#local-gr

[verm1c1de]

poto actor au but Again This Time and with Lesbians!

weve got christine as tenn, raoul as tak, gaz as erik, and zim as carlotta

irken theatre is less like a thing mew do fur fun and more like,,,, mew get Conscripted into it like its the fucking Draft beclaws all irken plays/mewsicals include at least one purrson dying ((mewsually more, with red and purple as tallest,,,))

mew Can choose who mew want to be! or rather, mew can fight ofur it, or get assassinated by mewr understudy who wants mewr role, or any number of horrible things

when tenn is drafted into Phantom of the Opera (Space Edition), gaz and tak sepurrately vow to get her back!

it dawns on the actors that day that not only is this phantom Fur Real, but shes Definitely not the actor that was picked,,,,

the tallest are delighted that the phantom really Is a hideous thing!

oh and dibs also there. i guess. to try and stop gaz beclaws "shell get hurt!" and also to stop ZIMS evil plan!!! to,,, uh,,,, be the best carlotta there efur was?

zims just mad that tenn got to be christine. shes not even that much taller or purrettier than him!!!!!!!!!!

it all purrobably ends with the theatre burning down. red and purple have nefur had more fun in their lives watching this

[nerice]

for legal reasons, this is a series of screenshots instead of a text post. and also region locked to some degree,

[shinyvibrava]

I like how if you make the tiniest criticism of the devos or van andel families you get a billion bootlicking sycophants chastising you for not being more grateful to the millionaire families who got rich off of MLM schemes and tax evasion

[newdanganronpaversionthree]

i think the idea that ouma only sees in black and white or struggles with black and white thinking is really interesting because he definitely does but ironically despite his genuinely black/white monochromic design and character themes, he is the most "grey" character in the entire game. he's evil. he's a hero. he's painfully confused. he's the only one who knows whats going on. he hates everyone here. he needs all of them to get out. he behaves in strange weird undefinable ways because he is trying to exist outside the binary, he cannot squish himself into one side of the corner. he cannot be black OR white. he cannot be guilty OR innocent. he cannot be good OR evil. he is all. he is every single thing listed here. and he is aware of that, he is so aware that he exists in this grey space that cannot be contained to black or white and is begging the others to recognize that they don't need to huddle themselves into one corner, and that doing that is actually hurting all of them.

but because the other characters can only see black and white, his grey isn't white enough, and anyone who's guilty is an enemy. they see him as morally bankrupt because they cannot process the idea of grey. and thus he's subjugated for his actions.

[airxn]

me went absolute angy ham about LoZ lore in the vc tonight

[mirielvairenen]

A single farm still operates in Grand Rapids. In that farm is a swamp. And in that swamp- well.

He doesn't venture out much, anymore. He used to shamble out at night, or wait for adventurous children to stray too far alone on hot summer days, but now the children are mostly gone, out of his reach, and he spends most of his time sleeping. He remembers the lady who called him, the great witch muttering something about Calvinists, and who had laid a geas on him: guard our swamp. Revenge yourself on the people who try to take it from us.

And he had. A century passed. For one summer he'd had a friend, the boa constrictor that joined him, but she'd been missed, and too easily spotted, and they found her all too soon, but while she was there she had guarded his swamp as carefully as he ever did. The last time he had been seen, he'd found two girls, playacting at being witches and clowns, and the witchling had beaten him off with her broom, holding him off until her parents arrived. Now- he mostly sleeps, and the children of the family tell jokes about him, and he visits them in their dreams instead.

But the farm is still there, and the swamp still floods, and the peepers still sing, and he is quiet- for now.

Thoughts on Odile of Swan Lake?

Sometimes, you come home for an extended Christmas vacation—thank god for two vacation days a month—and your father has turned a bunch of the local community college girls into swans. That’s just how life is. You try to be understanding, really; it’s not like you don’t have a couple shitty dates tucked away in your back garden. (They make an unholy noise whenever the wind is high, but they also eat the spider mites, so.)

During the day, you feed the swans-who-are-technically-girls whole wheat bread, because that’s what the internet told you was best for swans. (Cultivated grains, right?) At night, you lend them your high school sweatshirts and old pajama pants, and blow up every air mattress you can beg or borrow from friends. Your father glares at them whenever they try to sit on the sofa, snarling to be quiet during Late Night. One of them, the slender brunette, cries silently.

Afterwards, the girls whisper to one another, and your father retreats to the back patio to smoke a cigar. After the first night—after Odette, who goes by Etta, clutches your sleeve and whispers, can you get us out of here?—you go out to join him.

“What exactly was your plan here, dad?” you ask, and Rothbart, the poster child for single-father assholery, grunts and goes on smoking.

You get up at four the next morning, in order to make the swans a human breakfast while they’ll still appreciate it. “Thank you,” Etta says when you hand her a plate of runny eggs, almost-burnt toast. She’s pretty, in a small-town coed sort of way. In the hazy, artificial light of the kitchen, her eyelashes are fine and pale against her cheeks, and it makes you think of something grown in the dark, a flower that will never bloom.

“Yeah, well,” you say, giving Etta an extra slice of bacon. “Merry Christmas.”

.

You call your boss the twenty-sixth, and tell him that your father’s had some health issues, you’re going to need FMLA. He tells you not to worry about it, just make sure to let HR know.

Outside the window, the swans are huddled together on the half-frozen pond in your backyard, their heads bent together like lovers. You can’t help admiring the elegant curve of those long, white necks, how lovely they are, set against the grey slate of the sky and the shadows of the skeletal trees. They’re trembling—you didn’t even know swans could get cold.

You tell your boss you’ll keep him updated.

.

The missing posters are all over town, once you know to look. Pretty, white—Rothbart’s gotten stupid and started breaking his own rules—Midwestern girls. Cornsilk hair, braces-trained smiles. Some of their photographs show them in cheerleader outfits, band uniforms. Another stupid, sloppy detail.

“Isn’t it sad?” Mary Anne, who was your friend and hated you in the same breath, simpers. “All those girls, just up and vanished.”

“Sad,” you echo. “Do the police have any leads?”

They don’t, you know. No one has leads on girls that turn into swans, any more than they have leads on men who turn into toads, or wolves, or birds, or frogs, or ravens. It’s the only reason your family has lasted as long as it has—being careful, always careful, and making sure that when a curse stuck, it stuck. Every morning since you came home, you’ve found Kelly Loshanko standing in your front yard, her nostrils flaring; she’s starting to show her age, and you’re still surprised she’s managed to last this many deer hunting seasons. You’ve heard rumors there are still families in Grand Rapids suffering from the curse your great-grandmother laid down on their bloodline, because they offended her. Or because she wanted to, or simply because she could—your great-grandmother was never one for explaining herself.

(You sometimes think about having that much power, all the things you could use it for. It would be a new world.)

Mary Anne is talking about her husband, who’s been spending “too much time on the internet.” You make sympathetic noises, and think about how unlikely it is that Etta ever finds a man to love her who has never loved before. 

Keep reading

[meripheri]

[cozage]

Hii!! Can you write some headcanon about how they are with their s/o after 20 or 30 years passed? Or in their old age. Ace Law and Zoro please.(Please include Ace. You know what i mean right? 🥺) With a female reader. Thank you ❤️

A/N:Forgive any typos please :) Characters: gn reader x Ace, Law, Zoro Cw: None :) Total word count: 1k

Years Passed

Ace

After Whitebeard passed, Ace was one of the top contenders to lead the pirate crew, but ultimately the Whitebeard Pirates disbanded. It didn’t feel right without Pops. The two of you sailed around with a smaller ship for a few years before retiring to your favorite island.

That being said, you all still take trips to other islands or sail for a while to celebrate special occasions. 

While you all don’t go out drinking nearly as much as you used to, you’re still regulars at the local tavern. On Friday nights they like to play music, and you trade stories with the new “kids” who are brave enough to take on the Grand Line.

He still brings you breakfast in bed every Saturday morning, complete with fresh-cut flowers. Breakfast is never the same; he always seems to know just what you're in the mood for.

You all ended up having kids. Ace wanted one hundred, but you cut him off after three. 

He still likes to bring home a stray kid he found on the side of the street every now and then, and you never minded having the extra rooms filled for as long as they needed to stay. Some stayed for only a few days, some stayed for years. You loved them all the same.

Just about every night, the two of you make it a priority to sit out and watch the sunset. The moments together are truly what makes life feel worth living

Even after all these years, he sticks up for you and loves you without shame. He’s never afraid to show you off or plant a kiss on your lips when he thinks someone else is eyeing you. He loves to brag about you and all of the light you’ve given him over the years to just about anyone who will listen. 

Law

It took Law a long time to find a place worth settling down in. You all finally decided on Zou.

It made sense. He was a wandering spirit, Zou was a wandering civilization. He could still move about while being in one place. Plus, you always had a feeling he would have a harder time parting with Bepo than he ever let on. 

He ended up working as a doctor for the minks (no surprise there) and found that his favorite part of the day was when he got to help kids feel better. 

Your moment of peace and tranquility, even after all these years, is the morning cup of coffee you all share. You never get tired of that simple moment between the two of you, and you cherish it with your whole heart. 

Every Friday, Bepo’s family comes over for dinner. The kids typically put on some silly play or performance or rope you all into games they want to play, and you all will stay awake far longer than you ever care to admit. 

You always complain about how exhausted you are on Saturdays, and Law promises “We’ll kick them out earlier next week”, but you never do. You would never want to limit your time with Bepo and his family anyway, the complaining is more to get out of any chores you may have promised to do. 

Law loves in the quietest of ways. He prefers to stay in and curl up on the couch, or he’ll bring you a book to read in bed alongside him. But he never goes to sleep without kissing you first. 

Zoro

Zoro still groans when you get out of bed. He almost always pulls you back in with a “five more minutes” mumble. You had begun accounting for this delay years ago, but it still makes your heart flutter when he pulls you back in and wraps his arms around you so that you can’t escape. 

He runs his own dojo now, that operates solely off of donations (and the load of gold you all have from your pirating days). Kids can come to practice, or they can live and work there too. It’s a very satisfying occupation for both of you. 

Funnily enough, Zoro found a strange love for cooking. Well, grilling. He loves to grill. You used to joke about it being a necessary qualification to be a dad, but now he just tries to grill everything. Dinner is almost always covered, but you never know what new thing he’s going to try (and yes, he does have a really corny apron like “#1 Grillmaster” or something).

He likes to stay in most of the time nowadays. If you go out, it’s usually to a small place that is more family-style than bars. 

However, he likes to go to a bar with you sometimes and pretend that you all don’t know each other. He’ll spend the whole night flirting with you and finally end the night with “So, you coming home with me or what?”. He ALWAYS has new pickup lines or witty things to say to you. 

Zoro prefers to keep you to himself. He guards you fiercely and will defend you to death if someone even considers looking at you wrong. The first thing he teaches at the dojo is that you deserve respect above anyone else, and disrespect to you will mean immediate dismissal from the program. He can’t stand to see anything that might cause you pain.

[bumblesimagines]

For Life

Request: Yes or No

Summary: The Wolverine was unmatched in the fighting ring, until a new face arrived and turned his life upside down.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical X-Men Warnings, lots of blood mentions, violence/fighting, both fluff and angst, Logan being as whipped as he was for Jean with (Y/N), age gap cause Logan is super fucking old lmao, more so snippets/a concept over a full fledged fic.

divider by cafekitsune!

~~~

Wolverines generally avoid humans in the wild but are known to be particularly aggressive and even dangerous when cornered or provoked, prompting them to put those sharp canines and claws to work. Wolverines are known for their incredible strength and stamina, but mostly for their infamous ferocity. Despite their reputation as ill-tempered loners, wolverines are known to be social with others and will form lifelong relationships with their mates.

It'd been a cold evening in Laughlin City and most of the bar's patrons had shuffled into the establishment with their faces nearly hidden behind hoods and scarves as they scrambled to get out of the snow and chilling winds. The occasional gust of wind blowing in whenever the door opened left patrons simultaneously groaning in complaint but the heater emitting warm air kept their grumbling and huffing to a minimum. The nipping cold had soured many moods, and Logan could see many men itching to forget about the cold with an adrenaline-pumping fight. He was just eager to make an easy buck.

He braced an arm against one of the cage's support beams and watched with a hint of a smirk as his latest opponent staggered out of the cage, his buddies narrowly catching him before he could plummet onto the hardwood floor and further batter his face. The locals eyed him with a certain disdain, certain suspicion, but he put up good enough entertainment for them to tolerate him. He sniffed, hardly phased by the punches he'd taken during the fight, and nodded to the referee. 

"Does anyone else dare-" 

"I'll have a go." 

Logan immediately craned his head to eye the voice's owner, foreign and new to Laughlin City. He'd been participating in cage fights long enough to begin memorizing the locals, and the fresh face staring back at him was an utter stranger. Passing by Laughlin City, Logan assumed, but he lacked the particular smell of gas, car air freshener, and look of exhaustion to be a trucker like most of the patrons taking up seats around them. He observed him, taking in every inch of his new opponent as he rounded the cage. He seemed young, but then again, so did Logan. 

"Name's (Y/N)." He said, staring Logan in the eyes as he shed his jacket and shirt. Someone nearby took both articles of clothing for him, likely eager to see what he'd do, or how he'd go down. Logan had managed to break two noses and chip a few teeth already, one could only wonder what he'd do next. "Nice to meet you, Wolverine."

Logan simply grunted and pushed himself off the support beam, rolling his neck and curling his fingers into tight fists. (Y/N) grinned at him, almost arrogantly, but not with the usual cockiness of a man who thought himself the toughest guy in Alberta. He appeared... too calm for Logan's liking, but once the referee stepped out of the cage and closed the door, he decided to focus on beating his face in instead. 

They circled each other first, eyes raking over the other from head to toe in search of a weakness to exploit, of a twitch that'd give away their next move. Logan could hear the muttering of the crowd, the impatient tap of fingers and boots, and the intensity in their stares. His eyes flickered away briefly, and he immediately cursed his mistake when (Y/N) lunged. Despite a part of him urging him to dodge or block, he remained still, expecting (Y/N)'s knuckles to break upon impact but instead, his fist connected effectively with Logan's jaw and he nearly stumbled onto the floor.

Managing to catch himself as scattered gasps echoed from the crowd, Logan grazed his fingers over his aching jaw and raised his head to look at the man. Mutant. No human had ever taken a swing at him without immediately spraining or breaking something, let alone been able to make his head turn with a punch. The corner of his lips twitched up into a smirk and the crowd erupted into cheers, primarily egging (Y/N) on to beat him to a pulp; Logan wanted to see him try.

The ache in his jaw faded swiftly, just in time for Logan to take a swing at (Y/N) and see how much he could tank. (Y/N) dodged his quick swings efficiently, taking steps back each time before he caught Logan's forearm and swiftly spun, his back pressing to Logan's chest before Logan was promptly hauled over his body. He collided with the floor, the cage trembling as if an earthquake had struck, and Logan doubted it'd be able to take the weight of his body a second time without damage. (Y/N) flashed another little grin down at him but instead of taking advantage of his momentary shock, he took a step back and allowed him to get up. 

A professionally trained mutant, Logan deduced when he got to his feet, intriguing. And worrisome. He hardly needed a group of mutants on his ass begging him to join them. 

"You ready to give up your title of champion, big guy?" (Y/N) questioned with a hint of a mocking coo, his words rowdying up the same crowd who'd turn on him if they learned of his mutant abilities, although Logan guessed they likely already suspected and merely wanted to see him hurt for a change. Challenging in his tone but his eyes studied Logan with a degree of curiosity he typically never saw in others.

"We're just gettin' started, bud."

"Even better."

Everything afterward felt like a whirlwind of punching, kicking, dodging, and blocking; Logan's favorite sort of dance, and one that'd hopefully end with some cash in his pocket and a well-deserved cigar. He managed to maneuver (Y/N) around, his arm coiling around his neck to put him in a headlock most wouldn't survive. (Y/N) pressed back against him, forcing them to stumble backward until Logan's back collided with the cage's wall that miraculously managed to stay put without giving out on them both. Logan released a guttural groan when (Y/N)'s short blunt nails dug into his skin, leaving bright red marks behind with specks of blood that only made him tighten his hold.

"Anything goes, right?" (Y/N) wheezed, his palm pressing against Logan's arm, a chill shooting down Logan's spine when it slowly moved on its own and gave him enough space to catch his breath without the pressure on his throat. 

"The hell-"

Straightening his knees and tossing his head back into Logan's face, Logan cursed and released him fully to bring a hand to his nose. He covered it, waiting for it to heal without catching the eye of the people around but (Y/N) gave him no time to recover. He spun on his heel and took another swing at him, bringing his knee up into Logan's stomach when he doubled over and then slamming the bottom of his boot into the side of his face. His head slammed against a support beam and he groaned, the aches and pains healing rapidly but before he could stand up, he realized his body refused to follow his wishes. 

"Giving up yet, big guy?" (Y/N) asked with a tilt of his head, eyes glinting with newfound warning. "We'll be here all night at this rate."

Logan swallowed, a hint of panic surging forward at his inability to move and the mystery surrounding the powers being used against him. Some sort of mental ability, he guessed, but whatever it was he disliked it tenfold. Logan grinded his teeth in frustration and begrudgingly nodded. "Fine," He grunted and sighed in relief when (Y/N) released whatever hold he had on him, allowing his body to relax and slump.

While, yes, losing a fight was a bruise to his pride, Logan found himself more intrigued by the fellow mutant, if not more cautious. With the sky darkening outside, Logan retreated from the cage to collect his belongings and ordered some beer while he watched (Y/N) at the other end of the bar. Once the bartender placed the beer down, he scooped it up in his hand and rounded the bar toward him, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the men who clapped (Y/N) on the shoulder as if he'd done everyone a service. He waited, though, for everyone to be out of earshot. 

"How'd you do it?" Logan questioned quietly, chugging back some beer and smacking his lips as it flowed down his throat. (Y/N) fiddled with the zipper of his jacket, sparing him an amused glance and an arched brow. "The whole- the whole body thing. What is it? Some sort of telekinesis?"

"How about you walk me to my motel and I'll tell you all about it?" (Y/N) grinned again, eyes crinkling despite the way they'd been going at each other moments prior, and he turned toward the exit with a beckoning nod. Reaching into his pocket, Logan jingled the keys to his old, busted RV and watched his grin widen.

Out in the cold night, semi-trucks passed them by on the icy roads beside the snow-tipped bar. (Y/N) tugged his hoodie over his head, keeping it on when he sat in the passenger seat and relished the light heat that filled the RV once Logan turned it on. Logan glanced at him, eyeing his light attire once more but keeping his questions to himself despite curiosity knawing at him insistently. He kept his eyes on the road, careful to avoid going at a speed that'd have them sliding into the forest around them. 

"It's not telekinesis." (Y/N) muttered, reaching out and fiddling with the radio dials until he found a decent station. "I.. I controlled your blood. It's not as, uh, clean and pretty as telepathy or telekinesis but it's pretty useful in most cases. I can sense when someone's sick, too, or even help with cuts and infections. I'd make a pretty decent surgeon, honestly." He gave a small chuckle.

Logan snorted, though some unease settled in the pit of his stomach. "Yeah? How'd you figure out you had it?" Logan glanced at him again and immediately noticed the way his features fell. 

"It's not a pretty story." He sighed softly, his head tilting to watch the trees and snow pass them by in a mixed blur. "Let's just say, some of my blood got out of my body and I panicked.. and it started levitating... anyways, enough about me, big guy. What's your thing? It can't just be that super-healing thing, right?" 

Pursing his lips, Logan clutched the wheel with one hand and curled the other one into a fist. From the corner of his eye, he watched his claws slide out and then swallowed when (Y/N)'s features brightened. Gentle fingers wrapped around his hand and Logan retracted the claws, an unfamiliar feeling swirling in his stomach as he felt (Y/N) run his fingertips over his skin, tracing his knuckles and then the veins along the back of his hand. It'd been a while since he last left a gentle touch, and a quiet part in the back of his mind almost considered him unworthy of it. 

"My name's Logan." He grunted softly, the typical tension he always carried fading with each delicate caress.

"Well, Logan," (Y/N) lifted his head with a cheeky smile on his face, his thumb pressing into one of the veins and drawing Logan's eyes toward him. "You mind keeping me company tonight? Or do you have someone you have to get back to?"

"No," Logan's lips tugged upward. "I've got time." 

The motel was as rundown as Logan expected, dimly lit hallways occasionally plunging into darkness when the light flickered above them, and the curiosity surged forward again, prodding him to question where the mutant had come from or why he'd chosen Laughlin City of all places to stay in. But (Y/N) gave him no time to dwell further on it, the back of his foot kicking the door shut behind them before his hands grasped the collar of Logan's coat and pulled him in. 

There was a dangerous addictiveness and allure to (Y/N), from the way he effortlessly danced the line between sweet and rough: a kiss full of tongues and teeth and nips but smoothed over by gentle fingers massaging the muscle of his biceps when Logan slid his coat off, only for those same fingers to slip through his brown strands and tug. It triggered something within Logan, a growl emitting from his throat as broad hands grasped at the other's hips and drew a breathless laugh from (Y/N). 

As much as he enjoyed considering himself a lone wolf, the brief connection with others during one-night stands always reminded him he was still partly human, even when others considered him a savage brute. He savored it, savored when he had (Y/N) on his lap, his chest rising and falling with heaves and lips parted to release low grunts and groans. He savored the feeling of (Y/N)'s arms wrapped around his shoulders loosely, his breath fanning against his ear and allowing Logan to hear every noise he exhaled. He savored the ability to dig his fingers into soft flesh without worry, or sink his teeth into (Y/N)'s collarbone and feel the mark heal beneath his lips. He mostly savored the addictive warmth encircling him and the pleasure that made his thighs tremble. 

His arms tightened around (Y/N), pressing him close to his chest, and captured his lips to swallow another whine. For the first time in who knows how long, he found himself hoping he'd see more of (Y/N) around. 

But after a few days, the mutant disappeared from Alberta, and a week later Logan took a girl by the name of Rogue under his wing. 

"You may see another familiar face here." 

Logan turned his attention away from the mutant children, trying to ignore the way his heart warmed at the sight of them living happy lives without the threat of danger from those who despised them for simply existing. He searched the outer yard for any sign of Marie, but he assumed she was likely still getting acclimated to her new home at the school, and finally peered down at Charles questioningly. Charles smiled knowingly and motioned off to the side. 

"While I prefer having (Y/N) here for his safety, he enjoys venturing out to help others. I hear you two became acquainted while he was away." Charles spoke, and without thinking twice, Logan's head snapped in the direction he'd pointed in, his heart leaping into his throat at the sight of (Y/N) walking toward him with that godforsaken grin that'd plagued Logan's thoughts and dreams for weeks. "(Y/N) has called this school home for many years, and he often helps with the more severe injuries. I'll allow you two a moment to... catch up." 

(Y/N) nodded to Charles as they walked past each other before stopping in front of Logan and crossing his arms over his chest, his head tilting playfully to the side and eyes drinking him in. "It's nice seeing you again, Logan." He stepped closer, eyes lifting to meet his once more. "Here I was thinking about taking a drive back to Alberta. Guess you must've read my mind." 

"Pretty sure that's Charles's thing," Logan replied, pressing this thumb into (Y/N)'s chin and curling the rest of his fingers under it. He had to, otherwise he would've convinced himself he was imagining things, that the mutant who'd managed to make him laugh and smile was still miles away someplace else. "What were you doin' in Alberta?"

"I heard rumors and whispers about a man down in Laughlin City and thought I'd see what all the fuss was about. I would've asked you to come back with me but.. that didn't seem like the type of pillow talk you'd appreciate." He explained softly, leaning into Logan's touch and closing his eyes briefly when Logan pressed his palm fully against his cheek, still caught in the fleeting worry he'd wake up and find himself on the side of the icy road with Marie nowhere in sight. "You're here now, though." His eyes opened. "Are you staying?" 

"I don't-"

"Oh, come on," (Y/N) scoffed lightly, warmly, and moved in even closer. "It's nice here, Logan. I can finish showing you around and we'll find something for you to do. The food's good, the rooms are nice, and it's... freshening to hear the laughter of kids finally being happy. You'd make a helluva teacher, I bet. Everyone's favorite." His genuine tone shifted into a teasing one, laughing softly when Logan rolled his eyes. 

Lifting his brows, Logan smirked and brought him close, itching to close the distance despite a heated voice in his head telling him he didn't deserve the warmth and acceptance. "We can start and end the tour in the dorms-"

"Only if you promise to stay." (Y/N) cooed, tilting his head away to dodge a kiss but he allowed himself to be tugged into an embrace. His arms curled around Logan's shoulders, lips drawing back into a wide smile before he planted a kiss on the corner of Logan's lips. "If you stay, we can finish what we started... and see where it goes." 

Logan leaned back, his brows twitching down into a furrow but (Y/N)'s grip around his shoulders tightened, forcing him to stay and not flee from his words. He swallowed, conflicted in the way his brain and heart battled. Half of him screamed at him to leave, to go before he could mess everything up but another part desperately clung to the idea of staying and finally having a place to call home, finally having a person to call home. 

He noted the flicker of uncertainty in (Y/N)'s features following his silence, felt him beginning to draw back from the embrace. Logan secured his arms around him and allowed a ghost of a smile to slip. "Yeah," He murmured, weakly at first. "I'd like that."

Truthfully, Logan hadn't been fully listening to what Scott- or well, what Cyclops had spoken about in the briefing about their latest mission. He'd heard the usual 'group of anti-mutants' and promptly tuned out afterward in favor of soaking in how (Y/N) looked in the dark suit, though noted somewhat glumly how it didn't allow him to wear the engagement ring. His staring hadn't gone unnoticed given the amused glances Jean stole and the exasperated exhale from Cyclops before they were dropped near the location of the warehouse. 

"Good luck, Lo." (Y/N) whispered to him, planting a kiss on his cheek and dragging his fingers over Logan's beard with a mischievous glint in his pretty (E/C) eyes.

They'd separated pretty soon after, splitting up to cover more ground given the amount of people working with the group. It hadn't taken long at all for the fighting to begin, and despite Cyclops pushing for them to use as little force as possible, Logan couldn't help bruising and cutting a few people up. He managed to knock out a gunman when he heard the distinctive clap of thunder. Amusement had him cracking a grin followed by pity toward whichever fool dared face against Storm, but then he heard her shriek:

"(Y/N)!" 

Too high-pitched, loud, and full of horror for Logan to brush aside as a warning call. His footsteps thundered throughout the halls as he moved, shoving and swinging his claws at anyone who stood in his way until he stumbled upon the sight, eyes immediately finding (Y/N) on his knees with Storm beside him. Logan beelined toward them, dropping into a crouch and promptly feeling a wave of nausea pass over him at the sight of (Y/N) blood-stained hands grasping desperately at his throat. 

"They-" Storm swallowed thickly, her chest rising and falling with panic. "They shot him. He- He can't heal with the bullet-" 

"Darlin'," Logan exhaled shakily, pulling him swiftly into his arms and attempting to keep his composure despite the wheezy exhales and gurgles filling his ears. Blood spread across his throat, blobs of it levitating only to lose their perfectly round form and fall onto the floor with splatters each time (Y/N) grimaced. "I know it hurts but you have to focus on gettin' the bullet out. Baby, hey, focus."

(Y/N) stared up at him, wide eyes filling with tears and shoulders shaking with his hiccups and trembles. The red tint of blood on his lips filled Logan with a familiar sense of dread, his arms holding him tighter so (Y/N) wouldn't feel him trembling as well. He watched the blood oozing out of the wound rise, oddly shaped and raised while he worked on shoving the lodged bullet out of his throat before he choked to death on the very thing he could control. He wheezed and coughed occasionally, droplets of blood flinging onto Logan's cheek and coloring his beard but he paid it no mind.

Storm fiddled with her earpiece, stuttering out explanations to Jean and Cyclops and urging them to move quicker. Logan thumbed away the tears that slipped down his (S/C) skin, forcing himself to give encouraging nods and smiles despite the hurricane threatening to break within his chest.

(Y/N) tilted his chin up toward him and Logan swooped in eagerly, kissing him despite the blood that danced on his tongue afterward. He heard the familiar clatter of metal falling onto the floor and leaned back, eyes flickering around frantically until he spotted the bloody bullet rolling around beside them. 

"Hey, hey, you did it. You-"

Storm exhaled shakily. "Logan."

Logan's head snapped back toward (Y/N)'s face, first noticing the dullness in his eyes and then the way blood continued freely oozing from the wound. He stared at him, his mind struggling to comprehend the limpness in (Y/N)'s body and the stillness of his chest, the world around him slowly coming to a standstill. Storm's sniffling cries and the frantic questions from Jean and Cyclops as they finally arrived became distant, unable to focus on anything but (Y/N). 

"Hey..." Logan exhaled, cupping his cheek as his brows furrowed into a tight-knit. "Hey, hey, hey, you- you can't do this." He furiously blinked away the tears that glazed over his vision, rubbing his thumb into (Y/N)'s cheek and waiting for him to nuzzle into his touch as he always did, but it never came. "You can't do this. You can't-" Logan cradled his body against his chest, burying his face into his collarbone as he'd done dozens of times before. (Y/N) remained unresponsive, his arms falling limply at his sides from Logan's movements. 

"You can't do this to me. You promised you'd never leave."

[pokemonshelterstories]

I'm an amateur pokemon watcher and recently a milotic moved into the lake where the local gyrados that's under observation lives. We were expecting GR-5739 to react with his usual territorial aggression, but he has instead spent the last fortnight desperately trying to get her attention with displays of strength, bellowing, etc. Totally head over heels while she quietly ignores him. Recently he's begun leaving her kills and she seems to be letting him get closer. If he does manage to sweet talk her into being his mate, will the feebas hatchlings look different or will they just look like regular feebas?

oh my arc. i'm rooting for him. and also my sympathies to anyone who lives in a 5km radius of that lake and has to deal with the mating calls.

magikarp/feebas crosses are actually fairly well-studied, because they're both extremely hardy fish pokemon capable of living in a wide range of water salinity. although they were ignored for a long time as boring pokemon, there's been a lot of research lately into what makes them so successful at survival. what you generally see with feebas crossed with magikarp is that they'll be a bit bulkier than your typical feebas with especially strong muscles in the back, near the caudal fin. magikarp-crossed feebas are also known to sometimes jump out of the water like magikarp, while uncrossed feebas typically cluster at the bottom of their habitat.

there's some evidence that magikarp-crossed feebas are more prone to fin nipping and general aggression, but in a large body of water, you may not see that happening.

[dee-the-red-witch]

Right. June Pinned post. Let's fuckin' go.

Hi.

I'm Denice. More commonly Dee. Mid-40's transfem poly lesbian. And I do a lot of stuff.

First and foremost, I'm an artist and leatherworker. You'll find links to all of that here.

I also write, do tarot readings, and review media. All of that's here.

If you're local to me in the PNW, I also tattoo:

I also have my GRS and FFS coming up in under six months, and am desperately trying to cover funds for the recovery time from both.

And if that all wasn't enough, I also voice act, cook, parent, spend way too much time as a gym rat, still don't know what a jerma is, post lewd for tummy tuesday soemtimes because I can, and tend to Have Opinions. I'd say you should throw money at me in general for it, but that's neither here nor there.

I do not care if you're a minor who decides to follow me (unless you insist on making it weird. This is an adult space. Cope.) I will not tag for nsfw or mature content, since both get used for targeted harrassment. Police your own experience. Ask box is still open for now, put any other questions there.

[romanreignsbae]

Blurb request: Roman and the reader celebrating Valentine’s Day can be smut or fluff you decide!

It was early in the morning when Roman arrived at your door, a bouquet of roses in his hand. The air was chilly, with the faint scent of winter still lingering in the atmosphere. He gave you a smile that warmed the entire day and whispered “Ready for our day?”

You nodded, excitement bubbling inside you, but you also felt a bit nervous. Valentine’s Day, after all, was special. This day felt different. Roman had been planning it for weeks, giving you hints here and there, but leaving most of the details a mystery. You trusted him though, and knew he wouldn’t let you down.

The first stop was your local salon. Roman opened the door for you with a smile, his hand on your back as you entered, drawing admiring glances from the staff. The smell of nail polish and hair products surrounded the room, the hum of blow dryers and the soft chatter of stylists and customers creating a peaceful background to the morning's events. The receptionist, a young woman with a welcoming smile, greeted you with enthusiasm.

“Happy Valentine’s Day! We have everything ready for you!” she said, guiding you toward the area where you would be pampered.

Roman had scheduled a full day of satisfaction. First, a manicure and pedicure, a treat you’d indulge in once in a while, but never allowed yourself to splurge on. The nail technician worked gently, filing and shaping, the soft music of the salon washing over you as you relaxed into the luxurious chair. The care and attention she gave your nails were so relaxing you almost drifted off, but the thought of the day ahead kept you grounded.

Once the nails were perfect, Roman guided you to the next station, the hair salon. There, your usual stylist greeted you with a friendly smile, ready to transform your look for the special day. Roman took a seat nearby, his eyes not leaving your face as you sank into the chair. The stylist carefully began styling your hair as you wished while often taking glancing at the inspo pics you’d shown her.

Roman watched the whole process with quiet admiration, noticing the way your features softened, the glow on your face as you became more and more radiant with each passing moment. He made you feel beautiful, not just on the outside, but on the inside, too. He always had a way of making you feel like you were the center of the world, no matter what.

When the stylist finished, she spun the chair around, and Roman’s eyes lit up at the sight. “Perfect,” he whispered, his voice full of awe. Your reflection smiled back at you…confident, glowing, and ready to take on the day.

With your look complete, Roman handed you a soft cashmere scarf to wrap around your shoulders. “Let’s go,” he said, offering his hand. You left the salon with smiles on your faces, the sun breaking through the clouds, almost automatically brightening the day.

Next, he took you to a quaint little café for lunch. The café was tucked away on a quiet street which the neither of you minded as you found it calming and peaceful.

The both of you ordered your meals, a mix of light and hearty dishes, each one expertly prepared. As you ate, Roman listened attentively to you, his eyes never straying from your face, as if he couldn’t get enough of your presence. You both talked about everything and nothing. Childhood memories, hopes for the future, and, of course, your love for one another. What better way to talk about love than day of love itself! Every so often, his hand would reach across the table to brush against yours, sending a shiver down your spine. You felt treasured, loved, and completely at ease in his company.

After the meal, Roman led you outside, where the car was waiting. He didn’t take you back home just yet. Instead, you guys drove for a while, heading into the countryside, leaving the bustle of the city behind. The ride was peaceful, and as you drove through winding roads lined with bare trees, you found yourself growing more curious about where you were headed. “Where are we going?” you asked softly. “You’ll see..”

Eventually, the car stopped at a secluded spot by a river, a hidden gem you’d never seen before. The area was cloudless, untouched by crowds, with the gentle rush of the water filling the air. Roman opened the door for you and offered his hand once more, leading you down a narrow path that hugged the river’s edge.

“I thought we could take a walk,” he said, his voice soft, “just the two of us, in a place thats quiet...” he spoke almost shyly.

You smiled, your heart swelling with affection as you walked side by side, the river reflecting the clear blue sky above. The world seemed to stand still around you, everything quiet except for the sound of the water flowing and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. You both stopped occasionally to admire the scenery, pointing out birds perched in the trees or the little fish swimming below the surface of the river.

Roman stopped once more, his hand reaching for yours. They stood there for a moment, taking in the beauty of the place. He leaned in close, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your skin in a tender gesture. “This is perfect,” he whispered, and you could hear the sincerity in his voice.

The calmness of the moment enveloped you, and you realized that the day had been more than just about the grand gestures, the roses, the pampering, or the meals. It was about being together, sharing a connection that was deeper than anything you’d ever experienced.

After the walk, Roman led you back to the car, and you headed toward the next part of their day , a beautiful dinner at a quiet, luxurious restaurant he had booked in advance. As you arrived, the exterior of the building was illuminated by soft golden lights, making it appear almost magical. Almost out of a fairytale. The atmosphere inside was warm and intimate, with low lighting and flickering candles on each table. It was quiet, which mainly Roman was thankful for.

The waiter, a professional in his demeanour, showed the both of you a beautiful seat next to window which showcased the beautiful city below you.

The both of you ordered wine, letting the wine steward suggest a bottle that would complement your meals. The courses arrived one by one, each plate a work of art, from the delicate appetizer to the rich, perfectly cooked main course, and finally, the delicious dessert that melted in your mouths. As you savoured each bite, you talked more about the future you and Roman held together.

Roman was not just a lover but a partner, someone who wanted to share every part of life with you. And tonight, you realized just how lucky you were to have found him, to have someone who cared for you so deeply and passionately.

As the night approaches closer and closer, Roman took your hand across the table, his thumb gently caressing your skin. The waiter brought them you guys the check, and Roman, with his usual quiet confidence, took care of everything. He didn’t want you to worry about a thing. All you needed to do was enjoy the moments, and with him, every moment was a gift.

Walking back to the car, the cold night air kissed your cheeks, as Roman’s warmth embraced you. You both drove home, the city lights passing by in a blur, but the feeling of the day stayed with you, a love so deep, so pure, that no amount of words could ever change it.

taglist: @mzv11 @trippinsorrows @kia1996-blog-blog @sheaabuttaababyy @southerngirl41 @beibigirl124 @pr0wlerpunk @lurkinwbreexy @ayeeeitsmiracle

[thebluester2020]

[TWST] "Free" Lodging At SavanaClaw

Summary: After being kicked out from Ramshackle Dorm, you swallowed your pride and decided to go to SavanaClaw to try and convince the local Housewarden to let you stay until you found a way to get Ramshackle back. But, as nothing was ever free in your former world, the same rules apply here! Warning(s): Leona being a dick but that's the normal, Dub-con(kinda-ish?), Manipulation, Leona refers to the reader as "lioness" instead of "herbivore" (This reader has an attitude y'all, buckle up), Gender neutral pronouns (Reader is heavily implied to be a girl though), Edging(?), No active sex in this one just Leona feeling the reader up basically, Consent check-ups. Side Note(s): This may be the most inaccurate fanfic I'll write to date since I'm just now getting back into the TWST fandom 💀. But I vaguely remember (I think?) the MC getting kicked out from their dorm and having to shack up with Leona for a bit so I'm running off "You want something? What're you willing to do for it?" type of energy. Also, I will add to the idea that Leona drinks his "respect women" juice, so be prepared for those consent check-ups.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

"...So, that's why I need to stay here..."

Never once in your life had you felt so small, so...insignificant as you stood in front of Leona's dorm room, after pouring your heart out about your situation and how you had no place to stay after making a shady deal with Azul. To be in a position of begging, pleading with to have a place to stay. You didn't know who to curse out first!

Crowley for not getting you back to your original world fast enough.

Azul for tricking you in the first place into making a shady deal.

Or maybe even yourself, for being so foolish in the first place as to think that there wouldn't be a backhanded price for losing a bet with Azul to begin with! And what's more? You still felt you weren't thinking straight, after all, instead of thinking that it was best to shack up with Ace and Deuce, your feet instead led you to Leona.

The arrogant prince who looked as if he were completely apathetic to your situation as if your very presence outside of his dorm room was an utter annoyance. And to hold yourself accountable? It probably was. No one wants to share their room after all, especially when the person in question had no clue when their new potential guest would be leaving.

But at the same time? It wasn't like you wanted to be begging either!

"Hm," Was the first noise that Leona made as his tail flicked side to side, scratching his chin. "What do I get out of lettin' you stay 'ere?" The beastman couldn't help the smirk that graced his already handsome features as an immediate furious expression took over your face.

"What the hell do you mean 'What do I get out of it'?!" You said in a mocking imitation of the prince's voice.

Leona then frowned before yawning. "Well now...that's no way to speak to someone you're asking to live with—" Before he could close the door, you quickly stopped it with your hand before you huffed. You took a brief moment to gather yourself, to suck in your pride and reaffirm in your head that there were no other options, no other people you could think willing enough to bend (or flat out ignore) the rules and let you stay in their dorm room for a little while.

Once done, you exhale through your nose before sighing. "What...do you want?"

The prince smirked, now you were playing his game.

Leona wasn't blind.

Despite the two of you not being on the very best of terms, constantly bickering whenever you both saw one another and having an unspoken rivalry of sorts. Be it in some of your classes together, who had the most biting words that day, or even you two simply getting in the way of each other! You two didn't like each other except...

Leona somewhat liked you. Enough to where he periodically had lustful thoughts about you from time to time that is. As he continued to think to himself, he thought about how great it would be to first have the only girl at this school. To make you his own personal toy, not that it would be an easy battle that is.

You'd ultimately call the shots, and he would simply have to keep your attention.

Something that he would easily achieve. "For me being so gracious to allow you to even think of staying in my dorm—" Your eyes widened a little when the prince leaned forward a little. And oh...how you hated how he smelled so good, expensive cologne mixed with a distinct wild smell that you couldn't pinpoint. But, you tried to keep your head afloat, the last thing you could afford was to allow your mind to be clouded.

You absolutely refused it.

"—how about you service me?" You visibly flinched at the idea.

"...You're not talking about an innocent back massage, are you?"

His silence was your answer.

And you hated to admit that the idea appealed to you, even if it was just slightly. Never once had you thought that the prince was ugly. Maybe in personality, sure but looks-wise? He was very attractive, as princely as the definition came, but to sleep with him? Just for a place to stay? She didn't know if she could convince herself to do that!

"What if I say no?" You mumbled.

He responded with a shrug. "Then I won't pressure you. I'm not so cruel as to let a woman roam around at night with no place to go." He said with a deep purr that made your very body reverberate. "But, something tells me that you won't say no."

You sighed, looking away for a moment before looking back up at him.

Although you didn't give him a verbal response, the prince saw your answer as clear as day in your eyes and thus, moved to the side to allow you into his room to which you immediately started to look around, only offering Leona a scoff once you finished your visual tour of where you'd be staying for some time until you came up with a plan to get Ramshackle back.

"Your room is messy." You said, eliciting a 'tsk' from the prince as he closed his door and stood back, giving you room to overlook his room.

"I take it this is a more than adequate place for you to sleep?" He questioned.

You nodded your head. "I can just sleep on the floor—"

"You'll sleep on the bed," He sighed, walking past you. "If you're sensitive about sleeping so close to a man then put a pillow between us. I'm not moving from my own bed."

You rolled your eyes with an annoyed grumble. "I'm not trying to kick you from your bed, nor am I sensitive about sleeping next to a man!"

Leona merely rolled his eyes as he strolled up to you before placing a hand on your shoulder, and he smirked at how you flinched as he slowly stalked around you until he stood behind you. The smell of your nervousness was clear, and even if his nose didn't function. His ears definitely picked up on it, from your squeaks each time he moved or the way you shuffled around.

Although he would never say it out loud...with how pretty you were, he assumed you to be more than familiar with the touch of a man.

Clearly, though, his assumptions were incorrect.

"So nervous lioness...never thought I'd see the day." He chuckled.

"S-Shut up," You hissed in response. "Just get this over with..."

Leona's brow rose. "I'm not into taking advantage of women. If you're not comfortable with me touching you then tell me." When you looked over your shoulder, his breath hitched at the sight of how fast the blood rushed to his cock. The arousing sight of you looking up at him through your eyelashes, your eyes darkened ever so slightly from growing lust. It was driving him insane.

"I need verbal responses," Leona's snapped you from your thoughts. "Can I touch you? I won't go any farther than that." He said, his hand still planted firmly on your shoulder to accentuate his point that he wouldn't make any sudden movements unless you said so.

You nodded your head. "S-Sure..."

At your consent, he was meticulous about where he touched.

First, he started with your arms, rubbing his hands up and down as he silently committed the feeling to memory. Smooth, almost...doughy in a way. And some parts of your skin were freckled as well. 'Cute.' He thought before he moved over to touch your backside. He ignored the whisper in his head that told him to teasingly slip a finger underneath a sleeve or perhaps underneath your skirt, instead, his tail flicked at the feeling of your curves.

And when he trailed his way back up to your shoulder, he poked at the back of your neck with his claw.

You squeaked at the contact. "So jumpy."

"Fuck you," He snorted in response. "Are curses all you have to say to me? If I'm observing you correctly—" You sucked in a breath when Leona's hands trailed over to your chest, touching at prodding at your mounds while he steadily got closer and closer to you until he was pressed up against your backside and...you felt his hard-on against your ass.

A shaky sigh left your lips. "So soft..." He whispered in your ear. "Bet they're even softer without these clothes."

"Stop being crude." You panted out.

The prince smirked. "Did you know us beastmans have enhanced senses?" He asked, changing the subject as he licked up the shell of your ear, tearing a shakey moan from you as you started to unconsciously buck up against the prince's hard-on, causing him to groan at the contact but nonetheless continue speaking and feeling you up. "I can smell your arousal, how needy you are for me despite trying to hide it."

"T-That's not—Ahh..."

Now this was something he would love to hear every single day.

Those breathless shy moans of yours, coupled with the sight of you unconsciously bucking into his hard-on and making it near irresistible to ask you if the two of you could go farther than this. If you'd allow him to taste you next, finger your cute pussy, or perhaps fuck you. But...he wasn't about to let you slip through his fingers just because he couldn't control his urges.

"L-Leona...fuck—"

"What is it?" He purred against your ear. "Want me to touch you somewhere else...?"

You sucked your bottom lip in, your panties were absolutely soaked as you continued to squirm against Leona's hold. Your control was slipping fast, you didn't know how long you'd be able to hold on before you'd say something you knew you would regret later on! And there were too many times when you wanted to ask him to stop, slow down, and let you catch your breath, anything! But...as Leona's hands began to untuck your shirt from your skirt and slide his hands up and underneath, the tickle from his claws dragged slowly upward toward your breasts making you buckle and flinch.

You broke.

Hard.

"P-Please..." You didn't know what you were begging for exactly but, the small word made the lion beastman's ears perk all the same before he snickered.

"A simple please doesn't get a prince to do what you want, be more specific."

"Y-You fucker—" You inhaled sharply when Leona gently pinched your nipples, silencing you effectively as a smirk crept onto his handsome features.

"What was that?" He asked.

You took another breath in and exhaled out shakily before you gulped. "D-Down there...please."

"What? Your pussy? Is it aching for my touch?" He asked with a devilish smirk as you nodded your head, even going so far as to try and press your ass into his crotch further. Cruelly, however, Leona forcefully stopped you with a quick yet light swat against the side of your thigh. "Then ask me like you're begging a royal. Do it or you'll have to settle. C'mon...you can do it."

You looked at the beastman over your shoulder once more, your eyes clouded over with lust whilst your lips were shiny and wet from you constantly licking your lips. "...P-Prince Leona," You started. "C-Can you touch me...there my pussy..."

Leona nearly grinned ear-to-ear from his victory before he sighed. "I would but—" Your eyes widened in confusion immediately when Leona slipped his hands from me, your form shaking as if you were left suddenly in the cold as the lion beastman walked to the other side of his room to grab his bag. "—I have class, Ruggie will chew my ear off if I miss this class for the fifth time this month."

You swore that you saw red at that moment. "Y-You fucker...y-you did that on purpose!" You screamed.

"What? To ask you to ask me something nicely?"

"You—"

"Calm down," He clicked his tongue. "You live with me now, remember? I'll touch your needy cunt when I get back." He said, flicking you in the forehead before he turned to walk out the door, leaving you to stand there in both shock and frustration.

You really needed to find a way to get Ramshackle back.

Fast.

[604to647]

Dance for Me

8.4K / Detective Tim Rockford x fem!reader

Summary: You and your friends go to a strip club for a fun girls’ night where, unbeknownst to you, Detective Rockford is undercover.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please).  Strip club, pole dancing as fitness, soft but also slightly possessive!Tim, slightly possessive!Reader, established relationship, nicknames as usual (Shutterbug, baby, gorgeous), private room shenanigans (Fingering. It's fingering).

A/N: Written for @yopossum’s mootboardsandminifics celebration!  Congrats again on your milestone and thank you for the gorgeous moodboard!  As well, credit must be paid to @inept-the-magnificent for putting Undercover!Tim in our collective minds with this pic – for our story, let’s imagine he looks exactly like this, except he wears his leather jacket over his usual white dress shirt, unbuttoned very low to reveal his black knit undershirt (Halp 🫠🫠).  As always with our The Rockford Portfolio couple, the story can be read alone, but this instalment has a few nods to other stories from the collection (nothing important!); it's also a little longer than usual and has a silly police case subplot - I hope you all still enjoy!

And yes, for those who have read Strawberry Shortcake, this is indeed the same The Midnight Palace 🤭 (you don’t have to read it, it’s just a fun little Easter egg).

Dividers by @saradika-graphics / Series Masterlist

Tim opens the door to your apartment to the welcomed smell of something savoury and aromatic simmering on the stove.

“I’m home, Shutterbug,” he calls as he toes off his shoes.

“Perfect timing, Detective!  I’m just plating dinner – how was your day?” he hears you busy in the kitchen.

“Not too bad, baby.  Dinner smells gr-” Tim’s voice cuts off when he drops his keys in the key bowl on the foyer table but doesn’t hear the familiar clinking of his keys with yours; he looks down to see the reason: a flyer that’s been thrown into the bowl on top of your keys. 

The Midnight Palace.  What would you be doing with a flyer for a local strip club?  For this particular strip club?

He’s still turning it over and looking at the images of silhouetted body parts bathed in neon pink lighting as he hangs his suit jacket on the back of his dining room chair, sitting just as you come out with two steaming plates of food.

Setting down his dinner, you lean over to plant a sweet, welcome home kiss to Tim’s lips, letting him know with your tender, but lingering brushes against his irresistible pout that you’ve missed him all day.

“Thank you, Shutterbug, dinner looks amazing.”  You beam at Tim’s compliment as you sit.

“How come you have a flyer for The Midnight Palace?” he holds up the flyer he found.

You giggle, “Oh! Do you remember when Mimi had her bachelorette party at that pole dancing class?”

Did he remember? Yeah.  Tim remembers that you came home and sat him on the edge of the bed so you could show him the off-pole moves you had learned in class.  He remembers the way you had arched your chest forward while perched on the chair you placed in front of him and extended your limbs seductively while slowly opening your legs - only to snap them shut at the last second and swivel away from Tim’s lustful gaze, but not before he spied the darkening spot on the front of your panties.  Tim remembers how his eyes nearly fell out of their sockets following the hypnotic sway of your hips as you moved to straddled the chair with your back to him so that you could strip down to your lingerie while throwing him the occasional smirk over your shoulder.  He also remembers how he had taken you on all fours right there on the floor after you teasingly crawled towards him with your tits falling out of your bra and your juicy ass pointed up in the air, wiggling for his attention.

“I remember,” he grins through a mouth full of vegetables.

“Well, Meems has been attending the class semi-regularly ever since – she really likes the workout, says its good for the core,” you gesture cheekily to your own stomach that’s currently rumbling with hunger, “and her instructor works at The Midnight Palace.  Anyways, once a month they have an Amateur Night and the owner lets Sasha invite her students as a way to give them some fun practice in a different setting and to help them build up their confidence.”

Tim nods slower, still chewing as you carry on, “Anyways, Meems is going to do Amateur Night this Saturday and she needs a hype squad, so a bunch of us are going to make a girls night out of it.”

“That sounds nice,” Tim says carefully, he can tell you’re not done and he’s still listening, but the detective part of his brain that never really shuts off is starting to boot up from sleep mode.

“�� and she also asked if those of us who were at her bachelorette party might also want to dance… for moral support,” you chew your lower lip, eyeing Tim’s reaction.

“Is that something you want to do, Shutterbug?”

“I don’t know?  It might be fun cause we’re all such good friends and I remember the class being really cool.  And there’s no obligation to strip or anything; Mimi says she’s just going to wear like a bra and some exercise shorts – it’s really about the pole dancing.  I thought I might go to a class or two with her this week to see if I recall any of the moves,” you hesitate, “Would you be okay with that?”

You don’t know what you really mean by asking Tim this question.  First of all, you aren’t asking for his permission and you know Tim would never presume so, likely he would probably be confused (and possibly even upset on your behalf) if you were.  Second, you know for a fact that Tim is the last person to be judgemental about any kind of sex work – you’ve seen firsthand how respectful and protective he is over some of his female informants.  You suppose you just don’t want to make him uncomfortable, even if you can’t articulate why he might feel that way – some type of possessiveness, maybe.

Tim tries to give you a comforting smile; as much as he loves to claim ownership over you when the two of you are in bed, he doesn’t have any desire to exert actual control over you or what you do.  He finds any poor excuse of a man who mistakenly thinks he’s entitled to a say over what women do with their time and bodies to be pathetic as fuck - he’s run into guys like that throughout his entire career and thrown more than his fair share behind bars.  You’re your own woman, one who Tim admires exceedingly, and the last thing he would ever want is for you to hold yourself back on his account, “Baby, you don’t need to worry about me.  If you want to get up on that stage and dance, I’m sure you’ll blow them all away.  And I know you always save the good stuff for me, anyways.”  He winks at you.

You giggle and lean over the table to kiss Tim’s cheek; he’s always so supportive - how did you get so lucky?

“But,” and Tim looks serious, “can I tell you something in confidence, Shutterbug?”

You nod.

“The Midnight Palace has a clean reputation, but… the club showed up in Mr. Pie’s accounting books and we don’t know why or what the connection is.  There could be something fishy going on there.”

Tim reaches into his jacket inside pocket and pulls out his detective’s notebook, flipping through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for and turns the notebook towards you, pointing at something on the open page, “The club name has been entered into the Pie ledgers a handful of times over the last year, always at irregular intervals.  There’s no notation in the books other than this symbol written next to it.”

You look at it: it’s a simple line drawing of a tube with some short diagonal lines drawn across the column.

“We don’t know what it means, but this symbol looks like a joint and it might denote some type of drug activity.  It could be a pick up, a drop off, a contact, a payoff location, a stash house, or who know what else.  Promise me you and your friends will be extra careful, okay?”

You melt at the look of worry on Tim’s face and nod, so touched by his concern, “I’ll be careful, baby.” When his hard lined face softens a little, you cup Tim’s face in your hands, softly scratching his facial scruff so he knows you appreciate how he’s always looking out for you; he leans into your touch, closing his eyes at this affectionate gesture.

“But, can I say something?”

Tim opens his eyes to let you know he’s listening.

“That doesn’t look like a joint.  It looks like a spring roll.”

Tim laughs, “Why would it be a spring roll?”

“I dunno?  Pie?  Spring roll?  Maybe it’s just a food thing,” you giggle.

“Alright, alright.  I’ll look into it,” Tim teases, “A lot of money in spring rolls, I hear.” 

“Woooooooooooo!!!!”

“Look at you, sexy lady!!!”

“Shake what your mama gave you!!!”

You grin to yourself when you hear your friends’ loud cheers, wolf whistles and hype-up cat calls as you get into position on stage, waiting for your music (“Dance Tonight” by Lucy Pearl) to start.  This past week you had attended Sasha’s pole dancing fitness class on your lunch breaks with Mimi and a few of your other girlfriends and not only found it to be the workout that Mimi claimed, but also just so, so much fun.

The positive, supportive female energy in the class had been uplifting and terribly contagious; by the end of the week, you found yourself not only excited to cheer on your friends and the rest of Sasha’s class at Amateur Night, but giddy with anticipation to get on the stage yourself.  The night held the promise of rowdy, empowering, unabashed fun.

You weren’t disappointed.  Not only was your group of friends in high spirits, all vibrating with enthusiasm and elation, but you were delighted to find that same caring and inclusive female comradery being extended by the women who worked with Sasha at The Midnight Palace.  The entire class was invited to come backstage into the dancers’ area to get ready, get hyped, and get into the mindset – the room buzzed with excited, feminine chatter.  All the house dancers, happy to have a more low-key night, were so encouraging: giving tips, sharing their body glitter and just being overall supportive and kind.  You were sitting in front of Sasha’s dressing table mirror, letting her apply some strawberry scented glitter gel to your cleavage (“It’s a crowd favourite,” she insisted, “trust me.”) when something sitting outside the door of the owner’s office catches your eye.

“What’s that?” you point to the arrangement of three white drawstring sacks, each the size of a garbage bag and looking so full that the contents would be threatening to burst out if not for the tops being drawn taut and tied into double knotted bows. 

“Oh!” Sasha looks over, “Shoot - they’re still there.  I was hoping that creep had come and gone already.”

Creep?  You look at her worried; Sasha catches your expression and smiles reassuringly, “Oh, don’t worry, hunny!  Chet isn’t a patron – you won’t see him out there when you’re on stage.  He’s just some loser that works for a guy that the owner’s brother got in some hot water with, so every so often the owner gets these bags ready and then Chet comes and picks them up.  I wish they would find somewhere else to do the pick up instead of our changing area though, cause that Chet is SUCH a creep.  Always leering at us and saying gross stuff; like, this guy does not understand boundaries AT ALL.  Poor Tiffany.  Her vanity is the closest to the office so he tries to chat her up the most.  Hangs around while she’s trying to get ready and asks her all kinds of inappropriate questions.”

Sasha makes a face and then looks sympathetically at her fellow dancer who does seem to be giving the offending bags a look of disgust. 

“What’s in the bags?” you ask.

“Oh, it’s all our tips!  Like the actual bills that patrons give us.  It’s not a regular thing, but we always know there’s going to be a pick-up in about a week when the owner asks us to start saving our tips.  We give her all the small bills for that week and then after Chet comes, she reimburses us in Benjamins.”  Sasha makes a silly “make it rain” motion with her hands and you laugh along with her.

“That’s a lot of small bills,” you marvel.

“Oh yeah!  Well, all the girls do it, even the cocktail waitresses – and it’s our tips for a whole week so it adds up to be a lot.  Our patrons here are VERY generous – you’ll see, babe!”

You smile gratefully at Sasha and confess that you hope you can do her and the class proud; like a clucking mother hen, she sweetly tells you she has complete confidence in you.  When she catches you looking at the bags again, she interprets your interest as unease, “Don’t worry about Chet, hun.  I didn’t mean to make you anxious – if he hasn’t come by now, he won’t until after midnight.  He avoids the crowds.”

You nod and try to give her a look that expresses relief, but internally, your heart is beating wildly.  In general, you don’t consider yourself to be a very nosey person, but you truly could not help yourself from inquiring when you saw the bags because each of the thick canvas sacks has a simple blackline drawing of a spring roll printed on the outside.  It looks exactly like the picture Tim had shown you from his notebook earlier in the week - this must be the club connection to Mr. Pie that Tim and his fellow detectives were looking for.

Even as you and your friends finish getting ready and go out to your reserved table to down some liquid courage, your mind keeps returning to Tim.  Should you call him?  Should you tell him what you learned?  Sasha said that Chet would be coming after midnight and by both her and Tim’s accounts, the pickups didn’t seem to follow any regular schedule - who knows when the next iteration would be?  You think you should call Tim – this could be important to the case and you can’t let your detective miss his chance for a solve.  You’ll call him right after your dance, you decide with some satisfaction.  Your distracted thoughts of Tim and his case keep your nerves at bay right up to when it’s your turn on stage; not for the first time, you’re grateful for the calming presence of your boyfriend even when he’s not with you.

🎶I wanna dance tonight, I wanna toast tonight, I'll spend my money tonight, I wanna get freaky tonight🎶

You’re still thinking of him when the opening notes of your song ring out and you start to swivel your body seductively to the beat.  Moving with a dancer-like grace towards the pole, you reach out to grab it suggestively the way Sasha taught you before taking off for your first, simple twirl around.  The loud cheers of your friends, the rest of Sasha’s class and the house dancers echo throughout the room and you beam, invigorated.  Hitting each low base beat with your hips, you run your hands up to your hair, mussing it playfully as you walk backwards towards the pole.  When your back hits the cool metal, you trail your hands slowly down your face, neck, then teasingly over your breasts until they get to the sash of your dress – all to the hoots and hollers of the crowd.

🎶Ask if she wants to go, Tonight's gonna be hot for sure, Be dancin' on the floor, Folks trippin' I don't know🎶

Rather than wear a skimpy outfit, you had opted for a simple wrap dress that accentuates your curves – the plan was to undo the front of the dress and let it fall apart to reveal your lingerie, then continue your dance with the dress open.  That didn’t feel too revealing or scandalous, and visually, you thought it would look nice with the fabric of the dress flowing behind you as you swung around the pole.  Sascha had emphasized in class that a lot of pole dancing was about performance. 

As the knot holding your dress together unfurls and your dress starts to fall away from your body, you stalk towards the front of the stage with a bounce in your step timed to the music so that the slinky garment unravels the rest of the way on its own to reveal your matching bright pink lace lingerie underneath.  The screams from the women in the crowd practically shake the walls:

“So fucking hot!!!”

“OOOOOhhhhh baby!!!”

“Show us that assssssssss, yasssssssssss!!!”

God, you love women.  The front portion of the room tonight is nearly all women, full of amateurs like those from Sasha’s class and their cheering friends – every single female voice is in hype mode, loud and proud: cheering on each woman who takes the stage for celebrating her own special brand of femininity, rooting for her to embrace the physicality and power of her body and sexuality, no matter her shape, size, age.  Even you’re surprised by just how comfortable and confident you feel on stage, not at all exposed or vulnerable even though you’re only wearing underwear – that’s the power of women supporting women.  There are some male patrons in the club tonight, but they’re mainly in the back of the room and are wildly outnumbered; the lights shining on the stage are so bright, you can hardly make them out.

🎶Money flyin' everywhere, Champagne, we won't go there, Bottles poppin' in the air, They'll be screamin, "I don't care"🎶

And then, as if your earlier thoughts had conjured him, you see Tim while you’re on the pole doing Sasha’s signature hook spin move that took her two whole days to teach you.  You have to do a double take on your second rotation because you barely recognize him.  For one, his normally soft curls have been pushed back and styled with product you’re sure you’ve never seen on the bathroom counter; for another, the leather jacket that currently hugs his broad shoulders and hangs open on his wide frame is like unlike anything he has hanging in your shared closet.  His white dress shirt you do recognize: one of the many that he wears for work where the crisp cotton wraps tight around his thick tree trunk arms and the buttons down the front valiantly strain trying to contain his hard chest.  Only tonight, those same buttons have been given a reprieve because Tim’s left over half of them undone so that the open neckline reveals a black knit undershirt that you’re also seeing for the first time. 

He looks hot. 

Not that he doesn’t always – Tim is one of the most gorgeous men you’ve ever met, and his clean, simple, utilitarian style (plus that gun holster, sigh) has always had an almost primeval hold over you.  But something about this near opposite outfit and his combed back hair, like you’re watching a sexy Bizarro Tim manspread on the nearly too small lounge chair as he sets his dark gaze upon you, is causing your breath to quicken and your pussy to clench around nothing.

What’s he doing here?  Tim certainly didn’t tell you he was coming to The Midnight Palace tonight.  And why is he dressed like that?

You decide it’s no matter as you smirk and shimmy to the upbeat tempo of the music, shrugging your dress off your shoulders and letting it fall to the ground - leaving you on stage in just your bra and panties.  It wasn’t the original plan, but Tim showing up wasn’t in the plan either - now that he’s here, you’re going to give him something to look at.

🎶Look what the cat hauled in, Me and a couple friends, No need to settle down, My body don't know how🎶

---

“Rockford, isn’t that-”

“Close your eyes, Calloway,” growls Tim.  He knows without a doubt that the tone of his voice leaves no room for argument.  Tim realizes he hadn’t thought through this plan.

He wasn’t able to ignore the nagging voice in his head when you told him that you were going to dance at The Midnight Palace; it wasn’t that he was bothered by you going to a strip club or even that you would be dancing on the amateur stage.  If he was completely honest with himself, he did feel a tug of something akin to possessiveness at the idea of other people seeing what he considered his – but his more practical, clear-headed self didn’t have any feelings other than pride in you for having the confidence and skill to get up on that stage.  Tim already knew, intimately, that you have impressive assets, and if you wanted to show them off, he fully supported you.  No - it was the Pie case that ate at him.  That The Midnight Palace was somehow connected to Mr. Pie and Tim didn’t know how was driving him crazy; it made him nervous that you and your friends were going somewhere where some unidentified danger might be lurking.

So, he convinced his long suffering, frequent partner Detective Arnold Calloway to go undercover with him at the club tonight, with a plan to stake it out for any clues or activity that might shed some light on The Midnight Palace’s bearing on their case.

Tim got to the club after you and spends most of his time alternating between scanning the crowd, observing the dark corners of the club for suspicious activity and watching you and your friends at your table next to the stage.  He can’t help but smile when he sees how much fun you’re having – you’re throwing back drinks and throwing down bills onto the stage with aplomb; Tim can hear your bright voice cheering on all the dancers from where he sits.  The way your eyes light up and you gasp in pure delight when a dancer does an impressive pole trick is adorable; your genuine admiration for the women that surround you and the joy you derive just from being with your friends warms his heart.  Even in a strip club, his Shutterbug is so sweet.

He had completely forgotten that you were going to dance until he sees you walk onto the stage and that’s when it hits the brilliant Detective Tim Rockford for the first time that he’s about to sit in a room with his partner and a bunch of strangers, some of whom don’t have the same supportive motives as the women next to the stage, while his girlfriend pole dances in some state of undress.  He really hadn’t thought this through.

Tim glances over and once he’s ascertained that Calloway’s eyes are indeed closed, he goes back to watching you on stage - admiring the elegance with which you move your body to the music and the fluid way you maneuver around the pole.  His breath hitches when your dress falls open to reveal the sexiest lingerie set he’s ever seen – bright fuchsia lace that hugs your curves just right, lifting and accentuating all your softness while simultaneously giving him and everyone in the room hope that you might spill over and grant them all a peek of the heaven that’s underneath.

He might drool a little.

🎶Right there I see you lookin', Sure hope that you're not took and, Don't get lost in the crowd, This place is so damn wild🎶

Tim knows that you see him.  He can actually pinpoint the moment you do because the way your hips pop to the bass beat of the RnB music gets a little bouncier.  The shake of your tits in your lace bra a little jigglier.  He sees the curve of your pretty lips crook into a little smirk - you’re giving him a show. 

🎶Go ahead and floss your ice, Go ahead do what you like, I'm feelin' just as fly, Do your thing it's on tonight🎶

As you dance, alternating using the chair as a prop and doing the periodic spin around the pole, Tim feels hypnotized.  What you’re revealing isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before, nor is it particularly indecent, but something about this environment with its roars of approval and sexual innuendo, air of lust, and the eyes of others that want to see more of you – is making Tim feral.  He keeps his eyes trained on you, as if he could ever look anywhere else, as you kneel on the stage and lower yourself to the floor, crawling towards the applause and screams of your friends. 

He’s definitely drooling.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spies a group of smarmy looking guys sitting in front of him who are all tracking you with their whole bodies – pointing at you and yelling to each other about how you were “a good one.”  Their admiring and sometimes raunchy comments about you cause Tim’s nerves to stand on end; when he overhears how you're starring in their wistful fantasies he grips the armrests of his chair so hard he thinks he might rip through the faux leather.

“You think she’ll offer to do lap dances?” the double polo wearing douchebag closest to Tim yells to his equally douchey friends.

Tim is a millisecond from pushing back his chair and dragging this dumb frat boy out of the club by the scruff of his neck when Calloway, eyes still squeezed tight warns, “We’re here to do a job, Rockford.”

Tim’s nostrils flare as he breathes tightly to try and calm down, redirecting his focus to the rhythmic sway of your body on stage as you gear up to do one last spin of the pole - revolving two, three, four times, then sliding to the floor with your knees spread and back arched to point your perfect heaving breasts to the ceiling when the song ends.

🎶I wanna dance tonight, I wanna toast tonight, I'll spend my money tonight, I wanna get freaky tonight🎶

---

With giggling bashfulness, you collect the bills that were thrown onstage during your performance and exit behind the curtain, ready to rejoin your friends and thinking you’ll pretend that you haven’t seen Tim yet just to tease him a little more (though brilliant detective that he is, you’re sure he already knows that you know he’s here).  Exiting through the side door while the stage is being prepared for the next dancer, you emerge still in your underwear (for Tim’s sake, not bothering to put on your dress), when you see Tim surrounded by a gaggle of women offering up lap dances.

It probably wouldn’t have bothered you too much except you see one of the girls put her hand on Tim’s arm and give his muscles a groping feel that he doesn’t look too keen on.  When he politely shakes it off, you see another girl get right up in his face, leaning in close by putting her hands on Tim’s upper thighs.

That’s a bit bold, you think - those hands are placed a bit higher on your boyfriend’s legs than you would prefer.  Judging by the expression on Tim’s face, his preference would be if they weren't on his body at all.  Bearing no ill will or malice towards your fellow amateur dancers, you could pretend what you do next is purely altruistic, but you can’t ignore the slow stir of possessiveness you feel simmering in your stomach.  Gesturing to your friends that you’re heading over in Tim’s direction so they don’t think you got lost, you catch Mimi and your other girlfriends’ looks of amusement when they follow the line of your pointing finger and spot Tim who currently has more than a few pairs of breasts being shaken in his face.

You come up from behind Tim’s chair, purposefully ignoring the girls that are gyrating right in front of him, and place your fingertips on his broad shoulders, pressing down possessively on the supple leather.  Tim stiffens at the initial contact, but softens almost immediately as you start to trail your hands down the front of his leather jacket, recognizing your touch by the way your fingers claw over his hard chest.

As your hands travel lower, claiming ownership over Tim’s chest and the heart contained within, Tim closes his eyes and breathes in your sweet, familiar perfume when he feels your face next to his.  He expects a chaste kiss to the cheek but instead, you dip your head so your nose nudges down past his jaw, breath fanning over where his dress shirt meets his neck.  Hands climbing into the space where the shirt opens, your fingers spread over the black knit tank underneath before you pull him back flush against his chair - the unexpected movement causes Tim to exhale with an “Oomf!”  Keeping him pinned, you lower your puckered lips to the collar of Tim’s white shirt, pressing down firmly so that you leave behind a perfect bright pink lipstick imprint of your pout – marking your man as yours.

Tim doesn’t even notice when the girls that were trying to get his attention scatter, in search of other, more willing laps – never having paid them much mind in the first place; but he does smiles smugly when he sees several of the men from the group in front throwing looks of jealousy his way at the attention you’re giving him.

“Fancy seeing you here, Detective,” you coo so only he can hear, your lips ghosting over the sensitive spot behind Tim’s earlobe.

“Just a coincidence, Shutterbug.  Remember I told you that we had some concerns about this place? Calloway and I thought it was a good night for some undercover work, isn’t that right?”

“Please leave me out of this,” begs Calloway, desperately trying to avert his eyes from his partner’s girlfriend’s half naked body.

You giggle, “Hi Arnie!”  Calloway gives you a wave in response without making eye contact.

“Ok, Mr. Undercover – take me to a private room,” you lace your fingers through Tim’s and pull him up out of his chair; right before you head off with Tim in tow, you call out to Calloway, “Keep your phone handy, Arnie - Tim’s going to text you!”

Still looking anywhere but at you, Calloway looks stricken at the prospect.  Tim’s confused by your declaration as well, but is too busy grinning at the shocked expressions of your other admirers to pay it much attention – in fact, he might make it a point to give your panty-clad ass a firm palming as the two of you walk away.

Once you pull the curtains closed on the private room, you lead Tim to the velvet couches that line the back wall - climbing on top to straddle him once he’s settled.

“Okay, Detective, why are you really here?”

“I told you, baby - just routine police work.”

You grind a little over the crotch of Tim’s pants, eliciting a little groan from the back of his throat and he grips you tighter around the waist.  Stopping yourself from rolling your eyes at Tim’s answer, you put on an exaggerated look of concern, “You didn’t come because of me?  You came here to look at other half naked girls?”  Pressing your breasts together with your arms, you push them up towards Tim’s face and give him a pout.

Detective Tim Rockford is well known for his skills in the interrogation room, but he knows when he’s outmatched, “Ok, Shutterbug.  I admit it.  Just wanted to keep an eye on you – I was worried.  The Midnight Palace doesn’t have a reputation for anything seedy, but I can’t ignore that there’s a connection to Mr. Pie’s organization.  We don’t know what it is, so I can’t help but imagine the worst.”

Smiling down at your sweet detective, you kiss Tim passionately, using your tongue to soothe his worrying heart.  Tim’s rough hands run up and down your bare back and over the lace that covers the plush globes of your ass, lightly kneading and making you moan - his hands feel so good and warm, but you can’t get distracted.  Pushing yourself off from Tim’s solid frame, you beam, “Lucky for you, I do know.”

“Know what, gorgeous?” Tim is leaning forward, trying to chase your lips again, but your next words jolt him out of his lustful haze.

“I know what The Midnight Palace’s connection to Mr. Pie is.”

Tim’s eyes widen as you tell him about the money bags with the small bills, the reluctant cooperation of the club owner trying to pay her brother’s debt, and how the girls are all creeped out by Chet, the pick-up guy.

“Sounds like money laundering, but probably just like a basic first layer – the small bills probably go on to get further cleaned somewhere else,” you muse thoughtfully as you finish up.

Mouth agape and face stunned, Tim can’t quite figure out what to say to express just how impressed and utterly in love he is.  Once again, you think of his work not as something that he does in his time away from you, but as something important to him and you treat it accordingly: listening when he tells you about his cases and using your own smart mind and sharp observation skills to help him.

“You should tell Arnie!  And maybe he can get a private room with Tiffany?  Sasha says that that Chet guy bothers her the most - I bet she would be more than happy to help if it meant getting rid of him,” you point towards Tim’s pocket to indicate he should text Calloway.  Tim does just that, exactly as you had predicted he would before the two of you came into the room.  He also texts a secondary team about possibly needing to set up surveillance and a tail.

When he’s done, Tim looks up to see you standing, cute little mischievous smile lighting up your face, “So, what should we do for the remainder of our private room time, Detective?”

Tim teases you right back, “Dance for me, Shutterbug?”

Shyly, you nod and start moving your body to the beat of the music streaming in from outside the room.  You place your hands on Tim’s thighs and spread his legs wide so you can dance in closer, swiveling your hips as you lower yourself between his knees, rubbing his inner thighs suggestively.  Rising slowly, body still moving in time with the music, you run your hands over your own body – drawing Tim’s darkened eyes to everywhere your delicate fingers graze: up, up the sides of your hips, along the lace trim of your panties, in lazy circles over your soft belly, over the swell of your tits and crossing over one another to lightly push the straps of your bra off your shoulders.

All the while your smooth legs brush up against his, getting dangerously close to Tim’s growing bulge.

Right before the falling straps of your bra start to tug down the lace covering your delectable curves, you spin around abruptly and bend over, putting your luscious ass on display - shaking and bouncing it provocatively in Tim’s face.  Just a few seconds of this tantalizing view has Tim snapping and reaching out with his meaty hands to grab you by your hips, yanking you back into his lap.

You yelp and laugh, throwing your arms around Tim’s neck and tease, “Hey, Detective!”  Pointing to a sign above the curtained entrance, “No touching.”

It’s all in good fun though as you kiss him, open mouthed and eager.

Tim grins back, “Call the cops on me then, Shutterbug,” as his hands roam over every inch of your body, groping and massaging fervently, as if to defy the rule on purpose.  You moan when his lips find that sweet spot on your neck that always makes you lose your mind; Tim sucks and licks while his fingers tug down the lacy cups of your bra to find your nipples already waiting for his touch, pert and pointy.

“Never seen this lingerie before, gorgeous.  Is it new?” Tim murmurs into your neck as he expertly pinches, rolls and tugs at your peaks the way that always gets you panting; you roll your hips over nothing, seeking to sooth the ache that he’s started to build up in your core.

“Mmmmmhmmm - wanted to surprise you when I got home later,” you breathe, eyes closed, your hands messing up Tim’s styled hair - tugging at his curls whenever his efforts cause an electric jolt of pleasure to run through your body.

“Looks good, baby.  And you looked really good on-stage tonight, Shutterbug.”

You tilt Tim’s face to yours with a little pull on his locks and gently press your lips to his, “Thank you, Tim.”  Your eyes are soft and grateful.

The two of you look longingly at one another as Tim’s hands drop to your waist, hands so big that his fingers reach around to your back where he rubs tormenting circles into your skin.

“You look good too, Detective.  I like this look on you,” you coo.

Tim blushes, “Thanks, baby.  It’s just some undercover stuff I’ve had forever.  Not even sure it fits right anymore.”

Not letting Tim get away with this self-effacing comment, you run your hands in an admiring manner over the soft leather of his jacket before raking your hands down his chest; fingers catching on the open V of his dress shirt before sliding under to caress the soft knit of his undershirt, “Fits pretty good from where I am, Detective.”

You kiss down Tim’s neck, past his collar bones and swipe your tongue along the neckline of the black wife beater, mouthing over the material and giving it a little nip with your teeth in between your words:

“Took my breath away when I saw you sitting in the club, baby.”

“Look so fucking hot and like such a bad boy.”

“Thought I was going to soak through my panties on stage and that everyone was going to see how wet I was for you.”

Tim groans at your dirty praise and slips a hand down the front of your lace panties, growling low, “How wet, gorgeous?”

There’s no need to answer - Tim starts to swipe through your folds with his thick fingers and finds you sopping wet and desperate.  He teases you mercilessly – dragging his fingers up and down your seam, paying little to no attention to your throbbing clit; occasionally brushing it only lightly before cruelly ignoring it in favour of dipping his fingers back down to your entrance, every so often even venturing to spread your ample slick down to your other hole.

“Please, Tim,” you whine against his lips.  You feel him grin.

You would say he takes mercy on you, but it hardly feels like mercy when Tim lowers his head to take your breast in his hot mouth just as he plunges two of his fingers deep into your cunt.  The sudden double sensation has you crying out and seeing stars – you chant your detective’s name softly and moan how good he makes you feel while Tim sucks and nibbles on your nipple and continues to saw in and out of your tight hole.  He reaches parts of you so deep and unexplored, even by you, eager to mark and lay claim to a land that will only ever be his.  Fuck, you love him.

Singing it so he knows, your melodic voice drips with lust and devotion.  Tim hums appreciatively against your chest; his response is to switch his worshipping mouth to the other side of your chest and push a third finger into your needy cunt.

The stretch is sharp and delicious - any sting of pain morphs quickly into pleasure; charmed by the way Tim curves his fingers against your tight walls, your pussy leaks shamelessly with fresh of arousal.  You buck a little in his hand, trying to chase the heel of his palm in order to give your poor aching clit some relief.

“Use me, baby – yeah, make yourself come on my fingers,” commands Tim, mouth still full of your soft, perky tits.

Bracing your hands on Tim’s broad shoulders for stability, you grind down, meeting each thrust of Tim’s hand so that his open palm spanks your pussy with a loud, wet slap every time.  The sound is debauched, pornographic, and it makes you gush even more.  When Tim angles his thumb to draw devastating circles on your clit, you nearly sob from near overstimulation, “I’m so close, baby, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come…”

Tim continues the looping of his rough thumb over your slippery nub while dragging his face away from your chest so he can lick up your neck, back to the sweet spot that started it all.  He bites down with a little smirk and grits out with your delicate skin still between his teeth, “Come.”

You let go and fall with a soundless scream, toppling over the edge of ecstasy, but, as always, with a warmth that blossoms in your chest in the knowledge that Tim is there to catch you.  Always right there to coax you through your high with his touch, his words, his love.

After you’ve caught your breath, Tim helps you right the lingerie that he helped christen and put on your dress.  As he’s retying the front sash for you, brows furrowed in concentration (he’s so much more used to undoing the knot), you ask, grin still spacey but eyes a little worried, “Did I do okay, Detective?”

“What do you mean?” Tim looks up to the sound of the trepidation lacing your voice.

“It’s okay that I asked about the bags I saw?  I don’t want to overstep when it comes to your investigation,” you’re chewing your lip adorably and Tim just wants to kiss away every little concern lining your pretty face.  Instead, he finishes adjusting your clothes, then slips his big hands under your dress to pull you close by the back of your thighs.

Tim presses his chin into your soft body and looks up at you adoringly as you card your fingers through his hair, “It’s more than okay, Shutterbug.  You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t take the opportunity to help when you see it.  I’m so lucky to have you help me, baby.”

Taking Tim’s face into your hands and running your thumbs through his facial scruff the way he likes, you lay the deepest, tenderest kiss on his lips – letting Tim lick in slow and sensually into your mouth, claiming your every breath as his own.  Pulling apart only when the little melodic bell that indicates private room times are up starts to chime, Tim gives you more than the necessary bills for the private time as you walk out.  When you tell him it’s too much, he closes your fingers over the cash with his hand, “You earned it, baby.”  You were going to give it all to the house dancers anyways, so you accept without any further fuss.

Before letting you go, Tim glances quickly at his phone while still squeezing your waist, “Calloway’s got Tiffany in a private room now.  I’m going to go join them… hopefully get some more info so we ID this Chet guy.  Will you be okay getting home, Shutterbug?”

You nod and the two of you mouth I love yous, before going your separate ways.  After rejoining your friends, you try not to let your mind wander to what Tim is doing too much as you cheer on the remaining dancers from Sasha’s class and flit the night away with your friends. 

Although you don’t see Tim again for the remainder of your time at The Midnight Palace, you spot his Crown Vic still parked in the lot when you and your friends leave the club.  It rained while you were inside and it must have been a warm summer storm because in the chillier night air, the cars in the lot all have a thick layer of condensation on their windows.  Doing your best to sidestep the fresh rain puddles that glow pink from their reflection of the club’s neon signs – you make it to Tim’s car and write “I love you” across his windshield with your finger, hoping it’ll still be there when he finally gets to leave.

You hardly see Tim for the next few days, which is unusual even for him.  In the wee hours of the morning following your night at The Midnight Palace, you received a picture of Tim’s windshield, your faded finger art still visible with a new word more recently added beneath to now read, I love you more.   

Going to pull an all-nighter, Shutterbug. 

Will try to get some shut eye on the couch in my office. 

Come back to me safe, Detective Rockford.

Nothing could keep me from you, baby.  Love you.

You’re busy the following day and don’t get a chance to visit Tim at the precinct or message him much, never mind badger him about making sure to eat or getting enough rest.

You suspect that he doesn’t do much of either, because you return home around dinner time to find takeout containers left for you on the kitchen counter and a loudly snoring Tim passed out in bed.  He barely stirs when you kiss his temple and wish him sweet dreams.

He’s gone again when you wake up, leaving you a good morning note to let you know that he misses and loves you as much as you do him. 

A busy work day for both of you has you once again missing the other’s calls and relegated to a few text messages here and there.  You’re really starting to miss him.

Finally, fate deigns to realign your and Tim’s schedules after two full days apart; you happily scramble to sit up in your nighttime bath when you hear a soft knock on the bathroom door.

“Hey Shutterbug,” Tim’s smile is soft, his eyes relieved, his entire stance exhausted.

“Hey yourself, Detective.  Long time no see,” you coo, resting your arms and chin on the side of the bathtub and gazing up at your handsome boyfriend, “Come in the water, baby.”

Tim undresses swiftly and slides into the warm water, fragrant and bright pink from the bath bomb you dropped in earlier.  It smells like jasmine and lemongrass, your shampoo and a fourth scent that Tim can never place but just always associates with you.  You sit behind Tim, legs bracketing his hips as you wash his hair and scrub down his body with a pouf.  Wherever it's needed, you try to apply some groan inducing pressure to Tim’s back with your slippery hands in order to work out some of the more stubborn knots - the office couch has not been kind to Detective Rockford’s back.

Despite the lack of sleep, the ache in his muscles, and missing you, Tim can’t help but grin widely – it’s been a hell of a last 48 hours in the Pie Case. 

“You were right, Shutterbug.”

“Hmmmm?” you’ve got your chin hooked over Tim’s shoulders, soaping up his beefy arms and thick chest.

“They were spring rolls.”

Thoroughly amused, you laugh a light musical laugh that sends Tim’s heart soaring, “That little emblem on the bags wasn’t a joint, it was a spring roll?”

Tim nods and then he tells you what he’s been doing for the last two days. 

After revealing their identities to Tiffany in the security of the private room at The Midnight Palace, she had been more than happy to help them take down Chet as you had correctly surmised.

The police easily set up surveillance and a tail that picked up Chet after he came by to grab the spring roll marked bags, which now contained stacks of marked bills that Tiffany helped sneak in.  The surveillance and the marked bills helped the police trace an intricate network of money laundering schemes over the past two days, of which, as you had also theorized, The Midnight Palace, was just an insignificant player.  But being able to pick up the money trail at such an early point of the overall scheme allowed the police to map out and uncover much more intricate and convoluted parts of the laundering network: bank accounts had been tagged and flagged, other local businesses implicated, international banks subpoenaed.  Chet himself had been picked up late this afternoon and sang like a bird.

The work was far from over, but a hell of a lot of progress had been made in the last two days – the whole precinct was riding on a high.  And Tim can’t help but swell with pride that they owed much of it to your keen eye.

You feel your face flush at Tim’s praise.  You don’t know what to say – it seems only natural for something that’s so important to the man you love to be on the forefront of your mind at all times; so instead, you ask a question to which you truly wish to know the answer, “Why a spring roll?”

“Ah ha!” Tim smiles, this was, he had to admit, rather clever, “The smaller bills collected in the Spring Roll bags were earmarked to be deposited at the bank under an account for a fake food court business selling Chinese food.  The bank never questioned it – large volume deposits of small bills for a food court stall seemed perfectly appropriate.”

“That is clever!” you muse, “But not clever enough.”  When Tim tilts his head back you kiss him with affection, proud of your brilliant detective’s mind.

Once satisfied with the state of Tim’s cleanliness, you wrap your arms around Tim’s neck and cheekily nip at his earlobe, “So… for my help, do I get paid in spring rolls?”

Tim hums, his hands finding the dip of your hips under the water, massaging them appreciatively, “We could do that, or you can redeem another prize from the Detectives’ Rewards Incentive Program.”

“Oh really?” you giggle at the inside joke from that first unforgettable night Tim took you to bed and grin into his wet hair - your pussy already throbbing with want.  You press your tits into Tim’s back, “What do I qualify for, Detective?”

“Let me show you,” Tim smirks.  Then before you can register what’s happening, Tim rolls over in the bath, sending bright pink water sloshing over the side of the tub as his hands find and latch onto those soft curves that he’s been dreaming of for the past two nights.  You yelp, squeal, then moan - putty in Detective Rockford’s capable hands as he shows you just how much you’ve been missed.

Audio and visual aids for this fic:

[songsofadelaide]

The Intimacy Of

cw: Umemiya Hajime x (f) reader, meet cute/meet ugly, established (secret) relationship, fluff and slice of life.

wc: 2k

To trust— and be trusted back. To know that no matter what happens, someone on the wing will always be ready to catch you. The feel of a friend's strong hand on your shoulder. The sound of their encouraging voice— their words unbidden yet truthful. Yes, it's always the spontaneous thoughts that hold the most weight, after all… Their presence, even in silence, always spoke volumes, even more than their most truthful thoughts given voice...

Umemiya has long been familiar with the intimacy of comradeship— and while many of his friends didn't believe they were close enough or even entitled to his gesture of good faith, he believed they were thick as thieves. Each and every one of them.

He didn't make it on his own there to the very precipice. He was put there— carried on the back of everyone who believed in his ideals, and he, in turn, carried their faith in him on his own shoulders.

What he knew about love he knew from having friends— from his friends and their affection for him, and his own great love for them.

Umemiya wasn't that familiar with the intimacy between lovers. He never found himself wanting a relationship. He was too busy for that kind of commitment— that is until he met you.

Your meeting itself was nothing special. He just happened to be patrolling the market street when he found a lone girl defending the local flower shop from what looked like an attempted break-in. The elderly owners shivered in fear as you shielded them from the verbal assault launched by the no-good-doers— more delinquents stirring up trouble from under Bofurin's nose.

You donned the familiar Seikai Girls Academy uniform underneath the canvas working apron with the flower shop's logo embroidered on the chest area.

But there really must be something in Makochi's water that makes some girls braver than usual... Because he didn't just see you shout back a string of profanities while brandishing a crowbar at the men now… Did he?

The delinquents looked just about to retaliate when they flinched altogether at the sight of both Umemiya and Hiragi stepping in to mediate the tense standoff.

"I suggest you take a step back from the shop, gents," the silver-haired young man stated with a disarming smile directed towards the group of men with clenched fists. "And I suggest you put that down before you hurt yourself, miss…"

He held the other end of the crowbar and gently wrenched it out of your smaller hands, his eyes slightly widening in confusion at the amount of resistance he met when you didn't let go initially.

"Watch out!" You shrieked as you swung wide, the crowbar hitting the head of the ringleader with a resounding clang after he attempted to take a cheap shot at Umemiya, who managed to duck at your command.

You could have sworn you saw a twinkle of amazement and amusement in the blue eyes of the silver-haired young man after he realised what just happened. You just protected him from a coward punch, after all.

"Tch. We're entering the fray, Umemiya! I'll call for Kaji and the rest to come!" Said the bleach-blonde young man this time, an irate expression on his already scary face as he turned to you before meeting the incoming swings of the fallen ringleader's goons. "Take your grandparents in and close up shop now!"

"Y—" You tried to protest, only to be met by Umemiya's gentle hand on your shoulder.

"We're not asking, sweetheart. Whatever it is you told these guys, they aren't taking it nicely. So how's about you shack up with your grandparents for a bit while we mop this place up?" He said with a reassuring smile this time. "And hold your breath because I actually want something in return for this."

You were puzzled by this comment because you knew that members of Bofurin rarely asked for any compensation for their actions. The rewards they usually received from the townsfolk always came from the goodwill and gratitude in their hearts. "If it's money you want—"

"Oh, not that. We don't need money," he said with a low laugh that made a slow rush of embarrassment bubble in your stomach. "How about your contact number? Once we're done here, of course." 

???

"She'll gladly give it to you! Come visit our shop again, dear!" Said Mame-chan, the elderly woman who managed a smile despite the perilous situation she and her husband were in. You threw her a confused look as you shepherded her and her husband back into their shop.

"Mame-chan, what are you—?!"

A furrowed brow further wrinkled her forehead before she gently smacked your butt. "Oh, come on, now! There are worse things than dating a boy from Furin High! Besides, wasn't he a looker?!"

"Wait, what?!"

That was nearly half a year ago. And for all of his supposed busyness, Umemiya was a surprisingly attentive boyfriend. He was incredibly affectionate, too— a fact you were still adjusting to whenever he came to visit your home, which happened to be the second floor of Flower Shop Lilico, your place of employment. 

Soon enough, your window sill became lined with several fragrant and healthy-looking herb seedlings, all cultivated by the hand of your boyfriend, who happened to be a gardener in his own right. You could watch him tend to the baby plants for hours, your head in your hand as you listened to the little anecdotes he shared about himself and his friends, including all the fights and rumbles they get into, all for the sake of keeping the town safe. 

"I'm sorry. I must be boring you with all this talk of fights," he remarked with a small smile as he gently snipped an overgrown branch of mint with your gardening shears. 

"No, not at all!" You replied to him as you shook your head. "I was just thinking how… happy I am that you get to rest here w-with me a-and all… since you're always so busy! You're always free to come and see me whenever you want, Hajime."

His blue eyes widened in surprise at your rather tender invitation, even more so by how sweet his given name sounded on your lips. "Whenever I want?"

"Whenever you want, sweetheart," you nodded at him and smiled to yourself as he embraced you, his weight resting on you as he happily burrowed his head in the crook of your neck, silver hair falling over your shoulder. You returned his gesture as best you could, though your hands could barely meet from the broadness of his shoulders. 

There was something about the way he had a place to run and hide and rest that thrilled him yet also shook him to the very core. You were his most well-kept secret. The kind he couldn't risk running his mouth on at the thought of you ever being used against him. 

To the rest of Bofurin, you were an untold allegory, an unknown location, a nameless bloom so carefully planted in the corner of the thriving garden of their leader's mind— a secret lover— and they would all get so embarrassed at the very thought of Umemiya letting his guard down to just this one person.

You were a warm star on his palm, perhaps not so much of a beacon, but a lantern close by as he walked in the dimness of dusk. 

When Umemiya first spoke to Mame-chan after being invited over for tea, she told him that that girl always had trouble accepting help from other people and always did her best to run their shop independently. 

"She's not our granddaughter, but she may as well be," the elderly woman said from across their living room table. "All you need to know is that she is a good girl who will open her heart to you once she's ready."

But it didn't seem like you had a difficult time accepting him when you moved in for a kiss the third time he was at your place. He remembered tending to those baby plants, then the crack in your voice and the sound of your nervous laughter as you took a step back from him. 

"Oh, was I too fast? We ca—" 

He dropped your shears and took your hand in his, drawing you back even closer to him this time. "Don't stop now. Not when you've confirmed that you like me just as much."

Umemiya remembered the soothing sound of your heartbeat as you held him close to you that night— his cheek warm against your chest as you two spoke of the deepest and innermost of your thoughts, the fractions of your lives you didn't really want to look back on… and how it was somewhat liberating. 

Did intimacy mean vulnerability, too? Or was vulnerability the cost of such closeness? After all, this was the most intimate you had ever been with someone. Intimacy was a matter of trust, perhaps even before it was a matter of love…

And you trusted him with your life now. 

It didn't matter to you anymore if you were just another person he wanted to protect. You'd take that any day rather than being strangers again. 

"I love you," he murmured, his sleepy voice reverberating in your chest. "Or am I too fast?"

You were all the warmth and light he could ever hope to hold in his hands, like the sunlight he basked in every morning on the roof at school. Daylight, twilight, a pervading twinkling in the corner of his mind he wanted to keep in his pockets, on his green sleeves, next to his heart— 

"Did I wake you? Sorry, Hajime…"

Umemiya was gently awoken by your slow yet steady movement after having fallen asleep on your couch without a second thought. His larger hand was in yours as you sat on your carpeted floor, and hooked to your fingers was a neon-coloured nail-cleaning brush.

"I was just, um…"

You were brushing away the dirt underneath his fingernails. 

Umemiya wasn't that at all familiar with the intimacy between lovers… But he didn't budge even as you shyly fumbled and tried to hide your grooming articles behind you. 

"Sorry, sweetheart… I'm lousy at keeping myself together," he chuckled as he gently pulled your hand to his face and pressed a soft kiss on your warm knuckles. "But don't stop on my account. I don't mind if you want to pick my ears, too."

"Oh, really? Because I will do it if you aren't joking."

This must be it, right? The intimacy of lovers, he mused to himself. And the fact that he'd let you pick him apart and pry him open to brush away the dirt that settled underneath… 

He watched as you carried on with your work, his silver hair over his blue eyes as he broke the comfortable silence with a question you hadn't heard before. 

"Do you want to meet my friends?"

"Are you sure? I think I'll miss all your stories about them trying to figure out the identity of your 'mysterious' girlfriend," you said with a laugh as you brushed the corners of his nails. "I'm surprised Hiragi-san hasn't spilled your secret yet." 

"You know what a worrywart he is. He says the less people know about you the less danger you're in." 

"Oh, like you guys didn't see my way with a crowbar?" You said with a toothy grin. "You know that when push comes to shove, I'll protect this town. I'll protect you, too, Hajime. You guys have your fists and I… have my crowbar, so don't worry about me too much." 

"I'll make this place so much safer that you and I can walk the streets hand in hand without having to look over our shoulders all the time," Umemiya replied with a low hum as he slowly drifted away to sleep once more, lulled by the tender way you ran your fingers through his hair. 

"I don't mind being a secret for a little longer," you said as you pressed a kiss on his forehead. "Sweet dreams, my Hajime. You'll be safe here."