopeful university students to the equally tired retirees, were rapt as their chaperone continued. Rowan’s stomach felt like it was doing somersaults as she spoke.

“We’re going to a cattle slaughterhouse. It’s time that you all experience for yourselves what it’s like when blood soaks the floor and all you can hear is screaming and heavy machinery. You need to see what happens when a collection of personal choices and systems meant to harm come together to determine whether something lives, or whether it dies. These aren’t humans, and they can’t speak to you to share their stories, but you’ll have plenty of time to see those horrors with your own eyes as you continue as volunteers. For now, let’s get you accustomed to keeping a straight face amidst the suffering and bloodshed. Given some of your aspirations, that shouldn't be much to ask.”

This time, Grey grabbed Rowan’s hand. Rowan gripped it back until his knuckles turned white.

--- 

That same smell followed Rowan now, the acrid stench he first experienced in the slaughterhouse on that humid August day. It was a lingering copper heavy in the air, a whisper of blood among festering wounds and fluids. WRU certainly tried to cover their tracks, make this place seem welcoming and inviting to the public, hide the litany of abuse that propped the system up. But to Rowan, and to anyone who knew better, there was no hiding the stench of ammonia and waste that clung to skin as much as sweat. These were sins that neither Pine Sol nor bleach could cover.

Rowan pushed through the double doors and entered the sales floor. It was showtime. 

The repurposed warehouse was milling with bodies. There were throngs of buyers meandering between yellow-clad WRU salespeople and black-clad Handlers, some chatting cheerfully while they contemplated buying a living being, others already busying their hands with prodding the “merchandise.” 

Opportunistic buyers hoping to get a pet at a discount came in a few standard flavors. There would be the middle-class families, unable to afford a brand-new pet, but still hoping to score a Domestic that was good enough to help around the house. There were the desperate perverts who were looking to try out a Romantic, see if flesh was better than silicone to get their kicks. And then there were the truly depraved, those hoping that they can find a legal way to torture - and likely murder - a living being without the threat incarceration hanging over their heads.

Rowan was posing as a long-curious buyer who might finally cave and get a Romantic all for himself. He wanted to be charismatic and sure of himself, but prove to be a bit more hesitant when it came to the “merchandise” itself. He was dressed smart, like he had money, but erred towards frugality. This would drum up the sales people, get them to incriminate WRU and its horrors under the guise of a sales pitch, the very thing that would generate sound bytes perfect for the pro liberation materials. 

He started with the Domestics, he always did. They were typically positioned at the entryway, intentionally so, as both the most in-demand and publicly palatable part of the system. Most families and prospective buyers wouldn’t wander past this point of the warehouse, not needing to look any further. 

A few of the victims were kept in cages, others on long leashes for handlers to parade around. It all depended on the state they were in, how well they’d be able to sell themselves as much as the salespeople did. 

“You look like a busy man,” a woman clad in WRU-issued yellow said with a smile in Rowan’s direction. “What do you say about never having to cook for yourself again? What about coming home to clean laundry every day without needing to think about it?” 

“That does sound tempting,” Rowan answered as he slowed to a halt. 

He looked at the man attached to the saleswoman’s lead, a tall and gangly thing, hunched shoulders with a distant look in his eyes. The defect was readily apparent: he was standing and leaning on a pair of forearm crutches, rather than the expected kneeling, because he was missing most of his left leg.

“This is one of our best deals of the day,” she continued her pitch with practiced ease, “I can guarantee you that. A flawless all-around Domestic, with great command responsiveness and attentiveness. It’s perfect for a busy working man or a family with a few kids. We’ve got it marked down today due to an obvious defect with its legs, which means it moves much slower than we’d expect from one of our model Domestics. Likewise, it can’t assume many of the expected kneeling positions, and struggles to move from position to position otherwise. This pet requires a patient owner, but the reward for that patience is a model that otherwise works as expected.”

This man would likely live another day. Rowan couldn’t see many other physical signs of damage beyond the amputation, and so long as this one ended up with someone who kept up with his medical equipment and any other treatments, he’d likely have many more years of service ahead of him. Maybe he’d even live long enough to see the whole damn system dismantled.

Still, it was Rowan’s job today to get incriminating sound bytes and video, so he pressed back. 

“I don’t like how tall it is,” he said, staring at the man who’d tower over him if he wasn’t slouched over his crutches. “I’d hate someone to think it has any kind of authority or power over me. It would be embarrassing in front of guests.”

“Rest assured, this model is fully obedient and appropriately subservient. After nearly a decade of service, there have been zero complaints of defiance or insubordination. Its last owners simply couldn’t bear the aesthetics of a Domestic like this. They’ve left glowing reviews of its service, and had it receive additional training in hand washing and minor repairs of delicate clothes. Really, this is a steal, and it’s more than discounted for the cost of a leg.”

“I understand,” Rowan said. “Still, I’m not a very tall man, and this one is just too much for me to handle. Your pitch is good, though, I’m sure you’ll have someone take it off your hands.”

“Of course, we want to make sure that each customer gets a pet that’s best suited for their needs, even if it is at an Opportunity Sale like this. If you’re interested in a shorter Domestic designation, we’ve got one over there with my colleague Dominic.” She pointed to the far end of the Domestic zone, to a tall man in yellow with a pet in a cage beside him. Rowan swallowed disgust once more.

“I’ll go check it out, thanks.”

And he did. He walked slowly, moving deliberately from side to side so his camera captured everything. This included the sight of a Platonic falling to their knees as an electric collar went off around their neck. The would-be purchaser gave a lecherous smile and ran her hand through the panting pet’s hair once the crackle of electricity faded. There would be no fairy tale ending for that unfortunate soul. 

“I saw my colleague Debbie point you over here,” the WRU employee said as Rowan came within earshot of the cage tied to the warehouse floor. “Do you mind if I give you the sales pitch while you look the merchandise over?”

“Well, the fact you’ve got this one in a crate while the others are out and about isn’t promising,” Rowan tried to lament as he gazed through the bars of the cage.  

“Ah, but that’s part of the story.” Already the salesman was working to weave a tale, and it was one Rowan would listen to with well-practiced feigned interest. The man gestured at the crate with an expression of false sorrow before he continued. 

“This one isn’t in a crate because it’s a danger to you. No, it’s a danger to itself, and only then because it’s so stricken by grief. You see, this pet is from our very first Domestic-Care line of products, the latest from WRU in home-care solutions. Its extended training made it perfect for older buyers looking to have a Domestic with a bit of extra training in handling low-complexity medical equipment like wheelchairs, walkers, shower chairs, stair lifts, and more. It was paired with a loving owner, carried out its tasks dutifully, and went years with a perfect record. All check-ins from WRU were met with glowing reviews. 

“Given the opportunity, it follows routines to a degree of meticulousness few of our pets have a predisposition for. Genuinely, this pet has always been one-of-a-kind. However, its owner passed away from circumstances entirely beyond this pet’s control. It went out of its mind with grief, and no matter how many new homes we’ve placed it in, and no matter the attempts we’ve made to re-train it, it escapes and runs right back to its old master’s home.” 

Even now, Rowan could see the pet searching for the door, their eyes following the flow of people in and out of the sales room. The human feelings were there. They always had been, and Rowan could all but feel the grief himself. That panicked searching for a way out, that desire to run into the arms to the person that this human felt they belonged to. A desperation for a door to an old life, a familiar voice, an expected touch. Grief as manifest through complete brainwashed devotion. 

Rowan knew better by now than to let his emotions seep through onto his face.  

“So, it’s a runaway risk. A certain runaway, in fact.” 

“I wouldn’t say anything with certainty,” the employee said with a nerve-tinged laugh. “In fact, the reason this particular model is on the floor today is with the hopes it connects with someone as deeply as it connected with its first owner. There’s no guarantee of that, we know, but it’s worth the shot. We’re hoping the right person will come along today and help them find peace. In the meantime, we’d recommend a home outfitted with windows that lock, and doors that are equipped with biometric verification that the pet can’t bypass.” 

The only peace this pet would find would be its death later this evening. No one in their right mind would take a runaway, not a casual purchaser, and not even a liberation group. The risk of a successful escape was just far too great.

The pet wouldn’t meet Rowan’s eyes even now, as it returned hunting, searching for the familiar face it was expecting. A face that would never come. There was no solace in knowing that soon, for the faithful at least, pet and owner would be reunited. 

“Unfortunately, I’m not equipped to handle a runaway,” Rowan said as he looked up from the crate with a sigh. “Honestly, I feel like these Domestics have just sidetracked me. I was here to look at the Romantics, really.” 

“Then you’ll want to head right behind that curtain over there,” the man said with a gesture to the tall velvet curtains that cordoned off nearly a third of the warehouse. “There are plenty of additional WRU employees there to help you find a model that’s suitable to your needs.” 

With a nod, Rowan turned to walk towards the curtains. He lingered for a moment, just long enough to stick his fingers through the bars of the cage at his side, a chance to let the pet seek out comfort if they wanted. No touch came, and Rowan walked away with a familiar pang in his heart. He knew by now that he was never going to save them all, not yet, but it didn’t ease the pain. 

Another flash of his ID was all it took to get him through the foreboding curtains. WRU absolutely didn’t want families and reporters seeing this side of the system, after all. The Romantics division might have been the second best-selling of all the WRU models, but it was also the most secretive. There was good reason for that. 

As soon as Rowan passed the threshold he was hit with the thick aroma of sex and fear. There was a more sinister atmosphere in the rooms that existed behind the curtain, air heavy with that adrenaline-twinged sweat of broken pets who were fighting for their lives, some being used live for demonstrations on the sales floor. Even after all this time, Rowan’s stomach wasn’t quite accustomed to it. 

He kept his chest forward and shoulders out. That was the best way for his camera to capture the sights and the sounds, because after all, that was the reason he was here. He wasn’t here to save these victims, as much as he wished that was the case. He was here in the hopes that their suffering would give those that came after them a fighting chance, that airing these atrocities to the world would bring the system to its knees one day.

The first sight that drew his attention was a man cinched to a table, an unusual arrangement for even the most “defective” Romantics. There were already two potential buyers there, hands on the naked pet, touching his body and fondling his genitals. The pet was unflinching, his chest rising and falling steadily, lips giving out soft sighs and moans in a practiced rhythm. 

“I didn’t expect this one to be so popular,” the WRU employee said with feigned exclamation as Rowan meandered over. “But young man, you certainly have good taste. This model is one many once would have believed was unsalable, but here, at the Opportunity Sale, it’s being given a second chance. Not only that, but it’s proving to be the center of attention.” 

‘What’s wrong with it?” Rowan asked bluntly, still surveying the scene. Something had to be wrong, and even his own seasoned eyes hadn’t figured it out yet. The pet’s gaze was unfocused, its body still, just as a Romantic was trained to be unless given the command to engage. 

“Another tragedy, I’m afraid.” The salesperson didn’t sound saddened at all. “There was an incident during its training that left it paralyzed from the mid-back down. This means that, as a Romantic, its functions are limited. It can’t sustain an erection anymore, and it can’t engage in certain types of play. However, it's still just as tight as our standard buyers would expect, and its mouth is an absolute dream. You’d be responsible for the additional care costs of a paralyzed pet, but for someone with limited sexual needs of their own, this model will more than fulfill.” 

At least once each Opportunity Sale, Rowan swore to himself that this was finally the time he was going to be sick on the job. He’d see something so horrific that there was no answer except to choke up bile and spit there on the sales floor. He’d likely out himself as a PLF agent in that same breath - after all, who else would be so concerned about the well being of pets? - but it almost didn’t matter. These horrors were too much to witness, much less bear as the victim was bearing them now. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat. At least that sales pitch would make a great sound byte for the pet liberation materials. 

“Uh, yeah, that’s not what I’m looking for. I’d definitely want one that’s younger and, uh, more mobile.”

“Understandable,” the salesperson said with a nod. “There are plenty of other options here today that might suit your fancy. Feel free to keep browsing, and as always, you’re welcome to ask a WRU employee for any assistance or further direction.”

“Thanks.”

And Rowan did keep browsing. He browsed carefully, angling his chest to capture all of the angles he could, kneeling down to “inspect” pets that were sprawled naked on the floor. The path he took around the Romantics section was methodical. The disabled pets, the catatonic pets, the ones with abuse written on their skin, Rowan tried to capture them all. When he could he gave their hands what he hoped was a squeeze of comfort - possibly the last they’d receive in their too-short lives. 

He was nearly to the back corner, at which point he’d loop around to the front and make a graceful exit, when he saw another Romantic in a crate.

Unlike all the others, this one made Rowan stop in his tracks.

The man in the crate was young, possibly ten or so years younger than Rowan himself. He had a thick hair of black curls and he was looking through the bars of the crate with searching, hopeful eyes. It was almost like he was waiting for something, someone, to notice him. Most of the pets here were defeated, on their last chance at redemption, already chewed up and spit out. Their spirits had been dampened. Somehow, some way, this one was still fighting. 

It was like a thread in his chest pulled Rowan up to the crate. His feet were moving without him commanding them, unlike anything he’d experienced at a sale like this before. He was caught up in something special, something different, about this victim. 

“You have a good eye,” the saleswoman said with a warm smile. “This is possibly one of the best deals we have on the floor today, so long as you’re willing to be a little patient.”

“What’s wrong with this one?” Rowan asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the boy kneeling almost eagerly behind the bars. 

“Let me start off by saying that this pet is in great physical condition. Not only is it one of the youngest we have here today, it has passed almost all of our physical examinations with flying colors. Its strength, speed, and tactile abilities are within or exceeding our typical parameters. Not only that, but this particular pet has something that is typically reserved for only our most exclusive customers: it has dual training, and is classified as both a Romantic and a Domestic.” 

“That’s not something you typically see at an Opportunity Sale, I suppose,” Rowan pretended to muse. He already knew that what she had said was the truth. Dual-classification pets took many more months of training than single-classification, and it often showed in both the abuses and expenses associated with keeping one. A Dual-classification pet could easily cost as much as a down payment on a house. 

“Exactly why this is such a great opportunity,” the saleswoman beamed. “As a Domestic, it even has specialty training in French cuisine. You’ll be eating like royalty every night if you so please. As a Romantic, its skills and abilities are considered quite standard, with experience in training for light bondage.” 

“So, why aren’t you telling me what’s wrong with it?” 

A sigh. Dramatic, almost despairing. It was an act of practiced sympathy that soured Rowan’s stomach even further. 

“Unfortunately, this one seems incredibly selective with the orders it follows, if it follows them at all. No amount of effort from our most experienced WRU handlers have been able to adequately refurbish it. As I said, its behaviors and capabilities are within or exceeding WRU standards, and it certainly seems eager to please its keepers, but I can make no promises on its compliance with specific commands.”

The boy looked up at Rowan for just a moment before turning his gaze back down. From that brief glance, Rowan wouldn’t have put him a day over twenty-five. But God, he just looked so lost. He didn’t seem lost in the way that many others at the sale today did, that catatonic, too-far-gone glaze over their eyes, the will to live entirely sapped out of them. Instead, it looked like this boy was hunting for something, someone who would notice him, give him attention in return.

Rowan couldn’t help himself. He saw it as a sign that this victim wanted to live, wanted to make it off this floor alive, wanted to connect with any human being that came by and could give him a chance. It was a spark, and against his better judgment, Rowan hoped that he could one day stoke it into a fire. 

“How much?” 

The words left his mouth before he was able to swallow them down. His heart began to race almost instantly: this wasn’t the plan, it was never the plan. He was supposed to get in, take some footage, and get out. He wasn’t trained for anything else. He wasn’t prepared to engage in rescue activities, especially not like this. 

Yet Rowan had never known anything with a certainty such as this: he could not leave here without saving this boy. 

“Wow, you’re won over already?” The saleswoman’s voice was light, but she was already pulling out a clipboard with a stack of paperwork on it. “I haven’t even given you all of its physical details yet. You can’t see quite how tall it is in the crate, can you? Here, let me get you its height, weight, vaccine record, some of its other statistics-” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Rowan managed, almost breathless from the sudden influx of stress. “I want this one. How much?” 

“Because it’s lacking in one of the most essential features of a WRU product, the ability to listen to owner commands, it’s offered at a significant discount. This one is seven thousand and five hundred dollars before tax, and the seven percent state and local sales tax will be applied at checkout. We also have optional add-ons, like the pet care package that insures all well-being visits, vaccines, and dental care at any WRU-sponsored pet clinics, as well as training class vouchers to impart additional skills.” 

Rowan had already retrieved his wallet from his pocket, fingers trembling as he pulled out his ID and method of payment. That was a lot of money, yes, but who was he to put a price on a life? His car could hang on another few years, probably. Maybe. It was just money, he’d be fine. 

“I’ll take the base package. I don’t need anything else.” 

The rest of the sales floor became distant, dull, and Rowan took the pen into his hand as the saleswoman shoved a pile of paperwork in his direction. Tomorrow morning, she said, this boy would be delivered to his front door. Initial on this line, sign here, what’s today’s date? It was a blur and Rowan was hardly aware of what his own hands were doing. 

He couldn’t hear her over the thundering of blood in his ears, and the rush of adrenaline made it hard to steady the pen in his hand. He penned his signature on the final line and the saleswoman congratulated him with words he could hardly make out. It didn’t feel real, like he was walking through a dream. 

Rowan was going to be a pet owner. 

---

The din of conversation in the massive room almost overcame the incessant ringing in the pet’s ears. Not much was capable of drowning it out these days, not since it had become so loud. It never stopped, anymore. 

It couldn’t hear the words that were exchanged all around it, those busy groups of people moving back and forth, their legs passing its crate by without stopping. It had a hard time hearing words, no matter how hard it tried, and whether it was somewhere busy like this or otherwise. It wanted to be good, it wanted to listen, it wanted to make its master and its handlers pleased. But the pet couldn’t do that anymore, and deep in its gut, it knew that’s why it was here today. It was here with all the other pets that were broken, that were missing things, that cried when they were brought into the room this morning. Those pets were bad, and the handlers had no trouble saying as much.

The pet wanted to believe it wasn’t like those broken pets. That it would go back to Master, or have a new master, and be able to please them like a good pet should. But for that to happen it had to be on its best behavior. Handler Green had said so, that the pet would be thrown out if it didn’t try its very best to listen and be good. Handler Green had shouted this over and over, as though the pet was being disobedient just by existing, rather than unable to hear him. It didn’t want to be disobedient, and it wished that the handlers didn’t have to repeat themselves so much. It wished it could hear right, like the other pets were able to.

A pair of legs stopped beside the crate, toes pointed towards the yellow-shirt woman that wasn’t a handler, but the pet was told to behave for nonetheless. The pet looked up, eager to see who might be interested, perhaps someone who wanted it. The man’s eyes met the pet’s, and it quickly averted its gaze back towards the ground, cheeks burning. It was a novice mistake to make eye contact with a person like that. If it didn’t get itself under control, remember its training and very best manners, the pet knew that it was destined to fail. 

Maybe it was a broken pet after all. It certainly had the bruises and scarring from seemingly endless corrections by handlers, anyway. 

Those legs finally walked away and a blanket was thrown over the top of the pet’s crate. It yelped in spite of itself as the darkness descended. Did this mean that it had failed? Was that single glance enough to seal its fate, destined it to never have another Master to serve, no second chance to prove itself? Was this the end - alone, in the dark, unable to hear anything but the shrill ringing that had become its only companion? 

I want to be good, it thought to itself, tears splashing down from its watering eyes to its knees. Its fists balled up, hands shaking from the sadness and the longing. I just want to be good.

---

Taglist (please ask if you would like to be added or removed, I know it's been a while :))

@honey-is-messi @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @squishablesunbeam @tragedyinblue

@clairelsonao3 @den-of-evil @cepheusgalaxy @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @whumpzone @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader

@dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast

@dokidokisadness @anonfromcanada @starfields08000 @bloodredfountainpen @pumpkin-spice-whump

[vixensbrainrotts]

Happy Birthday, lover — Manjiro <Mikey> Sano

Content: specialty post

Tropes: established relationships, it‘s readers birthday, kind of a continuation of the ‚Committed to you‘ series

Summary: it‘s your birthday! Let‘s see what your darling lover has in store for you once you get home…

Vixen‘s two cents: Hello hello hello! This is a special piece because guess what? It’s @anahryal ‘s b-day!!!! Happy birthday moot, hope you‘re treated well, and all the best for the coming year! Anyway, i was a little unhappy with this, i cant do half as much as i usually can cause im like really sick right now (its stunting all my intelligence) so yeah, sorry if this isn’t up to standard… either way, happy birthday and enjoy!!!

Mikey had never really put much effort into anything, things just had a tendency of coming to him. But for this, for today he had planned in and out, checked up and down to make sure that everything was working out.

In terms of gifts he learned to be resourceful. From checking your perfumes to see which ones you were running low, on to crossing the ethical boundary of snooping into your journal to check the “wanted” list of items you fancied.

He double checked with your best friend for your favorite type of flowers and even attended a Mitsuya-special baking course to personally make you a cake.

It was a struggle and a half to try and time the whole thing right, between grocery store runs to get the supplies and decorations to somehow getting you out the house to hopefully set everything up.

Now he sat at the kitchen counter, completely winded and waiting for your arrival back. He had everything done and dusted, and was just eagerly awaiting your arrival.

When he heard your car pull up into the driveway, he snapped out of little phase and brushed off the dress shirt he had put on earlier, breaking into a quick jog towards the living room where he had set everything up.

There were garlands hung across the room, and the coffee table had been turned into a gift display table. A large bouquet was placed in the center, wrapping paper and gift bags coordinated to match the floral display.

The cake was placed on the formal dining table, two sets of dishes, glasses and utensils set out for the both of you to dine on later.

Mikey’s eyes drifted over everything once more, and widened once they spotted an unlit candle on top of the fire place. That’s right, he had bought a specific candle for today, one he had found when shopping for ingredients for the cake. It caught his eye, and when he gave if a big sniff, the scent didn’t seem too bad either.

With a smile on his face, he grabbed the candle and pulled a lighter from his back pocket. The lighter was yours, he noted, looking down at the pretty pink plastic as he lit the ‘birthday cake’ candle. Fitting.

He heard your keys jingle in the lock and caught himself almost giggling as he made a quick pace to meet you at the door.

“Majiro! I’m home!” You called out, voice rather cheerful (seemingly in a good mood, Mikey said a quick prayer thanks). You turned around to face the door when hanging up your coat, unaware of your darling husband creeping up behind you.

Slowly, Mikey approached and waited for the right moment to strike. “Mikey?” You called again, just about to turn around when a pair of hands were clasped across your face, shrouding your vision.

“AHH!”

Your hands flew to your face, grabbing at those that held your eyes shut, a bit more than derailed as your scrambled to gain recognition. You were about to scream again when your fingers found and felt the very familiar ring that donned the left hand over your face.

“Mikey?” You said, entirely confused as you finger the ring again to confirm your suspicions.

“Hey baby.” His voice mumbled into your ear, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “Manjiro what are you-?” You started, but felt him push you forward to walk, taking baby steps towards what you thought to be the living room.

“Trust me.” He spoke as he guided you towards somewhere within your shared home. “Alright..” you trailed off, now smiling a little unsurely yourself.

You allowed him to push you towards somewhere, giggling a little as he chose this to be a good moment to place tiny little pecks down your neck and nape.

“Mikey shouldn’t you be focusing on where we’re going or-“ you smiled as you held his hands. “Nah don’t worry baby, we’re here anyway.”

In an instant he pulled his hands away to reveal your living room, decked out and dressed to the nines, a cute display set up, just for you. “Happy birthday sweets!”

“Oh my gosh, Jiro…” you turned around to look at him. “You did this all for me?” You looked at the display, seeing the flowers and the gifts all daintily wrapped.

“Yeah… i mean why wouldn’t I? I had the day off anyway, so I figured I should do something sensical, especially cause it’s your special day, right?”

(That’s a lie, he groveled on his knees to one of his coworkers to switch shifts and spent half of his overtime to get today off.)

“Manjiro…” You turned to look at him again, eyes glossing over with emotion. “Thank you…” you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Anything for you.” He hugs you back and nuzzles into your hair, swaying you lightly from one side to the other. “Now please babes let’s eat the cake, I’ve been resisting it since I got done with it.” He pulled away with a wide grin.

“You made me a cake?!” You gasped in delight as you looked at the beautifully decorated delicacy that sat on the dining table. „Yeah, you dont want to know what i went through to get it right…“ Mikey trailed off remembering the many, many failed attempts at cake that Mitsuya had to coach him through.

„Oh my goodness Mikey… this is, i- thank you so much!“ You preached to him again. „Alright now, how about you open those gifts so that you can thank me more and then eat cake together?“ He had a twinkle in his eye as he pushed you towards the gifts with a hand placed on the small of your back, giving you an encouragement to progress further into the room.

„Open this one first!“ he plucked one of the bags from the display and thrust it in your hands, sitting himself on the couch in neat anticipation. „Alright…“ you smiled at him and pulled the topper paper from the bag, revealing… „Manjiro! How did you know?“ your voice sounded even more cheerful than he had anticipated, and the mini-Mikey inside his head did a celebration dance.

„Well, i know you love those crafty things, especially the knitty gritty things that i cant wrap my head around… You know, i wanted to make you a heart out of those yarns that you always use to decorate that bag, but after trying and failing about a million times, i figured i should leave it to the professionals… also you wouldn‘t shut up about fluffy yarn so…“ he monologued to you as you scanned the insides of the bag, pulling out the colorful yarn.

„And baby, i was thinking, for all my hard work and cause you love me and all such wonderful things that you could maybe, just maybe, and hear me out on this… make me one of those delightful scarves you‘ve been making for all your friends but not me??? Preferably not in pink though, ill take a red one instead.“

You giggled heartily and pulled him into another hug. „Of course i will, it‘s only fair, right? Yarn is like, super expensive so yeah, i wouldn’t mind giving back…“ you smiled at him and pulled away with a quick peck to his cheek, to which he cradled his face with a bashful expression.

All these years that you spent together, as friends, as lovers, as a couple, as fiancée’s and now… married… No matter how much time would pass, Manjiro knew that he had found everything he wanted in you, and he‘d be damned to let it go.

[depressopax]

BrBa/BCS characters on Valentine's day

Fandom - Breaking Bad/Better call Saul

Happy valentine's day to everyone that celebrates! Shout out to my single fellows, same bestie 🫶

Pairing: Mike Ehrmantraut - Nacho - Jimmy - Kim - Jesse - x gender neutral reader Genre: Fluff, headcanons Warning(s): Cheesy af lmao. User is gender neutral (they/them and referred to as partner) Words: 900 Summary: How do the BrBa/BCS characters celebrate valentines together with reader? English is not my main language, if I make any spelling mistakes please let me know so I can improve my writing! <3 AO3 link soon

How do the BrBa/BCS characters celebrate valentines together with reader?

Mike

Mike doesn’t really get the idea of valentine's day, when he can be affectionate any other day.

Probably the one who scoffs at couples that exaggerates valentines day with expensive gifts etc (same Mike, same)

Double standard king, he’d do just that, just to see you all happy when he surprises you

Probably cringes at himself, but your reaction to his affection makes it worth it

If you like celebrating valentines, then so does he.

Mike will take you out to a fancy restaurant and make sure you feel special

Also make sure he has the day free so he can spend it with you.

But this is nothing unique, this man treats every day like a valentine's day and takes all opportunities to spoil you. 

When you give him a gift too, he’s rather surprised.

He’s not used to receiving gifts and having someone spend money on him “You didn’t need to” meanwhile he smiles like an idiot

The day is spent with dinner, cinema or maybe both? 

Of course he has more plans for later, too. 🤭

Nacho

Same with Nacho, he’s not that fond of Valentine's Day, especially all the cheesy annoying couples that make such a big deal out of it.

He thinks it’s ridiculous to only show affection and give gifts to his partner once a year, he does so every opportunity he gets (which is often, homeboy got no limits when it comes to you 💀)

But of course, he will make a big deal out of it when it comes to you.

He buys you roses and some gift but feels really awkward about it

Which quickly changes when he sees your happy reaction. 

When you give him a gift too he probably plays it cool

Meanwhile he melts on the inside. 

He loves you and the thought of you spending money on him makes him flustered “What did I do to deserve them?” He thinks as he looks at you in admiration.

He takes you out for a date and then takes you to his place iykwim ;)

Jimmy

Honestly? He has two moods: 1. Planning valentine’s day weeks ahead 2. Forgetting about it and panicking about it when waking up on february 14. 

He spoils you with gifts and dates any other day, but he still likes celebrating valentine's day with you.

So he feels really bad if he forgets about it, which he did today lmao

He woke up early in the morning, feeling like he had forgotten something.

Homeboy rushed out of bed to get to the store early to buy gifts

He doesn’t give a fuck it all fancy restaurants are fully booked for the night, he wants to take you there and wont give up.

Somehow finds a way to get a seat for the two of you at the restaurant

He picks you up and drives to the restaurant, making sure you have the best day ever. 

But knowing him, you can sense he forgot about what day it was.

You don’t mind, though. 

Of course, you give him a gift too, just to watch him blush when he receives it lmao

After a perfect date, he has plans for when you go back to his/your place. He wants to thank you for the valentines gift, after all. 😼

Kim

Kim loves you more than anything, but her job takes up lot of the time which she wants to spend with you

She doesn’t get the opportunity to take you on spontaneous dates, nor does she like it.

Kim wants to plan the perfect dates when it comes to you

Valentine's day is her way to “make it up” to you by really showing her love and affection to you

She plans it months ahead, with booking a table at a fancy restaurant, buying a thoughtful gift, and making sure she has nothing work-related planned, so she can spend the day with you, and only you. 

She buys some thoughtful gift for you, maybe some jewelry, roses or chocolate etc

She doesn’t expect something back but when you hand a gift to her, she feels so appreciated.

It doesn’t matter if it’s a “bad” gift, she’ll love it either way and keep the gift close to her all the time, knowing it’s from you. 

Kim makes sure you have the best date of your life, doing everything to make you smile and enjoying every second with you. 

The valentines celebration ofc continues at her place ;)

Jesse

Though he would never admit it, Jesse LOVES valentines day.

Whenever he goes into stores with valentines decorations and gifts, he gets the urge to buy something

Spoiler alert: His impulse wins.

On February 14, he probably has at least done 10 impulse purchases to give you

“You got something for me?”“Of course, idiot” He smiles as you give him the gift he didn’t expect (but was hoping for)

Jesse looking at you with so much love in his eyes, grateful to have someone like you.

He takes you for a perfect, cheesy date. 

He doesn’t like awkward dinner dates, so he ends up taking you to an amusement park or takes you for a romantic picnic, preferably when it’s dark outside. 

He def dresses up nicely too, even if you guys end up at some amusement park or a not so fancy pizzeria lmao

When back at his place, he’s prepared with lights shut off, lighted scented candles and romantic music, just like he’s seen in cheesy movies

You can probably guess the rest. 🤭

This was cheesy af loll, but I wanted to post something fun and valentine's day inspired!

[ladamedusoif]

Family (Din Djarin x F!Reader)

A Merry Fic-Mas - December 25

Part of A Merry Fic-Mas: A Pedro Boys Holiday Fic Calendar - click for masterlist

Follow my writing blog @ladameecrit and turn on notifications!

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Word Count: 1903

Rating: Teen

Warnings: No physical description of reader; no use of Y/N; set after S3 of The Mandalorian; references to illness

Aliit ori’shya tal’din - Family is more than blood (Mandalorian proverb)

***

Din doesn’t get sick. Injured, sure. But sick? Never.

The strange, fuzzy feeling in his head is just a headache, he reasons to himself as he potters around the house, back early from a job and waiting for you to return from collecting Grogu from school in the town. You’ve been helping them out for a few months now, taking care of housekeeping and looking after the little boy when his father is away or busy during the day. 

Din likes having you around. In the beginning, he’d leave almost as soon as you arrived at their cabin, having travelled from the nearby farm you lived on with your widower father. But now, he lingered. He was glad when you suggested coming by on days when he was there, to help show him the basics of managing the household. He would never admit it, but he missed you when you went home in the evenings.

He pours a glass of water and tries to focus, bringing his hand to his forehead and being surprised to find it cold and clammy, even though he feels like he’s on fire. 

He can’t be sick, though. Not him. He sips the water and promptly splutters it back out as his body is racked with a hacking cough.

He can hear you and Grogu chattering as you approach the house. A few deep breaths and sips of water, and his helmet is back on before you’ve even opened the door.

***

It had become a habit to stay after picking Grogu up from school, to help out with preparing the main meal for him and Din. Din appreciates your help - he tells you how much he’s learned from you, and how much he still needs to know. 

Today, you stand side by side at one of the worktops peeling vegetables and chopping them into bite-size chunks to accompany the meat that’s cooking nicely in the oven, filling the little cabin with its aroma. You look over to see how Din is getting on, and are struck by the fact that his chopping is a far cry from its usual even, meticulous standard.

More worryingly, you’re sure you can hear him wheezing through his modulator. He’s leaning heavily on the worktop, as if for fear he’ll fall. 

“Din? Are you okay?”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine. It’s just a headache.”

No sooner has he resumed his work than a horrible, hacking cough has him bent double, gasping under his helmet. Even Grogu is scared - you can see it in his big dark eyes as he drops his toys and runs to comfort his beloved father.

“That’s not a headache, Din. You’re sick.”

The Mandalorian grips the edge of the counter and hauls himself up to his full, imposing height, Grogu still clinging to his leg. “I am not sick. I don’t get sick.”

You toss your knife on the chopping board. “Are Mandalorians somehow special, that they don’t get a simple cold, now and again?”

He does that exasperated sigh you’ve heard too often.

“Alright, Din. You’re not sick. But tell me how your body feels, being not-sick.”

That sigh.

“My head feels a little fuzzy. I have this slight cough. That’s it.”

“No fever?”

He shakes his head again, and you spot him tightening his grip on the counter. “I am fine. Now, can we please make some dinner?”

***

You tend to eat outside, on the veranda, if you’re eating with Din and Grogu. It means he can take off his helmet and eat comfortably, without revealing his face to someone outside his family.

You eat the last of your vegetables and survey the little garden the clan of two have cultivated, with your help. A little pond, a vegetable patch, even some desert flowers that bloom happily in the dry, sandy soil. 

A proper home for the little family, you muse. From what your father and Karga had told you about Din and Grogu’s past, you knew they deserved this little sanctuary.

Your reverie is shattered by the sound of distressed noises coming from inside the cabin - Grogu, babbling in panic and crying out with fear. You drop your bowl and are about to race inside when you stop, remembering that Din may well have his helmet off. 

“I’m coming in. Din? Just giving you fair warning.”

No answer. Just more frightened coos and what sounds like metal scraping on the floor.

“Din?”

Still nothing.

“Grogu? Is it okay for me to come in?”

The door to the cabin opens and the child races out and flings himself into your arms, pointing back into the house and babbling something in his curious mix of Basic and Mando’a about his father.

You understand as soon as you enter. 

There, on the floor of the kitchen, his helmet barely on, lies an unconscious Din Djarin.

***

With the help of Grogu’s powers, you lift Din and move him to his bed, still unresponsive. Din is definitely breathing, thankfully, but there’s a crackling wheeze in his chest that scares you as you manoeuvre his broad body onto the mattress.

If it was anyone else you’d be taking his temperature and preparing cold compresses for his brow. But this is a Mandalorian, one who takes his creed very seriously, and even the prospect of exposing Din’s chest feels like a violation.

When his body starts to tremble, despite the blankets you’ve pulled over him, you take an executive decision.

“Grogu?” He looks up at you from his spot beside his sick father on the bed. “I’m going to open up your dad’s shirt, just a little. I need to hear his breathing and try to cool him down. I’m not going to hurt him.”

With a coo and a nod he confirms that he understands. You expose just enough of Din’s broad chest to assess his temperature, the clammy, hot skin while Din continues to shiver proof of the severity of the fever. 

Grogu places his little hand on his father’s chest, eyes wide with fear and concern. He can heal many injuries, but the Force is no match for whatever virus or infection is raging through Din’s system. 

“We’re going to make your buir all better, I promise. Can you help me with that?”

He nods and hops off the bed, following you into the kitchen where you fill some bowls with cold water and find rags to make cold compresses. Grogu watches attentively as you place the damp cloths on Din’s chest, rising and falling with each shallow breath. 

“Now, you need to stay here and keep the cloths on his chest, okay? I’m going to try to make up some medicine to help make him all better.”

Before she died, your mother had taught you a few simple herbal remedies that could be easily prepared in advance, dried, and carried with you, in case of emergency. “Bacta is a wonderful thing,” she’d counseled, “until you find yourself in the middle of nowhere with a fever.”

You retrieve the little vials of dried herbs from your bag and set some water to boil, ready to make the infusion. The liquid turns an ominous purple colour as the herbs brew, and you can’t help but chuckle as you imagine how Din would react if you presented him with this in the whole of his health.

When the medicine has cooled enough to be administered, you return to Din’s simple, neat bedroom, where Grogu is dutifully pressing the cloths to his father’s chest. You praise him effusively, showing him how to wring out the cloths and make them colder again.

As you prop Din up on the pillows, you realise that you aren’t going to be able to give him the special medicine as you would anyone else. Gingerly, you push back his helmet just enough to expose his mouth.

You pause for a moment as you realise this is the most you’ve ever seen of the Mandalorian. Seeing the open expanse of his golden, battle-scarred chest and the peek of his jaw somehow seems more intimate than if Din was lying here completely naked. His mouth is pink and plush, and you are surprised to realise that Din has a moustache, as well as a patchy beard, of sorts. You push away the temptation to peek further, as well as the desire that’s rising inside you.

“Help me give your buir this medicine, Grogu. Can you keep his helmet at this angle for me?”

The little boy is only too keen to help, and you slowly, steadily, feed Din the mixture you hope will heal him.

***

Other than changing the water and the compresses, you do not move from Din’s side all night. Grogu falls asleep on his father’s chest, and you scoop him up and bring him to bed, placing a little kiss to his fuzzy scalp as you tuck him into his cot. He coos sleepily in appreciation.

You are waiting for Din’s fever to break, the turning point in any illness like this. If it doesn’t happen tonight, you’ll need to seek a medic in the morning. 

His helmet is still up slightly, and you study the line of his jaw, the little divot in his lower lip, the dark hair of his moustache. You trace the scars on his body, wondering about the stories behind each one, feeling a simultaneous sense of relief that he is still here and dread at the prospect of this man being wounded - or worse - in the future.

In the darkest hours of the night, with Din’s breathing still heavy and laboured, you find yourself reaching for his hand: running your fingertips over his broad palm and thick fingers before holding it gently, willing the herbal mixture to do its work. He is all Grogu has, after all. He is his entire family, and vice versa. 

And what are you?, asks a little voice inside you. Is this your clan, too?

You have pressed your lips to the back of his hand before you realise what you’re doing.

***

His stirring wakes you to the half-light of early morning, your hand still wrapped around his.

“Din?”

He tries to sit up, reaching in panic to adjust his helmet when he realises how much of his face is exposed.

“Din, take it easy…” You press your hand to his chest and sigh with relief as you realise his temperature is normal.

“What…why - what happened?”

“You were sick, had a bad fever - you’ve been out since yesterday afternoon.”

“I don’t get sick.”

You roll your eyes and chuckle. “Yes, you do. Hate to break it to you.”

You swear you can hear a huffed laugh from under his helmet.

“Din, I… I’m sorry for opening your shirt, lifting the helmet - I had to, it was the only way to help. I only saw part of your jaw, but… I’m so sorry.”

To your surprise, he reaches for your hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. 

“I’m grateful. You didn’t have to stay here.”

I wanted to take care of you. I want to take care of you. I need to take care of you.

“I couldn’t have left you. Anyway, what would we - I mean, what would Grogu do without you?”

Another gentle squeeze of your hand.

“What would I do without you, cyare?” 

[gingergofastboatsmojito]

The Storer of Storer & I

Prologue

He rotted my brain in 24 hours, starting on 12-31-23 while I was getting ready to go celebrate New Year's Eve with my friends and keeping The Bear S1 in the background, only really really tuning in for eps 1, 7 and 8. The rest at that point was what I considered great nonetheless, but still just kept it on in the background because I was running late. By the next day, I ended up starting this year with a massive hangover, collapsed on a sofa, and not being able to move, so I had no other choice but to watch the entirety of S2 back to back to back. It was over by then. I was a hopeless case. I had to do a full re-watch right then and there. The first of many. I was not only hooked but also fully and devastatingly BRAINROT.

The Honeymoon phase

I tried to understand him because loving is knowing, right?

This was before S3 happened, so I went all in because I wasn't jaded by his slow-burn tactics, at that point, and because Calo was still our red string of fate that brought us together and kept us together.

So, I plunged into his waters and swam, I swim IRL, so it wasn't hard:

And then some more, right after S3 came out because I was on the fence, the love/hate relationship that I now have with him was starting to bloom and thus, our honeymoon phase was about to come to its end, but not quite so yet, so I defended his name when everyone wanted his head on their wall:

The "Love to hate you" phase (Yes, Erasure is always relevant)

Then I tried to do a full re-watch of S3, and I COULD NOT. I still can't. He broke me. I haven't been able to yet. I could only do a re-watch of the scenes that I consider more crucial, and then cross-reference them with those that IK are related to them, from previous seasons. But that's it. Our honeymoon phase is soooooo over! And Calo is being missed. CALO COME THE FUCK BACK ASAP! YOU MAKE STORER BETTER AT THIS!

BUT

This hell he put me through gave me even more objectivity in analyzing his work. So, OK, I'll take it.

I mean is not like I wasn't objective before, I definitely was and that's how I could predict like 90% of his moves this past season:

Truthers, have mercy

The catch is that, even during this love/hate phase, I still totally understand him, I can see where he comes from and maybe even, guess where he's going.

Just like when I only loved him to pieces, I guess that's because I still admire him and in my book, there can't really be love unless there's admiration. I can do respect - like Richie - I can play nice and even help in whatever way I can, sure! Because for me none of those things require LOVE, that's the bare minimum for me, that's my default behavior unless you REALLY AND UTTERLY FUCK WITH MY PATIENCE. But LOVE, love is a different thing, I can only love those I admire and look up to and inspire me. Storer, even at his worst, checks all those boxes. His basement level is most people's rooftop.

So I guess I still love him and that's why I could appreciate his work even when I hated him at times while he tortured me with it. Mostly because I saw it coming, so I had braced myself for it but also, because beneath that THICK LAYER of hatred, there's still love and admiration for his work.

What are we? Where is this relationship going, Chris?

Neither of us knows for sure because he's basically the Zodiac killer, but what I do know is that by trying to see HIM as he is, which is what he expresses in his body of work, like any artist, obviously, and not trying to see him as I wish he was or project onto him my wishful thinking about his work, I can still understand him, no matter how much I wanna slap him half the time (the other half I wanna french kiss him).

I can still get his symbolism pretty well, I think:

He speaks a legendary, mythological, archetypical language.

I can still maybe get what he's trying to do here I guess:

Carmy's breakthrough

Their crying game

The Sydcarmy crisis

My 3 favest

The Loop

The tree

Purpose, chef!

The trap

BOH vs FOH

The margins

The keepers of the weather

Yeah, right!

C's reverse psychology

His erotic transference

She's been part of the family since Bolognese

Carmy is a hypocrite

Follow the legend NOT the Sonet because Shakespeare is a trap

Fairest Creatures

The Biyi birds

No table YET

Paupiette of Hamachi with blood orange sauce

So I guess that's where we are at right now. I'm still playing his waiting game. I already know his rules. I know what to expect from him. And no matter how much I hate him, I still love him. BUT I WANT CALO BACK ASAP, this is not working out without her.

No intimacy

Imbalance

So... That's our story and it hasn't come to an end yet.

But when it does, I know exactly what that breakup is gonna look like. It's most likely gonna be on good terms:

The Bear's Legacy

Except he plays the Lalaland card: (sorry there's no link for my own RB notes on my own posts bc Tumblr sucks!)

In which case I will get on the first plane to wherever in the world he is and really slap him. Worst breakup of my life.

But I hope it doesn't come to that. I still trust him. Even when I hate him.

IDK...

Remember to follow my tag #Gingerpovs

[existslikepristin]

Unexpectedly busy week, that was. Except today. Today I got home and ate ice cream

Only two options in the poll this time! Is there a secret reason?! Yes, it's because I didn't have any more ideas The poll is only going to be available for 24 hours, because I should be able to get the next part up tomorrow!

Tags: NSFW, S.M.U.T., genie, microtransactions???

(Story Index)

Anime Girls

"I wish for a harem of anime girls!" you blurt out before you can think.

Joy appears mildly shocked for a moment, but then she gives you a wry smirk. "Look at you, making a wish like that. You perverted weeb."

You frown and put up a finger of protest, but Joy quickly continues, "I know. I know. You're not the first of your kind I've come across, master. Being a weeb is an honored profession nowadays, and you're all special because of your unique waifu and/or husbando selection(s). I know the drill."

The air around you seems to contract and expand simultaneously, and everything in your line of sight briefly tints green. Except, that is, for Joy herself. Even as space bends in front of your very eyes, causing no small amount of queasiness to knot about in the pit of your stomach, Joy remains on the table, sitting up with the same smooth grace she has continuously displayed up to this point and only looking as green as usual, which isn’t all that green, really.

And then it's over. The air feels normal again, and your standard color vision has returned.

"Was that the wish?" you ask.

"Sure was!"

You look around. Nothing has changed. You see no anime girls. Not even your waifu (though, considering Joy told you she can't read your mind, you're not sure how she would have known to pick her). "So, where's the harem?"

"I figured you wouldn't be able to list each and every anime girl you've ever wanted to fuck."

Joy pauses. After a few seconds you say, "That's not a useful explanation."

"Oh. Right. Check your phone."

"My phone?" you inquire, as you reach down to take your phone from the pocket of your discarded shorts.

"Yup! I've noticed that most weebs are very heavily invested in their own tropes, which I appreciate, as you can imagine. And one of the more common tropes in harem anime I've seen is that the protagonist controls some aspect of the world around them with a supernaturally-powered smartphone."

You tap your phone out of sleep mode. "So, I have a phone… harem?"

"No, master. You have a magic app that summons anime girls into your presence, all of which are suspiciously and sexually attracted and devoted to you, of course. This will make your harem as weebly wobbly as you can possibly get!"

You exit your phone's internet browser, where, obviously, you had been reading existslikePristin fanfics, and go to your home screen. A new app does a little inflation animation to let you know of its location. The icon is a silhouette of a lithe woman on a green, circular background, and is not labeled. You tap to open it. There is no waiting on load time. You're immediately taken to a very cluttered generic fantasy town isometric view, with bubbles of text all over the place. You think the text might be Sumerian.

"It's a mobile gacha game!" Joy looks and sounds far too proud of herself. "And with my special djinnfluencer promo code, you get one thousand free shards! And that's not all! You get ten free spins, five billion gold coins, and double daily rewards for the first week!”

Options:

Okay, that was exceptionally dumb. Ask if there’s a way to undo a wish.

Whatever. A harem’s a harem. Figure out this app and summon an anime girl.

[sampilled]

I am never going to entertain another conversation about double standards after what happened today

The next person to derail a conversation about female victims of sexual assault by talking about how female victims get sympathy and how male victims don’t get taken seriously is getting punted to the fucking moon

Not when the president of the United States is a known rapist

I’m sick of every conversation turning into “not all men” or “it’s actually worse for men” when it’s not

These double standards that you are all so convinced are real are fucking lies

Women are not allowed to cry more. They are not granted any kind of special sympathy that male victims don’t get. Age gap relationships with young girls are not seen as any more heinous than those with an older women and a younger boy and if you actually looked around at the world you live in you would see that.

Cuz I don’t even like Kamala but if she had even been slightly rude to a man at one point. Never mind touched one inappropriately, she would have been fucking crucified. Like men’s treatment of women is so normalised people can’t even see it for what it is

[tare-anime]

Royal Guard AU (wip)

There's a Royal AU for TwiYor week @twiyorbase, and I've had this wip for quite some time now, and I don't know when I'll finish it.

So, please accept this humble 'will be chapter 1 of someday will be finished fic'

Inspired by the amazing @mochidoodle Royal Guard AU art. (not at all part of their AU).

Summary:

Prince Loid Forger of Westalis loves to go undercover and blend with his people to gain information. To ensure his safety during his late-night shenanigans, Westalis' General of Royal Knights assigns him a personal bodyguard. Unbeknownst to them, this personal bodyguard also has her own personal mission.

(AO3)

----------------------------------------

"Your Highness. This is Ms. Yor Roseate. She is to be assigned as your personal bodyguard starting today." 

Prince Loid Forger raises his brows as he looks up from the thick tomes in front of him. "And why do you think I need a personal bodyguard, Ms. Sherwood?" 

The red-haired General of the Royal Knights' brow furrows. "I think you know full well of the reason." 

Loid looks directly at her eyes. "I'm afraid I do not. Please enlighten me?" 

Instead of backing down, the older woman hardens her looks. "Do you really want me to spell it to you?" 

He sighs in defeat. 

He should've known better than to challenge their Royal Knights General, who is also his personal trainer and has been with him since they were young. 

Of course, the woman would know his nighttime shenanigans. And even though he had tried his best to cover his most recent injury (he was so sure he had done it secretly), those things do not escape Sylvia's observation. 

"You won't tell Father, will you?" 

The red-haired woman smirks. "Are you questioning my diplomatic ability?"

He chuckles, "No. Of course not." And then he mutters, "I still value my life after all." 

"What was that?"

"Nothing!!" He stands up and comes closer. "So, any special reason for assigning Ms. Roseate as my personal bodyguard? Why don't you yourself be one?" 

He saw the general gesture at the stiff woman beside her. "She might be the newest recruit, but she happens to be the strongest and most talented."

"Newest recruit?" 

"Mhmm. But I highly suggest you not underestimate her, lest you want to taste her wrath." 

Loid doesn't like the smug face of his martial arts mentor. 

There must be a hidden agenda that Sylvia is scheming. 

He plans to uncover that along the way. 

The man then focuses on the dark-haired woman that stand in perfect stance ever since she is introduced. 

Dark long hair, red eyes, and a lean figure. 

What interests him most is her unique lean rapier-like swords that rest at her hip. 

Double swords? Interesting….

"Well then. It's a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Roseate."

"The honor is mine, Your Highness." He sees her bow. 

Mmm… very polite. Let's see how long until she asks to be replaced.

"And I trust you'll be on your best behavior, Your Highness? Please do not underestimate the 'recent' rumors."

Darn it! Loid is sure that he has suppressed the smirk.

"Of course, Ms. Sherwood. You can count on me for that."

The look that Sylvia gives him tells that she doesn't believe every single word that he says. 

Loid just smiles politely. 

She knows me too well. 

.

It is the first day that Yor is officially on duty as crowned Prince Loid Forger Henderson's personal bodyguard. 

And she feels nervous. 

No, she doesn't think that her skills are under-standard. 

She has passed General Sherwood's tests with flying colors. 

It's the responsibility that unnerves her. 

If something bad happens to His Highness, then aside from that her head will be on the line, it will soil her reputation. 

And her mission.

She simply cannot allow that to happen.

So, she makes sure to stay close to His Highness and observe her surroundings thoroughly.

The day's tasks are part of Prince Loid's daily routines as crowned prince. He goes around villages, listening to the farmers' problems and giving advice to solve them and also taking notes for things the palace has to intervene to make sure they have a good harvest in upcoming months. 

In other places, he monitors the progress of their new harbor, designed to make sure their fish products can be packed and distributed to wider areas, one of the most promising export commodities of Westalis. 

On the way, he always returns the greetings of his subjects. 

Yor often hear about the humbleness of the Prince of Westalis. But to witness said act by her very own eyes is certainly a different experience. 

Seeing how the people of Westalia clearly love the Prince, and how he reciprocates each one of greetings is a bit overwhelming for her. 

There's a certain pang of alien emotion bubbling in her chest. 

When was the last time I felt envious of other people?

She squashes the feeling by refocusing on her task. 

The amount of people gathering so close to him can mean danger.

What if someone with bad intentions was among these people and was waiting for a chance to harm the Prince? 

So she better do her job properly and observe every small movement of the people, the environment, and every possible place for any surprise attack. 

Thankfully, no incident occurred that day until they returned to the palace.

.

Arriving back at the palace, Loid then sits in his room and starts to read, and sign paperwork. 

All the time, his newly assigned personal bodyguard sticks to his side, like what a usual bodyguard does. 

However, Loid's keen observation noticed how Ms. Roseate many times look tense and glaring at his surroundings. 

And she is still doing it now. He muses. 

"Are you always this stiff, Ms. Roseate?" 

He raises his brow when he sees her start. 

She immediately bows "Apologies, Your Highness." 

Loid chuckles and waves his hand. "Relax, will you? This is the last of my tasks for the day by the way. You are dismissed."

Yor blinks and answers, "I am sorry Your Highness. Ms. Sherwood assigned me to be at your side 24/7."

Loid's eyebrows arch, "24/7? Must you stay by my side even when I'm doing my business at the loo?"

Face immediately flushes, he hears Yor stammers, "O-Of course I'll be waiting outside, Sir…. I mean, Your Highness."

Loid guffaws. "That would be unnecessary. Sylvia can be too paranoid sometimes. But rest assured. Nothing bad will happen inside the palace. You may rest." 

He gives her his best reassuring smile which always manages to convince everyone. 

It looks like she is included.

He sees her fidgeting for a moment before finally Yor bows and retreats from his room. 

Loid smirks triumphantly. 

It is time to leave this confined palace and continue his nighttime routine. 

.

After applying the fake mustache and goatee, clad in his cloak, Loid, or now known as Twilight, sneaks out of the palace through a secret passage. 

The first place he always visits is The Frizz Tavern. 

The place may be reeking of tobacco smells and alcohol, but people always gather there and so are information and rumors. 

Today is no different. 

He comes in and takes his seat at the corner of the bar. Right beside a curly-haired man, who once again is seen trying to woo the waiter and failing. 

Slapping his shoulder, Twilight greets him. "Yo, Frankie. Still trying?" 

The shorter man grumbles, "Shut it! If only you would share one or two of your persona with me, you stingy bastard!" 

"It's not right to pursue women through deception, Frankie."

"You're one to talk!" Frankie grumbles, "Who is she?" 

Twilight raises one eyebrow, "Who's what?"

Frankie places his chin in his palm and points past Twilight, "Her of course, who else?" 

Puzzled, Twilight twirls on his chair and almost jumps from it in surprise. 

"Good evening." The calm and soft voice of Yor Roseate greets him.

Thankfully she is wearing a massive cloak that covers her from head to toe, hiding her royal guard uniform, and a mask that hides half of her face. 

But that doesn't answer his question, so he whispers, "What are you doing, here?!" 

"I'm following my order from Ms. She-...." 

Twilight immediately clamps her mouth and whispers, "No no no! Not here!"

Frankie peeks from his shoulder and says, " So you do know her. Is she another of your-..."

Twilight doesn't let him finish as he abruptly grabs Yor's wrist and briskly walks out from the tavern's back door. 

After making sure that they are alone, Twilight starts his questions, "How do you know where to find me?" 

"I'm following Your Highness."

Following him? From the palace? But he didn't feel anyone's presence.

He presses on, "Nobody should know I left the palace."

"I've been following you since you left the room."

Twilight blinks, "But I went through…." He abruptly stops himself lest he blurts his secret. 

"That passage is indeed very cleverly built, as expected from Your Highness. But as Ms. Sherwood said it is-...."

He lifts his hand to stop her, "Wait wait….. Sylvia knows about that??!!" 

The woman in front of him shrugs, "It's not that hard to find." 

Twilight faces faults. 

And suddenly Sylvia's warning rings in his mind: do not underestimate her.

.

.

.

Several weeks prior

  “You are to go on a solo mission in a faraway place. I wish you to keep up your impeccable performance and not put shame on our country.” 

Yor bows her head deeply. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Go. And make our country proud.” 

Once again Yor bows her head and turns to leave the majestic throne room.

“Oh, and Yor…”

She stops and turns to face the King of Ostania. 

She notices how His Majesty’s face softens a fraction as he whispers, “Please be careful.”

Yor smiles. “I will… Father.”

She then continues to pack her belongings and immediately departs to the kingdom of the West. 

[archduchessofnowhere]

Sometimes read how Emperor Maximilian I of Mexico was the better looking one and others have Emperor Franz Josef as the handsomer brother. Again, the caveat "eye of the beholder" subjectivity and looks given way more importance than they ought to get, still a bit confused on the conflicting description.

Hi! Tbh, "beauty is in the eye of the holder" is most of the times the correct answer in this cases, but also it should be noted that beauty was seen as a reflection of a person's morality - and in the case of kings, as a reflection of their capacity as rulers.

Quoting Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger in her Maria Theresa biography:

So long as rule rested on birthright and was passed on in quasi-natural fashion from the ruling couple to their offspring, the condition of their bodies—their beauty and integrity, their hygiene and discipline, their health and, above all, their fertility—played an absolutely central role. (...) if the ruler’s body failed to meet the demands placed on it, if it was sick, feebleminded, sterile, or infirm, it jeopardized the continuity and acceptance of dynastic rule and encouraged rival claimants to the throne. The ruler’s beauty is an ancient topos. It can already be found in Old Testament psalms and is still encountered in fairy tales today. The king is the handsomest man, the queen the fairest lady in all the realm. They can hardly be otherwise, precisely because they are king and queen. In a well-ordered, legible world, the visible exterior reliably reflects the invisible interior. Beauty was ascribed an indicative value: it was the sign of divine blessing, virtue, and purity. To be sure, Christian theologians warned against false appearances, the beautiful surface gnawed at from within by the canker of sin. Yet this did little to detract from beauty’s suggestive force. (...) In other words, beauty was a virtue in rulers, endowing them with charisma and endearing them to their subjects.

A queen or king being described as very beautiful or handsome, therefore, could (and did) have double implications. Of course, many times monarchs didn't fit the beauty standards of their time, and it was noted by their contemporaries. But when presented to their subjects, they should still look their best: portraits were beautified, pictures were retouched, waists (both male and female) were corseted. Monarchs who didn't or couldn't do this would, unavoidably, raise some commentary.

Going back to the ask, both Franz Josef and Maximilian were emperors - meaning their bodies were under scrutinity the same way their capacity as rulers was. Max's lack of children, for example, was to be one of the many problems he faced in Mexico - and by the end, his and Charlotte's apparent infertility was an attack target for their oppositors. So any commentary on their looks, specially if it's done in public (and not in say, a private diary), should also be read keeping this context in mind.

[eolewyn1010]

Downton Abbey Fashion 12 - post-war outdoors fashion

We have everything from high glamor to realistically shabby today, so let's jump into the younger generation's fashion choices in the second season!

Ah, Mary’s famous red coats. Now, since I’m an honest soul I will admit that she looks fabulous. Interestingly, despite the passionate associations of the color and Mary’s overall temperament, I think she wears this outfit and a similar one predominantly in her loveless engagement with Jorah Mormont Richard Whatshisrank. But anyway, if you have these velvet cuffs and collar, what else do you need? Well, except a matching hat with a silk sash. A shame she doesn’t wear this again the coming seasons, but I guess the waistband dates it too much, fashion-wise.

Gotta own up to my double standards here: A servant or commoner, I would have complimented on such a nice, sturdy, comfy-looking tweed coat. But since it’s aristocratic fashion queen Mary, I’m tempted to ask her why it had to be such a boring thing. Ah well, at least it has some subtle Tartan going for it.

This one isn’t much different, granted, but I feel the collar shape adds a point of interest. Also, the little ear studs plus the feathers on her hat emphasize the red lines in this tweed’s check pattern. Nice.

I did say the asymmetrical semi-cowl collars are something of a Mary thing, so here, have another. Somehow, I feel she should have worn a scarf to this; her neck looks weirdly naked between this and the hat. The hat itself is fine, if not overly flattering.

Speaking of unflattering – this is one of those coats that throw my brain for a loop, because it just doesn’t look like something Lady Mary Crawley would own. It’s this weird khaki brown shade, and it looks undecorated and, most of all, worn. I have no idea why she would keep something that looks so ragged, and maybe she doesn’t, because after her prostration before Matthew, this is never seen again. Symbolism about humility, I guess? Which is why it wouldn’t stick.

The other gorgeous red coat! Well, walking suit, perhaps; the skirt may come in a set with the coat. Anna wears a coat in season that is dark blue, but has this exact two-pointed configuration of the collar in the back. Granted, Anna’s hat isn’t so chic. Look at the cute feathers! Red to match the skirt, burgundy to match the coat, but I also find some useless joy in the little toothed trim around the brim.

And another walking suit, Mary steals the show in the shiniest blue silk. Big-ass lapels are something of a Mary feature, too, although I can’t say it’s not worth it. Why so blue, girl? You look fantastic. Including that cute little brooch she’s put on the neckline of her blouse.

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There’s something about certain combinations of black and white that make me think monochrome is the peak of all elegance. Like this. Lavinia looks great in it, and it’s not even much? The collar is not any special shape, there’s no decoration on it other than the closures of her cuffs; I couldn’t tell you what it is that catches my eye here, but I want this.

If you look at this closely, you can see that Lavinia’s jacket also rocks the aforementioned two-pointed collar back look. Since we already know that part and I don’t know enough about fur to discuss the stola – let’s talk about the cute hat. Sometimes, a little white trim is really all it takes. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons Mary could respect Lavinia, because she’s also a fashion queen.

This jacket looks like it belongs to Edith, and the blouse doesn’t help the impression. It’s strange; these wide collars serve to accentuate Mary’s wide shoulders and make her appear tall and regal, but because Lavinia’s shoulders are narrower, the collar serves to make her look smaller than she is. I should probably not complain about that, as it is the whole point, but I fucking hate how Julian Fellowes wrote her arc. Poor little frail flower, too good for this world. Give me a break.

Another lovely coat! Bit more understated with the brown, but it looks quite comfortable and the golden lapel embroidery pops nicely. Also, I like that, this time, the hat is actually a shade off from the coat instead of tone-in-tone; it gives the outfit a little more color, in this case some red.

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When it comes to Edith’s out-of-place looking coat, at least we get an in-universe explanation: The farmer’s wife on whose farm Edith helps out says that she’s going to need to find something for Edith to wear during work. It’s a ragged thing, but I like it better on her than I did the other on Mary, perhaps because Edith is lovely when she finds joy in something and is flushed with a day’s work well done. Still. Don’t kiss married men, girl.

Let it henceforth be known that I am proletarian trash, for I like this outfit even though there’s absolutely nothing special about it. I don’t know, this knit jacket is so cute. I want one. Also, Edith may be wearing a skirt in the second image, but that in the first? Those are trousers. And she wears them several times during the season, on her bicycle and at work. Sybil, your pantaloon pioneering was not in vain!

Is this corduroy? I think it may be. It feels a tad too green to be brown (you know what I mean), and we get some lovely piping around the collar. Shame that I can’t see much of the hat, but that looks like a red or orange ribbon in the back, so thanks for the contrast point.

Oh hey, is this the same hat? Look, there’s embroidery! And Edith learning to drive is fun, and foreshadows her stepping somewhat into Sybil’s footsteps regarding her curiosity about modern developments and women’s emancipation. As for the walking suit – I feel like later on, Edith chooses decidedly nicer shades of orange. This is a bit too pale to be flattering. Although it has subtle stripes; that’s a plus in my book.

I first thought this was vertical stripes, but the later picture from season 3 proves me wrong; it’s actually plaid. The grey walking suit isn’t really a catastrophe, but it only does so much to keep me interested. I kinda like the flowered blouse, leaning toward art nouveau when most fashion is screaming for art deco around them. The hat is. Fine. Not my personal favorite style, but I do feel obliged to mention the velvet ribbon giving it some shimmer, whereas the one in the second shot it pleated into little squares, repeating the suit pattern.

Return of the pale orange, and of the hat shape that is not to my taste. This walking dress is one of the last pieces of Edith’s daywear that has a distinctly Edwardian feel to it; come next season, she has pretty solidly transitioned into post-war fashions. I don’t hate it; it’s got some pin tucks and all that and doesn’t look bad upon its last hurrah in season 3, but these white sailor collars give a little bit of the impression that Edith doesn’t have an adult sense of fashion. Which she very soon proves wrong, so the sooner Julian Fellowes gives up on it, the happier I will be.

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I really only have one outdoors look for Sybil this season? And then I picked a shot where we hardly see anything of the coat; I must have been unimpressed with it. Sorry. In all fairness, it’s the war season, so Sybil spends most of her time in her nurse uniform. But we get the cutest hat of all! This colorful embroidery is so whimsical! And the tassel in the back that hangs down her neck, that’s also whimsical. I can’t believe we’ll never see that hat again.