#link sans sleeves

[link-sans-specs]

That's not a song, you suckling coffee squib!

GMM870

Testing the Concert Poncho

[sweetlemontart]

nocturnal | choi seungcheol [M]

summary ⇾ tipsy from after-work drinks, seungcheol returns home on friday night to find you asleep. he tries not to look, but his wandering eyes keep drifting over to your slumbering figure, and he knows rest won’t come easy when you seem to be tempting him even in your sleep. seungcheol could resolve his little predicament all by himself, but shouldn’t you be the one to take responsibility for making him feel this way?  

PAIRING // choi seungcheol x fem!reader

GENRE // some fluff, mostly smut, pwp (i mean it, I'm warning u), sub!reader, dom!seungcheol, fiancé!seungcheol

WARNING // 18+, explicit sexual content, established relationship, unprotected sex, somnophilia, consensual voyeurism, male masturbation, slight size kink, oral (m&f receiving), creampie, fingering (f receiving), edging, choking, thigh riding, talks about having kids, cheol is a teasing little sh*t

WORD COUNT // 13k

AUTHOR’S NOTE // 13k of just smut lol btw have yall seen GDA cheol? the all black fit and rolled up sleeves and the dark hair... moving on, happy new year to everyone who reads this, may 2024 bring us endless happiness and love ( ˊᵕˋ )♡.°⑅ do reblog if u enjoy this fic. I'm working on a wonwoo fic that has ten times more plot than this so pls stay tuned for that :) song rec is rock your body - clara la san

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You're already in bed when your fiancé returns home from work, drifting in and out of sleep, wanting to wait for him to come home but unable to fight your weariness. Friday is always the busiest day at work, and the idea of being able to stay in bed until noon the next day only makes you want to wait up for him even more.

Seungcheol must think you're already asleep. It's reasonable that he thinks that way—you're a light sleeper and often go to bed early. He tries his best to stay quiet as he moves around. You had barely heard him enter the apartment, and only faint thuds of his sock-clad feet can be heard as he meanders around the house. 

When Seungcheol enters the bedroom, he's a little sceptical as to why the bedside lamp is still on, casting a dim, yellow glow across the room. His eyes search for you, finding you cocooned under the covers, lying on your left side with your back turned to him. He knows you can't sleep with any light on, but he deduces you must've been waiting for him and inevitably succumbed to sleep. 

Seungcheol moves toward the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom. He's slightly tipsy from downing a few beers with his co-workers after work. He feels light on his feet, and his once-gelled hair is no longer slicked back, some unruly strands now falling over his forehead. He hears you shift on the bed as he loosens his tie, but he doesn't think much of it, proceeding to unbutton his dress shirt.

Two buttons in, he hears movement from the bed again, and this time, he looks in your direction in the mirror, taken aback when his eyes meet your bleary ones. He turns his head to look at you, his mouth curling into a lazy smile. "I thought you were asleep," he says in a low voice. 

You say nothing, propping your elbow up on your pillow and leaning your head against it to get a better look at your fiancé. He turns back to the mirror, and you notice the rosy tint colouring his cheeks. You sigh dreamily, admiring him from the bed. Seungcheol is tall—that much is obvious—but those dress pants do his legs wonder. 

When he reaches for his belt, you can't help but stare. His dress shirt is still tucked into the pants, the first few buttons open, baring the soft skin of his chest. Your eyes wander, and you think Seungcheol does notice. The man does not miss a thing when it comes to you. 

The sound of his belt unbuckling makes your legs curl closer to your body, and Seungcheol definitely notices this time because he stops his movement, fingers hovering over the button of his pants. When he turns on his heels, your eyes finally snap back up to look at his face. He doesn't say anything as he approaches, coming to a stop beside the bed, towering over you.

He reaches one hand out to caress your cheek with the back of his fingers. It's a feathery touch, and your eyes naturally flutter close, head tilting into his touch just the slightest. Gentle fingers thread into your hair, brushing it back and tucking loose strands behind your ear.

Your eyes snap open when you feel his thumb against your bottom lip. At first, it's harmless, and he's only dragging the pad of his thumb across your lip, but then he starts to dip further into your mouth. He lets out a soft sigh when your lips part, allowing his thumb to rest against your tongue. Then, your mouth wraps around his finger, suckling at it softly, and his breath catches in his throat when he feels just how warm and wet your mouth is.

It's over before you want it to be. Seungcheol smiles a little too innocently, removing his thumb from your mouth and patting your cheek. "Get some rest, baby. I'm going to take a quick shower."

You don't stop him as he walks into the en suite bathroom, surprised that he hadn't immediately taken his clothes off and taken you right then and there. Seungcheol's self-control has always been immaculate when it comes to sex, but refusing to do it on a Friday night when neither he nor you have work tomorrow morning? You chalk it up to his exhaustion after working overtime, so you lie back in bed, eyes refusing to close even though your body is screaming at you to rest.

Seungcheol emerges from the bathroom not even a minute later, shirtless, belt discarded, pants unbuttoned. He takes off his silver Rolex, carefully setting it down on the bedside table near his side of the bed—as always. To your disappointment, he doesn't spare you even a glance before walking back into the bathroom.

You find yourself sighing, anticipating what seems to be an uneventful Friday night. You and Seungcheol usually spend Friday nights together— going out for dinner or unwinding with a movie on the couch. But if your lover is too tired to do anything other than sleep, you understand. You also have days when you feel too drained to do anything other than lie in bed and mull over your thoughts. Besides, it isn't like you don't have the entire weekend to make up for it—hell, you have your whole life to make up for it. 

Seungcheol leaves the bathroom door open behind him. It's not strange for either of you to keep the bathroom door open while showering. Privacy isn't much of an issue for both of you. 

You fall back asleep relatively quickly, not thinking much about the fact that the shower hasn't started running even though Seungcheol has been in the bathroom for at least five minutes.

You awaken again soon enough to the sound of soft sighs and some rustling from the direction of the couch placed near the bedroom door. At first, you try to ignore it, thinking Seungcheol might just be getting himself ready for bed. Then another sigh follows, and you peek an eye open to take a quick look. What you think will be a quick look turns into so much more. 

Your beloved fiancé sits with his legs spread on the white couch, still shirtless and wearing his dress pants. This time, however, his boxer has been pushed down just slightly, and he's lazily stroking his cock in his hand, his other arm splayed across the backrest of the couch. His skin is pale and milky, glowing in the golden light. He smiles when you prop yourself on your elbow, blinking blearily as if trying to comprehend what you are currently seeing.

He's rock hard, shaft glistening with pre-cum. You and Seungcheol have always loved trying new things in bed, pushing yourself to the limit, testing just how far each of you will go before you tap out. But this... the thought that Seungcheol was touching himself to the sight of you asleep—it stirs something in you. You've always loved waking up with Seungcheol's cock inside you. The drag of his cock feels especially good when you're still drowsy, trying to pull yourself together but failing each time because your lover just feels so good inside you. But this is different.

Seungcheol's hand speeds up, and the way he groans makes you lose your train of thought. The silver ring sits snugly on his little finger—the coolness of it must feel so good on his cock. You don't break eye contact, shifting onto your stomach and folding your arms underneath your head as you watch him. You wouldn't be able to look away even if you wanted to.

Seungcheol grits his jaw when he sees you smile. It's the last thing he expects. You look so sweet, and he starts to wonder about the sight he would be met with if he were to pull the covers away from your body. Are you wearing the sheer nightgown he always loves seeing on you? Or maybe you're wearing nothing, and he'd be able to spread your legs apart and slip himself right into the warmth of your needy cunt.

Seungcheol straightens his posture just a little, cock twitching in his hold at the sight of your smile. You look so at ease, enjoying this more than he had anticipated. He was half expecting to get an earful from you, thinking you would probably scold him for his bizarre behaviour, but this, he wasn't expecting at all, and that makes his cock harden, balls tightening almost painfully. Seungcheol feels as though he's about to burst from the inside. Your smile—as if you're taunting him, teasing him.

"Fuck, fuck..." he breathes out, head tilting back, eyes closing, savouring the feeling of his rough, calloused hand moving up and down his cock. The fact that you're most likely still watching him makes his abs tense up, trying to hold back from finishing too fast. It has barely been ten minutes since he started, but the sight of your smile feels like it's burned into the back of his eyelids. It makes his brain go haywire.

He risks another look at you and immediately realises he has made a grave mistake. Instantly, he's cumming hard, unable to hold himself back because you're looking at him so prettily—slow blinks and a sleepy smile. A loud groan rips from Seungcheol's chest, fist wrapped around the tip of his cock, stroking it just barely, trying to milk everything out. His cum trickles down his knuckles, down his shaft.

The intensity of your gaze, fixed squarely on his leaking cock, spurs Seungcheol to stand up. He rids himself off his dress pants and boxers, using the latter to wipe off most of his release before walking closer to you. Seungcheol stops on the side of the bed, stroking his softening cock almost languidly. He doesn't have to say anything, and you're already sitting up against the headboard, reaching a hand to grab at his wrist to pull him even closer. Seungcheol perches one knee on the bed, watching as you lick your lips at the sight of his cum. You're still fucking smiling, and he feels himself growing hard again.

"Enjoyed that, did we?" he says quietly, trying not to break the peace and quiet too much in case you feel like going back to sleep after his little 'show'. 

"Very much," you reply, voice slightly scratchy from sleep. 

Seungcheol is so thick everywhere, and it makes you dizzy. Your eyes roam over his chest, bulky arms, and firm thighs. Your lover has always been strong and filled in all the right places, and you love it. He has no problem picking you up, tossing you around, manhandling you into different positions. He doesn't struggle with keeping you steady when he's fucking you against the wall or any other surface.

You brush aside his hand from his cock, tongue lolling out to lick at the excess cum on his knuckles, cleaning it off his skin. The salty, bitter taste floods your tongue, and you immediately take him into your mouth. Seungcheol hisses when you do, loving the way your mouth envelopes him. You don't waste any time trying to take all of him in, mouth stretching almost painfully around the heavy girth that's starting to harden again, your thighs pressing together to get some friction. You must look pitiful to Seungcheol, trying to fit all of him in your mouth in your sleepy state, hips shifting slightly on the bed, trying to get some relief.

Breathing in, you look up—right into his eyes—before moving forward until the tip of your nose presses into his lower stomach. He breathes out a chuckle when you gag, throat constricting around his cock. Your eyes fill with tears, but you don't pull away until you're sputtering and the droplets of tears trickle down your cheeks. Seungcheol's quick to cup your jaw, thumb brushing against the pearling teardrops on your cheek. "Easy, baby... I know you're tired. Don't force it..."

Hearing Seungcheol's instructions, you stick to shallow motions, using your hand to stroke the rest of his length you can't fit in your mouth. Seungcheol's hip jerks forward a little when you drag your tongue along the underside of his cock, tracing the veins and circling the tip. Seungcheol mumbles an apology as he weaves a hand through your hair and starts to thrust his hips forward little by little, lost in the feeling of your mouth.

His cock glistens with your spit in the low light, and your eyes fall shut naturally, basking in the quiet noises Seungcheol is making. He doesn't force you to take all of him, pulling his hips back before the tip of his cock can reach your throat. You appreciate his sentiment, even if you feel awake enough to take whatever he gives you. 

Your eyes snap open when you feel the cold air against your bare legs. Seungcheol has yanked the blanket away from your body and is now peering down at your exposed form, clad in his grey shirt and a pair of white panties. Your panties are nothing special, but Seungcheol feels his cock twitch in your mouth when he sees the wet patch on the crotch of your underwear.

He can feel the vibration of your moan against his cock when his finger grazes over the damp spot on your panties. He can't resist using the tips of his fingers to rub over your clothed pussy, teasing up and down the slit, watching the way the drenched fabric sticks to your dripping cunt—thoroughly soaked and ruined before he has even done anything to you. 

When you pull away from his cock momentarily to take a much-needed breath, Seungcheol immediately leans down to capture your lips with his in a bruising kiss. He swallows all your moans, rolling his tongue over yours, dragging it against your lower lip. He doesn't pull away, even as he tugs the crotch of your panties to the side and starts to circle your clit with his fingers, which makes your legs snap shut, trapping his hand in between.

Seungcheol pulls away from the kiss, glancing down at his trapped hand before looking back at you almost expectedly. "Open," he commands. You don't need to be told twice, immediately parting your legs.

"Good girl..."

Seungcheol prods at your hole with two fingers, slipping both in only halfway. They slide in easily, slick from the wetness seeping out of your pulsing hole and the remnants of precum messily smeared all over his cock as he was jerking himself off.

"You got this wet from watching me? Or were you touching yourself before I got home?" Seungcheol grunts, gazing down at the way your pussy is fluttering around his fingers. The squelching sound is obscene, resounding throughout the bedroom. "Messy little thing..." he mumbles quietly, lost in thought as he lets his fingers dip into you right down to the knuckle. 

You gasp, pulling your mouth away from his cock to look up at his face. Seungcheol doesn't meet your eyes, seemingly entranced by the sight of his fingers between your legs. Bending one of your knees, you spread your legs wider. After dating Seungcheol for two years and being engaged for one and a half, you don't feel the need to hide from him nor the embarrassment of presenting yourself to him like you're his to own and use as he pleases. In all honesty, he possesses every part of you—your heart, your soul, every inch of your body. He is yours as much as you are his. 

When Seungcheol adds a third finger, he finally looks back at your face, not wanting to miss how your eyebrows furrow and mouth gape open at the tight fit. His fingers are thick—much more so than yours—but his cock is even more so, and he definitely needs to stretch you out to get you ready, or he will risk hurting you. There are occassions when a little bit of pain is most welcome, but tonight, his main objective is to give you pleasure.

With a trembling hand, you reach up to grasp at his cock, stroking him slowly, matching the pace of his fingers as they dip in and out of you. You know you won't be able to use your mouth properly, not when he's touching you so earnestly and looking down at you as though he hasn't ever seen you in such a position in your years of being together. 

"You touch yourself before I came home, sweetheart?"

You're quick to shake your head, slumping further down the headboard as he continues to play with your pussy. "No..." you whimper, jolting when he suddenly curls his fingers, tips of his fingers firmly pressing up against the spongy spot inside you that sends a current of pleasure darting up your spine. "I got so wet from watching you, Cheol," you sigh out, hips canting up to match the movement of his hand. "I love watching you..."

Seungcheol hums, grinning down at you, pleased with your response. "Aw, my baby always loves watching me, isn't that right?" 

His free hand envelopes the hand around his cock, urging you to keep stroking him. The ring on his middle finger glints in the light—it's the ring you gave him a week after his proposal. It serves as a reminder that no one else but him has the privilege to have you like this. No one else will ever get to touch you, kiss you, make love to you, and fuck you the way he intends to tonight. You're his, forever, and the idea has him grunting out your name breathlessly. 

With his hand atop yours, he guides your hand up and down his length at a pace that makes him hiss. Your hand is much smaller than his, fingertips barely meeting around his thick girth. His skin prickles whenever you tighten your hand around him just slightly every time your hand reaches just under the head of his cock, squeezing him just the way you know he likes it. 

"Fuck..." he exhales, sweat beading down his temple. "So good, sweetheart..."

"Cheol..."

"Hm? Tell me what's wrong."

You glance down at the hand between your legs, feeling short of breath from watching the way your slick seems to coat Seungcheol's fingers, some staining your thigh, some smeared on the palm of his hand. You suck in a big breath, stomach caving in. When you return your gaze to him, you're surprised to find he's already looking at you, the tip of his pink tongue peeking out to rest against his bottom lip. The way he's looking at you makes you feel sweltering hot. 

"My shirt, p-please," you stutter out, feeling suffocated in only one layer of clothing. 

Seungcheol immediately understands what you're asking, but he makes no move to take your shirt off. You whine when he suddenly retracts his fingers from your pussy, leaving you feeling so empty. He peels your hand off his cock, leaving you baffled and so goddamn frustrated. 

"Cheol, why'd—"

He hushes you, lowering himself onto the end of the bed. He grabs both your thighs, pulling you down from the headboard. His cock nudges against the back of your thigh, so close to where you want him the most. 

"Oh, God," you breathlessly pant. "Need you inside me," you tell him, feeling frenzied. You move to pull off your shirt, but he grunts, shaking his head. 

"Don't," he orders, using his grip on your thighs to spread your legs wide enough for him to be able to get a good view of your sloppy cunt, all slick and puffy from the onslaught of his fingers. "I like seeing you in my shirt," he says in a faraway voice, distracted by the sight of your pussy, hole clenching around nothing, almost inviting him to dive right in. 

You groan, propping yourself up onto your elbows, chest heaving. You lick at your dry lips, sending Seungcheol a pleading look, but he doesn't meet your eyes, too absorbed with the mess in between your legs. "Cheol, baby—"

Without warning, Seungcheol leans down, shoving his face into your pussy, mouth hungrily devouring your heat. You fall back onto the bed with a startled shout, jaw hanging open as you try to comprehend the sudden onslaught of pleasure that threatens to consume you whole. Seungcheol is good with his mouth and familiar enough with your body to know how to bring you close to the edge in only minutes. 

He's sucking at your clit noisily, manic with his movements like a starved man getting his first taste of food after days without it. He's greedy and ravenous, offering you no respite—not even a moment to catch your breath. 

You try to tell Seungcheol to slow down, to give you even a second to compose yourself, but only garbled moans of his name come out. By now, sleep is the last thing on your mind—only pleasure clouds it. You're trembling under him, helpless against the relentless assault of his mouth. 

When Seungcheol groans, the vibration on your most sensitive part makes you choke on air, lowering a hand down to grab the strands of his dark hair. When you try to move away from him, he clutches onto your thighs tighter, tongue teasing at your hole, swirling but never diving in. You're still trying to get away, overwhelmed. He notices this, and he brings both his arms around your thighs, hugging your legs close around his head. There's no room to move—he has you locked in. 

"Fuck, please, please, s-slow down! C-Cheol!"

He doesn't, lapping up all your juices, groaning at how your taste coats his tongue and how your smell overtakes his senses. He trusts you to say the safe word if it becomes too much. He also knows that you can take this—he has done far worse things to you before. 

The tip of his nose presses against your clit when he delves his tongue into your pussy, earning a rather rough pull of his hair from you. The pain shoots down his spine, making him slump down onto the bed to grind his bare cock on the bed. All of it makes him so light-headed. Your legs are tightening around his head, trapping him, but he doesn't mind, not even if your moans sound muffled this way. He'll get to hear you later when he fucks you silly into the mattress anyway. 

Tears brim in your eyes. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, dry from moaning so much. It's almost too much—how he is so ruthless with his mouth and tongue. He doesn't let up once, breathing in and out through his nose, delighted to be suffocated between your plush thighs. It's pure fucking torture, but it feels divine.

"Cheol... C-Close," you whisper, hoping he can hear you. 

He doesn't hear you, but he knows you enough by now. He knows the telltale sign of your orgasm approaching, knows how tight you get when you're about to cum, knows how your back arches and your toes curl. He looks at your face and reads your lips, repetitions of his name spilling past it. 

Then he's pulling your legs away from the sides of his head, ripping his mouth from your pussy. Your orgasm is brutally stolen from you, and the sheer frustration that surges through you makes you howl out his name. To make it worse, he only chuckles at you, hands rubbing comfortingly at the side of your thighs. The touch should be soothing, but it only leaves you angered. 

The sheer audacity of this man—

"You asshole," you spit out with all the venom you can muster, chest rising and falling rapidly. Tears of frustration trickle down your cheeks, and Seungcheol thinks the sight would be so lovely if he hadn't just been devouring you like you were his first meal in months. 

"Aw, don't be like that, baby..." he coos sweetly, lips and chin glossy with your juices. He wipes his face with the back of his hand before swiftly grabbing at your soiled panties, pulling them off you and tossing them somewhere in the room. He adjusts your legs, straightening both and letting them dangle over one of his shoulders. Holding his cock in his hand, he strokes it twice and then runs the tip up and down your slit.

"Choi Seungcheol, you're—you..." you trail off, finding yourself drawing a blank, still shocked by how he so meanly robbed you of your orgasm when it had been right at your fingertips. That, combined with how his cock is lightly dipping into your hole, leaves you feeling an untamed emotion, a sensation of chaos where you feel completely out of control, an experience both terrifying and exhilarating.

"Did you just call me Choi Seungcheol? We've been together for years, baby—let's not use full names now," he warns you before he sinks into you in one fell swoop, stuffing you full of every inch of him. There's a brief flash of pain as you try to adjust to the sudden stretch, hands tugging at the bedsheets and eyes rolling back. You hear him chuckle, prompting you to look up at him. You regret it almost immediately because the sight of him makes your hips lift off the bed, a strangled moan leaving you.

Your orgasm crashes into you like a freight train, sudden and jarring. You don't even register it yourself at first, at least not until the overwhelming ecstasy makes you go stiff in Seungcheol's hold, sobbing at the surge of pleasure that has striked you so abruptly. You had not had time to prepare yourself, so you try grounding yourself by grabbing his biceps and clawing at the smooth skin, leaving tender, red marks. 

"G-God, oh God, Cheollie," you whine, pinching your eyes shut because everything feels too fucking good, and you're struggling to bring yourself down from this euphoria and anchor yourself in the present. 

Seungcheol doesn't realise what's happening right away. He feels the way you clench hard around him, walls squeezing him so tight that he can't help but let out a small groan. He's caught off guard when he feels your nails digging into his arms. You're writhing underneath him—quivering, shaking—and finally, it dawns on him what has just unfolded. You just fucking came, all because he had eased his cock into your warm cunt. 

"Oh, baby..." he mutters, snickering quietly to himself. He coaxes you through your orgasm, pressing soft kisses on the side of your thigh. "Shh, good girl, that's it, ride it out for me, darling..." he murmurs against your skin, fighting back the urge to start moving his hips and fucking you through your orgasm. You've never been this sensitive before, and he knows he needs to approach this situation carefully. He doesn't want to overstimulate you too much and too soon, both for your sake and his. 

Seungcheol is equally perplexed and impressed at how little it had taken you to cum. All he had to do was slip himself into you, and you were coming undone under him? He feels his cock twitch at the thought. Seungcheol's only a man, and what you did has inflated his ego tenfold. He thinks nothing could ever top this moment, and he doesn't intend to let you live it down. 

You're not sure just how long it takes you to collect yourself. A gentle palm smoothes down your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear. The soft voice is murmuring your name, pulling you back down, down, down from your drunken daze. 

"I'm sorry," you say, still a little disoriented, gaze unfocused. You see Seungcheol's outline and see his lips moving, but you don't hear anything except the pounding of your heart in your ears. You blink a few times, forcing yourself to adjust and snap out of whatever trance you were momentarily stuck in. "I'm sorry," you repeat after finally regaining your awareness. Your eyes zero in on Seungcheol—you can see him clearly now. 

"Darling, believe me, an apology is the last thing I need," he says, slightly relieved that you seem to be returning to your senses now. He carefully sets your legs to the side, leaning down and hovering over you with a leering smile. He has you caged in his arms, looming over you with his broad frame, making you feel small. "All I need—" he begins, nosing at your jaw, breathing in your smell, "—is for you to beg."

You let out a shuddering breath, feeling the tip of his cock nudge at the back of your thigh. Somewhere in the middle of your orgasm, Seungcheol had pulled himself out of your pussy, knowing he would most likely reach his own climax if you kept clamping down on him the way you did. 

"Beg?" you echoed back, tilting your head up, giving him more access to litter kisses on your neck. 

"Mhm..." He lets his teeth graze over the sensitive skin under your jaw, not biting, just gliding over your pulse point. "Beg me to make you cum again." He ends his sentence with a playful nip on your jaw, loving how you jolt under him in surprise. 

His request isn't unusual or odd in any way. Seungcheol has said worse things to you before—things so filthy and obscene it would make a sailor blush. His words carry an unfamiliar weight this time, provoking a shyness in you that you never anticipated would be caused by his words alone. 

Warmth begins to creep up your neck, and a lump forms in your throat as something akin to humiliation washes over you. The weight of the situation starts to dawn on you. Seungcheol hadn't even had the chance to move before you were creaming all over him like a bitch in heat. The thought of it makes you want to curl into yourself and hide until morning. 

Seungcheol must feel you tensing up because he's immediately pulling away from the crook of your neck, searching your face with his eyes. You avert your eyes to the side, unable to meet his gaze with the wild embarrassment coursing through you. 

"What's wrong?" he asks you. "Look at me, baby..."

You sigh, knowing he wouldn't just let this go. Still, as you drag your gaze back to his, you can't help the shameful furrow of your eyebrows. 

Seungcheol immediately knows. "Are you... embarrassed?" he asks, the corners of his mouth curling up just slightly. 

You groan, pushing at his chest to get him to roll over to his side of the bed. He doesn't resist, moving over to give you enough space to sit up on the bed. "Ugh... 'm not embarrassed," you grumble, tucking your feet under your legs so you're sitting cross-legged on the bed. You feel Seungcheol's hand on your back, palm warm over the shirt you're still wearing as he rubs up and down to soothe you. The gesture only makes you feel even more ashamed, especially since you can hear the quiet laughter he's emitting beside you. 

Seungcheol finds it so endearing when you press your hands to your face, hiding yourself from him. His grin widens when you whine into your hands. "What are you so embarrassed for?" he asks, fully knowing the answer but still baffled about how you're so flustered from doing something that he wants to keep stored in his memory until the end of his days. The way your bewildered face had morphed into one of pure ecstasy as your orgasm washed over you is something he wants to be able to replay in his mind again and again. 

His cock jerks at the memory, and he swiftly hauls the comforter up to the middle of his torso to cover himself up. He calls out your name softly, but you don't answer him, still hiding yourself with your hands. He lets out a small sigh, knowing he'll have to get your attention some other way. 

He soon notices your engagement ring sitting on the bedside table. He knows you avoid wearing it to bed, too worried that it might slip off during the night due to your restless sleeping habits. Then, he comes up with the perfect distraction. 

Reaching over, he swiftly grabs the ring from the table before settling back into his previous position. The movement makes you retract your hands from your face, curiously glancing at him.

Seungcheol is smiling, dimples on full display. You resist the urge to poke at the little dents on his cheeks, still feeling bashful about the incident. Then, you notice the small object he's fiddling with in his hand. He's tinkering with your ring, turning it over with his fingers, fitting it around his index, grinning when it doesn't even reach halfway down his digit. 

Seungcheol's eyes seem to darken when he returns his gaze back to yours. His teeth sink into his bottom lip as he grabs your left hand, fitting the ring on your finger. The way it fits so perfectly around your supple finger evokes something primal within him. How such a small thing can symbolise the commitment and love you both have for each other is such a wonder to him. He knows that no wealth or material possessions could ever encapsulate the depth of affection he holds for you, let alone this piece of jewellery.

"If this is your way of distracting me so I don't think about what happened earlier..."

Seungcheol rolls his eyes playfully. "You're welcome to forget about it all you want, but it's gonna keep playing in my mind like a broken record whether you like it or not."

You release a sigh but refrain from arguing because Seungcheol's words ring sincere, and you're aware he wouldn't acknowledge your embarrassment anyway. 

He brings your hand to his mouth, tenderly kissing the ring. The gesture is intimate, even if he feels something entirely more carnal stirring in his stomach. "You're so much smaller than me. Could barely even fit the ring on my finger," he comments, thumbing at the small diamond sitting prettily atop the ring. 

Through your blush, you manage a reserved smile. "That's because you're so thick everywhere."

You don't mean the sentence in a weird way, but judging from Seungcheol's booming laughter, he definitely misinterpreted your words. He squeezes your hand once before tugging you down to settle half of your body on top of his. He lets you join him under the covers before cupping your cheek, urging you to look at him. 

"I'm thick everywhere, hm?" he teases you, watching how red immediately stains your cheeks. 

"Don't be gross," you grumble, letting him trail kisses from your wrist, then up to your palm, and settling on your ring. "What's with you and the ring anyway?" you ask him, finding it sweet but slightly odd that he seems so fixated on it. 

"I just had a thought, that's all," he responds, kissing each of your fingertips. 

"Go on." 

"That one day—" he says, eyes burning into yours heatedly, "—there'll be a wedding band beside this one, and you'll finally be mine forever." He says it airily, as if it's the most natural proclamation, with unwavering certainty in his emotions. 

Your heart sings at the declaration. "You're wrong on the last part." You press a fleeting kiss on his mouth, smiling when his eyebrow raises questioningly. "I don't need to be married to you to be yours."

Seungcheol grins, one of his hands skimming down your back, grabbing a handful of your ass over the oversized shirt you're wearing. "You don't know half the things you do to me, do you?" 

"I do, actually, and I plan to abuse that power," you jest, beginning to sit up, throwing one leg over your lover's hips to straddle him. 

Seungcheol is awestruck at the sight of you on top of him. You, all beautiful and celestial, and all his. He wants to worship you, ruin you, and defile you all at the same time. He's not in the right mind to say anything yet, so he only watches, both hands gliding up and down your thighs, getting higher each time, hiking the fabric of your shirt higher up as well. 

He breathes out a sigh when he allows himself to look down. Your pretty pussy is on display, all for him, with remnants of your juices on it and some smeared on your inner thighs. He's about to touch when you grab his wrist, slowly guiding his hand towards where you need him the most. He knows what you're asking of him, and he'd be stupid to deny you your wish. 

You gasp when Seungcheol starts running two of his fingers up and down your slit, coating his fingers in the wetness of your cunt, unafraid to get messy. When he sinks both fingers into your hole, you can't help but mewl, one hand grabbing onto his bicep and the other still wrapped around his wrist. 

"So wet for me, darling... You're fucking dripping all over my fingers," he says once he finally regains his voice back. 

Seungcheol is much stronger than you, and he could easily rip away the hand on your wrist and finger fuck you to oblivion the way he usually does it. This time, however, he lets you guide him, allows you to move your hips to match the rhythm of his movements, and allows you tug his hand closer to reach deeper into you each time he buries the digits. He's still holding the reigns, and he knows that—even if you're the one sitting on top of him—but seeing you try to handle and manage your pleasure all by yourself is so fucking—"Cute."

"Oh... fuck," you breathe out, swallowing hard when Seungcheol folds his free arm and tucks it under his head. He's pretty—bicep bulging and veins crawling up his arms. 

He grins when your pussy tightens around his fingers. "Think you could cum like this?"

"Mhmm..." You sit up straighter, balancing yourself with both hands firmly planted on Seungcheol's shoulders. Slowly, you switch to bouncing on his fingers instead of rolling your hips, wincing slightly at the burn of your thighs. Still, you push through the pain, aching for release, pressure in your stomach tightening at the way his fingers seem to reach deeper inside you at the new angle.

"Pretty, pretty girl," Seungcheol mumbles, more to himself than to you, but you still hear it anyway. It makes you light-headed. You love Seungcheol degrading you during sex, but hearing his compliment brings out a visceral reaction in you. It makes you giddy and scatterbrained—as though every coherent thought in your head simply just... wilts away. 

You bite your lip at his praise, eyelids drooping slightly, a dreamy look settling over your gaze. Seungcheol thinks this is his favourite look on you. You're not saying anything, but your eyes tell a story of themselves. He can see it—the way you're practically begging for him and his cock. 

"Please," you whisper, continuing to fuck yourself on Seungcheol's fingers, moaning wantonly at the mix of pain and pleasure. You're squeezing his shoulders with your hands, nails occasionally digging into his skin whenever the pleasure becomes a little too much. You're so close, and you think Seungcheol knows it as well. 

"That's right, baby. Is my pretty girl close?" he asks, shifting slightly underneath you, cock throbbing at the lack of attention, hard as rock at the adorable sight of you bouncing on top of him. He loves the way you look in his shirt, but he thinks he'd much rather see your perky tits jiggling in his face as you ride him instead. 

"Mhm, c-close," you profess, hands restless, wandering down to his smooth chest before settling around the base of his neck. You don't squeeze, only letting your hands linger as you chase your high. 

Seungcheol chuckles when he notices the delicate grasp of your hands around his neck. He knows you won't put pressure—you're too meek for that. And no, he's not underestimating you. In fact, you might be the only person in the world capable of reducing him to his knees with a glance. But between the two of you, it has always been him who would dare to do such a courageous feat. 

Seungcheol does exactly that. He slips his hand from under his head and clasps it around your neck, watching your eyes widen when he applies the slightest pressure onto the sides of your throat. You always cum so much quicker when he has at least one hand around your neck. 

Your whole body stiffens at the contact, pussy fluttering wildly around his two digits. "O-Oh, f-fuck, fuck!" You let your head tip to the side, eyes fluttering close as you near your high. Your legs are starting to go numb, but that's the least of your concerns when your climax feels like it's looming right around the corner. 

"Attagirl... that's it," Seungcheol drawls, applying more pressure when he feels your pussy squeezing tight around him. At this point, you must be growing dizzy from the lack of air and blood. He's careful not to apply any more force than he currently is. "What a pretty necklace," he taunts, awed by how perfectly his hand wraps around your neck. You're so much smaller compared to him. "Pretty necklace for my pretty girl..."

"Ungh, 'm cumming," you manage to slur out, movements growing more frantic, rhythm getting more sporadic the closer you get.  

"Look at me, sweetheart." 

It takes you a few seconds to register what he is asking. Your eyes drag over to his face. It's torture knowing you could be riding his cock instead of his fingers, but you know he'll want you to finish what you started. His fingers are doing a heavenly job, but the stretch isn't quite enough. You don't say that to him, though, knowing he'd probably give you hell for voicing it. He'd say you're insatiable and edge you until there are no tears left for you to cry. 

"There you are..." he says once your eyes meet his. There's a hunger in his stare—an unspoken promise of the things he will do to you once you've finished fucking yourself on his fingers. Your whole body tenses, cheeks burning when he nods as though urging you to let go. "Can you look at me when you cum? Can you do that for me?"

When Seungcheol adds the smallest amount of pressure on the grip around your neck, you can't help the unadulterated moan that spills past your lips. You're so fucking dizzy, vision blurring on the edges. It's getting increasingly difficult to keep your eyes locked onto his when the world feels like it's about to crash down on you. 

You still have your hands on his neck, and for a moment, you're distracted by how your engagement ring sits on your ring finger. The fat, silver diamond is a stunning contrast to his golden complexion. 

"Come on, don't get distracted now. Cum for me so I can finally get you on my cock, hm?"

You come apart with a broken shout of his name, soaking his fingers with your cum, milky slick trickling down his knuckles and dripping on his stomach. At the height of your pleasure, Seungcheol decides to release his hold on your neck, letting the air and blood rush up to your brain. The sudden surge feels exhilarating, rendering you frozen in bliss as the feeling rips through you. 

"Fuck, sweetheart," he remarks, his free hand coming up to brush back the hair from your face, letting your head loll into his hand sluggishly as it braces the back of your head. You look exhausted, back slouched and chest heaving. Still, he notices the way you're slowly grinding on his fingers. He knows you need more. "That looked like it felt good."

You nod, letting him slip his fingers out of you, sucking in a sharp breath at the sudden emptiness. "So good. Thank you..." Everything feels like it's aching—your legs, your back, and your pussy most of all. You're far from done, but you allow yourself to rest, lowering yourself to lie on top of him, face buried into his neck. You breathe his scent and allow it to root you in the moment. 

Seungcheol wipes his stained fingers on your shirt, tsking you when you whine in protest. "It's literally your cum—why are you so grossed out about it?" he teases. 

"Because..." you say slowly. When you realise you have nothing to say, you pick your head up, blinking at him. 

Seungcheol hums, eyes amused when he looks down at you. "Mhm?"

You don't have an answer, so you kiss him instead. Seungcheol welcomes the kiss, letting his tongue meet with yours in a feverish kiss that makes your hands cling fervently to his hair. You're shifting on top of him restlessly, letting your pussy settle over the length of his cock, sighing heatedly into his mouth and letting his tongue swirl around yours sloppily. 

Seungcheol grunts at the way you let your pussy slip up and down his throbbing cock. Your cunt is hot and so fucking wet, and he feels like he might combust from how good you feel against him. 

Two orgasms should've been enough for you, but you know you won't feel fully sated without Seungcheol's cock dipping in and out of your pussy, leaving it all messy in a mix of your cum. You're not sure whether you can cum again, but you do know you want Seungcheol's cum inside of you, and soon. 

"Inside," you whisper against Seungcheol's lips, not letting him respond before you smash your lips to his again. Reaching down to grab at his cock, you're just about to line the tip with your hole when he shoves you away with a harsh grip on your arm. 

You yelp in surprise, the world turning into a blur, hardly comprehending that you're no longer sitting on top of him. You're now lying on your back, staring wide-eyed up at Seungcheol as he hauls your shirt off, leaving you just as naked as him. 

Seungcheol can't help how his eyes gravitate towards your tits, all on full display for his eyes to feast on. "Fucking perfect," he mutters, one hand jerking up and down his cock as his eyes roam up and down your body, taking everything in. The sight isn't foreign to him, but all the blood still rushes to his dick the same way every time. You're too fucking perfect. If ever comes a day that he ever sees a single flaw in your body, he'll fault his eyes instead. 

When you sigh, it comes out half a moan. "Hurry, Cheollie," you tell him, spreading your legs wider, holding yourself open with two hands on the back of your knees, baring yourself to him unashamedly. You're too desperate for his cock to worry about self-dignity now. 

Seungcheol groans, stomach flipping at the sweetness dripping from your lips when you say his name so endearingly. "Alright, alright..." He presses one hand on the back of your thigh while the other hand grips his cock, running the leaking head up and down your sloppy cunt. "Just don't cum on me too soon like last time, yeah?"

"Why are you bringing that up!"

"Actually... maybe I wouldn't mind. You always shut up so good after you cum." He chuckles at the deathly glare you give him, choosing that exact moment to sink into your awaiting heat, amused when your glare twists into an expression of utter bliss. Oh, he could die happy like this—cock snug in your warm, tight pussy. He allows you a few seconds to adjust, letting his hands travel all the places of your body that he can reach, leaving your skin prickling. 

"Move, Cheol...Please."

Seungcheol smirks at your pleading, watching the way you spread your legs even wider for him—inviting and beckoning him to take you like you're the sweetest and ripest forbidden fruit. "How do you want it, pretty?"

Your eyebrows knit in frustration. Surely , he's trying to tease you, purposely prolonging whatever this is when he could already be fucking you into the mattress by now. Still, you humour him, hoping he will give in. "Any way you want, I'll take it."

Seungcheol nods with a hum, nibbling at the insides of his cheeks as he glances down at the point where his cock disappears into your pussy. "Any way I want, hm?" he echoes back, swiping a thumb at your swollen clit, snickering when your hips jump, causing his cock to slip out, heavy girth springing up to smack against his stomach. 

You reach down with one hand, guiding his cock back to your pussy, desperate to be filled again. "Please, just please." The words come out frantic, almost distraught. "I need you."

Eventually, Seungcheol relents to your pleas. You look so pretty when you're begging for his cock, and that look you're giving him—you look delirious already, and he has barely done a thing.

"Shh, I've got you, sweetheart," he mutters, slipping back inside. Much to your delight, he doesn't dawdle this time. Although he does start off slow, pressing forward until his balls are pressed firmly against your ass each time he sinks in, earning a quiet sigh from you every time. "Pussy taking me so well, princess..."

At this pace, you're able to feel every slide of his cock against your pussy, the way the veins along his length rub against your walls so delectably. "God, f-fuck, fuck, Seungcheol..."

Your lover is watching your face closely, groaning now and then whenever your walls tighten around him, but amused for the most part. He doesn't want to seem arrogant, but he thinks it's incredibly flattering that you still react this way to his cock after years of being together. You're always so eager for him, shivering under his caresses as if you're starved of his touch, as if he has never sunk himself into your tight pussy again and again, only to come back for more. 

Even now, as he hooks his arms around your thighs, pulling you closer to him, you're sighing out his name so exquisitely, the syllables rolling off your tongue effortlessly. Your pussy drips for him, the sweet nectar leaking onto his cock, staining your inner thighs. 

A frustrated groan bubbles in your throat as you prop yourself up onto your elbows, scowling at the man who is currently not fucking you the way you both deserve it. The drag of his cock feels good, but you need more, and you know he does too. "Cheollie," you mewl in your sweetest voice, one hand grasping a handful of your breast, squeezing it in the hope of enticing him to go faster. "Need you to go faster, please..." 

Seungcheol doesn't try to hide his smirk, stopping the movement of his hips entirely. He knows you're trying to lure and tempt him, just like the seductress you are. He would be lying if he said your siren gaze and the sultry lilt of your voice don't make him feel as though he's spellbound. It's hard not to give in when you're looking up at him like you want him to wreck and pillage your body until you are practically ruined for everyone else but him.

When you flash him a saccharine smile, it's as if there is a magnetic pull drawing him down closer to you, mouth hovering over yours. He breathes you in, painfully aware of how his cock twitches inside you when you peer at him through your lashes.

"I thought you said you'd take anything I give you," Seungcheol mumbles, hot breath fanning against your lips. He pecks your lips once, angling his head to the side when you try to lean in for more, rejecting your kiss. He coos when you pout at his rejection. "So take what I'm giving you. That's what you promised me, isn't it?"

Then he swoops down lower to trail kisses down your jaw and neck, nipping at your collarbone. You're scowling at his statement, irked that he's using your words against you. Seungcheol doesn't seem to care about your current predicament, licking his way down to the slope of your breast, biting down on the skin with enough force to make it hurt. 

"Don't you want to feel good, Cheollie? Why are you making this longer than it should be?"

"Oh, don't you worry about me, darling. I'm very much enjoying myself," he murmurs, pressing tender kisses on the side of your breast. 

You're opening your mouth to retaliate but decide against it at the last second. Instead, you press your mouth together, saying nothing as you lie back on the bed. You'll let Seungcheol have his way with you for now. Whatever game he's playing right now won't last long, and his control will crumble eventually—at least, that's what you're hoping. 

When Seungcheol wraps his lips around your nipple, you let his name escape you in a sigh. His mouth is warm as he gently suckles, tongue circling the pebbled bud. You don't need to look down at him to know he's looking up at your face, taking in your reaction. "Feels good..." you pant when he stretches his jaw open further, taking more of your breast into his mouth, teeth skimming over tender skin. 

Your arms wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him in closer as you arch your back. The slight shift makes your brain short-circuit for a moment as his cock seems to burrow deeper inside of you, sending a flash of heat through your body. "Fuck, so big..."

Seungcheol hums against your chest, still sucking earnestly, lapping at your nipple with his tongue, pulling back now and then to look at the way your chest glistens with his spit. After some time, he switches to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment, making sure it's covered in his spit just the same as the other one. 

You're not sure whether Seungcheol realises it, but his hips have started moving again, cock pushing in and out with no precise pattern, only seeking the warmth of your cunt as it sinks in repeatedly. It's addicting but agonising as well because you want more, and you're not sure whether you can hold out any longer. "Cheol," you softly call out, hoping to gain his attention. You don't wait for him to respond before speaking again. "Need you to fuck me, please..."

He pulls back slightly, blowing cold air on your damp chest, making you shudder. "Aren't I already?" he asks as he litters kisses on the valley of your breasts, fucking into you less distractedly this time, the force of his thrust growing harder. 

You nod, breath stuttering when he finally gains speed, not as fast as you'd like but enough for your mind to go hazy. "Y-Yeah, just need—fuck—just need more..."

Seungcheol's laugh comes out a little shaky. He pushes himself back onto his knees, ignoring your whine at the loss of his warmth. "Are you being greedy, princess?" He gathers both your legs together, letting them dangle over one of his shoulders, rubbing his hands up and down your thighs soothingly when he hears your sigh of relief from the switch of position. 

"I'm not being greedy," you grit out, looking up at him, hissing when he delivers a notably hard thrust. "Please, please, just... faster..."

"See, what'd I say? That was you being greedy." Seungcheol admires you from this position, drinking in the quiet sounds you're emitting, savouring the fluttering of your pussy around his cock. 

Your eyes begin to brim with frustrated tears. You love the man with all your heart, but this is taking it a little far, even for you. You're yearning for him, blood pounding in your ears, skin aflame with desire and an insatiable hunger that threatens to swallow you entirely. How much longer do you have to wait? 

"I can't, Cheol," you sniff, tears spilling onto your cheeks. "P-Please, I really can't—"

Seungcheol shouldn't feel so satisfied with how you're crying from how overwhelming it is, but an undeniable sense of fulfilment washes over him at the sight of your tears. This is what he wanted, after all—to test your limit and push you to the edge. "Alright, sweetheart, don't cry, I've got you..."

With a kiss to your calf, Seungcheol finally grants you what you've been begging for all night, quickly finding a rhythm that immediately garners a loud cry out of you. He sighs, cock finally finding relief at the friction. He enjoyed the game while it lasted, but this—it makes him think that maybe he should've given in sooner. You could've been filled to the brim with his cum by now if it hadn't been for his stubbornness to see you pushed to your breaking point. With this thought in mind, Seungcheol fucks into you even harder, trying to make up for lost time. 

More tears escape your eyes, but it's not out of frustration this time. It's incredible how quickly the tiny sparks of pleasure can become something mighty—an unreckonable force that racks through your whole body, vicious and ruthless, almost cruel in a way.

"Still with me?" Seungcheol asks, gritting his teeth at how well you're taking him, his hands squeezing onto your thighs roughly, the hold almost painful. But you're too preoccupied with your own pleasure to care about whether or not his hands will leave bruises. 

"Baby, you still with me?" he repeats. 

"Hmm..."

Seungcheol shakes his head, not satisfied with your answer. "Talk to me, sweetheart."

"Y-Yeah," you respond, breathing in sharply. "With you..." Your words trail off into a low moan, a sound that makes Seungcheol's eyes flutter shut as he ruts into you faster. 

The sound of skin slapping against skin resonates through the bedroom. It's lewd and unmistakable. His balls slap against your puffy folds with each thrust, sending your slick splattering everywhere—on your ass, on the bed, some droplets even landing on his thighs. He loves it when you get all sloppy for him like this. 

Your hand claws at his own, nails digging into his wrist. Seungcheol lets you remove his hand from your thigh, a growl ripping in his chest when he realises your intention. Before he knows it, he has his palm splayed on your breast, one of your smaller hands resting atop his, guiding him to squeeze. He squeezes once, then twice, relishing the way you moan for him when he does. "That's it, always so good for me. You deserve this, yeah?"

"Don't stop, C-Cheol..." When you look up at him, he seems torn between looking at your face or down at the spot where his cock meets your pussy. He doesn't settle on one, letting his eyes flicker back and forth, breathing growing ragged when he notices your eyes on him. 

"Why would I stop, baby?" He lets his free hand settle on your unoccupied breast, kneading gently, enjoying how you writhe underneath him at the contact. Both hands pinch at your nipples, twisting just barely until they harden in his ministrations. "Why would I stop when you feel this good?"

You hadn't been sure at first whether you still had it in you to cum another time after doing it twice in a short span of time, but a single glance at Seungcheol has you disoriented. Something is churning in your stomach, coiling and winding like a tightly wound spring, poised to release if twisted a little further. The more you look at Seungcheol, the less focused your gaze becomes. Tiny beads of sweat trace a glistening path down his temple, and fine strands of hair cling to his forehead—a testament to the strenuous effort he has exerted thus far.

"Cheol..." you whine, tensing your thighs together, arching your chest up into his rough touches. 

"I know, I know... I can feel you tightening around me," he grits out, veins in his neck jutting out as he continues to strain himself through his thrusts, beginning to lose himself in the feeling of being buried inside your heat. He retracts his hands from your chest to grab each side of your hips. This way, he has more control of your body, able to pull you down onto his cock every time he thrusts in, pressing into you deeper. "Shit, you feel so good, princess. So fucking good, taking me so well. You love this cock, don't you?"

You don't know whether Seungcheol knows how much his words affect you, but you certainly feel the tingling shudder lick a path from the base of your back to the nape of your neck. You let him grapple at your hips and move you however he pleases, using you for his pleasure. 

"Say you love this cock, princess."

"Love it—fill me up so well, love your cock..." you slur. 

"That's right, always so needy for it."

Seungcheol has been holding himself back for some time now, his balls heavy, ready for release. With the way your pussy envelopes him so nicely and the way you're moaning and whining out his name, he knows it will only be a matter of time before he finishes. "You close, baby?" he asks you, chest heaving with every laboured breath he takes. His eyes are screwed shut, afraid he'd cum too soon if he catches a glimpse of your fucked-out face and bouncing tits. 

"Mmph, feels s-so good..."

Seungcheol brings one hand down to the space between your legs, slipping his thumb through the tight press of your plush thighs, quickly finding your clit. He doesn't take into account, however, the way your pussy would tighten around his dick as soon as he starts drawing quick circles around the sensitive bud. He doesn't have the time to warn you, only letting out a strained growl of your name as he is thrown over the edge, emptying himself inside you, filling you up in ribbons of cum that seem never-ending. 

Taken by surprise, you can only squeal, wide eyes searching for his as you grab onto his wrist. Seungcheol keeps his hips pressed to yours, balls smearing slick over your ass as he fills you to the brim. You keen at the feeling, toes curling as you savour the warmth of his cum as it paints your walls white. 

He shudders as the last spurts finally spill inside you, his hips rocking gently on their own, riding out the last few seconds. "Fuck, baby," he groans. He's panting, trying to suck in as much air into his lungs as he can with each inhale, the impact of his orgasm hitting more forcefully since he had been unintentionally edging himself for the past hour or so.

He knows you will eventually ask for more, but he's relieved you're giving him time to recover. He leans his head against your calf and closes his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing. It's hard because the thought that you're still in front of him, naked, dripping his seed, makes him feel winded in a way that is obscene. 

"Cheol..."

"Yeah?" he grunts. 

"You okay?" 

He lets your legs fall from his shoulder, gently setting it down onto the bed, easing you to lie on your side. "Mhm... m' fine," he swallows, "just give me a minute."

When he slides out of you, you let slip a squeak that makes Seungcheol crack a small smile. He splays a hand on the back of your thigh, leaning back slightly to catch a glimpse of the mess between your legs. He can't help the stirring of his cock as he watches driblets of his cum leak out of you, seeping into the bedsheets.

Seungcheol finds it difficult to tear his eyes away from the glorious sight of your ruined cunt. He suddenly finds himself in a predicament. He knows he needs to take a breather, even if there is a part of him that aches to bury himself into you and fill you with his cum for the second time tonight.

Finally, he settles himself beside you, positioning himself so that he's spooning you from behind. He brushes his hand down from your shoulder to your arm and then down the enticing curve of your waist. Your skin is soft and supple against his palm. His caresses must tickle because your giggles fill his ears as you writhe away from his teasing touch. "Cheol..." your whine of his name makes a rush of affection wash over him. 

Seungcheol grins, pushing himself up onto his elbow to lean over you just enough to nestle his face into the crook of your neck. When he nips at your jaw, you let out a breathless sigh, and he knows it won't be long until you ask him for more. He would give you more if only he hadn't just finished twice over the course of an hour. He will have to find another way to satiate your hunger. 

Your eyes flutter shut, humming when you feel Seungcheol's lips on your shoulder blade. You don't say anything as you push your lower half into him, which earns a grunt from the man as his sensitive cock comes into contact with your ass. Much to your dismay, his hand immediately flies to your waist, gently moving you away from him. 

"Baby," he rasps, the strain discernible in his voice. He pecks your lips when you tilt your head to pout at him. "Turn over and face me, hm?"

Slightly confused, you do as he says anyway, gasping when he pulls you into him with a hand on your lower back. With your chest pressed into his and face only inches away, you give him a questioning look, circling your arms around his neck and pressing a brief kiss to his lips. "Now what?"

Seungcheol responds by kissing you. His kiss is hard and fierce, stealing your breath as he sinks his teeth into your lower lip, soothing the stinging bite with a fleeting sweep of his tongue. You arch into him, moaning into his mouth when you feel his free hand trail up your chest to settle on the nape of your neck, allowing him to have a better reign. 

Something presses against your aching cunt, and you have to break away with a dazed gasp, peering down between your bodies. Seungcheol has shoved his leg between yours, angling his thigh upward to press against you.

The hand on your back moves to the dip of your waist, encouraging you to roll your hips back and forth. The realisation of what he wants you to do makes you whimper. "Oh, God—"

"Shh, just focus on me, sweetheart. You can be a good girl and ride my thigh, yeah?"

When you try to respond, nothing comes out except a garbled moan. You must look so salacious to him—moving your hips back and forth like a desperate whore, dragging your wet pussy against his thigh, eyes rolling back from the simulation on your clit. You swear you see stars dancing in your vision, skin prickling as every thought in your mind withers into nothing. 

"That's it, I can feel how warm you are... So fucking warm and wet."

You try to kiss him again but find yourself pulling away shortly after, too dazed to keep up with the force of Seungcheol's kisses. His thigh is drenched and sticky from the mixture of your juices and his cum that has leaked out of your hole, but he keeps you stable with a firm grip on the back of your thigh. Whenever you roll your hips, the squelching sound from between your thighs is distinct, and it makes your whole face burn. 

With a sigh of his name, you weave your fingers through his hair, tugging when the stimulation becomes too intense for your liking. It feels fucking euphoric—the way his solid thigh feels against your soaked pussy as it drags up, down, up, down—but it's somehow not enough at the same time. 

Seungcheol thinks your moans sound like angels singing in his ears, and he eagerly drinks it all in, watching your face intently at the same time, relishing the way your eyes roll back during moments when the pleasure washes over you in waves. "So cute." 

"Fuck, Cheol, 's not enough..."

Seungcheol's mouth stretches into a grin, letting a few seconds pass in silence as he watches you rut desperately against his thigh, so keen to reach your long-awaited high. "Not enough? You're dripping all over me, though?" To prove his point, he withdraws his thigh from between your legs, shushing you when you whine in protest. "Let's see..."

Two of his fingers swipe at the sticky residue on his thigh. He lifts his hand to your face, showing the glossy remnant on his fingers. To further taunt you, he spreads the fingers apart, allowing a stringy thread of the creamy slick to bridge the gap between the two digits. He doesn't bother concealing his smirk when your sheepish face comes into focus, cheeks red from a combination of arousal and shame. 

You huff when he sticks his fingers into his mouth, tasting the slick that clings to it. The deep hum that rumbles in his chest kindles a fire in you that you know can only be doused by Seungcheol's touch alone. You can only watch, stunned, mind teeming with a flurry of wild thoughts as he finally removes his fingers from his mouth. 

"Now you choose, princess. It's either my thigh or nothing at all."

It takes you a moment to decipher his words. "But that's not fair..." you whine. 

"Just choose."

"I don't wanna..."

"Time's ticking."

You give in—of course you do. Knowing Seungcheol, he probably would stay true to his words. He wouldn't have any problem leaving you high and dry as he excuses himself to the bathroom to clean himself up. Then, he would come back to bed as if nothing had happened, and he wouldn't give in no matter how much you cling to him and beg for even an ounce of his attention. Then you'd have to wait until the morning to finally get some relief, either by his fingers or tongue, because he always insists on fucking you only after he has had his dose of morning coffee. It's infuriating, but it would be a lie if you said you didn't enjoy his pesky games. 

"Fine... Your thigh is fine."

"Use your big girl words."

"I need your thigh, please, Cheol. Pretty please..."

Seungcheol pauses briefly, letting your words sink in before he nods in approval. "Alright, if you insist." 

When he slots his thigh between your legs again, it's as if you've stumbled upon an oasis amid a scorching drought. The pleasure is liberating, and you're sighing his name against the crook of his neck, melting into his touch, going putty in his hold. You're grasping at both his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as the tautness in your stomach gradually builds again. It's slow, almost torturous, but the mounting tension from before has you trembling, and Seungcheol notices. He always does. 

"Breathe," he reminds you, tapping your cheek gently to ensure you hear him. "Take your time and breathe, 'm not going anywhere."

"Unghh, I don't know if I can—"

"You can, baby," he encourages softly.

Seungcheol pulls you even closer by your thigh, hitching your leg a little higher against his hips, spreading you open a little more. He can feel you throbbing against him, and the warmth emanating from between your legs makes him feel heady. 

"Fuck," he cusses, wishing so badly it was his cock that was making you writhe in his embrace and cry out his name so sweetly. "Stay with me. Are you close?"

You sob at the question. "I don't know. God, C-Cheol..."

"Hey, look at me, princess." Seungcheol nods when you finally compose yourself enough to look at him. "Breathe, and focus on me."

The movement of your hips doesn't stop as he mutters his instructions. 

"Uh-uh, keep your eyes on me," he reprimands when he notices your gaze flittering down to the glistening mess on his thigh. "That's right, keep those pretty eyes on me. That's it..."

You're sure you've lost all your ability to communicate effectively or conjure up a coherent sentence. The only word you manage to babble and stutter out is Seungcheol's name. No matter how much you try, you can't help the shaking of your legs or the ragged rise and fall of your chest as you try to gulp in enough air. It feels so fucking good—you want to tell him—but nothing comes out except choked moans and whimpers. 

"Don't worry about anything else. Just focus on the feeling..."

"C-Cheol, 'm close... I don't—I'm—"

"Shh, just relax. It's going to feel so good when you let go," Seungcheol says, hand still secure on the back of your thigh, helping you grind down against him. He thinks he might need a long, cold shower after this is all over. 

When you breathe in, the smell of Seungcheol's tantalising cologne fills your nose, and you can't help but cry out. The mix of patchouli and bergamot combined with the natural scent of his musk makes you tense against him. He smells heavenly. He smells like home. "Oh my God, ungh—"

"It's okay, you can cum. No one's stopping you."

Your eyes drift over his face, focusing on every feature and every detail, no matter how minuscule. Ultimately, it is precisely the look in his dark eyes that throws you over the edge. His eyes have an allure to them—filled with desire and longing that dance wildly in the shadows, luring you into their mysterious depth.  

The pleasure doesn't hit you all at once—it starts from the end of your toes, trailing up your legs, erupting into flurries of flames in your stomach, winding up your spine like an electric current that singes at every nerve. The euphoria builds like a crescendo, like a warmth that blossoms into an inferno and sweeps through your whole being. Your skin burns, but you feel as though you're drowning—chest tight, eyes glassy, mouth agape in a silent shout. Blood roars in your ears, and each heartbeat feels like a drumbeat, pounding against the confines of your ribcage, a relentless rhythm that drowns out every other sound. 

When the pleasure finally subsides, it leaves a lingering warmth that seems to simmer under your skin. It's a pleasant buzzing, one that makes you feel drowsy. You slump against Seungcheol, hiding your face in his bare chest, trying to hide your bashful smile that would give away how blissful you currently feel. You breathe in his perfume, grounding yourself, soaking in the heat of his body as he gently brushes a palm up and down your back. 

Seungcheol tenderly clasps your hand, lifting it delicately to plant a soft kiss on the inside of your wrist. His kisses trail down, mouth caressing each fingertip before turning your hand gently. With utmost reverence, he presses his lips against the glimmering engagement ring on your finger, bestowing it with two tender pecks, a silent promise sealed in each kiss.

"I love you," he whispers against your temple, nosing at your cheekbone. "But do you think you could cum that fast again?"

Still recovering from your high, you struggle to grasp his words. "What do you mean?"

"Like before. I mean, I was barely in you, and you were cumming all over me so fast I almost didn't realise—"

Your loud gasp cuts him off. "You are such a dick! Stop talking about that!"

"Never!" he objects, dimples showing when he grins. "It's going to make for the perfect story to tell to all our friends—"

Deciding your words won't effectively shut his blabbering mouth, you're left with no choice but to resort to slapping his arm instead, not stopping until he seizes your wrist, effectively thwarting your assault on him. 

"Okay, okay," he concedes with a laugh. "I'm just kidding. That story will forever stay with me and me only. I'm sorry, okay?"

"You don't look sorry."

"You're right, it was just so fucking hot—"

"You're insufferable. Break off our engagement right now."

The faux horror that overtakes his face is hilarious. "Alright, I'll stop. I really am sorry. Seriously."

You giggle at the admission. "You're stuck with me, you know? There's no backing out of a marriage with me."

He playfully sighs. "Hm, I'm not so sure about that.. I mean, it's not like we're already married—"

"Nice try, but I've already picked out my dress, and it's non-refundable."

"True, and I've just put a baby in you as well, so..."

You lean back, flashing him an incredulous look. "Again, nice try. Still on the pills, dummy."

"And what if they suddenly just... vanished?"

Snickering, you sit up, feeling unbearably icky and sweaty. "Why don't you marry me first, and then we can try having children. Deal?" You don't wait for his response, pushing yourself off the bed and shuffling your way to the bathroom. You can almost feel his eyes burning lasers into your bare ass. 

"Why don't you start calling me daddy from now on? You know, for practice?"

"Absolutely not."

"What do you think about having four children?" 

"I love you too, Seungcheol."

"Is that a yes?"

"You're cute."

There's a pause. "So, yes?"

"What should we do this weekend?" 

You hear him get off the bed, his thundering footsteps drawing nearer. "Stop changing the subject!"

© sweetlemontart — all rights reserved. ✮⋆˙

[gothcsz]

imagine pornstar javi having an only fans 😩

girl i'd subscribe so fast

oh hell yeah nonnie, me too... top subscriber, working 3 jobs just to support this sexy man. who's with me?! 🙂‍↕️ tagging @miss-oranje-disco-dancer & @almostempty because duhhh 🖤 i hope i did this justice!

tags: f!reader, smut babes, onlyfans!javi let's gooo, he talks you through it, dirty talk duh, masturbation (f&m), use of pet names (doll, baby, sweetheart, muñeca, bella), roleplaying (?), i have no idea how OF works so just vibe with me, everyone say thank you to your bestie, unbeta'd, if i missed any other tags pls let me know ok thx. ~ 3.1k w/c

p.s. if you’re into pornstar!javi you should check this out 🖤

look at how yummy this dick is 👀

You frown as you read the message preview sent from your best friend. Your eyes flit up to check the time.

It’s barely past two in the morning. Does this bitch ever sleep? Granted— you’re also up late.

You tap on the notification before it disappears, going into your message thread with her and you see the link attached to her horny message.

why are you sending me unsolicited dick pics at 2 am? what would your man think of this?

She replies right away.

first of all i don’t have a man second of all it’s a video and just please go watch it

You’re confused by that first message since she was just raving about this guy she met at her job but you let it go, tapping on the link and waiting for safari to open it up.

The OnlyFans website loads and prompts you to log in before continuing. You go back to your messages.

tabling the i don’t have a man convo for another time can’t see it because i don’t have an account 

She’s quick to send you her log in and you laugh out loud— of course she’s a registered user.

You type in her email and password, patiently waiting before the post she sent you loads and your eyes widen.

Just the thumbnail has you intrigued. A man, dressed in a tailored navy suit sans the jacket and tie, the fabric of his white collared shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and chest, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

The title reads: Late Night at the Office. 

The transparent play button teases you, almost daring you to give in to the intrigue.

So you tap it.

It begins with the mystery man seated, the frame capturing him from the tip of his strong nose down to the top of his thighs. His features are striking from what you can see— plump, pink lips framed by a neatly trimmed mustache, adding a hint of rugged sophistication to his appearance.

His legs are spread wide, unapologetically taking up space, the rich leather of the chair creaking subtly beneath him. His thighs strain against the fabric of his suit pants.

There’s something about the way he sits, so sure of himself, so confident in his own skin, that draws your eye immediately to the center of the frame. One hand rests lazily on his thigh, the other cradles a phone, as if he’s deep into an intimate call. His eyes, though hidden, seem locked on you through the screen, pulling you deeper into his fantasy.

And then, he speaks.

“Have to stay late, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

His voice slides through the speakers of your phone like liquid velvet— deep and smooth, carrying an accent that’s definitely southern but tinged with something else, wrapping itself around each word like a caress.

“Don’t be upset, doll. Let me make it up to you.”

His tone is gentle but authoritative, luring you in. The air feels charged, and despite the fact that you’re watching from behind a screen, it feels as though his words are meant for you and you alone.

“Why don’t you undress for me and lean back,” the command is soft yet irresistible.

Your breath catches in your throat, a soft gasp you weren’t expecting, as your thighs instinctively press together beneath the plush comforter, seeking some form of relief from the growing ache.

It’s as if he has some kind of power over you, the pull in his voice coaxing you into compliance. Your skin prickles with anticipation as you glance around your quiet studio apartment, almost instinctively checking if anyone might be watching; like your best friend who lured you into this horny trap in the first place. 

But of course, there’s no one else here— just you and his low, hypnotic voice filling the space around you.

You pause it, antsy fingers reaching for the hem of your nighttime slip dress, the soft fabric sliding effortlessly off your skin then being tossed aside. Propping your phone up with a decorative pillow at the edge of the bed, you angle it so you’re able to see him perfectly.

You feel a rush of warmth, excitement, as you resume the video and settle back against the mountain of pillows behind you.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day, baby,” he murmurs, his tone low and husky, the faintest edge of a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t stop picturing you, lying in bed… all warm and soft, just waiting for me to take care of you.”

Your lips part instinctively, tongue grazing the corner as you feel the pull of lust tightening in your core. Your nipples, already taut from the cool air in your space, ache for attention.

You shift, thighs rubbing together again, unable to stop your body’s response. His voice feels like it’s seeping directly into your skin, making it impossible to sit still.

“I want you to touch yourself for me,” he orders so tenderly and impossible to refuse. “Slowly, sweetheart. Just run your fingers over those soft thighs of yours… don’t rush.”

You obey, hands traversing down the length of your torso until they’re at your thighs, fingertips grazing your skin lightly as you follow his instructions. Your breath hitches again, heart beating louder in your ears as his voice continues to weave around you, wrapping you in the intimacy of the moment.

“That’s it,” he purrs, “Let me hear those little gasps. I want you to think of my hands doing that for you. Think of me sliding my fingers up and down your beautiful body… teasing you.”

And so you do. You think of his larger, surely rougher touch at your inner thighs. The growing pressure at the apex of your legs builds with every syllable, but it’s not just his voice that has you derailing.

It’s everything. 

As the camera lingers on him, you watch his free hand move to the top button of his shirt. His fingers work with deliberate precision as he undoes it then the ones that follow. His movements are slow, taunting you as the shirt falls open, exposing the smooth, muscled lines of his chest.

“You want to see more, don’t you?” he asks the camera, and the teasing edge in his voice makes your clit twitch. “I’ll show you, baby. But you need to keep touching yourself for me. I want you to feel how wet I get you. Imagine me right there, taking care of that aching little cunt of yours.”

He’s intoxicating, and as he slips another button open, revealing more of his firm, toned chest, you slip your hand to your pussy, your body begging for more. You can almost feel the heat of his skin against yours, the way he’s undressing for you, the slow reveal of what you’re aching to see.

He’s unhurried, intentional— he knows exactly what he’s doing, how to keep you, the viewer, on edge.

“Let me hear you,” he commands, fingers grazing his buckle now, threatening to undo his belt. “Tell me what you want, baby. Tell me how badly you want me to touch you… how much you need me.”

His words have a gush of arousal leaking from your cunt, a whine pushing past your lips as you lightly run a finger down the seam of your folds.

“Need you so bad,” you murmur to yourself, not caring that there’s no one there to hear you, no one in the room but the phantom of his presence. He’s completely transported you into another world, and you’re too far gone to feel any shame in talking to him as if he’s right there in front of you— or over the phone with how he’s set this scene up.

All he’s done is talk, but it’s enough to render you a puddled mess. The heat licking at your core is undeniable, each instruction winding you tighter.

You can’t help but wonder— are you really this starved for a good fuck, or is this faceless stranger just that skilled at weaving desire into every syllable?

His deep, commanding tone oozes with intention, a carefully crafted tease that seeps through the screen. It’s clear he’s an expert at this— at knowing exactly how to pull you in and leave you aching for more. Now, your curiosity is piqued; what other sinful content could he possibly have on his page?

It suddenly makes perfect sense why your friend is subscribed to him. The moment you come, you know you’ll be rushing to make an account of your own, no hesitation, ready to drain your bank account if it means getting more of him— every cent worth it just to see what else he can do to you.

He’s catering to something raw, drawing out a fantasy you didn’t even realize you had.

“I need you just as bad. Real fuckin’ shame I’m stuck at the office… my cock misses you, sweetheart.”

Your breath quickens as the clink of his belt being undone echoes through the speaker, slipping the leather free from its loops, and you catch a glimpse of the outline of his dick, thick and prominent beneath the tailored slacks.

The sight sends a surge of heat through your body, your skin prickling with desire, yearning for more.

His fingers toy with the waistband of his pants now, brushing tantalizingly close to the bulge straining against the fabric, teasing both you and himself with the promise of what’s to come.

His voice is low and seductive, dripping like molten honey, each word striking you like a touch.

“I wish I could be in bed with you right now,” he grunts, and you swear you can feel his eyes locked on you through the screen, as if he can see every inch of your trembling body. “You have no idea how badly I want to worship you… feel your skin against mine. I’d start slow. My lips, my hands, they’d be everywhere. I’d make you come so many times it’d make you stupid.”

You moan, finally dipping two of your fingers between your wet folds and massaging at your clit, spreading your slick all over.

“Go head, play with that pretty little pussy. Use your other hand to touch on those perfect fuckin’ tits of yours.”

Your free hand instinctively goes up to cup your breast as you imagine him there with you, his body pressing you into the mattress, lips tracing over every inch until he’s suckling on your pert nipples then moving down to where you need him most.

“I want to taste you,” he continues, his fingers popping the button of his pants then the zipper, “Feel you quivering on my tongue, feel you melt on my fingers as I fuck them into that tight cunt. I won't stop until you’re shaking, begging me to let you breathe.”

His hand slips beneath the fabric as he shifts in his seat, and you can see the subtle movements of him touching himself. The sight alone takes your breath away, the need coiling inside you, growing unbearable as your own fingers pick up the pace, rubbing the sensitive flesh while your other hand works to pinch and tug at your nipple.

“And when I finally break you, sweetheart,” he whispers, sending shivers all throughout your body, “when you’re crying, trembling… pleading me to stop, that’s when I’ll slide my cock inside. You’d be so full, so wet, and I wouldn’t stop until I’ve reminded you who you belong to, until I’ve had you again and again. Until you’re stuffed so full of my cum that it’s leaking out of your fuckin’ mouth.”

He finally pulls his dick out and you gasp loudly. It’s fucking beautiful. Thick, long, a few shades lighter than the brown skin of his chest with a glistening pearl of precum right at his slit. He spreads it around the crown of his cock and you salivate, imagining how good the weight of him would feel on your tongue.

Yummy in-fucking-deed.

“Fuck yourself on your fingers baby, then stick two into your pretty mouth and suck on them.”

You do as you’re told, sinking two into your fluttering entrance while the ones at your tit slip into your mouth, eyes fluttering close as you suck on them like they’re his cock. It feels so good, your thumb pressed up against your clit— the stickiness of your arousal aiding your fingers in pumping in and out of you.

The sound of him spitting snaps you from the mini daze, pulling your attention lazily back to the screen. There he is— his large hand wrapped tightly around the thick length of his cock, glistening and throbbing as he begins to stroke it languidly. 

“Got me so hard,” he grunts, his voice thick with lust, “just picturing you with your fingers in your mouth like a good little slut.” His grip on the phone by his ear tightens, you can tell by the way his knuckles become flushed and you whimper.

“Choke on them,” he growls, “Let me hear you gag.”

Obedient as ever, you push your digits past your tongue and deeper, your breath growing ragged. The moment they hit the back of your throat, you gag, the wet sound loud and raw in the quiet of your apartment.

You sputter around them repeatedly, eyes filling with tears. Choking sounds echoing off the walls, bouncing back at you in a symphony of depravity. Saliva pools in then out of your mouth, dripping down your chin, and the mess of it only heightens the filthy pleasure coursing through you.

You can feel how slick you are, the sheets beneath you now damp from your horniness, every fiber of your being aching for release.

His pace on the screen quickens, the sound of his bated breath mingles with the obscene smacking of his fist against the skin of his cock, grunting between strokes. His dick looks even bigger as it pulses in his grip, thick and veined and covered in his spit.

“Bet you’re dripping for me,” his words are strained. “I can just picture it… how wet you are, soaking those sheets. Can’t wait to hear you come undone for me, baby.”

Your fingers, still wet from the mess of your mouth, slide down your body, grazing over your hard nipples before switching with the ones between your legs, where your pussy is throbbing. You moan at your own heady taste, the relief of your saliva soaked digits in your cunt almost overwhelming.

The tension builds, every stroke of his hand matching the movement of your fingers, the friction pushing you closer to the edge.

“Ahhh yesyesyes— just like that.” You whine, removing your fingers from your mouth and bringing them down to your nipples again to pinch and pull; anything to heighten the already intense pleasure you’re feeling.

The room feels thick with sexual tension, the filthy sounds of your wetness mix with his groans through the speakers, creating an intoxicating melody that pushes you further into your own climax.

“I’d have your pussy stretched out so good,” he continues, hand tightening around his cock as he pumps faster now, thrusting his hips upwards. “Have you feeling me for days… filling your sweet cunt until all you can do is squirt all over this cock.”

The things you’d do to make that happen. To have him bend and twist and fuck you in a myriad of pleasurable positions. To feel the thickness of his dick leaving you sore and hurting, absolutely helpless. These desires send you careening toward the edge.

“C’mon baby, give it to me.”

Your fingers move faster, abusing your cunt as your hips buck into your hand. Your breath comes in short, desperate gasps as your whole body tightens.

You can feel it coming, that sweet rush of pleasure towering over you, until it crashes down in a wave so intense, you cry out.

“Oh fuck!”

You spasm, back arching off the bed as your digits do all the right moves, chasing the high. In a flood of pure ecstasy, your pussy pulses and clenches, a gush of wetness soaking the sheets as you come hard, giving in to the overwhelming euphoria.

Drool leaks from your mouth like a feral animal, your chest heaving, and your eyes lock on the screen, pupils dilated, watching as he strokes himself through his own climax, his voice thick with satisfaction.

“Good girl,” he breathes, his cock twitching in his hand, thick ropes of his milky cum spilling over his fist as he finishes. “Made a mess all over my lap. Wish you were here to lick it up. Getting to feel that wicked tongue of yours on my spent cock would be like fucking heaven, mi muñeca bella.”

Just when you thought he couldn’t get any fucking sexier; he goes and speaks fucking Spanish. You’re in love. 

You’re left exhausted, trembling, and utterly satisfied. Your body hums with the aftershocks, still riding the wave of your orgasm, and all you can do is lie there. 

Your fingers lazily tracing the wet mess between your thighs, hissing at the sensitivity, as you catch your breath, the screen flickering with his smirking lips.

“I’ll be home soon,” he purrs, “Take a nap so I can wake you up by burying my tongue inside that used pussy.”

A shiver runs down your spine, and you let out a frustrated sigh, wishing— desperately— that this wasn’t just a video, but reality. A real call from a real man, someone who could be on their way to you right now. You stare at his disheveled, post-climax appearance on the screen for a moment longer before the video fades out, the last remnants of fantasy slowly dissolving as you blink yourself back to reality.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, muscles still quivering, and bend down to pick up your slip dress, your legs wobbly as you walk to the bathroom to clean up. 

oh my fucking god that was amazing

You text your friend once you’re back in bed, having pulled off the loose sheet that you ruined and thankful that it didn’t seep through to the fitted one.

right? i need him so bad you should see some of his other stuff. fucking gold you’re welcome 💋

You scoff, a breathy laugh, as you ‘HAHA’ react to her message. Still, her words stick with you as you open the browser, logging out of her account. The curiosity from before tugs at you harder than ever now, and without a second thought, you find yourself signing up for your own subscription.

When the prompt to choose a username appears, you hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard until a sly smile spreads across your lips.

@muneca_bella

Perfect.

[oneknightstand-if]

A Completely Normal Rest Stop

Update 4: Chapter 2 Part 2 - The Rest Stop

Featuring...

Merlin's Guide to Minor Enemies

A bucketload of owed texts & e-mails to the MC

Decisions of great import... just where are you sleeping in that motorhome during this Among Us game?

Shopping? Fleeing? Stalking Merlin? Chapter 2 wedding proposals? ̵S̵a̴b̷o̴t̸a̷g̵e̵ ̵t̷h̴e̶ ̷m̸o̵t̵o̴r̷h̸o̷m̷e̶/̷ Actually having a completely normal time because you sidestepped all the spooky shenanigans? (But what fun would the latter be?)

A ton of branching everywhere in the second part of this update, so try replaying again with a few different choices.

A̴ ̴C̴o̶m̴p̷l̷e̵t̷e̴l̴y̵ ̶N̴o̷r̸m̴a̶l̵ ̵G̴a̴s̸ ̶S̵t̵a̷t̷i̶o̷n̸ ̵S̴t̸o̷p̷

Nothing to see here but a completely normal gas station & convenience store at a completely normal rest stop. Moving along now.

Play the Updated Beta Test

(Since there were bugs & typos reported throughout Chapter 1 & 2, your current saves are probably going to reset to the beginning of each section of the game. If things get too wonky, you might want to try restarting from the beginning.)

*If you're getting error messages or the start screen isn't showing Version 0.22, please clear your browser's cache.

Additional Word Count (Sans Code): 200,000+

Additional Word Count (With Code): 285,000+

New Total Word Count (Sans Code): 815,000+

New Total Word Count (With Code): 1,120,000+

Average Playthrough: ~65,000+ words

Note: You can view the game code on my site the same way you do on Dashingdon just add /scenes to the end of the URL.

Next Update

Merlin's Guide to Minor Neutrals

MC may appear on TV! This might not be a good thing. And they aren't the only one, cameo appearances from a future RO

Get hit with your first mass spell of nondemonic origin

Counteract with participation in your first multiuser spell

Attempt to summon Cthulhu. Dance the macarena. Have the consequences of your own inaction potentially bite you in the arse-- I mean what?

RO #4 finally appears.

Also quick reminder that the Alpha Build of the game on Patreon updates as I complete each section, so is currently on Chapter 2-3.

Link to New Polls on the Update (Which don't auto close in a week like the Tumblr ones)

More (Fiddly) Info on the Update Behind the Spoiler Cut...

The Update Also Includes...

Added section where the devil's mark is found if you change into short sleeve clothes right before packing up to leave

Added more neutral way of deciding not to claim dibs on a past Camelot incarnation

Added more flavor text regarding the vending machine in the fencing club route

Fixed continuity bug regarding your mask while exploring the empty city

Fixed continuity bug with Adrian's text messages in the Fencing Club route (Again!)

Added Fou and Petit Cru as default names for the Arthurian lore references to the default pet names

Fixed reference to nonexistent pet at the start of the book club route (which won't be finished for awhile)

Fixed some behind-the-scenes bugs with variable incrementing

Changed brave_sir_robin & merlin_warn to numerical variable instead of true/false (might cause bugs with prior saves that triggered those flags)

Fixed a bunch of typos and smaller bugs that I've completely lost track of at this point, but pretty much guarantee every section got re-edited

[lesbiankimdahyun]

G!p Karina hosting a Halloween costume party and choosing you as the winner for best dressed/costume. The prize being that you get to sleep with her.

thank you i loved writing this i hope u enjoy! A03 link is here

FIRST PRIZE: A Halloween Special

4.4K words

[GP!Karina x F!Reader] 

CW: GP, alcohol, brief weed mention 

Guest appearances: MAMAMOO’s Moonbyul and Solar

Your job had been cool about you working fully remotely during the height of the pandemic, but now after two years, they finally asked you to relocate. Your boss was able to compensate you for the move to D.C., which helped, but coming from San Francisco, the East coast culture shock was brutal. Starting over in a new city was intimidating, but at least you had your work bestie Karina to hang out with now that the two of you lived in the same city. 

Having only seen and interacted with her through Zoom on your laptop about (mostly) work-related things, you were a little nervous that the friendship would fade or ruin your working relationship, but over the summer, you found it had the opposite effect. The more you saw of Karina’s authentic offline self, the more comfortable you felt with her, and being able to make Karina laugh felt like winning the lottery. You were absolutely harboring a crush on her, but you kept hoping maybe it would go away in time, too afraid to let her know about your feelings.

But months later when she invited you to a huge Halloween bash she was hosting, you knew your crush on her wasn’t going away any time soon. Her massive apartment, which she shared with her roommate, a girl named Winter you’d met a couple times, was decorated from the floor to the ceiling for the occasion. Perfectly placed cobwebs, a plethora of real, carved jack-o-lanterns lined the mantle of the living room’s fireplace, and the staircase that led up to their bedrooms had tiny, fake candles on each step, adding a warm glow. Karina had used plenty of LED lights too, leaving sections of the apartment cast in eerie purple and red light. Despite the free flowing alcohol, available weed and other Halloween goodies supplied for the party, it was Karina herself that had your rapt attention. 

“You made it!” she said when you arrived, pulling you in for a hug. Her costume was decadent and extravagant, but not so over the top that it limited her range of motion. She’d chosen to go as Glinda the Good Witch. “I like Elphaba better,” she admitted, “but I didn’t want to commit to green skin.” Instead, she’d committed to a Swarovski-jeweled crown, a short, perfectly pink ruffle dress, complete with embroidery work near the bust and tiered tulle to add volume to the skirt. She had a silver, jewel-covered scepter that matched her crown, and wore extra blush to accent all of the pink details. On anyone else, it would’ve looked very cute, but Karina’s lethal beauty and aloof personality made the overall look devastatingly stunning instead.

When she pulled away from you, she eyed you and your costume with interest. “Talk about treasure,” she said. “Should I call you Jack or Jackie Sparrow?” 

You felt yourself blush a bit. “Whatever you like,” you said. Karina smirked in response, taking another moment to look at the pieces you’d put together for your Pirates of the Caribbean-inspired outfit. You’d gone to great lengths to gender-bend your take on Jack Sparrow just the way you wanted, and based on Karina’s reaction, it seemed to be paying off. For your look, you’d combined a brown, satin corset top with bronze buckles, a black chiffon tiered waterfall maxi skirt, a black frill tie blouse with flared sleeves, a black lace necklace, brown knee length boots that matched your corset, a few long pearl necklaces to go with the lace necklace, gold hoop earrings, gold rings, and a brown faux leather pirate hat with a single feather on one side. 

Karina suddenly reached forward, brushing her hand along your thigh. “What’s this?” she asked curiously. “A black lace garter? Wow, Y/N, you really pull out all the stops, don’t you?” You let out a shy laugh in response. Karina took your hand then. “Come on,” she said, leading you through the crowd. She pulled you into the kitchen, where Winter was busy grabbing more alcohol. 

“Win-ter,” Karina sing-songed, “Look who's going to enter my costume contest!” Her roommate turned around and the two of you took a moment to take in each other’s costumes. 

“No way,” you said, admiring her black, white and pink futuristic superhero look. “Uravity? From My Hero Academia?” Winter beamed. “ Finally , I’m recognized,” she said, coming over to give you a light hug, careful to avoid bonking you with her headpiece as she hugged you. “Everyone keeps thinking I’m some sort of Barbie Buzz Lightyear,” she said with a quick pout and eye roll. “But wow, look at you!” She took your hand, and you spun for her to show off all sides of your costume. She and Karina exchanged a brief look, and then Winter nodded. “So you're in the contest, huh? I bet you'll win” she said. 

“Oh, that’s so sweet,” you said, “But I don’t know even know if I actually want t--” 

Karina cut you off. “Trust me,” she said, placing a hand on your shoulder. Her glittery, pink nails stood out against the brown and black colors of your costume. “You want to be in this. My Halloween costume contests always come with prizes, even if you don't win! ”  

“Really?” you asked. “Well what does the winner get then?” 

Karina grinned. “Y/N, I can’t just tell you what the winner gets,” she said. “Where’s the fun in that? Why not play to win and find out for yourself,” she said. The way she said it was sassy, almost flirtatious. Wait. There's no way Karina would be flirting with me, you thought. 

 “Hmm…” you said, pretending to mull it over while moving toward the kitchen sink, where the drink supplies were. You grabbed a black plastic cup and looked around for ice, but Karina came over beside you, interrupting your search. “Let me,” she said, gently plucking your cup out of your hands while Winter handed her a bottle of deep purple Empress gin. The gin’s purple color turned pinkish when she added a splash of lime and tonic water to the gin, but it remained largely purple even after ice was added too, letting you know the drink had way more alcohol than mixer in it. You went to take a sip, but Karina stopped you. “Wait,” she said, reaching for a small, plastic packet and ripping it open. 

“What's that?” you asked, tipping your cup away. 

“Relax,” Karina said, showing you a bit of the light, powdery substance in her palm. She dipped a finger in it and put it up to her lips, licking the substance off. “Edible glitter,” she explained. “See?” She dipped her finger back into the glitter and then held it up near your mouth. 

“Try it,” she said, and you found yourself obeying and opening your mouth for her, tongue slightly out. Karina lightly pressed the pad of her finger to your tongue, and a wave of heat rolled over you. If the edible glitter had any taste at all, it was completely overpowered by the salty taste of Karina’s fingertip. Karina’s eyes flicked from your tongue, then up at you. Your cheeks burned at the intimacy.  

“So… you'll be in the costume contest, then?” she asked, taking a small step back. You held out your cup for Karina to add some edible glitter to your drink, which she did. 

“Oh alright,” you said. “Why not?” 

The rest of the party was a blur. Karina insisted on making all of your drinks, leaving you beyond buzzed but feeling extremely sociable. You chatted with a girl dressed as a ‘hot version of Moo Deng’, danced and shouted ‘Yes, chef!’ with a few folks dressed as the cast of The Bear, and drunkenly gushed over a stunning sapphic couple dressed as Statue of Liberty Chappell Roan and Pink Pony Club Chappell Roan. On occasion throughout the night, Karina would steal you away to dance to Rob Zombie or Kim Petras. A few times while you danced, you'd find her suddenly behind you, hand lightly brushing over your waist. Your brain was operating at a hundred miles a minute, but you put it out of your mind so you could focus on meeting a few of Karina and Winter’s other mutual friends: a girl named NingNing who rocked a modern Cruella DeVil costume, and another girl named Giselle who was dressed as a high glam-drag version of HIM from the Powerpuff Girls– sans facial hair. 

Just after midnight, Karina gathered everyone for the costume contest in the spacious living room. You joined the other contestants in the center of the room: Statue of Liberty Chappell, hot Moo Deng, and Giselle. 

“Before we start,” Karina said, “I should let all of the contestants know that second and third place prizes will be given out here at the party, but first place will need to stick around afterward to claim the grand prize, okay?” The four of you nodded while the rest of the party attendees applauded lightly in anticipation. Fourth place wound up going to ‘hot Moo Deng,’ and Giselle took third. 

Karina presented Giselle with a plastic, orange pumpkin bucket intended for trick-or-treating. There was a couple handfuls of candy inside, but in addition to pumpkin-shaped Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and candy corn, Karina and Winter had filled the buckets with mini bottles of alcohol, edibles, and liquid hydration packets. Then, Karina gave Giselle a celebratory strawberry lemon drop shot, which was, of course, perfectly pink to match her Glinda costume. Everyone clinked their plastic cups together, ready to take a sip of their drinks while Giselle had her shot. Her large claw attachments, though, made her unable to take the tiny shot glass out of Karina’s hand. For a supposedly good witch, Karina seemed extra amused by Giselle's struggle. With her other free hand, Karina held Giselle’s face, her thumb on one of Giselle’s cheeks, the rest of her fingers on the other. 

“Aw, does our big bad villain need some help?” she asked mockingly. Giselle feigned annoyance and nodded. Karina whispered something in Giselle’s ear then, and then Giselle rolled her eyes for real before opening her mouth. Everyone cheered as Karina knocked the shot back into Giselle’s mouth. Karina laughed, making a show out of having Giselle open her mouth again to prove she’d swallowed it all. 

Your hands started to sweat a bit while you and Statue of Liberty Chappell Roan waited to find out who the winner would be. You honestly had no idea which way the costume contest would go. You knew your costume was pretty good overall, but Statue of Liberty Chappell, whose real name was Moonbyul, had really gone all out, even painting herself the same color as the actual Statue of Liberty. To hype up the crowd, Karina took the partygoers’ temperature by standing behind Moonbyul, holding a hand over the girl’s head. 

“Who’s feeling sexy Statue of Liberty Chappell Roan?” she asked, and the crowd responded by applauding as Moonbyul posed, holding up her torch triumphantly. When the clapping died down, she moved behind you, and you knew her hand was hovering somewhere above your pirate hat. “What about our sexy Jackie Sparrow?” she asked, and the crowd erupted in louder applause, including a few wolf whistles from somewhere in the back. 

Karina grinned at the partygoers. “I thought so too,” she said matter-of-factly. “It looks like we have a consensus, then. Second place goes to Statue of Liberty Chappell Roan!” There was more applause, and Pink Pony Club Chappell, whose real name was Solar, shrieked in excitement for her girlfriend. Winter presented Moonbyul with her own plastic pumpkin bucket full of the same goodies Giselle had received. Another strawberry lemon drop shot was brought out for Moonbyul. But instead of letting Moonbyul take the shot herself, Karina held onto it. 

“Since it’s my party, I want to do things my way, tonight” Karina said. “So open up, Chappell,” she said, grinning mischievously. “Forgive me, Solar,” she said, turning back toward Pink Pony Club Chappell Roan for a moment before coaxing Moonbyul’s mouth open so she could pour the shot down Moonbyul’s throat. “Now for those of you who have been to my parties before, you know the second place winner usually also comes with a kiss from me, but girl…” Karina said, “Keep those green Statue of Liberty lips away from me! She’s alllll yours, Solar,” Karina said with a laugh. 

A kiss? ! What kind of costume contest between friends was this? Before you could ruminate on it, Karina was beside you, taking your hand and holding it up proudly. “And now give it up for this year’s costume contest winner!” The crowd roared with drunken cheers. You felt Karina’s hand near your thigh again. “Don’t you all just love this garter? I think it’s my favorite part,” she said, her fingers trailing over the black lace detail. Another strawberry lemon drop shot was handed to Karina, and she turned to face you. 

“You know the drill by now, don’t you?” she asked playfully. “Open up, Y/N.” The tart tang of lemon, alcohol, and a bit of sweetness from the strawberry burned while it made its way down your throat. She then leaned in, her lips brushing against your ear while she whispered to you. “You’ll get your prize later, okay?” 

The party reverted back to the way it was, but not for long. By the time 1:30 AM rolled around, the party was winding down as some partygoers headed out to make appearances at other parties, while others trickled out to hit the clubs before they closed. You collapsed on the couch, making conversation with the last few party stragglers while they gathered their shoes and costume parts, getting ready to leave. 

“Are you gonna be okay t’get home?” You looked up to see Giselle standing above you, swaying lightly, clearly a bit drunk. You sat up and nodded, scooching over so she could sit down and focus the remainder of her energy on ordering an Uber home. 

“This was sooo fun,” she said, her words blurring together a bit. She pulled off her costume’s red claw attachments so she could use her hands normally again. Then she turned to you. “Hey, we should go– er, hang out sometime,” she said. You almost missed what she said entirely, distracted by the sleek, black thigh high boots she was wearing and the way her red fishnets popped beneath them. And wait-- is that part latex? How on earth were all of Karina’s close friends this hot, too? 

“Hm?” you said, needing a moment to register what she’d just said. “Oh! I’d like that,” you said, smiling. Forgetting about the rideshare app open on her phone, she handed the small rectangle to you. “Put your number in!” she said, bouncing a bit. Her shoulder brushed against yours, sending a tiny, electric jolt through your right arm. You started to feel warm as Giselle rested her chin on your shoulder to watch as you swiped away from the pending rideshare pickup and tapped the phone icon to add your number. 

“Can I tell you something?” she asked, sitting back a bit when you were done. You returned her phone to her and nodded. “Karina’s into you,” she blurted. You threw Giselle a quizzical look while your heartbeat raced. “Wh-what?” you asked. “Where’d you get that idea from?” 

 Giselle just giggled to herself, rummaging through her bag to make sure all of her belongings were still present, then looped her arm through the handle of her Halloween bucket prize. “She does this every year,” she replied. “You’ll see. That glittery scepter of hers isn’t the only disco stick she likes to use.” She stood up, her driver just a minute or two away now. Giselle flipped her long, black hair back and gave you one last look over her shoulder. “She’d fucking kill me if she knew I said this…” she gave you one last onceover. “If you aren’t satisfied with your prize… let me know.” 

“Huh?” you said, but Giselle didn’t explain. She was already heading toward the front door, where Karina was hugging NingNing and Winter goodbye. Wait , you thought. Didn’t Winter live here? Why was she leaving? You looked around for any other remaining partygoers, but realized you were about to be alone. 

 “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Karina said apologetically, coming over to you after everyone was officially gone. You stood and walked with her into the kitchen. “Did you have fun?” she asked. She poured you a glass of water as you nodded. “Your friends are really nice,” you said, taking the cup from her. “Especially Giselle.” Karina’s eyes flashed with an emotion you couldn’t read, but then she recovered and smiled. “Don’t I know it,” she said. “They’re the best.” 

With the music at a much softer level and the purple and red LED lights off, the main floor of the apartment was dim and cozy, with the only remaining sources of light coming from the moonlight streaming in through the bay windows, the jack-o-lanterns on the fireplace mantle and the tiny, battery-powered fake flicker candles that stood on the edge of the steps leading upstairs. Your heart was pounding nervously in your chest now, unsure of what to expect. It was the first time you’d ever been alone with Karina in her apartment– normally Winter was there. 

“Hey, where’d Winter go?” you asked, trying to keep your voice casual. Karina shrugged a bit, walking back into the living room. “Oh,” she said, glancing back to make sure you followed her out. “She and NingNing decided to hit the club for a bit. I’m sure she’ll be back in a while,” she said. Anxiety quelled in your stomach. Something told you Winter would not be coming back anytime soon. 

Karina instructed you to sit back down on the couch. “Are you ready for your prize?” she asked, grinning, and you nodded a little. “You’re not going to like, have a man in a bloody clown costume jump out at me or anything are you?” you asked. Karina laughed. “Y/N! You're so funny right now. Are you nervous ?” she asked teasingly. 

“N-no, no,” you said. Of course Karina wouldn’t scare you, you thought. She was more into treats than tricks. Right? Before you could think it through, you found yourself adding, “If it’s anything like Moonbyul’s, I’m sure I’ll like it.” 

“Oh?” Karina asked, taking off her crown and shaking out her hair. “Why’s that?” 

You bit your tongue lightly as you watched her fingers run through her perfectly sleek, shiny hair. You absolutely could not say anything about her prizes coming with the promise of a kiss. Fuck . “Uh…” you lost your train of thought. “The…” 

Karina smirked a little, watching your wheels spin as you tried to come up with a response. “I see,” she said, cutting you off. “Y/N,” she continued, and you looked up at her. “Close your eyes and wait for your prize, okay?” You nodded, glancing down before closing your eyes. For a moment, everything was silent and still, and then you felt added weight on the couch. You caught a whiff of Karina’s perfume, letting you know she was beside you now. And then you felt something– no, not something, some one brush against your lips. Karina was kissing you . 

Desire spread through your body instantly. Your first instinct was to lean into it, but your head spun, and you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol or Karina’s dizzying presence. You leaned back for a moment and your eyes fluttered open. Karina’s face was just inches away from yours. 

“Is this okay?” she asked you softly, and you nodded. She leaned in and both of your eyes closed again while she kissed you. Her lips were warm and her tongue tasted sweet as it brushed against yours. Before you knew it, she was stripping you of your pirate hat, tossing it aside as she helped you lay down on the couch. Karina hovered above you, pressing herself gently against your corseted abdomen. Your breath hitched a little, making your chest heave as Karina’s hands wandered over your body lightly. Her hair tickled the sides of your face, waterfalling back over her shoulders while the two of you continued to make out. All of your senses were overwhelmed by her– her scent, her taste, and oh god , her touch. 

But just a few minutes later, she stopped and sat up. “Are you alright?” you asked, slightly breathless. She nodded and stood, then helped you up. “How would you feel about getting out of these costumes?” she asked, her head cocked to one side. 

Before you knew it, Karina was leading you upstairs. You barely had time to recognize that you were in Karina's room. She turned on a bit of soft light placed strategically underneath her bed so it wouldn’t blind either of you. “Do you want the rest of your prize?” she asked you. You nodded. Karina looked you up and down. “Then turn around,” she said. You did so, confused for a moment, but then you felt a tug on your corset. Karina was undoing your costume. She made quick work of the corset and your blouse, leaving you naked from the waist up. You felt her fingertips trail over your shoulders and down your arms, but just as soon as she was touching you, she stopped. You heard the sound of a zipper from behind you, and started to turn around. 

“Ah, ah,” Karina said. “Not yet,” she said. You heard the sound of her dress fall to the floor and your heart skipped a beat in anticipation. Karina’s hands returned to your body as she gently slid down your maxi skirt and helped you out of your boots. Her fingers wandered back toward your neck to remove your pearl necklaces, but she left the black, lace collar. “Leave it,” she said when you brought a hand up to touch it. “I like it.” One of her hands gripped your waist while the other toyed with the black garter around your thigh. “Leave this, too…for now,” she murmured. Once the two of you were fully out of your costumes she pressed herself against you from behind. Her hands wandered over the front of your body and then suddenly, you felt it. You let out a small gasp. Karina was hard. 

Giselle’s disco stick comment echoed in your ear for a moment. “Y/N?” Karina’s lips were near your ear, her voice soft. “Are you okay?”  

You nodded wordlessly, resisting the urge to grind against her. Your mouth watered a little. “C-can I turn around yet?” you asked. Karina answered by physically turning your body to face her. You leaned in to kiss her immediately while also using one hand to reach forward, gingerly taking her cock in your hand. Karina moaned lightly as she kissed you, her hips jutting forward to meet your touch. The second Karina’s lips separated from yours, you dropped to your knees, curious to see what kind of other pretty sounds you could elicit from her. Karina let out a small huff of amusement, watching fixedly as you took her in your mouth. 

“Eager, huh?” Karina murmured. Her teasing was short lived though as you bobbed your head on her length. You grew wet quickly, shifting your position a bit to try and relieve the ache between your thighs. Karina ran her hands through your hair, gathering it at the back of your head in a makeshift ponytail to keep it out of your face while you blew her. You quickly realized, though, her true intent was to be able to guide your mouth on her cock, testing to see how much you could handle. When she’d had enough, she pulled you up, only to push you back onto her bed a moment later. 

You were immediately hit by a wave of her scent, and then she was on top of you. She backed up a little and then leaned down, using her teeth to slide your garter down your thigh. Soon, it joined the rest of your costume on the floor while moved up and closer to you, kissing her way from your waist to your neck. You shivered a bit at her light touch, your hands weaving through her hair as she went. She used her knees to spread your legs, then pinned one of your wrists down to the bed. 

You wanted to hold Karina’s gaze when she finally slid into you, but after the first couple inches, your eyes rolled back and closed. Full . You were absolutely full of Karina. It took her a minute or so to bottom out in you. By the time she did, both of you were breathing heavily. You let out a tiny whimper the moment she started to move, and she consoled you with a few kisses while she slowly, slowly picked up speed. 

You felt magnetized to Karina as her body pressed tightly against yours while she fucked into you. Your wetness soon made it easy for her to pump her slick cock into you, and Karina took advantage of that. Her hips slammed into you as she went even faster, burying her head in your neck while your free hand wandered and explored over her body. 

You were lost in each other's rhythms and hungry, fervent sounds until suddenly, Karina slowed down significantly. “Shit,” she breathed, “Oh, fuck…” she pulled out quickly. She came on your near-ruined cunt, rope after rope of cum covering you. Watching her cum nearly sent you over the edge, but you knew you’d need more. 

The two of you said nothing for a few moments as you caught your breath, trying to wrap your head around the night. 

“Karina?” you said. 

“Y/N?” she replied in the same tone as you. 

“I’m…” you hesitated for a moment, but your aching cunt forced you to continue. “I’m on birth control– I mean, just so you know,” you said, your voice tapering off slightly. 

Karina’s eyebrows flew up, but then she grinned. She gently flipped you onto your stomach, rearranging you so your ass was up toward her waist. “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “This time,” she said, lining herself up with your slick entrance, “I want you to touch yourself while I fuck you, okay?”

[llamagoddessofficial]

GRJRHRJDJRJD YOUR FARM SANS STUFF IS MAKING MY BRAIN BUZZZZZZ

What if some rich city dude started vying for Farm Sans' love interest? Like the dude is a total douche, and he turns around and tries to take Sans' girl? >:3

It's probably one of those assholes who buys a second/third home in the countryside, out-pricing local families, so he can have an 'escape' he only lives in for a month out of the year. He's in town to 'get away from it all' for a while.

This dude sets off all of Sans' alarm bells when he flirts with you. With any other person, Sans' reaction would depend on whether or not you were into them. He'd respectfully back off if you genuinely liked someone. But honestly, this douche's vibes are so rancid that Sans is going to be constantly brittle and cold and on the offensive. He has a few tactics up his sleeve.

For one - he uses his community connections. This guy (we'll call him Douche) is NOT welcome here, and Sans rubs it in. Country communities are tight-knit, can be pretty closed off, and are often actively hostile to people like Douche. Douche can barely buy groceries, people either ignore him or speak in cold and brusque tones, the snub from Sans and Papyrus means people will hardly look at him. Not to mention you've been so deeply accepted that it's as if you were born and raised there; nobody wants Douche to win you over. With or without Sans' encouragement, other folk will gossip to you about what a terrible person Douche is. "Oh, don't hang around with his sort, MC. You're such a sweetheart."

Sans is relatively oblivious to how his physique is attractive to you. But he's not oblivious to how physically intimidating he can be. He enjoys casual displays of his overwhelming strength, and the terror he witnesses in Douche's eyes; nothing shuts Douche up faster than having to watch his romantic rival wrangle a bull with just his hands. Sans will wander up to Douche (particularly while Douche is trying to chat you up) holding a sack of grain in one hand like it's nothing - "hey buddy, think you can hold this for me for a few secs?" - and then Sans will watch in glee as Douche tips over under its weight.

... Sans' favourite, though, is playing mind games. He fully leans into the 'dumb country guy' stereotype, acting like he's lazy and stupid, playing up his accent and easygoing tone. Until anytime Douche tries to seem smart. Then, in a searingly faux-friendly manner, Sans nitpicks him apart, correcting him on even the most complicated issues. "hey man, pretty sure socrates said that, not plato." "actually it's gravitational lapsing that causes that effect. lensin' is somethin' else entirely." "well i don't know about no NFTs... but i do know the blockchain is only as strong as its weakest link, an' deregulation makes it impossible to recover any phished money. seems like an inherently flawed system and no real way to store yer hard earned cash. but what do i know?" This also doubles as a way of making Sans look better in front of you, because you had no idea he was so smart.

Douche honestly doesn't stand a chance. But it's fun to watch him flounder.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Napoleonville [Chapter 2: The Jailhouse]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, historical topics including war and discrimination, smoking, blasphemy, kids, parenthood, alcoholism, y'all know exactly who is in jail come on now, Pizza Hut, a wild ex-husband appears!

Word Count: 7k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @eltherevir @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @aemonddtargaryen @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰🧁

Amir is sitting at the kitchen table and icing peach cobbler cupcakes; he has a single white flower from a dogwood tree poked through one of his cornrows. He wears a short sleeve button-up shirt with a kaleidoscopic geometric pattern, high-waisted khaki shorts, and eyeglasses with large rectangular, tortoiseshell frames. He has one leg crossed over the other and is kicking it absentmindedly as he works, a habit he’s had since long before you met him in your 9th grade English class. The microwave is humming. Walk This Way is blaring from the little pink boombox.

“Ho, I mean it this time, I gotta get the hell out of this town.” Amir uses a fork to place a small peach wedge—sauteed in butter, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla—atop the swirl of buttercream frosting, then sprinkles the cupcake with cinnamon before moving on to the next. “Guess what some inbred neanderthal swamp creature did last night. They busted a window out of my car again.”

“I told you to take that thing off it.” Amir has a homemade bumper sticker on his Ford Escort that reads, in holographic rainbow cursive: Fuck Ronald Reagan (not literally)!

“That war criminal can let 50,000 people die of AIDS but I belong on America’s Most Wanted for exercising my First Amendment rights?”

“I know you’re not wrong. You know you’re not wrong. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“To be afraid is to behave as if the truth were not true. Bayard Rustin said that.”

“And I’m sure he was a very smart man, but he didn’t have to live in Napoleonville.” The microwave beeps, and you remove the sweet potato inside with an oven mitt and place it on the counter alongside the others. This is a trick you’ve learned: they’re so much easier to peel and slice once they’ve been microwaved a bit, thirty seconds for a small potato, one minute for a larger one. “You want me to ask Willis to do a stakeout or something?”

“He might be the one committing vandalism.”

You frown down at the sweet potatoes as you peel them over the cutting board and toss the skins into a bowl so Cadi can feed them to the squirrels later. You doubt Willis is responsible, but one of his friends very well could be.

Amir sighs, acquiescing, wistful. “Six months from now I’ll be in San Francisco.” Yes, he will; he’s been saving up for years. The thought of him leaving is practically apocalyptic. You can’t envision a future without Amir. It’s like the very worst version of when you’re a kid and some event—Christmas, your birthday, summer break, prom—is so glimmeringly monumental that whatever life will exist beyond it is incomprehensible, a haze of other people’s dreams and warnings. Surely you won’t exist in that timeline; surely you will dissolve away once that fateful checkpoint is reached and become nothing but sun and sand.

You don’t tell Amir any of this. You don’t want to make him feel guilty. Instead you tease: “You sure you don’t want to stay and get a job on one of those shiny new oil rigs?”

He laughs as he pipes buttercream frosting onto the last peach cobbler cupcake. His artistic talents far surpass yours, but you bring the baking techniques and recipe ideas. Still, you have always split the bakery profits—however meager they might be—equally. “Yes, how could I possibly pass up the opportunity to lose half my skin in an explosion caused by company negligence? Or inhale toxic fumes, or have my limbs ripped off, or fracture my skull? Or fall off a platform in the middle of the night and be eaten by a gator before anyone bothers to fish me out? I will surely regret all my life choices when I’m lying on the beach in Pacifica next to my new boyfriend who looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

The front door opens. It’s Mr. Fontenot, the town pharmacist. You call out: “Hi there! Come right on in! We’ve got your cake ready. Blue velvet with marshmallow cream and topped with candied blueberries. We read up on how to make them just for you. So thank you kindly for the learning opportunity.”

Since you’re wrist-deep in sweet potatoes, Amir leaps up to retrieve the box. He opens it so Mr. Fontenot can inspect his order. “When you cut into it, you’ll see that it’s a dark royal blue on the inside. Cookie Monster blue, not robin egg blue, just like you wanted.”

“Will ya look at that,” Mr. Fontenot says, beaming down at the cake. Written across the marshmallow cream in blue icing is (in Amir’s most elegant script): Happy 8th Birthday, Corey! “My grandson is going to get such a kick out of a blue cake.”

“He sure is,” Amir agrees. “Now can I talk you into anything else for the party? Some peach cobbler cupcakes, perhaps? Praline brownies? A brown sugar pie? Homemade Fruity Pebbles Rice Krispie Treats? Kids love them…!”

You say once Mr. Fontenot has gone: “He works for the company, you know.”

“Huh? Who?”

“Aemond. He works for Jade Dragon. He’s an engineer.”

“Ho, you are obsessed with that man!” Amir says. “You’ve brought him up, like, four times already!”

“Yeah,” you confess, a humiliation that is futile to deny. Parts of you are still sore from what he did to you; other places are aching for more.

“And you didn’t even get to see the dick?!”

You shake your head as you cut the peeled sweet potatoes into haphazard chunks. Amir puts a pot of water on the stove so you can boil them until they’re soft enough to mash into filling for a sweet potato pie. “Didn’t see it, didn’t touch it…”

“Didn’t lick it, didn’t suck it?”

“Okay, that’s enough, Dr. Seuss. But no.”

“Secret dick, scar on his face, missing an eye…” Amir mutters. “Maybe he’s a veteran who lost his andouille in combat! Yes! That’s it! He was there when we invaded Lebanon or Grenada or Libya and now he’s horribly disfigured and can’t bear the prospect of your inevitable horror and rejection!”

“His andouille is definitely unchopped. I could…uh…tell. Through his jeans.”

Amir closes his eyes and presses his palms together. “Sweet baby Jesus, please send me a gainfully employed big-dicked blonde man too.” He looks at you again. “But he really wouldn’t use it?!”

“Aemond said he wanted me to trust him first.”

“Maybe he doesn’t trust you. Maybe he thinks you might be on the prowl for Shotgun Wedding #2. You should tell him he’s got nothing to worry about in that department. You’ve been on the pill practically since Cadi was born.”

You murmur: “And I will be forever.”

“I know,” Amir says gently, pausing to squeeze your shoulder before taking the sweet potato hunks you’ve sliced already and dropping them in the boiling water. “So! When are you going to call him?”

You startle. “I can’t call him! I called him the first time. Now it’s his turn to call me. I can’t call him again, that would be desperate. Right?” Right?!

“Does he even know your number?”

“He knows my name, and he knows about the bakery. The number is publicly listed, he can find me in the phone book.”

Amir groans. “Lord have mercy, just call him! Pick up that pink phone right there beside the refrigerator and press those cute little buttons and say, loud and proud: Come on over here, big boy, I want to see that traumatized war veteran dick.”

The phone rings. You trip over your own feet as you lunge for it.

Amir snickers. “Pathetic!” He takes over slicing the rest of the sweet potatoes.

“Hello?!”

You hear a deep, slothful drawl; Willis’ family have been bayou people for longer than the United States has been a country. “Hey sugar, you want to bring your favorite ex-husband some dessert?”

You sigh. “Hi, Willis.” From across the kitchen, Amir makes retching noises.

“So what’d ya say? I just had a late lunch and got to thinkin’ of you. Gave me a sweet tooth.”

“Um, I don’t know, we’re really busy right now.” Amir snorts; you’ve had three customers in the last hour. There’s usually a rush first thing each morning and then again around closing time.

“Ya ain’t got time for me? Well, alrighty then. Maybe I won’t have time for you when you need a wild hog chased off your porch or a flat tire changed out there on Route 401.”

This is the eternal dilemma, the balance you wrestle with like a boat in a storm: not making him angry, not letting him get too close. You and Willis don’t have a formal agreement for custody or child support. You’ve worked it out yourselves, and he typically doesn’t make it too difficult. You’ve always felt that appeasement is the wisest course of action. As the elected sheriff of Assumption Parish, Willis Boudreaux is responsible for all criminal investigations, court proceedings, and tax collecting. Even when he was just a deputy, he had plenty of friends at the little white courthouse in the heart of downtown Napoleonville. You’re better off working with him than against him. “Okay, fine, I guess I have a few minutes. What do you want?”

“Why don’t you make a professional recommendation?”

You glance irritably at the kitchen table. “We have brown sugar pie, peach cobbler cupcakes, praline brownies, lemon blueberry cookies, uh, I’ve got half a strawberries and cream cake left in the fridge…”

“Definitely the cake,” Willis says. “I love strawberries. Remember how you fed them to me on the beach when we went to Grand Isle?”

That was…what, eight years ago? Ugh. “Barely.” You like when Willis has a girlfriend; then he mostly leaves you alone. Tragically, he and his most recent fiancé Colleen broke up last month. “I’ll drive the cake over now.” You slam the phone receiver into the base before Willis can respond.

“Let’s kill him,” Amir says.

You laugh. “I’ll consider it.”

“We can feed him to that gator out in the tree row.”

You grab a flat white bakery box off the pile, fold it open, and fetch what remains of the strawberries and cream cake from the refrigerator. “You’ll get that sweet potato pie in the oven if I’m gone for a half hour?”

“Yup. Then I’ll start working on the brown butter oatmeal raisin cookies. Is the recipe…? Oh, I see it, it’s right here on the counter. Got it. Have fun with your awful ex-husband. You sure you don’t want to add a little something special to that cake? Windex? Rat poison? He sure looks like a rodent to me. That nose? Those eyebrows?!”

“Amir, he’s just French.”

“He should be exiled to Saint Helena.”

“I’m going to have to put my own ad in the Bayou Journal,” you say, smiling sadly. “Who’s going to run the shop with me when you’re in San Francisco?”

Amir winks. “Maybe your traumatized, half-blind, hung-like-a-horse war veteran knows how to bake.”

Outside, the gator is sunning herself by the gravel driveway. She’s only about five feet long and dozing with her muddy green eyes closed, jagged upper teeth on display, missing toes here and there, back scarred by boat motors. It’s 90 degrees and sunny, warmth flooding over your bare legs and arms: denim shorts, lime green tank top. You can hear cicadas, doves, chickadees, starlings, goldfinches, ospreys, the benign droning of bumble bees. You throw the white box in the passenger seat and start your Chevy Celebrity, yellow paint, wood paneling, brown velour upholstery. You crank down the windows—the air conditioning is broken, that’s one reason why Willis’ brother was willing to sell it to you so cheap—and turn on the radio: 867-5309 by Tommy Tutone. You pull out onto Route 401, headed northeast towards downtown Napoleonville.

You pass fields of sugarcane and soybeans, shacks and trailers, grass green like emeralds. The hot mid-May air, humid and stagnant, blows through your hair. If the ride was any longer than ten minutes, you’d have needed a cooler for the cake. You find a parking spot on the street outside the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office and grab the box containing half a strawberries and cream cake, probably just starting to get melty around the edges. Deputy Melancon is on his way out when you arrive. He holds the glass door open for you.

“Comment ca va, cherie? Is that for me? I hope so!”

“I think your boss would chew your arm off if you tried to get between him and this cake.”

Deputy Melancon guffaws as he ambles towards his police car. “Have fun in there! It’s a zoo today.”

“What…?” But now you can hear the noise coming from inside the building: howling, banging, Willis telling someone to sit down and shut up, his Cajun drawl lethargic and calm. Willis is not a yeller, and you’ve never witness him raise his hands in violence. The being a cop part of his job is the aspect he enjoys the least. But sitting around jawing with his deputies until long after midnight, regaling them with tales of supposed glory acquired while you were home with a screaming baby, scrubbing floors, fixing dinner, still bleeding eight weeks after birth, waiting—because it was all there was to look forward to—for him to walk through the door and shuffle to the couch and collapse there with an ice-cold can of Bud Light in his fist, dripping condensation down his sinewy forearm? That’s what Willis lives for.

Willis is at his desk and grudgingly plodding through an intake form. His sunglasses have been shoved up into his dark curly hair; his hat—which he loathes wearing—is resting atop a mountain of deserted paperwork. There’s a poster of Heather Locklear on the wall along with a dartboard with a cutout of Tommy Lee in the center. There’s a man in one of the three holding cells that you’ve hardly ever seen used. He has slicked-back blonde hair, an aristocratic wisp of a moustache, an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and tiny red shorts and thick foam rainbow-patterned flip flops. He’s the person responsible for the ruckus.

“I want my phone call!” the prisoner shouts as he beats his palms against the iron bars. “Hey! Hey, mullet boy! I want my fucking phone call!”

Oddly, the stranger has a British accent. Aemond? you think for a split second. But no; this man couldn’t possibly be related to Aemond. He is short, slouched, soft all over, uncoordinated and uncomposed, pathetic, petulant, innately pitiful. Willis ignores him. He speaks to you instead.

“Bienvenue, sugar. Ya got something sweet for me?”

Obediently—though not entirely willingly—you bring him the white box and set it on his disorganized desk. Willis produces a stack of Styrofoam plates and a Ziploc bag full of plastic eating utensils that he keeps stocked in a drawer specifically for such occasions. He opens the box and sighs euphorically, his eyes on the moist pink cake and layers of whipped cream frosting as if it’s the flesh of a naked woman.

“Hey!” the prisoner shouts, gripping the iron bars and pressing his flushed cheeks flat against them. “Hey! I like cake too!”

“Just what I needed,” Willis tells you, as if the man isn’t there. “Sit down, eat with me.”

“I really don’t have long.”

“Ya got five minutes, don’t you?”

I guess I do. You sit down but don’t take any cake. As Willis cuts himself a slice, you can’t help but watch the man in the holding cell. He stares back at you, a little ashamed, a little defiant, palpably weak. You ask Willis: “What did you book him for?”

“DWI,” Willis says with his mouth full of cake. “Driving While Intoxicated.”

“Huh. You don’t usually pick people up for that.”

Willis points at the prisoner with his fork for emphasis. “This one was very intoxicated.”

The man kicks the bars with his flip flops. “I want my fucking phone call!”

“Ya already used it,” Willis says pragmatically, and nods to something on the floor of the holding cell: an empty, grease-stained Pizza Hut box. The prisoner looks at it, regretful.

“I didn’t know I’d only get one,” he admits. “But also! You ate three slices of my pizza!”

Willis chuckles. “Consider it payin’ your taxes.” Then, to you: “It was tres bien. Meat Lover’s. Ya can’t argue with that.”

“Hey cake lady,” the prisoner says, his prominent eyes weepy, needful, a deep stormy blue. “Can I have a piece? Please? Please? I’m having a rough day here. My flip flops are giving me blisters and your redneck husband committed pizza theft. And I’m in jail.”

“Ex-husband,” you correct him.

“Good for you. Smart cake lady.”

Willis says: “You just settle down and I’ll drive you over to the parish jail as soon as I’m done with my dessert.” He shovels cake into his mouth; he eats like a gator, like a pig.

At last, you cut a portion of strawberries and cream cake—the whipped cream frosting turning thin and runny—and place it on a Styrofoam plate. Then you get up to take it to the prisoner. You have a soft spot for the freaks of the world. You and Amir, you know exactly what it’s like to be freaks.

“Don’t give him no fork or nothing,” Willis says around a mouthful of cake. “I can’t have him tryin’ to kill himself.”

“As if I’d give you the satisfaction, Sasquatch!” the prisoner flings back.

“It’s the Rougarou we got down here, son,” Willis replies, unbothered.

You set the plate on the beige linoleum floor close enough for the prisoner to reach out and drag it to his cell. When you step back, he retrieves the cake and eats it with his bare hands. “Oh, fuck, this is so good!”

You turn to Willis. “Cadi keeps mentioning some horseback riding camp that a bunch of her friends are going to this summer. Can we make that happen?”

“Are you kiddin’ me?! It’s over $300! That’s a new boat!”

“I think it would mean a lot to her.”

“Tell her if she grows her hair back out, maybe she can go next year.” Willis licks pink cake crumbs from his fork. “Why the hell’d she ever get it cut like that?”

You shrug, irritated. “Because she wanted to.”

“Never wears no skirts or dresses, doesn’t care about jewelry, always got dirt on her face…ain’t she gonna want a boyfriend in a few years? Who’s gonna take her out lookin’ like that? Who’s gonna marry her one day?”

“She’s ten years old, Willis.”

“She’s been spending too much time with your little friend, that’s the problem.”

You glare furiously at him, but are interrupted before you can say something unwise. The man in the holding cell has finished his slice of cake. He sucks frosting off his chubby fingers and then yanks on the iron bars in vain. “I gotta go home! I gotta feed my ferret!”

“Guess ya should have thought about that before driving 70 miles per hour in a school zone, Mr.…” Willis glances at the intake form to refresh his memory. “Targaryen. What the heck is that, Italian? Polish? It ain’t French, that’s for sure.”

“It’s Greek, you dumb hick.”

Willis jabs his plastic fork at him. “You oughta watch that, son, or you’ll catch yourself a nasty case of what the liberals call police brutality.”

“He’s a Targaryen?” you ask, stunned. The man in the cell peers back at you with large, ever-wounded, ocean-blue eyes, glassy but not entirely unintelligent.

“So what?” Willis says.

“Willis, those are the oil people. Jade Dragon, the new rigs on Lake Verret? The Targaryens own that company.”

“Well I’ll be damned!” he marvels. “Really? This bon a rien right here, his family are a bunch of millionaires?”

“Yes. And you should probably let him make another phone call.”

“Yeah!” the prisoner says excitedly. “Listen to the cake lady!”

“Alright, alright,” Willis grumbles. “Guess I don’t need no legal trouble.” He picks up the phone off his desk and walks it to the holding cell; the cord stretches just far enough. “Make your damn phone call, gros couillion.”

Mr. Targaryen snatches up the receiver, punches some buttons, and listens as it rings. “Hi. Okay, don’t yell at me. Here’s the deal. I’m at the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office and I need you to pick me up. Wait, I said don’t yell at me! Stop yelling!!”

“I really need to get back to the bakery,” you tell Willis as you make for the door. “I’ll see you around, okay—?”

“Hey, sugar.” You stop and wait for him to finish. He’s considering you in that way he does sometimes: mild, thoughtful, vaguely sad, how’d we end up like this? He should know, you’ve told him a hundred times, but that doesn’t mean he understands. “I’m supposed to be gettin’ a new deputy next week. When he shows, I’ll send him down your way, recruit ya another customer. Charge him a little extra if you want. He won’t know no better.”

“Thanks, Willis,” you say, and you mean it. Then you step outside into sun glare and the shrieking of cicadas.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s almost dinnertime when the phone rings. You’re heating up the turtle soup that Amir brought over earlier, stirring the pot as the sky outside turns from a crystalline blue—just like Aemond’s eye—to rust and amber and fool’s gold, as the twilight air breathes into the room warm and ancient. There’s a plump nutria nibbling on grass at the edge of the backyard. Wham’s Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go pipes from the boombox. At first you’re too startled to race for the phone—too terrified that it won’t be Aemond, too afraid to get your hopes up—and you hesitate just long enough for Cadi to answer instead.

“Hello?” she says, and then: “Yeah, school was good.”

Everything sinks in you, heart, spirit, the sweltering pressure of blood ebbing in your veins. Oh. It’s Willis.

Cadi continues chatting away obliviously. “Uh huh. Not really. We learned about robber barons and cannons of Italy. Yeah, captains of industry, that’s what I meant. Uh huh. Yup. It was okay, I guess. Yeah. Today it was pizza, but it’s always shaped like a rectangle. Exactly, no crust. It’s weird. Pepperoni. I always sit with Michelle and Erica. Erica has this totally tubular book about horses she showed us. Yup. I like the Appaloosas the most. Uh huh. Okay, I will. Yup. Bye.” Then she hands you the phone. “For you,” she says, then resumes setting the counter: cups, bowls, spoons, folded Bounty paper towels, dinner for two. You never eat at the kitchen table. The table is reserved for business.

You raise the pink phone receiver to your ear with some uncertainty. What does he want now? “Willis?”

“No,” Aemond says, amused. “Though we’ve been to some of the same places.”

You try not to let the smile fill up your face. You fail. “You were asking Cadi about her day?”

“Evidently.” You don’t know what this means; you don’t ask. “When are you free?”

“I usually have the house to myself on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.” It’s currently Monday.

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow. What time?”

“I should be done in the bakery at around 5:00.”

“I’ll be there at 5:01.” Then Aemond hangs up. So do you, your skull suddenly abloom like springtime, colors and promise and warmth. He’s going to be here in less than 24 hours. I really am going to see him again.

You turn towards the counter. “Cadi, what are robber barons?”

“Rich people who are mean to their workers to get as much money as possible. They don’t care about others. They just want more and more and more. They’re very greedy and are never satisfied.”

“So like the Rockefellers and Standard Oil,” you say, thinking back to your high school American History class. It feels like a lifetime ago, it feels like trying to catch lightning bugs in your bare hands.

“Yeah.” Cadi pours herself a cup of Tang. She’s wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt and green corduroy pants; her father would not approve. “Or Jade Dragon Energy.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Tuesday, 5:03 p.m., rattling cicadas and golden light like the lit coil of a stove burner. You’re still scrubbing dishes, and Amir is icing the last of the orange creamsicle cupcakes for the next morning. Aemond opens the unlocked front door and strides purposefully into the kitchen: ripped jeans, red t-shirt, Converses to match, Marlboro jacket. He is carrying a neon teal duffle bag that he drops on the sloping wooden floor where the living room meets the kitchen. He is momentarily taken aback when he sees Amir, then recalls what you told him about your friend who helps run the bakery. Aemond pulls out one of the kitchen table chairs and sits. He lifts the glass lid from a cake plate, takes the last peach cobbler cupcake for himself, makes unflinching eye contact with you as he licks the frosting off it with long, slow, sensual drags of his tongue.

Amir says: “Hey Scarface, that’s $1.”

“Amir!” you scold, mortified. But Aemond doesn’t seem offended. He smirks, extracts his black leather wallet from the pocket his jeans, and fishes out four singles. He slides them across the table.

Amir sighs. “This bitch can’t even count.”

“I’m sure he can count,” you say, smiling. “He’s an engineer.”

“He’s mouth-fucking this cupcake right in front of me, he’s clearly unstable.”

Aemond looks to you. His voice is low, imposing. “I need to know what your limits are.”

“Oh my God!” Amir squeaks, bent over the table and icing as quickly as he can.

“Okay,” you tell Aemond. You rinse the pearlescent soap bubbles from your hands, wrists, forearms. Then you step out from behind the counter and watch him, remember him, imagine what will happen next.

He gives the peach cobbler cupcake another lap. Buttercream frosting coats his mischieviously curled lips and then is swiftly licked away. “Can I spank you?”

“Yes.”

Amir mutters to himself: “Grandma is never going to believe this.”

“Can I tie you up?”

“Yes.”

“Can I bite you hard enough to leave bruises?”

You pause. “Only places that will be covered by my clothes.”

“And what should you say if you ever don’t like what I’m doing?”

“I just tell you to stop.”

“Exactly.” Aemond grins. His right eye skates from your face to your chest to your hips to your thighs to your ankles, drinking you down like the earth swallows rain, like the vines and cypress trees and Sanish moss of the bayou thieve sunlight and never give it back. His left eye doesn’t move at all, though this is not something you would notice if you didn’t know to look for it. “Good girl.”

“Done!” Amir announces triumphantly, completing the swirl of frosting on the final orange creamsicle cupcake.

“Can I pull your hair?” Aemond asks you.

“Yeah, I think so. Not hard enough to yank it out though.”

Aemond scoffs. “Of course not. I don’t actually want to hurt you. That’s what some doms are after, but not me. Not here, not with you. You don’t want real pain, do you…?”

“No, definitely not,” you say, relieved.

“Brilliant. Then we’re on the same page.”

Amir could leave, but he doesn’t. His eyes dart between you and Aemond from behind his large rectangular glasses, fascinated, scandalized, too astonished to move.

Aemond continues: “Birth control?”

“I’m on the pill and have been for years. I can show you the pack if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you. I saw them in your bathroom last time I was here. I’m in the practice of using condoms regardless.” He tilts his head impishly. “Can I fuck your ass?”

“Um.” You hesitate. This is uncharted territory, though you cannot say that you are entirely unintrigued. “Maybe one day.”

“Noted. Some people find the sensation, the taboo, the fullness…quite pleasurable.”

“Do you?” Amir asks flirtatiously.

Aemond gives him a lazy, ludicrously charming smile. “Well I’ve never been on the receiving end, but I’m game to give it a try if you are.”

Amir bursts out laughing, then says to you: “He’s alright. He can commit abominable sins with you, I guess.” He stands and shakes Aemond’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Kind of.” Then he saunters off through the living room and out the front door. After a moment, you and Aemond listen to his blue Ford Escort rumble to life and then the crunching of gravel as it rolls out of the driveway. From the boombox drifts Just What I Needed by The Cars.

Aemond licks the last of the frosting from the peach cobbler cupcake and says: “Now you’re going to be the cupcake.” He crosses the kitchen, kneels down in front of you, roughly yanks down your denim shorts. He presses his face to your royal blue satin panties—hastily purchased this morning while Amir watched the shop and changed into just one hour ago in anticipation of Aemond’s arrival—and inhales deeply, desperately, like a drowning man gasping for air. Then, through the sheer fabric, he begins to tease you: nudges of his nose, nibbles of his lips.

Your fingers tangle in his short blonde hair. Blonde like the drunk man in the holding cell, you think randomly. “Aemond, why didn’t you want me last time?”

“I wanted you. I wanted you then and I want you now.”

“But I disappointed you. You didn’t finish.”

“Oh, I came,” he purrs. “Went home, got in the shower, thought of you. It didn’t take long. I would have disappointed you terribly. Woke up in the middle of the night thinking of you. Tried to miraculously get some work done yesterday while thinking of you. Crawled out of bed this morning thinking of you. Are you noticing a theme?”

You smile as his tongue presses forcefully against the satin. “I might be.”

“How many times in your life has a man treated his orgasm as essential and your own as an afterthought, if he considered it at all?”

Oh God. That’s the fucking truth. “A lot more than once.”

“So consider what we did on Sunday as one little notch in the other column. Just restoring a bit of much-needed balance to the universe.” He hooks his thumbs under your panties and tugs them off. “Open your thighs for me,” he orders as he pushes them apart with his palms: large, smooth, artful hands. You brace your own hands against the kitchen counter as he buries his face between your legs, not lapping in a tentative, exploratory sort of way but feasting on you, drowning in you, lips and tongue and then fingers that skate up the downy inside of your thigh to taunt you, enter you, fuck you expertly yet leave you wanting more of him, all of him. Your nerves are on fire, your blood is simmering. Outside the birds of prey are emerging from their liars and battle-scarred gators stalk boldly through the green prehistoric wildness of the Deep South.

What happened to his eye? you think through the lust-pink haze, knowing you cannot ask him. Aemond respects your rules. You must abide by his as well. How was he injured so gravely? Who hurt him? Did they atone for their misdeeds, did they pay the cost?

Suddenly, Aemond stands and pulls you against him by your waist, rips your yellow tank top over your head and unhooks your bra, kisses you fiercely. His mouth is dripping with you, clean mineral longing; his right eye is gleaming, famished, not just lustful but half-mad. No one else exists. No one ever has or ever will. “Go to the bed and wait for me there.”

“No.”

He spanks you once with his open palm; the sound is sharp and exquisite. “Go.” And this time you obey, counting the seconds in the dusk-lit splinter of time before he joins you.

In Aemond’s duffle bag—among other things, surely—are silk scarves the color of sapphires. First he fastens one over your eyes as a blindfold. Then he ties one around each of your wrists and binds both to the same bedpost, low enough that while your hands are kept up by your head, you still have some room to maneuver on the freshly-laundered, wildflower-patterned duvet. “Not different posts?” you ask Aemond.

“No. Tying your arms far apart like that can cause cramps in your back and your shoulders. It can even make it difficult to breathe. I want you to be comfortable. I want you to be focused entirely on what I’m doing to you.”

You moan as his fingers slip between your legs and circle over the place that makes your muscles yearn and twist and tighten until you feel they might snap, until you can imagine every string of you breaking and dissolving from the prison of flesh into water, air, gravity, the eternal silent progress of time. He bites and sucks at your nipples, flicking his tongue over them, admiring them, praising them, ravenous for them. You are enraptured by the weight of him on top of you. Without your sight, everything else is more noticeable, more real: his warmth, his sweat, his every brush of skin against yours, his smoke and cologne and gasps and sighs, the grinding of his bare cock against your thighs as he makes you ready for him. And you beg for it long before he gives it to you.

“Roll over,” he commands breathlessly, and then guides you: your fingers clutching the scarves that secure your wrists, your elbows propped on the mattress, your back arched and hips angled up towards him, his lips murmuring against your shoulder, your cheek, the side of your throat. He’s telling you so many things, perfect things, delicious things you’ll never hear enough of: how beautiful you are, how badly he wants you, how well you’re doing. There is the sound of Aemond opening a condom wrapper, and a strange sorrow ripples through you. I wish I could have him raw.

One of his hands reaches around to stroke you, keeping you soaked and supple for him. The other begins to guide his cock into your aching, starving wetness. You stretch for him, you accept him eagerly…and then there is resistance. He stills immediately and tries a slightly different angle. Nothing. He could force it, probably, but he won’t. He recedes from you, agonizing emptiness, dire unfulfillment. I’m disappointing him, he’s too big, I’m too tight, too nervous, too inexperienced at being dominated, I can’t please him. You whimper: “Aemond, I’m sorry—”

“No,” he says, more ferocious than any words you’ve ever heard from him. You are not allowed to criticize yourself. You are not allowed to give up so easily. He leans down and whispers into the shell of your ear, his ribs against your spine, his heat entombing you: “Relax. I’m in charge now. I’ll take care of you.”

You want him to. You need him to. His commandment rolls through your blood and bones like a wave, loosening those last vestiges of anxiety, shaking grim psychological heirlooms from the highest shelves. You can surrender yourself completely to Aemond. He is worthy, he is safe, he is euphoria made flesh. His fingertips are still stroking you. He pushes your thighs just a little farther apart and—slowly, cautiously—eases his cock into your throbbing warmth. He hisses in a breath, though he tries not to break character, to show you that he might just be a little bit at your mercy too.

You moan loudly and shamelessly, letting him know you’re alright, more than alright, in ecstasy, in bliss, in torment, on the edge. When Aemond thrusts, he finds a place that’s never been hit so directly or so well. The climax is on you before you are aware of it, one of those swells that rises out of nowhere, capsizes the boat, fades back into the endless blue of the ocean. It jolts through your pelvis, your spine, your skull, and then evaporates like steam from a bathroom mirror. And now Aemond is trying to finish too, but something is off. He tries a few different rhythms, can’t seem to get it right. You think you can feel him beginning to soften. No no no, I can’t leave him unsatisfied again.

You look back, though you cannot see him through the blindfold; instinctively, you want to be closer to him. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aemond says. “Nothing, nothing, nothing is wrong. You’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.” He turns your face so he can kiss you deeply, his tongue in your mouth, swallowing you down, entangled in every way possible. And only then he is able to come: powerfully, trembling, crying out like he’s in the kind of pain that leaves scars for life.

He glides his cock out of you, and you can hear him snap off the condom. Then he unties your blindfold and your wrists. You reach for him, then stop yourself; he reaches for you—a reflex, surely—and then shakes the notion away and collapses beside you on the duvet. You both lie there panting, gazing dizzily up at the long shadows of centuries-old oak trees that cascade across the ceiling, minds drained, bodies spent.

After a moment, Aemond clambers off the bed to grab a lighter and a pack of Marlboro Reds out of his jeans pocket. Then he flops back down next to you, lights a cigarette, takes a deep, slow drag. “So, cupcake,” he says nonchalantly, exhaling smoke, hand shaking. “Where’d you get married?”

You laugh; this is ridiculous. “Why on earth would you want to know that?”

“I want to know things about you. Things other than your tits and your pussy. I mean, those are great. I enjoy them tremendously, and I plan to keep enjoying them. But I also enjoy you.”

You sigh. Aemond waits, puffing on his cigarette. “The parish courthouse.” Plain, boring, economical. “I wanted a wedding at Saint Honoratus, but…”

“Saint…who?”

“The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens,” you say. “It’s this gorgeous place in a town called Belle River on the other side of Lake Verret. Very small, very old, it’s a historic site or something, they can’t ever knock it down.”

“Why couldn’t you get married there?”

You shrug; how much could the details matter now? Someone needed to organize it, someone needed to decorate, someone needed to pay for food and drinks, someone needed to send out invitations, someone needed to care enough to make it happen, and that someone would have been you, just you, seventeen and broke and bedridden with morning sickness until noon every day. “It just didn’t work out.”

“Sounds like a lot of things didn’t work out for you.”

You raise your eyebrows. Aemond winces.

“Sorry. That was…not the way I meant to express that sentiment.”

You forgive him. You’d forgive him for anything right now, right here, in a bed stained with his sweat and your wetness and the seed you wish he could have spilled inside you. You taunt him: “Should we meet up at your house next time?”

He recoils, horrified. “No. Definitely not.”

“Why? What’s at your house? An abandoned wife and six tall, blonde, prominently-jawed children?”

He chuckles; he has collected himself again. “No. It’s just that…well…I have family in town currently. They’re staying with me while I get set up with the new job and everything. Quite a lot of people. And my family is…unorthodox.”

You wish he would stop using words you don’t know. That’s the hazard of affiliating with a highfalutin petroleum engineer, you suppose. “So they’re strange?”

“That’s a kind word for it.”

“I like strange people. I like you.”

Aemond smirks warily. “You wouldn’t like them. Just trust me on that.” He traces the border of your face with his fingertips, contemplating your secrets, tending his own like a nightscape garden. “Do you ever want to do something…not in your bedroom?”

You grin and he kisses you, nicotine and quelled desire; he can’t help it. You say when you break away: “What, like dinner or flowers or any of the other activities that were very clearly not a part of this arrangement?”

“Arrangements are flexible.”

“Are they?”

“This one is. Increasingly so.”

You ponder his proposition. “There’s this new restaurant I really want to go to. I’ve never been before, but it looks pretty rad in the commercials on tv. It’s up in Gonzales.”

“The same town as your illustrious Kmart engagement. How fortuitous. Pease continue.”

“It’s an Italian place,” you say.

“I love Italian.”

“It’s called Olive Garden.”

Aemond’s mouth falls open. He is bewildered, appalled. His cigarette smolders forgotten in the crook of his fingers. You might as well have told him you wanted to run over puppies with lawnmowers. “You want me to take you to Olive Garden? Seriously?”

You are wounded. “What’s wrong with Olive Garden?”

“Cupcake, Olive Garden is not real Italian food. That’s like saying Taco Bell is Mexican.”

“…Isn’t it?”

“Okay,” he capitulates. He smiles as he smooths your disheveled hair and touches his lips to your forehead. “It’s fine. We’ll go to Olive Garden.”

“Really?” you reply, beaming.

“Really. You’re free Thursday?”

“Unless Willis has to switch nights for some reason, yeah.”

“Then we’ll go Thursday.” Aemond rolls off the bed and finds a mug—Return Of The Jedi, Princess Leia and the Ewoks—left on your dresser to put his cigarette out in. He looks through the screen of your open bedroom window as the sky turns ever-darker, as the moon and stars begin to rise, and he breathes in the verdant, humid, ageless witchcraft of the bayou. “You have no idea what the last few days have been like for me,” Aemond says softly, his bare back turned to you, the ridge of his spine like a road cut through a swamp or a forest or a field of sugarcane. “You have no idea how badly I needed this.”

[trilobitepunch]

In Essence, the Behavior of Siblings

The Grounds were more than what the simple name implied. Formally it was known as Ma no Michi, or "The Way Between," but over time it had been considerably nicknamed and shortened for the common ground that it was. 

It was a small town that stretched between two worn torii for less than two miles. The structures that flanked either side of the street were of wood and looked much like a typical town, interspersed with market stalls and a general busyness that gave the place an overall constant festival atmosphere.

The strangest thing about the place was that it was entirely populated by yōkai; merchants, residents and most of those passing through. Indeed, there at times could be seen actual humans amongst the visitors, a rarity to be sure, but there were some whom yōkai had been able to trust, and having this link helped them, especially those who only wished to live peacefully in a land where human influence continued to grow.

Not any human could enter the Grounds. Most avoided the torii path, rumors that some unwitting wanderers vanished once passing beneath the flaking red gates. Others said that there was nothing on the other side, just as empty a stretch of road as what one perceived from before and beyond, but it was an unsettling stillness that plagued them until they reached the opposite gateway. They had no 'key' to truly open the way.

"You all have your omamori?" Yoshi asked, turning towards his unusual sons as they drew closer to the torii. A chorus of confirmations came and he smiled before turning, tucking away his own charm into his sleeve. 

The sensation was a bit disorienting when you possessed a 'key' and stepped through. The world beyond the torii was full of life and sound as one would expect upon entering a town. Leaving was just as strange, releasing a person back into the stillness of an otherwise empty roadway. 

Sannan disliked passing through the gates. Yoshi always waited until his second youngest came through, always last, shoulders hunched up in preparation, shuddering once he had stepped through and flicking his tail as though to fully disperse the feeling. He claimed it felt like something crawling over him. Jinan told him he was just crazy.

"Here we are, my sons," Yoshi said, laying a reassuring hand upon Sannan's shoulder as he guided him along after the others. He had to be quick before Yotsuo would go wandering off. "We will meet back here in an hour so that we can all get a meal together."

"Haaaai!"

"Of course, otō-sama."

"Got it, oyaji."

"We'll see you later."

Yoshi watched as the four went off with a quirk of a smile as Yotsuo abruptly went dashing off as something inevitably caught his attention. Sannan gave an exasperated sigh before he went after him. The boys enjoyed these outings, so Yoshi was more than happy to give them the opportunity to explore before they got down to business matters. As he was about to turn, he caught Chōnan's eye upon him and he paused, giving him a nod. Just because this was a place of yōkai, it didn't mean they should entirely let their guard down.

~~~

"Uuuuuwaaaa! Look at that, San-nii! It looks like ice!" Yotsuo marveled as his eyes fell upon a curious plate amongst a mismatched collection of ceramics. As annoying as it was feeling like he always somehow ended up having to watch his little brother, he didn't mind it too much. Yotsuo often tended to find the most interesting things in the marketplace.

"Don't touch it," he said as he came up beside him to see what had drawn Yotsuo's attention. "It's very delicate. Glass, I think."

"Right you are, little Hamato," chuckled the vendor, which made Sannan involuntarily tense. He didn't like that they were so identifiable, even though he knew that many who resided in the Grounds looked to the Hamato whenever trouble occurred. "Not very practical for everyday use, but it is very pretty to look at."

Yotsuo made a disappointed sound as Sannan caught his hand just before he could lift the plate's edge with a claw. "Thank you," the latter said with a bow of his head towards the vendor before guiding his all too curious brother away. He was fully prepared to counter any complaints but largely unsurprised when that familiar look passed across Yotsuo's face, a sure sign that he'd found something else to investigate. Sighing, again Sannan prepared to follow, pausing however to shoot a look towards the nearby rooftop with something of a scowl, but he wasn't long in drifting after the youngest.

~~~

From above, Jinan watched the two. He had an hour and they'd just got here, so he wasn't in any particular hurry to look around. Besides, it was funny watching Sannan get dragged about by Yotsuo, and Jinan was simply glad that it wasn't him. He ducked back against the roof with a grimace when he saw his twin turn his head right in his direction. 

"Tch, how does he do that?" Jin muttered.

As his brothers wandered out of sight, Jinan turned to pick his way across the shingles before dropping down to the street. 

"Oh! Where did you come from?" 

The voice made him jump, and he spun around to see a peddler stooped beside her box of wares. She smiled as she removed her broad straw hat. "Ah, I have returned the favor, I see."

"-sorry, guess I should have double-checked where I was landing," Jinan murmured as he scratched the back of his head, giving an awkward sort of bow.

"No harm done. I haven't set up yet, but I did not think anyone would be passing by from above," the peddler said as she resumed pulling things from her box to set out at the stall there on the corner. He'd heard that traveling merchants were able to rent a space if they wanted, and the marketplace at the Grounds was a popular place to find unusual and interesting things. "What are you selling?" he asked.

"Incense," the peddler replied, smiling enigmatically as she set a shallow dish down, holding up a slender stick. She didn't seem particularly bothered as Jinan's expression flattened along with his equally disinterested, "Oh."

"It isn't for everyone," she admitted, continuing to put out her wares. Samples and tiny censers, small bundles of sticks. She paused in pulling more items out long enough to light one of the sticks and set it in a bowl of ash, gently blowing out the flame and leaving a wispy trail of smoke that snaked lazily in the air. Jinan caught a whiff, humming thoughtfully as she watched him almost expectantly. "It's nice, but yeah, not my thing. Good luck in your sales," he said, waving a hand as he went on his way.

~~~

"Great job, Chō. How're you supposed to keep an eye out on your brothers when you can't even find them?" the big yōkai sighed at himself. It had scarcely been two minutes and he'd somehow lost sight of all of them at once. In his distraction to catch sight of at least one of them, he'd also lost track of his dad. 

"It's fine. They've all gotta be around here somewhere. This place isn't that big." He started along the main road, for that was the only way to go.

"Oh, Chō-chan! Looking for your brothers again?" an elderly yōkai greeted him with a gentle chuckle. This was hardly a first-time occurrence. 

"A little. You haven't by chance seen any of them?"

"Hmm. I thought I saw the little one head towards the pottery stalls."

"Should have figured as much. Thanks, baachan," Chōnan sighed, giving a quick bow before he started in that direction.

"Ah, before you go, at least take something to nibble on. Have to keep up the energy if you're going to catch those brothers of yours," the old one cackled, holding out a red bean-filled pastry. Some of the anxiousness from Chōnan's face relaxed as he accepted it, smiling that snaggle-toothed smile of his that hadn't seemed to change despite the years. And then off he went, taking care not to completely shove the thing into his mouth.

He caught a face full of incense smoke as he rushed on by, nearly choking as he tried to save his precious bean-paste bun. His clawed hands flailed about in the air as he juggled the thing while simultaneously trying to wave away the smell before successfully managing to cradle the little pastry in his palms. An amused sort of sound caught his ear just then, and he flashed a sheepish smile at the vendor at the incense booth before he continued on his way.

~~~

"Do you like this one?"

"No."

"How about this?"

"No."

"Well I'm sure you'd approve of this one at least!"

"Not even close."

"Oh come on, San-nii! Why won't you pick any?" Yotsuo pouted, tossing his hands up before he tucked them tightly beneath his armpits in that sulky pose only a little brother scorned could pull off.

"Lack of use, for one. I think you'd definitely need hair," Sannan pointed out, having long built up an immunity to such looks as he poked a clawed fingertip at the dangling ends of a delicate kanzashi. It was a very pretty hair decoration, at least that much he would agree on. 

"What about for Karai-obasan?" Yotsuo pushed, head lifting with just a touch of hopefulness. It was quickly dashed by a pragmatic shake of Sannan's own head.

"Obasama doesn't need those sorts of things. It'd just get in the way. If you really want to get her something, let's look for something useful," he suggested in order to allay his little brother's anticipated objections. It did the job of getting him to stop sulking at the very least.

"Okay! That does make sense. What do you suggest then?" Yotsuo asked, reaching out to tug his brother along. The sooner they started moving again, the sooner they might find …whatever it is they might be looking for!

"A knife is pretty useful…"

"Saaaaaaan…."

Yotsuo dropped his brother's hand as his pout returned. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised at the suggestion. Sannan was pretty practical about those sorts of things, but then that did explain why Sannan usually still had something to spend later on when the rest of his brothers ended up with strange trinkets and stomachs full from snacks.

"-oh wait, what's that smell?" And off he was bounding again, as though their previous discourse hadn't occurred, another reason Sannan hadn't really worried about truly upsetting his brother. This was all rather typical, after all.

He caught up to Yotsuo at what appeared to be an incense vendor. A traveling merchant, Sannan guessed, as he by now knew most of the regulars, and there weren't many who specialized in such a thing here in the Grounds. The woman at the stall smiled amiably at the two, a humanoid yōkai so far as he could identify, the sort who could easily pass among humans without garnering suspicion. "Greetings. Do feel free to sample my wares. I have prepared them all myself," she said.

"Ohhhh, this one smells nice. You might not like it though, San. It's a little strong."

"Hn," Sannan replied, but he took a polite sniff anyway, if only to satiate his curiosity. "Sandalwood," he guessed, inwardly proud of himself when he noticed the slight lift of a brow from the merchant. She smiled wanly, nodding. "So it is," she confirmed, looking on with interest as Yotsuo instantly took this as a sign to test his brother's skill, picking up one of the incense wafers from another dish.

Ah, this one he knew well, even if it was a little overstated, but he supposed that was the point of incense. He managed not to wrinkle his snout. "Wisteria," he said, thinking of the wild grove he liked to retreat to when he wanted some space for himself.

"You are very skilled in identifying these," the merchant laughed. "You would do well at incense gatherings. Now, how about this one?" She brought up from behind the booth an incense stick that had already been lit, standing in a bowl of ash, and with a fanning of her hand, sent the wisping trail of scent towards them. 

Sannan looked a little put off at the fact that the merchant seemed to be getting in on this game Yotsuo had started, but he sniffed at it all the same. He squinted, shaking his head as he snorted out a breath. Too perfumed for his tastes. "Some blend of aloeswood," he said, unable to keep from wrinkling his snout then. It didn't seem like his response had offended the merchant at least, but her attention had seemed to shift to Yotsuo at that point.

"That is the main part of it," she conceded, looking back at Sannan and somewhat startled to find him already eyeing her intently. He frowned a little, nudging Yotsuo with an elbow. "Come on, Yo-chan. If we keep stopping at everything then it'll already be time to meet back with the others."

"Huh-? O-oh!" Yotsuo blinked, shaking his head a bit before he smiled brightly at Sannan. "You're right. Um, thank you," he said as he turned his attention back to the vendor with a bow of his head. Sannan dropped a hand on his shoulder to steer him along after offering his own bow, his attention lingering just slightly longer until they were caught along in the next flow of foot traffic.

~~~

"All right, what kind of junk did you buy this time?" Jinan asked as he rested his elbows on the low table before them. He yelped as Yoshi swatted them off, straightening his posture before the man could go off about manners and this not being their house.

"Nothing," Yotsuo pouted before the words sunk in, and he shot a glare across the table at Jinan. "And it's not junk! They're just…things that don't have any immediate usefulness," he said, doing his best Sannan impression. Even Jinan had to laugh at that, as did Chōnan. Yoshi was doing his best to hide a grin behind his hand, coughing into a fist when his second youngest shot him a look.

"That's fine, it just means we have more to spend on food," Chōnan said eagerly, which surprised absolutely no one at the table.

"Only you would be able to still be hungry despite the amount of handouts you've likely accumulated." Sannan could be ruthless when he wanted to be, but his tone bore no edge, so he was clearly teasing as only he could. It really wasn't any big secret that their eldest brother was a favorite amongst the old snack and pastry artisans, and to some extent they were a bit jealous.

Yoshi waved his hands with an exasperated sigh. "Okay, okay, that's enough! You'll have time to look around again afterwards, but first, I think we could all do for something to eat." He went ahead and made a request for their food, then took up his teacup once Sannan had poured for them all. His son still disliked tea, but he felt that he was still partaking somehow by at least helping serve it.

"So, what's the job, oyaji?" Jinan asked, swirling his tea around. "Do you need us?"

Savoring his own tea, Yoshi shook his head. "Minor tsukumogami case. I might need you though, Chō. Supposedly we'll be dealing with a large, cast-iron pot."

"What a perfectly good thing to let go to waste," Sannan commented. "No wonder it's upset. Maybe it'll calm down if Jin gives it a good scrubbing."

"Oh please-"

"Actually, that isn't a bad idea. Jin, you come with us too," Yoshi decided, sipping his tea while Jinan tried to decide who to be angry at. In the end he closed his mouth as he worked out this clever trap of his twin; if he objected then Sannan would likely be voluntold for suggesting it, and then that would mean Jinan would have to accompany Yotsuo in his wild marketplace browsing. It really was a no-win situation as far as Jinan was concerned, so he grumbled something that was neither agreement nor protest and that was that.

Yoshi was however right in one thing; a good meal certainly did the trick in lightening the mood and sour spirits. At least, temporarily.

~~~

"Did you see anything you wanted to look at?" Yotsuo asked as he and Sannan once again found themselves wandering the main road. 

"Not particularly," Sannan replied, even as his eyes drifted over the various stalls, seeking out guest peddlers. They often brought the most interesting things, or at least had some interesting stories to tell.

At least there was one stall they always made sure to stop by. Sho-ojiisan liked when they brought back some senbei, claiming they were the best rice crackers he'd ever had. The boys secured a box and were given an extra treat apiece, crunching on the savory sweetness as they continued their marketplace perusal.

They passed the incense seller again, and she smiled brightly as she beckoned them over with a hand.

"Are you closing shop already?" Yotsuo asked, noting that much of her wares had already been packed away. 

"Oh, not just yet, but the heat is a bit much for me and the scent doesn't carry as well now that the sun is so high. Mornings are so much better for sales." She gave a small shrug. "I did wish to ask a favor of you both. Particularly you, young sir, for I'd like the opinion of your sharp nose."

Sannan frowned a little, more so as Yotsuo echoed, "Sharp nose, hehe..!" He shut his brother up with a sharp elbow. "What sort of opinion? Surely you know the scent of your own wares, so I doubt it's for identification."

"A sharp tongue and wit as well," the merchant laughed. "No, I would like to know what someone might think of a new scent I've been working on. I'm trying to get the mixture just right, and I think it's close, but I need something more." She gestured to the building behind her. "I am renting a room at the back. The screen is open, so if you wouldn't mind helping me carry these there at the very least?"

The brothers looked at each other, the smaller one smiling brightly while the other sighed. "I suppose we have time to help," Sannan conceded, Yotsuo already bouncing over to pick up some of the merchant's things.

It didn't take too long, especially when most of it was packed in the box, which Sannan picked up and was silently impressed that anyone would walk around with it on their back. The weight wasn't unmanageable, but he imagined it added quite a burden to anyone traveling distances for any amount of time. He set it down in the room, a small space suitable enough for sleeping in. Yotsuo had already invited himself to sit there at the edge while the merchant eventually joined them. She had a few bowls of what Sannan guessed were ingredients, laid out on the tatami. 

"Please make yourselves comfortable. This will not take long," the merchant said as she sorted through things. "Little one, please pull that screen closed. Not all the way," she added, catching Sannan's eye. "I just don't want to dilute the fragrances too much. Here," she said as she held out one of the bowls to him.

"Aloeswood is too strong," Sannan was quick to comment after a whiff. He glanced over as Yotsuo took a sniff. "Is it supposed to be different?"

"Oh dear, I barely added any aloeswood. I was hoping it would accent the scent rather than overpower it. I thought perhaps some fresh senses would be able to pick it out," the woman frowned. "Perhaps it will blend better once it is lit. Sometimes it takes on a different characteristic. I have a sample stick."

She slipped it out, setting it in a holder before lighting the end with a flame and quickly putting it out, fanning it with her sleeve as the thin white wisp unfurled from its tip.. 

Both boys dutifully took a sniff. "Hn…  No, the aloeswood is still prevalent," Sannan admitted, brow furrowing. "But there's…something else. Kind of bitter-smelling. I can't…"

His vision blurred and refused to clear no matter how much he blinked. This…this is… Alarm flashed in his mind, and he shot a glare at the incense maker as he lurched to his feet. They gave out from beneath him before he could even pull them into position, his vision swimming as he hit the floor, but he could barely make out the yōkai woman who had slipped on a cloth mask.

"Breathe deep, little Hamato," she said quietly as she stood over him. Sannan in fact tried to do the exact opposite, his muscles tensed but otherwise struggling to follow through with what he wanted them to do. His head felt like a lead weight as he tried to lift it, trying to push himself up. Beside him he was vaguely aware that Yotsuo had also collapsed, his brother's gaze unfocused as he lay there.

"Hm. Perhaps I did not use enough, or your resilience is just that much more impressive." Her cold tone was at odds with her words and a striking contrast to how she had spoken to them earlier. "Well, no matter. I will be done soon enough." She stepped back towards her things, picking out another slender stick of incense, which she stood in the bowl of ash and lit, placing it between the two.

Sannan couldn't even move his mouth, every muscle quivering with the effort. The scent that replaced the first was unfamiliar to him, but it reminded him of the heavy scents that hung about human temples. The smoke from it seemed thicker, suspended there as it wove itself through the air of the small room. It wreathed him and Yotsuo like some alive thing.

"You know, my brother was one of those who had answered the call and gone up to the mountain, long ago," the incense merchant said, speaking as though they were all still holding such a normal conversation. Even though his mind felt as foggy as the bluish smoke that swam about the room, Sannan recognized the sound of metal ringing, as a blade pulled from its sheath. His eyes widened into slits, his mind screaming at the rest of his body to cooperate.

"He went up," the yōkai woman continued, unaware of the boy's internal struggle. "But he did not return. As did many. I told him not to go, but he was proud. Arrogant. Weren't you, ani-ue?" She sighed, watching the smoke that came up from the incense stick as she thought of her brother. "This will reveal what I have lost. Come back to me, my brother. Come back and I will set you free from whatever has bound you to these…"

She had turned to look between them then, and Sannan tried desperately to grasp at the dots to connect the information she was imparting. The mountain…the disappearing yōkai. A sacrifice and a blood red moon...

Every muscle protested, every nerve felt like it was on fire, but Sannan felt himself moving finally. He wasn't the only one surprised, barely registering the merchant's shock through his hazy sight before he collided with her. Distantly he thought he heard the blade fall to the ground.

"How-?!" she started to exclaim, her hands closing around his shoulders to push him off, only to stop as she stared past the younger yōkai. "No… Why isn't it… But he has to be…!"

For a moment longer she stared at the stream of smoke that filled the room as though to discern some sort of secrets from it. In truth, there was nothing, nothing at all but the smoke. 

His eyelids were heavy, but that stubborn part of him clung to consciousness by a thread. He felt something warm and damp soak into his hood, and he thought he heard a sob from the woman. It was with far more care than Sannan expected of her when she resumed moving him from off of her. Every touch felt like pins and needles, all his limbs felt like they weighed as much as the logs his eldest brother would help carry in preparation of the winter storms. He heard the sound of the screen being pushed open again, a breath of fresh air coming from outside, dispersing the smoke and the cloying scent of the incense. 

"I am sorry…" The apology was so soft that it could have been a dream, that line of reality blurring with each second as he found it harder and harder to stay awake.

~~~

Yotsuo awoke with a gasp, pulling himself up so abruptly and instantly regretting it. "Careful, careful my son," a familiar voice said beside him, warm hands guiding his head back to the pillow he had been lying on. Yotsuo winced, the light feeling like it was stabbing at his eyes, and he squeezed them shut again with a whimper.

"I am sorry," he heard another somewhat familiar voice say. They sounded farther away, and Yotsuo felt his father's hand pause for but a moment where it had moved to stroke his head. "I used a stronger dosage because I thought… I did not realize that they were actually children…" 

"They are my sons," Yoshi said, his voice carefully level as he shifted his gaze between his youngest boys. Sannan had been in and out of consciousness, his head cradled in Jinan's lap as his twin held him protectively, not bothering to hide the glares he cast in the incense merchant's direction. Chōnan sat between them and the woman, but Yoshi could tell that it was as much to keep his younger brother from doing anything irrational as it was to intimidate the other yōkai.

"I have only heard rumors. I did not know what to believe. But I had hoped that my brother…that something of him still existed. I thought that they were trapped, those souls, those yōkai who had disappeared in the mountains. And these two reacted to my special blend of incense. My brother always favored it. I thought…" 

She flinched away at another glare from Jinan, and Yoshi raised his hand towards his son before he nodded at her to continue.

"...I thought his spirit might dwell in one of them. I wanted to free him, bring him home," she said sorrowfully, her head bowed. "I saw how these two cared for each other, but I thought I had come too far to abandon my brother now. …but nothing manifested in the smoke. His soul is not here." She hesitated, lifting her head to force herself to meet their eyes. She owed this much to them.

"They hold no souls of the past. It grieves me to admit it, since I do not know what has become of my brother's, but so far as I can tell, your sons are no one but themselves. Again, I am sorry," she said, prostrating herself to underline her sincerity. 

Jinan glanced at Chōnan, and the two looked to Yoshi then. He had to wonder if his sons had ever thought about it before. Indeed, a small knot was loosened in his own chest that he hadn't realized had been there. Yoshi turned his own eyes back to the incense merchant, bowing his head in silent acknowledgment for what she had told them. He could not quite offer her a thank you, not after she'd threatened his sons, but this was still more than what he thought they would come away with. And still he could not allow himself to be completely at ease. If one yōkai had been so convinced that his sons might have some connection to one of those who had been used in that terrible ritual, then there could be others…

~~~

Sannan hadn't woken up until the following morning, groggy and unable to get to his feet, complaining that every movement made him feel prickly. Yotsuo was only slightly better, still subjected to dizzy spells to the point that Chōnan insisted he carry him and Sannan. While it wasn't the first night they'd spent over at the Grounds, Yoshi didn't want to stay any longer than necessary, and the boys would be more comfortable and safe back at home. He did not however look forward to having to recount what had happened.

"Aaaah…what a mess," he muttered, running a hand through his unkempt hair. He held the bundle with Sho-jiisan's senbei, leading his sons back towards the torii. 

The incense merchant had left earlier than they had, her wares packed up and the little room she'd rented, completely vacated. Although they'd parted on neutral terms, Yoshi knew such news would travel, for better or worse. There would be some who wouldn't be pleased with what she had attempted. But there would be others, he suspected, who would be just as interested.

"What a mess," he repeated under his breath. 

Birdsong and the buzzing of bugs replaced the morning hum of the Grounds once they passed through the gate, depositing them back on an empty roadway. 

"I'm sorry, otōsama."

Yoshi stopped, turning to look over at Sannan, his second youngest curled tightly against the oldest's chest. His eyes were open at least, his senses slowly readjusting, a far-away look on his face, although Yoshi could guess that those thoughts were turned inwards. Yoshi's own expression softened.

"It was not your fault, Sannan," he said as he raised a hand to rest on his son's arm. He suppressed a frown as he saw the slim yōkai shudder under his touch. The incense maker had said the effects should wear off, the paralysis not meant to be long-term, but it had only been proven on pure-blooded yōkai. He let his hand fall away, but continued to walk beside Chōnan, Jinan flanking his brother's opposite side as he kept an eye on their surroundings. Laid back as his second oldest tended to be, Yoshi knew he could always count on him, especially when the safety of his brothers had been threatened.

Sannan had fallen silent again, not particularly reassured, but he moved his head slightly as he felt another hand slip over his own. He looked across at where Yotsuo practically nestled in the crook of Chōnan's other arm, his little brother offering a smile as only he could, one that never diminished in brightness no matter what bad things happened. Sannan took it as forgiveness for failing to keep him safe, even though he knew Yotsuo wouldn't have faulted him for any such thing. As tiring and uncomfortable as it felt to put any effort into moving, Sannan curled his webbed fingers around his brother's hand.

Yoshi smiled faintly. This was another lesson learned, and he was only thankful that nothing worse had happened. He and his boys would all return home, and while there were still some lingering concerns, that was something that they would all get through, together.

"Come, my sons. We still have a ways to go."

[ghostieblr]

the perfect star that hid

written for @sterekbingo square "soulmate au." kind of a new take on soulmate au? at least i haven't seen this particular type (if you have, please link them to me!! <3) also, my card is under the cut! at the very end. the full fic is here, but you can also read it on ao3 (where i'll post it when i get back home) if that's more your style.

The name unfurls on his wrist at the mall, filled with people, a scratch to his bone that goes unnoticed; he always wears full sleeves, a habit borne of shame and fury, fury at himself and his life and at the one who is writing it. He's 27 — older than the average population of those without someone by their side, someone who are made with dust and ashes that together make the perfect star.

He's celebrating his 27th birthday, actually, in this very mall. Friends that appreciate his appreciation for Star Wars, that don't mind him or pity him, who actually care about him — they booked an entire cinema hall for him, pulled certain strings to make it happen, and none of them had to pleaded or begged for it. They just love him.

He doesn't have his soulmate, yet, perhaps never will, but there is this truth as well: he has friends that love him like family, like their own. It might just have to be enough.

That's what he's thinking, the epiphany dredging up his past agony and mulling it over, layering it over with itself, a sort of aftercare that he's giving a try. And he's tired, too, of the heartache and the negativity — his own most of all. And he is tired of the day, muscles aching, and hey. It's a good time for a relaxing shower, now that he's home.

So he smiles at no one in the apartment but at himself in the mirror he's hung in the living room, a sort of statement piece that Lydia insisted on after taking one look at his at the time barely furnished abode, and shrugs.

"You don't need anyone, Stiles."

The words don't sound quite right as he hears them, the meaning of it turned desolate instead of triumphant as his thoughts become intangibly tangible, an epiphany to something he might just have to get used to. Still, he's said it, it's out there, and it's gonna have to do.

He picks the clothes off of himself, hopes the shower will help him pick himself up. Decides a bath would be better — but he's not got that now, has he? Perhaps he should start saving for a house, now. But it's just so much harder with one income only; he could move back to Beacon Hills? San Francisco isn't bad, but the prices of real estate are no joke.

The pros and cons of that potential scenario run through his head, his legs out of the jeans now, his hoodie off of his body next. Huh, he's almost out of toothpaste; he should go to the grocery store tomorrow. He should also see what's in his fridge and what's not but — later.

He's getting ahead of himself.

The t-shirt he's wearing comes off, too, a full-sleeved one, white, that looks rather good on him. Accentuates the lean muscle thing he's got going on from his years at the Track Team in high school and college. There's this scar he has on his left palm from falling once in the middle of a tournament. He turns his hand—

It's not bare, anymore. His wrist — it has a name.

His soulmate's name.

He stares. And stares and stares because what the hell. This has to be a joke, right?

It just has to be.

He has been within 100 metres of this person before multiple times. Has been to his childhood home, to the fucking police station he works at because hello — Derek Hale is one of Sheriff's Deputies, and Stiles is the Sheriff's son.

They've been within 100 metres of each other before.

But this has never happened.

But...

He rushes to his bedroom, naked, panicked, ecstatic. Picks up the phone from where he'd chucked it on the bed, opens the contact of a person he hasn't contacted since the last project they did together in high school.

Cora Hale picks up on fifth ring, when he's about to hang up and try again.

"Stilinski?" She sounds confused. "It's been a while. What's up?" A muffled voice, a male. Cora says, "Are you fucking kidding me? It can't be him — you've known each other for — it's impossible —" She's clearly not speaking to Stiles.

"Is Derek there?"

Cora stops talking.

"Cora, is he — did he get it too?"

Sounds of footsteps, labored breathing. Phone changes hands and then: "Are you Mieczysław Stilinski?"

Stiles stops breathing. It's real.

Derek is asking him the name nobody but his father and the people at the DMV know.

"I don't know any other Stilinski’s. Just your father and you," Derek is saying. He sounds confused, happy, breathless. "And I know your name starts with an M. I saw some papers on the Sheriff's desk once, by mistake but — how is it you?" A pause. "Not — I didn't — I mean like —"

"How is it me when we have been around each other for so long. I have been at your house, you've been working at the BHPD for... fuck, 3 years now?"

"Since I came back from NY, yeah."

"I don't know, Derek, I don't but I... you were at the mall today, right?" He just wants to be sure.

"Yes. Yeah. I was, I was buying a gift for my parent's anniversary."

"And today's my birthday, I was —"

"With your friends watching Star Wars. I know. I saw you and the Sheriff let the whole station know about it yesterday."

Stiles can't fucking believe this. And also... "I'm so fucking cold. I really should wear some clothes."

"What?"

"Long story short — Shower, saw the name, called the one Hale's number I had."

Derek's chuckle is sexy and seriously, how has he never heard it before? It's a crime. And Stiles should be in jail. At least then he would have met his soulmate earlier... but wait, that's a paradox. Isn't it?

"I thought you were short story long kind of person," Derek says, and follows up with, "And if you're free right now... I know it's late but, would you forsake your shower and meet me to figure out why he haven't met before?"

Stiles cuts the call.

Then calls Cora's cell again. Derek picks it up with an exhale that seems very anxious, so Stiles closes his eyes at his stupidity and admits, "That was a yes. My brain just jumped ahead a few steps. Please text me your number so we can let Cora have her phone back," Cora cheers in the background, "And I can end the call so that I can wear my clothes and you can text me whatever address and we can finally meet and I'm sorry for ending the call so abruptly and seriously why haven't we met before? It's so —"

Derek chuckles again, and really, it's such a nice sound. "Stiles, breathe. I don't want you to die just yet."

"I can absolutely do that, yep."

Silence.

"Stiles? Wear your clothes. I promise I'll help you out of them when —"

There's a sudden struggle at the other end, and then it's Cora's voice coming down the line, "Ew! No! Do it on your own phone. Stiles, I'm texing you my brother's number, so go! Now!"

She ends the call.

Stiles lets his own phone fall onto the bed, processes what happened for just a minute, and then smiles goofily when Cora makes good on her statement.

Somehow, even though they haven't interacted in all these years despite all the things connecting them to the same peg on the board, Derek texts Stiles: "Stop dawdling and come meet me at the diner on 5th. Remember to wear your clothes. For now."

It's all one block of text too, the dork.

Guess that's his dork now.

Greatest. Birthday. Ever.

[songfell-ut]

Happy birthday, Vene

This was drawn by @venelona on Discord and I cleverly tricked her into letting me put this here so I can do a very small gift and rewrite the fork scene if Frisk was a dude. I realize this is not reassuring to those of you who are tired of my self-AU, but I super swear I am editing the final draft of Chapter 34 in the other tab right now.

Also, it's not the entirety of their first meeting in Frisk's room, just skipping around to the relevant bits, explaining how there's still a dramatic reveal if this Frisk isn't wearing a veil because you can pry that dramatic reveal out of my cold dead hands.

Over a day later, the High Priest shut the outer door to his chambers, whistling to himself. He set a covered tray on the table, sat down at the mirror, and checked that his eyes were clear, or at least not too red. Then he picked up his coronet and settled it over his head. He stared at his reflection for a full minute, as if waiting for the young man in the mirror to get up first; with a sigh, he finally pushed himself to his feet.

Just outside his bedroom, he let the whistle peter out into a thread of magic that ran ahead to check the loose barriers he'd set around the bed. Two echoes came back, one very close by. "Good morning. Please step back," he said into the slight crack in the door.

A pause, then a soft creak of floorboards, unnervingly quiet for something – someone – his size. "Further, please," he ordered.

The skeleton made a noise he couldn't interpret. Floorboards creaked again, and the bedframe groaned under his weight. The priest turned the doorknob, picked up the tray, and elbowed the door open.

Sans was sitting near the edge of the bed, legs crossed, elbows on his knees. He had left the nearly transparent inner bedcurtains closed, but opened the windows, and even just his outline through the thin curtain looked menacing; the light shone through his filthy shirt, shadowing the spaces between his ribs, and the fire in his sockets fully illuminated his features. The young man made himself place the tray on a side table and pull up a chair with perfect unconcern, as if he couldn't feel him staring his down. "I see you're all healed. You must have slept well," he said coolly. "I know I did."

The skeleton glanced behind him at the rumpled sheets. "Uh..."

"You were alone the whole time," the priest hastened to assure him. "There's a very comfortable couch in my office that I've been using."

skip

That didn't feel quite right, but without more evidence, the priest decided to leave it for now. Instead, he pulled the side table closer and removed the tray's cover.

Sans twitched at the sight of steaming hotcakes, piles of cheese-sprinkled eggs, tomatoes, and crisp-crusted sausage links. The priest cut a tomato slice into quarters with his fork, speared one and popped it into his mouth; rather than making Sans share the napkin, he dabbed his lips in passing with the very edge of one sleeve.

This courtesy was lost on the skeleton. "Need somethin’ ta wipe with?" he inquired, and plucked at the curtain. “How ‘bout this?”

The young man ignored him and made a show of chewing, swallowing, and lifting another tomato to his mouth. Sans didn't have a stomach, but if he had, the priest probably would have heard it growling; the monster was shifting around and scowling, clearly agitated. So the human quickened his pace, taking a huge bite of egg, a chunk of hotcake, and a sausage in turn, eating as fast as he could.

Sans' eyes had lit to orange again, and the human was glad to put the fork down. "There. You see? It isn't poisoned," he said briskly. he stood and pushed the side table over to the bed. "Help yourself."

The orange faded. Sans’ skull tilted this way and that, like a wary but curious animal. "What?"

"I had breakfast over an hour ago. This is for you," the priest explained.

Sans glanced at the tray, then back to him. The human waited for a full ten seconds, almost holding his breath, before he was rewarded with a rude noise. "Can I have another fork? Don't want your germs," he said.

skip

The skeleton's face was impossible to see clearly. Now that it was quiet, it reminded the young man too much of when he'd grabbed him in the cell. His instincts screamed at him to pull his hand back and throw a barrier between them, but determination surged as he remembered how he'd already faced down the boss monster’s attempts to kill him. He was going to forge a lasting bond between their worlds and hand over a kitchen utensil like a normal person or die trying.

Slowly, Sans reached down through the gap in the curtains, and the human fought to keep from panicking as the massive hand approached. The skeleton paused...and plucked the fork from his grip with delicate courtesy, holding it up between them. "Hm. Too small. Still dirty." He tossed it to the floor.

The High Priest stared at the fork. He stared at him. He retrieved the fork, stood up, dropped it into the pitcher, and plunged his hand in after it. Out came the utensil; the young man strode over and shoved the bedcurtain aside enough to gather up a fistful of it as a makeshift towel. This bed was centuries old and the curtains worth as much as a commoner’s entire wardrobe, but they belonged to the High Priest, which meant they were his. And as High Priest, if he wanted to use his antique linen to dry a mostly-clean fork in order to please a giant monster who was intimidating him and somehow also being a complete snot, then who was going to stop him? No one, that was exactly who.

With a righteous huff, he turned back around, still polishing the bedamned fork. "Here," he said, fully facing Sans for the first time. "I hope this is satisfactory."

Sans looked at him. He didn't say anything.

The world always seemed a little too bright with the bedcurtains open, and the light from the window was in his eyes. The priest rubbed them on his sleeve, and scratched under his jaw where the curtain had brushed it. "Well?" he demanded.

Sans didn't take it. He was leaning forward, hand dangling as if he'd started to reach for it and somehow forgotten what he was doing. His sockets were blank, an odd color washing over his bony face. "Uh," he said. "It's."

The priest didn't know that that could be a complete sentence. It probably wasn't, he thought in growing irritation. "Sans," he said carefully, "are you going to use this, or would you like to eat with your hands?"

The skeleton shook himself and turned away. "Never mind. 'm not hungry," he grumbled.

The human bit back the urge to call him a colorful name or two. "Sans, this is not a joke. There is nothing wrong with your food, except that it's cold. Eat it. Please."

"I will, I will." Sans hunched his shoulders. "Just gimme a couple minutes."

He did not have the time or patience for this. "Sans. Look at this." The monster glanced up, and in one motion, the human stabbed a sausage and another chunk of hotcake. "Say 'ahhh,'" he ordered, and when Sans blankly repeated, "Ahh?" he thrust the fork into Sans’ mouth.

skip

Sans was not wondering the same thing. He was thinking how he'd woken up not knowing where he was and had had to figure out that he wasn't dreaming about the battle in his cell: a human witch really had trapped him and knocked him out with some kind of weird brain-magic. Once he got over the fact that he couldn't take any shortcuts and wouldn't fit through the windows, though, he had to admit things could be worse; the bed really was the most comfortable thing in the world.

Talking with the witch was not comfortable. It was bad enough when he was asking Sans questions about his capture and not breaking out of prison, but then he had to give him food and say things that made sense, and things that made even more sense, and then...

Sans did not like anything about humans, especially their looks. He never understood how they could be attracted to each other long enough to reproduce; they seemed far shallower than monsters, for whom the inside really did count more than the outside, except maybe when it came to reproduction. But that was a rare occasion for them, and they thought humans' obsession with it was shallow and weird at best. Sans in particular had no interest in the human form unless he was trying to destroy it: male or female, they were all just skeletons with varying degrees of hair, meat and fluids in the way.

And then this infuriating human had turned around in the sunlight, curtain and stupid fork in hand, and Sans suddenly couldn't breathe. The overall picture was what made him feel a huge mess of feelings he didn't like or understand, but he could see every detail perfectly: lips pursed in annoyance, the sun reflecting off that black circlet thing, chestnut hair shining and reddish-brown eyes half closed against the light…even the seemingly dull, coarse hair on his face showed wavy patterns picked out in golden threads.

And then the human had tipped his head and shown a glimpse of his throat, and now Sans couldn't think things right. All he could try to do was turn away, then eat it all in order to make him go away, and only his punning instinct had saved Sans from saying or doing anything else stupid.

Why did Frisk have to like puns, too?

This was bad. It had gotten very complicated, very fast. He had to get out of here. The human had demonstrated some emotion behind his priest-y facade; maybe Sans could appeal to it, persuade him to pick some other monster and not risk boning things up? Priests weren’t supposed to bone, right? Ha, ha, etc.

…Granted, this one could probably manage it, given how powerful he was, not to mention easy on the eye sockets, but there was no telling if he was—

"...going to do it," he was saying, wiping away tears of laughter. "I'm not all-powerful, but I have enough influence at court and with the Church to guarantee your safety." Frisk looked up at him, bright-eyed, and his SOUL did another loop-de-loop. "So, Sans. Will you stay?"

He didn't want to, it was a bad idea, and he said, "No," in his mind.

Frisk smiled, tilting his head.

"Yeah," Sans said out loud.

[link-sans-specs]

His weird, little, adorable goblin face. 🤭

GMM870

Testing the Concert Poncho

[tanuki-kimono]

Hello! i saw your kimono drawing guide, and i have some questions. I saw this art and was wondering about a few things: what is the tied knot& tassel things on the sleeves for? and, what hairstyle is the lady wearing? If you know, please tell me! If you don't know, could it be possible to direct me to someone that might? Thank you for taking the time to answer, if you're able! Have a lovely night/day!

Hi and thank you for your question :) The ukiyoe you are sharing is by Utagawa Kunisada and titled Genji rokujo no hana (源氏六條の花), or "Cherry Blossoms at Genji's Rokujô Mansion". It is part of a three prints set:

It depicts an imaginary scenery from The tale of Genji, and the young lady playing with her pet cat is the princess Onna San no Miya.

Characters are not shown wearing period accurate clothes (from Heian era), but luscious Edo period attires. Because of her rank, the young princess is wearing what Edo princesses would, especially the trademark hairstyle named fukiya 吹輪.

You'll find below a translation from a costume photobook I did a while ago. Note the big bridge style front hairpin, and the drum like one in the back. Princesses from the buke (samurai class) would also have dangling locks called aikyôge (I also found the term okurege), but I am not sure kuge princesses (noble class) wore them too.

There is a whole dispute about this hairstyle, as we are not actually sure it was worn as such by actual princesses. This style may have in fact started as a somehow cliché bunraku/kabuki costume used to depict princesses (think a bit like Western Cinderella-types princess gowns). Nowadays, it is found only as a theater style, or worn by Maiko during Setsubun season.

For comparison, here is character Shizuka Gozen from kabuki play Yoshitsune Senbon Zakura:

As for the dangling cords, I covered those in a past ask about kamuro that you can find here (part 1 / part 2). TL:DR: I am still not sure what is the exact name for those decorations (kazari himo? sode no himo?).

But their use is pretty much linked to 3 things:

1) luck + protection (knots have auspicous meanings),

2) reinforcing weak points of garnment (here: sleeves wrist opening)

3) cuteness impact, as much like furisode (long sleeves kimono) those dangling ribbons were mostly seen on girls/young unmarried ladies by the Edo period

All the design elements chosen by Utagawa Kunisada for his Onna San no Miya stress own young and carefree she is still (which considering her narrative arc is in fact a bit sad... like all Genji Monogatari stories). BUT: bonus points for pet cat!

Hope that helps :)

[ethicaltreatmentofcowplants]

Name: Lilac Moon Age: Young Adult. I see her as about 27. Comfortably post New Adult, right on cue for a quarter life crisis 👍 Pronouns: She/her Orientation: Bisexual Hometown: San Myshuno Occupation: Artist Traits: Self-Assured, Lazy, Freegan, Music Lover, Loyal Bonuses: High Self-Esteem, Observant, Marketable, Werewolf Ally, Storm Chaser Sim, Night Owl, Fanged Friend, Creative Visionary, The Knowledge, Chopstick Savvy Aspirational: Expressionistic, Sacred Knitting Knowledge, Lunar Confidant, Lunar Link  Other: Two Star Celebrity, Good Reputation Aspiration: Master Maker Life State: Werewolf (Prime) Human

Likes: Knitting, Fitness, Painting, Photography, Gardening, Wellness, Black, Purple, Flirtation, Pranks, Boho Fashion, Hipster Fashion, Rocker Fashion, Optimistic Sims, Idealist Sims, Spirited Sims, Strange Tunes Dislikes: Fishing, Baking, Malicious Interactions, Preppy Fashion, Ambitiousless Sims (yeah, she knows she’s LAZY traited 😉), Winter Holiday and Baroque Music Ride or Die: Rory Oaklow Other Close Friends: Lou Howell, Raj Rasoya, L. Faba, Meredith Roswell, Wolfgang Wilder (tbc) (five facts)

Misc:

For a while, Lilac thought that she might become a tattoo artist. While she doesn't have full sleeves, she is decently inked up and plans on getting more eventually. Common motifs include flowers and the night sky.

(I will expand on this but was hit with a sudden case of sleepiness lol)

[goldenseresinretriever]

You Catch More Bees With Honey: Chapter 8

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader

Part of the San Diego Dogfighters universe

Summary: Bradley Bradshaw, blindsided by a team he trusted like family has been traded to the San Diego Dogfighters. Across the country from the place he calls home, Bradley feels lost and betrayed. Not to mention the familiar faces and ghosts from his past that he now has to face every day at work. Bradley’s caught between wanting to show his former team the mistake they made in double-crossing him and wondering if it’s time to hang up his skates after one final season. You’re living your dream as the PR representative for the Dogfighters. When Coach Maverick made a bid to bring his godson to the team, you hadn’t batted an eye. Bradley was a good teammate, and a good player. Unfortunately, the Bradley that shows up in San Diego is nothing like your research suggested. He’s moody, irritable, aggressive, and angry, throwing a wrench in all your careful planning. What’s caused such a drastic change in him? And can you figure out how to help him before he makes a mistake you can’t fix?

Series CW: 18+ ONLY, swearing, dead parents, drunkenness, alcohol consumption, violence, sports violence, blood probably, angst, fluff, smut, age gap (28 and 38), enemies to lovers, suggestive language, hockey inaccuracies etc. There will be individual chapter warnings. No use of Y/N.

Word Count: 7.4k

A/N: This is a repost of my completed series, You Catch More Bees With Honey. It was originally posted in November-March 2023, and was lost when my blog was deleted.

Previous Chapter // Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

You wake to the sound of the guys collecting their things as they prepare to get off the plane. You blink a few times, confused as to why there’s soft fabric against your cheek and you nuzzle the surface, trying to go back to sleep as Bradley’s voice in your ear pulls you out of your drowsy state.

“Time to get up, Honey.” You whine in protest and bury your face in the soft fabric and that’s when the familiar scent fills your nose and you remember what you’ve been sleeping on. You sit up immediately, cheeks heating as you see Bradley’s face, his lips turn into a soft smirk that’s part endearment and part teasing.

“Sorry,” you murmur and he shakes his head, dismissing your apology.

“It was an invitation.” He reminds you and then you realize your arm is linked in is his like you’d been cuddling it in your sleep and you’re embarrassed all over again. You try to slip it out but Bradley tightens his grip on it. “That one wasn’t an invitation, but not an unwelcome intrusion.” Your whole face feels warm. He finally releases your arm and you pull it back, trying to ignore how much you miss the warmth of Bradley’s body. You stand, stretch and a glint of light catches your eye and you follow the shine to a mortifying discovery. Your drool, glistening on Bradley’s sleeve. You yelp in embarrassment, instantly digging in your purse for tissues and grabbing Bradley’s sleeve to wipe your spit off the fabric. He watches you with an amused twinkle in his eye when you finally look up and meet his eyes. You desperately want to slap that cheeky smirk off his face. Instead, you stand up and start collecting your belongings.

Once again, Bradley refuses to let you carry your garment bag, not relinquishing it until you’re entering your shared hotel room. Sure, you’d shared a room with a guy before. Hell, you’d lived with Mickey for a year or two, but Mickey was like family. Bradley? Bradley is anything but. You cautiously enter the main space, letting out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding at the sight of two queen beds. Sleeping on Bradley’s shoulder on the plane is one thing, but sharing a bed with him is something else entirely. You’re not quite ready to cross that line yet.

You watch Bradley hang your garment bag in the closet as you set your purse and laptop bag down on the bed closest to the door. You perch on the edge as you take your laptop and clipboards out to check your schedule for the rest of the day. The boys have to head to the Avalanche’s arena for practice soon, and you’ll be tagging along to meet up with their PR rep to familiarize yourself with the interview schedule for tomorrow night. You haven’t even taken the time to temporarily slip off your heels and you’re already in full work mode. Bradley emerges from the bathroom and leans against the wall of the hallway. You feel his eyes on you as you scribble away, making note of important locations and timings on your clipboard so you don’t have to bring your laptop to the rink. He doesn’t feel the need to comment so you remain in comfortable silence until both your phones chime with a fifteen-minute warning before the bus leaves. You excuse yourself to the bathroom where you take a moment to pull your hair up into your signature ponytail. Examining your reflection in the mirror has you remembering that Cyclone once again called you by your mom’s name and you feel the itch to pull all your hair out. You’ve spent so long running from her memory and yet you always find yourself back at square one every time you stare too long in the mirror. There’s a knock at the bathroom door and you don’t respond, still locked in an intense staring contest with your reflection. You hear the knob turn and Bradley enters, your eyes flick to his in the mirror and a question lingers in their depth.

“Does it get easier?” Your voice is a whisper, like a breath that’s just managed to escape your lips. Something unreadable swirls in his eyes and his fingers twitch absently at his side and you feel the urge to lace them with yours. He hesitates for a moment before he nods.

“Eventually, yeah. At some point you’ll have lived longer without her than you did with her and then… then it feels… not easier but it doesn’t hurt as much.” You nod back, trying to wrap your mind around it.

“Do you miss them?” You know it has to be harder for him, he’s lost both his parents. You could call your dad right now if you just decided to pick up the phone.

“I never knew my dad. Well, I guess I did, but I don’t remember him at all. But my mom? I miss her every day.” He takes a deep breath and you reach your hand back, your fingers barely brushing his. “I used to wish I could forget her because I thought it would hurt less but now I know better. Trying to keep her alive isn’t delusion, it’s devotion. It’s not a crime to love the people we can’t hold anymore, it’s a blessing. There’s not a lot of feelings that can transcend death like that.” You take a sharp breath at the word as it passes through his lips. You almost envy the easy way he says it like it doesn’t hurt him anymore. His fingers brush back against yours and curl around yours. His thumb brushes across the back of your hand in soft, repetitive strokes and you squeeze his palm like it’s a lifeline. If you’re hurting him, he doesn’t let on, just continuing to hold you like an anchor as your heart is buffeted along on stormy seas.

You stay that way, watching each other through the mirror until a firm knock on your door makes you jump. Rather than dropping Bradley’s hand, however, you pull it closer, startled by the knocking that serves as a last call for the bus. “We should go.” You sound out of breath and Bradley nods, but neither of you makes a move to let go. He squeezes your hand firmly before letting go to grab his gear and you’re breathing heavily as you do your best to dismiss the heat in your cheeks.

***

You’re exhausted. You’ve spent the whole day coordinating with Colorado’s PR to make the preparations for tomorrow’s match and all you want to do is get back to the hotel and go to bed. You trudge out to the bus where the guys seem to be in better spirits. You overhear them making plans to hit the town tonight and it only makes you more tired. You’re climbing onto the bus when your heel catches in the ridges in the step and you feel you lose your balance and you’re too tired to stop your fall, resolved to your fate in face planting when a firm grip on your waist catches you, hoisting you back to your feet.

“You okay, Honey?” Bradley’s gruff voice tickles your ears and you fight the urge to melt back against his solid chest that you can feel behind you.

“Just peachy,” you mutter as you find your footing and kick your heels off. You’re exhausted and couldn't care less what people think right now. You bend down to scoop them up but freeze as your butt brushes against Bradley’s crotch. Your cheeks heat instantly as you stumble forward at the same time that Bradley stumbles back as if the contact had burned you both. You decide against an apology and simply scoop up your shoes and all but sprint onto the bus. You collapse into an empty seat, but your relief is temporary as Bradley sits down next to you. “I… I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.” You blubber and Bradley just reaches up to guide your head against his shoulder like he did this morning.

“Rest, Honey.” The command is simple but effective because you’re pretty sure you fall asleep before the bus even leaves the parking lot.

***

When you wake up, you’re horizontal. You blink the sleep from your eyes in confusion and your eyes adjust to the lack of light in the room. You’re still in your dress but you’re no longer on the bus. You run a hand across the bedspread absently as you focus on the twinkle of city lights outside the window. They cast the room in a dim light along with the lamp in the corner. It had been early evening when you’d left the stadium, the sky just beginning to pinken but now it's pitch black. The clock on the bedside table tells you that you’ve been asleep for around two hours. Your eyes fall on the lamp by the window that’s illuminating the chair where Bradley’s sitting, reading a book. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, sitting up and stretching and he looks up. You think you imagine the way his eyes roam your body as you arch it, banishing the sleep from your limbs.

“Sleep well?” You nod as you continue to stretch out your limbs. You’re dying to change into your pajamas and few yourself of the stiff material of your dress.

“How’d I get up here anyway?” You ask as you pad over to the window and take in the view of the city.

“I moved you with my mind.” You turn to look at him surprised to see a bemused smirk on his lips.

“Very funny. You didn’t have to carry me, you know.” He simply shrugs in response.

“You were clearly tired and you didn’t seem like you were waking up anytime soon.” You nod quietly, hoping that the dimness of the room hides the heat climbing your cheeks.

He stands, stretching in a mirror of what you’d just been doing and you let your eyes wander as his muscles ripple under the simple black t-shirt that he’s wearing. “Shall we head out?” He asks simply and you can’t help the way your stomach drops in disappointment.

“Out…?” You ask weakly.

“Yeah, it’s still early.” He glances at the clock. “Get changed.” You suppress a groan of frustration.

“It’s the night before a game, you can’t drink.” You argue and he arches an eyebrow.

“Who said anything about drinking? I’m talking about dinner.”

“Oh.” Your response is punctuated by your stomach letting out a loud growl and Bradley gives you a pointed look. “Fine, fine, let me just touch up my makeup and I’ll be ready to go.”

“You’re not going to change?” He arches an eyebrow as he follows you towards the bathroom, pausing at the closet to remove a long coat. You sigh.

“I don’t have anything except my clothes for tomorrow and my pajamas so this is going to have to do.”

“Well at least grab your coat.” You nod, stepping past him to grab it from your garment bag. You dig through the collection of suits you’ve brought and realize you’ve made an error. Letting out an exasperated groan, you lean your forehead against the frame of the door. You abandon the closet to the bathroom to touch up your makeup. When you’re ready you grab your purse and join Bradley where he’s waiting by the door. He looks up from his phone, a frown instantly creasing his forehead. “Honey, where’s your coat?”

“In my closet back in San Diego, apparently.” You shrug as you cross your arms across your chest defiantly. Bradley sighs and shrugs off his coat, handing it to you but you shake your head. “I’m a big girl, Bradley, I’ll be fine.” He gives you a skeptical once-over.

“Honey, you’re wearing a dress that doesn’t reach your knees and barely has sleeves.” He reaches out to run a knuckle along the sheer fabric of your sleeve to accentuate his point. You suppress a shiver at the feel of his finger through the fabric. You scoff softly, reaching down to pinch the fabric of your flesh-toned tights pulling it away from your legs as Bradley’s eyes widen.

“I’m perfectly fine.” You give him a firm look and he just shrugs, tossing his coat over his arm instead of putting it back out.

When the two of you get outside you understand why because you’re shivering as soon as the night air hits you. Bradley sighs in exasperation as he drapes his coat around your shoulders. It’s comically large on you but at least it’s warm. Your eyes train on his now bare arms and you frown at him. He seemed unbothered by the cold. “Aren’t YOU cold?” He gives you a pitying look.

“Honey I spent half my life in Virginia and the other half in Pennsylvania, this cold doesn’t bother me.” You pout up at him, following behind him as he makes his way down the street.

“I’ll have you know I grew up in Connecticut and then went to college in Wisconsin.” You have to scamper behind him to keep up while holding onto the coat so it doesn’t fly away or fall off and he notices, slowing his stride so you can keep up.

“Could have fooled me.” He replies and you grumble at him. The two of you are waiting for a crosswalk when he eases the fabric of the coat off your shoulders and you whimper as the wind cuts through the sheer material of your sleeves and you whimper at the loss as he slides the coat back on before holding it open in invitation. You’re too cold to argue and you curl against his side. Even in the November air, he’s as warm as a furnace.

The two of you continue walking like that in comfortable silence as Bradley occasionally checks his phone. Finally, you stop in front of what looks to be a pizza place. He holds the door for you and you scoot out from his coat into the warm interior of the restaurant that is indeed a pizza parlor. A sign encourages you to seat yourself so you beeline for a cozy booth in the back. You’re with an NHL player, you may be off the clock but you know better than to sit by any windows. “Not a fan of windows?” Bradley asks as he sits across from you.

You shrug. “I am, but so is the paparazzi.” He raises his eyebrows in surprise like this is the first time he’s considered that. A waiter comes by and takes your drink orders while providing you with menus. Bradley orders a basket of garlic knots without even glancing at the menu and you set your menu down as the waiter leaves, fixing him with a curious stare.

“Have you been here before?” He nods, picking up his menu to peruse it.

“Me and a couple of my teammates used to come here every time we were in Denver.” He explains and you try to hide your surprise. You’re aware that the Bradley you’re seeing here is very different from the one that played for Philadelphia but it’s hard for you to imagine Bradley willingly going out for dinner with his teammates.

“You could have invited some of the guys to come with us.” You suggest and he shrugs.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet.” OR IF THEY’D WANT TO COME. You can basically hear the unspoken words that float in the space between the two of you. “Maybe next time.” He resolves half-heartedly.

“Well, maybe it’s better that you just brought me.” You point out as you turn back to your menu. He looks up from his at you. “That way if it sucks, you can keep your dignity.” He scowls at you.

“It won’t suck.” You shrug nonchalantly, a playful smile dancing at the corner of your lips.

“That remains to be seen.”

***

The pizza doesn’t suck, in fact. It might be the best pizza you’ve ever had. You end up letting Bradley order since he’ll probably know what’s best and he delivers in spades. You feel warm from the inside out after stuffing yourself with hot cheese and bread. You sit back, a sated smile on your face as Bradley polishes off the last of the pizza.

“Did it suck?” He asks, a soft smirk on his face as he regards you practically boneless in the booth across from him. You shake your head. “Use your words, Honey.” His voice is low and gravelly and a shiver runs down your spine.

“I think that was the best pizza I’ve ever had.” You fall silent again before you continue. “I think we should move to Denver.” He chuckles at that.

“You’d never survive the cold.” He points you and you glance out the window, frowning absently.

“I absolutely could.” You pout at him. “I’ve lived in the cold before, remember? Plus I used to skate, I’d be fine.”

“Even if you would, you shouldn’t. The sunshine suits you.” You feel your cheeks heat at the offhand compliment. The two of you stare at each other for longer than what you’re sure is deemed appropriate until the waiter comes back with the bill. You reach for your purse but Bradley’s already handing the waiter his credit card. He waves aside your protests. “You came with me, you paid with your company.”

“So I’m a prostitute now?” You arch an eyebrow and Bradley rolls his eyes standing and extending a hand to you.

“I don’t know what universe you live in, but I pay my prostitutes.” He says matter-of-factly as he helps you to your feet. You release his hand and waggle your outstretched palm at him.

“Tens and twenties will be fine.” You grin and he snorts.

“Honey, you’re worth hundreds, don’t sell yourself short.” Your face heats up again and your heart is threatening to beat out of your chest.

You swallow hard and lead the way out of the restaurant. Bradley follows behind you and once you’re back out in the cold, he tucks you back into his coat under his arm. The two of you walk in silence for a bit until you reach the hotel. Once you’re in the elevator, you break the silence. “Does that make Cyclone my pimp?” Bradley groans and pulls you tight against his chest and you let out a squeal of surprise.

“Cyclone needs to stay the fuck away from you.” He practically growls into your ear and you shudder against him. It’s starting to become too much, the compliments, the teasing, the warmth of his body against yours, the way his breath fans across your ear as he growls into it.

“Or what,” the words pass out of you like they’ve been knocked out of your lungs with all the air when he pulled you close.

“Or else I’ll make him.” Bradley’s voice is no less rough as he once again rasps against the shell of your ear. Another shiver wracks your body and Bradley pulls you impossibly closer. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest through your back. “Always shivering, Honey, what’s got you feeling so cold?” He rasps, his fingers rubbing warming circles against your sides and you have to hold back a moan. The elevator doors open, saving you from answering as Bradley herds you to your door. You fumble to free your purse to find your keycard as Bradley plucks his from the pocket of the coat and unlocks the door, and the moment you hear the click he’s pulling you inside.

Before you can escape his arms, he’s crowding you against the door, face-to-face at last. His deep whisky eyes search yours for something and then he presses his forehead to yours and your breath catches. You’re sure he felt it against his own given that you’re practically sharing air. “I asked you a question, Honey.” He whispers and you hear yourself whimper in response. You watch Bradley’s eyes darken at the sound and he lets out a groan. His hand reaches up to cup your cheek, devastatingly gentle even as his beautiful irises are swallowed up by black. He strokes your cheek, waiting for you but the words have died on your lips so you simply surge forward, planting your chapped lips on his.

He kisses you back with a ferocity that almost brings you to your knees. Even amidst the desperate press of your lips, you feel the gentleness in his touch and his words come back to you. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.” You whimper against his lips as his tongue darts out, asking for entry that you grant him greedily. When Bradley’s tongue sweeps into your mouth your legs do actually give and you feel his arms drop to pull you close. They wrap around your waist and as you kiss him with a matching amount of ferocity you feel him squeeze your thighs gently and you jump, letting his hands shift to grab full handfuls of your ass and you moan into his mouth. He presses you back against the closed door and you blindly grind your hips against his torso causing him to groan against you. He finally breaks the kiss and you whine at the loss even as he presses your foreheads together again.

“Honey, before we go any farther I need to know that you’re okay with this, and kissing me doesn’t count. I need your words, pretty girl.” You whine again nuzzling your nose against his.

“Bradley, need you,” you’re so out of breath that you barely manage the “please.” You try to grind yourself against him but his grip tightens, holding you in place. Your brows furrow in frustration and you pout at him. But he simply places a soft kiss on your lips before carrying you across the room to his bed.

Rather than drop you, he lays you down almost reverently, keeping you close and you relish in the warmth coming off him in waves. You reach up, pushing at that damned coat of his and he lets go of you to shed it. Before he can get his hands back on you, you’re pushing his t-shirt up, exposing his golden skin that makes no sense since he’s always lived where it’s cold. Your mind conjures up the image of him in his underwear on his balcony under the San Diego sun and you let out another whine. Bradley chuckles, taking the hem from you and yanking it over his head, shaking his dark curls free as he tosses the shirt somewhere behind him.

You don’t know everything, but you know plenty about men. The only thing they care about is their pleasure. If you get off in the process it’s an added bonus but it’s not their goal. If you want pleasure, you have to take it yourself. Over the years you’ve gotten good at it. If they want to play the game, you can play too.

Then he’s back down on you, fiddling with the belt on your dress and your hands are right next to his, pulling it open and squirming to pull it free, tossing it to the side. You’re ready to rip off the stupid buttons of the dress but Bradley takes your hands in one of his, kissing them before planting them above your head. You squirm but his hold is tight and you relax against the bed as his other hand reverently undoes the buttons one by one until they're all undone and all that’s standing between him and your body is the blue fabric. He meets your eyes with his and your heart stops. Even through the darkness swallowing the familiar brown, you can see what could be his heart, served up on a silver platter for you and it's foreign. No man’s ever looked at you like that, especially in bed.

You swallow hard, leaning as far up as his hand on your wrists will let you and kiss him deeply, sliding your tongue into his mouth. It’s messy and frustrated and when his grip loosens on your wrists you pull them free, threading them through those damn curls of his, pulling him closer. You’re practically grinding your mouth on his as you push up and flip your positions, pushing Bradley’s body beneath yours as your dress falls open in the fray. You kick it aside as you clamber onto Bradley’s lap.

You finally break the kiss and Bradley’s cheeks are ruddy with exertion and for a moment he looks like the boy he probably once was instead of the bear of a man that he’s become. His hands come up to grip the flesh of your hips, massaging it as they slide up to cover your lace-covered breasts. The pressure is heavenly and you let out a moan as he squeezes and palms the sensitive flesh. He reaches behind you, unclasping your bra and Bradley casts the fabric aside, hands returning to grope your bare skin. Your eyelids flutter shut in pleasure at Bradley’s ministrations. He pinches a peaked nipple and you let out a whine of desperation, shifting your hips against the rough fabric of his jeans, searching for friction. When his rough tongue laves over the angry skin, you release a shaky breath as Javy’s words come back to you again. You let out a shudder as the weight of your feelings crash into your rib cage at the same time that Bradley’s teeth scrape against the sensitive skin. You’re pulling away from him then, sliding down his body to kneel between his knees. You must be losing your edge if you’re so easily melting under his touch. The control you’re so used to having in situations is slipping out of reach and you need to take it back. His arms reach for you, to pull you back to him, perhaps to wring more pleasure from you, but precedent says otherwise. There’s no way that’s what he wants. What good would it do him?

“Condom.” You rasp and you hate how desperate and wrecked your voice sounds. “Do you have a condom?” He pushes up on his elbows, nodding, sweat sticking a few curls to his forehead and looking like a disheveled god.

“In my wallet, in my jeans.” You nod quickly, undoing his belt and sliding your fingers into his both waistbands, peeling down his jeans and underwear at once. You fumble for the wallet in the pockets, tossing it to Bradley as you come face-to-face with his cock. The outline you’d seen last night didn’t do it justice. You reach out to grasp the angry red flesh and give it an experimental stroke that has Bradley throwing his head back even as he passes you the condom. You tear the wrapper with your teeth gracelessly, rolling it down his considerable length. The length isn’t what you’re worried about though. Bradley’s cock, like the rest of him, is large, more specifically, wide, and girthy. You swallow hard but refuse to lose your nerve. You crawl back over his body, looking up to see his deep brown eyes watching you, searching for something you can’t decipher. They harden suddenly, his familiar stubbornness rearing its head. “Easy Honey, you’re not ready for that yet. Need to work you up to that, c’mere.” Well, that’s new. You’ve never had a guy question whether he would fit, that’s usually saved for your internal monologue and every single time your nerves are wrong. Your body was made for this, you’ll be fine. That much you know.

He reaches for you but you dodge his grasp, positioning your hips over Bradley’s, bringing your hands down to move the crotch of your soaked panties to the side and guiding Bradley’s length into you.

The air is knocked out of your lungs as you sink down on him. The angle is brutal and unforgiving as your body stretches to accommodate him. You’re not sure if you cry out but suddenly Bradley’s hands are on your arms. He’s sitting up as much as he can without shifting his cock in you, potentially causing you more discomfort. There’s evident worry and frustration in his wide eyes as he searches your face. “You crazy girl, what were you thinking?” You can’t do much more than let out a stuffed whimper because you feel so goddamn full. You’ve never felt so full in your life. Then Bradley’s arms are lifting you and your hands go to his shoulders immediately, nails digging into the skin there as he eases you off of him. Going from being so full to being empty is like a shock to your system and you hold onto Bradley like he’s the only thing keeping you from spinning off your axis. He carefully arranges you in his lap, strong arms wrapping around you, grounding you as you bury your face in the skin of his chest, relishing in his familiar scent. This is completely new territory for you so you latch onto the one thing you know for sure. You feel safe in Bradley’s arms.

“Honey?” His voice is soft, and tentative as he calls for you and you turn to look at him, resting your chin on one of his pecs. “You okay?” He asks, reaching a knuckle to brush across the apple of your cheek. “Did I hurt you?”

“I’m not sure.” You admit, heat rising in your cheeks. “Can I check?” His words are soft and once again he surprises you. He’s worried about your discomfort, your pain. Even while he’s probably not feeling too well himself. You can still feel Bradley’s cock, painfully hard against your thigh and you feel guilty. You nod, hesitantly and Bradley lays you down on the bed again.

This time he’s the one sliding down your body. His eyes ask permission when he reaches your panties and you nod again. He slides the scrap of lace down your legs before gently spreading your thighs. You feel overwhelmingly exposed and make to close your thighs in embarrassment. His strong hands stop you and your breath hitches as he presses a soft kiss against the skin of your hip.

This is all new territory for you. Sure you’ve sought your own pleasure but you’ve never actually had a man down there. The last time you’d been in a relationship that would have even entailed that kind of intimacy, you’d both been young and inexperienced, stumbling around each other’s bodies with no idea what you were doing. Your breath hitches again as Bradley’s hands shift to your inner thighs, spreading you even wider, exposing your soaked core to his gaze. His hands are steady, familiar as they spread you open and you have to fight a moan. His brows are furrowed as he examines your exposed flesh. “Does any of this hurt?” He asks and you’re yanked back to the reason that he’s down there in the first place and you shake your head. He gives you a pointed look and you swallow.

“Sorry, no, no it doesn’t. I think I’m okay.” He takes your words, nodding as he considers them. Then you’re arching off the bed as his tongue licks a stripe up your spread slit. You don’t recognize the sounds you’re making as you gasp for breath. Your vision swims with pleasure and your body is scrambling to keep up as Bradley, seemingly pleased with your reaction, dives into your pussy like a man starved. You feel you’re unraveling at your very core. You’ve never felt pleasure like this. Not at your own hands and definitely not at the hands of any man. The sensations are so intense that you don’t even notice the telltale signs of your orgasm until Bradley eases a thick finger past your weeping entrance and you’re cumming, harder than you ever have in your life. You think you might be sobbing, babbling a chorus of his name. Bradley doesn’t let up, letting you ride out your orgasm as he pumps that finger in and out of you.

Eventually, it becomes too much and you whine from overstimulation and he stills the finger in you as he crawls back up your body. His other hand brushes away the sweat-soaked strands of your hair that cling to your face as he places a sweet kiss to your lips.

“You okay, Honey?” You try to answer him verbally, you really do, but your lips can’t form the words so you nod weakly. He chuckles softly, peppering your cheeks and jaw with soft kisses. You feel like you’re floating outside your body and then his finger is moving again. You whine in pleasure despite your exhaustion and he murmurs sweet praises against your skin between kisses. “That’s it, such a good girl for me. Taking my finger so well. Gotta stretch you out baby, so you can take my cock.” You moan at his words and he eases a second finger into you. You gasp at the sensation as he scissors them, stretching your body with a gentle precision. Then he’s curling them, and you see stars. If you weren’t so fucked out, you’d probably have laughed at how easily he found a spot that every other man you’ve ever been with hasn’t been able to.

Before you know it, you’ve reached your climax again, grasping and gripping his arms to ground yourself as you unravel at the edges. He kisses you through it and you can taste yourself on his lips and tongue. “Hey Honey,” he whispers once you’ve come down and you whimper in response. “Think you can take my cock now or are you too tired, baby?” His knuckles stroke against your cheek and you gaze at him, a look of awe on your face. He’s wrung two orgasms out of you, all without finding his own pleasure and he’s giving you the option to stop? His erection has to be causing him more than just discomfort at this point and yet he’s willing to stop. You feel tears swim at the edge of your vision as you shake your head.

“No, need you, Bradley. Need to feel you.” You reassure him, coaxing him to take his pleasure. He rolls so he’s propped over you, and then he’s easing into you, ever so slowly, his brow furrowed with the effort of holding back as he searches your face for any hint of pain or discomfort. He’s right, though. He’s stretched you out and while you still feel ridiculously full, you don’t feel the way you did earlier. Bradley’s got you, he’s going to take care of you. He’s proved that he wants to and he can.

At the first roll of his hips, the two of you let out strangled groans. Your hands find purchase on his muscles shoulders, already marked from your earlier endeavors and you hold on, riding out the waves of pleasure that he draws out of you as he finally chases his own end. The room is filled with the sounds from your mouths and your bodies as you meld together, both working toward the same goal. Bradley takes you by surprise as he snakes his hand between your joined bodies and when the pad of his finger finds your clit, your head falls back against the bed. Even now, he’s concerned with your pleasure. You didn’t think you could cum again but Bradley’s proving you wrong as your body goes limp on the bed, and he chases his high. Minutes later he’s collapsing beside you, careful not to crush you beneath his weight as the two of you lay in silence, only the racing of your hearts and the staccato of your breath punctuating the silence.

You’re not sure how long you lay there in silence until he eases his cock out of you and you whimper at the emptiness. He’s removing the condom and throwing it away, retreating to the bathroom. As you wait, alone, the weight of what you’ve just done sinks in. Javy’s voice comes back to you then and shame washes over you. “Best case scenario you fuck one out, your feelings go poof.” That’s the problem. Your feelings haven’t gone anywhere. If anything, they’ve just gotten stronger. What if that’s not the case for Bradley? Suddenly you feel so alone, lying bare on his bed. You’ve never felt like this before and you’re overwhelmed. Before you know what you’re doing, you’ve bolted upright, and you’re pulling your underclothes on, grabbing the robe from the closet and wrapping yourself in it, the door to your room clicking shut behind you before you can think about it anymore.

Your mind is racing as you struggle to remember the room assignments. You pray you’ve got the number right as you dash down the hallway and bang on the door.

Javy swings the door open, a smirk on his face until he takes in your appearance and it instantly fades into concern and anger. “Did he hurt you?” His voice is hard, protective in a way you’ve never heard from him before. You shake your head. “No, no, I just… can I come in, Javy, please?” His gaze rakes over your trembling frame once more before he moves out of the way, and you dash into the empty room. Earlier today after the roommates had been reassigned, Javy had drawn the long straw, getting a room to himself and he’d been gloating all afternoon. Now you’re secretly thankful that he couldn’t shut up about it. You’re standing in the middle of the room, awkwardly trembling as he comes back in. He directs you to sit on the made bed while he perches on the one he’d clearly been occupying. You perch yourself on the edge, making sure the robe keeps you covered.

“Okay Zam, can you tell me what’s going on, sweetheart?” He clearly doesn’t believe your earlier statement about Bradley.

“We had sex.” You blurt, ripping the bandaid off. “And, and you said that if we fucked one out that the feelings would be gone but mine didn’t, they actually got WORSE and I don’t know if Bradley’s are gone and I just-“ you stifle an exhausted sob that threatens to break free.

“Oh sweetheart,” the hard look on his face has melted into a softer expression. “That only applies when the feelings are just lust, and maybe they were at first but something tells me both of you feel a lot more than that.” You blink at him, shock running through you. The sob breaks free and then there are tears running down your cheeks. “Where’s Bradley?” He asks, gently.

You shrug. “He went to the bathroom and I had a chance to think about what just happened and I freaked out so I ran.” His eyebrows go straight up.

“And you don’t think he’s probably freaking out now that he can’t find you?” Your wet eyes widen and you realize what it looks like from Bradley’s perspective.

“Oh my god, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to hurt him.” You’re crying harder now, the exhaustion catching up to you and Javy reaches out to take one of your hands in his.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay, Zam, I promise. Why don’t you calm down and get cleaned up in the bathroom, and I’ll go talk to Bradshaw? I’ll grab you some pajamas and anything else you need and you can sleep in here tonight.” You nod as you sniffle, tears still streaming.

“Zam, you know you’re safe here, right? I’d never do anything to hurt you, you know that?” Your heart aches at the sincerity in Javy’s voice as you nod.

“I know. You’re not actually interested in me, I know that.” You give him a watery smile at that as you shrug. “You call me sweetheart, but that’s what you call your sisters.” You see the surprise cross his face.

“Well damn, Zam, you’re good.” He chuckles, reaching out to ruffle your wayward hair. You give him your room number and retreat to the bathroom to clean yourself up.

***

When Bradley comes back from the bathroom, confusion mixes with dread as he sees the empty bed. He’s got a warm, wet washcloth in his hands, intending to help you get cleaned up but you’re nowhere to be seen. Your dress is still crumpled on the floor but your undergarments are gone. Was it not good for you? Usually, he thinks he’s good at reading emotional cues during sex, but it has been a while. He’d have thought that after three orgasms you would have been satisfied. The blissed-out expression on your face when he left for the bathroom had suggested that you were. He pulls on his underwear and sits on the edge of the bed, confusion warring in his brain. What could have possibly caused you to bolt? He’s not left wondering very long when a knock at the door jolts him out of his thoughts. He crosses the room quickly, swinging the door open without a second thought, expecting to see your face but instead he’s met with an unexpected surprise. Javy Machado is standing at his door.

He schools his expression immediately, regarding the other man warily. “Look man, before you say anything, she’s okay.” Bradley lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding even as confusion clouds his mind. How does Javy know that? Did you go to him? Why? Suddenly he’s seeing the two of you at game night, Javy’s arm around you on the porch and him pulling you into his arms later. He stiffens. Is Javy your boyfriend?

“Okay, I can already see the wheels turning so I’m gonna go right out and say we’re not dating, we’re not anything. Just friends. Yeah, I flirted with her but I just wanted to rile you up, it seemed fun at the time. And I have no idea why she came to me, but she’s freaking out and I wasn’t about to turn her away.”

Bradley’s heart aches at the idea of you feeling scared all alone. He silently curses how long he waited for the sink water to warm up. “Look, maybe it’s not my place, but she likes you man, like a LOT. And I think it’s freaking her out. I don’t know why, I don’t really know anything about her personal life, that’s Mickey’s area of expertise but as an older brother, it looks like she’s having trouble managing the size of her feelings and she’s tired on top of that. I’m gonna let her sleep in my room. If you’re worried about me trying anything, I would never but I can sleep in here if you’re really worried about it. She was freaking out so I said I’d come talk to you and get some of her stuff.”

Bradley wants nothing more than to storm over to Javy’s room and scoop you into his arms. He wants to hold you together as you fall apart but if that’s what you wanted you wouldn’t have run and so as much as he hates it, he has to give you space. If Javy’s right, and there really is something between you two worth protecting, he has to let you come to him. He’d been too upfront tonight and probably overwhelmed you when you’d already had an exhausting day.

So Bradley fights every single one of his instincts and goes back into the room, leaving Javy in the doorway. He may not be your boyfriend officially but he’ll be damned if he lets Javy go through your things. He finds your pajamas and a clean pair of underwear. He debates picking one of your suits too but he knows you probably have a specific one picked for tomorrow and would prefer to choose yourself. He ducks into the bathroom for your toiletries before bringing the small collection of items back to Javy with your phone and charger on top. Javy takes them and Bradley watches him leave down the hall. He wants nothing more than to see you right now, but he knows he has to wait for you. You’ll have to come and get your stuff tomorrow morning so he has that to look forward to for now and that’ll have to be enough.

[myfairstarlight]

A Perfectly Gallant Plan

AO3 Link.

Length: 2.4k.

Written for @turnaboutballroom with spot art from the talented @cassiferlynnart ♡

Content warnings: none

Leftover sales are now open until September 24th, don't miss out on a project full of talent and love!

Summary:

The plan is quite simple, but effective. Haori wanted to experience a real British ball like she’s read in her favourite books so Kazuma-sama offered to be her official partner at the ball while Susato would have Naruhodo-san as her dancing partner. However, Haori also expressed the desire to dance with Susato, even though it is not conventional and she did not wish to attract people’s attention, especially from the judgemental British crowd, thus Susato thought of a way they could find themselves alone. With an additional surprise to boot.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“It’s an intricate design, Iris truly is a genius,” Susato praises as she spins once to test out the skirts of her dress. The pale pink fabric flows gracefully around her but, unbeknownst to anyone else, Susato wears a pantsuit hidden beneath the frilliness.

“Then could you stop moving so I can properly tighten your bodice?” Kazuma-sama calls, although there’s an endeared smile on his lips.

“I appreciate my ability to breathe, Kazuma-sama.” She sighs even as she obeys and stands still.

“And Barok is awfully uptight about dress codes, unfortunately for everyone,” Kazuma-sama says as he gets to work, lacing the strings of the bodice together to form a bow. She tentatively moves her arms around, smiling at the floral embroidery in her puffed-up sleeves before tracing the delicate lines of the bodice carefully with the tip of her gloved fingers. “Alright, you should be able to easily detach the skirts from behind, but you’ll need help putting them back on.”

“That won’t be an issue… I think.” The most likely scenario is that they will stay until the ball is over and spend the night at the manor, after all. “You'll make sure no one else tries to go to the balcony, right?”

The plan is quite simple, but effective. Haori wanted to experience a real British ball like she’s read in her favourite books so Kazuma-sama offered to be her official partner at the ball while Susato would have Naruhodo-san as her dancing partner. However, Haori also expressed the desire to dance with Susato, even though it is not conventional and she did not wish to attract people’s attention, especially from the judgemental British crowd, thus Susato thought of a way they could find themselves alone. The balcony seemed like the simplest and yet best solution to this small dilemma.

"If anyone needs some air, I'll redirect them to the garden," her brother confirms, a hand held high and another on his chest as if swearing an oath. “But no one ever goes to the balcony during these events, they’re all too busy trying to gain Barok’s favour. It’s all about status and politics, really.”

“What about your favour, then?” Susato teases. He doesn’t dignify her with a reply and reaches forward instead to adjust the floral pins in her hair. Susato closes her eyes at the familiarity of it all, it almost feels like being back in Japan, except the clothes are different, perhaps a bit more restrictive but as elegant nonetheless, and she will experience her first western ball instead of a familiar night outdoors surrounded by pretty lights and lively chatter.

“So, how do I look?” she asks.

Kazuma-sama smiles, offering his hand. She takes it and laughs softly as her brother makes her twirl. “Like you could blow all of London away,” he praises.

She rolls her eyes. “Mm, I only need to impress one person.”

“And you will,” he says as if it’s the simplest truth in the world. And perhaps it is. 

Even so, she asks, “Would you mind if we just practise dancing one more time? But I will lead this time.” She just needs to be sure she can comfortably lead the dance with someone taller. Haori isn’t usually that much taller than her, but she will surely be wearing heels and with that she’d be around Kazuma-sama’s height.

Kazuma-sama bows and offers his hand once again, “Well then, shall we?”

“I should be the one offering my hand, shouldn’t I?”

“Do not overthink it,” he replies.

Right. She lightly slaps her cheeks before she steps forward and takes Kazuma-sama’s hand. His other hand lands on her shoulder while she rests hers on his waist. She’s practised before, of course, her father had taught her right before leaving for London again. “Just in case,” he had said, because apparently he and Mr Sholmes had to sneak into ballroom events often during their investigations. Fortunately, in this case, no mystery is to be resolved, it should only be a moment of leisure and celebration. Susato is still unsure exactly how Iris managed to convince Lord van Zieks to organise a ball essentially for them but she will take full advantage of it to make her best friend live out one of her hopelessly romantic dreams.

Nodding to herself, she starts the dance with a confident first step and then counts the beats in her head as she leads her and Kazuma-sama in a simple waltz around the room. As both her father and brother instructed her, a dance is all about trust, in yourself and in your partner. She chances a look up, to see that Kazuma-sama has his eyes closed, leaving her the full reign of both this dance and his faith that she won’t lead them towards a fall. She smiles, quickly looking around and spotting a stool nearby. She expertly leads them closer so she can jump on it so she is able to twirl Kazuma-sama without struggle. She laughs at his bewildered look as his eyes fly open although he quickly recovers.

“Thank you, Kazuma-sama,” she says, bowing her head.

Kazuma-sama laughs softly. “My pleasure, though I don’t feel like I did anything. Ready to blow all of London— I mean, sweep Haori-san off her feet?”

Susato hums, “More than, let’s make my girl’s dream come true!”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Susato does not end up blowing all of London away, in fact, because it turns out that Naruhodo-san, despite the many dances of deductions, is a clumsy ballroom dancer. It is most likely the nerves and the need to appear all proper; his hands are all sweaty even through the gloves they both wear. Susato ends up being the one to lead between them because Naruhodo-san hesitates at each step, eyes always downcast, afraid to step on her feet. It’s a bit of a shame, Susato thinks, he looks quite dapper in the suit he has borrowed from her father — a dark blue suit paired with a white blouse and a light blue waistcoat underneath. He ditched any head cover, however; apparently he still hasn’t recovered from her and Iris making fun of the way he looks with a top hat.

(Susato only feels slightly guilty about it.)

On the other hand, Kazuma-sama is a natural in the ballroom. It makes sense, as Lord van Zieks’ former apprentice, he must have followed the man to countless events such as these. From the corner of her eye, Susato watches as her brother and Haori breeze through the British crowd, outshining absolutely everyone in the room, in her eyes at the very least. They’re quite the contrasting pair; Kazuma, hair slicked-back, wears a dark burgundy suit with gold buttons paired with a lace cape over the shoulders, while Haori wears a pale yellow silky dress that gently hugs her form with purple flower accents, but she insisted on having her obi belt wrapped around the waist.

Susato is quite eager to have her turn.

“The sun is setting,” she says, tearing her eyes away from the pair to focus on Naruhodo-san again. The defence attorney lets out a relieved breath. She rolls her eyes at him as the music comes to an end and she lets him lead them towards a buffet table, not too far from the balcony.

Another song starts and she catches Kazuma-sama’s eyes just as Haori’s back is turned to her. In that split second, Susato raises the glass she grabbed from the table a moment prior. Kazuma-sama nods, looking briefly at Naruhodo-san before focusing back on his dance.

“Here,” Naruhodo-san says, taking a small key out of his breast pocket. “The key to the balcony’s doors, just in case. Me and Kazuma will close the curtains once Haori-san joins you so you don’t have to worry about being seen either.”

“Oh,” is all she manages to say as she takes the key. That wasn’t part of her original plan.

“Kazuma has another key in case something goes wrong though, don’t worry! But I’m sure everything will be fine,” Naruhodo-san continues with a smile. “Now go, Mr Sholmes will make a scene so you can safely sneak away.”

“Mr Sholmes will what—”

As if on cue, she hears a commotion behind her, eliciting several gasps and a very loud groan — Lord van Zieks, surely. She almost turns around to see what it is about but Naruhodo-san nudges her towards the balcony instead. She chuckles to herself as she disappears behind the beige and lavender curtains. As the cool air of London’s autumn hits her skin, her hands expertly detach the skirt from her bodice, before draping the fabric over her shoulders like a cape.

Time to channel her inner Ryutaro.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

When Mr Sholmes suddenly collapses, Haori jumps in fright and the only reason she does not fall or get pushed around when people rush to the detective’s side is because Kazuma-kun expertly leads the both of them to safety, joining Ryunosuke-kun’s side near a buffet table. The defence attorney already has a glass of wine ready for Kazuma-kun to take, and one of lemonade that he hands to Haori.

“Shouldn’t we check on Mr Sholmes as well?” she asks, accepting the drink and immediately downing it. Dancing is tiring after all, she needs to remain hydrated.

“Barok is handling it,” Kazuma-kun replies.

Haori turns around and notices that the crowd has parted enough for her to be able to see Mr Sholmes sprawled on the floor, a hand dramatically draped over his forehead like a fainting lady, with a very annoyed Lord van Zieks standing above him.

“Lord van Zieks looks like he’d rather die,” she says.

“Exactly,” both men concur at the same time.

“To be fair, he always looks like that,” Kazuma-kun adds, lifting his glass up slightly as if cheering to that fact.

Coincidentally, Mr Sholmes suddenly stands up again with flourish. Haori frowns, about to question that as well, until she looks at Ryunosuke-kun again and realises—

“Where’s Susato?”

The two men share a conspiratorial smile before Kazuma-kun points towards the balcony. “She’s waiting for you.”

Haori decides against asking out loud the many questions that suddenly pop into her mind, in between Mr Sholmes’ sudden collapse and subsequent instant recovery and these two’s odd behaviour. She has not been able to talk with her best friend since this ball has started, however, therefore, she will simply head towards the balcony.

“Alright then,” she hands her glass back to Ryunosuke-kun, “I will be right back!”

“I don’t think so,” she hears the defence attorney mutter to himself before Kazuma-kun elbows him on the side. She just chuckles at their antics.

Haori shields her eyes with her right hand when she passes through the curtains. The chilly air of London fights against the warm sunset that greets her as she walks into the balcony. To her surprise, the balcony is decorated as well, vines and flowers slithering their way through the cobbled-stone railguard, looking as radiant as the flowers inside the ballroom. Temporarily distracted from what she had originally intended to do, she walks towards the guardrail, her gloved hand tracing the delicate petals of a lily when she hears someone clear their throat.

Oh, right, Susato!

Haori spins on her feet, already smiling wide to greet her friend only to falter at the sight before her. It is indeed Susato standing there with a sheepish smile on her lips but it is what she is now wearing that strikes Haori. Whereas she previously wore a beautiful ball gown made of shades of pink and ruffles, it is now replaced by a slick purple suit. Her bodice seems to be the same, although Haori could have sworn it was beige in the ballroom. It appears as a dark purple now against the sunset and under the cape Susato wears over her shoulders.

Susato clears her throat once more, offering a gloved hand as she bows.

“May I have this dance, Haori Murasame?”

Haori squeals and takes her hand without hesitation. “I’d be honoured, Susato Mikotoba!”

Relief washes over Susato as their fingers intertwine. Haori smiles, reaching with her free hand to push back a loose strand of hair behind Susato’s ear so she can properly look into those lovely brown eyes. Then, she rests her hand on Susato’s shoulder just as Susato pulls her closer with a hand on her waist. 

“Can I say you look rather gallant or are you tired of me saying that yet?” Haori chuckles.

“You really do have a favourite word,” Susato deflects although she’s smiling.

“That I use only for my favourite person,” she replies easily.

Susato blushes ever so slightly and Haori smiles. The music from inside can still be heard, although muffled behind the closed glass doors of the balcony. Haori can only see shadows dancing against the sunset from where she and Susato stand, a vision from a dream.

They start swaying, slowly, nervously. So unlike the Susato she knows, actually.

“Come on, we’re supposed to have fun,” Haori says lightly, bumping their foreheads together. “Stop fretting, you look like Ryunosuke-kun.”

That seems to do the trick because Susato straightens her back with a huff. “I sure hope not! He was sweating through his suit, do I look as nervous as him?”

Haori laughs. “Only teasing you.”

But there’s a fire in Susato’s eyes now, her posture more confident, her smile more carefree. Her touch on Haori’s waist is firmer, warmer and suddenly they’re moving. Susato moves expertly, as she does everything else. Haori smiles as she follows naturally, warmth and love filling her senses. Their feet glide over the balcony to the muffled sound of the music inside, Susato twirling her at every crescendo to the point of Haori’s head spinning as well, but she doesn’t mind, she isn’t afraid, she laughs, even, because Susato’s touch around her is steady and safe.

Then the music goes from lively to slow, and Susato matches the pace. Haori breathes in, not realising how out of breath she had been while Susato doesn’t seem all that tired outside of the healthy flush to her cheeks. The dance becomes slow again, but this time intentionally rather than out of nervousness. Haori leans their foreheads together again.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “For this whole evening. A dream come true.”

The twinkle in Susato’s eyes only shines brighter. “Anything for my favourite person.”

The music ends just as the sun sets, letting the moon bathe them in her light, but Haori and Susato keep swaying to the gentle beat of their hearts.

[gattnk]

Rector Cassidy and Rector Kubral will do what they must. They'll soldier on to the end.

I'm currently working on the redesigns for the Golden School staff; normally I would've started with Arkan and Temptel, but believe it or not Cassidy and Kubral were my first redesigns for this project! Yes, they precede even Raf and Sulfus in my sketchbook. I like to start with villains first when designing casts, since they tend to give me more wiggle room to be creative: this way I get to set the bar for the rest of the project, and I can make my heroes just as visually interesting. Here's my usual notes on the process:

The first step was understanding the characters and their motivations. Once I had their personalities and roles established, I could work on their appearance. I decided Kubral would embody brutality, and Cassidy, fear.

The themes stem from their origins: war is forever linked to brutality and fear as both causes and effects, so it makes sense that two generals personify them, since they too are both products and promulgators of war.

Kubral was easy enough to figure out. Heavy-looking square shapes, towering height accentuated by even taller horns, meaty claws that could snap you like a twig... As a whole, Kubral was based on gothic grotesques. I was also particularly inspired by Goliath from Disney's Gargoyles (his wings folding behind him like a cape is peak character design I tell you). All in all I simplified his original design to his most iconic features, with the addition of a forked beard as a symbol of power and authority.

Cassidy's design had to be much more subtle: fear is a thing that creeps on you, it catches you off-guard and overpowers you. My use of lean curves with sudden sharp angles is meant to represent just that. I included an eye motif to evoke an ever-present state of vigilance and paranoia; the eyes are also a callback to prophetic descriptions of angels, since I was very inspired by medieval stained glass at the time. This is the closest thing to a religious reference you'll get from me here!

I established early on in my creative process that, as angels and devils age, they gain new physical traits. Cassidy's carved halo and double pair of wings are a sign of her age and power. In Kubral's case, there's his tail and enlarged horns, wings and claws.

Cassidy's colors are derived from Raf's: blue, gold and white, sans the touch of red. The only "red" in Cassidy's color scheme is her faded ginger hair (no matter how much time passes, the enemy is still in her head). Her gloves and dark blue shirt underneath her white jacket symbolize her veiled intentions, and her shoes, the same shade as her shirt, represent the dark path she threads.

Kubral's hues are all shades of red (except for his hair, same principle as Cassidy's). This includes his eyes; you could say he "sees red" all the time. He's a straightforward character, so he doesn't conceal his old medals, his general rank proudly displayed on his chest. Still, Kubral is not just brawns, his cruelty motivates his more scheming side. He keeps an ace on his sleeve, or more accurately, his pocket: the tip of his tail is always hidden on his right side, so he may strike his enemies on their left with it.

Phew! If you think I overthink my character designs sometimes, you should see my scene notes regarding architecture lol. Still, I'm proud of my process with these two! For now they've only briefly appeared in my rewrite fic, but they'll get their moment to shine soon enough. Their plans will be certainly different from Season 2, so there's that to look forward to!

I'll Fly With You (rewrite fic) Art masterpost