#WHOOOOA

[m1stm3]

mdni!!! (≧∀≦)

UMMMMM UHHHHHHH BLAME THIS ON THIS POST AND VALE I DIDNT DO ANYTHING!!!!!!!!!

cw’s!!: light(?) petplay (sugu calls u puppy + clicker trains u hehe), very very light dacryphilia, gn! reader (no specific parts mentioned other than the fact that ur bottoming!!), husband sugu…. the loml……..

wc: 792 :3

it started off as something silly! “for positive reinforcement.” suguru had explained simply when you narrowed your eyes at his initial mention of the idea. even after that (very poor) explanation, you still weren’t completely convinced.

“i’m just worried about you, my love. we’ve exhausted every option, haven’t we? why not try something unconventional?” and you would’ve refused once again, but ohhh, the way he wrapped his arms around your waist as he spoke… he was only worried for your wellbeing, after all…

he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head after your reluctant agreement.

and honestly? it wasn’t that bad at first! you had honestly thought that he forgot about the whole thing after a week of radio silence on the topic.

it wasn’t until he got home from a full day of errands that it was brought up again.

“did you eat, pretty?” he asked softly after pressing a peck to your lips in greeting. as soon as you let out a small hum of affirmation, there was a distinct sound coming from your husbands pocket that made your eyes narrow in suspicion.

two distinct clicks.

it took you a second to realize what it was, but an annoyed huff left you when you saw the smug look on his face. fucking bastard…

“good job, puppy.” you could only push him away as he laughed and heat rose to your cheeks.

it became almost routine after that. yes, you did huff and pout a couple of times after that initial instance, but you were used to the clicker after the first week. it was the same routine every time — you did something to take care of yourself, you got two clicks and a small praise from him.

and maybe… after a while… you found yourself purposefully taking care of yourself just so he could praise you… (you weren’t very good at hiding it, he saw the way your perked up expectantly whenever you told him about something good that you did.)

the thing is: if this whole arrangement started off as an experiment, why was the small, plastic device resting in his palm while you were struggling to sink onto his cock?

“c’mon pup, you got it...” his free hand is squeezing at your hip, the pads of his fingers digging into the soft skin there (it’d probably bruise later, but that’s the last thing on your mind at the moment).

“stop-… stop callin’ me that…” your voice comes out much whinier than you would’ve liked, but who could blame you? it was always so hard to take him in this position.

your bottom lip is in a small pout and wobbling slightly in frustration, your watery eyes fixed on where you and suguru meet. he stays quiet, running his hands over your skin in a comforting gesture to ease some of the tension in your muscles (it works, of course. his touch always brought you an unexplainable sort of comfort.)

you finally take all of him a few minutes later with a small, whimpered curse, the building tears in your eyes finally rolling down your cheeks when you feel the tip of his cock nudge right against that spot inside of you.

click click!

“thaaat’s it, puppy… fuck-“ a winded sort of chuckle leaves him. “— squeezed so tight when i used the clicker… you like it that much?” his hips twitch up into you involuntarily, making a strangled little whimper leave you against your will as you shake your head adamantly in denial.

“no? i must’ve been imagining things, then.” he breathes, finally starting the slow rock of his hips (of course he’d never let you do any of the work on your own!)

even so, your hips move to meet his motions while small, punched out moans escape your lips.

“there you go, puppy…” he groans softly. “takin’ me so well, so good f’me.” he’s practically babbling out praises at this point and as much as you wanted to deny it, the annoying little nickname he gave you was getting you close embarrassingly fast.

and fuck, the final thing that does you in are the godforsaken two clicks! that your brain had seemed to be specifically searching for.

his eyes are wide as he watches you unravel on top of him, the small whimpers leaving you only further confirming your puppy-like nature to your husband.

“did you just-�� “shut up.” your voice is weak with embarrassment and your orgasm, but he’s quick to listen despite that.

he silently hopes he could train you to do that every time he used the clicker. how fun would that be?

[slasheru]

okay IMAGE TIME! >:))

MARGOT ROBBIE as HARLEY QUINN:

SHEGO from KIM POSSIBLE:

DRACULAURA from MONSTER HIGH (either G1 or G3):

REGINA GEORGE from MEAN GIRLS:

Y2K ERA PARIS HILTON:

MAGENTA from THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW

[a-star-that-burns-brightly]

Konkonkonkonkon!~

[blacksaltsreborn]

OPEN STARTER [always open]

It had been under construction for weeks, months it felt like but finally that old heritage building was being taken in by someone that seemed willing to jump through all the hoops needed to do any repairs. Let alone rebuilding the entire building but you had to admit, it looked good.

Wide stone steps led up to the dark wood double doors, large windows on either side displaying quite the array of items for offer.

Black Salts and Forget-Me-Nots read the sign above the door in a smooth swooping font and the shop definably upheld its rather unique name, selling equally unique items. At first glance it may look like one of many shops selling crystals and incenses but that was only some of the items one could see through the windows.

An entire wall seemed taken up with various sized shelves with jars holding a mix of herbs and plants of an array of colors. Keen eyes could pick out one section was teas and another seemingly to be chewed before the signs were to small to read from outside the shop. Through the open doors one could see a counter with an array of charms displayed within the glass.

Deeper, out of sight from the streets, lay more interesting treasures on the shelves though already some whispered there were sections that seemed to vanish when you weren’t paying attention.

The owner and sole employee rested behind the glass counter by the register, comfortably lounging in what seemed to be an actual lazy boy chair while flipping through a thick heavy covered book. Bjorn was younger than most would expect to own his own shop, bright red locks pulled up in a high ponytail with small braids woven through with tiny items peeking through the strands. A bead here, coloured thread there and was that…a bone? You lost sight of the off-white bit as Bjorn turned to lift a steaming cup beside him to his mouth for a careful sip. Still promptly burns his tongue with a little hiss and shake of his head.

[youngchronicpain]

the absolute rush of submitting an online grocery order after obsessing for ages over whether the few foods you consistently eat are still worth the cost and if you really want to chance spending the money to try a new food that you may not even like

[vanityangel]

[lucygxybaird]

12 Days of Christmas - Day Six

You study Coriolanus Snow’s photo in the paper, putting a fingertip against the newsprint so that it covers his face. You haven’t read the story, so you don’t know what exactly he’s done to merit press coverage. But the Hunger Games are coming up again soon, and he was the last mentor to win before Dean Highbottom’s mysterious death. The scandal surrounding those Games has yet to die down, although now it’s morphed into a rabid fascination with this young man with the impeccable lineage and undeniable charisma.

This morning, your father told you that he’s meeting with Snow to arrange — or attempt to arrange, at any rate; word is that Snow has been rather finicky about the whole process — a matchbetween the two of you. 

Although it would be more accurate to refer to it as a merger, considering it’s noting but business. 

Snow wants access to your family’s vast wealth, to augment his own. And your father wants you married to a man on the rise, one who can not only provide you with the lavish lifestyle you’re accustomed to, but is going to make a name for himself. Despite the fact that you’ve yet to meet him, you do read the papers often enough to know that Snow fits that criteria. He’s well on his way to becoming the next President of Panem.

Which, you suppose, will make you the First Lady someday. If he says yes to your father’s overtures, of course.

It’s strange, to think you might marry a man simply because it’s beneficial for him and your father. Your own feelings won’t be taken into consideration at all. Even if you absolutely hate him.

You move your finger and look at his picture properly. At least he’s handsome, in an aristocratic, off-with-your-head sort of way. You’ve heard his voice, too, when he’s been interviewed during the annual Games coverage — it’s deep, surprisingly warm, and you think (although you would never say this out-loud, lest anyone accuse you of tender feelings) it rather suits him. 

You’re still studying his picture, trying to decide if you can imagine yourself next to him, when you hear a flurry of commotion downstairs. You tiptoe to your bedroom door and crack it open, allowing a river of sound to come through. It’s your father’s voice, bubbling and rushing with excitement. The current is so fast that it’s difficult to pick out more than a few words, but they’re enough. 

The deal went through.

You are going to be Mrs. Snow.

Going to perch on the edge of your bed, you wait for a servant to appear and call you to your father’s study. It doesn’t take long. There’s a polite knock on your door, and when you open it, you find a maid standing there.

“Your father would like to speak to you, madam,” she says. “Please follow me.”

You trail behind her down the hall, wait for her to tap on the study door, and then step inside once she pushes the door open for you. Your father is sitting at his desk, his normally stoic expression broken up by a grin that keeps surfacing no matter how much he tries to push it down. 

“Come here,” he says, and you approach, stopping on the other side of his desk.

To your surprise, he reaches across his desk and takes your hand. Your father certainly is not a particularly touchy-feely sort of man, but you think — you could be wrong, granted, but you’re fairly certain — that his eyes are over-bright.

“My dear girl,” he says. “You are the jewel of this family, and I always knew you would go on to make a great path into the future for us. Today, I asked Coriolanus Snow if he would take your hand in marriage, and he said yes.”

You expected this news, but not the way he’s delivered it. The emotion in his voice, in his eyes, the way he’s holding your hand. You clear your throat and manage to say, “Thank you.”

He squeezes your hand before he lets go, leaning back behind his desk. “There are a few I’s to dot and T’s to cross, of course, but essentially, everything has been settled,” he says. “You’ll be married in the new year.”

“Will I meet him before then?” you ask.

Your father’s lip twitches in amusement. “No, I was thinking of using the Rapunzel method,” he says dryly, and you can’t help but smile yourself. “You know, locking you up in a tower before the big day.” He shrugs. “Mr. Snow is a very busy young man, and I have my own schedule to see to. But if you would like to arrange a meeting yourself, you’re more than welcome to do so.”

Before you can say anything to that — maybe a quip about checking your schedule, which is a joke because you don’t have one that your father doesn’t approve first — your father leans down, bringing his briefcase up onto the desk. 

“Oh, this is for you,” he says, flipping the briefcase open and pulling out a small, beautifully wrapped package. “From your intended.”

You take it, studying the little parcel as you hold it in one hand. The scarlet foil wrapping is impeccably folded, the flaps on either end so pointed you could probably cut glass with them, a glittering gold bow situated on top. You spare a moment wondering if he wrapped it himself before deciding that it’s very unlikely. 

“Well?” your father says. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

You shrug. “I suppose.”

What does it matter? It may be a nice enough gesture, you think, but whether you like each other or not is immaterial. Your fate has already been decided, by the man in front of you and by one you have yet to meet.

Still — a present is a present. 

Sliding a thumbnail under one of the flaps, you peel away the wrapping paper to discover a small velvet box, one that fits perfectly in your palm. You flip the lid, and despite your intention to remain aloof, you gasp.

A little crystal bauble, the size of your thumbnail, hangs from a delicate gold chain. Inside is a perfect, tiny replica of an iris, your favorite flower.

“Did you tell him?” you blurt out, looking up at your father.

“Tell him what?”

The blank look on his face is answer enough, so you just shake your head. “Never mind,” you say.

You close the box and turn to go, your father already bent over the paperwork spread out over the desk. Shutting the door behind you, you study the little jewelry box in your hand again, wondering. 

Is it just a coincidence? Did your father tell him — maybe idly discussing bouquets — and then forget? 

Did Snow do research on you? 

You can’t decide if you find the thought flattering or alarming.

When you’re back in your room, you find yourself gravitating toward your little desk, set under your window. You sit down and pull a piece of stationery toward you, picking up a pen. You nibble at your lower lip as you consider the blank page. 

Dear—?

No. That’s too…intimate. Or saccharine, which is worse.

To—?

No. 

Finally, you just write, Mr. Snow—

Thank you for your kind gift. It’s a beautiful piece.

You pause, tapping the end of your pen against your lower lip. 

I look forward to—

What? Meeting him? Marrying him? Hopefully in that order. 

—hearing from you soon.

Yours—

And then you quickly dash off your name. Before you can think better of it, you fold the note over and stuff it into an envelope, writing Snow’s name on it and hurrying downstairs to find the maid. “Can you make sure this gets to Mr. Snow?” you ask.

You don’t have to clarify who you mean. Mr. Snow is now a very important name in this household.

Perhaps think it’s a love note, the maid blushes and actually giggles. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll make sure of it.”

She’s as good as her word. By the time you come downstairs for breakfast the next morning, there’s an envelope and another small package waiting by your plate.

You decide to open the envelope first.

His handwriting is, frankly, beautiful. It borders on calligraphy. Like his voice, you think it fits him. 

My betrothed—

You take a sip of orange juice to try and drown the flutter you feel in the pit of your stomach.

There’s something old-fashioned about being addressed this way that, surprisingly, doesn’t appall you. You’ve never really thought of falling in love as anything but a fairytale, and yet that’s exactly what the word brings to mind — you, as a princess, him as a handsome knight. 

I’m very glad you enjoyed your first gift.

First?

When your father first brought this match to my attention, he showed me your picture to assure me his praise of your beauty was more than paternal pride. I thought the iris would bring out the blue in your eyes. 

Another flutter that you try again to suppress, this time with a few bites of French toast.

I hope you also enjoy this second parcel. Please feel fret write to me again and let me know your thoughts.

- Coriolanus Snow

PS: you have lovely penmanship.

You set the letter aside and open up the second gift. This, too, is beautifully wrapped, this time with green paper printed with little fir trees done in sparkling silver. The box is small and flat, and you pry the lid off, folding back silvery tissue paper.

Nestled inside is a cashmere scarf, the exact color of a freshly fallen blanket of snow. You carefully wipe your hands on a napkin before lifting the scarf out of its box, and as you do, you think you catch the faintest scent of roses. 

You realize there’s another little note tucked in amongst the tissue paper.

I thought this would look lovely with your alabaster skin, not to mention your future last name. - Coriolanus

You wrap the scarf around your neck, practically purring at the sensation of the luxuriously soft material against your (alabaster) skin. After a few moments, you get up and go into the hallway, where you drape the scarf over your hair, admiring the contrast of the ivory cashmere against your dark hair.

Later that morning, you write another note for him; this time, you use his first name, although you don’t address him as Dear. Not yet.

Coriolanus — 

Thank you for the scarf. You were right — it does look lovely against my skin. And my hair, for that matter. 

You hesitate only for a moment before you rummage in your bedside drawer for a photo album, pulling out a picture of yourself from an autumn gala a few months earlier.

I’m not sure how old the picture was that my father showed you, so I’m including a more recent one. If you would like to base any further gifts on my features, now you have an even better view.

You aren’t sure how you know this, but you have a feeling this line is going to make him laugh. 

Before you have even sat down to dinner tonight, you have a reply, along with another gift. You find yourself biting at your lower lip to keep from giggling. You feel, all at once, utterly foolish and yet strangely giddy.

The box is larger than the previous two by far, and you open it up to reveal — you can’t help yourself, letting out a soft groan at the beauty of it — a luxurious, floor length coat, with a dress tucked inside and earrings tucked along the collar, precisely where they would brush against it if they were dangling from your ears.

You realize, upon brushing a finger over the lapel, that the coat, like the scarf, is cashmere. It’s ash gray, with the lining a pale white, and the dress is a rich burgundy that matches the garnet stones dangling from little ropes of diamonds in the earrings.

“I could get used to this,” you murmur, a faint smile touching your lips.

My betrothed—

Again, that flutter in the pit of your stomach.

Thank you for the photo. It was very helpful in choosing these gifts for you. I hope they — and your other gifts — make you feel as lovely as you appear. And I hope to see you in them soon. It would be delightful to see just how well they suit you in person. I can only imagine how bewitching the beauty in this photo must be when it is close enough to touch. 

— Coriolanus.

You glance at the clock, your lower lip catching between your teeth. No, it wouldn’t do to go tonight, you think; it’s getting rather late, the hour growing intimate rather than social. You know your father would never forgive you if you presented an untoward image of yourself to the press. 

But tomorrow?

You swallow a rather unexpected frisson of nerves at the thought — of waking up in the morning, doing your hair, your makeup, slipping this deep red dress over your skin, adding the coat, the earrings, perhaps the scarf and the necklace. Of presenting yourself to him, a gift wearing all of his gifts.

You find it almost embarrassingly difficult to fall asleep that night, just thinking of it. But eventually you do.

Despite the fact that you didn’t bother to set an alarm before you drifted off, your eyes snap open precisely at 7 a.m. as though there’s one blaring right in your ear. You sit up and immediately ring the bell to call for your maid. “Find the address for Mr. Snow’s office,” you say. “And then get me ready.”

It takes a few hours for your appearance to be exactly how you want it, and then you fasten on the earrings, slip into the coat, arrange the scarf over your shoulders. Your maid accompanies you, of course, as is proper; but you hardly even speak to her as the two of you slip into a town car and head toward Coriolanus’s office.

You take a deep breath, seal your lips together for a moment, and then release the breath through your nose. Your maid gently pats your hand. “He’ll love you, madam,” she says. “Don’t you worry.”

Are you worried? About love?

Nervous, certainly. That’s normal, isn’t it? You’re meeting your future husband for the first time. But love hasn’t crossed your mind. That’s never been part of this.

Has it?

You finger the hem of your dress as it peeks out from your coat. He took the time to choose these gifts, ones that suit you, to make you feel lovely. He even, somehow, stumbled upon your favorite flower with his first gift. You aren’t one to believe in fate, but — if you were — that surely would have to mean something.

“Of course he will,” is all you say, but your confident smile trembles at the corners, just a hair.

When you arrive, you have to wait only a few moments in the lobby before an impeccably dressed man arrives, clearing his throat. “Madam, please follow me,” he says. “Mr. Snow is looking forward to seeing you.”

You follow the man down the hall. You keep your chin up and your posture correct, despite the fact that you feel as though legs are feather-light, barely able to move, let alone support you. The man opens a thick oaken door at the end of a hallway, and ushers you inside. Sitting behind a desk is the man you’re meant to marry.

Coriolanus stands up at once, stepping around the desk. You think idly that his picture really doesn’t do him justice. His finely carved features are even more handsome up close, and what’s more, the way he moves is leonine, confident, powerful.

It’s — well — attractive.

“My dear,” he says, and you can’t help but smile. When he reaches for your hands, you extend them; he tuts. “Ah, I knew I forgot something. A necklace and earrings, but nothing for your fingers.”

It takes you a moment to find your voice. “Well,” you say, “we are engaged, at least on paper. Perhaps you should start with a diamond.”

He looks up from his examination of your hands, and when his eyes meet yours, your heart gives one very firm, heavy thud before beating as rapidly at a hummingbird’s wings. “Of course,” he says. “But not for Christmas. Your engagement ring should be an event in and of itself, and I can assure you, it will be.”

And then he smiles at you. 

“I’m very glad you visited,” he says. “It would have been rather awkward had we met at the altar.”

You can’t help but giggle. Coriolanus smiles again. 

“I think so, too,” you say. “I wanted to come in person to thank you for all your gifts. They’re lovely.”

“As you deserve.”

He leads you to the window, where a pair of overstuffed arm chairs flank a small table, holding a tea set with two faintly steaming, fragrant mugs. As he guides you into a chair, you can’t help but sigh inwardly, even as your smile doesn’t flicker one bit.

You’ve just realized that your maid might be right — love could, quite possibly, be involved in this after all. 

[which-is-the-very-best]

✨🎉✨🎊✨🎉✨🎊✨

🎊Your Unova Winner!!🎉

Congrats Zorua and well fought to the rest of the gen 5 'mons!

Tomorrow we'll start our normal bonus polls, then next week we start on Kalos!!

(also a random but kind of interesting fact! This is our first winner who's not in Pokémon Snap! I'm honestly kind of surprised they're not! I would guess it's because of the new regional form but who knows! As anon pointed out this is also our first repeat typing win! Dark has now won twice, with Umbreon winning Johto)

[triscribe]

Hot damn I am actually cleaning the kitchen

[finnstansonly]

It’s so crazy bc no matter what I thought the theme of this year was gonna be I am getting repeatedly hit in the head with “you need to deal w ur feelings around neglect while having to take care of everyone” and it’s like not even a little bit subtle like how is a book I didn’t even like now giving me very specific and accurate psychic damage

[pastafossa]

TRT psychic forest vibes.

EVEN COMES WITH A TRAUMA BOAR ADVISING INTROSPECTION.

(The Lost Forest tarot: Major Arcana deck)

[fox-guardian]

lines are being drawn babeyyyy

[melpcmene-arch]

Whoa, we're half way there--

[terrainofheartfelt]

Things I did today:

My job while half the dept was out—so really I did my job and my coworker’s job

Reached out to people I hadn’t talked to in FOREVER (lovely but still socially exhausting)

Confirmed a meeting for a Thing tomorrow

Asked 3 separate people for references for said Thing (not sharing yet because I am nervous/trying not to give away too much identifying info lol) and got yes-es from 2

Picked up my online order from a local bookstore which was all my xmas gifts for my family

Did 2 loads of laundry so I can wear what I want this week to the: 1 xmas party, 1 best friend hang, 1 punk show, 1 date with The Girl, and something else I’m sure I’m forgetting

Made a batch of homemade fudge for season gifts

Showered and ate 3 meals and took my meds

[beebeesiims]

first semester dump!

1. the girl in the white sweater is victoria (by @pixelglam ), xay’s fiance. everyone likes her but simone and idk why.

2. lauryn has made like 5 or 6 new friends, including her roommates salim & meilani.

3. she got itchy plumbob. she also got her first tattoo.

[essencefluxed]

@agonizedembrace sent: [ AID ]: sender finds the receiver too weak to move, and scoops them up to carry them to get some help. — but what if….

Everything was a blur—mostly indistinguishable with how things had transpired for him. Trying to take a short cut home much too late at night, finding himself at the wrong place and the wrong time; only to find himself to become a meal for those who lurked in the night; only to to be discarded like an empty juice box afterwards. He don’t know how long he was in that alley way—he barely remembered the sudden scent of iron and the sound of a heartbeat that didn’t belong to him as someone had come by to see if he was even alive.

Was he? Not even he was sure.

The corpse of the one who checked upon him was mangled; merely a few feet away from him. The innards of their throat torn out in such a ghastly display; and Ezreal laid with his back up against an old buildings brick wall; lips stained crimson as the colour spread down his chin and splattered upon the lavender of his sweater. The colour stained newly clawed hands; and his vision was blurred as whatever hunger he was feeling was not fully satisfied. He could barely move; exerting his already low energy levels on his unfortunate victim—which he wasn’t in the right mind to even consider.

He could feel his body lift off the ground—it’s slow and its gentle—eyes which used to be a bright citrine now akin to that of a deep garnet crack open slightly; his vision blurry as it tried to focus on who it as that lifted him and was taking him…somewhere? Where were they taking him? He could hear something—the click of heels?

Teal-green strands stuck to his pale skin; slowly blinking his barely open eyes. He could still taste the iron upon his tongue. He could still smell it so strongly, as if it was overtaking his senses. He swallows; voice quiet as he speaks, managing to just barely make out the silhouette.

“…Eve…?”