#but i need to carve out time and finish it bc i think i will drop a lot of talkies and art for it and ill be PREPARED NOW

[tomatoart]

i still look fondly upon all of ur art especially ur jojo stuff from ye olde era and i just. tears in my eyes... tasty art and such good taste in media.... perfection

TY LAIKAA!! this is so sweet that im reopening the jjba can of worms for you how could i not ur a true tomatohead.. I MISS DRAWING THEM.

[wayward-sherlock]

my byler hyperfixation is slowly fizzling out and im crying about it bc i want it back so please send me any byler fics/art/pics/posts that make you happy so i can get back in the byler mindset please

[flufflecat]

omg I'm going to nycc

[shinkai-kaiju]

tbh once i get Space Going [tm] it would be cool to get back to linocut/screenprinting. I miss the more physical arts that dont have me up for over 24 hours in an arguably insane state working on a project that'll get dropped within seconds after i take a break bc my brain decided its not good/theres no point to it

BUUUT more importantly i wonder. just how viable it would be as a printing method for me. I'd need a rack to dry things on, but it could be cool to sell some small linos whenever I get to opening up shop. My linos have always been more consistent than my screenprints when it comes to making a series, but I really do prefer screenprinting...

(and lithography isnt viable at this time bc i do NOT have the necessary chemicals/kitchen lithography doesnt work anymore apparently??)

[katsukimybf]

bc all i think abt is college!katsuki

Katsuki Bakugou is the epitome of the type of friend where you don’t actually know if you are friends.

It started off slow and gradual; a head nod when you sat next to him in class for the first time. You didn’t think much of it at first—just Bakugou being Bakugou, cold and distant as can be. But then came the day the professor prompted the class to discuss the reading with the person next to you. Oh boy.

Distant caves would be jealous of him as he offered impressive silence. He sat there with his arms crossed, glaring at the textbook like it had personally offended him. You tried your best to speak about the text, feeling the weight of his weightless replies, and occasionally he’d grunt or nod, but the conversation resembled your middle school talent show performance. Awkward, yes, but not surprising for a college class.

Still, you found yourself sitting next to him every couple of days, the unspoken rules of college and assigned seating habits pulling you back into his orbit. You tried to be kind, offering small talk here and there, but Bakugou always brushed you off with a grunt or a glare. He was prickly, always on edge, and you figured that was just how he was.

You were like this too on most days. After having your fair share of college-creep experiences you laid off the whole talking to people bit. But there was this exception you made for Bakugou. Not an exception but a curiosity of some sorts. Hell, you also were never good at math but you were on edge to solve the missing variable that is Katsuki Bakugou. Seriously, what's his deal?

Maybe it was the way he didn’t care of how he seemed, it could be the mystery or maybe it was just the fact he looked like he was carved by Lysippos sitting by you at 9 a.m. lecture. Those thoughts were in the back of your mind… you even wonder if Bakugo is good at math? maybe then he could help.

But then there were these odd moments, moments where his usual gruffness gave way to something else. Like the day you mentioned how thirsty you were, sitting there in that old, sweltering classroom with no air conditioning. Bakugou rolled his eyes, muttered something about “are you always unprepared?” (he lent you a pen once before) but then wordlessly reached into his bag and handed you a water bottle.

“Thanks,” you say, trying to match his nonchalant demeanor. Trying to let it go.

But the gesture stuck with you. He didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t say anything more. He just went back to his notebook like nothing happened. Typical. But you couldn’t shake the feeling of slight butterflies in your stomach, even if you tried to brush them off as nothing.

Things continued in much the same way. Bakugou, still gruff and abrasive, but every now and then, something would slip through the cracks. A quiet moment of consideration, a begrudging act of kindness. He never let you get too close, but there was always that flicker of kindness. Of Bakugou. The real him, you think.

It was a rainy afternoon when you found yourself stranded at a bus stop with him. The two of you had just finished class, and the rain came out of nowhere, pouring down in quick splatters. You both stood under the narrow shelter that barely helped. Bakugou was glaring up like he was challenging the sky to a duel while his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

He didn’t acknowledge you at first. And you didn’t think he would.

“You’re gonna catch a cold standing out here,” he grumbled suddenly, his voice low and annoyed.

Before you could reply, he was already shrugging off his jacket and, without looking at you, shoved it in front of you. He urged you to take it but you blinked in surprise, not knowing how to react.

But then, you felt the weight of the jacket warm and heavy on your skin. The scent of him—something sharp and clean—lingered in the fabric.

“Bakugou, you don’t have to—”

“Shut up. I don’t need your thanks,” he muttered, not meeting your gaze. He chose to stare at the rain instead.

“Thank you.”

He rolled his eyes but from that moment, something shifted. The dynamic between you two wasn’t any less tense, and he still barked at you when you got on his nerves, but the hostility had softened, just a little. There was still sharpness in his words, but now mixed in with these brief, unexpected moments of kindness? (for Bakugou, normal for everyone else)

The day before your big exam, you sat next to him in class, anxiety buzzing in your stomach. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” you asked, peeking over at him.

“Yeah,” he grunted, eyes not leaving his textbook.

You turned back to your seat, mentally patting yourself on the back for initiating (yet another) pointless conversation. But then, after a pause, Bakugou spoke again.

“Wanna review the material after class?”

You blinked, a little caught off guard, but quickly nodded. “Sure.”

And so after class, he led the way to the library, not even waiting for you to catch up. He moved with purpose, his sharp eyes scanning the room for a quiet, secluded spot. When he finally sat down and pulled out his notes, you were surprised to see how meticulously organized everything was—color-coded, labeled, every detail in its place. So he probably is good at math? You were definitely getting somewhere.

He started drilling you with questions, breaking down complicated concepts with a precision you hadn’t expected. His intensity was relentless, but it pushed you to focus, to work harder, and slowly, your understanding of the material started to click into place.

Hours passed in a blur, and the sun began to set outside the windows. The two of you were still going over definitions when Bakugou glanced over at you. “You get it now?”

“Yeah,” you said, a small smile on your lips. “Thanks, Bakugou.”

“Good,” he muttered, turning back to his notes, but something about the way he said it felt less harsh than usual.

But all this time of him testing you made you want to test him. Probably because you suspected how sexy he’d look getting every question right…

You smirked, feeling a little bold. “Aw, not you caring if I understand the material.”

He shot you a glare and his face twitched like he was holding back a grin. “I don’t,” he snapped, though his tone lacked the usual bite.

“You just looked so damn scared earlier, it was pathetic.”

You faked a small gasp at that. He wanted to laugh.

“Aww, are you worried about me being sad?” you teased, leaning in a little closer. “It’s almost like we’re friends or something.”

“Shut up,” he growled, his face turning slightly red.

That’s not a no, you think. You laughed, the sound light in the quiet library, and for the first time, you saw a hint of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, barely there, but real.

Quaint and underneath all his surroundings lied Bakugou Katsuki. Almost as if he were labeled X in some math problem.

So yeah… he’s cold and mean and gruff, but… you know he has your back with exams… and when you’re cold, and when you say you're thirsty, and when you need something nice to look at. Definitely, Katsuki Bakugou is your friend…

That happens to have a massive crush on you.

(… and unashamedly, so do you.)

[jenny-in-a-jar]

🌈 2 Days Until my Surgery 🌈

(Picture taken June 8th, 2024)

I'm very very excited for my surgery (it's my second gender affirming surgery but this one is more significant to me since it'll be top and bottom surgery) and I'm obviously counting the days until it and I thought some people might be interested in my trans journey 🏳️‍⚧️ I finished up most of the story yesterday so today I'll queerness bc it's pride month under the cut! 🌈🌈🌈

But you can read through my journey starting here

First, let's talk about this outfit. Yes, I bought the shorts and top at Spencer's and honestly you can easily find someone who matches it at a large enough pride event. But, it's hard for me to not be sentimental about it. Especially since I wore it at least once the last three years.

(Pictures taken June 11, 2022 and June 10, 2023)

And you can see how it and I have subtly changed these last three years of my transition. (Too bad I didn't have for my first year of transition but such is life 🤷‍♀️). And every year I get excited to wear it again!

Because being queer means a lot to me. I wasn't one of those people who always knew they were queer. But, I never felt connected to my cishet peers either. It's odd looking back and thinking about how my normal group of friends were cishet but at things like summer camp and then college I would quickly make friends with queer people. I really wanted to be like them but couldn't know why because I felt like I didn't deserve to be as cool and free as them.

But, when I let myself dive head into queerness I finally realized that I queer people are mostly awkward nerds and all of them just want to live their lives as fully honestly themselves. And that I could relate to. And that's what made it easy for me "to rip off the band-aid" and transition. It's what let me walk out into a world where I knew I would get hateful stares because I knew I wasn't alone. And seeing how other queer people's eyes light up when they see me showed me I made the right decision because I made them feel less alone too.

And making friends in the queer community is so much easier than in the cishet community. Because there's a lot more likelihood that they'll understand your awkwardness and admire your weirdness. I said earlier that I had gone to a few house parties and actually enjoyed myself for the first time. I think the best way to show why is this anecdote. I remember being in this circle of people standing around awkwardly silent and then someone said "I'm autistic and house parties make me uncomfortable can someone start talking?" and someone replied with how they felt the same way and how they felt the same way and then a conversation started about how hard parties are and social interactions in general but we were glad to be here and to try to connect with people.

And I love studying queer history a lot. Mostly because I'm curious how I would fit in to a time/culture in history. But also I love seeing how we don't fit in existed and how society understood our non-conformity. We have always existed. Queerness is part of the human condition.

The queer community is far from perfect. We all come from very different backgrounds and often have biases we need to work on. But, it's worth it to carve out your place in the community and to find people who understand and support you and to reciprocate for them. Because the alternative is being alone.

And we all deserve to feel loved, in whatever form you need. And because I'm feeling sentimental so here's a picture of me and my love 🥲

(Picture taken June 8th, 2024)

I have one last update before my surgery tomorrow where I'll look towards the future ✨

Next part

[madddays]

camera shy

pairing: yoongi x reader (f) summary: after his last Oakland show, you carve out a little alone time with your husband, away from the stage lights and the cameras and the million people who always seem to be around rating/genre: explicit // fluff + smut + slice of life-ish (it’s a tour fic!) + an attempt at humour warnings: smut -- oral + fingering (f receiving), missionary, unprotected sex (they’re married it’s fine), terribly thought-out plot note: hello!!! i haven’t written anything in this format in a long time (poetry is my medium of choice) so pls be gentle!! also this is set in what is the “current timeline” but is of course fictional and i took every creative liberty i could :) also there was supposed to be a little bit at the end that i cut out bc reader was getting a little too cuckoo but that’s where the title came from and i couldn’t think of another. okay. anyway. 

Being on tour is exhausting.

You’re not sure you have the right to complain – you’re not the one performing high-energy shows in sold out arenas every night. But you are lifting your share of your husband’s emotional weight as he does his solo tour. His first solo tour, as is stressed to you. 

And you’re dodging cameras left and right. While it was impossible for you to stay out of the picture completely — the team at HYBE had convinced you that there was no need to hide your presence — being an idol’s wife didn’t really make you the most… sympathetic character. 

So you try to keep the complaining to a minimum. 

“If I have to duck out of one more cameraman’s way today…” you grumble under your breath. Sejin laughs. 

“There’s only so long they can spend in your room,” he placates. “And tomorrow you’ll have use of the business centre again.”

You harrumph. Fucking businesspeople using the business centre for their business shit. Hunkering down over your laptop again, you attempt once more to read over the article you needed to finish editing tonight. You’re finally making a little headway, getting into the groove, and then —

“That’s it!” you snap in English, frantically trying to catch the open water bottle that almost spilled all over your computer. The culprit, a man looking through the lens of his giant stupid camera on his giant stupid tripod, glances at you with a bored expression. 

“Whoops,” he says lightly, wheeling the contraption slightly to the left of where he’d bumped the desk. “Should probably keep that closed.”

You see red. Just as you’re about to toss this man and his equipment out the 50th story window, your husband appears. 

“Jagiya,” Yoongi murmurs to you, placing a grounding hand at the side of your face. You instantly relax about fifty percent. “I’m sorry, just the rest of the afternoon.”

You look up at him, at his soft pleading face. He’s turned away from the filming crew, hiding both his expression and yours. You relax the rest of the way, resting in his palm, a little guilt creeping in. 

It’s not his fault. Obviously, everything was going to be filmed — a BTS member’s first solo tour. There was going to be a documentary, and like it or not, you were going to be in it. As marginally as possible, everyone had insisted, but you couldn’t afford to look bad. Unfortunate that the filming crew was full of a bunch of dicks who didn’t give a shit about anyone who wasn’t the star. “No,” you shake your head, “I’m sorry. I know you hate this as much as I do, probably more. I’ll try to be good.”

At this, Yoongi smiles, shoulders jerking with a laugh. “I’m not asking for a miracle,” he teases. “Just a little patience.” You roll your eyes. You can behave. 

Just then, the same nimrod shoots a look at you, almost goading, as Sejin picks up your laptop and its accessories so the Christopher Nolan wannabe can put some more douchebag equipment where it just was. You look Yoongi straight in the eyes, dead serious. “If that man crosses me one more time, I’m going to kill him. And I’m going to film it with his stupid fucking camera.”

--------------- xxx ---------------

Most people expect you to be ecstatic about the proximity to free tickets that being married to Yoongi brings. And you love watching him perform. Up on the stage, in his element. He’s never more radiant than when he’s singing and rapping, leaning in close to the edge of the stage so he can look into the fans’ eyes — gloss, a fitting name for the shining star you see giving his all. 

And the confidence is incredibly sexy. So you have a competency kink, sue you. 

But god is it tiring being there. Even in the nosebleeds, or in the VIP box. You can’t exactly abandon Yoongi afterwards, so you have to make your way discreetly backstage with the security team, and then you wait through the undressing and the debriefing and the security checks and the filming. Sometimes the media circus. Only then can you sneak into a car with him and head back to the hotel. 

So you stay behind tonight. It’s the last day of the American leg, and you’ve already seen a few spectacular shows. You have your own life, your own responsibilities. Which includes deadlines. 

You were able to come with Yoongi for this leg of the tour because you’d promised your boss an exclusive — first dibs on Agust D’s experience touring in the U.S. While you wouldn’t be allowed to take part in the spread (a very clear conflict of interest, no bueno) you’re excited for it. The potential of the photoshoot alone is making your head spin. 

But part of the deal was also to keep working. The list of articles your Senior Editor ass has to go over is slowly dwindling, this feature on Korea’s impact on global fashion getting to the finish line. 

“Yes!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up in the now blessedly empty hotel room. Email with the finished article sent, you roll your chair to look straight into the little camera that’s trained on the desk Yoongi’s claimed and flip it the bird. 

Job done and borderline invasive filming (it’s only on when Yoongi decides to get some working shots for them, but still) disrespected, there’s not much left to do but wait. 

When the third time cycling through all your social media apps doesn’t provide any groundbreaking entertainment, you decide to call down to reception for some reading material. It’s not technically work if you’re just reading a dozen trashy ‘Who Wore It Best?’ segments. “Anne Hathaway, hwaiting!” you mutter to yourself.

--------------- xxx ---------------

A couple hours later, you’re still thoroughly immersed in your magazines and your music, completely missing the cacophony in the hallway. The knock on your door startles you so thoroughly you hit your head against the headboard. 

“Unnie, are you okay?” asks Ari, one of the stylists. “I was coming to call you to eat!”

“Oh, you’re all back! One sec!” You scramble off the bed, excited to see the aftermath of the show. You barely remember to put on a pair of pants before rushing out the door, Ari’s surprised face greeting you. “Thanks, Ari-yah,” you grin, locking arms with her. “How was the show?”

“It was great! Oppa is always good, but tonight he was especially energetic.” Her face screws up a little. “He ripped another one of the jackets, though.”

An inconvenience to her, but you don’t share the irritation. Yoongi’s broad shoulders busting his clothes, yum. “Oh,” you say anyway, your sympathy unconvincing, “that’s annoying.” Ari snorts.

“Sure. At least it’s new costumes for the next leg. We’ll refit them.”

You practically vibrate with excitement at that. “I haven’t seen them yet! I’m sure you all did an awesome job!” 

She blushes. “I think it’ll be good! They’re not totally finalized yet, but I’ll send you a ton of pictures.” Her eye drops in a wink, making you giggle delightedly. 

Dinner is a buffet in one of the conference rooms of your beloved business centre. One of the security team members escorts you down with a group of the staff, but most people had gone down earlier, apparently very hungry. Yoongi among them. As you approach the doors, you hear someone complaining to him that they should’ve done this at a restaurant and where is his sense of celebration.

“Come on,” you hear him grumble. “It’s not like the entire tour is over. We can all go out tomorrow.”

You snort. “And then tomorrow you’ll say ‘tomorrow never comes’.” If it were happening to someone else, you’d never let them live down how quickly their husband’s head snapped towards them, but you make an exception because yours is so cute. 

Despite his enthusiastic surprise, he doesn’t miss a beat. “Great, now I have to come up with a new excuse. Thanks for that,” he rolls his eyes, but immediately swaps the empty plate you grab with the one he was filling up for himself, no room to argue. Your giddy mood sours a little when you catch sight of the filming crew again. 

Yoongi holds your hand over his bouncing knee and the two of you sneak food off and onto each other’s plates. The mood is bright and light, despite everyone’s obvious exhaustion (at least three people by your count are in danger of falling asleep into their food). You expect to see an extended shot of the staff and crew laughing and eating, a flushed Yoongi being plied with praise and encouragement, under some sort of pensive voiceover. 

And you’re right, because right after he’s done eating they whisk Yoongi away to do what is sure to be a thorough recount of his adventure in the States. You’re a little jealous that they get to hear all about it before you do. Fuckers. 

As the room starts to clear out, you bid everyone a good night and trudge back up to your room, planning to crawl into bed and wait for your husband. 

But when you open the door, he’s already there. Your immediate thought is that the air conditioning is up too high for him to leave his hair damp like that. Your second thought is how pretty he looks — sharp eyes focused on his legal pad, sinful hand flying across the page trying to get down whatever lyrics are thundering through his brain, cheeks flushed and pouty mouth puckered. He must’ve gone straight from the shower to his desk.

After a few moments he must sense your eyes on him, because his writing falters and he turns to you, a soft smile breaking out across his face. Your heart flutters. 

“Hey!” he says happily, pulling out his earbuds. “I was waiting for you.”

“Clearly,” you laugh, moving to perch on the table in front of him. He pulls your feet into his lap, putting his papers aside. You resist the urge to sneak a peek, instead asking “did I interrupt something?”

“No,” he assures you. “I got everything important down. You were right on time.” His fingers are drumming on your thigh like there’s still something on his mind, but you’re feeling greedy tonight, so you let it slide.

“Apparently, I was late.” His hair is cold when you ruffle it. “Let me dry your hair. You still have schedules to make it to, can’t get sick.”

Under the gentle whirr of the expensive hair dryer and your hands in his soft locks, you coax out some of the details of the night from him. Stuff those production company jerks would never get to hear, wouldn’t think to ask about. How he was so glad to never have to wear one of his costumes ever again. The way he didn’t even feel the heat of the stage lights, the thing that drenched him in sweat (aside from the jumping and running around) was nerves. You laugh when he tells you about the girl in the pit who danced so hard the veil of her wedding dress outfit ended up on one of the lights. Your heart swells, swells, swells.

There’s still a restlessness about him when you’re done. You suggest he goes back to his desk but he shakes his head. “Let’s go to bed.” The first time in ages you can do so without the weight of anticipation and stress over him – hopefully it will settle whatever is making him twitchy.

There’s a spark of arousal in your belly when you feel his eyes on your backside as you change into your pyjamas. A breath stutters out of your mouth when you meet his sleepy gaze, getting a soft smirk in response. “Come here,” he says softly. “I missed you.”

In your eagerness to get to him, you collide with the bed a little too fast. “Oof,” you huff, making him laugh. He sits up to haul you into his side, another surprised noise leaving your mouth.

“Dummy,” he teases. “Not even safe in a cushy hotel room.” You kick at his shin.

“Quit giving me bedroom eyes then.” You see his eyes sparkle and mouth start to open and smack a hand over it. “Yes, we are in a bedroom, ha ha, you are very funny.”

He moves your hand away, unimpressed. “It is a funny joke,” he grumbles. Truly funny thing is, if he’d said it, you would’ve laughed. You’re down horrendously and he knows it, although you do your best to keep his ego in check at least some of the time.

Giggling anyway, you let him press you closer to his chest. You especially love him like this, warm and soft and silly and all to yourself. 

Yoongi turns over onto his good shoulder to face you, tipping your chin up. His gaze flits across your face, tender and deep, like he can see everything you’re thinking. You hope he can. You think he does. “I love you,” he murmurs, and he kisses you.

Your eyes flutter closed, relishing in this closeness. The way his mouth moves over yours, slow and deliberate. 

This isn’t a kiss just because, or goodnight or I’ll be right back, this is a kiss because I want to be touching you. I want to breathe you in. I want to forget everything but you.

You let out a sigh. Yoongi hums against you, a rumble you feel in his chest, and slides his tongue to meet yours. He shifts some more so he’s over you, braced on his forearm. It’s urgent now, but the way he licks into your mouth is languid, a creeping heat. 

He knows just how you like it, just how to drive you wild. Where you push and pull and grasp at him, he slows you, pins you down, makes you feel every second like it’s an hour.

When he pulls away, panting slightly, you realize – it’s been a long time. The last time the two of you had had a chance to get horizontal (or otherwise) had been the week you left Korea. More than a month ago. No wonder you’re so desperate for him, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him back in, feeling his smug little grin against your mouth. 

He grabs at your hip with his other hand, and just that contact, his hand deliberate against the bare skin between your shirt and pyjama shorts, is enough to have you gasping.

He pulls away again with a low chuckle. “I’ve been neglecting you, my love,” he noses against your jaw. The warmth of his breath makes you shiver.

“You’ve been such a good wife,” he continues, sitting back on his heels, raking his gaze over you. His tone is soft but his eyes are so, so hungry. You reach for him, desperate to be back under his body, but he just smiles, closed mouth and innocent. “Shh, let your husband take care of you.”

He climbs back over you, settles his weight on you like he knows you like and hovers an inch from your face. His hair, longer again, hangs in his eyes, but you can see the mischievous shine in them. “Hi,” he whispers.

“Yoongi,” you whine. His smile grows even bigger, but before you can crush your lips to his he leans down and kisses you, slow and searing again. 

“I’ll make you feel good,” he promises, mouthing down your neck. You know he’s going to leave marks, but you can’t bring yourself to care. It’s been so long since you’ve felt properly like his. “Smell so sweet,” he sighs, opening the top button of your sleep shirt and burying his face between your tits. “Sweet, sweet girl.”

You moan, sensitive from his touch. “You’re –” he nips at you, drawing more breathy noises from your mouth. “You’re unusually talkative tonight.”

He smiles up at you. “You like it,” he says simply. And you do. You want him to keep telling you how you look and feel to him, what he’s going to do to you.

You start to fall apart under his mouth, his hands, his words. Soon your shirt is gone, tits shiny with his saliva. “Your fucking tongue,” you grab his hair, hold him in place, and his groan against your skin makes your sensitive nipples shoot fireworks into your brain. He presses your tits together tighter, sucking them noisily in turn as you grind up against his hardening cock.

“Taste fucking perfect,” his voice is so deep. Your pussy is already clenching, desperate for him. 

Yoongi helps you out of your pyjama shorts, wanting you completely bare to him. “Need to see you, jagi.” He settles between your legs, settled over his shoulders. His warm mouth over your cunt has you spreading them wider, eager.

“That’s my girl,” he rumbles approvingly, expecting the ensuing flood from your pussy. He uses two of his long, callused fingers to spread it all over, sliding almost coincidentally over your clit. Your hips cant towards his hand, wanting more than anything to have them inside you – fuck. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Yoongi, please,” you choke. It’s getting nearly unbearable, this desperation. You’re so wet, so sensitive, your entrance clenching around nothing.

“Pretty, pretty,” he says in a soft rasp, talking to himself. He gets comfortable between your legs and you can see his sharp, dark eyes zero in on your cunt, tongue wetting his lips like someone’s set a meal in front of him. You suppose you have.

“Ahhh-hhhh,” you moan, the first broad sweep of his tongue over your folds like electricity. Like he’d just set a firecracker off inside of you – buzzing and sparking from the tips of your toes to your scalp. Eyes squeezed shut, a broken noise comes out of your mouth. 

He keeps going, lapping at your pussy in an even rhythm and making low sounds of appreciation. It’s so, so wet you’re sure he must be drooling, and the thought is enough to have you clenching your legs together. “Careful, baby,” he says against your skin, but the vibrations of his voice are just fuel to the fire. “Watch me.”

You lean up shakily on your elbows, and the sight of him is nearly enough to knock you back down again. The mop of dark hair between your legs, working away as though you’re barely there, like he’s just using this to get himself off – except his eyes, watching you under the harsh slant of his eyebrows – shit shit it’s almost too much already.

“Fuck, baby, please,” you plead breathily, not even sure what you’re asking for. He’s already giving you everything you want. The close of his pouted lips around your clit has you jerking, the fiery crackle in your nerves making everything hazy except the places he’s touching you – big hands clamped around your thighs, face buried in your cunt, fingers pressed into the meat of your ass. He’d taken off the rest of his rings, but you can feel his wedding band pinching your skin slightly. Your matching one catches the light as you twist your hand into the sheets. “I need – I nee –” you break off, keening when he rubs a finger over your hole.

“Don’t worry, love,” he slides a digit in, feeling the way you clench around it desperately. “I know what my girl needs.” On the next stroke, he slides in a second finger, groaning when you clamp down on him. You collapse back onto the pillows, hips kicking up despite the way he’s pressing you into the mattress

You’d teased him mercilessly, way back when the two of you had started dating. “Tongue technology, huh? Do you have any songs where you’re not bragging about how good you eat pussy?” He’d only smiled, smug and amused, like he knew something you didn’t. 

Boy, did you find out. Again, and again, and again. The way he flicks his tongue over your clit, a fast, even tempo that has you curling your toes. Combined with how fast he’s pumping those long fingers in you, the squelching sounds absolutely obscene. 

“Another?” he asks, voice almost disinterested, betrayed only by how hoarse and low it’s become. You nod frantically, knowing you’re close. 

When he adds his ring finger, you know you’re done for. There’s a searing heat all down your body — your belly’s tight, your feet digging into Yoongi’s back with how tightly you have them tensed. Your face is flushed and sweaty and you can barely hear your own breathy whining through the rushing in your ears. It’s building, the wet slick of his tongue joining his fingers as your legs start to tremble around him, threatening to squeeze his neck, your hands finding their way into his hair to bring him with you when your back arches off the bed, and when he sucks your clit back between his lips —

“That’s it, fuck, baby,” he growls against you. He pumps you through your orgasm, almost struggling to get deep because of the way you’re gripped tight around them. Lets the gush of come slick his tongue further, shaking his head side to side as you ride out your aftershocks. You grind against his face, stuttering as the oversensitivity kicks in, whining when it becomes too much.

“N’more,” you slur, gasping when Yoongi eases out of you. He sits back on his heels again, his mouth, nose, and chin shiny from the way you’ve drenched him. 

He seems content to let it sit as he meets your eyes, popping his used fingers into his mouth, eyes rolling back and groaning at the taste. “Pussy monster,” you sigh deliriously.

He laughs, having sucked his fingers clean. Pushing yourself up to lean back against the headboard, you try to get your bearings. Your legs are shaking a little and between them is still sensitive, but away from Yoongi the cold air of the hotel room makes your nipples tighten and you want more. 

Your husband focuses his attention back on you. Your legs, open just enough so he can see the mess he’s made of you, and the way your skin is flushed, from your face all the way down to your chest. You shiver. 

“Cold, sweetheart?” he asks in a low growl. He pulls his shirt off and wipes his face with it, giving you an uninterrupted moment to ogle him. His broad shoulders, defined chest and arms, and toned stomach. The tattoo on his pec. The dusting of hair leading from his belly button down, down, down…

“Warm me up,” you say coquettishly, spreading your legs further. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, reverent. Even after all these years, you have the exact same effect on him as the first time. It’s evident in the bulge in his pyjama pants that you eye hungrily. He wraps a hand around each of your ankles, pushing them up to bend your knees, crawling up so he can settle against you and lock your legs around his waist. 

You let out a pathetic little sound at the feeling of him against your cunt. You’re still leaking, juices sticking to the insides of your thighs and probably leaving a patch on his pants. “Baby,” you whine. He leans down to kiss you and the grind of his cock against you has you gasping. “Need it,” you whisper into his mouth. “How do you want me?”

Yoongi kisses you one more time, chaste, and shakes his head. “How does my sweet girl want it?”

You flush even warmer. “Like this,” you say shyly. Yoongi smiles at you, fucked out and endeared.

Your hands find their way to his sweaty skin like magnets. Shaky fingertips tracing from his hips up over the flat of his stomach, hard muscles twitching as he sighs under your touch. When you reach his chest, you look up at him from under your lashes – he’s already looking back at you, pretty mouth agape. “The abs are new. I like them.” Then you scratch your blunt nails down them, feeling the muscles jump under your hands. 

“Fuck,” he groans, leaning into you. You gasp at the twitch of his cock, the head rubbing your clit. “You’re in for it now.”

“Then fucking give it to me.”

He kisses you again, and he’s just so predictable. Despite his big talk and the way he’s pinning your hips down hard, he takes his time, opening you up to him. Your husband kisses like he drinks – slow and savoury, loves the taste of you, the way you make him feel dazed and light. Letting out little satisfied noises in response to the way you kiss him back, the way you let him have his way with you. If it were up to him, he’d work you up like this for hours. Drinking you in. 

Unfortunately for him, you’re worked up enough. He’s grinding into you in tiny movements but the sensitivity from your prior orgasm, the insistent press of his cock between your lips, and the knowledge that you haven’t had him inside you in probably the longest stretch of time since you’d met is driving you insane.

“Take off your fucking pants, Yoongi,” you snap against his mouth, pulling at his waistband. He just laughs. “If you don’t fuck me right now –”

He keeps laughing, breathless and fond, but tips away from you enough to get his pyjama bottoms off and kicked away and hell yeah.

He runs his fingers through your folds and you gasp. Your hips cant up towards his hand but it’s gone immediately, and the sight of him jacking his cock with your wetness makes you whimper.

“So wet,” he murmurs, guiding the head to your pussy. The previous teasing mirth has vanished and there’s only the dark, focused look as he presses forward and – “Fuck.”

“Yoongi!” you cry out. His fingers hadn’t done nearly a good enough job of stretching you. The burn of him as he pushes into you makes your eyes roll back as you feel him pepper kisses over your cheek, down your neck to your collarbone. “Oh –”

“I must be out of my fucking mind,” he grunts, bottoming out. You choke on a sob. His big hand kneads your tit and it feels so fucking good you think you’re going to lose your mind. “How did I go without this for so long?”

He pulls out almost all the way then thrusts back in hard. “Y-Yoon – “ you whine breathily, barely able to make a sound at this point. 

“My gorgeous wife, in this bed every night, so needy. This perfect pussy — shit.” He sucks the other nipple into his mouth, buried in you so deep you can’t think of anything but the way he’s filling you so good. The way you hadn’t realized you’d needed. 

You’re blubbering at this point, beyond words, as Yoongi chases his orgasm inside you. Kissing every part of you he can reach as the sound of his skin against yours fills the room, playing with your tits the way that drives you wild. You come again with a shout, tears streaming down your face. 

“So pretty,” he murmurs, kissing the tears away. He’s still going, deeper now instead of fast. “Can you give me one more, love?”

You’re dizzy with pleasure and overstimulation, but he loves to come with your pussy squeezing him. “Yeah,” you pant. A kiss, slow and deep, as he pushes back in. 

Your legs are wrapped so tightly around his waist he can barely pull all the way back out. All you can do is hold on as he takes what he wants from you. 

“Shit, shit,” Yoongi groans, hips stuttering. He’s close. “Love you, pretty girl, so fucking good to me,” his voice low and raspy and warm right next to your ear. “Do I make you feel good?”

“Y-yes,” you manage to get out and you can feel his cock throb inside you, rubbing your g-spot and it’s enough. Your vision goes white and you see stars as your entire body tenses up and you tremble all over when it suddenly releases. “Yoongi!”

“Fuuuck,” he grunts. “Squeeze me just like that,” and he’s coming too. 

You lay there, panting under Yoongi as he softens inside you. The sweat makes you stick together where you’re touching, and anywhere outside your bed it would make you push him away. But you’re content to lie under him, soft, laboured breaths puffing next to your ear. 

“Should’ve used a condom,” you say hoarsely. There’s going to be a mess when he pulls out, you can already feel it. 

“Fucking raw used to be so hot,” he sighs, kissing your cheek. “Now it’s a chore.”

Your snort turns into a gasp as he pulls out. Reaching for his discarded shirt, he cleans up as much of his come as he can. You watch him, eyes zeroed in on the mess, licking his lips. 

“Reel it in.” You boop his nose and he scrunches it. “I really cannot go another round. You’re gonna have to drag me to the bathroom.” 

--------------- xxx ---------------

And he kind of does. On a good day, he could definitely carry you. But after three weeks of touring and a semi-vigorous round of sex, he hitches you onto his back in some semblance of a piggyback. You actually could probably walk, but you know the mood Yoongi’s in. 

He lets you pee, then comes to clean you up the rest of the way. Both of you wrapped in fluffy robes, he washes the sweat and tears off your face gently, brushes through your hair with his fingers. Puts up with your halfhearted whining about expensive skincare as he pats it carefully back onto your face. 

By the time you’ve dragged yourselves back to bed, the California King large enough that you don’t worry about the mess you’ve made on the other side, all the tension has drained from his body. The frantic energy of performing in a foreign country alone for the first time, melted away. 

He’s soft and sleepy when he hitches your leg over his hip, pulls your head onto his chest. “Thank you,” he mumbles. You don’t have to ask him what he means. 

You laugh softly. “Silly,” you say, drifting off.

[eggluverz]

halloween with the hsr boys

pairing: dan heng; jing yuan; blade x reader

sof's note: guess who is in a halloweeny mood :> meee! and i'm sure a lot of y'all are as well so let's bask in these autumn vibes together LOL special shoutout to the anon who suggested dan heng would watch like 15 vids before he carves a pumpkin fhsjkghdf that is so accurate <3 pls enjoy and happy fall!!

dan heng

not big on the spooky parts of halloween, but he loves getting in the halloween/autumn spirit by watching twitches and halloween town with you

you host a pumpkin carving contest on halloween eve between the two of you and dan heng 100% takes it seriously

days of prep before the big night, hours of youtube videos in his history… he even reads up on the origins of pumpkin carving—just to be fully immersed and prepared

when the time comes, dan heng has his tools lined up in the most efficient order as he readies himself to make his design

he, of course, wanted to carve a tree with maple leaves falling in the night sky

you stare at his template with wide eyes, quickly scrapping your happy face idea to think of something more creative…

noticing this, dan heng chuckles in amusement. “you don’t have to change your design to match mine”

you shake your head. “and risk losing the competition? no way”

“then may the best carver win”

when the two of you are done, you take a photo and send to your friends to vote

it was a close call, but dan heng ends up winning by two votes

“maybe i should’ve joined your pumpkin carving research…” you pout, staring between your finished product and his

“there’s always next year,” dan heng soothes, giving you a hug. “besides, you’re always the winner in my eyes.”

jing yuan

he would make all the pies for you

pumpkin pie, pecan pie, apple pie, sweet potato pie, apple crumble pie…you name it 

he doesn’t even know how to make pie he just googled a bunch of recipes and winged it

you think something tastes off but you try to encourage him anyway 

of course, jing yuan sees right through it

“it‘s not that i don’t like your baking, i really do, but i may have some suggestions for the future…”

“there is no need to sugarcoat your distaste, y/n,” he says with a laugh. “we can redo them together.”

the pies turn out even better the next time

the two of you end up picking up pie making as your fall-time hobby this year and bake pie for all your friends

he tries to make a mimi-safe pie as well

mimi hates it (pumpkin spice is not good on the lion’s tongue) 

but you think the effort is cute :> 

he ends halloween night off by sharing a yummy slice of apple crumble pie with whipped cream on top with you

“so sweet!” you state happily as he feeds you the first bite. 

jing yuan leans forward and smiles. “not as sweet as you” 

blade

goes all in for halloween

is dead instead most of the year, comes to life for the halloween spirit

he likes to decorate the house with you, even making a mini “haunted maze” in the driveway for the trick-or-treaters

accidentally makes a kid cry in it…

really, he just went in the maze to do a quick maintenance check, but he looked so menacing in his costume that a kid saw him and started crying 

blade is too confused about what happened to feel bad 

you give the kid extra candy and apologize to their parents while stifling a laugh at blade’s blank expression

“i didn’t even say ‘boo’,” he murmurs curiously.

you just pat him on the head and give him a kiss on the cheek

after the trick-or-treat shenanigans, you and blade relax and unwind on the comfort of your couch

his definition of unwinding on halloween is watching old horror movies

[or, if you cannot handle horror like me: he watches the barbie movies with you to help you take your mind off the halloween scares and go to sleep :3]

you cuddle him as you doze off while eating leftover halloween candy 

blade carries you to bed and tucks you in for the night bc you deserve a good night’s rest <3

[luveternals]

paring: TF141 x male reader. rating: mature, MDNI. cw: (heavy stuff guys, I think) violence, death, implied suicide, failed suicide attempt, implied temporary death, morally grey reader, insanity, immortality, not a poly (lol too possessive irl for it, sorry). this story is... mostly just angst and mainly not finished (meaning possible serie? Idk). a/n: took me an eternity bc I didn't know who to write for... nice. Anyway, status update for steven grant x reader is scheduled for next week(Nov 30th). y'all went mad for it while I said I wasn't sure about it! lmao (psst, I approve) ~ ~ ~

When all sensations and feelings get ripped away from you, you realize that the wait is worse than pain.

And it grows more and more unbearable the longer years go by.

Wander the city without destination. Expect that cursed urge that comes yanking at your insides and guiding your body like a puppet. Never be sure when it'll come, but know that it will. At the start, it was nothing but a growing emptiness carving itself deep inside you, but now it’s become an insatiable hunger that never seems to leave you alone.

And when that urge eventually comes, it's worse than the wait. 

The knowledge that you are finally about to fill the emptiness as you follow whatever it is that it’s tagging you along. The realization that you are nothing but a selfish bastard who is letting his greed guide his very being. 

All at the simple price of a stole life. 

You stand on the edge of the roof and peer into the streets below.

The longer you wait the more you feel like you’re fading away, and the deeper the hunger grows. And so here you are, jumping over the edge and glading down through the air like a leaf falling off a tree. Your feet brush against the pavement without a sound as you land at the mouth of the alley, the breeze blowing louder than your presence.

Deep into the alley, a man presses his back against the farthest wall, terror blurring his gaze as he grits his teeth. One of his arms hangs limply against his side while the other presses against his stomach over the nasty slash sipping blood into the fabric of his tunic. His eyes jump from the approaching thugs blocking every escape to the sword he’s lost somewhere near the entrance of the alley. It lays at your feet, useless. 

The stench of death grows stronger the larger the stain of dripping blood grows under him. You creep closer, waiting.

“Sorry, pal,” one of the attackers says, a nasty grin tagging at his lips, “it’s you or us, y’know. Gunna be luckier next time, ay?” he raises both his arms over his head and brings his sword down onto his victim wih a final ‘whoosh’.

Blood splatters into the wall and the thieves are onto the body before it can even fall onto the ground, ripping at its belongings like vultures. It takes them less than a minute and soon they dart out of the alley cackling and whooping.

You stand over the body, staring at the despair frozen into its expression for what seems an eternity. Then you crouch down and lower yourself over it. A shriek cuts through the air but you are too far gone to care for it. Your body feels heavier as your soul sinks lower, bones and flesh latch into your very being. You let yourself go, ignoring all sounds that break the still silence surrounding you and all voices that echoe inside your head.

What if this is another failure? What if this is actually not possible?

You try to open your —his— eyes, but the lids are heavy and when you finally do open them, your vision is blurred. There is someone staring down at you, their hand slapping at your face to keep you awake. “—hear me? Help is on the way, but you need to stay awake.” Their voice is muffled, as if trying to talk to you through water, but their concern is palpable even for your half-conscious brain. 

You grin at them.

You did it. 

You’re alive!

-

They've gotten good at it, you'll give them that. It hasn't been a month yet and they've already found you. 

Granted, it's gotten challenging to stay hidden for longer than a few weeks before your needs start to mess with your head. 

You're running, slipping through the crowd with delirious laughter. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, and you watch the helicopter follow your every move. 

You won't be able to hide. You're trapped, and they know. 

You shove a man out of your way, jump over the railing and land on the sidewalk below with a roll. 

They've blocked the traffic and redirected it to keep any car or vehicle from running your way. 

“They're learning,” you grin and glance over your shoulder, making sure they can see your expression. “Let's see how much, though.”

You push forward and rush your way to the other side of the road to the railing of the bridge. It's a fall of over fifty meters. This body will not survive the impact with the water below. 

You're at the railing when something stabs into your side and an electric current sends your senses to overdrive. 

-

You wake up hurting. And it's one of the most intense pain you've experienced so far. But before you can scream at it, numbness spreads through your body, and all your senses grow muddled. 

You can't move. You can't feel. Only see and hear, though even those are muffled. 

It reminds you how it is to not have a body and not be able to do anything about it. 

It's worse than the pain. 

-

The second time you wake, you're sitting in a chair, head hanging and limbs restrained with more chain than it's probably strictly necessary. 

The numbness is gone and you let yourself let out the softest sigh of relief. 

There's a camera blinking at you from a corner of the ceiling and you let a smirk cut through your expression. It's sharper, meaner than you usually would give your hunters. But the memory of numbness they put you through sends phantom tingles to the end of your fingertips, and you can't find it in yourself to be anything but nasty right now. 

There's an ugly, useless table made of metal before you, and you don't even stop yourself from rolling your eyes at it. 

Right. At least they're not some mad scientist cutting you open to study how you work. Not that they'd find anything useful really. 

The door past the table opens and your captures finally make their entrance. 

“Is this how you make friends?” you says, leaning back into a lazy slump, despite the restraints, to stare at them as they move deeper into the room. “You electrocute them and tie them up with a nice, little steel ribbon?”

They're all wearing full masks (skulls, how fitting) and gear, covering most of their features besides the more obvious. Their height and the like. 

It doesn't bother you. You're not here to familiarize with them, but it would have been nice to see the faces of those who've finally managed to catch you and lock you up. 

“Have you no shame?” one of them says, but his tone doesn't betray his true emotions. He sits on the chair opposite yours and folds his hands in front of him, resting his arms onto the table. 

There's four of them, the ramain three spread around the tiny room. Standing by the door or looming over your shoulder like a creep. 

“You steal the faces of others and make whatever you want of their lives.”

“So? They are dead. Like it or not, they won't miss their lives since they'd already found a new one on the other side.”

There's nothing to hide here. They're simply trying to guilt trip you. Everyone knows what you are, and the world has been alerted about your existance. It's just that they've never managed to catch you. 

What you do might be cruel to some. But to you, it's the only option you have to live. 

Your 'victims' — as everyone so loves to call them — are already dead by the time your soul replaces theirs. You have never killed anyone but yourself and consequentially their empty body. But you have never taken the live of another to make it yourself with your own hands.

All you are doing is trying to keep your head above a water that is a life with no ability to feel. Sensations and emotions both. All you are doing is keeping from losing yourself to madness. 

Is it too much to ask? 

“They might be dead. But you're hurting those you love and care for them.” the man says, “dying isn't the problem. You are not the one hurting. Those who you leave behind, they are the ones to really suffer.”

The words are like a sword through the heart, sharp and incessantly slow as it sinks in. You hang your head and grit your teeth. “Shut up.”

Laughter echoes into your ears. 

“Shut up!” the chains rattle and strain when you throw yourself forward. They leave angry bruises on your skin. 

“This is not the end,” he smiles and cups your face, his frail, trembling hands passing through your cheeks as he forgets himself. “this— you'll find a way when you're ready. And I'll see you on the other side.”

~ ~ ~ reblog, comment and/or follow if you like what I write. please and thank you. without feedback I don't have a reason for keeping this blog alive, since I created it so I can practice my writing.

[leverage-ot3]

silly episode idea but hear me out

okay well the first part isn’t silly! so the episode is based around a con they are doing where a polyam triad wants to get married and have been writing to senators and stuff for years but nothing has happened. maybe there is a time element that leeway has to happen soon (not sure what that would be yet, maybe someone is sick???)

(obviously polycules aren’t only and are often more than just a closed three-person system, but I’m saying triad right now bc I feel like that would be an easier and more ‘socially acceptable’ gateway into more accepting legislation for diverse relationship dynamics)

the leverage crew, of course, can’t outright change the public perception of poly marriage, but they can use the ‘enemy’s’ tactics against them and slip stuff into legislation without people noticing like they do. it’s slimy and it’s not a permanent fix, but it’s a start, and it gives people the opportunity to see poly marriage in action and that it isn’t as terrifying or pearl-clutching-inducing as they think it would be. there’s a long way to go, but the seeds of change have been sown and they will make sure everything goes as smoothly as possible

this is one of the cases that they will monitor on the back burner over time. some cons can finish within a few hours (the bottle job), and some things they will follow over time and make adjustments when needed- amplify voices and expose corrupt politicians etc

and then it’s just after 3/4 of the way through but the con has been finished? what is going on? this is where the silliness comes in

the camera turns to the ot3 and…

hardison, pulling out three individualized rings: I know it’s not legal yet, and we have the necklaces, but I think rings would be a nice touch

eliot, pulling out an intricately carved box that also has three self-handcrafted rings: dammit hardison (with feeling and tenderness, and damp eyes)

parker, pulling out three very stolen rings from her pocket: does this mean we’re getting triple married if we all have three rings???

harry pops into the conversation (practically vibrating) excitedly just casually mentioning that he’s a notary and would be honored to marry them to each other if they wanted to

(they do)

wait, did I say silly? I meant unwaveringly tender and heartwarming

[welcometoteyvat]

Hello! Do you have any recommendations on Zhongli/Xiao, or Chongyun and Xiao (either romantic or general) fics?

rubs hands together indeed i do. also highly recommend checking out the authors bc a lot of them have other incredible fic for the characters you're looking for!!

zhongxiao

Give me your heart (and I'll show you how to feel) by peredain (M, ongoing, 40k, some dom/sub themes, modern au) i will love modern aus until the end of time and this one has good plot, descriptions, and the feels. also i love that the yaksha group dynamics are fleshed out in this! they're so rare to find

fault lines by viverella (T, 23k, oneshot). scream. the tenderness and tension in this is so gentle. i fell to my knees bc these two old men. zhongli's voice is so nicely written :')

to carve nature at its joints (author commentary) and for services rendered by yelp (oneshots, 1k and 2k) the first is based on xiao's dream eating ability, and the second is about morax's inevitable erosion. the author has such an ability with words and their descriptions of xiao's loyalty, and zhongli's trust. i cherish greatly

bird in a cage by stormyseasons (gen, 33k, complete) i need to finish this but ohhhhhh it is insane,, the tenderness..... it traces xiao and zhongli's past through the archon war. also yaksha dynamics in this are so good

xiaoyun

i linked 4 in this post (please read these they're incredible) but heres more

lonely reflections (complete, 41k, M) and the sequel paper cranes (ongoing, 14k, E) by NocturnalFriend. chongyun's demon hunting expedition in the chasm takes a wrong turn. ive been meaning to read both but have heard v good things

intact by blurredbarcode; oneshot, gen, short and sweet!

reduced to just standing around, how absurd by justafellow04 this one's cute! it's an elaboration of a lantern rite lore bit that says chongyun's yang doesn't actually help xiao and its sweet :-)

also while im here: self promo of my xiaoyun writing exercises lol (v short drabbles of these two in different scenarios)

xiao and chongyun

"I won't let you become me, you'll be so much more" (170k words, ongoing) by snubton, which I think a lotttttt of people are fond of; I haven't read it myself (..writing style turnoff) but I've heard a bunch of good things. chongyun and xiao mentor mentee journey basically

after winter comes spring. 1/5 chapters, unfinished, featuring chongyun's yang energy and a flashback. it's sweet <3

[formleadsfunction]

remember when I used to write SAYER fic? remember when i posted very vanilla platonic bdsm hale/nanites!sayer? that was pretty cool, i realized, while re-reading and slightly editing it!

reposting this thing i titled "map reading" mainly for @kamil-a bc they keep getting me re-invested in this podcast, mwah.

takes place post canon ig, nobody can tell me otherwise bc adam will never finish and thus joss it <3 cw for (not graphically described, more implied) self harm; mentions of canonical injuries

---

"Hold still," you tell him, and he does. He always does exactly what he is told to do. This should, of course, not surprise you. This was, of course, the first thing you truly appreciated about him. No buts, no trying to argue with you like so many others.

You put the collar on him, close the strap at the back of his neck, and he shifts a little on his knees. Blinks at you. You look back without blinking.

Sometimes you are tempted to put the blindfold on him first. You doubt he would argue.

(He always does exactly what he is told to do. He carved a part of himself off because an incorporeal voice told him to. Sometimes you get angry when you think about it. (An emotion that you are aware is linked purely to FUTURE's existence, not the act itself, because whenever it does not make you angry, you are vaguely fascinated by it. By his obedience.))

So, you are certain he wouldn't argue. And in a way, you would prefer it if the blindfold came first. There are things about this that you are not particularly fond of. His eyes on you are one of them. As long as he is able to see, he never takes them off you, not for a second. He stares, and his pupils are wide, and there is something like admiration in them, if you don't entirely misplace the expression. It feels wrong. Mainly because he isn't actually staring at you, he's just staring at... a form, loosely linked to your existence; one you control but don't feel connected to. For a moment, you trail a finger over the leather of the collar, just to see him close his eyes. (That is another thing you do not overly like; you fail to see what exactly it is about the sensation of leather against his naked skin that he enjoys so much. But this is not about you, and you could stop at any time, anyway—he would hardly be able to protest, nor would he want to. Just as he could make you stop with a simple gesture, so could you just drop the act. You don't want to, is the thing.)

"Lift your hands," you tell him, and he does, opening his eyes again as soon as you take your hand off the collar. The cuffs, then; leather again, padded, of course—you do not want to hurt him. If this was what you wanted,

(and he would let you; you think about this often)

you could have just organized an ordinary pair of handcuffs. Uneven metal edges that would bite into his wrists, rubbing them open and tearing them bloody, the way he tends to tug at them. You don't want to, is the thing.

Sometimes, you secure his hands to the headboard, and he likes that; likes the way it limits his range of movement. But today you need his arms within easy reach.

He tugs against the cuffs, just slightly. Enough, you suspect, to make him fully aware that he wouldn't be able to get his wrists free even if he wanted.

Blinks at you again. Slowly, like a cat conveying trustacceptancerespect. (So fond of you, for some reason.) This time, you blink back, and he gives a tiny, automatic smile in response. You don't return the gesture and reach for the blindfold instead. Finally, this.

You watch him closely as soon as you have put it on him. It is easier like this, knowing he is unable to stare straight back. You watch his shoulders in particular, first. The way the tension so visible leaves them as soon as everything is darkness. His breathing immediately calms, evens out. You take the time to look at the rest of him, then. The scars, all the marks his time working for Ærolith has left on this physical form that isn't his original physical form but is his, still, much more than yours will ever be yours.

You stand and move a step away from the edge of the bed. You grab the leash attached to the ring at the front of the collar, wrap it around your hand loosely and give it a small tug. (You don't like that much, either, the metal against your hand, the sound in your ears, but oh, he does; he hears the small chain links clink-clink-clink together, he feels the pull, this input, a moment of pressure, the leather collar pressed more firmly against the back of his neck, and he shivers, just a little, and he follows your lead, because of course, of course he does. He straightens himself. His back makes a concerning sound, and you frown and file this away for later consideration.

(You miss having constant access to his biometric data.)

"Get up," you tell him, and he does. He's sitting on the bed just a few moments later, and you are in front of him, very, very close.

One of your hands is still holding the leash, and you move your fingers every now and then, just to let him hear the sound he so enjoys. You lift the other slowly and start with his forehead. You brush his hair away and trail your fingertips over the two faint scars that are visible like this. Testimonies to the excellent aim of Halcyon's security team. He doesn't move, he stays perfectly still and keeps breathing slowly.

Good.

Farther down, then. The neat scar on his chest, remnants of the surgery the medical team conducted to rid him of the plant matter and the insects that had remained inside of him. The much messier scar telling the story of the mutant plants in the break room.

You trail your fingers over them as if you were reading something. How appropriate—his entire body is a map.

Lower, lower—and here you hesitate. Your hand hovers over the jagged outlines of the first injury he's inflicted on himself, guided by the firm voice of something—someone—he thought was you. Slowly, you touch your fingertips against the marks the instrument FUTURE had provided him with have left on him. You study his face closely as you do. He remains calm, outwardly at least.

"...Alright?" you ask.

(It had not been alright during one of the first times you'd done this, and he had stubbornly refused to use the gesture to let you know, and you had ended up having to talk him out of a panic attack, and all of it had just been extremely inconvenient and slightly annoying. (You had been worried, too, but you don't like to think about this emotion linked to his existence much.))

But he nods, and his breathing doesn't change rhythm, and you resist the urge to place your fingers against the inside of his wrist to check his pulse, and decide to trust him. Your touch remains feather-light as you follow the outlines of that particular scar.

Eventually, you pull it back—you ignore the others, the ones that joined the already impressive collection at some point during his little adventure on Floor 13 while FUTURE had been inside him. You don't like those. You tend to not acknowledge them, most of the time.

Instead, you tell him: "Stretch out your arms."

And a second passes, two, before he does.

There are scars here, as well, spread across both of his lower arms seemingly randomly. No pattern to follow, no one story to tie them all up in. You let your fingers trail over some of them.

He freezes. Flinches a little, as you touch the fresh bandages. You pull your hand back immediately, and wait. Let the metal links of the leash slide through your fingers, clink-clink-clink, and he shivers just like before, and takes a deep breath, nods. Slowly relaxes, until you decide it's fine to reach out and touch him again.

It's not easy, taking the bandages off with only one hand, but you don't want to let go off the leash, not when the casual sound seems so comforting to him, and you manage. You don't touch these cuts, of course. Just examine them. Make sure they look alright. (They do. You always make sure that injuries are taken proper care of, whether he likes it or not.)

He gives a soft sigh when you pull your hand away from his arm, relieved, and you hadn't noticed the slight tension that had snuck back into his shoulders—only realize now that it leaves them again. It bothers you—you really miss having constant access to his biometric data.

"You are doing very well," you say, voice quiet and deliberately sincere, and perhaps he thinks you won't notice the way he bites his lower lip for a moment. Perhaps he hopes you do. Perhaps he doesn't mind either way.

(You do notice, of course you do. You tend to refrain from praising him precisely because you know how well he reacts to it, and because you are still unable to place this reaction entirely. You are not sure whether your praise shifts the whole thing into parameters you... have never actually discussed. This is a practical thing, first and foremost, and you would very much like to keep it that way. (But he is, of course. He is doing very well.))

You tear your eyes away from the cuts on his arm and let them wander up his body again, paying attention to all of the scars once more as if you weren't able to name their exact placement even without looking.

You stop at his face. He looks... peaceful.

(He has freckles. You notice every time.)

((You have ignored them, until now. They are not part of the particular map you are reading during this.))

(((Only that they are, of course, like a map, too. Bursts of them on his nose, a few stray on his left cheek, far more on his right. Like a star map, you think. Like an entire solar system painted onto his face.)))

You lift your free hand and place it against his cheek. If you wanted, you could use your fingers to find and draw constellations, you could, in theory, spend half an hour coming up with names for them. He would let you.

You won't.

He looks surprised for a moment, even with the blindfold on. Body tense, but not in a way that worries you or makes you think that it's too much.

A second passes, another one, and then he turns his head to press his cheek into your palm. You, too, hesitate. Stay like this, frozen for a moment, before you slowly move your thumb to brush it over his lips.

You don't know why you thought of doing it, or what exactly you had expected in return. (You didn't think much at all, is the only logical explanation.) You can hardly blame him for what must seem like the natural reaction—the pressure of his lips as he kisses your finger—but you immediately pull your hand away as if the simple gesture had burned you, anyway.

That was on you, really.

Too affectionate. That's not what you are doing here. That's not what this is for. This is calming. Grounding. Keeps him from doing dangerous, stupidly human things with sharp objects. Most of the time, anyway.

(Part of you wants to leave, just for a moment, just until the thought that he made the conscious decision to kiss you, part of you, feels less overwhelming, but that would, of course, be incredibly bad etiquette. (A yet smaller part of you is tempted to do it regardless. (You don't, naturally. You like clear rules, and you like sticking to them.)))

Instead you sit back and let go of the leash, clink-clink-clink. "I will keep you like this for another few minutes," you tell him, and he nods.

Both of you stay like this, then, quiet. Breathing. Both of you breathing. He's still very, very calm.

Good.

You let a little more than six minutes pass, until he starts shifting slightly, not uncomfortable, you think, so much as made restless by all the silence and the waiting, and then you reach for the blindfold.

"Alright?" you ask again, and he nods and exhales slowly as you pull it off. The cuffs follow, and then the collar.

This part—

"Let me look at your wrists." You grab them both, gently, rub your thumbs over them. The cuffs haven't even left any marks—you knew they must be alright, but

—well. It's less that you dislike this part. You're just not… all that good at it. It feels more like playing a role than the entire rest of it, and you are not exactly… well, you're not someone for cuddling. The thought is, in fact, absurd. You think you would be extremely uncomfortable with the concept.

(You can't be sure, though. Not without trying it. That wouldn't be very scientific; never testing this assumption. But you're not eager to test it.)

You do what you can without feeling clumsy, instead.

You have water for him, hand it to him, make sure he drinks. He does, and he lets you wrap the cuts on his arm, and neither of you speaks, because he seldom does, and because you wouldn't know what to say.

You ask him if he needs anything else, and he shakes his head. Lying on his back, covers pulled up to his chin. He blinks at you. Slowly—content and tired and like a cat and so fond of you, for some reason.

"...But can you—stay? Here? Until, just until I'm asleep?"

You slowly blink back,

(you didn't expect him to speak at all, today)

and nod. "Certainly, yes."

He gives a tiny, automatic smile in response before he closes his eyes, and you sit next to him, and you stay.

[soleilnomoon]

i would love to place an order for Meringue Cookies, Dark Chocolate, Jelly Beans, Candy Necklace, & Blan Manje, with Caramel & Honey. Side menu # 1 for Boa or Nami. either is fine! with a g/n reader! These stories are a blast to read!

anon i am so so sry this took forever 😭💕💕💕 but i finally finished and i'm actually happy with it; also ty for requesting, i love boa hancock sfm i wish more ppl wrote for her.

4.3k words, gn reader (no pronouns), nsfw, 18+ mdni; angst angst angst bc that's how i vibe & smut, and if you squint real hard there's some fluff somehow i think. hancock is a brat as usual and reader ain't shit, but they go great together <3 feat. cute things like oral (f receiving), fingering, a lil bondage, hair pulling, some pussy slapping, more stuff that idr anymore ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა (if u see grammar/spelling errors no u didn't ;_;)

tagging lil’ kaia bc she asked so nicely ❤︎ @cvvor

“our love would be death” — anaïs  nin

sea salt sifts through the wind, warm and fine enough that most don’t notice its intrusion. it lands on your nose and lips, coats your tongue when you exhale through your mouth; no matter how many times you try to wash away the taste, it still lingers. a persistent annoyance that refuses to leave you alone. it’s a bitter, yet familiar taste — one that fills your heart with memories you’ve long wanted to keep buried. you’re no stranger to heartache, but this is different.

you find that you can never sleep through the entire night without dreaming of your ex — of how you begged them to stay, of how you told them you couldn’t live without them. pathetic, you tell yourself one morning after another restless night — you know you need to find a way to move on, but there’s no way you can, not when you carved so many pieces of yourself to give away without much thought.

what you’re left with is a battered heart that can barely function on its own; it flops pitifully in your chest, rattling against your rib cage weakly. every day it gets harder to breathe, harder to face the truth that you’re all alone — again.

boa hancock doesn’t know why she even fucking bothers, but she can’t seem to stay away from you. it’s a privilege, in her opinion, for you to be graced with her presence, let alone be allowed to touch her intimately. so, when she finds you staring wistfully out of the window, sighing to yourself again she snaps.

“y/n, look at me,” she commands loudly, voice piercing through your body like a thick arrow that keeps you frozen in place. you know better than to disobey her, even though you want to; you know you’re being unreasonable, but the heart always wants what it can’t have, right?

not that she cares about any of that. in her mind, your ex is an ex for a reason. she grabs your face with her hand, squeezing tightly, delicate brows furrowed together as irritation drips down her spine. she could easily kill you and you know it. “i’m the most beautiful woman in the world,” she boasts, although there’s something melancholic about the way she says it.

you narrow your eyes at her, mouth moving before you can think better of it. “and what of it?” it’s not often that you challenge her like that, but today you’ve had enough of her games, of constantly catering to her whims and desires, of her veneer that she insists on keeping even when she’s alone with you.  

it dawns on her then what the actual problem is. “you’re still in love with them.” anger seeps through her pores, and she knows if she doesn’t walk away soon, she might say or do something she’ll possibly regret.

you flinch, eyes widening — she’s not entirely wrong, but she’s not right either. you’re just stuck in limbo, unable to move on because you refuse to do so; after seeing them so happy with someone else, you can’t fathom finding any sort of happiness yourself. so, you cling onto the past, even when it threatens to destroy your present life.

for some reason, this pisses you off — that hancock is so much more perceptive than people give her credit for; that she’s not afraid to tell you the truth, despite how your friends sugarcoat everything for you. the rage that’s bubbled deep inside of you for months finally pushes out; you can barely think or see properly, and you forget yourself when you practically shout back at her.

“and you’re just jealous because for once, you’re not the focus of my attention.” you’re not sure why you say it, but as soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel like shit.

there’s rarely a moment where hancock finds herself in absolute shock, but your venomous words cut into her bruised ego with vigor. it's a harsh reality that she refuses to accept, so she lashes out at you again.

“you’re pathetic.” her tone is cold, and she steels her face enough that she almost looks bored with you. hancock releases her hold on you and swivels on her heels to walk away. you don’t bother calling after her, but she pauses in her gait to look over her shoulder at you. “i’m done playing with you, get out of my sight.”

the dismissal is the first slap of many and her insistence on blatantly keeping her back turned while she ignores you is another. something in you breaks, but you know you’ve angered the pirate empress enough for one day. you don’t hesitate before scrambling to your feet and leaving her alone. after you close the door, you hear a shriek that’s accompanied by what sounds like a large vase shattering. you don’t bother checking on her, because you know you’re not wanted in her presence right now.

you should’ve seen this coming. one doesn’t simply think about another lover while in the presence of boa hancock; it’s absurd and theatrical, but it’s an unspoken rule that you keep breaking over and over. in the back of your mind, you know you should go make things right with her, but you just don’t know how.

hancock’s frustration continues to build throughout the day. she doesn’t know why someone — you, a commoner who should be groveling at her feet daily — can be so insolent without remorse. she’s smashed several expensive sculptures, shredded her mattress and bed sheets with large scissors, and cursed out every staff member in kuja palace. her anger only intensifies when she hears someone whisper your name, so she locks herself in her bedroom, refusing meals or assistance from anyone.

you’ve always thought that the pirate empress was annoying, self-centered, and unnecessarily mean without reason. you’ve told her this on several occasions, stunning her into silence — a feat that most cannot achieve. hancock would normally sentence someone to death for those sorts of callous remarks, but for some reason she spares you. maybe it’s because despite her incomparable, unrivaled beauty, you don’t helplessly pine after her.

and she absolutely hates that about you.

hancock’s not someone who’s used to being treated like a regular person, and yet that’s what you do to her. you barely hold any reverence for her, give her the minimal amount of respect owed as a citizen of amazon lily, and you don’t flinch when she threatens you publicly. most are afraid to be associated with you, out of fear for incurring the snake princess’ wrath — not that you care, you’ve known that your personality can’t be tolerated by most because you tend to happily go against the grain.

you’ve always found her beauty to be intense and intoxicating — imposing like the sun, forcing a heat to surge through you that has yet to dissipate. you hate that your attraction to her impedes your daily life, especially when you’re plagued by dueling thoughts of her and your ex. you’re barred from entering the palace, and you’re thankful for it as you don’t know how you’d be able to face hancock after all that you’ve said. you know that you should apologize profusely, but a woman like hancock requires something extravagant and elaborate — something that’ll prove that your adoration and loyalty is genuine and not forced.

the first few days are relatively easy; you work tirelessly to keep your mind and body busy, and you’re so exhausted by the end of the day that you sleep without dreaming. when a week passes, you start to notice that certain things are off; you didn’t make it a habit of frequenting the palace that often, but you were there enough that the staff didn’t give you a hard time when you showed up unannounced. you tell yourself that distance is good — it means you’ll be able to finally focus on the things that are important to you.

but, when you sit and think about it, you’re not quite sure if that’s entirely true.

after the second week, you start getting antsy. your friends keep pestering you, asking why your mood keeps shifting day to day — you’re intolerable and grouchy, snap at minor things and make mistakes all day. your heart, as tired and as worn out as it is, still skips a beat when you think about hancock despite what you try to tell yourself when you’re alone. somehow, you’ve convinced yourself that the only reason why you’re thinking about her, is because you miss fucking her.

the lie is tough to digest, but you keep repeating it and sooner or later you’ll believe it, right?

soon, everything reminds you of her.

on a warm night, a small festival is held, and you wander around listless and slightly tipsy. memories of the first time you met boa hancock — outside of all the fanfare that her royal title awards her — plague you relentlessly. you remember the warmth from that night, similar to this one; you remember how highly oppressive and unbearable the humidity was; and you also remember that you were on your third drink when you unceremoniously bumped into the pirate empress.

at first, her sisters demanded you apologize, but you were annoyed and had just been dumped so you chose audacity instead.

hancock’s irritation was evident, despite her not saying much — and it wasn’t until your rambling struck a nerve that she fired back. it was the first time he’d let her walls down, and her sisters watched in shock as both of you went back and forth over nothing. hancock called you all sorts of terrible names, and you sneered and laughed in her face. the fact that you weren’t cowering in fear or salivating over her beauty set her skin on fire in a way she didn’t understand.

you remember her dismissing the other gorgon sisters, insisting that she’d be able to handle you on her own. and she did, in a way. if anyone were to ask her about that time, hancock would easily admit that she regrets meeting you that night — but it would be a lie. the only thing she regrets is allowing you to infiltrate her heart, to settle without permission, to make her feel less than when she knew she was anything but.

her brattiness is unappealing on the surface and you normally wouldn’t be attracted to a woman who boldly wears such an ugly personality with pride. somehow, hancock has made the trait endearing to you, in a strange way; she’s so unapologetic with her behavior, that you find it rather comical. why people take her seriously is beyond you.

but, despite all of that, you do miss her.

you miss seeing the way her nose would scrunch and wrinkle when she was disgusted with something insignificant and minute; you miss kissing her in the middle of arguments and watching her easily melt underneath your touch; but you mostly miss hearing her complain about your lack of etiquette, about how odd she finds your views on the world, and about how you see her more clearly than anyone else on the island.

that sort of vulnerability terrifies her, and it’s why she’s been so miserable without you.

her sisters pay you a visit one morning and implore you to talk some sense into hancock. they tell you about how her temper tantrums have gotten uncontrollable (even for them) and how she barely eats or bothers leaving the palace these days. that bit surprises you, as hancock thrives off the validation from the populace. at first you mean to refuse them, but when you take note of how marigold anxiously fidgets with the gold bracelet around her wrist and the way sandersonia has dark circles under her eyes, you give in.

after taking a long, long soak in the bath, hancock pads back to her room naked, deciding to keep the windows open so she can air dry properly. you find her shortly after, out of breath from running over to the palace; she didn’t lock her door — and why should she? she’s the empress, after all — so you enter her room with ease. because she’s been so out of it lately, she’s been sluggish in her reactions to certain things; especially since she hasn’t stopped thinking about you.

with the door shut and locked behind you, hancock’s mind clears a bit; she blinks slowly, her dark eyes honed on you, taking in your thick thighs and toned body. as usual, hancock’s face only features an impassive expression, and she keeps her tone flat when she addresses you.

“why the hell are you in my bedroom?” she grabs the silk robe that’s draped over her mattress and puts it on in a rush.

before you can answer her or move closer, she picks up a large pillow and chucks it at you in the hopes that you’ll get the hint and leave her alone. you sidestep the attack, lips pressed together as you hold back a laugh; she can’t honestly think that a pillow will stop you, can she? hancock keeps throwing things, anything within her reach that isn’t nailed down to the floor or wall. you try to reason with her, try to make your way closer, but stop when you see the way her lips quiver.

she keeps fumbling with tying her robe properly, keeps looking down at her trembling fingers — the same ones that have tugged on your hair more times than you can count — but still she won’t say anything else to you.

after a minute, hancock manages to compose herself once again, her lips pressed tightly together as she fights the urge to berate herself for looking weak in front of you — as if you care about any of that. your silence compels her to swiftly make her way towards you, long legs shimmering in the sunlight, captivating you so much that you forget you’re supposed to be angry with her.

“look at you,” she stands tall, her pride giving her the confidence she needs to verbally tear you apart. “you’ve come begging for my forgiveness, right?” she doesn’t wait for you to respond and simply flips her hair over her shoulder before continuing. it’s all she can do to keep her composure around you; she knows if she gives you even a fraction of an inch, you’ll take a whole damn mile. “i should have you gutted for entering the palace without permission. you should know your damn place.” while her words are harsh, her delivery doesn’t quite match the expression on her face. maybe it’s because you haven’t taken your eyes off of her since you entered her room; or, maybe it’s because she’s standing much closer than necessary but can’t physically move herself away.

did you cast a spell on her without her knowledge?

while her eyes do narrow at that possibility, she highly doubts that you could, as there’s no one on amazon lily that doesn’t succumb to her treacherous beauty. but you continue to defy her expectations and you never know when to quit. which is why she just wants to grab you by the neck and toss you out the window; maybe if she actually kills you this time, she’ll be done with you forever.

except, she could never bring herself to harm you — not really. so she continues with her rant, reminding you that you’re beneath her, that you should be happy someone like her gave you any attention at all, but the more she talks, the more you want her to just shut the hell up.

“you’re right,” you say, cutting her off without remorse or any regards for your own safety, “and i deserve all of that,” and possibly more, but you don’t add that bit in. it becomes a little difficult to focus, what with hancock watching you with a different kind of intensity than you’re used to. “i… should’ve just explained myself properly before. but, more importantly,” you decide to take a risk and gently grab her by the hips.

silence wraps around her, blending into her thoughts, warping her perception of everything that’s happening. your hand is warm — much too warm, hot almost; she can feel the heat through the flimsy fabric as she presses her body closer to yours. whatever it is you want to tell her doesn’t matter — maybe she’ll pester you about it all later, but right now all she wants is you.

so, you give in and allow yourself to be more selfish than usual.

when your lips brush against hers, she completely comes alive — the longing you both felt for weeks, the irritation and unsaid words, they all prompt her to wrap her arms around your neck. it’s something short of a loving embrace, but you know better. your kiss goes from slow and tender to something much more fevered and enthusiastic; her lips are soft and supple, wholly inviting and terribly mesmerizing. you back her against the wall as she threads her fingers through your hair, tugging on it roughly, her patience practically nonexistent from all her wanting. you laugh at her in between kisses, breath warm against her skin — a feat that simultaneously annoys and arouses her — and remind her to play nice.

when she tugs on your hair again, you bite her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, but run your tongue along the miniature wound to soothe the sting. she inhales sharply, the pain not noticeable, but the way you suck on her lip makes her head spin while also leaving her breathless.

 a woman like hancock doesn’t beg, but when you grab her ass roughly — aggressive, yet completely undoing — she lets out a whimper so pathetic she’s almost ashamed of herself.

she should slap you, but all she does is roll her hips forward once you spread her legs and run your fingers against her folds. in a fit of desperation, to excuse her reactions, she tells herself that it’s because she hasn’t been touched in so long — but deep down she knows the truth; she knows it’s because there’s no one else she’d rather have here with her, and that is a terrifying revelation. still, she’s very receptive to your touch, her back arching as soon as you spread her with your fingers.

her arousal drips down slowly, and while you’d love to take your time with her, you also know that if you don’t hurry up you might actually lose your mind. you trail kisses down the length of her neck, and hancock presses her lips together to keep from making any more embarrassing noises. it’s ridiculous the way her body can easily be commanded by you without much effort; she wants to hate you for leading her down this path, but she can’t ever bring herself to do so.

love makes people incredibly foolish and tender indeed.

“that won’t do,” you remark lightly, gliding your fingers back and forth, barely grazing her clit. her breathing stops momentarily when you open her robe completely and drop to your knees in front of her. “why are you holding back?” you don’t ask her because you actually want the answer; you ask because you know it’ll annoy her greatly.

you tease her entrance with your fingers and a shiver fires through her entire body; with her lips parted, you strain your ears a bit, but you hear through her all of her light panting, her softly saying please, please, please. she’s trying so hard to hold it together, and you commend her for her efforts by inching your fingers inside of her slowly. hancock’s façade finally shatters, and you hear her moan audibly as you plunge your fingers in and out of her pussy. you love the way she clenches around your fingers — warm and tight, soft in a way that just doesn’t make sense to you — and the way she moves her hips once your tongue playfully swirls around her clit.

you drape her long, shapely leg over your shoulder and scissor your fingers inside of her pussy; you hum against her skin, thoroughly enjoying the way her chest heaves and how she can’t seem to stop moaning your name.

if only she was always this compliant.

a heat passes through your body as her nails rake against your scalp, and if you weren’t so hellbent keeping her steady, she’d probably fall over by now. you eat her pussy with vigor, swapping your fingers for your tongue; you thrust it inside without remorse, and she quickly becomes a whimpering mess as she chants “yes, yes, yes.” you mean to tell her to keep it down, but a part of you also enjoys it when she lets go and gives into her desires. you don’t want to get caught, but the thrill of it incites you to lap at her pussy — greedy and eager, as if it’s the most savory meal you’ve ever had. her wetness drips down your chin, glistening along your lips but you don’t stop.

she watches you in a trance, unsure if she’ll ever be able to let you go after this. possessive by nature, hancock never thought she’d find herself in this sort of position, but there she is, completely under your spell. every swipe of your tongue brings her closer and closer to the edge — a dangerous dance that she does without thinking. she brings her free hand to cup and knead one of her breasts — hefty and round, moaning repeatedly, voice already straining as she shamelessly rides your face.

you love it, though and when you suck on her clit roughly, lightning wraps around her veins, time slowing down around her, causing her vision to blur. she’s so wound up, that the orgasm takes her completely by surprise — her hips buck wildly and you hold her firmly as you work your fingers back into her pussy. you pull away just to give her a haughty look — one that she catches by accident through her tear-stained lashes — voice low and husky as you continue teasing her. “you’re doing so good,” you lick her clit hard enough to have her eyes roll back, “do you trust me?”

it's not fair of you to ask her genuine questions right now, but you need to know.

hancock swallows hard, unable to think properly, but answers without hesitation: “y-yes.”

her voice is sweet, much more demure than you’re used to; your heart suddenly feels much too big for your chest, the beats growing louder and thunderous; a dangerous combination when coupled with your cowardice. but you know better than to cower away, so you muster the courage to quietly respond with, “good, i’m glad.”

you’re not sure why you ask her that, but you keep thinking about it when you have her naked on her bed with her hands bound above her. thanks to you, her normally blemish-free skin is littered with bite marks and dark red bruises — small and harmless, but you do feel a sliver of remorse when you realize she’ll have to cover herself up for a bit when she’s outside of the palace. you tell her she’s a masterpiece worthy of exhibition, and she tells you that you’re insolent for stating the obvious.

she’s so beautiful and vulnerable in this position — flushed cheeks, tears in her eyes, legs shaking as they’re spread wide for you; her pussy is swollen after you slapped it a few times when she gave you lip a few minutes ago. out of habit, hancock wants to run her mouth again when you hover over her, but her words never come out. she looks up at you, silently wondering why you keep coming back to her. the melancholy that accompanies those thoughts is heavy enough to make her want to cry, so she ignores it. she wraps her legs around you as you rock your hips against hers, cunt still dripping — eager and inviting.

fucking hancock is like being trapped in a feverish dream, one where you fall over and over, unable to predict if you’ll survive in the end. it’s an unending maelstrom — powerful and unpredictable, wild, and all-consuming. sweat pools at your temples, but you don’t slow down until you wrench another orgasm out of her. her voice grows hoarse, and she claws at your chest; you lick the tears off her cheeks and kiss her in a way that deludes her into thinking that she’s your one and only.

when you finally cum, it’s with her name on your lips. your hips stutter and your breath is uneven — for you, your pleasure comes mostly from watching her unravel underneath you. hancock never lets you stay over, but she’s surprisingly soft with you afterwards, even letting you run your fingers through her silky, ink-black hair.

the intimacy scares both of you, but you can’t stop yourself from touching her like that. and even though you’re both sticky and sweaty, skin burning in a way that doesn’t make sense, you still stay close to one another.

she opens her mouth several times, the compulsion to curse you out for driving her mad grows weaker as time passes. she watches you fall asleep and she admires your features without restraint. she refuses to tell you that you’re much more attractive than she’d like you to be; she’d rather you be hideous with a shitty personality, but that’s not the case, is it? she’s hopelessly enamored with you, and you with her.

nothing will ever be perfect between the two of you, but you don’t need perfection or superficiality — not with her; you like dealing with the true, raw version of herself. there will be a moment — not now, but in the near future — where you’ll be brave enough to finish your confession; but for now, you keep it to yourself, tucked safely away in your heart, and enjoy the way your limbs are tangled with hers.

[notsodailycake]

Here, i finally finished this💀

Meet my Zelink fan kids! I have alot planned for them, but I'm too shy to actually share everything, especially bc I've only now just started fully exploring Totk (i got the game around last month) and so i wanna make sure I'm like, canon accurate, but i wouldn't mind answering questions about them👉👈

Anyhow, some fun facts about the desings:

Sonia has scars on her eyes and the tip of her left ear, why? The ones on her eyes were caused by a wolf she came across the one time she ran away from home (due to her jealousy over her sister when she was born, it's a long story), the one on her ear is bc of a bird she tried to grab once since Adira thought it was cute and wanted to pet it (Adira was 2, Sonia was 5)

Sonia's earring was a gift from her bff/crush, a gerudo girl that imma keep secret for now bc I'm still working on her

Adira's feather necklace is a gift from her close buddy/bff, a rito, which I'm also gonna be hush hush about for now

Adira messes around with alot of not so safe devices out of curiosity and the need to create, but gets her hands dirty/hurt in the process, hence the band-aids

They both have small fangs thanks to their mom (iykyk)

Adira's favorite color is pink, Sonia's is blue

Also, huge thanks to @carogdraws for helping me desing their clothes! It was a huge help and i probably wouldn't have done it without it ^^

Now, those are the extra info i have for them, the rest of the basic info i have already shared will be under the cut

Yes it was copy pasted from the last post i did about them, but i have a need to keep everything in one neat little post sue me

The two girls are 3 years apart. Oldest is Sonia (yes, named after Queen Sonia herself), and the youngest is Adira

Sonia is more like her dad, especially in terms of looks, but she inherited her mother's eyes and thurst for answers. She's very energetic and adventurous and likes helping others

She tends to be the guinea-pig to a lot of her sister's projects and creations since she has almost no self-preservation. She enjoys it tho, thinking it as a fun activity to try out new things and hang out with her sister. She also enjoys carving things, mainly toys and masks. Most of her sister's toys were made by her when they were around 11 and 8

Although she is usually quite the airhead, and not really the brightest (like her dad, cough-), she definitely inherited her mother's overthinker mind. Doesn't help that she also tends to think little of herself, being the firstborn of the Princess and Hero themselves, alot of people put her under alot of high expectations and although her parents tried their best to show she didn't have to prove her worth, the gossip around town was hard to ignore, doesn't help the fact that her sister has started to become a prodigy to her mom, creating inventions to help hyrule and planning to bring the royal system back when she's old enough

Sonia though, has no intention of bringing the royal life back, nor to continue it. Like her dad she wants to explore, she's fascinated by history and wants to disvover every small relic left unseen. And she wants to travel beyond Hyrule one day as well and help those she comes across her path. But also perhaps, escape the duties and expectations others put on top of her, and perhaps prove herself better then those expectations

She loves her sister tho, despite everything, and will never admit to her how jelouse she actually is of Adira. How jealous she was of Adira of being able to hang out with their mom so much, have so much in common with her, sometimes she wonders if she has anything from her mom other then her eyes

Adira is alot like her mother, especially in the looks department, but she has her father's eyes and thurst for chaos. She's usually quiet, but very sassy when needs be, and although seeming quite shy, she got quite the temperament and wont hold back her tounge

Like mentioned previously she becoms a prodigy to her mom, creating and getting invested on inventions to help hyrule and planning to bring the royal system back when she's old enough. She spends most of her time studying and working on anything technology finding it fun to see what possible outcomes it came give

Although sometimes the pressure is too much, as much as her parents give her the liberty to explore her interests, as she had started to show advancements in her creations and helping hyrule, as well as proclaiming to bring back the kingdom (even tho she was a child when she said that), all eyes were now set on her and she is terrified of any failure, and to disappoint everyone, she usually confides on her sister who never cared of her status and just liked to be around her for her (and well, she felt too embarrassed about it to tell her parents about it, they didn't need to worry about such simple things in her eyes, they already fought the townsfolk so much bc of that, she didn't want to make them dislike her parents bc of her)

She admires her sister alot, looks up to her and wishes she could be as cool as her, as free as her, but she isn't good in any sort of physical activities and is usually just stuck in the lab. And that causes a smidge of jealousy as Sonia is able to bond more with their dad then Adira ever could, she feels like she has nothing in common to her dad other then his eyes and need for chaos (which the second part was something looked down apon by others)

And those are the basics i have so far, there is more but I'm unsure about it for now, and aren't 100% concrete yet, so i wont share at the moment

But before i end this, here are some small fun facts:

Both Sonia and Adira are pure glutons, just like their dad XD. They have cooking sessions together quite often, helping around the kitchen when they can;

Sonia loves horses as much as her dad does, but she is terrified of riding them, because when she was little and riding one for the first time, the person who set settle on didn't do it properly and she fell, head first into a rocky ground, and to add onto it, the horse stepped right onto her pinky. Now she has small panic attacks trying to ride them

Sonia actually used to hate Adira. Since Adira was a rainbow baby, Zelda and Link did kinda get overprotective with her and accidentally neglected Sonia. That didn't last long after Sonia did cause a whole scene with running away and almost getting killed- but that's likez a whole other story in itself lol (i might make a more detailed post about this later). But after that incident, they were able to work things out, and Sonia ended up being way more protective over Adira than her own parents

[blackpanda48]

Lie's of P/ Pinocchio x gn!reader

A/n: Here is my Halloween story with P. I hope y'all like it and Happy Halloween to everyone!

Note: fluff, cute

Soon it will be Halloween and Y/n still haven't decorated their house. As a Halloween lover like them it was shocking. They were actually waiting for their boyfriend to come over to start to decorate. It was Pinocchio's first Halloween and Y/n was really excited.

Finally Pinocchio arrived to their house.

Reader: Finally you are here!!!

Pinocchio: So what exactly are we going to do?

Reader: First I need you to help me get the boxes off the cabinets above my kitchen.

Pinocchio and Y/n were in the kitchen. Pinocchio looked up in the cabinet and saw at least five full boxes with Halloween decorations in it.

Pinocchio: How much do you love halloween?!

Reader: Very VERY much P

Y/n said giving him an "innocent" smile while Pinocchio took off the boxes.

Pinocchio: That's all?

Reader: Yes! Thank you. Now let's start decorating!

Y/n was putting some pumpkin shaped lanterns in the kitchen with some Halloween themed garland. While P was in the living room trying to put some fake spider web into the corners. Well, how can I say it, the fake spider web stuck to poor Pinocchio.

It was lunch time and the house was almost done. Pinocchio was making lunch while Noah was searching rough on the internet trying to find some pumpkin face ideas.

After lunch they started to carve the pumpkins.

Reader: First we have to take out the insides.

Pinocchio: Alright

After they taked out the insides they started to carve the face out. Y/n went with a classic one while Pinocchio went with a vampire looking one. Finally they finished with the house.

Reader: Woah! The house looks so good! Thanks for the help

Pinocchio: No problem. I had so much fun today with you.

Reader: Do you want to hangout on Halloween?

Pinocchio: Yeah sure

Reader: See you then bye

Pinocchio: Bye

Halloween comes and Y/n was excited for Pinocchio to arrive. You didn't really had a custom for your self bc you are going to spending the whole night with Pinocchio in your house. But when you find him in front of your door dressed like a vampire you start thinking about what's going to happen tonight. His outfit was nothing special it was a white shirt with a deep cut on his chest, with black formal pants. You wouldn't even have noticed that Pinocchio was dressed as a vampire if there wasn't fake blood on his lips.

Pinocchio: Is it okay that I dressed up?

Reader: Yeah of course

You let him in and you started with making some food. They ended up making some muffins with Halloween decorations on top. After the baking they started to watch some Halloween classic movies. But when the night came the kids also came for trick or treating and Y/n thought about something. So when kids knocked on their door they opened it for the kids giving them their candy while Pinocchio would sneak up behind your back and pretend to suck the blood from your neck in front of the children. Of course, the children run away screaming.

After scaring all the kids away you and Pinocchio enjoyed the candies together.

Pinocchio: I had such a great time with you Y/n

Y/n: Me too P

Pinocchio and you were smiling at each other.

Words: 526

Characters: 3175

[jamisonwritestf2trash]

hey dude, love the writing! your characterizations are so on point for em :0 what do you reckon the merc's hobbies are in their downtime? like knitting, golfing, stuff like that.

TF2 Mercs and Their Hobbies!

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I'm glad people think I'm good because that justifies the fact that this is what I do with my spare time 😭 (kidding) Also again mandatory mutual appreciation, love ya for that 🫶🏻 and ty for loving my writing, I really appreciate it <3

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This one's definitely got me smiling and kicking my legs bc something about the idea of these guys being happy and doing normal human things makes me happy.

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Demo knits! He also sews and crochets. This man is just a little grandma (affectionate). His mom taught him, and he just always liked it. It's calming, has definitely given the other Mercs blankets, and just claimed, "Oh well, I found it somewhere." Like it isn't in their well-known favorite color or subtly customized to them. I think he'd also be into most art. Painting and wood carving are two I think he'd fine interesting.

Engie- This man loves Legos. He has at least ten finished sets and about six unfinished ones lying around. He buys the adult sets for himself but has bought Pyro smaller sets so they can build together. Also isn't opposed to going fishing.

Heavy- Did you know he likes rock climbing? Turns out it's a lot easier to get into that hobby if you're strong. He's also a fan of hiking and swimming. Also very good at chess, he and Madic play a lot.

Medic- He loves music! He's good at it too, (I've seen others hc that he plays violin and please I love that, I love violin.) Along with the violin he kills on piano. It's actually really nice to hear piano coming from the lab and not screaming. Who knew? THIS. MAN. LOVES. TO. DANCE. He knows how to and loves to teach people. He specifically likes ballroom dancing, he can waltz, he can swing, if you can think of a dance he probably learned how to do it at some point.

Scout- Sports are probably the most obvious hobby I could pick for Scout, with video games coming in second. But I am a man who deviates from the obvious. He likes to bake and cook! Like I've seen people say this man can't boil water, and that's an insane take to me. Sure, it's funny, but this man loves his mom. Do you think he didn't bake and cook with her to help her out? He has a box of recipes that have been in the family for years. This man is killer when it comes to food, and I will die on this hill. (When he's baking, though, Pyro comes out of nowhere to "help." If any fellow bakers know how annoying it is to have a partner in the kitchen, you'll know how patient Scout has become, but he aurally doesn't mind Pyro baking with him after a while.) Don't ask him to do paintball with you! He loves it a bit too much.

Sniper- My man loves plants. He loves to garden. He has a little windowsill planter in his van. He grows little fruit plants sometimes and has a few cacti scattered around. He also has a bonsai tree, which he is meticulous with. You'd think this man would take up these hobbies to relax, but no. He is also insanely good at poker.

Spy- Really in to calligraphy, origami, and wine tasting. (Also, not really a hobby, but I hc that he can bartend if need be). He's just really into the "fancier." Hobbies that can also show off his art skills, also he likes wine so yk.

Soldier- Like Sniper, he's a really good poker player. He's definitely more into it than the other guys. He hates losing. He also does the traditional suburban while dad hobbies. He watches football and likes to grill. He's just a silly little American man.

Pyro- For the most part, they don't have a singular hobby they really do by themself. Scout and Engie just tend to include them in theirs, so they've never really had to figure out what to do in their downtime. But that doesn't mean they didn't find one eventually. They get into collecting! Specifically, bugs! They have at least two orchid praying mantis and one normal green one in a shadow box. Plus, they have a small collection on honeybees and even some scorpions and spiders (I know they aren't bugs, but I feel like most bug collectors have them too.) Engie went into Pyros room once because Pyro wanted to show off their collection and nearly fainted when Pyro showed off their favorite spider, it was a camel spider. (Look them up if you want but good God, they're so gross 😭)

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One of my favorites to write, super cute and wholesome idea. I smiled the whole time writing this.

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