#just an off-the-cuff thing for the afternoon

[marvelsswansong]

melting snow

summary: the subtle, obvious, sweet, and at times - dangerous - ways Coriolanus shows his love for you.

tags: coriolanus snow x fem!reader, possessive and lovesick!Snow, mostly fluff with light allusions to smut, significantly off-canon from movie (no lucy gray and no sejanus betrayal), CW possessive/dark behavior, graphic descriptions of murder, violence (it's only the last bit of this fic that's quite dark/violent, so feel free to read up until then. Please take care of yourself!!!)

☆ word count: 4.6K+ words ☆

⚠️ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞.⚠️

one: subtle praise

At the beginning, he would mask his true feelings and physical urges towards you with a tight lipped grin and a reserved compliment. Something that acknowledges something you've done objectively well, with a genuine softness that didn't apply to any of his other classmates, but seemingly delivered in a nonchalant matter to feign indifference.

"Great dodge." he'd say to you, both of your chests heaving from adrenaline during fencing class. You'd nod gently, a shy "thank you" leaving your lips.

But when Clemensia wins the next round against him, Coriolanus doesn't go above simply shake her left hand in courtesy before leaving the arena briskly.

"Well played." he'd joke, when it was revealed during the final student appraisal that you'd beaten Coriolanus' marks by a few points. Despite Archane and Felix throwing subtle jabs at his way for "losing" the star student title, you'd just shrug off the compliment profusely, praising him endlessly.

"A mere fluke, really. You're the brilliant student. I reckon I just study hard and get lucky." you'd reply, straightening the cuffs of your jacket nervously. The blonde always found it so endearing how bad you were at taking compliments.

So different from the rest of the scum in Capitol, he thought.

Eventually, he'd start to turn his verbal compliments towards things unrelated to your capabilities and work. And more towards things that were of a personal nature, like your looks and dress.

"Your hair looks very nice today." he comments one afternoon late after school, his shoulders brushing against yours as you both await your rides home. Your hands fly up to your hair, to the small crown of daisies adorning your head, as if you've almost forgotten what you were wearing.

"You think so?" you shyly ask, looking up at him nervously. "I wouldn't have worn it to the academy if we hadn't been called down on immediate notice. It's just that the family I babysit for on the weekends, their daughter just turned six and... well, she was very insistent on making me a flower crown."

He finds your embarrassment awfully cute.

"But I swear, when Dr Gaul turned to look at me today, I thought she was going to kill me."

Coriolanus only rolls his eyes playfully at that, knocking his shoulders against yours.

"And what would she know about first rate fashion? You look amazing."

It's the nicest compliment you've gotten over a silly crown of flowers, your heart warming and your breath stuttering at his words. It's what motivates you to lightly squeeze his right arm before you get into the car, your touch lingering in his mind long after you depart.

A month later, Coriolanus runs into you at the farmer's market on a Sunday. His instructions by Tigris to "buy some bread and oranges for tomorrow" are almost forgotten in one fell swoop when he sees you. Free from your usual academic attire, you're wearing a flowy lilac dress which sits right below your knees, the silky fabric glowing in the yellow sunlight.

"This color really suits you." he decides to whisper in your ear after discreetly sliding into the space next to you, the action so sudden that it causes you to jump. Your shoulders soften when you recognize his striking blue irises, and then you pout, punching him right in the chest.

"You scared me, Snow." you jokingly scold him. "And where are your manners? You should always introduce yourself first to a lady."

He pretends to be wounded by that, hand on heart whilst leaning backwards.

"My deepest apologies. Would this help?" he asks, effortlessly pulling a white rose from his back pocket. He revels in how your gaze lightens up in awe and amusement at the gesture.

"Perhaps so." you reply back, fingertips brushing against his.

The blonde takes it as a sign to slide it behind your ear, the memory of your etheral form with his flower tucked behind your right ear etched into his mind before you're called away by your friends.

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two: soft touches

Once he's sure that his feelings are reciprocated, Coriolanus would start to step the line over into something more serious. He's not willing to open up immediately nor is he necessarily a man of romantic prose. A large part of him is scared, even, of the way you make him feel.

After all, what is love if not vulnerability?

And how he could be vulnerable with you, a woman so far out of his league, widely adored and your family amongst the wealthiest in Panem?

So it would start off when the class seating arrangements are changed and you're seated next to Coriolanus for the remainder of the year.

He'd start to purposefully spread his legs a little bit wider than usual, his knees always brushing against yours.

He'd take every chance he could to lean over to explain something to you, his face a few inches away from yours, if you ever seemed stuck on a question.

He'd open the classroom door for you in the mornings and offer to carry your heavy textbooks back to your family's car after school, insisting that it was because he wouldn't want you to trip on your heels. And if you'd ever insist on carrying the books on your own, he'd keep a gentle hand on your upper back to keep you upright "in balance."

Once, whilst presenting a speech at your father's fundraising dinner that you'd stayed up all night preparing for, you accidentally lose track of your speech. You stumble on your words, voice cracking in panic as you start to scan the page of thick text, all of which suddenly seem jumbled up and nonsensical.

Sensing distress, Coriolanus' hand quickly moves under the table to squeeze your left hand (hanging by your side) in a reassuring manner.

It's only then, somehow, that you find yourself able to re-focus on the printed text and continue your speech. Afterwards, you squeeze his hand back and whisper your gratitude.

"I owe you, Coriolanus."

Another time, it's a formal ball being hosted by the academy to mark the holiday season. After a few drinks, you're tipsy and manage to drag your friends up towards the balcony, despite it snowing outside and being below zero degrees.

Cautiously watching your every movement by where he's leaning by the bar, Coriolanus quickly makes an excuse to exit the conversation he found himself trapped in, before walking outside towards your shivering figure.

Your dress certainly isn't helping your situation, it being a satin slip dress with sleeves and a conservative cut out by your shoulders. It exposes your chilled skin as you rub the naked space with your arms, your staggered breaths coming out in white puffs of smoke.

"Corio! What're you doing he-" you start to walk towards him but nearly trip, his arms coming to supporting your body last second to save you from falling completely on your face.

"You shouldn't be outside in this weather." he comments, amused, as he helps you find your balance once more. But you refuse to re-enter the ballroom, choosing to instead excitedly ramble about how wonderful winter in the Capitol is and how you can't remember where you've placed your bag.

Listening earnestly to your ramblings with a smile on his face, he quickly shakes off his blazer.

"May I?" he asks. You blink slowly, heart fluttering at the gesture.

"O-okay."

The boy then carefully drapes his blazer over your shoulders, the act immediately enveloping your senses in his signature smells - oakwood and rose. Your fingers clutch the lapels of the jacket, your nose burrowing in to the softness of the fabric.

"Are you sure you won't be cold?"

He's freezing, of course, but he keeps his posture straight and tuck his hands into his pockets.

"I'm just fine. Don't you worry about me."

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three: nicknames

Once you two become an item, Coriolanus moves on to calling you affectionate names.

Of course, he'll prefer to call you by your name in professional settings - like during a presentation, in front of the Academy staff, at formal galas and dinners - but when it's just the two of you, or around people you both trust, or when he's jealous -

He almost never calls you by your name.

Darling is the classic, lovestruck expression he uses when he's being his most vulnerable. It's what he whispers into the gap underneath your neck when he's waking you up in the morning, landing kisses across your collarbone during sunrise. It's his greeting when he surprises you with a bouquet of flowers on your birthday, right before he whisks you away to a trip to district 1. It's what he cries into your hairline when you are hospitalized following a rogue rebel explosion on your trip home.

"Darling... darling, can you hear me?"

Coriolanus' voice is foggy, your head still ringing from the loud explosion earlier, but your heart still races at the sound of his voice and the touch of his hand on yours. Throat croaking, you try to respond with an affirmative "yes", to which your boyfriend responds by quickly grabbing a near by cup of water.

Gently guiding the glass to your lips, he treats you as if you're a fragile porcelain doll: smoothing down your hair gently and fluffing up your pillows to lay you back down. It's only then that you get a good look at him under the flickering lights - the bags under his eyes look heavy, his usually neat hair a complete mess, his blue irises blood shot.

"Have you been sleeping, Corio?" you ask, worried, your thumb rubbing circles onto his palm. He chokes up at that, shaking his head sideways with a sad smile.

"How... how could you ask me that, darling? You've been in the hospital for days."

"I hope that doesn't mean you haven't been sleeping for days." you quip back, raising your eyebrows. Your boyfriend opens his mouth to lie, but the twitch of his lips gives him away. So you instead shift towards the left of your bed, making space for him on the mattress.

"Come on you silly man."

He smiles a guilty grin before snuggling up next to you, letting out a heavy sigh of content at your warm body against his.

Petal is his sweet, infatuated name for you when he's referring to you in conversation or calling out for you in front of friends and family. Tigris never fails to tease Coriolanus for the name, but he doesn't mind it - you're his flower, his precious petal.

"I can't believe you think this is ugly." Tigris sighs at the dinner table one night, shuffling through the myriad of designs on the desk. "This was going to be the design I send off to the boutique tomorrow."

"I didn't say it was ugly, I just think this design is far nicer." Coriolanus responds, pushing forward the blue design in front of him. His cousin pouts at that, clearly unsatisfied with his answer.

"Petal-" Coriolanus calls out for you, where you're cooking with grandma'am in the kitchen. "Could you come in for a moment?"

When your confused face pops into the room, Tigris quickly calls you over, dramatically stretching out her arms to grab you.

"Mr Snow seems to think this design - the gold sweetheart dress with lace trimmings - is uglier than this blue version. What do you think, (Y/n)?" she earnestly asks, pushing over the two designs to your direction. You shuffle through the papers intently, studying each drawing up close, before ultimately taking Tigris' side.

"I'd say your eye for design is impeccable, Tigris. And that Coriolanus should perhaps stick to things other than fashion."

That makes both grandma'am (who is listening in from the kitchen) and Tigris, burst out in laughter, with the latter throwing her arms around your waist in a sideways hug.

"Ah, I knew you were my favorite for a reason." she jokes.

"Petal, you wound me." your boyfriend jokes, a small scowl on his face for show. Though, when you lean down to kiss him, the scowl easily melts away.

My doll is what he calls you when he's driven sick by jealousy and possession. As, much to Coriolanus' distate, you have many admirers - due to you coming from a wealthy family and being a well known socialite in your own right.

Coriolanus has never liked Felix Ravinstill, but he swears his hatred for the president's son only tripled after you and Coriolanus became an item. Felix was never shy about his attraction to you - the forward compliments, the invitations to his house after school, the rush to sit next to you during lunch periods. But now, the blonde thinks, it's getting full on desperate.

As you sit reading a book in the hallways of tha academy, waiting for Coriolanus to finish his talk with Dr Gaul, the dark haired boy decides to chat with you. When your boyfriend opens the door discreetly, upon hearing your voice mingle with someone else's outside, his vision nearly turns red at how close the other man is to you.

You're pointing out something in your book to Felix, your innocent eyes fixated purely on the black and white text and thus completely missing how shamelessly the man next to you is eyeing you up and down. It takes Dr Gaul's shout - "actually, Ms (Y/n), could we have a word regarding your last proposal" - for Coriolanus' rage to slowly fade.

Instead, he starts to feel cold, hardened logic putting a plan into motion.

And once you're inside the classroom, Coriolanus doesn't hesitate to slam Felix up against the wall, making sure to angle the boy's head to hit directly against a marble statute. The impact isn't hard enough to crack the man's skull, the last minute measurement in Coriolanus' head ensuring that he wouldn't be punished for injuring the president's son.

But he makes sure that the impact hurts enough to leave a mark.

It makes Coriolanus' heart twist in pleasure.

"You better leave my doll alone, Ravinstill. She's not interested in you. She's never been interested in you." he spits, snarling like a ravenous dog.

"You're delusional, Snow, if you think she'd ever want to stay with you." Felix manages to spit out, trying to wiggle his way out of the taller man's hold, but Coriolanus is too strong.

"You're the only delusional one here. It's pathetic, really. All that money and social connections in the world, and it'll never be good enough for my doll."

Coriolanus can tell that hit a nerve with Felix, so he lets go of the shorter boy, nearly throwing him away to the side in the process. Pride and ego surges through his veins when you appear and call out for Coriolanus, so the blonde makes a concerted effort to kiss you fiercely for show.

His arm snaking around your shoulder to pull you right up against him, a devious smile on his lips.

-----------------------

four: lavish gifts and deep marks

Things only escalate once Coriolanus' tribute ends up winning the hunger games and he's crowned the winner of the Plinth Prize. Now saddled with money, reputation and a full ride scholarship to the university funneled by the Plinth family - he finally finds himself able to spoil you in all the ways possible.

Fresh flowers adorn your windowsill every morning. The finest jewellery and newest luxury bags are delivered to your doorstep at random. Perhaps most impressive of all, he buys a two bedroom apartment near the center of the Capitol for you two to move into.

"How'd you..." you can't even finish your sentence when you first see the place: the prime location, the high arched ceilings, the stainless marble... He hadn't even allowed you to pitch in any of your own - or your family's - money to buy the place, insisting that it was to be a complete surprise.

His arms come around your shoulder to hug you close, swaying you from side to side.

"Generosity of the Plinth family and the spoils of being the victor, darling." he drawls in your ear.

You're still in awe, hands tracing the intricate patterns of the roman columns supporting the ceiling, when he starts to tug you up the stairs.

"Would you like to see the view from our bedroom? It's magnificent."

Of course, Coriolanus' new elevated status and recent memory of acting as a mentor in the hunger games - planning, guiding, and having a role in the extended play of human lives - it all makes him quite obsessive and possessive of you. Given that you're one of the few people in his life who has known him for years now, before he was a mentor and before had all this money and status...

He has to make sure to keep you in his life. He's made a lot of enemies, after all, many of whom would like to harm him. And with his undying love for you, hurting you becomes an attractive option for his enemies.

So Coriolanus gets more possessive by becoming more shameless in public. He'll gladly call you his love in front of crowds of hundreds. He'll kiss you breathless and squeeze your lower back if he thinks a man is staring a bit too long at you. And when he knows you two will be separated for a few days - usually due to him having to travel out of the Capitol on business matters - he'll leave bite marks on your neck.

You didn't even think about how noticeable the marks might be when you rush out of bed one morning, having promised to attend an engagement dinner of a fellow classmate, Clemensia's. Your rude awakening comes when, mid-way through the rehearsal, Sejanus leans over to quietly ask if you've brought your foundation with you.

You scrunch your face at the odd question.

"Uh, yes... I have a powder compact in my bag, why?"

Your friend smiles at you apologetically, before motioning to your neck.

"Because, (Y/n), it looks like a vampire has bit you."

And when you look at your reflection in your wine glass, it's clear that you have odd, dark, bite shaped marks littering your collarbone and neck.

Later in the week, when Coriolanus has finally returned from his business trip, you try and scold him for it.

"I nearly died of shame, Corio. Seriously, you should've seen how Arachne was looking at me the whole night." you sigh, just as he laughs.

"You're over thinking it, darling. Besides, you weren't complaining when I was leaving those marks on you on Tuesday."

You open his mouth to scold him again, but find yourself unable to mutter a smart response, your thoughts flying away when he's back to attacking your skin with his mouth.

After all, you're like a drug to him - he can never get enough.

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five: killing for you

Once Coriolanus is sure that you're not going to leave him, he finds it appropriate to take it to the next level: marriage. He drops a few thousand dollars on a large diamond ring, a ring which he makes sure you never take off (except in the shower).

At this point, the thought of losing you nearly equals his fears of losing everything he's built so far: becoming wealthy, powerful and well known amongst the Capitol's elite. He's terrified of living in a world without you and so he considers anyone who is deemed a threat must be dealt with in a secure, efficient manner.

No mercy, no hesitation.

After all, Coriolanus thinks one night, whilst sharpening a spare knife in the kitchen: if you give a rebel an inch, they'll run a mile.

The first person he kills is a security guard who fails to do their job correctly in protecting you.

He'd been hired by Coriolanus to protect you in your daily transport from the mansion to anywhere outside the Capitol (most often, to districts 1-3 to support your family's business dealings). But the bodyguard had failed to protect you one fateful winter day, leaving you to stumble back home with a twisted ankle and a busted lip as your bodyguard was only able to neutralize the threat after a few minutes of tussling with the gang's leader in the snow.

Your fiancee was fuming, sending you off to a near by hospital with grandma'am, before he motioned for your bodyguard to come downstairs to the empty garden.

The blonde didn't even feel an ounce of sorrow as he pulled the trigger, simply ordering the next bodyguard he'd hired to do the messy job of disposing of the body.

The second person he kills is a rebel who attempted to sneak a bomb underneath the car transporting you to the Capitol, following Coriolanus' announcement as candidate for the presidency.

The rebel was apprehended by the security detail team pretty quickly, so fast in fact that you weren't even made aware of the threat on your life. All you're told that day by Coriolanus' subordinates is that "there had been a change of plans" and you were to go to a fundraising dinner at an art museum instead to raise funds for the campaign.

And whilst you're off at the dinner, making a passionate speech for his presidency, Coriolanus makes an order for the rebel to be dragged out into the fields.

"You dare threaten the love of my life?" he sneers into the rebel's face, which is already bloodied and broken beyond recognition. The animalistic rage pumping through Coriolanus' veins is unlike anything he's ever felt before, and the gun in his hands suddenly feels like too much of a merciful ending for the rebel's crime.

"Just kill me." the rebel spits, but that only makes Coriolanus let out a sinister chuckle.

"Don't worry, I will. But I think a gun shot will be far too quick."

Instead, Coriolanus orders the man to be placed into a cage - a prototype that was being designed as a trap for the next year's games - and for a tub of venomous snakes to be released.

Whilst the other workers in his campaign look away from the horrific sight, Coriolanus just stares in great interest and pride. Once the screaming dies down, he calmly disposes of his bloodied shirt and hails a ride to greet you at the museum entrance.

"All good?" you ask, noticing an odd expression on your lover's face. But he just kisses you lightly on the lips, chuckling.

"Of course, petal. Why wouldn't it be?"

And so on and so forth. Whether it's directly or indirectly, Coriolanus becomes ruthless in securing your safety and your love. And he's so good at hiding it, he thinks, until one day he becomes a bit sloppy.

It was supposed to be an easygoing dinner at the mansion, a wealthy donor - his top donor, his campaign manager had informed him - named Robert Hemingworth had requested a private dinner. Coriolanus intially wanted to refuse, hating the thought of inviting a stranger to his home, but both you and his campaign manager agreed that it was best to play nice given the money at stake.

"For your troubles." Robert had said on his way in, a snarky smirk on his lips. In his arms were a basket of wines and grapes worth a pretty penny, but Coriolanus couldn't help but think that there was something about the brunette's gaze that he didn't trust. But with pursed lips and a fake smile, he forced out a thank you and invited the man into the foyer.

"What a... charming little abode." the oil tycoon had drawled, his gloved hands tracing along the walls. The sly comments and odd compliments (in truth, backhanded compliments) continued through out the night, all the way from appetizer to the main course. Sipping on copious bottles of red wine in an effort to keep himself grounded, Coriolanus was managing to keep his temper down until the older man asked about your whereabouts.

"Will your charming fiancee not be joining us?"

He froze at the man's questions, the hungry look in the millionaire's eyes and the underlying threat weighing down the atmosphere. The desserts had now arrived, two maids scurrying in with small plates of bread pudding, both of whom Coriolanus quickly dismissed with a wave of his hand.

"She's out with Tigris. Dress shopping." he'd decided to leave it at that, his left hand squeezing his glass so tight the glass started to crack. Coriolanus had hoped the man would leave the discussion there, as he wasn't sure what he was capable of doing if the older man didn't.

But the man continued. A disgusting moan escaping his lips in satisfaction after biting into the pudding, a devious smirk on his lips to match.

"Ah. Well, what a shame. I was hoping she would be part of the dessert."

No sooner than those words leave the millionaire's mouth, Coriolanus' left hand grabbed the knife laying on the board in front of him, where moments ago the maids were cutting cheese and ham. He then brings the blade to swiftly meet the older man's stomach, white dress shirt staining crimson red, all the while Coriolanus refuses to break the man's gaze.

"You fucking disgust me. Everyone in the Capitol fucking disgusts me one way or another, but you? You dare invite yourself to my home?" he retracts the knife, before stabbing it back into the suited man's flesh, each pause accentuated by another driving force.

"You dare speak about my love in such a vulgar manner?"

"You dare insinuate such sinful acts with my beloved?"

"You dare try and buy your way into her body?"

The marble floors are now flooded in a sea of red, the man's dying chokes and Coriolanus' heavy breaths overwhelming the room. The room stings of the smell of copper when you enter the space, quietly closing the door behind you, as you were only able to see the man on the floor and your boyfriend standing on top of him from the entrance.

"Corio? Love?"

The blonde turns around at the sound of your voice, face etched with annoyance.

Annoyed that you'd have to be subject to a vulgar sight like this. Annoyed that he'd stained your new kitchen set with an unworthy man's blood... And most of all, annoyed that he can't tell what you're thinking: your face kept completely neutral as you slowly approach him.

"You're back early." is all he decides to say, testing the waters.

You look down at his hands, soaked in hot blood, then down at the man who is writhing on the floor.

"Found what we wanted quickly, I suppose." you reply, stopping next to Coirolanus before leaning down to get a better look at the dying man. "Right, what was his deal?"

"Hm?"

It's only then that your plain expression breaks, your usually light eyes swimming with sinister charm, a coy smile breaking out on your face.

"Come on, Corio. You don't seriously think I didn't notice the amount of odd stains on your cufflinks? Or the terrified looks the house servants give you since the beginning of our engagement?"

He blinks, surprised. Coriolanus had always assumed he was covering his tracks well. Or that, at the very least, you'd have something to say about it all.

"He was making rather vulgar comments about you, darling. The bastard seems to have been making donations in an effort to get closer to you." he slowly explains as you stand back up, nodding slowly.

"Hm... Yes, that is rather concerning. And I suppose you've gone too far ahead for us to save him, always the temperamental lover you are." you tease.

Your humorous response and your unwillingness to run away from the darkness of the situation, it awakens something fierce in Coriolanus that he hasn't felt for you before.

"I suppose."

The euphoria he feels when your delicate fingers lace his to grab the knife instead, before you finally drive the blade down and end the man's life, is indescribable.

"I think you owe me a new dress." you say quietly, dropping the knife onto the floor.

The blonde wastes no time gathering you up in his arms, kissing you so fiercely that it almost hurts your neck.

"I think I owe you more than that, darling. How about the entirety of Panem?"

He'd do anything for you. The entirety of Panem be damned.

a/n: omg this has got to be the darkest piece of writing + fucked up ending I've ever written in like years of writing on tumblr 😅😭 but idk I'm obsessed with an idea of Corio's partner being someone who embraces him wholeheartedly and surprises him by being darker than she seems on the surface.

please leave a like/comment/reblog/ask if you've enjoyed, your support is what motivates me to write!

ALSO I've just re-opened my requests bc I would love to receive some corio fic ideas, so please send in your corio thoughts if you have any 🥺🥺🥺

[baby-yongbok]

One Last Time

Ex-husband!Bang Chan x afab!Reader

✦ Genre: Soon to be exes to lovers [18+ MDNI] ✦ Summary: Petty claims of possession lead to one last night of pleasure.

✦ CW: Choking/ light breath play, pussy spanking [for a second], Unprotected sex [wrap it up party people], Size Kink [for a second], Oral (f rec.), Chan is... aggressive(??), Chan is referred to as Chris, He calls you a bitch once. only once. ✦A/N: Bang Chan made me do it. There's barely any plot in sight. I wrote this in 4 hrs in the middle of the night. Enjoy! + reader is depicted as chubby/plus size and is a POC ♡

✧ Masterlist ✧

It’s funny how things change. Day turns to night, hot to cold and love to pure seething hatred. 

Okay, maybe that’s a bit dramatic but you swear that that’s all you can feel swarming in your chest as you sit across from your soon to be ex-husband. 

He made a show of things at the settlement meeting this afternoon. He pushed back on every negotiation you made which has led you to where you are now. Each of you on your side of the bed with a pile of stuff littering the Egyptian cotton sheets that he just has to take with him. 

“There. Are you happy now?” You throw the last item on top of his pile and Chris stares down at the item with that damned smirk that you used to love. “Almost.”

He stands from the mattress, dark eyes on something behind you. He grabs it before you can turn. “I bought you this purse.”

The muffled thud of his hard bottom shoes against the carpet is all that you hear before he turns the black designer bag upside down. The contents clatter against his shoes, items rolling in different directions as you watch with a clenched jaw. 

He’s circling back to his side of the bed as you call upon the might of the gods to keep yourself calm. After being married for five years Chris has learned each and every one of your buttons and how hard he needs to press them just to tick you off. 

You’ve decided not to give him the satisfaction of making a scene. That’ll only feed his ego. Besides, he has buttons of his own, some that you installed yourself.

“Now I’m happy.” He drops the bag into his pile, smiling before you like he’d just gotten away with a million bucks. “Yeah?” 

Two can play that game. “I bought you that suit.” The smirk on blushed lips transfers to your painted ones as you stare over at him with arms crossed over your chest. 

“I’d like it back.” With an innocent bat of your lashes Chris smiles. It’s gone just as fast as it came and it doesn’t reach his eyes. He's pissed. 

“You’re fucking serious?” You hold your hand out to him. “Dead serious.”

Dark eyes are staring into darker ones as he holds your gaze. You’ve gotten used to him challenging you. You’ve gotten used to him being a petty asshole and you’ve learned how to play him at his own game. 

You watch as he pops the button of his suit jacket. Tongue in cheek while his fingers work to free him of the fabric. His eyes stay on yours as he peels the smoky threads from his shoulders. He shimmy’s it down thick arms, pulling at the cuffs until he’s free of it. He’s left in a skimpy t-shirt before you and you take the liberty of letting your eyes wander. 

“Want the pants too?” Chris throws the jacket over into your pile before his hands start to fiddle with the metal of his buckle. “Keep ‘em. They’re the nicest thing you own now.” 

He mumbles something incoherent under his breath, his hand comes up to rake through his hair as his eyes wander the space you used to share. His gaze stops at your vanity, busy eyes study your open jewelry box then look back to you. 

“I gave you those earrings.” He stalks towards the table, snatching the gold studs off of the surface and slipping them into his pocket. “And..” 

The muffled thud of his shoes is all you can hear over the thick tension pulsing around you. It’s all that you can hear over your own enraged heartbeat. “This necklace.” The clasp is snapped from around your neck before you can breathe a protest. You gasp at the sudden pressure of your chain being ripped from you. 

“What the fuck.” That smirk is stolen  back when he slips the jewelry into his pocket. He stands in front of you, barely an inch between you as your chests rise and fall in unison. “You’re fucking ridiculous.”

“Me?” He fakes a pout, blinking over at you. “I didn’t do anything” 

“Whatever, you got your stuff, get out.” You’re hissing at him, heart racing and blood bubbling with the annoyance you’ve been harboring for the length of this insufferable process. “I’m done with you.”

“Not so fast.” he says slowly, his hands finding your waist before you can step around him. You attempt to shrug off his grip and fail. “I bought you that too.” 

His eyes trail from your eyes to your lips. His tongue darts out to lick over his own as he stares. “That lipstick.” His eyes find yours again.

“Fuck off, Chris.” There’s a bite to your tone that makes him smile. He’s always loved a challenge. 

“I bought it.” He pulls you into him by your waist. Your body is flush with his and one of his hands quickly abandon the plush flesh to wrap around your neck. “ I wan’ it back. I think that’s fair.”

It’s dark on dark as he leans in, eyes searching each others frantically as Chris closes the gap and kisses you gently. It barely makes a sound, it’s feather light and quick. 

“You want it back?” You whisper against his lips and he nods. “Then I want the pants.” 

That fucking smirk pulls at his red stained lips and his mouth is on yours in an instant. It’s hot and messy, drowning out the previous softness. You grab at his arms, clawing down the flesh while his fingers dig into your hips. 

He licks into your mouth with a desperate groan as you turn your heads left and right, his tongue explores your mouth as he takes in the taste of you one last time. Your arms wrap around his neck as one of his hands grab at the swell of your ass.

 “Fuck.” He groans against you, stealing another kiss before you catch his bottom lip between your teeth. “Up.” With a firm smack on your ass you jump up and his hands find purchase on the curve of your bottom over your dress. 

You fall into a mess of tugging and moaning. The tension you once felt in your chest melts into pleasure as his hands wander your bareskin. He drops you onto the mattress, pushing the sorted piles out of the way and hovering over you in your ripped dress as you lay sprawled out on the sheets before him. 

“Gonna miss this.” Chris’ mouth is stained cherry red with your lipstick, it’s smeared over your cheeks and it compliments the bruises that he’s sucking into your skin. You bunch his shirt up his back, scratching along the way and leaving your own marks as you please. 

“Shut up, eat my pussy.” You pull him back with a fist full of his hair, he hisses a moan through clenched teeth as his own hand finds it’s way around your throat again. He squeezes this time. It’s just enough to have your eyes flutter shut, just enough to get you right where he wants you. 

“Can’t you be my good girl for one more night? Can’t you stop being a bitch for just a second, baby?” Chris leans down with a tighter squeeze. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, your nails digging into the flesh. “Did you already forget who the fuck I am?”

He loosens his grip giving you the satisfaction of that blissful rush before squeezing again. “Do you see how small you are?” He whispers, placing a kiss by your ear. “Do you feel how strong I am, baby? Don’t you know how this goes?”

A moan is all he gets as he pulls back to admire you. Your pretty mouth is parted with a silent moan as your thighs press together in a desperate attempt at cumming. “I should make you suck my cock.” His knee wedges between your legs and presses hard against your core. 

“I should fuck this pretty throat. I should get you back for being such a fucking brat through all of this.” The hand that was around his wrist scratches up his arm as he lets up again, letting the blood rush and giving you the dizzy feeling he knows you love. “I should -”

Your fingers wrap around his neck before he can finish his thought. Fierce eyes stare up into his as your other hand moves to unbutton his pants. “Just gimme what’s mine.”

Your hand slips into the waistband of his underwear as you pull him closer to you. “Wan’ my cock?” He moans at the soft feeling of your fingers wrapping around the tip. Eye’s fluttering shut as he attempts to take a breath against your grip.

 “‘S mine.” You lean up to his ear. “Isn’t it daddy?”

It was quick when he pinned you against the mattress. Both of your wrists were in his grip before he shifted them both to one hand to free his cock for you. “You’re a fucking tease. You’re so fucking predicatable, you know that?” He’s hissing as he fights with the fabric of his pants and your dress. 

“You want a reaction outta me, huh? Wanna rile me up, sweetheart?” With a shift of hands and a grunt he’s turning the two of you over. You follow him with a gasp, straddling his waist and sitting over his cock with your clothed cunt. “C’mon I’ll let you. Use me, get what you want.”

Your resolve sinks as his cock twitches against your core. Chris is lying beneath you looking like a sin personified and you feel compelled to indulge in his offer. He is still your husband after all. 

Your panties are pushed to the side in an instant. Chris’ wrists are pinned over his head while you grind your cunt over him. Sloppy sounds of you working over his leaking cock swirl in the hot air and Chris watches it all with drooping lids as you work against him. “Put it in, lemme watch it.”

You ignore him, slowing your grind to counter his request. “C’mon, baby, lemme feel you. I can make you feel so good. Let daddy fuck you, c’mon.” He watches you, head reeled back and moans dripping from your lips like drool as you  do as you please. 

“Fuckin’ tease.” He breaks free from your hold, hands wrapping around your waist and guiding the grind of your hips just as your clit catches on the head of his cock. “I asked nicely.” 

His cock catches at your entrance as he controls you. The push of him against your pussy has your mouth open in a silent scream as he bullies his cock into you. “You keep forgetting who I am, hm?” He sits up, landing a firm smack to your ass to match his brutal thrust as you settle in his lap.

“Chris, shit, just fuck me. Fuck me.” Your nails are in his back, drawing lines that could surely draw blood. He hisses at the pain, smiling with a bite of his tongue as he fucks up into you. 

His hips snap into yours, gradually picking up the pace until you’re falling apart against him. Chest to chest, you’re panting into each other. Littering the thick air with profanities as he splits you open on his dick. “Oh my fucking god, Chris. More. More more more, please. C’mon.”

“Take it.” He growls below you, allowing you to push him back against the mattress and ride his cock to your heart's content. “That’s it, take it. It’s yours, all yours.”

Your nails dig into his pecks, leaving marks on the flawless skin and you use him for leverage. The loud smack of skin against skin decorates the air accompanied by your moans.

 “Don’t hold back, baby. Enjoy that fucking ride.” He thrusts up into you, meeting you halfway. “Let loose, just like that.”.

Chris is rambling under you, mumbling under his breath and growling praises when he fucks deep into you. 

“Fuck me, fuck me harder. Wan’ it harder.” It’s dark on dark again. Hooded eyes stare into each other void of rage, the only priority is pleasure. You’re only here to take advantage. 

“Wan’ me harder?” He fucks into you, moaning at the squeeze you give. “Wan’ me deeper?”

With a lift of his hips Chris flips you over. “Be good for me, yeah? One last time, be a good fucking girl and lay on your back for me. Lemme eat this pretty pussy.” He rips your dress down your frame with a grunt. Your panties get the same treatment before he’s falling to his knees before you. 

“Gonna miss you on your knees.” You prop yourself up on your elbows, staring down at him behind a fucked out haze. “Lookin’ so pretty for me with a mouth full of my cunt.”

With a smirk Chris licks a wet stripe from your hole to your clit. He swirls his tongue around the bud, sucking it between red stained lips and flicking it. Your head drops back against the mattress with a loud moan. Your hands comb through and grab at his damp dark locks but he quickly repositions you to hold yourself open for him. 

“Watch me eat it.” He reaches up, brushing your chin with his fingertips. He lays a flat wet lick to your pussy, hooded eyes staring up into yours. “Eyes on me. Eyes on daddy.”

He spreads your cunt with his fingers, holding you open for him while he spits down onto your clit. He collects it all on his tongue, licking it over the nub before spitting it back. Sloppy slurps against a drooling pussy is all that fills the room. “Daddy, please, wanna cum on your cock.”

He pulls back with a pop, spitting back down onto your cunt. He watches it drip down to your hole, following the stream with his fingers to press it into you. 

“You wan’ me deep right?” His middle and pointer fuck you open as he coos. “Want me to spread this tiny cunt on my dick?” You’re moaning. Panting confirmations and whining pathetically into the air. 

“Then hold it.” He kisses your clit, sucking it in then releasing. “Don’t cum.”

“Please.” You moan a plea, unraveling little by little with each suck and flick of your clit. His fingers fuck you open, curling into your soft spot and pushing you further towards the edge that you’re trying to avoid. 

You could just cum. You could just take what he’s giving you instead of following the rules but it’s so good like this. He’s so good like this. You miss him giving you what you want.

“Chris, ‘m gonna cum for you. I can’t. Please jus’ gimme.” He blinks up at you with pussy drunk eyes as his kiss bitten lips move against you despite your begging. “Daddy, please. I wan’ your cock.”

"Don't cum for me yet" he speaks against your cunt before licking a wet kiss up to your clit. 

"I can't, Chris. I can't, I can't, I'm gonna cum." Your eyes are glued to the way he licks up and down your swollen pussy. Taunting you with the skill he's gained over the years. He's pushing your buttons again.  

"Daddy, daddy, daddy, please you have to let me. You’re gonna make me cum. Your mouth, your fucking mouth, please let me cum."

You're babbling, you know you are. You’re slipping through the cracks quickly and you can’t do a thing to stop it. There’s no going back and Chris knows it but he still smacks the inside of your thigh. Warning you to be good for him and let him build you up a bit more before you take his cock again.

"Don't." He kisses your clit. "Cum." He sucks the bud into his mouth and swirls his tongue over it with a moan. He's a madman if he thinks you could survive that. 

"Fuck, 'm cumming. I'm cumming, 'm sorry." You’re shaking, your nails dig into your thighs as you keep yourself open for him.  "Cumming, 'm cumming, I can't stop cumming, I can't stop cumming."

He moans into you as he laps up every drop of arousal that you're giving him. He commits your sweet taste to memory with one final swipe of his tongue before he’s kissing up your stomach. 

His lips trail up the valley of your breasts. He licks over the mound, sucking your nipple into his mouth and swirling it with a hum. Once he’s satisfied he moves to your shoulder, kissing and licking his way over to your collarbone then finally his lips are back on yours.

You’re gasping as you tremble through your orgasm, aftershocks wash over you as you taste yourself on his tongue. Chris smirks, whispering against your lips. "No one else will make you feel this good, baby. No one else will make you cum like this.”

The head of his cock slips through your dripping folds, catching against your clit before he’s pushing in. “This is mine. All mine." He sinks in to the hilt then slowly drags his cock back against your walls. 

“This is what I want.” He straightens up, looking down at your pretty face contorted in pleasure. 

“All of that other shit doesn’t matter.” He moans, holding your thighs back to get a perfect view of you.  “I wanna watch it. Wanna see the way my pussy opens up for me. ‘S mine, isn’t it, baby? Tell me this shit is mine.”

“Yours, it’s yours. Fuck, ‘s fucking yours, please, you’re gonna make me cum.” Chris slows his strokes, grinding deep into you and dipping his hips to hit the soft spot that turns you into putty for him.

You’re drooling at the feeling. Tears threaten to fall from the corners of tired eyes as you watch the way he admires your cunt. The corner of his bottom lip is tugged and held firm between his teeth as he fights back his moans so that he can hear yours clearer.

“Shit, You’re gonna make me cum. Gonna make me fucking cum, make daddy cum.” The precise snap of his hips grows sloppy as the seconds pass. His once slow grind is now erratic. He’s purely seeking pleasure, sinking deeper into the haze with every drag. 

“Fuck, squeeze me. Yeah, just like that, that’s my girl. Pretty fucking girl on my cock.” Each thrust is met with a slap to your clit. You jolt at the contact, back arching off of the mattress. “Cum for me. Cum on my dick.” 

With one more flick of your clit you're trembling beneath him. Your cunt sucks him in and he takes it all with a loud moan. Chris lets your legs fall so that he can hover over you. He holds himself up on his elbows as he kisses you through your climax. You moan into it, shaking with each thrust and twitch of his cock. 

“Shit, that’s good. So good, baby, ‘m gonna cum.” The frantic bucking of his hips against yours comes to a halt as he falls apart. 

Moans tumble forward as he does. His muscles tense and his eyes roll back as he drives himself deep into you, filling you with every drop of himself that he has to offer. Chris collapses on top of you, his weight pinning you in place. 

You pant below him, coming down from your high as aftershocks wash over him. He kisses your neck, breathing heavily into your skin. 

“Now.” He pulls back slightly, gaze catching yours. “Now I’m happy.”

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[prael]

Pliancy

Kinktember Day 4: Dollification

ILLIT Park Minju x male reader smut

words: 6,488 Kinktember Masterlist

Art is eternal. Who was it that once said that a thing of beauty is a joy forever? Was it Byron? Was it Yeats? Who cares. But that line, however trite, does kind of get the concept down, really, as clichéd and insipid as it sounds.

Minju, too, is a joy forever, with her soft face, her sweet body, and her delicate touch. On this, I will allow you an image: she was the absolute pinnacle of girlhood, the perfect blending of innocence and wanton sexiness. When you pressed her slender wrists down into the sheets of her bed with those pale, thin fingers and pinned her slender body with your cock, you became one with a living, breathing piece of high art. The feeling of that, ah, that is something you cannot ever convey. And that's probably how it started, your obsession with her; she was beautiful and delicate and utterly desirable. She had all the loveliness of a porcelain figurine; just looking at her could arouse you, bring about your lusts and make your mouth dry up.

But there is something, and you realise this, something both primal and shameful, about wanting to sully that image of innocence. Not, of course, that your feelings towards Minju are wholly visceral—you do love her, and genuinely so. The things you do may imply something different, a detachment from her as a person if someone were looking in from the outside, but just as you assured her, it's an act born out of admiration. It's an act out of devotion.

To dollify the living, breathing, loving, feeling organism called Minju, then to make her merely an object for your desires. Ah, there's something wonderfully, gloriously filthy in that—the violation and the liberation. In all those actions and thoughts, you can be sure, is that undercurrent of perverseness and lust. Your lips tracing across Minju's navel is an act of passion, one to express the fullness and warmth that has bloomed inside your chest. Your hands gripping her thighs so tight that they leave deep, crimson fingerprints on the skin is an act of passion too—one to express a primal need.

When it all starts, Minju, a girl so usually full of energy and vivacity, is demure and quiet; she sits in this stoic way in front of you, knees together and her hands resting on her thighs, just below the table. The table holds the tools of your art: hairclips, mascara, lip gloss, nail polish and everything else. She waits, as she always does, in silent expectation.

Minju wears the outfit you laid out for her that afternoon. The fabrics are light and flowing, cotton in a milky off-white colour hugging her upper body and a linen shirt whose billowy sleeves hang around her slender arms; at the wrists, she keeps the cuffs rolled up. Cotton shorts, equally soft, equally neutral in colour, held to her small waist by a ribbon as a makeshift belt. All of it was chosen specifically by you—it's all so very angelic, and comfortable. Innocent.

You set about your work, asking her to place a hand on the table. Nails take the longest to dry so you start there: you paint the end of each of her slender fingers one at a time, taking great care, letting her rest her hand in the palm of your own as you go through the motion. Whisper-like strokes of the brush over the thin keratin in a pastel shade, the pink of newly-blossomed cherry flowers. A compliment to her fair complexion. 

One hand done, you raise it closer to your mouth and gently blow over the fingertips, to quicken their drying. Her hand, in yours, is ever so small. So petite. You remark this, smiling, and her expression—wide-eyed and quietly attentive—softens. It's a sight so adorable; how the ends of her lips upturn as if you've said something exceptionally touching. That's the thing with Minju; you just never quite get used to how much trust and affection is conveyed in those big, soft eyes.

Not long until the other hand is done, perfect crisp painting without a single smudge, or mistake.

You screw in the brush, then stand to move the table aside, you pull it away from her and then push it away. You kneel at her feet, hand resting gently on a small calf. You lift a leg, then draw your hand down it, to her heel. Bare feet, too, are a marvel in and of themselves: smooth skin over arched bones. Like all good things, it's imperfect; she's a dancer after all, still, she takes all the care to moisturise and you take all the care to massage them.

Now, Minju is ticklish, always has been, so when you take hold of her foot in preparation to paint her nails, she struggles not to break composure, and yet a cute little smirk betrays her. With one hand, you hold it steady; with the other, you reach to the table and draw the brush from the pot of white paint. White like the brightest snow, a winter's morn. You make slow, even strokes, over her nails, starting with the big toe and making your way down the digits, till her little feet are thoroughly and beautifully made up.

She flinches occasionally, under your touch, but with great care, you never make a mistake. No stain on her flesh. Repeated for her other foot too, each followed by a patient period of gently blowing, which sees her struggle against the tickling of her flesh even more. This time, she moves, almost unable to help it—and you know that to admonish her would not be the gentlemanly thing.

"It's okay Minju. Relax," you tell her, softly, as she takes a steadying breath, "that's it. Good."

It is here where you see a glow of pleasure and a hint of a smile on her pretty, youthful face, at hearing words of praise from you. This you know well: to Minju, your affirmations have an almost spiritual significance. In all the time you have known her, she has yearned to do well, to make others around her happy, to gain approval and affection, and as someone important in her life, this sentiment extends to you.

"My angel," you call her, not for the first time, and definitely not for the last. You lean close to place a gentle peck of your lips against her leg, just above the ankle, which causes her to stir. But that's okay, a moment of weakness is ever expected. You shift away from her leg, letting the soft flesh slip from your hand, and admire the neat work you have done so far. "There we go."

You bring your chair close to her, so you can sit, knee to knee across from her and set to work on her pretty features. First, you frame her face by clipping back the locks of fine honey-brown that threatened to obscure her eyes. Then you take the lip gloss in a soft rose colour, and a slender, synthetic-haired brush, and begin the work of accentuating her lips. Start at the top and glide over the curve that runs along her cupid's bow. Define the fine edges and then coat, to treat yourself to a shimmering pink glow; a shine over the otherwise natural look.

"Perfect. Oh, how I want to kiss them."

Minju doesn't say a word but the look in her eye speaks all the same, 'I wish you would do it.'

She remains still as you take hold of the thin eyeliner pencil in one hand and Minju's chin with the other, carefully positioning the tip under the lash line, and drawing it slowly, ever-so-carefully. Drawing a light, curved line to the side, first on her right, and then on her left. Do the same, light and clean, under the bottom lashes, being extra sure to define her creases.

Her eyes, as you study them, are so rich and vivid in colour that they command all of your attention and all of your efforts. So you work carefully, deliberately; being this close to her means you can see each speck, each mote in those deep, earthy brown irises. This intimacy, the face-to-face nearness of it all, brings on a unique vulnerability: when she closes her eyes next, to allow you to apply shadow to her lids, Minju puts herself at your mercy.

Minju's lips part and a small but noticeable hitch of her breath follows as you pull yourself away and admire your work. She has this kind of seductive natural pout—soft, shapely. Something alluring that the angles of her mouth lend her. As you sweep blush powder over her cheeks with a fine, oval-shaped brush, she utters a soft question, "How does it look?"

You bring a finger to rest against the fullness of her cheek, letting it trace along her soft flesh, down her jaw, and under her chin—before bringing it upwards, a physical prompting, to make her lift her chin higher. "Perfect. Always."

It occurs to you, as you define her eyebrows in quick, practised strokes, that for all the work you put into her, the inhuman focus and the undivided attention, this effort is nothing against the absolute, undying beauty that is Park Minju. It's a sort of colour-by-numbers deal; with all the perfect lines drawn out, it's up to you—a mock amateur—to simply embellish, to exaggerate, what is already there. To add shadow, light, and life.

You finish your work creating ('Creating' is the wrong word, more so, refining) the perfect doll. Minju keeps still, and patient. Beautiful.

"Precious girl."

By her earlobe, just below the jaw, there is a spot. The most perfect, sensitive area, to which you bow your head. Close your eyes. Place your lips. You kiss this spot, slowly, dragging your lips against her flesh, across it, revelling in the delicate softness. Revelling in her soft little moan, muffled only by pursed lips.

You push your chair back, and stand, looking down at her from above. You draw the clips back from her hair and it falls back into the perfect place. You circle around her once, slow, methodical. Taking all of her in, marvelling.

The greatest treasure in all the world. A masterpiece.

She follows your every guidance as you pull her to her feet. After all, she is, for tonight, nothing more than a doll. Pliable. Openly, and explicitly, subservient. You turn her and position her before a full-length mirror set in the far corner of her room. There she stands, arms at her side, staring back at you with doe-like, innocent eyes. There you stand, tall, strong behind her, hands on her arms.

"Perfect. You really are the most precious girl."

Your grip on her upper arms is gentle but firm as you ease her forward into a bend at the hips, tilting her towards the mirror as you place her into a pose. Fingers playing lightly down her limbs, like stroking the keys on the piano, or the strings on a guitar. You place her hands behind her back, and instruct her expression, "Give me a sweet smile."

Your voice is quiet in her ear as she nods, just the slightest, almost indiscernible incline of the head. She stares down the mirror as her full, kissable lips slowly contort into a charming, simpering smile, the type that the most beloved princesses often wear. You press up behind her, brushing your body tight against hers and see how that lovely little grin of hers slowly stretches up, to become ever so slightly crooked.

In your reflection in the mirror, you see yourself behind her. She holds perfectly still, hands fixed as if bound at the wrists, legs set slightly apart. "Pretty, don't you think?" You ask, teasingly. You press a little into her upper back, angling her in such a way that in the reflection you see down her cotton shirt, revealing the taut, soft curve of her small breasts. The sight of that, the teasing glance, is intoxicating. It brings a slight tremor down your spine, one you swallow down with a sharp breath. "Yes," you assure her, "Very pretty."

Her breathing comes laboured now, sharp little gasps; perhaps it has started to arouse her too, knowing herself to be at the mercy of your hands. Knowing herself to be nothing more than an object at this time—a living doll. To be used, played with, broken, toyed with, cared for or cast aside as you will.

You pull her to a stand and guide her away from the mirror. Her legs are long but you tower over her. She's so light to the touch, the petite girl, that should you need to, you could carry anywhere you desire in one swooping embrace.

You lead her to her dresser, to pose her against it. You guide her lithe left leg, so it crosses over the right one, you place her hands on the wood and let her rest against it. And she, docile, complies. "Like this?" She whispers.

"That's perfect."

You draw the collar of her shirt over her left shoulder, the one closest to you, until it hangs at around elbow height, exposing the skin underneath. A bare arm, all the way up to the strap of her tank top. You smile, admiring your own work, her poise and posture. You adjust her face, so she gazes slightly down in front of her. A final check to ensure the pose is perfect. It doesn't hurt that Minju is a natural when it comes to expressions: there is always some inflexion to the curl of her lips and the shape of her eyes, that says, 'I love this'.

You take the final unused item from the table, a Polaroid camera, one of the new instant types. This one, white, boxy and expensive, is perfect to capture Minju's pristine beauty. One image taken of her here, a pose in the frame, holding the photo to wait for it to develop is worth, it seems, a thousand words. It never ceases to amaze you: how well the camera captures her: how it draws out that natural aura of Minju and depicts it on the fine gloss. It makes, in effect, a perfect keepsake.

You take two more shots, each one giving you pause for appreciation. Each one, was perfect, like it was a scene from an album cover or the poster for a movie. She watches you from her position, gazing intently at you with a lovingly longing gaze. Watching you in fascination, and admiration.

You hold one in front of her. "This is my favourite, look at the way your leg curves here," you point to it, showing her. "And here, the shoulder, just at that angle. See the light dancing in your eyes and on the pink gloss, on the lips. Beautiful."

She remains lifelessly still staring at herself in the print without a word or reaction.

"Now, just one more like this, but first..." You place the camera slowly on the dresser, then grab the hem of her shirt. You fold it in under itself a few times until it sits taut across her stomach, just above her button. Her narrow waist is set into beautiful relief: a curvature down toned abs leading to between her thin hips. Then you pull at the other shoulder of the shirt, more pale skin, more svelteness of form, more smooth flesh. There's a light shiver through her skin as you graze her arm with your finger.

You push slightly into her chest, leaning her back a little over the dresser and then you tilt her head back exposing her neck. Soft lips fall open just the slightest, like the petals of a rose blooming, a faint gasp of a moan parting her pink lips, and her heavy breathing filling her heaving chest.

Taking the camera, you step back, crouch slightly, hold the lens up to eye height and take the shot; a flash and a click of the shutter is followed by a slow hum and a whir of the plastic film rolling out. Another polaroid, you take it to her, tugging lightly at her chin to direct her gaze to it. "This one," you breathe in close to her, placing a kiss on her exposed neck, "is something truly special." You fix on her scent, something fruity and soft: orange blossom undertones.

Minju lets out a soft gasp.

"This one turns me on. The exposed skin. The lustful eyes. Those parted lips, like an invitation," you utter, "do you know how beautiful you look, Minju? How sexy?"

The deepening of her breath tells you what you want to hear.

"New pose. Come here." You take hold of her bare shoulders and pull her to a stand. Her shirt hangs at her back between her elbows. You move behind her as you guide her toward the window, opening her curtains wide and letting the final embers of sunlight in to kiss her skin. You slip her shirt from her arms that hang by her side. "Let's lean you against here."

You guide her hands onto the sill of the window. Let her hands rest flat against it. Hold her by the hips and pull them back, making her shuffle her legs back. Make the curve of her ass tighter, the flex of her lower back deeper.

You pose her into this deep bend, then guide her face up so she faces the evening light. So she basks, regally, in the final glow of the setting sun, and you can see the pinking hue reflected in her eyes.

"Be a good doll and remain still."

The heat has turned Minju's pale flesh red, but you soothe her with a palm, a brush against a soft cheek and an affectionate 'hush'. You fixate upon the curves and lines of her back, following the path of her spine down with your hand, taking care to remain in the hollow. That central channel carved through her back that draws down the centre, passing by dimples in her lower back before widening at the hips and merging into her tapering waist, is a work of art unto itself. 

A simple touch of a kiss against that soft flesh at the base of the spine, and Minju fails to disguise a sharp breath as you kneel, her bare calves become a mounting point for your hands. She inhales in soft, controlled bursts as your fingertips stroke around the curve of her lower leg, working around and under the leg, dragging slowly upwards as you make careful circles over her toned calves, till your finger hits the lower thigh. Upward, further. Her body trembles gently as your hand traces along her inner thigh, up to her light cotton shorts where you draw your hand over to the back of her thighs and back down.

"Be a good doll," you repeat, quiet, breath warm against her lower back. You hook your fingers into her shorts, running your palms on her taut, toned little ass. Slight tremors from Minju ripple through your skin as you hook in the fingers of either hand beneath the elastic of her underwear too. A lingering hesitation passes as you focus, and in the serenity of the moment, you draw everything down in one slow, measured pull. The sight of the white cotton dragging down over the firm roundness of her ass has you weak.

You stop at her ankles, and one at a time, you lift a foot out of the clothes, and pull them free, planting her foot back down in a slightly wider stance. You look up, and to her faint reflection in the window, and admire the look she wears, the unnerving determination to hold still and say not a single thing. The deep red hue paints her skin as the day darkens.

"Stay," you command.

You find the camera one final time, to indulge in one final intoxicating shot: Minju, back beautifully lit by the last remnants of the sun's rays, the light striking her skin and making the paleness and tone all the more beautiful; the slight swell of her hips, the small, firm, almost apple-like curve of her behind, and those slim toned thighs in the shadow.

"Hold for me, don't move."

She stares resolutely into the distance through the window, hands clutching the edge of the window sill as you draw the viewfinder to your eye once again. Click, a flash and a whir. The exposure of the light behind her leaves a shadowy image on the thinning film of her nude behind; the smooth line of her legs, her trim waist and that sweet little thing between her legs. An air of sophistication; and one of sin.

"See this?" You show it to her and the embarrassment causes a flutter in her eyes; the arousal of watching her own bare ass on the printed film causes the slightest redness of her cheeks. "I'm going to use that right there. Stay."

There's another twitch in her eyes as you walk away and leave her there, still posing, looking as sensational as ever. You walk out the door, to drink, relax, anything to make her wait. Make her suffer the indignity of exposure and vulnerability.

You spy her through the doorway and never does she move a muscle, your little doll-girl stands there obediently as requested. Time passes—several minutes. And yet she, with such admirable determination, wills herself to stay in position until you return. And you do. You saunter back in, slow. Walking behind her and she never once looks back over her shoulder.

You rest a hand on her waist and the contact is met with a sudden release of tension—her chest falls with a sigh. Her pose remains perfect—adulation for your hand, written in the small shakes of her body and the gradual intonations of her heavy pants. A perfect and delicate angel. Your hand slips from her waist down over the taut curve of her ass, palm resting for the briefest moment on the soft, supple flesh. The pliability. Your hand continues the path it has carved over her skin until it rests lightly between her legs.

A gentle palm over her sex sends a current through her entire form, and a tensing in her muscles is the only indication she offers that there's a struggle to suppress noise in her throat. Hot and wet and you're a man driven by impulse. You step behind her, stroking her, massaging her, then withdrawing to instead spread her slightly with a single, teasing fingertip. "Good little doll."

A clear, sticky, glistening moisture trickles onto the digit and in the way Minju shivers, you are given every impression, you're sure of it, that her lower stomach muscles have clenched tight and are presently squeezing themselves in on each other. A fever pitch is reached within her, and you're ready too.

You draw your hand away, leaving Minju suspended in torment: there is desire, there is desperation and tension that must be alleviated. That itch soothed. She must hear it, the sound of you unbuckling and unzipping. A rustle of fabric as you pull them down and take them off.

With no word, you hit a palm against her ass, a quick and painful swat with your bare hand. Hard, smacking against soft, dough-like flesh. She stifles a soft, bitten-off yelp that sends a vibration up the curve of her back. "Going to play with you," you utter quietly. "Use this doll however I like."

Your hand is drawn back over the red mark on her tender flesh, stroking the mark, massaging, and it soon heats against your palm. You follow it by pressing the very tip of your dick, gently, against her opening. Enough pressure there for you both to know where the next moments go and a slight motion—only the gentlest thrusting—to grind that sensitive flesh in. Just enough to make her bite back her lower lip, to struggle against the overwhelming urge to break her poise.

To add to that struggle, the sensation, you lull her, deceive her, by trailing your length against her slick, tender folds, then abruptly drag it over the tight hole right there at the back. One more light tap there too, right on her little asshole, that drives her into a daze. Then you take her slit again, spreading her open, rubbing yourself over that hot hole and sending her a thousand electric tingles up through her hips.

You thrust once, a single long thrust, right into her little pussy, as much as her wetness will allow until resistance forms. Then back out, completely. Glistening with the slick fluids, you slap your shaft against her ass a couple of times. Wetness dripping, staining those tight cheeks. Then a wet slap of your hand to a cheek. Testing when she will break. Searching for that whimper, that moan, or maybe she'll hold it so well that a tear will form in her eye.

You fill her again, use her a little, rocking your hips back and forth. A careless use of her for pleasure, no consideration for her, for what she might desire and it is pure torture to her. One hand circles over her ass, grazing over the reddened mark, you let it settle on the top of her thigh for leverage and dig your fingertips into the skin. Another few firm pumps into her. Out. All the way out.

Dripping fluid pools around her slit, spilling out down her thigh, hot. "There's no better use for you than this," you hiss, as you smear the wetness over her flesh with the swollen head. The discomfort, the uncertainty, all of it written on her reddened skin and trembling lips. Another few slow pumps up her. Thrust, thrust, thrust. Draw out—slow, torturous—and then fill her again, rough, and violent, driving yourself up hard against her soft skin. Again. "Just like a sex doll," you groan. "Like you're a dirty toy."

Those words draw this low growl inside her, and Minju shudders under the intensity, this vibrating noise rising in her. Fuck, it feels wonderful in her, tight, burning hot—soft, yielding—wet, messy. Drive into that tension, the squeeze on you, where she can feel you so full and snug inside her.

Allow yourself for a moment, to just enjoy her, as she is. She will allow you to, don't fret. Enjoy her as a possession, something lesser than yourself; an object to be manipulated, used and owned. Let her be your slut and let the words roll around in your head. There are times you prefer to fill her with long, agonising strokes, and there are those other times that are frantic and hurried. She takes it all, wilfully and willingly and adoration flows through your veins.

No care for if she cums, you simply use her too. It is not in a casual disregard for her desires, or in selfish pursuit of pleasure at the sacrifice of her. No, no. That is not true. Minju wants this. She cares less about her own pleasure than you. Should she cum, then maybe that would be a nice perk to all of this, but all she wants is to submit herself as a vessel for yours. To serve as the implement to which you expel everything. You have taken her into that dream world she desires to inhabit, where she's an item to be manoeuvred as one wills.

And so you get close, right inside of her—clutch, tense—as she milks you so exquisitely, squeezing and so soft, so fucking silken-smooth and at the very last, you pull out—every last drop is captured on Minju's skin. Her spread ass, her back, thighs.

For all the care you took, perfecting her makeup, now a fine sweat paints a layer across her skin and you're shooting over it and making a true mess of her. All that, her absolute purity and devotion, and what you have done is sullied it. Your doll, your most precious is dirtied. But your most precious thing in the world deserves the best you can give her.

So it is after you have painted your release over her body, that you leave her again—basking in the humiliation of how fluids trickle down her flesh. Just a toy, put aside to stand, vulnerable, debauched and unsatisfied, waiting to be picked up again and played with once more. You could leave her all night. Have her be ready and willing any time you desire. Your toy.

"Fuck, what a sight." You step away, back out of the room, spent and gazing at her. Minju, of course, keeps her back facing you the entire time, she does not dare turn back around to see her, not even to cover up or find modesty, it simply would not occur to her to do so.

Aware of the pain, the hurt of being left this way. Left unfinished. A small smile plays on your lips, the knowledge that this is what turns her on most. Her lover is out there, he's drinking, eating, watching TV, or anything, and she doesn't really know where. She just stays resting over the window ledge with her legs held apart, exposed and vulnerable.

Knowing, feeling, every stroke that has been applied over her body, every part you have made use of, and the places in which you have violated, is enough to turn Minju's insides all warm and fuzzy and soft. Your fingerprints are inked upon her flesh—traced by the veneer of liquids coating her—a record of who has marked her, owned her, as nothing more than an instrument of delight.

Until you're ready to come back, she holds back an unspoken whimper. Tension in her stomach muscles and legs threatened to give out.

Oh, how badly the poor girl yearns to be picked up, taken and fucked again and again.

Eventually, you do return, and without warning. As if you'd never been gone a moment at all, you're just there suddenly behind her, you just have that presence of power that exudes over her. You say her name—nothing else—but the tinge to your voice tells her that you've missed her.

You bring your hands around her slim waist, just above the hips, and trail upwards. Grinding back inside her feels as wonderful as ever. Still throbbing, still wet, still wanton, and she takes you in, spreading wide once again. "Missed me?" You coo, but she still never responds verbally—dutifully compliant, Minju simply moans, her cheeks flushed the same colour as her smeared lips.

You're rough with her, pulling her away from the window and pushing her into the middle of the room. Hasty, impatient, and uncaring. Now, you see, Minju weighs nothing to you, it feels like there's nothing to her; something light, lithe, easily manoeuvrable, like you can twist her and pull her without resistance.

You draw her to you, picking her up from the ground by her waist and walking forward. You set her down on a desk—her ass perching first, then you push her onto her back, drawing up her knees to her chest and pressing onto her. Oh, flexible Minju, sweet Minju: the perfect sexual tool to place and fold and screw whichever way you want.

Minju is pinned there, under you, taking you into her pussy, tight around you. Dutifully letting you shove into her repeatedly, without fight or complaint, only meek, restrained sounds of satisfaction. Letting her limbs fold, letting herself be toyed with however you need or want.

Stretch her as you take hold of her neck and restrain her to the wooden surface. You bear down on her, fucking into her with strong, sure pumps, and with every thrust into Minju, you feel her heat against your thighs and groin, her warm juices seeping down over her, and a vulgar squelching sound filling the air.

The air is dense and hot and she is flushed bright red; she gazes at you, her face etched with need. You're forcing your doll-girl, fucking her raw and hard into her desk. Rough, dominating strokes. And what does she do but squirm and moan and take every ounce of your strength? "F-fuck," she moans out the profanity, her body succumbing to the overwhelming burst of intense, numbing heat. She flinches a few times as her eyes squeeze shut.

So close, now. Another round, and there is nowhere Minju is more content than trapped, helpless, watching you near another orgasm. She doesn't even attempt to hide her delight when you're about to blow. A smile of satisfaction as you unload inside of her. A welcome sight as you feel yourself rupture, as your essence pumps into her little fuckhole. The sticky hot cum that fills her.

And Minju moans for you, breathless, happy, so lovingly joyful that her existence has resulted in this moment—this act—her purpose as nothing more than something you fuck, claim, and own.

But, there is work to be done, work you cannot shirk away from. So, with a light sigh, you wipe your forehead, you gather Minju off of the table—flickering eyelids and all—and you lead her with gentle encouragement. "Let's clean you off. There's a good girl," you say, and she holds onto your neck, as you lift her off the desk.

You perch Minju on the sink for a moment, un-trapping her legs so she can stand once you place her into the shower.

"Stay. Still."

And again, you can see that longing gaze. Sultry, drawn. She wants so much, and she needs so little.

"There," you draw out the word with a certain finality and walk behind her to start the shower, switching from bath faucet to shower nozzle, and taking great care in testing the heat of the water, to make sure not to burn her precious skin.

You start with her shoulders, sweeping her soaked locks down her back, wet, heavy and darker now. Washing her takes time, patience, and gentleness—you bring the palm of your hand over her shoulder while the other directs the shower head. The water trails down her arm, little rivulets tracing over her porcelain skin. You draw the shower across her back and admire how the water caresses the curves of her frame.

She keeps perfectly still, save the tremble that comes with the rise of her chest each time the water meets a sensitive point. Your hand follows in the water, over her sides, slowly. You draw her close against your chest, putting your head beside Minju's, looking down over her shoulder. you bring the head of the shower to her chest and let the water flow across, over the swell of her breasts.

You whisper into her ear, "Stay just like this. Let me wash down my toy after use."

Your name comes out of her mouth, a little strained, and when you wrap your arm around her and cup her little breast, she immediately whimpers. This poor girl still hasn't cum, and she's so sensitive.

You rest her against you, keeping your front flush against the curve of her back, and there is something wonderful and sweet in the way she falls back against you. Minju leans her head back on your shoulder, a nuzzle, and your hand continues to cup her and you play with her nipple. The shower, however, you bring lower and lower, down over her slender belly and between her legs.

The lower it goes, the more soft whimpers she makes, and Minju's feet begin to curl, and she draws a slow intake of air through her clenched teeth. You dip the jets of water low, and Minju finally gives out this small groan, her eyes squeezing tight and her mouth opening and closing, the words and sounds catching as she trembles all over. 

You press it against her pussy, and she bucks lightly backwards against you—hard—and grinds. A pleasured exhale, a sign of satisfaction. That the poor girl is finally getting her pleasure but "No, no, no," she says—is she feeling guilty for it?—and she struggles forward from your grasp.

"Shh... it's okay," you soothe her, but she still jerks her body. There's this fact, that always rings true, whenever you use Minju like this. Part of it, she told you before, is how in her own head she degrades herself. She tells herself that she doesn't deserve to cum. That a toy's only purpose is for others, and she will deny herself an orgasm until you give her express permission to finish herself. That's why she fights now, she is ashamed of her own arousal and enjoyment.

You press the shower hard into her clit and she groans, "I can't... I can't—"

"Yes, you can." You focus on using the shower in little circles, not allowing any distance between it and the sensitive nub. Her head falls back on you, eyes shut tight as if in anguish. "You have served me so well. You were so wonderful. Let go for me, beautiful." You murmur those things in her ear and Minju opens her lips to say something but no words form, it's simply a long, deep-seated, contented moan. A relief-filled sound that is music to your ears.

Her back goes completely tense, and her hips twist and buck, but you press firmly down, keeping her locked into the jet. She bites her lower lip, almost like she's desperate, and it hurts, the way her whole body tenses up for so many seconds before the relief sweeps over her. The sensations surge throughout her body, leaving her limp and satisfied.

After the rush passes through, she moans, over and over. Shattering pleasure has overtaken her mind and all she can think about is the joy her lover has bestowed upon her, the ultimate show of adoration and tenderness.

"Good girl. That's it. Give in," you breathe out the last sentence, and Minju moans louder, riding it out. Her body writhes violently and her toes curl as her breathing stops, she's stuck at the very height of her pleasure, but finally lets out an ecstatic, long-winded moan. You drop the shower, and cradle Minju with your whole body.

Her hips jump one last time against your hand and then she goes completely lax against you, her feet plant flat down and her whole body gives out. Minju slides back onto her heels, and her face drops toward the floor and she just smiles with pure glee. If not for you, she would collapse to the floor in this exhausted, limp state.

For some minutes, you hold Minju until she can find enough strength until the daze of her orgasm is no longer in effect.

"Now, let's really clean up."

"Let me," she says. "Let me clean you, please."

[stanswifeirl]

NERD GETS APPRECIATED AND WHIPS IT OUT!

notes: cross-posted on my ao3!

contains: stanford pines x gn!reader

warning: masturbation, some self depreciating talk, him feeling guilty about thinking about you while he jerks it

Glass Shard Beach was rarely kind to him, and there were few normal scenarios he could recall throughout his life.

But now? Here he was, reduced to a stuttering, nervous wreck at the simple words of praise that seemed to flow from your mouth with ease, just like the process of diffusion with non-polar molecules (which, for your information, is pretty damn easy).

This type of reaction is expected, he thinks. How often did a guy find someone as attractive as you in a Fifth Dimensional Calculus class? Of course you would attract his attention!

He didn't like to audibly put down the work done at Backupsmore University, but it wasn't often he'd find someone so... smart. Maybe well-read is a better word? Someone who viewed his work not only with interest, but from a new perspective.

It was dangerous. The way your voice filled the space with intelligent dialogue made him wish it was the only sound he ever heard. The way your scent made him lose focus on his work whenever you leaned in to assist him on a project was simply intoxicating.

He could think up plenty of flowery phrases to describe what he's feeling... Actually expressing them was where his expertise fell short.

To put it simply, the guy was head over heels, and he didn't know how to handle it.

Inviting you to conduct research for class was probably the worst possible decision he could've made. It was absolutely thrilling to spend an afternoon with you, but the growing tightness in his pants only proved to sully his mood. He was sure you noticed. There was no way you didn't, even if you decided to carry on like you didn't know what you were doing to him. Surely, he couldn't be the only one feeling the chemistry!

He didn't know how you worked up the courage to call him sweet names, or pat his shoulder politely at the end of the night when he dropped you off in front of your apartment complex.

More than thankful for the dim lighting, he was only able to mumble out a hurried "Goodbye!" before slamming his foot down on the gas pedal, ready to get the hell outta there.

Ford drives, things pressed tightly together in shame, into an empty parking lot. He parks.

"Sweet Moses." He whines into his hands, patting down drops of sweat with the cuff of his shirt. "Goodness. I'm horrible. You don't deserve this. God, I can't believe I'm..."

His hand shoots for his pocket, pulling out a 38 sided die. To freak, or not to freak? That was the question. He squirms uncomfortably in his seat, closes his eyes, and takes a breath.

Ford mentally cringes it when he rolls it onto his dashboard, realizing how lame he must look as he uses his game dice to decide on if he should masturbate or not.

Mind running a mile a minute, the poor guy was always a bit too self aware of his actions, he realizes how lame he looks allowing a dice roll to tell him whether he's allowed to jerk off or not.

His face scrunches up in disgust as he unzips his pants, hand hesitantly hovering over his painfully erect dick.

"This is so embarrassing." He groans, feeling the length of his dick as it twitches under his touch.

Ford’s face flushes as he slowly moves his hand up and down, humiliated. His back straightens as his thumb brushes over the head, already leaking in precum.

He grits his teeth, feeling his face burning hot with shame as he strokes himself to the thought of you. As much as he admires your fiercely intelligent mind, he can't help but be captivated by how fucking hot you are.

Leaning back in his seat, his eyes flutter closed as he imagines hands brushing against his skin, comforting eyes looking up at him in that way that made him feel so, so safe. His hand moves faster as his breathing grows ragged.

"God, I'm such a loser." He whispers to himself, face growing hot as he realizes how pathetic he sounds.

Would you still look at him like that if you knew what was happening right now? Would you enjoy it? Maybe you'd entertain him. He'd like that.

Oh. Oh. That idea really sticks with him.

Your presence always seemed so commanding. So sure of yourself. Maybe, he hopes, you'd like taking charge of him when he was at his most vulnerable.

His back arches as he bucks into his hand, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to imagine it was you touching him. He should be allowed to indulge a little, shouldn't he? He doesn't know anymore.

It's almost this primal instinct that keep his thoughts out of logic mode, and far more acutely aware on the shockwaves of pleasure coursing throughout his body.

His chest feels tight as he imagines your hand slowly running up and down the base, teasing the head. Tears prick up in the corners of his eyes as picture after picture of you enter his mind.

He curses, stuttering your name as he twists his hand, quickening his pace.

"Thank you." He chokes out, face burning in humiliation as he feels his orgasm building. He didn't mean to think if you this way— the least he could do was thank the image of you.

His head slams back into his seat as he reaches his climax, body trembling as his hand and car floor is stained with long ropes of cum. The mind fog quickly clears, and makes quick work of grabbing tissues from the glove compartment to clean his mess up.

Ew. He'd have to clean properly in the morning.

[tirasamu]

01. CRUEL BEYOND MY YEARS . . . you do the impossibleー you make dazai feel. that's why you're his, even if neither of you know it yet.

ft. pm!dazai + pm!reader, possessive behavior, descriptions of depression, oda, ango, and chuuya are there too, 2.4k w.c.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Dazai knows he’s supposed to be in a meeting right now.

He yawns, hands behind his head in a makeshift pillow, overgrown legs hanging off the arm of the couch as he stretches out. The heels of his shoes graze his jacket, haphazardly tossed aside when he first came into his office and laid down.

Even with the sleep mask covering his face, blocking out the sun that pools into the top floors of the Port Mafia’s Headquarters, he knows it’s you who’s approaching his door.

He fights back a smile, something he rarely has the opportunity to do. He keeps his breathing steady and deep as he hears the familiar rhythm of your knuckles against his office door, knocking in a code. You both came up with it when you were younger, freshly sixteen against the hollow walls of his shipping container; your own shared secret. He hears the gentle creak of the old wood as you peek inside.

“Dazai?” he hears the soft sound of your footsteps as you come closer, then a sigh he’d recognize anywhere.  “Dazai. Take that thing off. It’s creepy.”

He remains still. He’s supposed to be asleep, after all.

“I see Mr. Executive is as busy as always,” you say sarcastically, but he can still hear the smile in your voice. You slip your thumb under the soft cotton padding of the sleep mask and slide it up his face, pushing his bangs back. The soft glide of your skin against his forehead leaves tingles in its wake, and it’s easy enough to ignore the burn of his one visible eye adjusting to the bright afternoon light when you’re hovering over him like an angel. “Don’t you want to say goodbye to me?”

A new mission. He sighs exhaustedly, as if was the one who was assigned. “How long will you be gone this time?”

“Not long, probably,” your hip presses against his as you sit on the edge of the couch. You rest your cheek on your hand, arm bridged over his stomach as your elbow props on the backrest. “Chuuya got assigned to it with me. Him and I make a good team.”

“You shouldn’t hang around him so much,” he tilts his head back. “You should be careful. He eats dog food, you know. He really is a dog, isn’t he?”

“Shut up,” you laugh, and the sound makes his heartbeat quicken without his permission. “I know that isn’t true.”

“It is!” he sits up on his elbows so he can meet your eyes, his own shimmering with mirth. “I even saw him do it. You trust me, don’t you?”

You flick his forehead, giggling as you stand back up and straighten your skirt. “You’re just jealous you don’t get to come on this mission with us.”

With us? Dazai swears he could be sick and die right there on the couch, as if there even was a ‘you and Chuuya’. The thought alone makes him nearly double over in pain. If anything, it should be him you were paired up with, and if you asked for his opinion, it was a joke that you weren’t by defaultー even if little assignments like this were below him now that he’s an executive. No one else knew you as well as he did, and no one else ever would; besides, he’d known you longer than that stupid slug. Mori's negligence on the matter makes his stomach churn and his skin prickle uncomfortably.

“Hey,” he grabs onto your jacket sleeve, where the cuffs are still a little too long and the fabric hangs over your wrists, before you can walk away. “Be careful.”

You smile at him brightly, giving him a thumbs up, but it barely fazes him. He watches you leave, gaze dark and mouth firm. Something bitter starts to crawl up his stomach, growing in his chest like thorned vines intertwining and tightening around his ribs.

When Mori first introduced you and Dazai to one another, you were both fourteen years old. The first thing he noticed when he saw you was that your clothing was too big, hanging awkwardly off your body. You’ve both grown since then, nearly identical black jackets and ties over white button-downs adorning your frames. The second thing he noticed was that you were different from him; he could tell from your eyes, bright and glistening.

He can't remember a time when he wasn’t burdened by the feeling of looking through a window, always a spectator. You were different; you had a seat at the table. Every bomb placed, every trigger pulledー you were there with him through it all, with the same fucked up feeling of adrenaline pounding through your veins, except you were attached to the world around you. You saw meaning in it somehow.

He wants to pick you apart piece by piece and study you under a microscope. He wants to understand just what it is about you that makes you so intriguing. What do you know that he doesn’t?

How are you so good at making him feel like this ?

He thinks about you on your mission, even when he tries not to. He flips through his paperwork lazily, pulling sheets from their stapled packets and folding them into origami shapes. He stares at his finger when he gets a paper cut on the edge of a report about some dispute in Kyoto, watching the blood dribble down his skin in small beads. He raids the infirmary for chemicals, slipping past the nurses and picking the lock to the medicine cabinet, pocketing bottles and extra rolls of bandages. He plays on his handheld console, sighing in frustration when his character dies again; if only it was so easy.

It's nearing the latest hours of the night when he decides to sneak into your office that he finds you again, back from your mission and chatting with Chuuya, whose arms are crossed as he leans against the edge of your desk. Dazai skims his eyes over you, noting with satisfaction that there seem to be no new visible injuries on you. He relishes in how Chuuya’s brows furrow when he sees him, and how yours rise in delight, Cheeks rounding in a smile. He throws his arms around your shoulders, your faces close enough for him to count your eyelashes as you tilt your head back to look at him.

“I hope you didn’t have too much fun without me,” he pouts, squeezing you against his chest. “Did you keep Chuuya on his leash during your mission?”

“Don’t talk about me like I'm not here, idiot.”

“Oh, there you are,” he eyes the aforementioned man lazily, as if he were a bug that landed near him. “I almost missed you because you’re so small.”

“I fell asleep right after we were done,” you giggle. “Chuuya had to carry me back.”

“Oh?” he tightens his arms. Dazai always thought you were the cutest post-mission, all sleepy and touchy; he always made sure he was around for those moments. “Did he?”

You’re talking, something else about the mission, but he doesn’t listen. Chuuya looks from you to him when he feels his gaze, eyebrow raising in a silent question. They screw up in irritation when dazai’s eyes narrow as his lips curl up into a cruel grin. He cranes his neck down, nose grazing your temple before he drags his tongue across your cheek.

“Ew, Dazai!” you try to shove him away, but he doesn’t go far, still clinging to you tightly. “What the hell? You’re so gross!”

He laughs in your ear, even as you try to pry his hands off his shoulders. You twist your hand around his wrist, tugging on it and glaring at him over your shoulder.

“Let go, Dazai.”

You’ve only ever looked at him like this when he woke you up in the middle of the night, knocking over one of your chairs after he broke into your apartment; you weren’t able to fall back asleep for hours, and when you finally woke up the next day, you realized he ate the last of the mapo tofu in your fridge.

He loosens his arms, stumbling when you shove him. The feeling of your hands pushing him away is nowhere near as warm as when you brushed his hair back earlier that day. There's no pretty, warm smile dimpling your cheeks either; just the dark wood of your office door grazing his nose, the sound of it slamming shut, and Chuuya’s annoyed glare still prickling his skin. 

His chest tightens. 

The flickering light of Bar Lupin’s sign penetrates the foggy night air, like a lighthouse calling lost ships home. Ango and Oda are already inside when Dazai arrives. A cigarette dribbles loose curls of smoke into the air as Ango cradles his glass between his palms and Oda tilts his head back to sip his whiskey. The bar’s most devoted patron hops from Dazai’s seat knowingly, landing on his little white paws as Dazai sits down on the stool with a huff.

He rests his chin against his forearm, sighing into his elbow as the bartender places his usual in front of him wordlessly. The two older men look at the pouty pile of messy hair between them. Oda knows he’s waiting for one of them to ask, so he does. 

“Did something happen today, Dazai?”

“Yes,” he bounces the sphere of ice against the bottom of the glass, feeling his fingertip go numb. “She’s mad at me.”

“What did you do now?” Ango eyes him wearily from behind his glasses.

“How rude,” he says flatly, his voice sounding hollow without his usual playfulness. “Immediately assuming I’m at fault.”

“Aren’t you always?” he sighs into the rim of his glass, taking a long sip.

They both wait in silence before Dazai shoots up in his seat, his stool spinning slightly.

“How can that stupid slug touch what’s mine?”

“'Yours’?” Ango asks, a thin eyebrow raised. “People don’t own other people.”

“I didn't know you two were dating,” Oda says.

“We’re not,” Dazai sags back down, folding his arms and laying his head down so his eyes are level with his glass again. “That's gross.”

“You’re not?” Oda repeats. “…Then why are you upset?”

He feels the bandages around his eyes loosen as he turns his head away, squishing his cheek into his elbow. The cat licks his paws across the bar, before reaching up and rubbing his little face. He catches dazai’s gaze, looking at him with round, unblinking eyes.

His chest tightens again.

The sun is rising, melting the black of the night sky to gold when Dazai arrives at your apartment. His hand freezes inside his pocket, fingers wrapped around his lock pick, glancing back to your door. He lets it go and knocks instead, beating his knuckles against the wood in your secret code.

You’re in your pajamas when you open the door, and he notices the bruise on your leg that was hidden under your work uniform. He looks at you like a lost puppy; ears down, eyes big, with his nonexistent tail between his legs.

“Hey,” your eyes dart along his body, and he knows you’re scanning him for injuries too. “You okay?”

He doesn’t reply, and you let him meekly slip past you into your apartment. Your blanket is pooled on the floor from where you were sitting at your coffee table, chopsticks and a bowl of stir fry waiting for you; the schedule of a mafiosa has your circadian rhythm flipped, eating dinner as the sun rises.

“Did you eat anything yet?” you ask him, sitting back on the ground.

His big brown eyes blink down at you in a silent answer.

You open the side of your blanket expectantly, scooting over to make space for him. You nudge your food between the two of you when he sits beside you. His stomach flutters as he thinks about you feeding him from your chopsticks, a hand cupped under his chin, your soft thumb brushing his lips as you wipe them clean. He ignores it, plucking a shrimp out of your bowl with his fingers instead.

“You can have the rest,” you bundle the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders, sighing softly as you lay your head down on his shoulder. “I made extra. I knew you’d come over.”

“You did?”

“Mhm,” you rub your thumb along the edge of his bandages where his palm and wrist meet absentmindedly. “I know you.”

You do, scarily so. You like your stir fry spicy, but you kept it mild for him. because you knew he’d come over. Because you knew he wouldn’t have eaten otherwise. Because he only ever gets a home-cooked meal when you make one for him.

“‘m sorry,” he mumbles, voice barely audible.

You tilt your head up and look at him, eyes heavy. He holds his breath as you lift your hand and cup his cheek, tracing the dark circle under his one visible eye with the pad of your thumb.

“Let’s go to bed,” your voice is soft in the way it always is when you’re tired. “We can still sleep a little before we have to go back to headquarters.”

He knows every inch of your apartment, but he still lets you guide him into the dark of your room, and he’s suddenly surrounded by everything that is so quintessentially you. He has it all committed to memory: the title of the book on your nightstand you swear you’ll finish, the delicate splay of jewelry on your dresser, the pajama shorts hanging over the side of your hamper in the corner.

You practically collapse, falling into your bed and splaying your limbs with a happy sigh while he carefully lies down, staring at the ceiling and keeping his hands to himself. It's after a few quiet moments when he feels something warm against him, and when he turns to look at you, his breath catches in his throat.

You’re so much closer to him than anyone else would ever dare to be. You curl towards him even in your sleep, like a sunflower growing towards the sun. Your arm reaches towards his, fingers loosely clinging to his sleeve, as if you wanted to keep him anchored to the bed with you. He could almost make himself believe you really wanted him there.

He watches the daylight fall over your face, just as delicate as the sheet you draped over your body, still thin enough to show off the contour of your legs. You look so relaxed, cheeks full of color with the shadow of your lashes resting against them.

You looked so alive. So human.

His chest tightens.

[rooksunday]

day four: accidental child acquisition for @corrieweek !

“Sir, can you come to the front desk? There’s, uh, there’s a Jedi here to see you.”

Looking up from frowning at his afternoon schedule, Fox redirected his frown at his comm. Widget was more than competent to deal with any queries that came via the front desk, and he and the other Coruscant Guard had an unofficial—and, as far as they knew, undiscovered—ongoing effort to avoid asking Fox for assistance if they could possibly avoid doing so. Some well-meaning but less than ideal concept of “protecting” him.

(Fox wanted to let them believe that they could for as long as he could. They didn’t need to know that the worst things came in golden packages, and not via yelling civilians.)

However, despite his message, Widget didn’t sound worried and hadn’t used any emergency code words. Fox couldn’t place Widget’s tone. Confused? Amused?

“Did they say what they wanted?” Fox asked warily. If it was Vos again, surely Widget would’ve just said.

The silence that followed the question was disconcerting.

“It’s— It’s not clear, sir. Could you come down? I asked for Commander Thorn but he said it’s better if you come.”

Fox’s frown deepened. “I’m on my way.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Pushing from his desk, Fox quickly checked that his armour was production-line smart, and buffed his visor with the cuff of his gloves before donning his helmet. He left his office and marched briskly along the short corridor toward the front desk, where members of the public could—and often did—stagger in from the street to berate the Guard about things entirely outside of the Guard’s control.

What might a Jedi want? Did the barracks obstruct their view of the famous Coruscant skyline? (Thank you, sir, I’ll let the Chancellor know about the impact on your property value.) Had one of Fox’s troopers ran off without paying child support? (Thank you, mx, but your child is older than my troopers. Yes, mx, of course you can submit a request for a paternity test.) Maybe it was something more relevant, like actually helping with the war—

Fox stopped in the doorway. He pointed at Widget. More precisely, at the banned visitor in Widget’s arms.

“That’s not a Jedi.”

Widget jostled the little green being with the big brown eyes and bigger smile. “Well, he’s not a tooka, sir.”

The little one’s ears were certainly large enough but the being wore a tiny beige robe: Fox had seen tookas in jackets and booties, but never a robe.

Also, to date no tooka had ever done the mental equivalent of knocking on Fox’s brain and thought-shouting:

HELLO!!

Fox flinched, full-body, before he could stop himself. He never got used to that, no matter how many times the menace had announced himself that way. Fox pressed one hand to his helmet, pointlessly, and waved off whoever was watching the cams with the other; if he caused a galactic incident because he couldn’t cope with a Force-fuelled toddler, he’d be laughed out of his batch.

“Stand down, stand down.” To Widget, after a mental poke at Grogu, to which the kid only burbled a laugh, he said, “Do we know why this fierce and mighty Jedi is visiting us today?”

Widget nodded, still lightly jogging the tubie. “Grogu here has a note.”

Fox eyed the tiny three clawed hands, then tilted his bucket pointedly at Widget. Force or not, Grogu couldn’t hold a stylus. With a sigh, already mentally preparing his latest apology to Grogu’s crechemaster, Fox made a grabbing motion and Widget handed over a message scrawled in careful block capitals on a piece of flimsi From The Desk Of Mace Windu.

GROGU IS ALLOWED A PLAY DATE WITH THE CORA CORRI CORUSCANT GUARD. HE LIKES EGGS AND JUMPING !

SIGNED

ENMON, AGED 6 AND 3/4

CLAN KRAYT, JEDI TEMPLE, CORUSCANT, THE CORE, THE GALAXY

Fox read the note three times. It did not become less damning with repetition. He looked directly at the nearest camera, recording Fox’s last days on 000 for posterity, and the camera adjusted its angle slightly to frame him in the centre.

Abruptly, Fox realised where Thorn was, and not incidentally where the holo footage of his ‘play date’ would be plastered within the next cycle.

Fox sighed again. Muting the batch chat preemptively on his comm, he stretched out his arms to Grogu, and did his best to beam a smile at the tubie with his mind. The kiddo had first appeared in Fox’s office not long after they’d arrived on Coruscant, and despite the best efforts of various Jedi Masters, Grogu kept wiggling out of the Temple and appearing at HQ.

Considering the type of visitors the Guard usually had, Fox didn’t mind a play date with a copikla kid now and again.

“Come on, then, Commander. I have my orders, he said, wiggling his fingers in invitation.

Grogu leapt into Fox’s arms with a cheerful ‘patu!’ and immediately clambered up the armoured chest plate to perch on Fox’s shoulder: Grogu’s favourite place. He liked feeling tall, if the image he sent of Fox striding through the streets like a krayt dragon were any indication.

Once situated, Grogu drummed imperiously on Fox’s bucket and burbled instruction.

Fox nodded. “Absolutely, sir. Let us go and solve the very important case of the missing cookies. It could be the key to cracking the war. Widget, hold my messages. I’m on an important mission with a top Jedi Commander, understand?”

Widget saluted smartly. “Yes sir! Should I, uh, should I direct any messages to Commander Thorn, sir?”

Smart vod, that Widget. Fox grinned. Grogu trilled a happy noise. The security cam whirred.

“Absolutely correct, trooper.” Fox stared down the camera’s red eye as he continued, “And can you forward him the details of my afternoon meeting, too? I think this mission is going to run over midmeal and I’d hate to reschedule the briefing with Senator Binks.”

When Grogu started to giggle, it was like bursts of sunlight in Fox’s mind.

Maybe the Force osik wasn’t so bad, after all.

[daydreams-after-dark]

Hiya! I think I found the "ask" button! :D I'm dropping my favourite suggestion here, hehe...

You could write about a bad cop/good cop Han/Minho (Han being the good cop and Minho de bad?) And of course, ending in an endless make out session and "fuck-time" in the interrogation room.

Have a bood day/night/afternoon! ♥

This scenario is a fucking dream!!! Thank you for putting this idea to me. I love it. I love it so much. I hope my take on it is to your liking 😘😘😘

I’ve had a few police officer!skz asks and I’m having so much fun imagining all the filthy things that are being sent my way.

I’ve already written sub police officer Han here.

CW: detective/interrogation role play (not established or clarified, but as the writer I’ve decided that is what’s happening), CNC (established off-screen and not referenced in the story). Implied established safeword (not used). Unprotected rough sex, oral sex, orgasms.

🚨🚨🚨🚨

"TELL US!" Detective Lee practically spits in your face. "You know where they're hiding, and you're going to tell us right now." He leans in close to your ear. "Or else." he adds venomously, then stands back against the cinder blocks of the interrogation room, arms crossed.

"Look, Miss." The other man, Detective Han, sighs. "Just tell us and your sentence will be reduced."

"I'm scared." You say desperately. "What they'll do if they find out I-"

Lee scoffs and you pout, turning back at Han.

"We'll protect you." Han almost reaches across to hold your hands, but the weight of Minho's stare makes him think twice. “All you have to do is give us a location.” He says softly.

You shake your head and wring your hands together.

“I think she’s going to need a special kind of convincing.” Lee raises an eyebrow.

Han slowly turns his head towards Minho. “Detective. I’m not sure that’s style of interrogation is appropriate.”

“Well where has being nice got you?” He retorts, storming over to you and pulling you up roughly by your flimsy satin top.

"Now, little Miss," he growls slamming you against the one way glass, holding your arms behind your back and pressing himself against you. You can feel his erection against the top of your ass. "Just tell us the location, and all this stops.”

You turn to look over your shoulder, giving him doe eyes. “I’m never gonna tell you the location.” You say firmly.

The corner of Detective Lee’s mouth twitches slightly. “So that’s how you’re really gonna play, huh?”

He drags you back, bending over the cold, metal interrogation table. “Han. Handcuff her.” He demands, tossing his handcuffs to his partner.

Han looks down at the cuffs in his hands, hesitating momentarily before cuffing your arm to the table leg. He moves around and cuffs your other hand to the opposite leg. You pull and tug, but it’s no use.

“Now check she’s not hiding anything she shouldn’t.” Lee adds tugging your jeans and underwear down your thighs, exposing your ass and pussy.

Han gulps and moves behind you. He strokes your back gently, and leans over you. He’s fucking hard too. “Just be good and do everything he says. Try to relax, baby. Okay. Don’t be a brat.” He soothes as his hand cups your pussy. “You’re doing great. So wet already.”

You suck in a breath. You’re turned on. No doubt about it. You close your eyes as Han slides a finger into your cunt. “Have to check you aren’t hiding anything you shouldn’t. Shhh…. Stay calm. It’s all going to be okay.”

He inserts another finger, sliding them in and out of you. Wet sounds immediately fill the interrogation room.

“I’m gonna check your pretty little mouth.” Minho forces your mouth open with his hand and shoves two fingers inside. “Suck on them.” He hisses. You do as you’re told, sucking on the detective’s digits. He removes them before sitting back down to enjoy the show.

Behind you you hear Han unbuckling his belt, then the sound of a zipper. “Shhh… you need to stay quiet, okay. So you don’t get yourself into more trouble.” Han whispers, but his voice is strained. The tip of his cock slides through your dripping folds several times, before he pushes it deep into your pussy.

“Ngh…fuck!” You gasp.

“Now, what did Detective Han say, hmm?” Lee leans forward in his seat and pulls the hair off your face. “If you can’t be quiet I’ll have to put something in your mouth to make you quiet.”

But you can’t stay quiet. Han is fucking into you hard. Each thrust pressing you into the cold, hard table. He’s hitting you deep too. The kind, sweet Detective Han isn’t holding back. His fingers dig into your hips, and his body slaps against yours loudly.

“Has she hidden anything in her cunt?” Lee asks Han.

“I’m not hiding anything, I promise!” You cry. Minho raises an eyebrow, unamused. “I wasn’t asking you.” He snaps and looks towards Han.

“She is.” Han grunts.

“What?!” You lift your head in protest. “No!”

“Tsk tsk. Now you’ve made me very angry.” Lee says low. He stands and undoes his trousers too, revealing his thick, hard cock. You swallow hard. You’re nervous. But you’re also excited.

Lee steps towards you and tilts your head in such a way that he can rub the tip of his cock along your lips. “You’ve got such a filthy, lying mouth.” He whispers. “It’s gonna feel good around my dick.” He holds your head steady as he fucks your mouth. He’s surprisingly gentle and smooth as Han continues to fuck you rough from behind.

“Han, what’s she hiding from us?” He moans as his cock hits the back of your throat.

“She’s hiding an orgasm.” Han responds. “And, she’s keeping all this cream inside her. Look!” He exclaims pulling his dick out and showing Lee.

The mean detective looks down at you like you’re pathetic and smirks. “Show her.” He snarls, withdrawing his cock from your mouth.

Han comes to stand in front of you, and you see how creamy and wet you are. His cock is covered in it.

“You have to clean it. It’s all gonna be ok. Just do as we ask. You’ll be fine.” Han looks at you with soft eyes. “Now…all you need to do is clean it up. Okay?” He pushes his cock into your mouth. He pushes in further and you gag. “Shhh…That’s it. That’s it.” He encourages you.

Your eyes water because he pushes in so deep, and he takes his time to pull out, making it hard to breath. “Yes, you’re doing really well.” He praises.

Lee’s behind you now, slapping your ass. The sound resounds around the room. He slaps you again and you sob around Han’s cock.

“That’s for not cooperating with an interrogation.”

Another slap. “That’s for hiding your arousal.”

One more slap. “Now you’re gonna come for us.”

He slides into your heat and your eyes roll back into your head. He pulls out almost to the tip and pauses. You clench in anticipation, then he slams back in.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come. Let me come in your mouth and I’ll promise I’ll put in a good word for you.” Han’s breath is shaky, and his thrusts stutter. “Catch it all for me…ngh… I’m coming.” Han throws his head back and moans as his thick cum coats your throat.

He plonks down on the chair, panting.

“Finally some cooperation.” Scoffs Lee, pounding into your pussy. “Han. Release her arms.” He orders his partner.

You’re swiftly uncuffed and your flipped onto your back. Lee pushes your legs up and squeezes his dick back inside you. Han’s at your side kissing and sucking your nipples. “You’re doing good. I’m proud of you.” He nibbles your breasts as his hands explore your body.

Lee brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing firm, rough circles on it. You close your eyes savouring every sensation that the detectives are making you feel.

You’re not on a cold metal table in a dingy little room. You’re floating, soaring higher and higher. You’re going to fall apart any second now. The tension inside you is about to snap.

Han’s lips find yours. Soft, gentle, kind. “I love it when you’re a bad girl.” He whispers and slips his tongue into your mouth.

It’s your undoing and you whimper as you clamp down around Lee’s cock.

“Fuck!” Growls Lee, pulling out and spurting ropes of cum on your stomach. He steadies himself, staying buried inside you until his cock softens.

“Now. The location. Give it to us.” Minho presses as he pulls his trousers back up.

“Please?” Han looks down at you.

“I said never.” You whisper defiantly.

Lee sighs. “Fine. We’ll be back in an hour to interrogate your further.” He says flatly, and he and Han leave the room, locking the door behind them.

Read unrelated sub police officer Han ask here

Read unrelated ot8 free use jail cell

@channieandhisgoonsquad @noellllslut @itsseohannbin @weareapackofstrays @3rachasdomesticbanana @palindrome969 @xxkissesforchanniexx @chuuchuu1224 @fun-fanfics @wolfennracha @rhonnie23 @jisunglyricist @strayywayy @armystay89 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @mylittleponeypinkrosieposie @kyunchoni @justforreaders @melochacco

@jeonginsleftcheek @meilix @itgirlalisaa @linocz @bubblebisk @boi-bi-ahaha @frozenpeasworld @grandma143 @milkypinkmimi @bangchansbbgirl @leefelixsslut @privhace @justforreaders @galaxycatdrawz

[hashbrowpn]

──★ ˙WHAT ARE YOU? ̟ !?

YOU WEREN'T AWARE that mermaids, sirens, all those, truly existed. After all, you spent nearly all your years at sea, so it was only right you could assume so ... but he certainly proved you wrong.

NOTES: dont mind me just walking by .. *accidentally drops my bag full of pirate!reader x merman!muichiro*

You stand with your heart beating fast, you can hear it in your ears. Waves crash over the deck, wracking the ship. Rain pelts down like stones, accompanied by lightning that lights the gray  and stormy night up like an explosion. 

You reach into your pocket for a bar of chocolate to compose yourself.

You see something in the corner of your eye.

Whipping your head around, you lean over at the railings, and you catch sight of it again.

It was no fish, you were sure. Because no fish had eyes so... 

...human.

 It gazes up at you with suspicion, and dives off.

"Hey!" inclining yourself further, you desperately search for this divine creature.

You nearly fall over the ledge, but someone catches your wrist.

"Careful," Shinobu warned, her voice both a whisper and a yell over the noise. You stopped to look at her, her crisp white shirt, adorned with intricate lace at the cuffs, frayed brown trousers and heavy black boots. She gives you a thin smile that didn't reach her eyes. You nod, swallowing, and mutter a "Thank you,"

You slip out of her grasp and your eyes rove over the raging sea, but your train of thought is broken with a shout.

"Guys! there's a leak!" Mitsuri cries as she scrambles to look for something to patch up the giant hole in the wooden floors. 

You swear under your breath as you try to desperately wrack your brains for something to help, glancing over at the three little girls and Aoi whimpering in the corner as Shinobu consoles them, heart wrenching.

Kanao comes to help as her hands fumble clumsily at the makeshift she had crafted to patch it up, but water still seeped through. As your chest tightens with anxiety, there came an ear-splitting crack. The three little girls screamed. Overhead, the lightning still roars, and below, the waves still crash. 

You turn to Mitsuri in panic. "Did you hear that?"

Mitsuri looked at you slowly, green eyes as big as saucers, but before she could even open her mouth to speak, the floorboards beneath you gives away, and you fall into the icy embrace of the sea.

The sea breeze is cold, and it leaves a taste of salt in your mouth. The sand tickles your feet as you kick your way around it. 

You look around. Ah, you're dreaming.

The ocean's surface shimmers like a canvas painted with the liquid gold of the sun. It's so tranquil, so peaceful. You let out a relieved sigh.

The sea washes a few shells at the shore. As you take one, it's beauty so enchanting, you pocket it and trudge through the sand and into the peaceful waters.

But it isn't as expected.

The water is cold, too cold for your liking. But as you try to get out, you find the seaweeds beneath you had found their way up your feet and shackled your ankles.

The sky turns gray again.

The seaweeds drag you back, and you cry out for help, screaming until your throat gives out, until the water in up to your neck—

"Hey."

"Aah!" you wake up cold but sweating, shaking, covered in sea weed, sand, and God knows what. "Eugh!" you wail after eyeing an odd looking thing stuck to your finger, and shaking it off violently, before your eyes settled on...

what in the world?

"What the-?" you shuffle backwards, realizing you were on shore. The sunkissed sand sticks to you as you back away. 

It gazed at you. Hypnotizing eyes, eyes the color of the sea on a beautiful afternoon. And oh, hair like a black canvas fading into the same color as his wonderous eyes. Your eyes drifed to his body... a tail instead of two human legs. He was leaning on his arm, his other half in the water.

You stammer, "What... What are you? are you what i think you are...?"

He squints his eyes in annoyance, and merely plops back into the sea. 

"Hey! Hey wait!" you scurry to reach for him— and grab his wrist. You struggle to hold on, but he struggles to escape.

"Let go of me," he hisses, pulling harder. "You can talk," you say, flabbergasted.

"Are you underestimating me, human?" he seethes, then lets his head dip underwater and dives. You yelp, refusing to let go of him, even if that meant getting dragged into the sea.

It wasn't exactly a refreshing experience. 

Being drenched in sweat and being in ice cold water. You were sure to catch a cold after this, well, if there even was an after this.

You're losing air, but as soon as you plan to let go, he brings you back to shore again, pushing you into the sand. "Go." he says, irritation obvious as he shakes your hand off. "If you bug me one more time, i'm drowning you."

You're simply awestruck, at loss of words. He's beautiful.

You lean forward to touch his face, but he turns away forcibly. "What do you think you're doing?" he grouses. "I should have never saved you. I knew humans were stupid."

You try to speak. You can't speak.

It didn't quite matter where you were right now. You were focused on him.

He shakes his head and turns to leave, but you shout, "Wait!"

You undid the button of your pocket, and was ever so relieved when you took the chocolate bar in your hand. "U-uh, do you eat-?"

He eyed it just like how he eyed you when you were on the ship. "What's that?"

Before you could even answer, he snatched it from you and began chewing at the wrapper. "No wait, you have to..." you gestured to him to peel it off.

He took a bite into the chocolate and looked simply taken aback. "What is this?"

"Uhm... chocolate."

In a few seconds, he had already eaten the whole thing. "Do you have more?" he leaned in and began to search your trousers, palming at the pockets. "No, wait," you swatted his hand away. He looked at you, offended.

"I'll give you another if..." you swallowed, head spinning. Clearly, you weren't thinking straight. "If you tell me what you are, and who you are."

He raised a brow. "What I am?... Who I am?..." 

"Yes."

"...I don't quite remember."

You just look at him with several questions. But another more important one pops up. You swear under your breath. "Oh no, the ship, the others!"

You stand up, and you immediately almost fall over from dizziness. "Where even am I?" 

"I've forgotten too." 

You shake your head at him, annoyed. "Whatever. Now I'm stuck in God knows where with some Ariel asking me for my only food."

Massaging your temples, you sit down at the shore where the water washes away at your leather boots, and you reach into the cuffs of your sleeves, stained with dirt and sand, for a small piece of chocolate. You peel off the wrapper and bite on it, staring off distantly.

"Hey!" The merman calls, looking ever so photogenic in the water. He swims over to you, but before he could, you eat the last small piece of chocolate. His brows furrow as he looks at you as if it were the end of the world when you popped the last piece in your mouth. "How greedy," he muses. "I have to take it from you forcefully, then."

He leans over and takes your chin, and presses his lips against yours. 

It breaks your train of thought, and you yelp and try to pull him away, tangling your fingers in his wet locks, but he pushes you closer to him. 

Finally, he pulls away from you, licking his lips discreetly. He savours the chocolate he stole from you, and his brows lift a little as if having a realization. "I remember my name now," he says, gaze drifting off. "Tokito Muichiro. You've asked me that, yes?" 

[takiki16]

I see your "handcuffed together episode wouldn't work bc Neal would pick the locks" and I raise you "Neal refuses to pick the locks for petty reasons, aka Peter made him swear an oath to "not act like a criminal for 24 hours" and Neal is miffed at him about it"

YES. YES. THIS.

The episode opens with Peter and Neal walking to work, arguing about [Trust Issue] and [Crimes]. Peter says that it’s an indication of Neal’s lack of control, and that Neal can’t go 24 hours without Doing Crime. Neal roundly denies any alleged criminal behavior, but takes offense at the implication that crime is a Lower Impulse that drags him down rather than a Game of Skill. The argument goes on in typical fashion until finally, Peter and Neal make a bet. If Neal can go for 24 hours without doing Criminal Acts, Peter will…I DON’T KNOW! Go to a fancy art event with him? Let him see one of his old case files? Never bring deviled ham to a sedan stakeout again?

They then go undercover together to meet some kind of fence of Rare Items and Unusual Weapons - a lower level player, but a necessary step to that episode’s big bad. The fence has a Weird Storefront! They make a break for it through the back! There is a comical fight inside a very small closet full of Fun Kinky Novelty Items that somehow drags all three of them into it, and the fence gets away but Neal and Peter end up handcuffed together!

Peter demands that Neal pick the lock, after a solid hour of searching through the wreckage of Fun Kinky Novelty Items for the key - which of COURSE couldn’t just be a standard issue cuff set! This stopped being fun nyfor Neal after the first fifteen minutes of being yanked around through Fun Kinky Novelty Items, and he says with complete Righteous Indignation that he swore not to do crime! For 24 hours! Wasn’t Peter’s whole ISSUE that Neal is too immature and criminal to control his Crime Impulses?! This results in a solid hour of comedic arguing, after which one of them has the horrifying realization that they need to go to the bathroom.

After a truly awkward interval and a gentleman’s agreement never to speak of what just occurred again, Peter now has to decide what to do since lockpicking is off the table. The office is just a recipe for disaster, and Neal would get to see everything he did at his desk. Peter decides to go with the lesser of all evils and go home. El will laugh, but at least it would be more comfortable to wait out the 24 hours there.

El laughs until she cries. Somehow, so does Satchmo. Neal decides that the situation is funny again. Peter does not.

After an hour or two, the three of them have exhausted every possible talking avenue of (1) the handcuff situation and (2) the case without taking more concrete action. Peter is unwilling to do more than call agents over the phone, which only goes so far, and he flatly refuses to access an FBI laptop or a personal computer when Neal is right there collecting passwords. Peter tries to get El to be his proxy, at least as far as the personal computer, but by now Neal has told her about the wager and El says it wouldn’t be fair to give Peter a leg up. Peter is indignant, and tries to apply spousal privilege. This results in more comedic arguing.

By early afternoon, everyone except El (who could at any time leave but has called in sick for the express purpose of enjoying the situation) is stir crazy. Peter tries to break out of the handcuffs himself - first with tools (all loaned to Chad next door) and then by just pulling (which El and Neal both veto with prejudice). After the hammer Peter keeps in the junk drawer fails to have any effect (Neal dramatically flinches and whines about never playing the violin again), Peter gets desperate enough to try and pick the lock HIMSELF. For the joy of seeing this great thing, El and Neal agree that she can access their personal computer for YouTube tutorials, if any exist for these specific weird handcuffs. Neal has MANY, many comments about Peter Giving In to CRIMINAL IMPULSES, but after a vein starts twitching in Peter’s forehead El rules that Neal has to limit his heckling if she’s going to continue providing YouTube tutorials. Fun comedic interlude once again, as Peter tries and fails to pick the handcuffs.

It is now early evening, and dinner time. Thankfully Neal is ambidextrous, so eating isn’t an issue, but the questions of Shower and Bed are now looming in everyone’s mind. There is less comedy now, bc it’s been a long day and also because Neal genuinely respects Peter and Elizabeth’s marriage. Coming into their bed when he isn’t wanted touches on a lot of tender issues for him. Peter wearily says he and Neal will take the guest room, but rounds off with a snarky comment about how Mister Criminal over here isn’t willing to get over himself. Neal snaps - does Peter understand what ACTUALLY bothered Neal so much about the first argument, the reason behind the bet? Or has the whole day been lost on him? There follows a conversation in which El insists that everyone listen to each other, Peter does some introspecting on condescending comments to Neal, and Neal acknowledges that he can be impulsive and Take The Bit too far. Satisfactory emotional arc work is done, and Neal agrees to pick the cuffs.

It’s dark now, and the light in the Burke’s home at night is always warm. Neal is picking the lock, brow furrowed in concentration, and Peter asks him what about the bet. Isn’t Neal giving up his great favor? Freedom from deviled ham? A trip to the museum, outside his radius? Access to a fond memory?

Neal looks at Peter, and looks at El, sitting beside them in the warm light, and he says he will call the bet off if he gets a kiss right now.

From which one of us, says Peter, barely breathing.

Either one. Both. Just once. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Except it does. It does, it does, it does.

Neal gets one kiss from each of them, on the lips. First kisses, tender and slow and sweet, and when it’s done they all three sit together in the warm night, looking at each other as the beginning of a new thing thrums between them.

The lock clicks open loudly, and the moment is broken but the new thing is not. Peter inhales sharply and leans backwards, Neal stays frozen in place with the skill of long practice, but Elizabeth doesn’t flinch. What breaks the moment is Peter clearing his throat and asking in a shaking voice what was the sound that lock just made. Neal takes a quick breath and says oh, it’s a sound that such and such type locks make, they’re really unusual actually, only a certain kind of company from Such and Such makes them. This makes the episode plot penny drop in Peter’s head, because of course company from Such and Such has an obscure tie to So and So, which is the key to finding their lost fence and bringing down the villain of the week.

When it’s all over, Neal turns up at the Burkes’ house again, a hesitant look on his face. In his hands are the handcuffs, still open. And of course, they invite him in.

[brayneworms]

c'mon, baby, you're my best fix | sampo koski

kinktober day three: dry humping

word count: 2.4k

content: dry humping, gender-neutral reader, silvermane guard!reader, hatesex elements, sex as stress relief, semi-public (alleyway), reader has been drinking but isn't implied to be intoxicated, dom!reader + sub!sampo (but he's implied to be a switch), elements of sadism + masochism, degradation, coming untouched.

♪ love in a trashcan - the ravenettes.

kinktober mlist | regular mlist

The biggest fucking lie anyone had told, ever, had come out of Sampo Koski's mouth that afternoon:

C'mooon. I can be good.

You know for a fact that this is a lie, because through no will of your own you have become quite well-acquainted with Sampo Koski, and if there's one thing you're sure of is that he has a physical aversion to doing what he's told.

He had been told, for example, the following many times: Leave me alone, Koski. You're a fucking creep, Koski. Stop conveniently walking by my workplace the very minute I finish my shift, Koski. No, you can't buy me a drink, Koski.

And yet he shows up anyway, like a bad penny, like a dog someone hadn't reprimanded harshly enough and had come sniffing around looking for scraps. Maybe you're too nice, but you sort of doubt it. You think it's more likely that Sampo likes when you talk down to him, which is a whole other can of worms that you're not remotely interested in opening.

"I get the feeling you're mad at me," comes that familiar simpering voice, sliding home into the booth opposite you. Sampo slumps forwards against the table with his face squished against his open palm, grinning that ever-present crescent-moon smile. Cut-jade eyes glimmer out at you through the half-light of the tavern. They always seem to be glittering, despite the absence of any real light. "It's this nagging feeling!" he continues gleefully, even when you glare at him. "This annoying but rather persistent voice in the back of my head keeps telling me that when you tell me to leave you alone, you actually mean it!" He gives a hearty laugh, toying with his flask of ale, and peers up at you through his stupidly thick lashes. "Still, I know it can't be true, considering what happened the other night."

Stupid alcohol. Stupid Sampo. Stupid, stupid you.

One day of weakness. Being a Silvermane Guard was never exactly easy work, but most days tended to be less harrowing than the one you'd had. Every lead you'd chased had slipped through your fingers, and your shift had ended abruptly when the brother of a victim you were seeking justice for had elbowed you to the ground in frustration and spat on you. Your superior wrestled him off you and told you to clock off early.

You supposed she was being kind, but it just made you feel more useless than ever. Boiling with anger and with nowhere to put it, you stormed to the nearest tavern with the intention of drowning your sorrows. Two cups of mead in, you'd gone outside to clear your head, and there he had been, lurking around like an alley cat, sharp eyes lingering on everyone who walked past. No doubt looking for his next easy target. You clear your throat pointedly, and he spins around. Surprise quickly melts into familiar delight.

"Captain, my Captain!" he trills, slinking over as he was wont to slink everywhere.

"Not a captain," you remind him for the fortieth time. "Why are you loitering around here, Koski?"

An affronted hand to his chest, as though clutching imaginary pearls. "Oh! Did they outlaw that, too? Going to cuff me and sling me in jail, hm?"

"Don't fuckin' tempt me," you grumble, tipping your head back against the wall of the tavern. "Can you hurry up and commit a crime in front of me, or something?"

Sampo grins. "Rough day?"

"You're not helping," you snip back, slightly unfairly. He isn't really doing anything more than hanging around being irritating. He slinks closer, slinks like he always does, like it's the only way he knows how to move. Oozing around like a toxic slime, draping himself against the wall just in front of you, arm braced against the brick behind your head.

"I could, though."

His forwardness is hardly a surprise. There isn't any danger of missing his meaning in the sleepy droop of his eyes, the lazy smile curling at his lips. Sampo is an incurable flirt to each and everyone—the thing is that most of the time it's part of the con. You know a few Silvermane Guards who have fallen into his charm and his bed that cut him a lot of slack where they really, really shouldn't.

Sampo Koski has friends everywhere, and that's what makes him so dangerous.

You know this. You have done for a while, especially because he'd been trying to worm his way into your bed for about as long as you'd known him. You resent the thought of him having any sort of power over you, though. There's no denying that he's attractive, and you've often wondered if he would be able to put his money where his mouth is, for lack of a better phrase. But handing over that amount of control to someone like Koski is just incurably stupid.

Because then you're trapped. Every time he'd catch your eye afterwards, they'd glimmer, and you'd know he was remembering your moment of weakness, inviting you to remember it too. Every time his eyes would rake down your body you'd know he'd be recalling when he'd seen it devoid of clothing, sweating, trembling. Every time he'd look at you, he'd know he'd already won.

Really, there's a very simple solution. Don't let him win.

"I bet," you breathe, meeting his eyes for once. You can see them widen slightly, his lips part in surprise before he makes a recovery from this most minuscule slip of his mask.

"Ohoho?" He lets out an irritating little laugh. "Gosh. Must have been a really rough day."

"I'd prefer it to get rougher."

Sampo's mouth splits into a wide grin, one almost fanatical in nature. "I should've pegged you as the type!" he gushes. "Why would anyone be nonsensical enough to join the Silvermane Guards unless they secretly enjoyed a little pain? Between you and me, Captain, I don't mind it either."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" you sigh. "Only a real masochist would so frequently try to get under my skin."

His lashes flutter. "I'm trying to get under much more than that, Captain."

You grab him by the front of his shirt and drag him down the alley beside the tavern. In the dusk light, the two of you slip into the shadows almost immediately, and you follow the narrow path down to the back of the tavern, where the noise of the street outside is quietened to a whisper. Sampo giggles behind you.

"What an exhibitionist you are," he says slyly. "I should've expected it from you, I guess. I guess—"

You plant two hands on his chest, shoving him back into the brick wall, and kiss him. His words flutter to a halt and he stifles a yelp of surprise against your mouth before his eyes squinch shut. His hands aren't shy, flying up to grip your waist, and you press yourself flush against him. He makes a whimpery noise into your mouth as your knee slots itself between his legs, pushing up. He runs hot, you can feel it even through his clothes, and it's a welcome immersion from the perpetual algidity of Belobog.

He grunts as he pulls away, and you take in the slightly glazed look in his eyes and the high colour in his cheeks with a tinge of gratification. "We don't have an awful lot of time," he says pseudo-apologetically. His hands fly to his belt, fingers working nimbly at the buckle. "I'm due somewhere in twenty—"

His voice stammers to a halt when your hand clamps down over his, stilling his fingers. Sampo blinks up at you, puzzled; the penny hasn't yet dropped, you suppose, even as you patiently pry his fingers away from his belt.

"What are you doing?" you ask bluntly. Sampo's lips part and he looks at you as though you're quite delusional.

"Ah... ahem?" He laughs nervously. "Is that a trick question?"

"No," you answer easily. "What are you doing?" Off his bewildered look—which you take the time to enjoy, considering how little you get to see anything but smug ostentation on his face—you shrug. "Oh, I see. That's what you thought this was? I take you into some... secluded little alley, and I get you off?"

Sampo's mouth drops open. "I—I would've—"

"Let's not delude ourselves," you interrupt, and push your knee up between his thighs again. He makes a high, shaky noise in the back of his throat, tipping his head back against the brick wall. "D'you really think you've earned that?"

"Hm?" Sampo swallows hard, the juts in his throat flexing. "I—"

"All you do is hang around bothering me," you hiss. "And you think... what, one well-timed innuendo is all it took for me to change my mind? If you want to get off, then get off." Your knee slides against him, the stiffening in his trousers, and he makes a rather pathetic noise.

"You're not serious," he gasps, cheeks flushed scarlet. His sleepy eyes are wider than you've ever seen them and trained frantically on you. "Come on, Captain, you can't mean that. W-what would you get out of it, even?" He tries for a smirk. "I promise, if you let the reliable Sampo get his hands on you, you won't regret—mmfph?"

Your fingers slip under the stupid windows flaring over his hips, gliding over the skin there. He runs so warm, and it's ridiculous considering Belobog's perpetual winter, as you curl your fingernails into the skin of the small of his back 'till it dimples and drag his hips painstakingly over the flat of your thigh.

This time, sweet as music, he doesn't talk. His mouth drops open and he lets out a shivering moan, gloved hands scrabbling on the brick wall behind him. "You really are serious," he says in disbelief even as his hips roll absently against your leg. A strained laugh escapes him as—finally—a painfully scarlet flush starts bleeding into his cheekbones. "I always knew you Silvermanes were crazy."

"Mm. Not all of them," you say quietly. "But I am. I'm pretty crazy."

Sampo shudders, one that worms its way slowly through his whole body, and then he drops his head against your shoulder. He smells nice, like smoke and mint, his hair soft as it brushes your skin. His hips move languidly against you, stuttering occasionally, unsure—until you flex the muscle of your thigh against him. A whimper breaks free, high and whiny like shattered glass.

"You're so cruel," he groans even as his body drags against your leg. You underestimated how overwhelming it would be; his breath in the hollow of your neck makes the skin there hot and clammy, and when he moans it goes right in your ear. You're certain he's exaggerating to get your resolve to weaken. Nobody actually sounds like that.

And you can feel him, hard and hot as a brand, pushing up against your leg. You shudder almost imperceptibly, because yes, yeah, you're wondering how he would feel inside you, but you can't—not tonight, you promise yourself as your teeth grit. Tonight isn't about that.

It's about winning.

"Please," Sampo grits out, turning his head so you can see slices of his moonstone eyes through the sweaty locks of hair. "I—nngh, oh—I want inside of you."

"Take it or leave it, Koski," you say, a bit too breathlessly for your liking. He shivers with a sulky noise, and the whole time, even as he talks his hips are rolling against your leg. He picks up speed as sweat starts rolling down his skin, as his hands scrabble over the brick and then fly out to grab your waist and haul you closer. His strength is ridiculous—but so is yours. You let yourself be pulled, feeling his mouth and teeth against your ear, the breathy noises spilled across your jaw.

"Oh—please, I'm close." His eyes blink up at you, wet and deceptively innocent. The look on his face is almost heartwrending. "I need you, anything—your hand, mouth, anything, I don't care, please—"

"You're going to cum in your pants against my leg like the dog you are," you spit, your hand fisting in the hair at the nape of his neck. He yelps, the flush on his cheeks darkening, eyes fluttering shut. "And you're gonna be grateful you even got that much."

Sampo moans, broken and high; his hips stutter against your leg as his hands curl into your waist so hard you're sure they'll leave bruises. But under the pleasure is a certain frustration, a sobbing sound as he cums and it sets your blood alight. You shiver with the delight of it.

The seconds that follow feel like victory.

Sampo peels away from you, stumbling back against the brick wall behind him. He's scarlet all the way down to his chest, his mouth agape and eyes wide and glittering with unshed tears as he uncomfortably adjusts his pants. They're dark and it's night, so he can probably get away with them until he gets the chance to go home and change, but the thought of him walking around in soiled underwear thrills you.

You probably are actually crazy. Sampo's annoying, but he's quite perceptive.

He clears his throat, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Well. Erm. That was..." He swallows. "The great Sampo really got himself in a rather sticky situation this time, didn't I?"

"Poor choice of words," you supply, and he winces, flushing harder.

He clears his throat. "Like I said, I, erm, have somewhere to be. Nice catching up, though." He puts two fingers to his temple and flicks them into the air in a mock salute. You watch as he spins lazily on his heel, rolling his shoulders as he starts his walk back down the alleyway.

"By the way," he added, pausing a few feet away. "I certainly hope that wasn't your way of trying to dissuade me." Your eyebrows raise, and he grins; his canines are sharp, and you can see them flash when his lips peel back. "Well, be serious: once you feed a starving dog, it doesn't leave you alone, does it? It comes back for more. Maybe it even follows you home."

He leaves you with that, one last lingering look and an implication that has you burning more than anything that transpired in the last ten minutes.

You get the altogether not unpleasant feeling that this will be far from the last you see of Sampo Koski.

[weird-an]

Jim sighs.

This isn't what he signed up for. Thinking of it, he didn't sign up for any of this. But that's what you get for taking in lost teenage boys.

"Looks good," he says, trying to sound not confused, but rather enthusiastic. "Really... gnarly."

The line between Billy's eyebrows tells him, he isn't convincing.

"You don't know shit," Billy declares. "This is fucking rad."

He points at his crop top and hell, when did Billy start wearing denim cut offs? Jim just doesn't get whatever kids today call fashion.

He wants to roll his eyes, but well, the kid at least asked him. It's kind of a big deal.

"Your date's going to love it," he simply says. Maybe this one is special. Billy has been changing outfits the whole afternoon.

Billy nods, chewing on a tooth pick. "Hawkins doesn't have any style."

Okay...? Jim shrugs. "Uh, sure."

"Polo shirts suck after all."

Jim raises an eyebrow. Right.

"He- she's very beautiful though."

"Okay," Jim tries to put an end to it. It's not a surprise at this point. Billy isn‘t as subtle as he thinks he is. "Have fun tonight."

"Thanks, Chief." Billy salutes him. He turns around.

Jim sighs. "Billy."

The kid gives him wide eyes, feigning innocence. "What?"

"Leave the handcuffs."

"I don't know what you mean." Billy raises his hands.

Like Jim doesn't know this game. He's the Sheriff, for fucks sake. "Don't play dumb, kid."

Billy purses his lips and puts the cuffs on the kitchen table.

"Bye," he grumbles.

Billy Hargrove is a piece of work. Good thing Jim can be one, too.

"Tell Steve I said Hi," Jim says, when he's nearly outside. It's just a guess, really.

Billy's jaw crashes down.

Jim waves him goodbye.

"You're running late." He didn't sign up for this, but that doesn't mean it can't be fun.

[court-jobi]

i was just (re)reading your "reheat" oneshot and one part that stood out to me was izuku apparently "making a show" of him rolling up his shirt sleeves because reader finds it attractive. but my question is how did he find that out???????? did reader tell him that they find it to be alluring??? i need answers (just please dont do it nsfw, i'm not really into it lol) 👀👀

(btw i love your writing<3)

Ahhhh I'm SO glad someone caught this! I'm a sucker for the little details, and you found one of my favorites 🥰🥰 SFW it is~

And truly, it honestly shouldn't be such a saucy thought, Izuku rolling up his sleeves... It's a pure and simple fact that you love every bit of Izuku, whether he's dressed up or down. What's not to love? But here we are, and I'll tell ya exactly why.

How you came to enjoy this harmless little show was the sum of many 'harmless' moments, though they all have one thing in common:

Acts of Service.

Reheat shows it best, but here's how our darling Izuku reckoned it was a solid plan of distraction...

Pairing: Midoriya x reader

Reheat: ORIGINS

Izuku is an extremely thoughtful person, as we all know and love. He'll be in your corner to listen, tell you just what you need to hear, and do it all with a smile on his face. He'll also be the first to step up and offer his best if it would help make your life easier.

The first time you watched him do it was a night he came around while you were in a self-imposed baking marathon-- and were quickly running out of surface space in the kitchen. Once setting down his workout bag down at the dining table and shucking off his coat, he'd immediately come in reporting for duty...

'How can I help' chirps off Izuku's lips without missing a beat, and before you could even make mention of washing the dishes as you go (to help expedite the process later), he was already rolling the cuffs of his hoodie to keep the ends from getting absolutely soaked. When he catches you staring from he oven range at what he's doing, he assumes it stems from feeling guilty about putting him to work, or refusing the idea that he'd tidy up for you. It's such a high pile that's filling both sides of the sink already, and it's threatening to topple over onto your tray of still-cooling macarons.

He sees it as a stellar trade off: you cook, he cleans. It's a no-brainer in his book!

The next time he does it, you're visiting him at UA while he's hosting some late afternoon office hours (in case some students wish to stop by for some pre-exam help). It's a slow afternoon, and when he complains about it over text, you surprise him with a little green tea boba pick-me-up. By the time you arrive, he's on the phone with some insurance company about a rate change that he's been meaning to call about.

He's a bit grumpy over it. Why they keep hiking prices like this, he'll never fully understand, but would kill for some transparency in billing, y'know?

"No- I'm not interested in upgrading the policy, it's covering everything I need it to -back at my starting rate. No, no dependents. No secondary vehicles either-- maam, I rent an apartment; I don't even own a home yet- why would I need a byline for acreage protection?!"

Poor Izuku's brows are tented as he navigates the skin sufferable conversation... But all the while, he's flexing -a flick of the wrist in each movement- as he cuffs his sleeves towards his elbows.

You don't realize you're staring until he stops moving. Looking up to his eyes again, they're more confused at you now, with a built shoulder precariously balancing his phone to his ear.

'What's wrong?' he mouths to you.

You immediately shake your head, and just motion for him to carry on. You rest your chin in your hand when he continues, but he doesn't say more on the topic when the woman returns from the other end of the line with more bad news.

"-b-boating protec-?? Ma'am, may I be perfectly real with you? I-I am on a teacher's salary! Can I please just revert back to what I was paying before so I don't have to auction off my AllMight limited editions??"

So firm, so capable... so stupidly attractive doing such a small thing... Izuku maybe a bit preoccupied at the moment, but he's starting to catch onto you, for there's gotta be something behind your interest in his forearms.

Finally, it all clicks into place. In Hatsume's Tech Lab, where you're picking up Izuku from after an off-site field trip of sorts for his support course students does Izuku finally get what's going on.

He's taken up some elective classes for their class route, in addition to his hero course homeroom. In the R&D department, he's trying on some gloves and explaining their features to you in excitement for its intended recipient, his good friend Shoto Todoroki, while his students all bound off elsewhere.

"He even came up with the design; pretty stylish, I'd say! Much better than his first costume, less bulky as well. Mei says we're the same size so I could try for fit before she ships them out to him- hhhnr... well- still kinda hard to- c'you hold this one, baby? here, lemme get them on for real.."

Setting the gloves to your waiting hands, your eyes double in interest. Tongue wets your lips slightly. And shockingly, your mouth moves before you can stop yourself.

"Oooo, my lucky day~ Roll 'em up, babe~"

"that's the problem with this tech. There's safety resistance in the cuffs: they're great for compression, but it's a bit tight for tryin' to get over-- w-wait. What?"

Izuku chances a look at you in that one, thirsty moment.

"Do you-- like this?"

"Mhm~"

".. just- rolling up my sleeves? Like this?"

"Mhmmm~"

Though you've solidly convinced Izuku that his scars are to be worshipped just as much as his heart, he can't believe your starry-eyed look while he does this.

Cheeky, Izuku thinks surely you're messing with him, "Goodness the way you're looking at me, you'd think I was showing you my six pack..."

"Eh, that's nothin'," you tease, "impressive, don't get me wrong, Mr. Midoriya- but anyone can work out. This.. takes finesse."

Izuku sprouted a warming blush over his ears, wrenching a calm exterior into place despite your loving teases.

"Finesse, huh?-"

"Slower, babe," you sink onto a palm again, batting your eyes again, "you look good like this."

"Y-You're a mess..."

"I'm your mess now, handsome."

Izuku peeks up and out towards the hall having just settling his right cuff into place. Then, he's looking back to you all mushy at what he finds there. Complete love. It's earned you a kiss -to affirm his feelings for you, of course!- but also to get you to stop fawning over him where anyone could see.

Your fingers will trail over the sensitive undersides of his wrists while he cups your cheeks into place. Any insecurity he may have once held about his scarring has been snuffed out by you a long time ago, but Izuku now realizes it's not just an accepted sight, but a welcome one.

"Good to know this is a sure method to get your attention, honey," he'll whisper between kisses.

It's the preemptive motive that gets you:

Izuku is so ready and willing to help anyone at a moment's notice, to take charge and get things done: to the point where watching him prep to get his weathered hands involved is an attractive sight. He's the first to go the extra mile for you, no ask too big or favor too small.

It might be a quick adjustment to his outfit for comfort, but the look suits him so well. So yes, even as he rolls up his shirt sleeves, you find him insanely, unfairly handsome.

[ohbo-ohno]

simon and johnny needing to lay low after the landlord visit taking you to a little cabin they've rented out in the middle of nowhere, for the sole purpose of allowing you to 'escape' just so they can have the fun of hunting you down on dirtbikes with nets and rope and little (nonlethal but still fairly nasty) traps they'd already left in the woods for you

oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my g-

3.5k words under the cut. cw for noncon and primal kink. bit of fear play. basically everything in the ask is in the drabble lol

You're scared out of your mind when they first tell you they're leaving for the weekend and taking you with them. You've got this fear that maybe they're going to kill you. They balk if you dare ask, get all comforting and loving and tell you how they'd rather slit their own wrists than ever kill you. Can't even fathom it.

But still... you don't fully trust them. Not after your most recent escape attempt resulted in your harshest punishment yet.

You especially don't trust that they're tying you up for the trip. Simon stands in front of you with a pair of ankle cuffs, wrist cuffs, and a little length of chain, Johnny bouncing around behind him as he stuffs clothes into duffel bags.

"If you can't handle sitting in the backseat," Simon starts. "We'll tie you up and leave you in the trunk. That what you want?"

The answer is obvious. At least they give you actual clothes to wear in the car - it's the little things that make life bearable these days.

You can't lift your hands to try and wave for help in the car. The way you're chained leaves you with an awkward hunch in your back, makes you cranky when you can't find a way to get comfortable even after you put your feet on the seats. The way Johnny shouts along to half of the songs that come on the radio doesn't help your mood.

(They play one of your favorites at one point, and you can't help but sing along. Simon turns the volume up, and you get louder too, thinking they can't fully hear you. Johnny and Simon just smile at each other.)

The cabin they bring you to isn't very large. It's got an open floor plan, kitchen, living room, dining table, and massive king sized bed all in just one room. The only doors are to the pantry, a closet, and a bathroom. 

They let you get settled a bit, Simon flopping onto the couch and watching you closely as Johnny brings in your luggage from the car and you poke around a bit. They take off all your restraints (except for the fucking collar, which hasn't left your throat since they put it there), tell you "who could help you this far out?" and you get a little sulky about it.

You start plotting your escape almost immediately. 

They fuck you in the afternoon. Johnny bending you over the arm of the sofa, Simon pulling his cock out and guiding your head to it where he sits. You choke, nearly fucking suffocate on his cock when Johnny pulls out and leaves you limp with no support on the couch.

You don't stand on your own once they've both finished, cheek resting on Simon's thigh and just trying to catch your breath before you build your walls back up. Before you can move, Johnny's back behind you, one hand on the small of your back and the other stroking your ass.

You're still a little hazy in your head, but the sudden slick finger sliding right into your ass with no warning has you jolting up from the couch, a high yelp coming from your throat as you struggle against Johnny's hand.

"Hush, bonnie," he laughs. "Just givin' you yer tail."

You hate the fucking tail. It's attached to a butt plug that always makes you walk just a little oddly, the fucking fur on it is nearly the same shade as your hair, and half the time when they make you wear it they want you to crawl after them.

So you struggle a little more, especially as a second finger slips into your ass soon after the first. "Calm down, love," Simon rumbles, one hand lifting to pet your head. "You don't like your tail? Hm? Don't like bein' reminded you're just a little pet for us?"

"Fucking-" you grunt, little teeth bared at him as you glare and lean away. "Fucking bastard."

"Och," Johnny scolds, and you feel him pull out only to line cold plastic up at your entrance. "That's not very bonnie. You itchin' for a punishment today? Want Simon to be a little mean to you?"

"Just have to ask, pet," Simon smirks down at you, giving you a firm pat on your head before going back to his stroking. "Ask nicely and we'll give ya anythin' you want. Isn't that right, Johnny?"

"Hmmm," he hums from behind you, pushing and pulling just the tip of the plug in and out of your ass to stretch you more. "Anythin', lovie."

You grunt a little as he starts to slide it into you. "Okay," you hiss. "I want to fucking leave. I don't want to wear a fucking tail."

"That wasn't asking very nicely, was it?" Simon would sneer down at you a bit, mean smirk on his face as he shakes your head no for you, ignores your huffing breaths from Johnny's actions.

"Besides," Johnny says from behind you. "You do want to wear your tail. I can see your pussy droolin', lassie. No point in tryin' to hide it."

"That's-" you interrupt yourself with a little grunt when the tail sinks fully inside of you. "That's because we just fucked you idiot-"

A little tap to your face, Simon's other hand holding you still by the hair. "Watch it," he rumbles, eyes serious as he stares down at you. "Need me to clean out your mouth for you?"

Fuck no. 'Clean out your mouth' is almost always code for 'have you suck Simon's cock for fucking hours, even if he's soft as a feather'. You hate having to stay between his knees  so long, just a warm mouth for him to soak in, even less than the pet they're always telling you you are.

You shake your head, glaring mutinously up at him. 

He shakes you by your hair a bit. "What was that?"

"No," you force through gritted teeth, squirming a bit from his tight grip on your chin.

"Try again."

You growl a little, get a tiny smirk from Simon for it which just pisses you off more. "No, sir."

"Good girl," he purrs, hand going soft to stroke through your hair,  all anger melted from his face. "Now, what was the other thing you wanted?"

"To fucking leave," Johnny says from behind you, grin audible in his tone. You can feel one hand playing with the tail, probably batting it back and forth judging by the way you feel the fur brush against your thighs, his other hand stroking up and down your back.

"That's right," Simon says. He brings the hand petting you down to your neck, jerking you out of the softness you'd briefly fallen back into as he raises your head towards him. "Well. Maybe we could let you try, huh?"

That gets you attention, has you stiffening up and leaning closer to him. "Wha- really?" you choke out, eyes wide as you stare up into his face.

"Sure," he says, smile growing on his lips at your eagerness. "How about this - you try and run, and if we can't catch you in an hour, we get to keep you. No more escape attempts."

You scowl, sinking away a bit. "Where the hell would I run in here?"

Johnny barks a laugh from behind you, leaning over your back and resting his chin on your shoulder. "Out there, bonnie. You'd be runnin' through the woods. Already got your tail, huh? Could be our little prey, runnin' from the big scary predators." You feel his dick harden against your thigh and he bites your shoulder blade, a groan rumbling from his mouth.

"How do I-" you can't help a little moan as Johnny's hips start rocking against yours, his hand slipping to rub at your used cunt. "How do I know - shit, Johnny - how do I know you'll let me go?"

"You don't," is the answer you get from Simon, a little whine creeping from your throat when two fingers sink into your pussy as a thumb works at your clit. "You'd have to trust us. But we'd keep our word. Haven't broken it with you yet."

It's a little hard to think with everything running through your head, but you know he's right. You might hate them, hate that they're keeping you, hate the way they make your body feel, but neither of them has lied to you yet. Even psychos seem to have some moral standards.

"Go ahead, Johnny," Simon grunts from above you when you go long enough without responding. "Fuck her again. Then we'll see how far she can run, hm?"

About three hours and a few more rounds later you stand on the back porch, naked except for a pair of Johnny's boots tied as tightly as you could get them (and with a pair of socks tucked into the tips. They're still a little loose, but better than nothing you suppose.)

"One hour," Simon says, stepping towards you with a little pair of ears in his hand. They match the tail and are stuck on a headband the same shade as your hair. You scowl when you see them, but don't say anything as he continues to speak and puts them on your head. "Run, or hide, but don't come back to the cabin. We catch you, you're ours, no more running away." He steps back a moment, stares deep into your eyes, then smirks. "No taking off the ears or out the tail. How else will we recognize the animal we're hunting?"

You go red at that, scoff and roll your eyes to try and cover it up. Johnny laughs, so you figure it doesn't work.

"Alright, lass," he says, feral grin on his lips as he holds up a little stopwatch with a one hour timer set. "On the count of three. One... two... three!"

You're off like a shot, ignoring the laughter behind you when you nearly trip down the steps onto the dirt. You know they don't think you can do this, but you're determined to prove them wrong. 

— — — — —

You start to get worried when the sun sets. You doubt it's been more than ten minutes,  and as the darkness creeps in it occurs to you that the forest will be pitch black once night fully falls.

You ran for as long as you could before slowing to catch your breath. You haven't heard or seen either of your hunters, but you know they're out there somewhere. You feel acutely aware of their presence in a way you never have before. It leaves your skin crawling, has you shooting looks over your shoulder every other step you take.

But you can’t stop now. So you slow down when you need to, flinch at the way the tree branches and bushes scratch at your naked skin, and pray to God you’ve got enough of a headstart to keep you safe. 

You hear the shouts begin just after the sun has fully set.

The first one - a loud and echoing “Bonnie!” that you recognize as being from Johnny - has you yelping, nearly jumping out of your skin. You start running again before you even realize what’s happening, then keep running when you realize you’ve essentially lit a beacon directly to your location.

He calls out to you several times. 

“Where you at, lassie?” 

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“Aren’t you cold? Don’t you want to come back home with us?”

“We’re going to find you!”

“I can smell your fear, lovie, I know you’re nearby!”

The longer sentences are the ones that scare you, because it means he’s close enough for you to hear every word he’s saying. You worry he might be watching, because every time you start to slow down again he shouts, forces you back into high gear and gets you stumbling again.

You sort of stumble into a clearing eventually, panting and going completely still as you realize how exposed you are. You can’t help but shiver a little, tucking your hands close to your body and hunching your shoulders as you step forward.

And then, from the treeline in front of you, out steps Simon.

In his fucking mask. The one that always gets your heart racing when you see it, gets you a little wet beneath the thighs no matter how much you try to deny is.

He tilts his head a little as the moonlight hits him, frozen completely in front of you. You find yourself unable to move as he strolls lazily towards you, just stock still and incapable of thinking anything but threat.

When he’s about a foot away he stops, leans forward so that mask is right in front of your face and you can see the whites of his eyes.

You don’t see the mask move, just hear one word.

“Run.”

You do. You scramble back, fall on your ass and stand as quickly as possible to try and get away. You’re already shouting, some primal instinct deep in your head nothing but flight.

You hardly make it five steps, tackled to the ground with what must be the full weight of Simon’s body. You cry out as you’re binned, hands and knees digging into sharp sticks and pebbles. You struggle, yelping and whining as you desperately try to buck him off.

He only laughs, the sound echoing and a little psychotic. One of his hands locks itself in your hand, jerks you back and forces your head up to the sky, the other grabs on your tail and gives you just enough of a tug to whimper and go a little weak in the elbows.

“Pretty little prey,” he’d purr, hunching over to whisper in your ear and grinding his clothed erection over your ass. “Hardly even put up a fight. Thought you wanted to get away, huh?”

“I-I do!” You choke out, head shaking where he still holds you tight.

“You do?” His tone is condescending, so fucking mean, but you’re lost in a haze of instincts and hardly notice. “Okay, baby. Try again.”

And then- and then you’re free.

You try and get to your legs, stumble a little before you can fully get your feet beneath you and fall again. 

There’s a laugh from behind you, and you try again.

This time you get a few steps. But he doesn’t even let you get out of the clearing before he’s gripping you by the neck, throws you onto the ground and plants a heavy boot in the center of your back, pushes down and doesn’t even let you get to your hands and knees.

“That all you got?” He’d grunt, crouching down and putting more weight on you in the process. “Pathetic little thing. You want to keep trying, or you ready to swallow your pride?”

You sob at that, fingers clutching desperately at the dirt. You squeeze your eyes shut and nod viciously. “Let me- let me go! I’ll get away, you won’t catch me next time!”

You both know you’re lying. So when the weight disappears from your back, when you blink teary eyes open and see him slowly backing away, you’re nothing short of astounded.

“Sure, sweetheart. Third time’s the charm, yeah? I’ll even give you a ten second head start. Ten…”

 You’re on your feet at eight, in the forest again at seven. You hear his voice in your head no matter how far you run.

It’s minutes, hours later when you’re tackled to the ground again.

This time you go rolling, the man on top of you snarling viciously as he lets your momentum carry you for several turns. He gets you on your back, collars a hand around your throat and snarls and he bares his teeth in your face.

Johnny looks rabid. His mohawk is rarely brushed, but you’ve never seen it as wild as it is now. He’s naked, unlike Simon, and there’s an eagerness in his eyes you’ve never seen before - not even the night you’d met Simon.

“Fucking got you,” he’d snap, spittle flying from his lips as he squeezes your throat. You try to struggle, but he’s so big that he doesn’t have to restrain you anywhere else. You can’t get away from him.

You cry out at the realization, but refuse to stop struggling. You.. you can’t. It’s like as soon as you’re caught, as soon as flight is no longer an option, your brain doesn’t let you do anything but fight.

Still, it takes no effort at all for Johnny to flip you onto your stomach. He doesn’t even both to prop your hips up, just forces your legs to spread with his knees and thrusts balls deep before you can even lift your head.

You scream. You were a little wet, but not enough to take him comfortably in one go. Your shout is all animal, the sound of something conquered calling out it’s own defeat.

Johnny’s responding sound is nearly a howl, head thrown toward the sky as he immediately starts pounding your pussy. One hand pushes down on the small of your back, keeps you down and still, the other is in your hair forcing your face into the dirt. You force your forehead lower just so you don’t keep banging your head as he fucks you.

Neither of you manages words, just shouts and yelps and whines and moans. There’s a point where you can turn your head, when you nearly bust your lip open on your teeth, and you spot Simon. He’s nearly six feet away, a massive figure cloaked in black - you can only see him because of the stark white of the skull mask against the dark backdrop.

Johnny’s rough fucking feels like it’s endless. You nearly think you’ll die, feel like you’re split down the middle and surely it’s the blood that’s making his thrusts so slick?

He finishes without you, buries himself to the hilt and bite where your shoulder and neck meet. You scream a little at the horrible sting, scream even more when he bites down harder, about lose your mind when you feel his teeth puncture skin.

He pulls out moments later, leaves you cold and alone on the ground as he straightens up and lops away, dropping flat on his ass at the base of a tree and resting his head back to catch his breath.

You still haven’t caught yours when you’re flipped onto your back.

It’s Simon this time, fully clothed and blocking your view of the stars with his mask. He’s silent, ignores your incomprehensible whines and pulls his cock out of his pants, grabs you under both knees, hooks them around his waist, and starts thrusting into you.

Your round with Simon is… more. He’s slower, yes, but he also doesn’t look away from you. His eyes never leave yours, and any time your eyes start to slip shut he thrusts right up into your cervix until they flicker wide open again. You can see his eyes, but that’s it. You can’t hear anything but the sound of your own fucking, can’t even hear his breathing over the blood rushing through your ears and your own panting.

If Johnny’s fucking was endless, Simon’s is an eternity. You think you might die, think you might just pass out and never wake up, come to in the afterlife to the fucking delicious slide of Simon’s cock still working it’s way in and out of your sore cunt.

He comes eventually. You don’t.

He stands above you when he pulls out, waits for you to finally start to move before you speak. 

You’re getting to your knees, one foot lifting to push yourself up, when his boot lands on the knee still folded beneath you.

“No,” he says. “You’ll crawl behind us. Animals don’t walk on two legs.”

You don’t have the energy to do more than let out a pathetic whine.

Johnny leads the three of you back, Simon behind you as you crawl after him. When you slow down too much, he nudges you with his boot until you move again.

They don’t let you wash off in the cabin. Instead, SImon brings out a fucking hose, and they spray you down with cold water. You can only kneel there miserably, head ducked and eyes squeezed shut against the worst of it. 

You have to crawl up the steps and into the house, but that’s where the game ends.

Simon scoops you up instantly, has you placed on the couch while he quickly tugs off your boots before wrapping you up in a towel that had been laid in front of the fire. He dries you hair quickly, then wraps himself around you and sits in front of the hearth.

Johnny joins you minutes later, body washed off and wearing a pair of boxers. He sits next to you two, and for once he doesn’t try and touch you.

You can’t speak for the rest of the night.

[marzipanandminutiae]

Hey Marzi could that black silk afternoon gown from 1875 that you reblogged be considered a mourning dress? I’m still trying to figure out how mourning attire worked

This one?

Could be, yeah! In a certain context only, though.

So, the way Victorian mourning often seems to have worked in practice was kind of like...having a black cocktail dress that you could wear to your aunt's funeral but also out for drinks with friends. It's very dependent on context and accessories, because black was a popular color for women's clothing in general (just like it is now).

Really, despite what listicles often want to say, there are a VERY small number of extant gowns that could only ever have been For Mourning SpecificallyTM. The rules varied, but it tended along the lines of "in the first, deepest phase of mourning, you wear only black with no other accent colors and nothing shiny or sparkly, including shiny silk-satin." People often forget the No Shiny rule in rushing to label all black dresses Mourning. Then later on, you could start adding back in shine and accent colors, generally white, purple, mauve, and sometimes red depending on where and when you lived.

Except those were also popular accent colors for non-mourning black clothing. And non-shiny black dresses existed in other contexts, too.

Yeah. You can see where this gets confusing for modern researchers.

Accessories played a big role in showing mourning- important, because the whole point of formalized mourning was to convey "be gentle; I'm going through something hard." Matte black jewelry, as from bog oak, jet, or sometimes hardened rubber later on in the 19th century, especially with certain symbols. Anything with a willow and urn motif. A hand holding a wreath. A piece of jewelry marked with someone's name and their age/the year when they died. Sometimes, but not always, jewelry with skulls and skeletons (sometimes that's just because they thought those motifs looked cool). Wearing a veil was also a great way to show mourning, in context with everything else- it's now often associated with especially widows in the mid-19th century.

(It was even harder for men at times, since black suits were wildly popular. Sometimes a black armband would be worn, or strictest matte black in all jewelry like collar and cuff studs. But I've actually read etiquette manuals that are like "it's really hard for men to show that they're in mourning; oops.")

I feel like the idea of formalized mourning is so foreign to us now that we've gotten a little bit overexcited and forgotten that, if it doesn't make sense to us to buy a whole new wardrobe when someone dies, that was probably true back then as well- and if we like black clothing in non-mourning contexts, they probably did, too. You can find advertisements for retailers selling mourning clothes, so people definitely did buy new things for the occasion at times- but they also made good use of what they already had, just like we do now. And wore those same outfits with different contextualizing accessories when mourning was over.

Oh, and the notion that there was a strict, specific term of time you HAD to mourn for different losses in your life, and everyone knew the term and was keeping score? Not as much a thing either. I've read a few books that do proscribe a specific term for different relatives or loved ones who've died, but most also specify that mourning is highly personal and the length that one might mourn varies from person to person. Also, no, widowers were not only required to mourn for a year while widows mourned for two: I found that in a couple of books, but far more that advised the same minimum length of mourning for both losses. There might be judgmental people who thought you Hadn't Mourned For Long Enough, but that's not quite the same as a strict, universally-accepted rule.

And there were all sorts of exceptions- a bride was generally advised to cast off mourning for her wedding day (although one could get married in a black dress, so I guess that just means accessorizing in a more normal way), keeping children in mourning for too long- or sometimes at all! -was believed to be too hard on their little minds during a time of stress...it was all a lot more malleable than we often think nowadays.

Hope this helps!

[mightbeimpossiblenotto]

Silver - Oct 14 - @rosekillermicrofic - 871 words - Warnings: none

Barty loved his job at Insidious Ink. He had always loved to draw, but he had no interest in recreating landscapes or detailing a portrait of someone. He liked to draw snakes, and skulls, and unrealistic eyeballs, and all kinds of other things. When he secured an apprenticeship with his local tattoo shop, he had already had several tattoos of his own on his skin. He was thrilled — the only thing that was better than pen and paper was ink and skin, in his opinion.

It was the first thing that he excelled at that he actually wanted to continue to do well. In school, everything came easily enough to him, but he didn’t want the good grades that came with learning if it meant his father only expected more of him. But his father resented tattoos, so it was something into which Barty could throw his whole self. He quickly became the best artist at that little shop, and one of the owners encouraged him to open his own studio.

Insidious Ink was opened only six months later; when Barty put his mind to something, he was determined to finish it. He hired a few of his own artists to work for him, a gorgeous woman named Dorcas whose line work was incredible, and a sullen young man fresh out of school named Regulus who excelled in florals and other plant work. In their free time, Barty taught them everything he learned from his mentors, and they quickly grew an unbreakable bond between the three of them.

The Rosier twins came in on a rainy Monday afternoon. The shop was quiet, only one girl getting tatted from Dorcas in the very back. She had been here a few times before in the past few months. Her name was Marlene, and this time she wanted a single line tattoo of a two women almost kissing. Dorcas seemed a little too interested when she was consulting with Marlene, which is why Barty sent them to the back. He didn’t need to see lesbians flirting while trying to get his work done, as cute as it usually tended to be.

When the two blondes, one man and one woman, entered the building, Barty and Regulus had been sketching out a few designs for clients they were consulting with via email. Regulus didn’t even look up when the bell over the door indicated their arrival, but Barty was trained like a dog to react. He sprung up out of his chair to greet them, but the words died in his throat when he took sight of them.

They were the two most beautiful people he had ever seen, especially the man. The woman was stunning, with long white-blonde wavy hair down to her lower back, braids twisting the face framing pieces back away from her eyes. She had lovely dark skin and bright grey eyes. Her smile was utterly dazzling.

But the sight of the man with her — who had to be her brother with the matching features — had Barty almost falling back onto his stool. He had the same dark skin and gorgeous eyes, the same sharp cheekbones and long nose. But his blond hair was in dreads, with silver cuffs adorning them, glinting in the fluorescent lighting in the tattoo shop. He had a lip piercing, a little silver hoop in his plush lower lip. His ears were pierced, too, with silver safety pins hanging from each of them. He had a hoop in his nose, a hoop sticking off his left eyebrow, studs over right brow.

Barty had never really been interested in piercings before. He certainly never had reason to get any himself, but seeing all of the silver glinting off this man, he was dying to know if he had any other metal anywhere else.

“Barty,” Regulus hissed behind him, bringing him out of his daydream about getting the man pantless in his shop. “They’re talking to you, answer them.”

“Huh?” Barty said rather eloquently, and sure enough, the two blondes had approached the desk, and were waiting for his response. “I mean — Welcome to Insidious Tattoos. What can I help you with?”

The woman just blinked at him, unconcerned with his odd behavior, but the corners of the man’s mouth were twitching as if he were hiding a smile.

“I’m Pandora,” the woman introduced. “This is my brother, Evan. We would each like to get a tattoo today, but they will be different.”

“What exactly are you looking to get done?” Regulus asked for Barty, because he was still staring at Evan’s mouth.

“I would like three red spider lilies,” Pandora said, “to represent those close to me who have passed.”

“The death flower,” Regulus said softly, then he stepped forward to speak to Pandora directly. “My work is mostly florals. Would you like to take a look?”

Regulus led her off to a table used for consultations with clients, leaving Barty alone with Evan.

“And what are you looking for?” Barty asked, trying not to stare at the other man in front of him.

I want a jackal skull,” Evan said. “With plenty of detail.”

Barty grinned then. “That, I can do.”

[jadeoru]

SMUDGED LIPSTICK

20: dissipating fear -> prev / mlist / next

now playing: deep red - movements 🎶

The doorbell rang once, twice, and when she showed no sign of answering, it rang a third time. Confused by the insistence, she slowly sat up from her couch. She tugged all 3 blankets off with mourning burning in her chest. It was far too cold. She wanted to crawl back under the warmth and enjoy her second nap of the day. Unfortunately, curiosity got the better of her. She stood up, pulled the cuff of her sweatpants leg, that hitched up as she tossed around in her sleep, down and made her way to her front door. She didn’t look through the peephole. Why didn’t she look through the peephole? How different would the outcome of that afternoon be if she had looked through the peephole? She unlocked the door, and slowly pulled it open. Peeking her head from the side, she would have screamed, only her shock kept her at bay. Standing in front of her, on her own porch, was him. He stood there as if it was all too familiar, reminding you of many things: rainy days spent under the porch, trying to light her cigarette. Her hands were always too shaky from the cold. She never had to worry about burning herself, because he would always end up lighting it for her. He stood on that porch as if it were a monument; a symbol of which he loved and worshipped. Her stomach felt sick.

He looked distraught; his curls were slightly messy, almost frizzy. Her Omi was never like that. He wouldn’t leave the house without making sure each individual curl on his head was perfect. Maybe that was a slight exaggeration, but her Omi cared too much to leave his house looking like that. His haphazardly styled hair was accompanied with dark circles under his eyes, which was also unlike her Omi. Sleepovers. Whenever they had sleepovers he made it abundantly clear that he needed more than eight hours of sleep, never settling for less.  - He always made sure she did too. He barely looked like he slept a second. His clothes looked lazily chosen too, he had a plain dark grey jumper on, with black sweatpants to match. He was without a doubt Sakusa Kiyoomi, but she struggled to see Omi. She swallowed the lump in her throat and it didn't go away; like a pill swallowed dry. 

“Sakusa? What the fuck are you doing here?” She asked, but it wasn’t a question. He could tell; almost reading her mind. What she meant to say was: “Go. Get out of here - Far away from me, and don’t come back.” He knew he wasn’t welcome, part of him wanted to turn on his heel and listen to her unspoken plea. But he knew that was pointless, he’d always come back. “I need to talk to you.” he spoke sternly. She could hear the desperation that stained his tongue - it only served to fuel her anger.  “I don’t want to see you.” she spat, her face twisting with a mix of anger and disgust. Her heart was searching for a reason to forget everything and take him back. Something, anything, but she found nothing. She gave him enough chances, and he wasted them. She wasn’t going to let it slide. She found no reasons to let him back into her heart, but she found a million to slam the door in his face. As her hand pushed the door, he stuck his foot out, preventing it from shutting. He stepped inside, to stop her from shutting him out. He called her name like a prayer, and she couldn’t count the emotions heard in his tone on one hand.

“Please listen to me. Let me explain everything.” He pleaded, his tired eyes were filled with sorrow. She had no more fucks to give him. Her arms crossed, fists clenching as she struggled to keep her volume at a normal level. “I don't want to hear shit from you!” She shouted, her voice trembled slightly. He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to her, she pushed it off of her quickly. “Everything will make sense if you just let me explain!” He shouted back, but quickly regretted raising his voice. He mentally kicked himself, trying to remain calm. “No! I don’t need your explanations! I gave you a second chance, and you fucking blew it!” she began. Her hand pointed at him angrily, enunciating each syllable that left her lips with pure disdain. He tried to cut her off, saying her name to get her to listen, but she kept going. “I just don’t understand you, Sakusa! We were finally on good terms again - great terms! But, no! You just had to fuck it up, didn’t you? Now that you finally had me on your side, you got bored, huh? Was that it? The chase was over? Was I boring you?!” she yelled, not once listening to any excuse he had to explain himself.

“Why did you just disappear again? We were finally good again! Was it because we fucked? Is that it?” her eyes were wide and her eyebrows were furrowed. He quickly shook his head. “Of course not! I just-” she cut him off, unbothered to hear his shitty way of redeeming himself. “What? Was I getting in the way of your little girlfriend?” she asked, disgust on her tongue She wasn’t stupid. She saw all of the news accounts - him going on dates with a girl at their cafe. His eyebrows furrowed, his face scrunching with pure confusion. “What? What are you talking about?” he asked, desperate to understand. She scoffed. “Don’t play dumb! The girl you keep bringing to the café! Is she so insecure that she can’t handle us being friends?!" Oh. Now he knew what she was talking about; Kiyoko. He met with Kiyoko for advice - to help talk to her. The situation was diving from misunderstanding to misunderstanding. But, he had the patience to stay, waiting for his chance to clear everything up.

“Girlfriend?  Don’t tell me you believe those news accounts - They call anyone I look at my girlfriend! They’ve said the same thing about you for fuck’s sake!” He yelled, trying to get her to just listen to him. “Then why the hell have you been avoiding me? I thought we were fine- i thought we were fucking incredible! But then one day you just fucking changed! You just left me like it was nothing! Just like last time! I don’t understand why-” her voice was filled with emotion, and she desperately fought back tears. He let out a shaky breath. Clenching his fists, he cut her off. “Because I fell in love with you!” he shouted, louder than her - louder than the thoughts that whirled in both of their heads, effectively silencing everything. 

Everything went quiet, and for a second Sakusa almost turned around and went home. She stared at him, pure shock evident in her eyes. His knuckles were white from clenching his fists so hard, but they slowly regained colour as he looked down to the ground. “Again.” he added quietly, filling the silence, and adding to the confusion that lingered in the atmosphere. She blinked, dumbfounded. All of the rage slowly dissipated out of her. Not because she forgave him, - it was replaced by a need for answers; an explanation. “What?” she asked, her voice was shaky, and weak from shouting. She couldn’t believe the words she heard. He had to be joking right? Love was an arrow to the heart, that pierced through any worries or insecurities; it pushed through any obstacle, and surrounded the heart in joy. Love wasn’t a bullet to the head, a wound that reopened after years of trying to heal. None of his actions made any sense to her. If he loved her, surely the logical thing to do would be to tell her, right? She needed the peace of understanding. He took a deep, shaky breath, struggling to find the right words. “I… um.. This sounds so unbelievably stupid but please just let me explain.” He pleaded; his usual stoic, unbothered appearance was long forgotten. It was strange to see him so… expressive. Everything about him lately had just been so strange. She didn’t respond, she stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

“When we were younger… um.. before we fought, I really liked you. And… it scared me.” He paused, the room quickly filled with silence. “You were just so… perfect. You were funny, kind, caring, pretty and I couldn't help but want to be yours.  And.. then we got closer, and I started to think that maybe you liked me back… and I got scared. There were so many other people you could’ve been with - so many people that could’ve given you the happiness you deserve. I didn’t want you to choose me. I mean, I'm a mess. I can’t love you like someone else could. You deserve so much better. So I panicked and.. Well, I left. I know it was stupid, I really shouldn’t have done that. And you’d think I'd learn from my mistakes, but no!  I went and did the same thing again!” he clenched his fist as he spoke, his knuckles turned white again and his fingernails were scraping his palms painfully. But that was the last thing on his mind. “When we became friends again I was the happiest I'd been in a while. But, then the feelings came back, and… I left you again. But I swear I tried to apologise. I realised how stupid it was but by that point you had me blocked and I didn’t know what else to do.. So, I met up with your friend Kiyoko for advice, because I really value our friendship and I don't want to lose you again. I thought that leaving you would help the feelings go away but they only got worse. When you’re gone it’s like.., there’s something missing. I can’t function properly without you near me. It sounds pathetic but that’s just what you do to me. I can’t even sleep anymore without thinking about you. You’ve made me into this mess of a person and I should hate you for it but I just can’t. I could never hate you.” He spoke frantically, letting all of his thoughts out, some of which were kept inside since they were younger. His voice cracked as he reached the end of his final sentence, gradually quieting as he tried to calm himself down. “I regret hurting you, and I regret never telling you how I felt. I understand if you never want to see me again, but I can’t live the rest of my life without telling you how I feel.”

She didn’t realise she had been holding her breath until she involuntarily gasped for air. She had never felt so many emotions in a single moment than she had then. He looked at her in a way that made her want to both punch his face and kiss it. She let his words process in her mind, trying to figure out an appropriate response. She was beyond conflicted, and although she hated to admit it, the sight of him so vulnerable; desperate to make things right between them made her heart flutter a little. She was still struggling to grasp the concept of him liking her back. She had so much to say, and yet no words left her mouth. He spoke up again before she could, desperate to fill the silence before it consumed him whole. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving you.” He almost whispered, the regret in his voice was loud, despite how quiet he spoke. She was silent again, which made him unbearably anxious. He couldn’t stand the aching feeling inside of him; the guilt and regret that surrounded him, leaving him no opportunity to escape. Every breath he took caused the pain to sting a little more. He was slowly crumbling apart under her gaze.

She took a few steps towards him, until they were only a few inches apart. She looked at him with intentions he couldn’t quite put his finger on; he had yet to decipher. He stood there, confused, waiting for her to say something, anything. Despite her confident exterior, not even she was fully sure what she was doing. She was undeniably pissed off. She was also sad, strangely relieved, and ultimately frustrated at her rapidly beating heart. She didn’t trust herself to speak, knowing she didn’t have the right words to say to him - so she let her hand do the talking for her; slapping him across the face with a loud clap. It hurt, and she didn’t hold back; the sharp pain that rippled through his face did a good job at establishing her anger. He stood there and took it without a single complaint. The second her hand left his face his eyes immediately found their way back to her.

“You deserved that.” She said, a shadow of a smile on her face. “I know.” He admitted, breathlessly. He didn’t care about the stinging pain that danced on his cheek, he was just glad she was even acknowledging him to begin with. Months of painful silence really does something to a person.

A part of her was annoyed that he didn’t react to being slapped. The selfish part of her - that wanted to bring him the pain that he inflicted on her. But in all honesty, she didn’t expect him to react any differently. Even though there were times she wished it wasn’t true, she knew him more than she knew herself. The fluttering eyelashes that decorated his harsh, angry eyes, which seemed to soften around her, were as familiar as a morning breeze. He wasn’t just some ‘what could have been’-relationship, he was her Omi. Even after all that came between them, he was hers.

He waited for her next move, not knowing what else to do. He could tell there was something else she wanted to do, or say. He could sense the hesitation in her eyes. His heart banged in his chest; a syncopated rhythm of anticipation and admiration. He found himself struggling to stay in place, his body unconsciously trying to lean in to her warmth. He searched her for a sign of anything; her body language, her eyes, - he tried to find any hint to what was going through her mind. He could see the temptation in her heart, it matched his own. There was something she wanted to do, badly. It was an urge; an itch that she couldn’t scratch unless she went through with it. She knew she shouldn’t, and she was fully aware of the consequences if she did go through with it, but her lips were pressed against his before either of them could fully realise what was happening. Bad decisions were the foundation of their relationship anyways. Bad ideas were a fluent language when it came to them; There was no harm in adding another one to the mix. She pulled him towards her by his shirt, and kissed him like it was what she was born to do; letting all of the love she felt for him out into the air without saying any words. Her anger slowly faded away with every passing second spent with their lips connected.  He was caught off guard at first, tensing up with wide eyes as he realised what was happening. He quickly melted into her touch, cherishing every second of it like it was the last time he ever could. It was quick, and anything but perfect. But it perfectly encapsulated how she felt. It did a better job at conveying her feelings than words ever could. She was mad at him for what he had done to her, but she could never hold a grudge against him when he looked at her the way he did. A single moment has never felt so right.

The kiss was the best and worst thing that ever happened to him. He knew this. She probably knew it too. It was everything he ever wanted, and that was the problem. If he couldn’t push his feelings for her aside then, there was no chance he’d ever be able to from then on. The bittersweet sensation of her lips pressed against his was one he found himself addicted to. As their lips collided, he couldn’t help the fear that loomed over him. The fear he found himself used to; familiar. Now that he got a taste, he knew he’d never want to let her get away, which only served to make his fears worse. But strangely, he had a weird feeling that things would be alright.

After what felt like both the longest and shortest moment of his life, she pulled away from him reluctantly, staring into his eyes. Silence fell over the two of them, as they caught their breath. Their faces remained inches apart, as if an invisible magnet was keeping them together. He gulped, still struggling to come to terms with everything that’s happened. He cleared his throat. “Does.. does this mean you forgive me?” he asked, a genuine tone in his voice. He sounded exhausted. She couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her lips. Unfortunately. “Would I have kissed you if I didn’t?” She asked rhetorically, a smirk on her face. Her mind still struggled to process what had just happened between them; reeling at the close distance between them. “Fair point..” he muttered, finding himself smiling slightly. Despite all of the worries and fears that plagued his mind for years; a loud constant in his life that festered deep within him, one look into her eyes made it all go quiet. The way she smiled at him had him thinking that ‘yeah, everything would be alright.’

They were quiet again for a moment, this time it was comfortable. It was a nice moment of peace, where they mutually enjoyed the fact that things were finally good again - again. She was quick to fill the silence again after a while. “So you’ve had a crush on me since High School, huh?” She teased, relishing in the way his face quickly grew flustered. He looked down to the ground, a wave of slight embarrassment washing over him.  “Maybe..” he admitted, looking up at her hesitantly. “Quit looking at me like that, idiot.” He added, and her smirk only grew. “What? It’s cute! Who knew that Mr. Serious Pants was capable of feeling this kind of thing!” She chuckled, watching with pleased eyes as her teasing had a visible effect on him; even if he tried to deny it. “Don’t call me that.” he stated sternly, stepping back from her with an agitated pout. She laughed. She laughed and he hated how it was the one sound he had wanted to hear for the three months. But he told her all she needed to know, he wouldn’t tell her that. Not if he wanted to be a victim to her endless teasing. “Shut up.” He tried to remain a calm, uninterested tone, but his voice cracked slightly; flustered.

She was quiet again, before stepping closer to him and  pulling him into a hug. He had a vague idea, but he didn’t know just how much she had missed him. Even if she disguised her yearning with anger. He was taken aback, but quickly adjusted to her warmth, awkwardly wrapping his arms around her and patting her back. She chuckled. “I’ve liked you since High School too, y’know.” She confessed, leaning her head to the side so he wouldn’t see her face. He let out a huff of amusement. “Oh really now? Are you saying that you still like me now?” He asked, beyond desperate to hear her answer, but he didn’t make it obvious. She laughed again, pulling away from him to look at him. “Mm, and what if it does?” she asked, a goofy smile on her face - The smile he would spend late nights thinking about. “Well, I'd probably ask to kiss you again.” He admitted, sheepishly. “Well in that case, I really like you, Omi. - More than just a friend…” She looked up at him with doting eyes, her smile spreading out to her cheeks. She knew that it was stupid to be nervous, especially since she knew he felt the same. But she couldn’t help the anxious butterflies that tore her apart from the inside. She couldn’t prevent the lump in her throat that didn’t want to go away. His eyes softened, trying his best to ignore the blush that crept onto his cheeks. “I..” he began, mentally hyping himself up to continue. “I really like you too.” His voice was quiet, but she heard every word, and clung onto each syllable that left his lips with love and desperation. The smile on her face never faltered, only increasing in size. 

He leaned in close to her, something he could never get used to, and paused when they were only a breath apart; their noses almost touching. “I believe I owe you a kiss.” A small smirk filled his face. She chuckled, “I believe you do.” No other words were uttered, nothing else needed to be said. He leaned even closer, before he finally connected their lips again. His lips moved gently and tenderly against hers. It was sweet and unhurried, wordlessly expressing the love for each other that they had to keep to themselves for so long. All of it seeped through their lips and into the other’s. He was inexperienced, and struggled to figure out where to put his hands; opting to place one at the back of her head. She placed her hands on his cheeks, stroking it lovingly with her thumb. He hummed into the kiss, slowly losing his mind at the pure satisfaction that coursed through his veins. The only reason he pulled away was to catch his breath, and even then, he immediately missed the sensation of their lips pressed against one another. She looked into his eyes with a lovesick smile, seemingly drunk on love. He wasn’t aware that he was looking at her in the exact same way.

“Omi?” She asked, quietly, removing her hands from his cheeks, and nervously fidgeting with her fingers. He could’ve whined with annoyance as her hands left his face, but for the sake of his dignity and pride, he didn’t. He noticed the sudden change in the atmosphere, and couldn’t help but feel like he knew where this was going. “Yeah?” he asked, reluctantly. She hesitated, swallowing and taking a deep breath. “Could we.. maybe give this a try?” She asked him, a hint of nervousness and yearning spreading across her features. He was silent, and she could practically see the mental contemplation he was facing in his mind; a silent battle between his love for her, and the lack of love he had for himself. “Are you sure you won’t regret it?” he suddenly spoke up, his voice quiet. She smiled softly, placing her hand on his shoulder in an attempt to quiet his whirling mind. “The only thing I regret is not asking you sooner, dumby.” She tried to lighten him up, but she could still see the guilty fear that silently tore him apart. She noticed how his eyes strayed from hers, looking down to the ground. “I know I won't regret it.” She reassured, and his eyes reconnected with hers. He spoke up again, his voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry that I won't be able to love you like you might want me to..” His eyes were clouded by a guilty melancholy. “I.. I don't know what I’m doing, but I can try.” He added, a tone of promise and determination laced in his words. He might not be able to love her the way a normal person could, but he wouldn’t go down without trying. He tried to move on twice, and it didn’t work out either time. He couldn’t just stand there and let someone else take his place. He needed to grow up. He wasn’t sure if he could make her as happy as someone else could, but the selfish part of him couldn’t even handle the idea of seeing her with someone else. He was gonna try, - and he was gonna try hard.

“It’s okay. I can teach you.”

The way those words left her lips fed him with a new confidence, and suddenly the tormenting fear began to disappear. Things were gonna be okay. His lips curled up into a wide smile, and it had her heart pounding in her chest.

“Then.. will you be my girlfriend?” He asked, and a chuckle left her lips.

“Of course I will, Omi. You big idiot.”

She wrapped her arms around the back of his neck, and pulled him in for another kiss; full of relief, passion and devoid of fear. Fear was left behind - An old friend whisked away into the night.

He was going to love her like it was what he was born to do. 

bonus thingy for the funsies:

“Hey you left your door open dumba-” Nishinoya stood there in shock; eyes flicking from Sakusa to her as they quickly broke apart from their kiss.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” He yelled, eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at the scene in front of him.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” She asked, a rush of embarrassment crashing over her like a tidal wave.

“I DITCHED THE PARTY TO SEE IF MY BEST FRIEND WAS DOING OKAY!”

“WHY DIDN’T YOU KNOCK?”

“WELL I FIGURED YOU WOULD BE TOO LAZY TO OPEN IT FOR ME - NOT CANOODLING WITH THE ENEMY! Hi by the way..”

“..Hey Nishinoya.”

TAGLIST: @gojoed @anianurst @itsdragonius @sleepy-writer84 @yuminako @wolffmaiden @tenjikusstuff4 @juie3 @ilyless @arachnoia @choizzn @3lectraheart @sugarrhiccupp @bbybibi @diorzs @le000xxgrd @aboveasphodel @petrus1989 @aria-in-wonderland @walllflowerrrsss @wave2mia

@loveelylacey @marimisses @alpha-mommy69 @thepurpleempath @theauthorunicorn @v1oletfury @iluvmang @slashkxe @soupofmushrooms @megmercury @renardiererin @violetesensou @wtfdudewhydidyoutakemyusername @ast4rg1rl

@dazqa @yoshit-he-dinosaur @chaotic-nat @solaqes @crimcriminal @am-i-ok-no @myromanempiree @jaynawayna @h0neybunni @sunakeiji @zazathezaer @lordbugs @sillygooseymood @zq13 @cat-seltzer @thatonecroc @kuroosfavkitten @beckxisxinxlovexwithxjin @navymacaroons

a/n: i typed a wholeeee sappy speech and tumblr fucking obliterated it this was my last straw

we're done!!!!! it's finally finished!!!! sorry this took so long my life was literally insane i was homeless at one point lmfao BUT WE PERSEVERED!!!! thank you so much for being patient and thank you for the love and understanding i hope all of you are well and taking care of yourselves!!!!1 shoutout to the lovely @eggyrocks ! i made a cheeky reference to their smau maneater (the dj and bouncer enemies to lovers) ITS SO GOOD PLEASE CHECK IT OUT !! THANK YOU FOR READING!!! THEY'RE FINALLY TOGETHER!!!! HAPPY EVER AFTER!!!!!!