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enigma-im · 4 years ago

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Third Day of Christmas...

Trope: Enemies to Lovers (NSFW) Relationship: Minotaur x Human Word Count: 4,025

It all started with a note on the door.

Imani didn't expect to find a letter taped to her door that morning, or any morning for that matter. For a good couple of seconds she feared it was from her landlord, an eviction notice of some kind. That went right out the window as she read the chicken scratched handwriting.

Dear apartment 23 resident,

I'd appreciate it if you would keep the noises to a minimum after 10 pm. The singing has kept me up well past midnight. The stomping at all hours has been less than appreciated. Also, I hate to point out that your dog hasn't been a saint either, barking every morning at 7 am. So if you would please, muzzle the dog and stop the late-night parties.

Signed, apartment 15 resident.

Imani is confused for a moment, walking back into her apartment while rereading the letter. All of it is not true, starting with the singing. She does not sing, especially that late in the day. The neighbor on the other hand has a daughter who doesn't understand her own volume, blaring out BTS songs at odd hours. The stomping is a ridiculous accusation, almost typical in these situations. The only time she can admit that her walking would be loud is when she first gets home and hasn't gotten to removing her shoes. Besides then, she is as quiet as a church mouse. An hour after she gets home she spends most of her time lounging in the living room. so how can she be making noises if she isn't moving?

The woman drops the note onto her kitchen table, put off by the audacity. She looks over to her little dog, shaking her head as she thinks back on the next line. Her dog doesn't bark! He is as silent as can be, never even growling. The most this 'resident' can accuse her pooch over is his nails scratching at the floor. Even then that shouldn't even register through the floors.

With the morning turned sour, Imani quickly organizes her things and heads out for work. The whole day is spent thinking hard on her letter, thinking about what needs to be done. Should she ignore it? Pretend she never got it and go on with her life? That would be the easy approach, even kinder one, but she ain't that kind of bitch.

When she got home late that day she storms into the kitchen, making sure to stop with her shoes still on, and grabs a notebook. She jots down a little message for 'resident 15' with as much passive aggression as she can put into words.

Dear resident 15,

The bold claims you have taped to my door have been read. I'd like to take the time to inform you of your misguided claims. I, for one, am not the local American Idol star. That award goes to Tiny Tina in apartment 22. I don't know why you have such an issue with her music, BTS songs are a bop.

Next on the list is my 'stomping'. Excuse me for correcting you again, but I do not 'stomp' around my apartment. The minute I get home from work I am sitting on my ass watching television till it's time for bed. So I ask you, how can I be stomping around if my feet do not move off the couch?

Finally, my dog. My dog is a saint, for your information, he is the quietest animal I have ever owned. I haven't heard so much as a peep from him since he was a puppy. Maybe check around for other noisy pooches because mine isn't the problem.

With this all said, I hope you find a solution to your problem because bugging me was not it.

Sincerely, resident 23

Signed, sealed, and ready to be delivered. The next morning on the way to work she tapes the little note to the numbers on unit 15. smug, she walks out of there with her head held high.

Feeling proud of herself even further into the day she isn't ready for the speedy reply taped to her door, along with a missing doormat. With a huff, she snatches the note and heads inside. She unfolds the sheet, reading:

Dear 23,

I am not mistaken, and I'm taking your welcome mat until you know how to be a proper upstairs neighbor.

-15

She gawks at the letter, put off by the blatant admission of theft. Are they a child, taking away things as a punishment? This is completely idiotic! She should march downstairs and confront the fool who thinks this is a proper course of action. Well, she would if she didn't also want to get back at them.

Throwing the paper onto the coffee table she flops down on the couch to think. What is the best way to get back at them?

A floor below rests Church the Minotaur. He is getting ready to go on a run, sliding on his sneakers as he opens the door. Glance to the side he catches sight of a gaudy plethora of stickers and glitter, his door dressed to the 9s with rainbows. He is taken aback, looking at the decorations with ire. Above it all sits a folded up piece of paper taped to the door. He quickly snatches it, reading it.

15,

Return the doormat and I'll clean your door.

-23

Church chuffs, grinding his teeth as he looks to the door again. He didn't think he was being unfair when he first gave them a letter. It was a polite way to ask them to shut up. He just wanted some sleep, was that too much to ask? He looks to the door again, apparently, it was.

Imani opens the door fully expecting the letter. With a bit of a pep in her step, she grabs it, reading it as she walks to her car. She snorts, crumpling the paper and tossing it in the trash.

23,

This means war

-15

The next few weeks are filled with pranks of varying variety. The two start small, Imani stomping around upstairs with her heaviest pairs of boots, Church banging his hand against the ceiling during the quiet hours of the night. Next with more glitter courtesy of Church, a well-timed package that exploded in Imani's kitchen. He swears he could hear her surprised scream from below. Imani gets him back with a similar package, one with a jump scare card.

It's a back forth of one-upping the other. Church orders Imani eight pizzas, forcing her to reluctantly pay for it when seeing the nervous kid trying to deal with the mix-up. Imani manages to hook her phone to his Bluetooth speakers, playing random screams at all hours of the night. Church gets her back by attaching an alarm to her door so when walked out that morning she was startled by a firetruck worthy honk.

It seems it’s the last straw for Church when he receives his own glitter bomb of confetti cocks. It gets caught on the carpet, sneaking into the couch cushions, and sticking to his clothes. Quickly dusting himself off he charges upstairs, reaching her door and banging on it. He taps his foot frustrated and angry.

The door clicks open, Church already ready with his rant. Imani is equally prepared, excited with the chance to chew him a new one. When the two see each other they stumble on the words, looking one another over with confusion. Neither of them expected the other to be anything but some angry middle-aged person looking for a fight. They hardly assumed that the other would be so…attractive.

"I, uh," church shakes his head," You! A damn dick bomb? Do you understand how ingrained they are into my carpet? I sent you a cheap one, something you can easily clean up but you couldn't even consider that!"

"What," Imani comes back to her own," those craft herpes were not easy to clean, I'm sure it's still in the kitchen now and staining my clothes. So don't you dare come at me with 'woe is me' look like you had any consideration at all for my floors."

"Well excuse me, I didn't hack into your speakers to play Halloween screams all through the night. I damn near had a heart attack at 2 in the morning because of you," he points to her, debating on jabbing her in the chest. She slaps his hand away before he gets the chance, scoffing.

"At least I didn't make you spend money on eight pizzas! Do you know how much eight pizzas cost? It was like seventy bucks. I'm just glad you didn't splurge on something more than a single topping pizza. But fuck you for making them all pineapple you monster," she bites back.

The two ramble on long enough for the neighbors to peek their heads out. Embarrassed, they close out their argument with a huff and a door slam. Church heads off to his apartment, falling onto the couch while grumbling to himself. Imani growls and mumbles in her bed. They both can't help the thought that ruins all their anger:

God, they were hot.

The pranks don't stop in their frequency. The two continue, using their frustrations at their traitorous thoughts to fuel their revenge.

Imani still plays with his speakers, using screamo songs to annoy him in the afternoons. Church booby traps her door again with more glitter, his preferred weapon as of lately. She takes up tap dancing, he pays the kid next door to blare BTS near the shared wall of her apartment. She puts a fake ticket on his car, he puts vulgar stickers on her's. the childish game goes on and on.

Imani sits in her room one night, frustrated beyond belief with the sexy minotaur. She can't get his face out of her head. Why did he have to be cute? It's not like it makes the little game they have going harder to do. No, it just makes it seem more than it is. She has to constantly catch herself praising his wit in some of the stunts he pulls. Scolding herself nonstop for wanting to stop by his place and yell at him some, just to see him. It's stupid, wanting to actually get to know him.

Church relaxes in bed, feeling more bothered than Imani. He has hit a bit of a dry spell in his sexual life, or his solo sexual life. He can't jerk off without picturing the little hellspawn upstairs. It would be easy to give in and just think of her but it would be too much. She is an enemy, not a potential interest. So what if she is one of the sexiest humans he has ever seen? Who cares if her ability to keep up with him in this little war is kind of turning him on? It doesn't matter, right?

He sighs in defeat, "I don't think I can believe that even if I tried," he grunts as he clenches his shaft.

Imani is at home setting up her next plan when someone knocks on the door. She looks to the clock surprised at someone visiting this hour. Confused, and cautious, she gets out of bed and walks to the door. Looking through the peephole she rolls her eyes at who she sees.

Imani opens the door," if this is about the folk music I'll tell you now I'm not changing it back."

"No," he growls," this is about the tap shoes. Metal on wood makes for some very undesirable sounds."

"Well, excuse me for trying to take up a new hobby. What about you paying off the kid next door to play her music next to my wall? I swear that little demon doesn't sleep," Imani scolds.

"Speaking of little demons, can you for the love of god shut your dog up. Every morning I hear his damn barking and I'm seriously debating calling someone," he takes a step into her space, scowling at the dog behind her.

"He doesn't bark," she pokes at his chest," I have never heard him even make a yelp since he was a puppy so I suggest you come up with a better lie than that."

"A lie," he shouts," your fucking dog barks, stop thinking he is some sort of mute."

"He does not," she shouts back.

"Does too," he steps closer.

"Does not," she raises her chin.

"Does too," he grabs her hips.

"Does not," she tugs at his shirt.

"Does too," he says, lowering closer to her. Before she can get her turn he quiets her with a rather harsh kiss, mashing his lips to hers. They grapple one another, pulling the other closer as they stumble into her apartment.

Church kicks the door shut as he fumbles with her shirt. She helps, parting from him long enough to cast the clothing aside. He tugs her back in for a sloppy kiss, delving his tongue into her mouth as she unbuttons his top. Thrusting his shirt down his arms while they bump into the sofa. Church beings unclasping her bra, uncoordinated as she sucks on his tongue.

The two fall to the couch, church not wasting any time with her freshly revealed tits. Imani gasps, petting down his chest to his pants. As he suckles on a nipple as she pulls him from his pants, holding his cock in her hand. He stutters in his attentions, panting heavily against her chest as she jerks him off.

"Oh, fuck," he groans.

"Like that big boy," she steals his attention, him looking at her cocky smile.

"Shut up," he reaches down to her pants, palming her through her jeans. She bucks into his hand, rolling her eyes at his smirk. He quickly discards her bottoms, tossing them away without a care. He watches her as he pets at her pussy, delving between her lips to feel how soaked she is for him.

"Am I wrong to assume this is all for me," he pushes a finger in. she clenches her jaw, groaning from the intrusion. He chuckles, feeling rather confident as she rides his hand. Not caring for his large ego she reaches for his cock once more, feeling him throb in her grip.

"Am I wrong to assume this is all for me," she mimics back smugly. He throws her an annoyed look, removing his fingers and slapping her hand away. Dropping a hand beside her head he leans down, looking between them as he prods his cock to her pussy. They both flinch, eager above all else. They both watch as his head parts her lips, poking at her clit with short nudges.

"You think I can make you scream like those damn Halloween recordings," he jokes as he grinds into her.

"No, I don't think you have the stamina," she jabs back, trying to stop the urge to buck against him. Church leans down and nuzzles against her neck, pressing a sweet kiss under her jaw.

"I guess we will just have to see," he grins, feeling less confident than his words suggest. His cock is damn near ready to burst with just his tip being coated in her sweet juices.

Church reaches between them, pressing his cock to her entrance. He guides his tip in, stretching his arm up to rest it beside her head. The only warning he gives her is a sultry smile before he shoves forward, both crying out at the suddenness.

"Oh, shit," Church whimpers beside her ear. Imani grabs at his arms, feeling utterly stuffed. He pulls back, thrusting forward quickly. Imani appreciates him not wasting time just pistoning into her. The need has been building up all week, the denial adding a new level of appeal to this want.

He rams into her, listening to her try to hide her cries of pleasure. He feels her body tell him what he needs to know, feels her walls pulling him in with every buck of his hips. She wants him as badly as he wanted her. It's satisfying to church to know this. To know that she needs this as much as he does. Not wanting to miss a thing he sits up, grabbing her hips as he does.

"Look at you," he groans," trying to hold back those little moans and whimpers. Don't fight it, babe, I wanna hear you." Imani startles herself with a cry, arching her back as his words add kindle to the fire. She wants to pretend this isn't happening, that she isn't getting fucked by her apartment enemy. But damn, does it feel fantastic.

Church watches her writhe on the couch, his stomach clenching as he tries to fight off cumming at the sight. Her tits bounce with each clap of their hips and it's driving him wild. Reluctantly he shuts his eyes, thinking about anything else to prolong this blissful torture.

Imani wails and whimpers as her insides are set aflame. As her orgasm comes rushing to the forefront she locks her legs around his waist, grinding like a madwoman into his thrust. She cries out her pleasure, utterly wrecked as she falls apart.

Church chokes on his breath as she clenches around him. He can barely think as she holds him in a vice grip. His hips go wild as he finds himself coming to an end. It's only half a thought that he undoes her legs and pulls out, grinding against her as he cums on her stomach. Imani watches in rapture as he tosses his head back and moans, the sound going straight to her already throbbing clit. She watches him spray out over her and she can't look away for even a second.

Church falls onto his hands, panting as he holds himself over her. He can't believe it. He got to fuck the cute hellspawn that has been tormenting him all month. At this moment he couldn't even think about the countless hours of sleep missed because of her little pranks. Right now all he can think of is holding her close and taking a much-needed nap. As he attempts the action he looks to her stomach.

Imani is bone-deep satisfied. Her body is relaxed against the couch and she feels like she's on cloud nine. She hardly notices when Church climbs off her, his footsteps fading away. When she does notice, it stabs at her heart a little. She watches him button up his pants, reaching to the floor to grab his shirt. I guess he's leaving, she thinks.

Church grabs his shirt from the floor, bunching it up as he turns back to her. She looks surprised when he crouches beside her and mops up the mess on her stomach with his top. He wants to laugh at the shocked expression but bites his cheek against it. With her all clean he tosses the shirt away and crawls in beside her. The couch is rather small so he lifts her onto his chest, lounging on his back. He cradles her against his front, ready to take a well-deserved nap.

Imani is rather confused as she watches him fall asleep. She fully figured he would dip after everything, she surely didn't expect anything from this. They were still in a war. A truce was never called but she can't help but think this changes something.

Shrugging, she snuggles up to him, enjoying his soft fur against her cheek. This is a problem she will deal with in the morning.

Imani wakes up alone in her bed. She is nearly tempted to figure the night with Church was all a dream till she feels the subtle ache in her legs. Ride a bull, you should expect some soreness. She chuckles to herself as she dresses. Walking into the kitchen she prepares for a lazy day indoors while she figures out how to deal with Church and her's relationship. As she gets ready to feed her pup does she realize the lack of said pooch.

"uh, Giovani," she calls out. No answer. She calls out again, searching around her apartment frantically. Did he get out while the door was open last night? Surely she would have noticed if he managed to sneak past. She rounds the apartment again just in case before she runs to the door, throwing it open in a rush. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots something hanging on her peephole. She tenses at the sight, snatching it.

Imani I have your dog Church

Imani scoffs, crumpling the letter as she marches downstairs. She can't believe she let herself think that things would change between them. That this little prank war can be swapped out for an actual relationship, friendship or otherwise. Above all, she can't believe he stole her dog.

Rounding the corner and stopping at door 15 she pounds her fist against the wood. She continues pounding till the door opens, revealing a smirking Church.

"Hello, babe, what brings you here so early," he asks, leaning against the frame.

"You stole my fucking dog, I want him back," she snaps, no ounce of playfulness available. Church nearly stutters on his act, a little worried about her protectiveness over her dog.

"Now, I stole him for his own good," he explains," with his separation anxiety I figured it is best if he got used to my apartment since I'm going to take up training him."

Imani scoffs," Excuse me? My dog doesn't have separation anxiety nor does he need to be trained by some dog snatching idiot with horns."

Church deadpans," idiot with horns?"

"It's early, they can't all be gold," she rolls her eyes," doesn't matter, give me my dog back."

Church shakes his head, frustrated at her denial. Instead of answering her, he calls for the pup, leaning down to pet him when he comes trotting over. With the dog properly excited he takes a step into the hallway with Imani and shuts the door. Imani looks from him then back to the door.

"What are you doing," she asks.

"Just wait," he holds up a finger. They both stand silently, nothing happening. Imani opens her mouth to acknowledge the ridiculous of waiting in front of a door when her dog begins whining, yelping loudly from inside the apartment. Church looks over to her with a smug grin, "Told you he barks."

Imani flusters, gawking at the door and listening to her dog cry out. Church opens the door, the pup running out and jumping at Imani. Still embarrassed, she pets at her dog before picking him up and walking away. Church watches her turn the corner, not saying a word as she departs. He sighs.

It's a good day of nothing that picks at Church. Surely he didn’t push too far, he didn't really intend to keep her dog so it wasn't that mean. He just wanted to prove that her dog did bark, finishing the month-long war on a hopeful note. It wasn't meant as another attack against her. He really did intend to help by offering to train her dog.

Throughout the day he debates going up there and apologizing, to offer an olive branch of some kind so he can actually get to know her. Last night for Church was…amazing. It was something he wants to do again, to explore further. That may be a pipe dream now.

Late into the afternoon church gets a knock on his door. He jumps up, feeling rather stupid as he quickly answers the door. Expecting Imani he is left disappointed as no one is there. No one could have left that fast. He looks down the hall, left to right. Nothing. With a defeated sigh he begins to close the door. He stops when a fluttering piece of paper catches his eye. Excited, he snaps it off the door unfolding it swiftly.

Church,

Dinner at my place, 8 pm

-Imani

Church smiles to himself, refolding the paper and heading back inside to get ready.

#12 days of christmas #12 tropes for christmas #Enigma-IM #monster boyfriend #exophilia #enemies to lovers #minotaur boyfriend

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honeymoonjin · 5 years ago

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ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ot7 x reader || ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 11.3k || ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: smut - rated 18+

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:

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Congratulations! You’ve been accepted as the Lady in the first season of The Gentlemen.

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banner designer @jamaisjoons | many thanks to @joonsrack for her translations and @jooneggs for beta reading

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: just a heads-up, there is French in this chapter. it isn’t translated because y/n does not speak French and thus has no clue wtf goes On BUT if you want the goss, feel free to use google translate or ur Local Translation Engine. explicitly sexual content, cursing, voyeurism, exhibitionism, filmed sex, spanking, dom!jimin obv, sub!reader, public (not sex-sex but sexytimes in public), shoe kink, dirty talk, humiliation, degradation, use of safeword, teasing, bondage, gagging, use of sex toys, fingering, multiple orgasms, forced orgasms, overstimulation, crying during sex, unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, a sexy sliver of aftercare before yn zonks it

FAN FAVOURITE

On the sixth Day of every Week in the game, the Audience Fan Favourite vote is released for 48 hours following the post of the fic. Please note, this is NOT the elimination vote, which is taken on the seventh Day of each Week.

Please vote for your favourite member in the house according to Week One only. Vote here. Multiple votes are allowed but please do not spam the voting as this is an overall audience pick. I’m very excited to see what the results will be ! Voting is closed! Thank you for participating!

DAY SIX

You wake up early in the morning to a sore throat. Though the arm that rests heavy on your waist and the breath that tickles the nape of your neck tempt you back to sleep, you can’t even swallow without wincing, and the only solution is a cool drink and some pain meds.

Namjoon doesn’t react when you slip out from under him, sliding your pillow under his arm. He simply lets out a satisfied hum and curls it closer to him. Still, you dress in breathy silence, tiptoeing out and leaving the door open a crack for your return.

Downstairs, the blinking numbers on the microwave read shortly before 6am and you groan. The chance of you getting any more sleep after this was slim.

You pour some water and swallow some basic pain meds with a sigh. If you were honest, quiet moments like this were rare. Past the glass sliding door which leads to the outdoor dining area, you can see glints of reddy golds and flaming orange, pooling between trees to warm the concrete patio. This villa was truly beautiful, and you knew you’d never stay in a place like it again. Not only the house itself but the company you shared was invaluable. All the guys had such a personality to them, and you were surprised at how quicky you’d grown accustomed to them all. Fond, too.

Yoongi’s thoughtfulness, Jungkook’s energy, Jin’s stability. Taehyung who was so giving and Hoseok who never let the mood falter. And more recently, Namjoon becoming more confident and Jimin revealing flecks of heart behind the stone facade. Everyone brought something to the villa that made it a truly magical place. You feel like you’d be happy even without the mind-blowing sex. As the elimination day draws painfully close, your stomach turns with the thought of turning someone away. Of removing them when they’d only just gotten settled. The Lady was the hardest job in the game in many ways.

Finishing your glass, you set it in the sink with a wet clink and roll your shoulders, arching your back as the last of your sleep leaves you in a final yawn. You turn to leave, squeaking when you’re met with a solid body coming out of nowhere.

“Woah- Jimin?” The last person you expected to be up so early, you cringe as your voice raises in disbelief.

The man in question grins, eyes twinkling even in the relative darkness of pre-dawn. “Going so soon?”

“I-” You find yourself at a loss of words, feeling caught somehow, and you clear your still-aching throat. “What are you doing up?”

“Looking for you, little mouse. Or did you forget I’m next in line?” He speaks as light and melodic as a music box, but his lips are twisted in a grin as his eyes roam over you, wearing the same clothes as last night. “Has our Namjoonie finally popped his cherry?”

The way he plays with every syllable has you feeling so vulnerable, so under his control, and your gaze falters, looking instead at his odd attire. Like he’d gotten up in a hurry, he’s wearing a mix of pyjamas and clothes. His legs are tightly clad in glossy faux leather, blacker than black, and his top half is a silk pyjama top, sinful red trimmed with black, and with only a single button done up in the middle of his torso, exposing his lower stomach and the top of his chest. You suck in a breath at the expanse of skin, and what looks like the black sliver of a...tattoo?

“Cat got your tongue?” he questions, drawing your eyes back up as he licks his top lip slowly, purposefully.

“It’s none of your business,” you reply, cursing the way your voice catches throatily, clearly affected by him. “And if you’re going to take your turn, can we at least go somewhere a little more comfortable? It’s six in the fucking morning.”

Like a switch is flipped, his face darkens, the humour gone. You swallow the lump in your throat as Jimin’s mouth sours into a scowl, but you can’t deny the heat that pools between your legs at it too. “I knew it,” he announces, voice acidic.

“Knew what?” Your fate sealed, a streak of confidence rises within you. You’d ruffled him. And every part of you is screaming to make him react again.

His eyes are molten power as they focus on you. “Five days and you’ve already become a spoilt brat.”

Your mouth drops open. “Fuck you! It’s your job to fuck me.”

“Why should I fuck you when you haven’t done a thing to earn it?” Jimin takes a step forward and reflexively you back up. “You’re an ungrateful cockhungry slut, little mouse. If you want me, beg for it.” He takes another step and again, you shuffle back, heart picking up.

“I shouldn’t have to beg,” you counter, though your voice isn’t as firm as before. Jimin simply raises a brow, continuing to walk you further into the kitchen until your lower back strikes the countertop. You swallow again, wishing you weren’t so easily affected. “If you don’t fuck me, I’ll just send you home.”

“You could,” he gives dismissively, lips twitching into a sneer at his following words, “but I don’t think you will. I don’t believe you’d send me home if I didn’t fuck you. Because you want to know how it feels.”

You bite your tongue, glaring up at him, at the way he’s so indifferent about it. “Fine. Then fuck me.”

Jimin tuts reproachfully, his arms leaning forward to prop himself up on the bench behind you, caging you in. Your heart stops beating, the throb felt between your legs instead as he’s close enough to touch, his mouth close enough to kiss, not that you’d dare. “That isn’t begging,” he whispers in disapproval.

“I don’t beg,” you insist, even as your hands clench, fighting the urge to touch him.

Suddenly, the shadow over his face disappears, and he pushes up, creating some distance between you again. “It doesn’t matter, anyway,” he says airily, causing you to frown in confusion. “We aren’t at the begging stage yet. You know what you need first?”

You stare at him blankly, giving him a shake of your head.

Jimin grins, and you swear you see his eyes flash. “Punishment.”

“You can’t be serious,” you breathe, though instead of sounding offended as you intend, you just sound needy. Fuck Park Jimin and his iron grip on your arousal.

His grin broadens like the Chesire Cat. “You’ve been very bad, little mouse. You’ve been demanding and impatient, you’ve used vulgar language and I seem to recall the night you interrupted my sleep because of how loud you were next door. I can’t let it slide,” he divulges with a solemn shake of his head, like your poor behaviour pains him, “I just can’t.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you say with a disbelieving laugh. “You can’t punish me like a child.”

“And that will be another one,” Jimin says instead, perfectly calm, rich blue hair catching the light as the sun continues to rise just outside.

“Another what?” you fire back, beginning to tire of so much talk and so little action.

“Another spank,” he deadpans. Were it anyone else, any other situation, perhaps you would’ve laughed at it. Instead, you stare wide-eyed at the stoicism on his face. “That makes it five for swearing to me in this conversation alone, four for being impatient, and five for keeping me up that second night. Should we round it up to twenty?”

You stay silent for a moment, desperately trying to process it. You shake your head slowly. “You can’t make me,” you point out.

“Of course I can’t,” Jimin gives with a chuckle, running a hand through his hair as if to demonstrate how calm he is. Your eyes are magnetised by the silver rings that glint on his fingers, unable to keep yourself from imagining how they might feel on you. “You can always use your safeword, and I’ll respect it,” he continues. “But I doubt it. Whether you like to admit it, little mouse, you want this. You think I haven’t worked out that you a little pain with your pleasure?” He stands back, just a step, but the extra distance makes you feel suddenly unanchored, and you hate it. “I’m going to give you three seconds to turn around and bend over. If you don’t, I’ll walk away and you get nothing. If you take your punishment like a good girl, then we can talk.”

You huff, pressing your lips - and thighs - together in an effort to stay strong.

“One,” Jimin begins, eyes alight with bemusement. You don’t move, just sighing in annoyance again. “Two.”

Your incisors are clamped on your tongue so tightly you can almost taste blood as you glare intensely at his mouth. He draws it out cheekily, letting you wait painstakingly as he wets his lips and finally opens his mouth, the pink of his tongue pressing against his teeth as he-

Before you can process it, you’re flipping yourself around and pressing your upper chest against the counter, eyes squeezed shut in humiliation as Jimin begins to chuckle.

It’s far too loud for the stillness of the early morning, and you muffle a sob in your forearm - not regret, but neediness. A week he’d deprived you, and the smug fucker was right: you’d take what you could get, and love it too. Blessedly, he doesn’t seem to notice the sound, the air filled instead with his triumphant peal of laughter at seeing you presenting yourself to him just like he knew you would.

“Oh, little mouse,” he coos. “What would the others think if they saw you like this, hm? Bent over for me in the middle of the kitchen where anyone could walk in.”

You take in an unsteady breath, feeling your pulse race with excitement as his fingertips - still cold from the morning air - slip under your waistband, as he painstakingly slides it down, revealing your ass. You let out a small whimper when the toe of his shoe catches your ankle, pushing to widen your legs apart. You bite your lip, cheeks heating, core heating even more.

Jimin runs his palms flat over your bare ass and you hiss through your nose at how icy his rings feel. While his hands are smaller than those of other guys of the house, you feel no less under their control, shivering at the contact. “Was it twenty we agreed upon?” His tone is light, playful. He knows he’s got you, and one final burst of defiance bubbles up through your chest.

“Fuck you,” you spit. “Does that make it twenty-one?”

You’re jumping before you even feel the lacing of fire on your right cheek or hear the smack that echos in the room. You choke on a moan, unable to deny how the pain settles into a low-burning pleasure that adds to the wetness between your thighs.

From behind you, you hear Jimin sigh heavily and quickly, like he’s trying to calm himself. “I want you to count them,” he instructs, and you flinch as his hand comes down on you again, but this time his slaps are weak, light swats that warm your skin to prepare it. “Twenty starting now. Understood?”

You bite your lip, but pull yourself up a little to free your face, propping yourself up with your elbows. You feel so vulnerable like this, just your ass bared, legs spread and at his mercy, but all you can think of is feeling his hand on you again. Blearily, you nod, and a pleased hum comes from his throat, barely audible.

Jimin makes you wait for it, holding the silence so that your ears strain, fighting the urge to glance ba-

You jerk with a shallow cry as your other cheek stings with his smack, core clenching. “One,” you announce quietly. With every moment of sunrise, the room gets lighter and lighter, and you squeeze your eyes shut at the thought of someone walking in on the two of you. Was that dread in your stomach or excitement?

He doesn’t speak, only smoothing the skin to cool it before laying another blow, waiting for you to call out a shaky “two.” He’s wearing at least three rings, and you can feel them, more unforgiving than his flesh and painfully ice cold. You wonder in the back of your mind if they’ll leave marks. You can’t help but hope they do.

You’ve made it to eight strikes before your knees begin to shake slightly. Every lick of pain simultaneously hurts more on the raw skin of your ass, but pools as liquid pleasure between your legs faster as you grow accustomed to it. Your pussy aches for contact, and you arch your back after the ninth spank falls, presenting yourself to him even more in the hopes that he’ll be tempted, but Jimin just tuts in disapproval.

“Look at you, little mouse. Soaking after a few spanks. You love this, don’t you? No part of you can deny it anymore.” You pant and bite down hard on your lip, wanting so bad to beg for it. Still, you refuse. Jimin just hums at your attempt at stoic silence, amused more than anything. “Almost halfway. It’ll be over so soon, don’t you think? We should make the most of this.”

You frown at his words, more so when you feel the heat of his body leave you. You crane your neck automatically, spine lifting to stand, but his voice freezes you.

“Fucking face the front and keep position,” he seethes, “I never said you could move.”

You sink back down, widening your legs and lowering your chest so it rests on the edge of the countertop, eyes locked onto the splashback in front of you. With ears straining, you shudder at the sound of a drawer sliding smoothly open, and the various clinks and thuds that follow as he rummages. Once the drawer shuts again and Jimin returns, you can barely breathe, goosebumps breaking out on your thighs and arms.

He pats something against you, then slowly runs it over the heated skin of your ass, the slight friction making you hiss. “Do you know what this is? Feel it.” He continues to brush it around slowly, and you wrack your mind. It’s not metal or plastic - the texture is a little too rough and it isn’t as cold as his rings were. You hiss when you feel it dip down between your thighs, too low to touch you were you need it most. The shape is a tall oval, flat on one side but concave on the other, and you let out a low moan, back arching lower as you work it out. Jimin laughs, bringing it back up to tap it teasingly on your cheek. “I think you do,” he remarks. “Shall we continue?”

You bite your lip but it can’t fully cover the needy moan that spills out. He’s really about to spank you with a wooden spoon, and you’re really dripping for it. “Ye-yes,” you gasp out, a cry ripped from your throat at the first hit. It’s far sharper on your skin than his hand, whistling through the air and landing with a resounding smack. The sting lasts longer too, almost like you can feel the exact outline of the spoon on your skin. “Fuck, ten.”

When Jimin speaks again, his voice is rich with sadistic amusement. “Do you like it, little mouse? You should see yourself. The outline of the spoon just now, the marks from my rings-” he drags a single nail down one of the aforementioned marks, and you keen, the raw pain sent straight to your core, “you mark so beautifully for me. This perky little ass of yours is so red, you know? Should we make it even redder?”

Without waiting for your answer, he lands three smacks in quick succession - right, left, right again. Your body’s instinct takes over and you pull your body forward, tucking your ass in as if to escape it, even as your core throbs with need and your nipples press stiffly against your shirt.

Jimin won’t have it, though, and you moan in a low keen as he wraps an arm low over your hips and tugs you back down, pressing the middle of your back with the fist and clenches the spoon so that you arch beneath it, dropping down that hand to run his knuckles lightly over your abused skin. “Shh,” he hushes firmly, “we aren’t done here yet. If it’s too much for you, you know what to say.”

Your heart warms at his reminder of your safeword, but you have no intention of using it, already melting under the additional physical contact. Instead, you lean back into his grip, presenting yourself for more.

You sense rather than see his grin, but it makes you shiver nonetheless as the amused breath escapes his nose, his cool fingers running over your flesh, thumb and pointer as the rest wrap around the stem of the wooden spoon. “Are you gonna count them then, little mouse?”

Your mouth drops open to answer, but you pause, having to really think back. “Mm, uh, twelve? Eleven?”

Jimin chuckles, returning to those light teasing pats of the wooden spoon, just to make your thighs shake. “Thirteen, actually,” he reveals in a rakish tone. “If you wanted more, you just had to ask.”

Before your brain can process a retort, the spoon comes down again, an audible thwack that jiggles the flesh of your ass with the force of it, and you keen, knees buckling for just a moment. The contrast of intense stimulation of the fiery skin on your ass and the complete neglect of your needy core is infuriating but addictive nonetheless. “Fuck, Jimin, fo-fourteen.”

You automatically suck in a breath in the sudden lull as Jimin rears his hand back, but the quiet reveals a different noise, the laughing and joking and thud-thud-thud of people coming down the stairs, and you’re choking on the air in your lungs, freezing as two familiar faces round the corner and come to a halt as they witness the scene you’re in.

Your legs shiver but your core throbs still as Jungkook and Taehyung watch you wide-eyed, eyes dancing in unision from Jimin, to you, to your ass and the spoon in Jimin’s hand. The cheeks of your face are somehow hotter and redder than the others, but regardless you stay frozen in position, waiting for someone else to make a move.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Jimin who speaks up first, the only one of you four unbothered. “She has six hits left, boys,” he offers up, patting your hip like you’re a ride to have a go on. “Any takers?”

Taehyung steps forward first, Jungkook’s mouth still hanging low. As you watch his slender fingers wrap around the handle of the wooden spoon, you shiver, and he chuckles at your reaction.

“You know,” he muses casually, replacing Jimin behind you as the older man steps away to lean against the bench beside you, “I think I’m starting to warm up to this whole situation, petal. Where else would I get to walk in on a sight like this? And Jimin-hyung is so generous to let us help out. Thank him, Y/n.”

A breath rushes out of your throat, one you hadn’t even realised you were holding. Humiliation rushes through you, but it’s cloudy with arousal, and your tongue is loose with it. “Thank you, Jimin.”

“Good girl,” Taehyung coos shortly, and that’s the only warning before he’s swatting you harshly with the flat back of the spoon, and you let out a strangled moan. Your ass won’t stop stinging between hits, but you obediently call out ”fifteen, sixteen, seventeen,” until you only have three to go.

Taehyung relinquishes his turn reluctantly to Jungkook; the youngest contestant in the house eying you up strangely, almost like he can read and understand the pleasure in the welts on your ass and the tremble of your knee. Almost like he’s been where you are, or somewhere close. Judging by the apparent variety of his streams, you don’t doubt it.

Like Jungkook’s testing the waters, his first hit is the weakest, barely making you flinch. You exhale lowly in disappointment. “Eighteen,” you say, swallowing down the drool that threatens to gather.

Before any more land, you instead feel fingers at your hairline, brushing back strands that have covered your face. Small but strong points of pressure light up on your jaw as Jimin pulls your chin to look up at him, his eyes swirling with deep satisfaction.

“I wanna see the look on your face,” he announces quietly. “I want our Jungkookie to make these last two hurt. Will you take it for me?”

His voice brooks no disagreement, still dripping with authority and control, but you know that he’s once more giving you an out should you wish to use your safeword, so you nod shakily, eyes fluttering. “Please.” You’ve still received no friction - or contact at all - on your pussy, and you feel yourself going crazy. The pain is addictive, licks of pleasure that seep into your veins after every spank, but you can’t handle how you drip down your own thighs, soaking your panties even as they rest hooked just above your knees. Two more hits and you’d finally get what you needed.

You haven’t seen Jimin’s face this close, and certainly not seen his eyes in such intense detail before, and instead of anticipating the next hit you find yourself blinking up at him dazedly. His hair, the deep glossy navy that you’d never seen on somebody before, is swooped gracefully over his brow, which is still a natural black, and below it his eyes are molten with lust and satisfaction, watching your face intently. His hands are hot on your face, the rings cool points of unforgiving contact, and you can’t help but wonder if the plush pillows of his lips are warm like his hands or cool like his rings. They’d feel softer against yo-

“Fu-fuck!” you cry, eyes squeezing shut as two sharp hits strike you not on the already-red skin of your ass, but the tops of your thighs instead, just below the swell of flesh. It’s more painful than you’d expect, but you’re so turned on that your mind just screams better and more. Caught up in it, you belatedly gasp out a “nineteen, twen’y,” and feel yourself sink against the countertop, held up by Jimin’s hands on your face and jaw.

“Little mouse,” his voice calls out, and your brows knit together as you struggle to decipher his tone. “Little mouse.”

You force your eyes open, breathing heavily through your mouth as everything except the burn below and Jimin above fade away. “Jimin,” you whisper, lips barely moving.

His give a twitch, pleased. It warms your heart to see the flicker of approval. “What do you say, hm?”

You don’t even think, but your body knows the answer. “Thank you, Jimin.”

“I’m not the only one,” he remarks, though a pleased grin is evident on his face and in his voice.

Truthfully, you’d almost forgotten the others, but as you thank them, eyes still locked on Jimin, you feel your toes curl at the realisation that you’re surrounded by three extremely attractive men. Men that are all here to-

The dopey smile of anticipation is struck from your face when Jimin abruptly lets go of you, pushing off the countertop. You stumble, catching your legs under you and fumbling to pull up your jeans reflexively. “Where are you-?”

You jump at the dull clang of the wooden spoon being tossed in the sink, Jungkook’s hand free as Jimin discards the tool. You watch openmouthed, panties and jeans barely on as the former rest uncomfortably soaked against your core, as the eldest of the three rolls his shoulders and sighs happily. “So, boys; should we make some omellettes for breakfast? I feel like cracking a few eggs.”

Taehyung grins and Jungkook’s gaze slides to you in uncertainty but the two agree, casually retrieving ingredients and utensils like you aren’t sitting there with a stinging ass and your jeans unbuttoned.

“Jimin,” you mumble dumbly, and to your surprise he acknowledges you this time, walking over to stand in front of you with a congenial smile.

“You’re done here, Y/n,” he announces. Unabashedly, his hands slip down and begin to fully slide your panties and jeans up, fingers slipping up the zip and buttoning them closed. “You didn’t want to beg, and I’m not going to make you. You took your punishment, so why don’t you toodle along? I’m sure one of us will call for you when breakfast is ready.”

Your mouth drops open, the final lusty haze of the scene evaporating fast enough to leave you reeling. “Are you serious? You aren’t going to do anything?”

Jimin’s eyebrows lower intently, voice hushing like he’s sharing a secret, even though Taehyung and Jungkook are right behind him in earshot. “Oh, little mouse. You know exactly what to do to get what you want.”

He waits expectantly, but your eyes dart past his shoulders to the other two boys. Begging was one thing, but in front of the others? You fight a pout, hoping your face looks angry rather than put out. “You’re an asshole, and I’m voting you out.”

His grin broadens, wolfish. “Well then,” he remarks with an unbothered lift of a brow, “I better hurry up and make these omelettes before I get sent home, now, shouldn’t I?”

And with that, he turns his back to you and begins chatting to his friends. You stay for one more moment of shocked silence, but soon turn tail, stomping back up the stairs with the wet fabric of your panties pressing coldly against you.

---

When you peek your head in the door, Namjoon is still asleep, so you quickly duck back into your room and change into some fresh clothes and underwear before going back in, content to chill on his armchair until he wakes.

You’d told him you would stay, and the way the fabric of your leggings rubs against your sore ass when you sit only reminds you of the fact that you’d been gone longer than anticipated already. He looks peaceful, though, clearly quite content with the pillow you’d left him with. Namjoon’s mouth is parted slightly, slack and half-pressed into his own pillow. He clutches yours with both arms, snuffling or grunting in his sleep every few moments.

You’re happy with just scrolling through your phone aimlessly for the half hour or so it takes before he wakes, back arching and neck cracking as he stretches. A beam broadens on your face at the dazed slow blink and wide yawn that he emits. “Sleep well?” you ask softly, not wanting to startle him.

He pats the pillow and mattress beside him in confusion, sitting up to stare at you with a squint. “You stayed?”

“I said I would,” you dismiss, a single thread of guilt wrapping around your heart at the memory of where you’d just came from. “I woke up a bit early and needed a drink. Sore throat.”

Namjoon’s eyes widen dramatically, the concern on his face ringed by a mess of tanged purple hair. “I’m so sorry! I should’ve asked…”

“You’re fine, Namjoonie,” you murmur. “I was actually wondering if you’d want to-”

You break off to the sound of what is undoubtably Jungkook belting out his lungs from downstairs, announcing breakfast is ready. Namjoon lights up, kicking the blankets off in a rush to get out of bed. “I’m starving,” he chimes, getting dressed without a shred of the self-consciousness you’d witnessed the night before. Hunger has seemingly stolen all his brainpower, and you follow his eager slipstream as he rushes down the stairs noisily, thumping into the kitchen.

Both your heart and your core throb in disappointment, your opportunity for morning sex lost by the offer of a hot meal. Your mood sours even further when you come face-to-face with the three youngest serving up omelettes, Jimin smiling brilliantly, still dressed in a barely-buttoned silk pyjama shirt and some black glossy pants.

He barely spares you a glance, even as he sits almost directly across from you. You take a seat between Namjoon and Jin, Taehyung, Jungkook and Jimin on the other side and the heads of the table kept by Hoseok and Yoongi.

You have to admit that the wafting smells of cooked egg, cheese and various spices have your stomach grumbling, so you vow to ignore the unsatisfied heat between your legs and the smug man across from you and tuck in, your knife cutting through the omelette like butter. It’s delicious, and clearly everyone at the table shares the same sentiment, moans of surprised enjoyment filling the air.

“I’m impressed, Jimin,” Yoongi admits, “the first time I’ve even seen you awake for breakfast and you make us this. It’s fantastic.”

His voice is melodic, teasing at your eyes even as you avoid looking at him. “Thanks, Yoongi-hyung,” Jimin replies warmly, “I was actually taught the recipe from one of my good friends who works as a chef in France.”

Hoseok isn’t impressed, and the way he scrunches his face up in annoyance makes you suppress a grin. “Let me guess, Remy the rat? If we dig around in that hair of yours will we find him tugging you around?”

Jimin ignores him coolly, knife twirling deftly around his fingers. “I haven’t seen Victor in several years, but his cooking lessons have always stuck with me. Dis-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirai qui tu es.”

“You are what you eat,” Namjoon muses, shoveling a wobbling stack of egg into his mouth.

Your eyebrows lift, turning to him with shock. “You speak French?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jimin straighten in interest at the man directly across from him, but Namjoon doesn’t seem to notice, cheeks bulging as he hurriedly tries to finish his mouthful. “Took it as an elective in university,” he explains once he’s done, “never actually been to France, though.” He turns to Jimin finally, eyes shining with the spark of curiosity that always seemed to smoulder there. “What’s it like?”

“C’est incroyable,” Jimin enunciates, the French dripping off his tongue like sparkling water. “Tu devrais y aller un jour. Mon ami a un appartement à Paris avec une chambre d’amis dans laquelle je séjourne des fois.”

Namjoon gasps, and you glance around the table, everyone bar the two of them looking totally confused. “Avec vue sur la Tour Eiffel?” The only indication it’s a question is the way his pitch rises, but the rest is incomprehensible to you, so you just return to your omelette, content to watch the conversation play out like a foreign movie without subtitles. Body language and tone being your only clues.

“Bien sûr,” Jimin replies easily, his head tipping to the side, eyes burning as he stares at the older man, “mais on pourrait peut-être parler de choses plus excitantes que cela? As-tu apprécié la compagnie de Y/N dans ton lit hier soir?”

You straighten up as you hear your name, glaring at Jimin in suspicion. You’d never regretted picking Spanish in high school instead of French more. Namjoon, interestingly, seems equally ruffled by Jimin’s comments. “That’s really none of your busi-”

“Tu vas me parler en Français, Namjoon, ou je vais commencer à te poser des questions en Anglais. Qu’est-ce que t’en dit? The choice is yours.” Jimin’s voice turns sharp, spitting out the syllables like jabs. The choice? In unison, everyone at the table turns to Namjoon in question as the academic flushes.

“Fine,” he says shortly in English, before switching back to French. “On n’est pas vraiment... allés jusqu’au bout. J’allais lui proposer ce matin, mais tu nous a appelés pour le déjeuner. .”

Jimin’s mouth curls slowly, deviously, making Namjoon swallow. You feel your own cheeks heat at the thought that they were very likely speaking about you. “Is that so?” Jimin asks in English, head tipping slowly. He takes a single bite of his breakfast, making Namjoon shift awkwardly in his seat at the wait. “Well; I do apologise for interrupting.” You look up between the two of them. Was he referring to him spanking you that morning? Or him calling you down just when you were going to make a move? Jimin isn’t done, sliding down in his seat just slightly, so he’s leaning back. “Laisse-moi me faire pardonner.”

Namjoon’s brows knit and his mouth opens to reply, but suddenly he goes ramrod stiff, eyes flying wide open. “Wh-what are you-?” His chest heaves once, his throat bobbing as he swallows down the rest of his sentence.

You frown, glancing down to see the shiny tip of Jimin’s shoe pressed firmly against Namjoon’s crotch, shifting back and forth. You look away, hoping to avoid attracting more attention to Namjoon’s predicament, but you can’t deny the hot rush of heat between your own thighs at the thought of Jimin getting Namjoon off at the breakfast table with just the sole of his shoe. You finish off the last of your omelette bitterly, hating the way that your mind wishes you were in Namjoon’s seat right now.

Like nothing’s happening, Jimin continues to converse with his elder, the others at the table seemingly none the wiser. “Ce n’est peut-être pas une une chatte bien chaude et humide, mais tu es un bon garçon, n’est-ce pas? Tu vas prendre ce que je te donne, non?”

“Jimin,” Namjoon croaks out, voice surprisingly steady even as it’s low with arousal, “i-is there any more batter left? I’d love another omelette.”

Jungkook pipes up, finally hearing enough English to be able to contribute. “There’s not much left, but I was actually thinking I kinda feel like some hash browns and bacon, so we could go for round two if anyone else is up for it?”

Yoongi and Jin, like they’ve been awakened with the promise of more food, drag their chairs back simultaneously to stand. “I don’t trust you with frying bacon, Jungkook,” Jin answers from beside you with a small grin, “let hyungs help.”

Half the table files away, Hoseok also joining those in the kitchen, probably because he’s hoping for some taste-testing, and you’re left with Taehyung being the only unaware party, on his phone as he mindlessly sips away at a glass of juice.

“Regarde-moi ça,” Jimin announces with melodic glee. “il y a moins de regards sur toi maintenant. Les autres sont dans la cuisine, Taehyung ne nous prête pas attention, et Y/N sait déjà ce qui est entrain de se passer; regarde-la.”

You glance up at your name but Taehyung doesn’t even react, mouth slightly open as he focuses on the video he’s watching silently, pinky finger tapping at the condensation on the glass absentmindedly.

Namjoon turns to face you, before glancing down at the shoe which rocks faster and broader between his legs, his cock tented and leaking a small wet patch in his trousers. He knows you know. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t-”

Jimin overtakes deftly, making Namjoon hunch over the table as the jerking of his shoe against Namjoon’s clothed cock speed up. Even as Jimin’s eyes are on you, he addresses the older man in lush French. “Est-ce que tu vas venir comme ça, hm? Crois-tu pouvoir rester silencieux?”

Your skin feels like it’s on fire, the heat stemming from between your legs as you wish you could’ve felt some contact from Jimin instead. Even just the sole of his shoe would be better than nothing, but it seems that Namjoon doesn’t share the sentiment, as his hand shoves at Jimin’s foot. “Rouge,” he gasps out lowly, and Jimin recoils like he’s been shot.

Sitting upright, feet to himself again, Jimin’s eyes widen at the word. Even with the little to no French knowledge you have, you can guess the meaning. Red. Namjoon used the safeword. “I’m so sorry,” Jimin croaks, and you’re startled at the vulnerability and genuine apology in his voice, “are you not-?”

“Juste parce que je suis techniquement vièrge, ça ne fait pas de moi un soumis,” Namjoon explains with a rueful smile. You wish he would’ve spoke in English, but his light tone at least reassures you that he isn’t mad or hurt or upset. He mostly just seems a little embarrassed and overwhelmed.

“Can we stop speaking in baguette?” Taehyung pipes up miserably, putting his phone away. “Oui, oui. Mercy. Oh reservoir. Anything more complex than that and you’ve got me lost.”

Namjoon frowns, bewildered. “Do you mean merci and au revoir?”

“Do I?” Taehyung questions rhetorically, eyes dazed. Namjoon just shrugs hopelessly, but that seems enough for the black-haired boy. He cheers up a bit and, glancing at Namjoon’s hunched figure, lets out a short sigh. “You look tense, hyung. Do you need some help relaxing?”

Jimin bites his lip with guilt, and you hate the way you’re drawn to that pillow of flesh, so pink against the white of his teeth. What you wouldn’t give to lean over there and see what it felt like to kiss him.

Namjoon, however, seems less concerned with Jimin. You get the idea that perhaps he’s not one to have a short temper or hold grudges. “It’s okay, I think I might have a quick shower upstairs before the second lot of breakfast is finished.” Displaying his characteristic shyness, Namjoon makes an awkward yet completely unsuccessful attempt to leave the room without revealing his tented crotch.

Taehyung’s eyes follow it out until Namjoon’s out of sight, his mouth hung open. After a moment’s thought, brows knitted tightly together, Taehyung turns back to the two of you at the table. “Do you think he’s turned on by food or something? He did seem pre-tty eager to chow down that omelette. I should go ask him.”

“Jesus Christ.” Jimin sinks his face into his hands as Taehyung scrambles after Namjoon, and you honestly don’t blame him.

You manage to make it to late afternoon before you encounter Jimin again. After the meal, he speaks quietly to Jin and the two disappear into the private rec room. For you as well, the day is spent inside, Jungkook asking for your assistance in spotting him at the indoor gym, mostly so he can explain to you and Hoseok the extremely elaborate plot of his latest anime show while he lifts weights. You and Hoseok, completely lost, ended up spending hours there trying to understand all the character arcs and plot twists and backstories, eventually moving up to Jungkook’s room so he could show you the first few episodes. By the time he let you go, you made your way downstairs with a bag of laundry, having almost spent a full week in the villa.

Unlike most of the house, the laundry feels very basic and surburban: a front-loader, a dryer and a sink with some cabinets are really the only pieces of furniture, so you perch on the dryer as you wash, and the washer as you dry your load of clothes.

Letting the regular thump of the drying machine lull you into a sleepy daze, you’re too zoned out on your phone to notice someone approaching until fingers wrap around your phone, pushing it down away from your face.

Jimin’s still hasn’t changed out of his red pyjama shirt, and as you sit up ramrod straight and focus onto him, you admire the way the lapels lay open to expose his collarbones. “Fancy seeing you here,” he announces with a grin, eyes raking over you as you sit atop the washing machine.

“What a coincidence,” you deadpan, crossing your arms. “I know what you’re doing.”

“And what would that be, little mouse?”

You fight the urge to press your legs together at the petname, Jimin’s eyes intelligent and self-satisfied as they watch you. “Coming here to seduce me.”

Jimin laughs, and your cheeks flush hot at the sound, his head tipping back to expose a graceful neck. “Oh, Y/n, don’t think so highly of yourself. I’m just here to do my laundry.”

Dubious, you keep your legs dangling over the side and your arms crossed as you look down. True enough, a basket of washing rests and his feet, and you wait bitterly as he brushes your legs wider so that he can turn on the machine, selecting the right settings and pouring in a scoop of detergent. You keep a stoic silence, biting down on your tongue at his actions, but he doesn’t seem to care about your eyes on him.

In fact, he appears to openly thrive on it, sinking into a crouch in front of the machine and blinking up at you innocently, his face in front of your aching crotch. Refusing to give in, you press your lips together while he opens the door and deposits his clothes, socks, underwear, everything he’s been wearing the past few days. Once he’s done, you feel yourself relax a bit, but then he lets out a thoughtful hum.

“I suppose I should wash these too,” he muses, fingering at the bottom edge of his shirt, and your mouth goes dry. That fucker. He doesn’t even look at you as he undresses, but the smirk on his lips speaks volumes.

Your hips long to writhe, but you force yourself still as he unbuttons his shirt, opening it up and chucking it in casually, running a hand over his now-naked chest, quite literally rubbing it in. The most skin you’ve seen on him yet, you allow yourself to drink in the sight. He’s more muscular than you’d expect, though it’s all lean muscle, graceful yet speaking to a corded strength.

Even though you know it’s coming, there’s nothing that can prepare you for the obscene sight of him pulling down the zipper of his black patent leather pants, revealing equally black boxers. He’s not hard, not even the slightest hint of a chub, and the thought infuriates you that he could make you so needy without even getting aroused himself, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

As he lowers his pants down, his thighs are revealed in all their glory, the thickest part of him. They flex as he lifts each leg, tugging off the pants fully and tossing them in. Though you hadn’t noticed before, now is the first time you’ve seen him without his shoes on, and you marvel at the fact that he loses none of his power like this, that it really comes from within, from his piercing gaze, knowing smile and confident posture. Chucking them in the washing machine too, he pauses for a moment, lip tugged up in a smirk, before his ringed fingers find the elastic waistband of his boxers.

Startled, a breathy, “Jimin,” falls from your lips unbidden, barely audible.

“Hm?” Jimin has no regard for modesty as he bares himself fully, cock twitching as you stare, wide-eyed. “What’s the problem, little mouse? This is a shared facility.” He chucks the slip of light fabric amongst the rest of his clothes and shuts the lid, pressing start. A gasp escapes you as the machine kicks into gear, already beginning to shudder and rock under you, sending vibrations to your needy core.

As you stare, Jimin stands in front of you, resting a hand on the edge of the machine, right between your splayed legs. His dick is slowly plumping up, the man completely unbothered as he lowers his free hand to press at the skin around it, sighing.

Your fingers clench into fists as your arms remain crossed, pussy thriving and dripping with the pleasure after so long, but cursing that his hand is so close yet so far to your clothed cunt. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you spit, leaning back and tipping your head up to stare stubbornly at the ceiling. The image of him, his naked body is still seared onto your eyelids and you let out a huff. “You have no shame.”

“Shame never seemed like a particularly useful quality to have.”

“I’m not giving you what you want,” you insist, voice trembling slightly - though you blame the steady jarring of the washing machine that runs from your core all the way up to your teeth.

“Then I could say the same to you,” you hear Jimin reply easily, before letting out a suspiciously low groan.

Your head shoots down and you gawk at the way he grasps himself, fully hard now, and runs the crook of his pointer finger over his weeping head. His cock is gorgeous, the hair above trimmed neatly and the tip arcing towards the ceiling, towards your shocked stare as he smears the glistening precum around his head, hissing at the coolness of his rings on the heated skin.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you utter in complete bewilderment. “This isn’t washing your laundry!”

Jimin hums, head tipped back and eyes slipping shut in indulgence. “I can leave to jerk off alone if that makes you more comfortable?”

You fall silent, eyes locked onto his languid strokes. That isn’t what you want at all, and he knows it. “Jimin,” you murmur lowly, captivated by the slow drags of his hand on his cock, rings glinting wetly. He makes a noise of response, almost lost in the mechanical whirring and thudding of the washing machine that stirs in your loins. Your voice is barely louder than his. “Jimin, why are you making this so difficult?”

His head tips back down, lips parted and eyes lidded. “Oh, little mouse,” he sighs, “do you wish you could touch? Do you wish I was inside you?”

You glance again at his hand, resting mere centimetres away from your core. “You know I do,” you admit in a small voice.

“Then beg,” he replies simply, hand slowly picking up speed on his dick. “The only thing that’s keeping you horny and unsatisfied is yourself. You could’ve cum three times already if you knew what was good for you.”

You sigh, licking your lips needily. A light ding echoes in the room; your washing has finished in the dryer. You ignore it. “Please, Jimin.”

Jimin’s eyes open fully, locking on you with a smirk. “Closer,” he answers, teeth exposed as he grins just slightly. Still, though, he continues to stroke himself, even going so far as to take a half step forward to rest the underside of his cock against the washing machine, groaning at the vibrations.

You huff when you realise he isn’t going to speak further. “You do realise I could just go get myself off, right? You don’t have all the power here.”

You know you’ve said the wrong thing when his cheeks lift, lips spread wide in a teasing sneer. “We both know that’s not quite true. Perhaps I don’t have all the power, but a little birdie told me that you’re no longer allowed to put your hand in your own pants. I don’t suppose that rings a bell?”

He knows about Hoseok’s deal. Perhaps they all do. In an effort to wipe the smug look off his face, you scoff, spreading your legs wider in a show of relaxation. “Well then, I guess I might as well go upstairs and ask Hoseok to fuck me. I bet he’d do a better job than-”

Like lightening, his hand leaves his own cock and lashes out, fisting your shirt in his hands and tugging you forward, hard enough that you have to quickly uncross your arms and grab onto him to stop your foreheads from knocking together. You gasp at the fiery look on his face, his voice a sharp growl. “If you think he can fuck you half as good as I can, you’re dreaming.”

“Wha-?” you make out, so close that your breath ruffles the wisp of hair that swoops over his brow.

Just as quick as he grabbed you, Jimin lets go, stepping away. “Your laundry is ready,” he announces lowly. “You’ll be waiting outside my bedroom door in two hour’s time or you won’t get anything at all. Clear?”

Startled, you nod, jumping down off the mid-cycle washing machine, your legs feeling wobbly with the sudden withdrawal of vibrations. Grabbing your washing out of the dryer, you rush out the room with one last glance at him before the door slams and locks behind you. All is silent in the hallway as you ascend the stairs, but internally you scream with excitement.

Two hours drags and stretches and then snaps, everything too slow and then too fast until you’re knocking on Jimin’s door, stomach swirling sickly with anticipation.

He takes his sweet time answering, heightening your heart rate, but by the time he does it takes your breath away. He’s in a different pair of black pants, jeans that are skinny enough to make his legs seem a million miles long. His chest is fully covered this time, but it’s a transparent white mesh singlet, a white pressed blouse with gold buttons and cufflinks unbuttoned at the top to expose it. His lips, plush as ever, are covered in a sheer gloss that glints in the light and his eyes are intense in the frame of thick lashes and a hint of shadow on the lids, warm and smokey. As usual, he’s laden with jewellery, his classic silver rings paired with a pair of thin dangling chains from his lobes that sway hypnotically when he tilts his head in greeting.

You, too, had dressed for the occasion, seeking out your prettiest pair of lingerie - a black lace set with embroidered vines and buds around the hems and cups. The only thing you’re wearing on top is a black silk robe tied lazily around your waist. Thanking your lucky stars nobody had wandered into the upstairs hallway while you were waiting, you step inside, the thick carpet under your bare feet muffling your steps.

Jimin is back in shoes, and you bite your lip when you recognise them as the ones he’d worn at breakfast just that morning. It feels like days ago, your heightened arousal the whole day stretching time into an eternity.

“Kneel,” he instructs shortly, pointing at the carpet in front of him. For a moment you hesitate, but you'd gotten so far and it would be foolish to test your luck and risk getting thrown out with nothing yet again. Besides, part of you wants to see what he'll do when you're actually good for him. You kneel.

His room is perhaps one of the largest excluding yours. His bathroom door is shut, but even just the bedroom has room for a queen bed, two nightstands, a dresser and a chest at the foot of the bed which you're facing. You wonder idly if he'd paid the staff off for the biggest room, but before you can ponder much more he steps in front of you, his crotch right at your eye-level. You glance up him, sucking in a breath at how perfect he looks glancing down at you.

You lick your lips in anticipation, and it draws his attention. "This pretty little mouth of yours," he muses, reaching out to run his fingers over your lips, tugging down the flesh to watch it bounce back. Your chest puffs in pride, mouth practically watering at the thought of sucking him off. You part your lips when he presses on the seam, and his first two fingers delve into your mouth, slowly thrusting so that the pads run along your tongue, making you drool around his digits. You widen your jaw obediently, eyes pleading. But his face changes, then, a frown clouding his features. "More trouble than it's worth," he decides stiffly, and suddenly your mouth is empty, Jimin wiping your saliva off on your cheek before he turns his back to you, opening the chest.

Your mouth stays slack and open, but for a different reason. From what you can see, the wooden box is filled with toys, slips of fabric and leather, metal chains, everything. Suddenly, something catches your attention. At the bottom right corner, the initial PJM have been gracefully engraved, painted in with a glossy black ink. This is his, you realise, what he uses for his shoots. You feel your panties dampening between your legs as he rifles around.

When he turns back around, you recoil slightly, recognising the buckled contraption he comes up with. A ball gag. He smiles wickedly at your reaction, standing over you and running his hand through your hair, combing it back from your face. "This is a good thing, little mouse," he explains, tapping your lips twice to indicate to widen your jaw. You obey in a daze, feeling the sphere of unforgiving black plastic fill the front half of your mouth, your teeth keeping it in place. "Now you won't be tempted to run your mouth. Isn't that thoughtful of me?" You glare up at him as the straps wrap around your skull, his deft fingers tightening the buckle just enough so you can't spit the ball out. Your breath comes through your nose now, huffing at him.

He chuckles, crouching in front of you. It's overwhelming, suddenly having his face so close again. The perfect swells of his cheekbones, the sculpted brows and intelligent eyes so intensely locked onto yours. "You can't speak now, little mouse. So your safeword is going to be non-verbal. Click your fingers once for yellow, and over and over as much as you can for red. Okay? Click now so I know you can do it."

You click your fingers, feeling your chest ease slightly with the reinforcement of your safety net. The moment you're done, however, that warm concern vanishes, and he straightens up, turning away from you yet again.

"You're lucky," his voice announces, leaning over to dig in his box of tricks, "normally I'm not so generous. Normally I wouldn't let you cum until you'd well and truly earned it. But those cries of yours on the Monday night..." He trails off, spinning back on his feet to face you, a pair of leather cuffs in his hand, unconnected with heavy duty silver loops dangling from them. His eyes pierce you with a hint of vulnerability that you don't think he even realises he's showing. "You drive me crazy, Y/n. I want to hear you cum over and over and over again for me."

No matter how much your chest rises and falls, you feel breathless, eyes wide. Unable to verbally respond - though you don't even know what you'd say - you just give him a pleading gaze, hips rocking against the bottoms of your feet in search of friction.

He lets out a breath, stepping forward. "Take off your robe," he instructs with a rough voice. Your fingers fumble with the slack knot, hurriedly shedding it and tossing it away, leaving yourself in just the lingerie. "Fuck," he says with a breathy chuckle, "you're gonna be the death of me, little mouse. Wrists."

You clench your teeth around the ball gag in a keen at his words, lifting your arms up to reach him.

One at a time, he fits on the leather cuffs. They're relatively wide, though not too thick, and once he does up the buckle on each one you feel your eyes flutter. Something you'd never felt before but it's divine, the way they wrap so snugly around your wrists, not only a physical anchor, but a reminder that you're his, letting out a low moan when he slips a finger in one of the silver loops, tugging to ensure the fit.

Jimin's lip twitches at your reaction, and instead of telling you to stand, he uses the hoops, pulling your wrists up by the cuffs until you stand to ease the pressure, stumbling slightly as you get off your knees without your hands to assist. He leads you to the head of the bed, where you see the two chains that wrap around the bars of the headboard.

"On," he instructs, letting go so you can clamber up, sitting as you await further instruction. "On your back, darling," he coos, pressing at your shoulder so your head rests back onto the pillow. Automatically, you lift your arms, pulling a smile from his lips as he loops the chains through the silver hoops of your cuffs, spreading your arms wide apart, knuckles brushing against the wood of the headboard.

"Don't go anywhere," he remarks teasingly before leaving you, retrieving a few things from the chest. You tug slightly at one of your cuffs, testing it, and muffle a groan at the feeling of being trapped, tied down and at his mercy.

When he returns, his hands are full, and he tosses the fruits of his labour on the bed beside your torso, getting up on the bed to sit between your legs. You gasp when he tugs your ankles firmly, making you slip down so that your arms are straight, less room to struggle. This way, too, you can barely crane your head up, chest blocking your few of the toys he's brought over.

"Now," he says with a patient sigh, fingering the hem of your panties, "let's get rid of these, mm?" You lift your hips obediently when he goes to slip them down, curling your toes at the sudden cool air on your pussy. "Fuck, look at you," he gushes lowly, his fingers running up and down your slit so light you can barely feel them, making you whimper. "So fucking wet, little mouse. I haven't even touched you."

You lift your head to moan at him, trying to get out your plea, though your words are unrecognisable through the ball gag.

He pouts teasingly, rubbing the flat of his palm over you, slicking up his hand. "Oh, poor baby. The mean old Jiminie kept teasing her, did he? Baby just wants to cum?"

You groan, eyes scrunching shut as you nod your head. Even the simple touch of his hand between your legs is so good you could cry.

You tremble when you feel two fingers slip inside your wetness, a tight fit but one that lets him in so smoothly with how much you're soaked for him. He finds your g-spot with an almost supernatural ease, rubbing at it with the pads of his two fingers, curling inside you. You let out a strangled groan which makes him chuckle.

"I'm being generous now, aren't I? Say thank you, Y/n."

You sob. He knows full well you can't speak, but you obey nonetheless, letting out an unintelligible garble of your thanks.

"Good girl," he coos, and your legs fall apart wider in bliss as he begins an indulgent pace, the cool bands of his rings when they plunge inside you addictive. The second his thumb lifts up and begins rubbing at your clit, you're already on the edge from being deprived so long, and you cum almost immediately, shuddering around his fingers at the deep but powerful satisfaction.

You come down from your high relatively quickly, but he's already slipped his hand out, and you glance down in confusion, only to choke on a moan when you see him, tongue poking out slightly in focus as he uses your own slick to lube up a dildo, a powder pink silicone one that's roughly the shape of a cock, but far smoother, getting wider at the bottom for a place to hold it.

Once he's done, almost without acknowledging you, he grips your knee, making it bend and your leg lift higher up the bed, spreading you wider open for him, the other one still flat on the mattress, splayed wide.

"That was your warm-up, little mouse, I hope you enjoyed it," Jimin remarks with a grin, and you breathe heavy around the gag, back arching as he presses the head of the dildo into you.

It's far wider than his two fingers, and the stretch dumbs you, making your mind slow to a halt to appreciate every inch that fills you, dragging against your sensitised g-spot. Jimin's knuckles bump your clit when he bottoms out, and you shiver, the dildo so deep inside you.

"Let's get started, shall we?" he declares rhetorically with a wolfish grin, and once again your eyes squeeze shut when he begins a bruising pace, every strike spearing you open and making your eyes water. Your spine hitches as you writhe beneath him, but his grip on your bent leg is too strong, and no matter how hard you clench he drives the dildo so fully inside you that your mouth is slack, wide enough that your teeth don't even clamp around the ball on your tongue. With an open mouth, more sound comes through, and you hear the room filling with the wet sound of him fucking you with the dildo, but also your own moans and hiccuped screams.

He fucks you to the edge faster than you can comprehend. There's so much pleasure on every stroke, and he's using so much speed that it feels like you can't take it, like you might explode, but still he pins you down, letting you yank at the cuffs that bind you as you're forced to cum violently around it, thigh muscles clenching as you try to clamp your legs around the intrusion.

"Fuck, that's it, don't stop cumming," you hear him growl, and you sob with pleasure as your orgasm morphs quickly into oversensitivity, but Jimin never lets up for a second.

Your eyes water, tears slipping down over your temples as he continues to fuck you, and suddenly you no longer feel his hand on your leg, it flopping down weakly as fingers tap over your hand.

"Don't forget the signal," he instructs as you sob and writhe, "I'm not fucking stopping without it."

It takes you a moment to process that he's asking about the safeword, but as overwhelmed as you are, you don't want him to stop. "Hngingn," you cry, his name coming out jumbled through the ball gag, and your legs automatically lock around his hand, seeking to stop the roughly thrusting dildo, but his spare hand just rips your legs away, one of his jean-clad knees pinning down your shin and your screams reach a new pitch when you feel fingers strumming at your clit, the pleasure like a million needles, making your hands fist.

After an eternity of going crazy with overstimulation, you pass a bend. The pain turns back into pleasure, and you settle, going quiet and shifting slightly to seek it out, eyes rolling at the rhythmic rocking of your hips as he fucks you with the dildo.

"That's it," Jimin guides, breathless with exertion, "I want you to cum again, little mouse. Clench tight for me."

You do as he says, eyes so blurry you can't even see anything but the patch of blue in your vision, his head bobbing slightly as he speaks.

Without thinking, you follow his instructions, and like clockwork a third orgasm rips through you, taking you by surprise as the extra pressure of the dildo on your g-spot plunges you over the edge. You hadn't even realised you were close, but clearly Jimin had, and you tremble beneath him, letting the waves of pleasure flood to every corner and crevice of your body, your fists tightening and your toes curling. You weep openly at how good it feels, whimpering when his fingers on your clit stop and the dildo slows, slipping out of you one last time with a slick noise.

You're sweating, twitching, trembling, but still you manage to blink away your tears and focus on him blearily as you feel him removing the ball gag from around your head, fingers gentle as they massage your jaw slightly, letting you close it and lick your lips, feeling the ache.

"Did so well," he praises, and you pant happily, a lazy smile stretching out on your face as your tears begin to dry. The sound of a zip makes you frown, so you glance down to see Jimin already fisting his own cock, just as red and needy as the last time you'd seen it. You whimper as he shuffles forward, lifting your legs up into the air to spread you wide for him.

Almost forgetting you can speak now, you whimper wordlessly for a few moments, before making out a weak, "Jimin," tone pleading.

"Shh," he coos, his cockhead tapping at your drenched entrance, making you shiver. "One more, little mouse."

"I can't," you sob, chest hitching as he slips into you, just bigger than the dildo. You let out a reedy cry at how he strikes you're abused g-spot, and his fingers massage the backs of your thighs soothingly.

"You can," Jimin insists, fucking into you slowly, making you hiss every time, "just one more for me. You have your word."

You sob at the overstimulating madness as his pace picks up, driving so intensely inside of you, but you don't use the safeword. There's a kind of euphoria bliss to being stretched to your limits, pushed so far, and you trust him to take care of you, want to do a good job for him.

So you shake your head, moans blending into cries blending into whimpers. "Fuh-fuck," you gasp as once more sharp stimulation turns warm again, and you near a fourth orgasm. You shiver under Jimin, his thrusts so deft and powerful, jerking your body in rhythm. "I ca- I can't cum again," you admit shakily, "'s too much, Jimin, I can't take it!"

Jimin grunts with the force of his thrusts, but his hands are gentle as they keep your legs spread. "You're almost there, little mouse, you're doing so well."

Your back arches violently when he drops one of your legs to rub at your clit, fresh tears streaming into your hairline. "Fuck, oh god, I'm gonna- fuck!"

You stream as your final orgasm takes you like a train, and a feeling you've never experienced rushes through you as you squirt, thighs clamping iron tight around his hips as he curses at the sight and spills into your trembling body.

Even in the throes of his own orgasm, you feel Jimin's hands pass up and begin releasing you from the headboard, your arms falling limply as he cups your face, barely even rocking into you as every slight movement plunges you into oversensitivity.

You gasp, trying to catch your breath with closed eyes as this thumbs brush away your tears, his cum hot inside you.

"God, Y/n, you were amazing, did so well for me," he confesses lowly in your ear, and you let out a whimper as he presses a single kiss to your cheek, the most tender he's been with you so far.

"Did well," you repeat mindlessly, "Jiminnie."

"You did," he promises, and you hiss as he pulls himself out of you carefully, the feeling of his seed mixed with your own cum flooding out down onto the sheets. "God, look at you," Jimin muses under his breath, surely not meant for you to hear.

Barely conscious, your eyes flutter, and the last thing you remember seeing is him stripping off his expensive white cotton blouse, cleaning you up with it so gently that you barely feel the sting on your clit.

FAN FAVOURITE

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Okay real talk doing 5 ppl per comment takes fucking AGES so imma just try 45 since last time 50 didn’t work.

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xtrash-writing-trashx420 · 4 years ago

Text

Cheeky Minx || John Shelby x OC

//Welcoming the New Recruit//

"Makenna Aoife MacTavish, A.K.A. Makenna Muldoon; Duchess of Glenbrook, Aged 23

Served at the Somme as a field nurse and,"

The man before me takes a pause and looks up at me in faux surprise, as if the information on the paper he's gawking at isn't exactly why he's come seeking me out, and then continues in an almost condescending manner;

"Hm... and soforth was awarded title as Duchess and Sole Proprietor of Glenbrook Estates and Enterprises in Boston for her acts of valor.," He pauses again to throw down the file he was reading and light himself a cigarette.

I take in every detail, knowing that this meeting can end up only one of two ways, and assess the scenario. Tilting my head slightly and leaning back into the armchair in front of his desk, I cross my legs; his eyes glance from his ministrations with the box of matches he's holding and zip down to my left thigh where one strip of honeyed milk lies perfectly exposed between my black leather garter holster and my thigh-high nylon stockings.

I see the slight glint of mirth cross his steel blue eyes as he catches my not-so-subtle warning and continues to light his cigarette. I watch as he pulls his drag, the way his fingers just barely drape the stick of tobacco between them without effort, the way his eyes study mine, the way his free hand keeps switching between his knee and the top of the desk.

'A gangster like this doesn't get nervous over one woman with a snubnose purse pistol... Who is he waiting for?'

"I'll take one, while your at it." He smirks at this, and goes to hand me the one he's smoking. It's my turn to smirk, as I nod to his pack.

"A new one, if you don't mind." He raises his eyebrow, but nevertheless, complies. As I lean forward to take the cigarette, he lights another match and lights it for me, leaning over his desk so I don't have to.

'A gentlemanly gangster, not too hard on the eyes either.,' I admit to myself, studying his sharp features and piercing eyes.

Finally, after what seems like ages of simply sitting across and analyzing eachother, he continues.

"You're titled Duchess of Glenbrook but the common people call you Miss Kenna. You have 15 bars, 2 breeders farms, a horse track and 27 plots of real estate, and that's just in London alone. Glenbrook Estates is what, a mansion? And it says here you have 3 vacation homes as well." He scoffs and throws the file down on his desk.

"Well, let's get on with it, Mr. Shelby, as you well know, I'm a busy woman.," My voice is far too suave for my liking, but the situation calls for a little theater. "I would assume you called me here for a reason, this is hardly the place for a business meeting with someone of my status."

I sound like a proper posh cunt, and it seems as if he's taking the bait as he groans out a sigh and leans back into his chair. He lifts a hand to rub his temples, and then slams his fist on his desk in a motion so fast and loud, I was almost startled.

Almost.

He seems unfazed my lack of reaction, and continues on.

"Let's not pretend like you don't know what I want. You have influence all over, spies everywhere, and a very high standing. Everyone knows who you are. Nothing happens without you knowing about it.-"

"-As if I don't already know that-" I snappily interject.

"And I want your men, and your cooperation when we take over London. You're the most untouchable woman in all of North America. If you tell someone not to fuck with us, they won't. And those that do, you have ways of making it so they never existed."

I frown, sinking into the armchair infront of his desk once more and taking a long drag of my smoke.

"I see."

For the next few minutes we simply stare at eachother while we finish off our smokes, picking, analyzing, contemplating. Finally, after he offers me the crystal ashtray to put out, I appraise him and ask one simple question.

"What do you want from me?"

~~~~~~~

It's been 2 months since my meeting with Thomas Shelby at his gambling den, and 6 days since our last correspondence.

"Pack what you can in a suitcase and my men will come to collect you on Thursday. You're not safe."

No explanation, no reasoning, just that little tidbit over the phone while gunshots rang true and the sounds of men fighting grumbled in the background before he abruptly hung up. And since Thursday had come and gone the day after the call, I had resorted to relieving all of my staff save for my most trusted.

The only ones left on premises were my gate guards, my doormen, and my butler amd personal guard Carleton, who had only worked for me for 2 years but I was rather well aquanted with. We had hit it off rather well, and I considered him more friend than staff. He was a tall, broad shouldered Jewish man with a scruffy, large beard and bright eyes that reminded me of a child's, with a contradictory scowl that would make a grizzly piss himself.

Initially after receiving the warning, I had brushed it off without care. Being hunted was nothing new to me after all, being a woman who had served in the war and in other more internal battles of politics. But this was different.

I remember after the call I had snorted in laughter, summing it up as a joke and continuing on with my day. I had been untouchable, faceless and anonymous since the war. Only the most internal government files and most skilled intelligence organizations even knew what I looked like, let alone my real name. That was what had led me to agree to take up business with Thomas in the first place. But 2 months into business with the bloke and I show up to my race track to find every single one of my employees and horses shot and beat to hell.

Since then, I had taken to locking myself in my art studio with my easels and paints to distract myself; though it did little to nothing to soothe my racing mind. For the millionth time in just that day, I wondered why I wasn't safe, I wondered if Thomas and his Blinders had been picked off by their enemies, I wondered if my name had been let slip by one of his lackies in a braw deal that ended badly. I couldn't understand how I had gone from being untouchable, to going into hiding.

The only constant in each equation was none other than Thomas Shelby, and I made a mental note to tear him a new asshole when I got the chance.

I gave a start, knocked from my thoughts as Carleton entered with my afternoon tea, and my paintbrush skewed off stroke.

"Oh, fuck." I swore crassly, looking around my desk to find the paint I had used on the background to cover my mistake; not noticing my butler's sarcastic and smug grin over my classless use of vulgarity.

"Your tea, and lunch, Miss Muldoon." He presented my tray with grandiose show of putting it on my desk and lifting the cover to reveal my tea and what looked to be ladyfingers and some sort of meat sandwich. I didn't care, I was starving and anxious, so I sat and ate, thankful for the distraction.

"Don't be so smug, Carleton, I'm going mad up here." I complained as I ate, gesturing around me. "That smug bastard Shelby is going to pay for this. I've lived so comfortably until now."

"Speaking of, madam, you received a telegram."

"Oh bother, burn it."

"It seems important, ma'am. It mentions the race track."

At this I lean back to look over at him, he's moved clear halfway across the room to speak, and he's shifting his weight and wringing his hands. I sigh, and wave him on. He reads it out slowly, and I "tsk" in disappointment.

"You haven't been practicing," I chastise him, pulling a "give it here" motion with my fingers and taking the telegraph from him as soon as he's close enough. "Have you even read any of the practice books I've given you?"

"...No, ma'am, it's more difficult when you're not helping."

I glance at him with an incredulous look.

"That's no excuse, and you know it." I say, finally taking a moment to look at and read the telegraph in my hands, but it doesn't matter, because as soon as I go to focus, a gunshot resounds from outside the estate by the gates.

With a start, I get up and run to the window, moving the curtains to get a better view. I hear Carleton move the opposite way, closing the doors behind him as he leaves.

I continue to watch out the window, trying to see whats happening, though not to much success. The large fountain in my front garden is centre view from this room and all I can see behind it is a motorcar at my gate and my gatemen pointing their rifles at it. As I walk along the windows to try to catch a better view, I just barely see an arm come out the window of the motorcar with a piece of paper clutched in their outstretched hand before my gatemen move to unlock the gate and let the car through.

That's all I need to see to know.

The Peaky Blinders are outside my house.

(SO this will be a series based off of a slightly Mary-Sue character but it just is part of the story, please don't hate me for it lol. It'll make sense as to why she's this massive standing character later on. She's still a normal ass broad with hormones and issues so its okay lmfao. But anywhoooo, this is basically just a filler character intro to explain why Kenna is around and stuff. John will be in the next chapter, don't worry 😉 also my dumbass didn't proof-read this because its 6:00am and I NEED sleep. )

#john shelby imagine #john shelby x reader #thomas shelby #john shelby #arthur shelby #polly shelby #michael shelby #michael gray #peaky blinders imagine #peaky fucking blinders

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nosferatvpussy · 4 years ago

Text

distorted lullabies [chapter IV]

Word count: 4,113

Warnings: vulgar language

Pairing: Dracula x reader

AO3 link

Author’s note: Listen... I wrote this chapter this past week and I must say I'm not happy with it. My brain is mush due to work so that's all I could come up with. I wish I could've done better but I know if I delayed posting it I would never do it. Feedback would be greatly appreciated on this one (good or bad).

“Oh my fucking God.”

My day had started out fine. I had woken up in a surprisingly good mood considering it was Monday and then I ruined it.

With the exception of Count Dracula’s visit to my house, my weekend was pretty uneventful. Sunday was spent grocery shopping with Diana and reviewing cases to prepare myself for court sessions during the following week. Occupying myself with work was not only necessary but also served as a good distraction from the deal I had struck with the Count.

Being arrogant had its advantages in my line of work but after proposing a deal to a vampire, I was starting to think how quickly that arrogance could turn into vanity and plain stupidity. A deal from which I had yet to glimpse a way out of? Could I outsmart a centuries old vampire and wiggle out of that deal? On Saturday night I was pretty sure I could. Now… Not so much.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I muttered, receiving ugly looks from people on the tube.

My hand covered my mouth so I would stop cursing and to stop it from falling open.

Reconnaissance was part of any good lawyer’s job and that was what I had decided to do as my first course of action against Count Dracula. As soon as I had found a good spot to sit in the tube, I googled him by his title. All of the pages included the interesting moniker Vlad the Impaler followed by his actual name Vlad Dracula. That in itself was enough for a chill to run down my spine but each line I read managed to make it worse.

He was born in the Middle Ages, more precisely in 1431, which put him somewhere over five hundred years old. So, I had made a deal with someone overly experienced in the matters of life, which wasn’t ideal but could be remedied. But then I was met with medieval drawings depicting him dining amongst a field of impaled people. One particular page had supposed accounts from Ottomans and Saxons describing the atrocities committed by him. Boiling people alive, nailing hats to people’s skulls so they wouldn’t take it off, setting beggars and thieves on fire to “cleanse” Wallachia were just some of his various lovely bedtime stories. Those tales had elicited my first string of curses, which yes evoked the name of God in a blasphemous way but at that point I didn’t care if I offended a higher power or not.

Not only was he abhorrently vile, he was smart. Smart enough to send people infected with the plague to infiltrate enemy camps, using them as biological warfare and weakening enemy numbers. Not many people would have thought of such a tactic in the Middle Ages. Apparently the sight of the impaled people put on display around the city Targoviste was so repulsive that the Ottoman Empire simply retreated. And albeit having half or sometimes a quarter of the army of his opponents, he still managed to win several battles because of his cunning.

That was the part that made me curse several times as some sort of mantra. A ruthless and smart ruler that had been a monster long before he became a vampire, that was who I was up against. And he had five hundred years of practice under his belt. How nice for me.

My body took control as my mind raced and I got off at Canary Wharf station, making my way to the overly modern glass plated building where I worked.

The Middle Ages were a long time ago and it was a notoriously dark and violent time. Desperate times call for desperate measures, one could say. It should serve as a logical explanation to make myself feel better but the cold sweat on the palms of my hands was an obvious sign that it wasn’t working. I resorted to my earbuds and played one of my favourite songs to try calm myself but I was barely paying any attention to it. The noise inside my head was far louder.

I willed my brain to catch up with my body once the elevator doors opened to the 17th floor. Work, now , I told myself. I could think about how to escape the Count’s grip later.

Greeting my colleagues, I made my way to my desk at the far left of the office. We occupied half of the 17th floor while the other half was made up of a café and a small finance firm. Smelling croissants and fresh coffee, I placed my purse and briefcase on my chair and was already making a b-line for the café when Renfield peeked his head out of a meeting room and waved for me to join him.

I threw my earbuds over my shoulders so the string could hang from around my neck and stuck my phone on my trousers' back pocket. Renfield promptly closed the door as soon as I stepped inside. He splayed his arms over the doorway, blocking it. Eyes with dilated pupils watched me from behind thick glasses. Frowning, I looked out through the blurred glass walls that outlined the meeting room we were standing on. If he was about to reprehend me for something I’d done then at least I wouldn’t have to deal with the embarrassment of the whole office witnessing it.

Renfield had always been composed and taken great pride in his work and looks. For the past few days that stopped being true. Not only was he acting in a disturbing manner, he also appeared unwashed. His hair was greasy and a few strands stuck to his forehead. His suit had a stain on a lapel and he didn’t have a colourful handkerchief peeking out of his front pocket as he usually did. Overworked, I guessed, but never in all the years I knew him had I seen him this way. When I joined the firm as his intern, he let me write most of his opening and closing statements so I could learn and he would rehearse them on his office as I watched and explain why certain phrases should be changed to provide the necessary punch in court. He taught me the basics and all the clever little tricks one could use to dribble a prosecution. He was in the audience when I worked my first case alone in front of a judge. He was there when I won my first case and he took me out for a beer. And he was there when I lost for the first time and he took me out for whiskey. We still went out to celebrate whenever one of us won a case.

“Good morning, Y/N,” he rasped, barely sounding like himself. “Are the Mast-- the Count’s documents in your possession?”

The Master’s, that’s what he almost said. A little too late I remembered that Renfield was Dracula’s servant and automatically took a step back to put distance between us. The Count had arrived at London a week ago, which could explain my boss’ disheveled appearance.

“They’re at my desk.”

He nodded and licked his lips in a way that made me think of a lizard.

“And what did you think of him? Of Count Dracula?”

The lunatic gleam in Renfield’s eyes made my decision before I could think through it very much.

“He’s polite and handsome,” I said in the most neutral tone I could manage. “I’ll get the documents and bring them to you. Excuse me.”

I closed the distance between us with more confidence than I felt. Nudging Renfield’s shoulder to the side so he would make way, I tried to grab the doorknob and then he was on me. He pinned me against a glass wall before I had a chance to push him back and his hand yanked my shirt’s collar down, exposing my neck.

“Ah! Ah!” he exclaimed loudly. “I knew it!”

I tried to fight him off, terrified of the crazed look on his bulging eyes, but he slammed me back on the glass. It trembled under my weight.

“ Why … you ?” Spittle landed on my face as he spoke and I cringed. “Why would he bestow such a gift on you?!”

Understanding dawned on me and for a second I stopped trying to escape. He was infuriated because Count Dracula had bitten me and not him, like some sort of drug addict that had his vice taken away.

“Let me go,” I said, summoning a calm semblance. “Ask him about it. It’s not like I offered him a drink.”

“No, not a drink. If he wanted just a drink he would have killed you. He’ll make you his bride. But I-- I have worked so hard, so so hard. I deserve it, I do, I do,” he was whimpering now and shaking his head to the sides like a child.

“I know, I know,” I cooed but I had tears on my eyes.

His hands wrapped around my neck and squeezed. My eyes instantly bugged out of my head and the tears flowed freely down my cheeks as I struggled. My hands found his face, trying to slap him or scratch him, anything that would get him off of me. I hit the glass wall with the back of my heel repeatedly to try to get someone’s attention outside. Air couldn’t reach my lungs anymore and my windpipe would probably collapse if he pressed harder. The pressure on my head was enormous. I could barely see and my face felt like it would explode at any second.

Several figures burst in the room. Two of them tried to pry Renfield off of me and the other three screamed for him to let me go. The crushing force on my neck ceased all of a sudden and I went down like a sack of potatoes, falling on my side as I gasped for air.

“Master! Master!” Renfield howled, struggling against his captors. “I was good, I was good! MASTER!”

A hacking cough seized me as I tried to will air into my lungs but failed to do so in the speed I needed. Slowly my vision returned and I saw Henry and Mallory kneeling next to me, trying to get me to sit up. Renfield’s deafening screams filled my ears.

“What happened?!” Mallory asked as Matthew, another colleague of mine, and a security guard tried to pin Renfield to the ground as he continued shouting.

“Not h-his fault,” I croaked, covering my neck with my hand. I would have a new bruise to match my bite now.

Mallory and Henry started talking about what they should do while I found myself trapped in Renfield’s demented eyes. He wasn’t in there, not anymore.

“A psychotic episode,” I whispered to Mallory. It hurt to talk. “Call medics, not the police. It’s not his fault.” Mallory and Henry exchanged a look and nodded.

More people filed into the room to gawk at the scene. Several more people gathered around me, trying to be helpful to the point where they started to resemble vultures and not good samaritans. I allowed myself to be coddled by these people while my mind ran amok.

My chest tightened as if the sorrow I felt hurt physically as well. The man I had looked up to as an outstanding lawyer, the man I inherited the poise and the commanding voice… was gone. Reduced to the likes of a mewling baby and a deranged man.

I hardly paid attention when paramedics arrived and took Renfield away but when a paramedic wanted to check my neck, I was pulled back to reality by the bond I had to Count Dracula.

“No,” I told him, one hand securing my shirt’s collar to my neck so it was covered. “I’m fine, really.”

“Miss, please. By what your colleagues described he nearly choked you to death.” His hands hovered on the air around me as a second silent request to let him look at the bruise.

I shook my head vehemently but tears were welling in my eyes again.

I wanted desperately to tell someone just then. To explain about Renfield and the bite on my neck that marked me as his . But I couldn’t. My voice wouldn’t leave my throat because that too had become his . Even if I was able to tell someone, I knew it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. Bitten by a vampire? Surely I would be thrown in the psychiatric ward as Renfield would.

“I can’t,” I said weakly before pushing him out of my way and running to the restroom.

London’s night lights kept me company as I worked overtime on the firm. After spending the rest of my day warding off preoccupied people, I decided that I would need to add extra hours of work. At home I would succumb to my bed’s embrace and wouldn’t get any work done.

My desk lamp was the only source of light coming from inside the office and it illuminated the papers spread haphazardly in front of me. I had attended court earlier that day only to request an adjournment to Judge Llewellyn, who scowled and immediately demanded I explain myself. Matthew, my colleague, accompanied me to speak on my behalf since my voice box wasn’t strong enough yet to project my words to a courtroom. When Matthew explained the ordeal to Llewellyn I had the satisfaction of seeing the judge’s face dismantle in embarrassment for questioning me so harshly. It didn’t matter how much satisfaction it brought me because at the end of the day my case was delayed which impacted the life of a very dedicated mother who was disputing custody of her children with her ex. Catching up on cases and preparing future statements was my way of rectifying it.

I scribbled on a post-it and stuck it to a page before putting that pile to the side. I still had three more cases to review, draw up a plea bargain and think of a way to escape Count Dracula. I was procrastinating the latter.

The elevator opened with a ding on the other side of the floor and I raised my head to see who could it be at this time of night. A silhouette stepped out, standing in the darkness for only a moment before the hall’s motion activated lights came on. At once I sunk in my chair.

“Renfield... Where are you?” Count Dracula pitched his velvet voice in a mock song as he strolled in the office.

My heartbeat shot up in response and I shrunk further, trusting the darkness to conceal me. He swiveled his head directly at me as if my fear had drawn him. The lights from the buildings outside only illuminated half of his face.

“Y/N,” he said. My name on his lips sent a shiver through my body. “Working in the dark, are we?” When no answer came from me, he clicked his tongue. “I can’t seem to get ahold of Renfield but I suppose you’ll do. My assets were supposed to have been released today. The bank said I need-” He had been strolling my way as he talked but he stopped abruptly, whiffing the air. “You’re scared. Of me?”

He resumed his pace slowly, almost dragging his steps. Just then, I truly understood the feeling of being stalked by a predator.

“Why… are you... scared?”

He quickened his pace suddenly and covered over half the distance between us in seconds. I jumped from my seat and backed up as I searched frantically for a way out. The back of my knees hit a desk and I had to reach my hands back to stop me from toppling over it. I let out a squeak as I tried to regain my footing but it was too late. Dracula towered over me, so close I could smell his cologne. My face was turned away from him so I wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. I had a feeling that if I did he would devour me whole.

“Tell me why,” a whisper. His breath smelled like copper. “I will not have you of all people cowering from me.”

“Renfield was committed to a psychiatric ward this morning,” I blurted.

“Your voice,” he said.

Another squeak escaped my mouth as he grabbed my face and forced me to look at him. I expected to be met with a monstrous face but it was just him. Familiar dark eyes and lush lips. His stare fell from mine to my neck and he furrowed his eyebrows. His bite was well concealed under my shirt but the ligature mark was just beneath my jaw and in plain sight.

“He attacked me,” I provided in my frail voice. “Because you bit me.”

He pulled his lips down. Anger or disapproval, I wasn’t sure.

“I see,” he muttered.

“Is that what will become of me?” I asked.

“I told you-- I would never make you a servant.”

“No. Will I become a monster like you? Will I be uncaring? Will I enslave people? Kill them, torture them?”

He squished my cheeks between his fingers with every word I spoke. Perhaps provoking him wasn't a smart choice but I wouldn't simply lower my head and accept my fate.

“Only if you wish," he replied.

“You won’t even try denying it?”

“If I did I would be a hypocrite. And you think you are without blame.”

“Me?! How am I to blame for anything?"

He loosened his grip on my face until he finally allowed his hand to rest on the side of my neck.

“Yes, you. You the lawyer that defends robbers, murderers and rapists. And you know what’s interesting? I haven’t found much guilt about it in your blood. And now you accuse me of such things with disgust in your face? That, my dear, is a hypocrite.”

I swallowed his vitriol and it burned on the way down. Suddenly I didn’t like being provoked as much as I liked doing so.

“You ruined Frank!” I blinked at using Renfield’s first name. “He went mental today! Never in his life--”

“He’s weak , always has been but you never saw it. One look. One look was what it took for him to practically kneel before me. You shouldn’t hold people like him in such high standards.”

“Doesn’t bloody matter, he’s my friend!" The threat of tears made my voice tremble and I caught hold of myself before they spilled. “I don’t suppose you understand what that means.”

The snarl on his face made me think he would kill me right there.

“I should kill Renfield for what he did,” he murmured, stare searing into me. “But you wouldn’t like that.”

“Why does it matter what I like, Impaler?”

His brows softened as comprehension crossed his face and his lips parted in a grin.

“That is why you’re afraid, isn’t it? My darling, that was my human life, you have no need to worry.”

“And you’ve been an angel since then?”

“Oh never.”

I shifted uncomfortably. I was still supporting myself with my hands on the table behind me, slightly tipping backwards so the Count didn’t crawl on top of me.

Did I see a monster when I looked at him? Quite honestly no, yet I knew I should. He had done horrible things and I only knew about the things history had kept record of. I had learnt over the years that people are complicated. I had never met one person that was fully good or bad. If I had to classify myself, I wouldn’t know. My entire job was one big gray area. I swiveled around the lines of good and bad, never fully committing to any of them because I was paid for it. That wasn’t to say I didn’t have my own moral compass outside of the law. Count Dracula however… I had yet to find out if he had any moral compass at all.

“Will Renfield get better?” I questioned.

“He might. It’s difficult to predict how my power can affect some individuals, but he will remain my servant, that much I know. And he won’t attack you again, I’ll make sure of it.”

“Let him go.”

“I will not. He's quite good at being a servant.”

Renfield’s shouting replayed on my head.

“Let him go and I’ll let you feed from me whenever you want,” I said, shocking myself with my words. “But know this, I will never be yours.”

“Another deal? Tempting.” He licked his lips and my stomach coiled. “So very tempting.”

He reached to my waist, digging his fingers in my skin and I held back a gasp.

“Take the deal,” I urged.

Excitement grew within me. I preferred to believe that that was due to the possibility of tricking the Count into another deal but the tingling scar on my neck told a different story. I closed my eyes trying to concentrate and take full control of my body but it wasn’t responsive to rational thought. If he took the deal then it meant freedom for Renfield. That’s where my mind should be, not the rush of pleasure I had felt three nights ago when Count Dracula had bitten me. But by God, that’s what I wanted. I wanted to feel it again, feel his teeth sinking into my flesh and the dreamlike daze that followed.

Dracula’s arm circled me and smashed my body to his in a single motion, causing the gasp I had been holding to escape my lips. His thumb caressed my jawline while his fingers teased the back of my neck. In the little light between us I saw his black eyes swimming in carmine red. My heartbeat quickened lower in me when his tongue snaked out once again to lick his lips. Suddenly his fingers found my scar and massaged it lightly, evoking a moan from me. I rose my hands to hold his shoulders as an attempt to balance myself.

I felt more than heard his laughter.

“Look at you," he said. As he spoke I caught a flash of long and jagged teeth before it was gone. “‘I’ll never be yours .’ Liar, liar.”

I collected myself and pushed him away when I realised he was mocking me. He didn't move at fist but when I pushed him again he stepped back of his own volition, still laughing.

“Are you taking the fucking deal or not?”

“No,” he enunciated the word slowly. “I like this game we’re playing and I don’t want it to be over just yet. As powerful as you think you are, you don’t have the power to control me with your blood. I’ve granted you enough as it is.”

“I wasn’t trying-”

“Don’t lie.”

I closed my hands in fists.

“Fine. Can you at least say you’re sorry?”

“For what?” He raised his eyebrows.

“For Renfield,” I snapped, as if it wasn’t obvious.

“Do you want me to lie to make you feel better?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want you to do.”

“I wish Renfield hadn’t attacked you,” he said, sticking his hands on his pockets.

“That wasn’t the apology I was looking for.”

“I know.”

Why did I even want an apology? Was I desperate to find some semblance of regret on him? Desperate to find anything remotely good in him to justify my desire for him? I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep the tears away, hating myself for letting him affect me like that. My whole body desired him while I knew I should hate him for what he did to Renfield, for what he was doing to me. It made me feel like his plaything.

“Can you please leave? I have work to do.”

He nodded.

“I assume you’ll take over as my lawyer to assort my affairs.”

“Not like I have an option, is it?”

“Quite. I’ll leave you to it. See you Wednesday!"

He had already turned away, walking back to the elevator when I fully registered what he said.

“What happens on Wednesday?” I rose my voice to get his attention.

"I take you on a date," he answered over his shoulder.

I marched after him and stopped when I realised what I was doing. What could I possibly do or say to threaten a creature like him? I probably bothered him as much as soft wind did.

"I'm not going on a date with you after what happened today."

He slowly turned to face me again, a big grin on his face. A victorious grin. If he was winning, then I was on the losing side - of what, though?

“Oh but you are. Your deal clearly stated that I am to convince you that immortality is worth it. You didn’t express how I should do it. Therefore that end of the deal is mine to fulfill however I wish. ”

I groaned. Had I removed my brain at some point when I made that deal? I was used to being the winner inside courtrooms, and I had stupidly condemned myself by binding a contract between Count Dracula and I. As much as I would like to withdraw it, I didn't think he would be open to the idea. He had made it clear that he would make me a vampire whether I liked it or not. I had no choice but to abide by my own rules until I came up with a way out.

“I’d rather meet you," I said at last. "Where are we going?”

He smiled widely as he walked backwards, facing me.

“I’ll text you on Wednesday. Goodnight, darling.”

“Night, Dracula.”

Taglist: @festering-queen @mr-kisskiss-bangbang @thorin-smokin-shield @hoefordarkness @dreamer2381 @girlonfireice

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clockworkgraystairs · 5 years ago

Note

O.M.G!!! I loved your recent jurdan fic sooo much!! Can you write when she tells Cardan she’s pregnant?? Can Cardan get emotionally excited??I love their softness and excitement... love you 😍

Hello dear!!! Thank you so much for your words!

I’m sorry it took me long but my job is a pain in the ass and I don’t have as much time as I would like to write. Buuut here it is!

It also came out longer than I expected bc apparently I can’t keep things easy.

Anyway, ENJOY! LOVE U TOO!

~~~~

JUDE TELLS CARDAN SHE’S PREGNANT

Jude had spent half of her life learning how to face danger.

Years and years of training, creating strategies, fighting and even killing when she needed to.

Gods above, she was the Queen.

The High Queen of Elfhame, and she was shrinking on one corner of her sister Vivi’s bathroom; staring at the little pharmaceutic device, the third one, showing the result.

Jude carved her face with shaking hands.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She muttered, her breathing harsh.

This was supposed to be an ordinary weekend.

One year had passed since her official coronation and occasionally she liked to spend a day or two at the human world with Vivi, Heather and little Oak. Sometimes Cardan came with her, partially she suspected, since he’d caught some fascination for Sephora stores and some human customs, he claimed, he wanted to experience.

This time though, he’d stayed back in Elfhame, to attend some meetings Jude didn’t want to be part of.

Everything was going fine, they went to the park, to the movie theater and at last to the pizza place near her sister’s house, where Oak asked for Jude’s favorite to honor her visit. What she didn’t expect, was the sudden nausea that crept up her stomach as soon as the pizza arrived, making her ran to the toilet in a couple of seconds.

It didn’t take much time for Vivi to suspect what was going on, even with Jude’s insistence on it probably being a stomach bug.

On their way back to her apartment, she bought Jude three different pregnancy tests under the argument that “one could never know”. Then filled her with orange juice and waited. And waited.

So here she was. With three positive results. Pregnant.

A loud knock on the door made her jump. “JUDE? Is everything alright?? You’ve been there ages! Are you done??”

“Let her be Viv, don’t make her more nervous than she already is…” That was Heather.

“What? I’m not. I just want to know if-”

Jude stood and opened the door stopping her mid-sentence.

Two pairs of eyes stared at her expectantly. She pursed her lips and took in a deep breath.

“So, apparently I’m pregnant.” She said to no one in particular. The words sounded strange in her mouth, as if she wasn’t the one saying them.

“Are… are you sure?” Viv’s face had lost all track of emotion. Jude quirked an eyebrow and handed her sister the pregnancy tests.

What came next was a bunch of screaming and “oh my gods” and Heather swearing she’d dreamed about it a few nights ago. Maybe something else about a bet between her sister and Madoc.

Jude was only hearing half of it. Instead her mind was worrying about one thing only. Cardan. How in hell was she going to tell him? How was he going to react?

She didn’t even know how she felt.

They didn’t talk much about the subject. Some comments from the Court members about them providing heirs had quickly turned into inside jokes she and Cardan occasionally teased each other with. But joking about it was very different to this. To actually being pregnant. To carry life inside her that someday would become a baby, a child. For her to become a mother. For them to become parents.

How was a parent supposed to be to begin with? She’d grown up with her kidnapper, a cold-blood murderer as the only parental figure. Her husband didn’t have a better role model.

And now they’ll have to raise a new creature into this world. It was too much to digest in one day.

The next morning, she returned to Elfhame. Still with no clue of how to tell Cardan the news.

She found their chambers empty, and took the chance to take a bath and put on her queenly clothes before going to search for her husband. She needed to tell him immediately, before her sense of fake bravery vanished.

“Last time I saw him, Your Highness, he was on his way to his mother chambers.” Fand told her. Jude rolled her eyes and groaned, that was the last place where she wanted to go but her hands had already started to tremble, if she waited more time she wouldn’t be able to do it.

One step away from Asha’s door she hesitated. Jude had meant to knock, but the door was already half-opened and she could hear voices coming out.

“Seriously Cardan, how long are you going to keep this up?” Asha sounded annoyed. “You had your fun with the mortal girl, why keeping her at all?”

“She is my wife.” Was all he answered.

Jude leaned just a bit so she could peer inside the room. Cardan stood before his mother, who rested on a pile of cushions. His back faced the door so she couldn’t see his expression.

Asha sighed.

“That didn’t stop you from vanishing her once. And we are not at war anymore so I doubt her fighting skills are needed much.” she shrugged. “Aren’t you just bored already?”

Jude could see Cardan’s fist tightly closed. “I don’t see why my personal decisions affect you mother, nor why should I explain them to you.” His voice sounded strained. “As for Jude, she is no weapon just designed for war, and her staying is not for you to decide or even mention.”

Asha’s lips quirked just a little. “Ah, I see now. My dear son, are you not capable to see all of the pleasures you are denying yourself just for a whim?” She raised to her feet and rested one of her perfect hands on Cardan’s shoulder. “It is not rare for Kings to take mistresses, and let me tell you, I know several beauties who would do anything for the opportunity.”

Jude’s ears were ringing with rage. How dare she suggested such thing? To even consider the possibility of Cardan taking some vulgar… she shook her head, not even finishing the thought of it. She was so focused in her desire to take Asha’s head and slam her into the floor she couldn’t hear his answer.

Asha laughed in a cruel way that make Jude’s stomach turn as she came back to reality. Oh gods, was she going to be sick again?

“You ought to think of the future of your people too, you know. Elfhame will need an heir someday. And do you think the folk will not prefer a precious pure fae, instead of some half breed…” Asha’s eyes darted to the side and locked with Jude’s, making her heart skip a beat. “With filthy human blood?”

Jude took a step back, feeling tears stinging behind her eyes. She knew what Asha was doing, that bitch, knowing she was listening behind the door. But it didn’t matter, not as her heart hammered with such intensity it was starting to hurt. Not as her throat closed in anger and impotence, making her hard to breath.

So she just turned and rushed far from there.

Somehow she reached one of the back balconies and stood there, staring at the sea under her. Jude knew she would be a filthy human for some of the folk for the rest of her days. She’d grown with that knowledge and she didn’t care anymore. But now, it was not only her. It would never be only her ever again. Was she really that stupid for allowing this to happen to someone else? Not only someone else, but her own child? Would Cardan even agree to the idea?

Minutes passed. Even hours maybe, but she didn’t move. She felt as if she’d forgotten how to.

Light steps sounded behind her.

“Jude?” Cardan’s voice somehow filled her with something between peace and anxiousness, remembering why she was searching for him in the first place.

She didn’t answer, so he continued. “I ran into Sir Fand a while ago, she told me you were looking for me. I should have been there when you arrived, I am sorry my love.”

Jude shook her head, “It’s okay.” Her voice was faint, almost a whisper. She still didn’t dare looking at him.

“Jude, is there something wrong?” He came closer to her, now standing by her side. Cardan searched her gaze but she looked down. “Have… Have I done something to upset you?”

Jude’s heart hurt at his tone.

“No, no you didn’t.” She wanted to tell him everything was okay, that he didn’t do anything wrong, that she was perfectly fine. Except she was not. She just didn’t know what to say first or how. “And yes, I was… looking for you.”

She felt Cardan’s hand take hers, soft as a feather. “And you were looking for me on the sea? Unlikely, but I appreciate the effort.” He chuckled for a second, and then went back to his worried voice. “I am here now. Will you tell me what is that troubles you? You look as if you just had a nightmare.”

That wasn’t unusual. More than once Cardan had woken her up from some bad dreams, usually ones in which he didn’t return after Jude cut off the snake’s head. It always left her pale and shaky. Sometimes it happened the other way around, but they always found comfort in each other’s arms.

She bit her lip and took a deep breath. “I don’t think your mother would appreciate being called a nightmare, even if she usually is.”

He gave her a wide grin before furrowing his brow in confusion. “Funny, I was just with her right…ah.” Realization crossed his eyes, Jude watched him clench his jaw. “You went to my mother’s chambers. You heard us.”

Jude nodded and held his hand tighter. “I heard some of it. Many of the folk will always find me to be inadequate, that’s nothing new. But I hadn’t heard any mention of it in so long that, for a moment I, I let myself believe that-“

“Jude, stop, you cannot possibly think you are not good enough. Look at what you have done for Elfhame; anyone could see that!”

“That’s not it. I know I have done things for them, saving some of their asses and stuff.” She shrugged.

“Then I am not understanding, Jude-“ With his free hand he reached for her cheek and cupped it, tugging her into a hug.

“I’m pregnant.” Her voice was almost a whisper, but she felt him froze.

Without letting go of her, he leaned back, wide eyed and openmouthed. “What did you just say?”

“Cardan I’m,” She closed her eyes and said louder, “I’m pregnant.”

She didn’t open her eyes, afraid to see his reaction. But instead of saying anything he just gasped and pulled her back into his arms. Jude felt his heart beating fast against her hands.

“When did you find out?”

Now it was Jude’s time to chuckle. “Yesterday, even though I was feeling odd for the past days. Oak invited me a pizza but it made me sick, Vivi guessed the rest and I took some tests.”

Cardan didn’t say anything letting her continue. “When I came back I looked for you to tell you, mostly because if I didn’t right away I would be too scared to do it after. But…”

“But you found me with my mother,” He sighed. “And what she said…gods, Jude I am so sorry. I ought to throw her back to the Tower of Forgetting.”

She couldn’t say the thought was not appealing.

“Every day of my life since I got here I was reminded of how I was different. Sometimes in the cruelest ways.” Cardan started to say something but she continued. “I am over it now, I know who I am, and I am happy with it. With you. But the thought of my own blood going through the same thing is… I am afraid of it being as hard as it was for me. I am afraid of not knowing how to make it different. Of not knowing how to be a mother. And most of all, I am afraid of not knowing how you feel about this.”

There. She’d said it. She felt herself shake, but it wasn’t until a few seconds had passed, that she realized it wasn’t her. “Cardan?”

He let go of the embrace but raised his hands to cup her face. His eyes were shimmering… and wet. He was smiling in a way she’d rarely seen, leaving her breathless for a moment.

A tear escaped his right eye and Jude quickly caught it with her thumb, still puzzled about what she was seeing.

“My love, I feel nothing but happiness at this moment.” He kissed her forehead. “I know we usually joke about this but, one part of me always wished for it to became true one day. To love and raise as we weren’t. Giving us the chance to become better than the ones who should have taken care of us.”

Jude didn’t realize she had started to cry too until he kissed her cheeks and felt them cold. Cardan looked down at her belly hesitantly, “Can I?” He asked.

She nodded and pulled his hand to where someday she was going to be the size of a watermelon. He touched her with such delicacy and devotion she almost couldn’t believe this was happening.

“We are going to have a baby.” It seemed as if he said it in order to really believe it.

“We are going to have a baby” She repeated. Beaming with emotion. “I don’t know about you but, I think the first one who should hear the good news is Asha, hopefully she’ll have a heart attack and let us be.”

Cardan laughed and shook his head. “You are insufferable, my sweet villain. But this time, I am afraid I agree with you.” At that, he took her hand and guided her back inside.

Maybe, just maybe, she shouldn’t be afraid at all.

#jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #jurdan #holly black #tcp #twk #qon #jurdan au #jurdan fanfiction #pregnancy au

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whisker-biscuit · 5 years ago

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In the Name of Science: Chapter 2

Fandom: Sonic Movie (2020)

Rating: T for unethical experimentation, implied violence and gore, and implied torture

Summary: Tom and Maddie didn’t make it in time to rescue Sonic from Robotnik. Hopefully it’s not too late to save him now. Unfortunately, hope is hard to come by in the labs of the mad doctor himself.

Note: things are going to start getting really unpleasant from here on out. This chapter is still pretty tame, but proceed with caution.

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Dr. Ivo Robotnik, M.D. Log 2

Subject regained consciousness at 10:12 MST during initial quill examination, and was verbally hostile upon contact with lead scientist (Dr. Ivo Robotnik, M.D., PhDx5). Subject placed in temporary holding enclosure for injury recovery as well as spoken interview, which was conducted at 10:30 MST. Transcript attached below.

…….

Sonic is brought into a much larger room than the one he’d woken up in. From his position between the two floating egg-robots, he can see that this one is set up with a lot of strange machines and tables and equipment that he couldn’t possibly hope to recognize, much less name. It almost looks like a secret evil lab from one of Tom and Maddie’s movies.

This association is what really makes the reality of the situation sink in.

“Hey, uh, what’s that?” He stares at a giant tube-looking thing in the corner, trying to distract himself from darker thoughts.

Robotnik ignores him, fiddling with his recording equipment, but Agent Stone follows his gaze.

“That’s an MRI machine.”

“Oh. What’s that do?”

“It’s a –”

“I know you’re having a splendid time fraternizing with the alien lifeform, Stone, but the most important homo sapiens in your life would very much enjoy your full attention.”

“Of course Doctor, sorry!” The assistant practically prances to his boss’ side, a goofy smile on his face. Sonic doesn’t understand any of it.

Turns out it doesn’t matter either way, because the hedgehog is suddenly carried above a large metal container with an open top. With another flick of the scientist’s wrist, the robots drop Sonic and he hits the inside of the pen, hissing as all his bruises are aggravated. The ceiling door closes automatically with a whoosh.

The teen makes a few pained noises while he tries to reorient himself. He’s always healed pretty quickly but this hasn’t been nearly enough time since the fight, and his entire body is revolting. He picks himself up into a sitting position as best he can to get a better look at his situation.

He’s in a cage large enough for him to lay down and stretch in any angle, but it’s not much bigger than that. Most of the walls barring one are thick mesh with thick metal reinforcing them from behind, and half the floor is the same. The other half is covered in something that looks suspiciously like a dog bed. The ceiling is just solid metal with no mesh, and it’s roughly the same proportion as the length and width.

Sonic scoots to the front of the cage so he can watch his human captors through the single “open” wall, if bars he can only stick one finger between counts as open. His restraints are weird – they sort of resemble his rings, circled around each individual wrist and ankle and keeping them together in a way he hasn’t quite figured out yet. He tries to pull them apart without much luck.

Robotnik seems to notice the attempt, because he waves a hand in the air without turning towards the hedgehog.

“Don’t bother! Those are highly magnetic and in tune only with each other.”

“….What’s ‘magnetic’?”

“Ugh, never mind.” The scientist does a little whirl to face the cage, holding a microphone connected to the machine behind him. He taps the mic and nods in satisfaction when it echoes. “Agent Stone, start the recording procedure please.”

The assistant gives affirmation as he flips a switch. Mechanical humming fills the air. Robotnik clears his throat.

“Log date: May 14th, 2020, 10:30 am MST. First official verbal interview with extraterrestrial subject, serial designation 06231991. It is unknown whether subject will be verbally hostile, so any redacted statements during this recording will be result of vulgarity and/or dialogue irrelevant to scientific development.”

He steps up to the cage, which sits just below his eyelevel, and observes Sonic a moment. The teen stares warily back.

“Subject, do you have a title you refer to yourself as?”

“Um…”

The man heaves a giant, put-upon sigh. “A name?”

“Oh. S-Sonic. I’m Sonic.” He kicks himself for tripping over his own name. This is just talking, why is it making him nervous?

“Sonic.” Robotnik says the word like he’s about to rip it to shreds. “So, Sonic, what would you say you are?”

“A hedgehog.”

“Did you base that name on the Earth creature sharing similar features?”

“No? I’ve always been a hedgehog.” Sonic lets himself relax a little bit. It really is just talking; he can do that just fine. “S’not my fault you guys named something after me.”

“I see. How long have you been on Earth?”

“Ten years.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen, I think.”

The scientist pauses at that, tilting his head down a little bit in a way that’s hard to read. “Really? You’ve been on Earth for most of your life?”

“Yeah…”

“Remarkable. Living here all this time right under our noses.” He strokes his mustache with a glint in his eye. “If only I’d discovered your presence sooner, everything would have been so much cleaner.”

Sonic’s fingers curl together.

“Oh well, no need to dwell on what could’ve been, until I finally unravel the science behind time travel at least.” Robotnik lets out an arrogant laugh. Stone mirrors him from behind. “So my elusive little subject, what’s the maturation rate of your kind?”

“What?”

“Hmm. You really don’t know much of anything, do you?”

It’s said with such a belittling sneer that the teen averts his eyes for a moment, feeling his face flush.

“Least I don’t dress like a bad guy from the Matrix,” he can’t help but mumble. His captor’s eyebrow twitches.

“My aesthetic is downright prodigious, thank you very much. But we’re getting off-topic! I asked about your maturation rate, you’re not smart enough to figure out what that means from the context clues, and frankly I’m getting bored by all this hands-off interaction for the sake of formal procedure. Would you say you’re closer in relative age to a child, adolescent, or adult?”

“I don’t – I don’t know, maybe teenager? Maybe?” Sonic hates that he doesn’t know, that he has no reference for knowing. He doesn’t even have the confidence to pretend that he does.

“Oh, really. That’s very interesting.”

The hedgehog feels every quill stand up on end at Robotnik’s suddenly subdued voice. He watches as the man’s expression morphs into manic contemplation. Agent Stone seems to sense the change, because he turns off the machine that’s recording their conversation.

“You’re an adolescent then. Thirteen years old, hiding here on this planet for whatever reason, honestly I don’t really care what sort of sob story you’re peddling but I have no doubt it exists. It’s no wonder you’re so ignorant.”

“I’m not ignorant!” He raises his voice like that will help prove his point.

“Oh, but you are. An obtuse, uneducated little creature that exists in a place it does not belong. Tell me, how many humans have you made direct contact with? Let someone see the real you, had a two-way conversation on equal footing…given physical contact.”

Robotnik lifts his hand and presses one finger against the bars, as if pretending he’s petting Sonic’s head again. The teen inches away towards the back of the cage, practically baring his teeth.

“Stop it.”

“Answer the question, hedgehog.”

“No! It’s none of your beeswax anyway, so back off!”

The scientist throws back his head and cackles. He comes down from his mirth fairly quickly and wipes a tear from his eye. “Everything about you is my ‘beeswax’, my pokey little fellow. I own you. I own your powers, your thoughts, your feelings, all of it. I’m astounded it hasn’t sunk in yet.”

“Cause it’s not true, Eggman! I’m me, and that’s it!”

The air around Sonic starts crackling. Robotnik places a hand in his pocket.

“Is that what your flatfoot nursemaid told you? Thank god I got you away from such fictitious foolishness, who knows what other absurdities he was filling your spiky little head with.”

“I told you not to talk about him like that!”

Full of angry energy, Sonic launches off of his heel and rams into the front bars in the same moment Robotnik pulls out a remote and presses a single button. Electricity that doesn’t belong to the hedgehog lights up the entire cage, leaving Sonic to experience the full brunt of it with his whole body pressed against metal. He stiffens up with a wordless cry and loses both his momentum and the power coursing through him.

It discharges outward and short-circuits whatever was generating the voltage running through the pen, saving the convulsing teen from further pain. He’s twitching so much that he doesn’t even notice the ceiling door open up again, nor the floating robot that drops inside to pull away several more quills. They’re still pulsing with energy.

Robotnik closes the door behind the robot as it leaves, then turns to regard his subject who’s making little mewling noises as his muscles seize against his will. He rolls his eyes at the display because really, the voltage was not that high. It didn’t even last more than a few seconds because of the creature’s rude outburst creating that blackout in his beautiful container.

He signals to Agent Stone, who is quick to turn on the recorder again.

“Note: next question involved reasons for subject’s existence on Earth and opinion on humans, at which time subject became hostile and attempted assault. No harm came to present researchers due to precautionary measures, and subject has been successfully and safely contained. Verbal interview will be postponed for later date until subject recovers and is more willing to discuss reasons for coming here without becoming violent.”

The man shuts off his mic and passes it to his assistant, yawning with a hand pressed to his mouth.

“Walk with me, Stone. I do believe it’s a fine time for sleep, now that all the immediate excitement is over.”

“Yes, sir!”

They leave the quivering hedgehog alone with the hum of a million machines and state-of-the-art security. Halfway down the hallway, Robotnik stops.

“Oh, just a moment.” He taps his gloves a few times and something whirrs to life back in the room. “There we go!”

“Sir?”

“Almost forgot to set up a sustenance bot for the little thing. I’m so used to wonderful, unfeeling robots with no need for constant nourishment, it’s easy to forgot that these fragile organic bodies require food and water, ha!”

“Uh…but Doctor, you’re also –”

“Don’t remind me of things I don’t like being reminded of, Stone!” The scientist snaps. He runs a careful hand through his hair and straightens his jacket rather prissily. “Anyway, you said something earlier about dinner being Argentina-inspired?”

Stone beams and his shoulders lift with pride. “Yep! Milanesa a la napolitana with a sprinkling of oregano and curry powder. Should be done within an hour.”

“God, that sounds lovely. In the mean time I’ll be setting up some analysis programs for the blood and quill samples and making another written log report. Do not disturb me unless I either call you directly or dinner’s done.”

“Of course, sir.” Stone hustles down the hall and makes a right turn. Robotnik turns left.

“Now then,” he says gleefully to himself, rubbing his hands together as he plops down in his Important Analysis Chair. “Let’s get this spiky ball rolling!”

…….

Additional quill samples taken after verbal interview to compare dormant and active power input of subject. It is predicted that while the active quills contain infinitely higher levels of energy, dormant quills are still capable of significant power.

After full physical recovery is reached, more thorough examinations of anatomy will be administered as well as analysis of speed, endurance, and power production. In the interim, behavioral training will begin in earnest. Subject has demonstrated capability to defer to proper authority with enough prompting.

Goal by end of week is to not need prompting.

End log

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A/N: Sorry for the wait, I’ve been SUPER busy this week. Hope the longer chapter made up for it though! As stated above, things are going to get a lot worse before they get better, so just make sure you’re aware of that going in.

Also, originally I was going to have a side-by-side of Tom and Maddie working to find Sonic, but then I realized I have no idea how to make that work. If anyone has suggestions feel free to let me know, otherwise it’s going to be solely Sonic and Robotnik focus until (if) he’s rescued.

Thanks for reading, and have a good one!

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic #sonic movie #sonic movie spoilers #dr robotnik #agent stone

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ademocrat · 5 years ago

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What Homophobic Hell Will the GOP Unleash on a Gay Frontrunner?

If Pete wasn’t gay, I’d say with some confidence, that he could win the presidency.

Or, because Pete is gay, I could say that’s quite a differentiator, and with his impressive approach. he just might win the presidency.

ADVERTISING

Finally, I can’t say that it doesn’t matter that Pete is gay. Because it does, and it’s personal.

I’ve spent my entire life obsessed with politics, and was lucky, as most of you may know by now, to work in it for a while. Presidential elections are like another sport for me. I study the polls, know the candidates’ messages and platforms inside and out, watch the debates, the town halls, and all the political shows filled with punditry, i.e., Morning Joe, Deadline White House, The Situation Room, Inside Politics, and Hardball (I’ll stop there lest you think I don’t have a life). I read all the political columns and columnists.

So, what I’m about to write is not based on data, stats, polls or the pundits, so I don’t bore you with the wonkery of “inside baseball” factoids. The following thoughts come from the heart of a gay man, who happens to write a column, loves politics, and can name every president. Always could. When I was as young as six, my parents would call me down to recite them to guests during their dinner parties. I named them in order and with their middle initials. “You’re going to be president one day,” they always said. And at that age, I dreamed that I would.

Pete’s campaign has rekindled all the memories of my recitations — and scrapbooks — of the presidents. The letter recognizing my great-great grandmother’s 100th birthday auto-penned signed by Richard Nixon. I had the president’s autograph, even if I didn’t realize it wasn’t real. I devoured presidential biographies, written for kids, Meet George Washington, Meet Abraham Lincoln, Meet John F. Kennedy. My great-grandmother gave me her Franklin D. Roosevelt scrapbook, and all her political buttons that stretched back to Theodore Roosevelt. I treasured each artifact, each book, each newspaper clipping declaring “NIXON RESIGNS,” because the presidency was my destiny.

As a Catholic, I was young enough to know and comprehend that John F. Kennedy was the first person of my faith elected to the presidency. I was, and still am, fascinated with all things Kennedy. Which is why, when Senator Edward Kennedy, and President Kennedy’s daughter Caroline endorsed Barack Obama for president, I knew that he would go on to win, and become another first.

Now, here we are again, faced with another pioneer, and groundbreaker, Pete Buttigieg. He is making our community so proud. His message is clear and resonating. His demeanor calm and welcoming. His background stellar and reassuring. His pitch convincing and investing. He’s raising the money and his profile the way a good candidate should.

He has had early success in Iowa, giving him a big boast going forward. He’s come further than probably anyone of us expected. He’s still a long shot, but he is raising eyebrows, in a good way, and now the campaign heads into new regions, populaces, and mindsets.

As a leader in the primary, he has momentum, his poll numbers, while still trailing nationally, are inching up. And as he gains traction he also gets a target on his back. So, the real and new test for Buttigieg is about to begin. So far the other candidates and the media have questioned his youth and inexperience as a small town mayor. And they have not gone beyond those critiques. What lies ahead, if he picks up steam, is an untested excursion, not just for him, but for everyone in our community.

After it was revealed that the congressman I worked for from blue-collar, southwestern Pennsylvania had a child-out-of-wedlock, our constituency shrugged it off. And they did so by telling him, “just as long as you’re not gay (the actual word was much more vulgar).” That stung, and still does.

The congressman used to say to me all the time, “Casey, when I retire, you can run for my seat.” But at that point, my childhood dreams of becoming president gave way to the cold, dark reality, that as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t possibly be elected in a district that didn’t accept the type of person that I was. And president? Would never happen in my lifetime.

Pete’s upcoming venture into the bible belt, the rust belt, the southern belt and beyond makes me wonder if that “as long as you’re not gay” attitude still persists? We saw a viral video of a horrified woman in Iowa rescind her caucus vote for Pete after she realized he was married to a man.

She’s not alone. “Scorched earth.” That’s the type of campaign that’s planned to be run by the Republican incumbent. God only knows what that entails, but I think we have a good idea. This ribald tactic will surely be adopted by the so-called base; a tear-down of anyone seeming to take the lead during the primary, and then vilification for the Democratic presidential nominee.

So what happens if Pete surges? His ascendency will surely test the breaking point of how far “scorched earth” will go to demonize Pete, his marriage and our community. The vitriol likely to increase as Pete’s support does too.

He’s a military veteran, so he can fight. And what does it say about me, or any of us, if we can’t help him in the battle that lies ahead? Isn’t it the most consequential election of our time? Exceptionally for our community? Aren’t we committed to supporting each other when one of us is breaking barriers? Especially, when that wall shattering is for the most powerful job in the world?

He needs all of us to get behind him, in the event that the opposition puts a bulls-eye on him — and us — and goes “scorched earth.” We need to stick together and fight with him. It’s not going to be easy. For him, or for us, if Pete pulls out a miracle.

Is it in his best interest to succeed, when ultimately, he might fail? And what does that say about me when I fear for his success? Or us, if we don’t honestly consider the pain his success might spill upon us? I’m excited for Pete. I’m scared for Pete. I’m excited for us. And I’m scared for us.

But we can’t sit back and be frightened, and we can’t let Pete fight this alone. So until he’s finished, I’ll root for Pete.

There’s an old adage, “bet with your head, not with your heart.” Am I betting on Pete? Not yet. But I am putting my heart behind him. And, I am going to live vicariously through Pete. He will do all that I fantasized about, read about, and pasted onto the pages of my scrapbook about. Maybe, because it was so far-fetched that it’s just my generation that understands the enormity of this moment? We’ve been accepted in the military. Our marriages are legal. It’s easy to think that the worst is behind us, when hypothetically, the worst — or the best — could be in front of us.

Who knows what the impending primary race will bring? And it’s way too early to forecast or confront the general election.

But fantastically, in a year from now, when someone calls on me to recite the 46 Presidents of the United States, I can proudly end my oration with Peter P.M. Buttigieg.

A boy can dream, can’t he?

John Casey is a PR professional and an adjunct professor at Wagner College in New York City, and a frequent columnist for The Advocate. Follow John on Twitter @johntcaseyjr.

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365daysofsasuhina · 6 years ago

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[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Fourteen: Contempt ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina, blood, vulgarity ] [ Verse: A Light Amongst Shadows ] [ AO3 Link ]

He’s used to it by now. The glares, the whispers, the contempt. In the grand scheme of things, he doesn’t care. People will think of him what they will. Never mind the fact that, without him, the world would have ended and they’d all be brainless mokuton zombies.

Before his final confrontation with Naruto, he’d resigned himself to being hated: the necessary evil the world would need to keep it on the correct course. Even now, with his path forcibly changed, he keeps the same opinion of himself. He’s done what he’s done. There’s no erasing or changing the past. All he can do now is move forward...even if those who criticize him clearly can’t do the same.

For now, as his brother recovers, he finds himself in a state of limbo. Returned to Konoha far earlier than he’d ever wanted, and yet...now with reason to stay. But in the same breath...purposeless. All he knows is that, in some way, he needs to ensure Konoha changes for the better. If his brother, and his brother’s family, are to remain here...it must be safe. Primarily for them...but also for everyone. No one else deserves to go through what the Uchiha went through.

So they won’t.

Not if he has anything to say about it.

All that remains is how to actually accomplish it. Already, before he’s even able to walk, Itachi has talked about plans to rejoin the ANBU. Work in the shadows, as he has for so long. It suits him, Sasuke can’t help but agree. Would such work be a wise choice for him as well? It would mean avoiding the public eye. Eliminating threats against the village without recognition, with most of the populace completely unaware anything is even wrong to begin with. Such is the ANBU’s role.

...but that doesn’t quite feel right.

Because once Itachi’s revival is made public...Sasuke can only assume there will be just as many, if not more, who won’t bother to censor their distaste and hatred against Itachi and his actions, even if they were village-sanctioned. To them it won’t matter: that he acted in their interest, that he gave up his life, his home, to keep them safe from the outside. No...they’ll just see a murderer and a traitor, no matter what reasons they give.

It’s the same for him, after all.

Even his own friends - or, so-called friends - have changed. Not that he blames them...but it just goes to show how shallow those feelings are...and have been. Never any offer to help avenge his clan. To bring them justice. Even after Naruto and Sakura were told Itachi’s truth, and the role Konoha played in his clan’s demise...they still sought to drag him back. To chain him in the place that had deemed his family too selfish and dangerous for simply being willing to fight for equal treatment.

And once they saw how far he’d go to change that...everything changed. Naruto still insists they’re best friends. But what kind of best friend says nothing of sanctioned genocide? Even now there’s been no offer to find justice...so Sasuke will just take it himself when the time comes. But this time, he’ll do it right.

Sakura, too, has changed. She avoids him, he can tell...and yet when they end up together, she still puts on that facade-like smile and flirty nature. Does she really still hope for him to love her? After all that’s happened between them? She openly tried to kill him. And he did the same to her. Sakura has seen better than anyone his instability, and willingness to sacrifice what he must to reach his goals.

Her continued affections honestly make him sick. Even now, knowing what she knows, she clings to the boy she never really knew: only idolized, and falsely.

For now...he considers them both strangers. It’s for the best, he’s convinced. They’re not going to do each other any good as they are...and Sasuke has far more pressing priorities.

And yet...funnily enough, the only person beyond his family that seems to tolerate him - maybe even like him - is someone he’s barely spoken a word to.

Hyūga Hinata.

He remembers her, like he remembers everyone. Shy, reserved, weak...and trailing after Naruto. It’d seemed like she’d had some kind of crush on him back then, but...you wouldn’t guess so now. He’s assuming that time wasn’t kind to her in that regard. It’s rather clear Naruto’s still hung up on Sakura, even if Sasuke suspects it started just as shallow in nature as Sakura’s affections for him: born out of jealousy and rivalry. As far as Sasuke’s concerned...Naruto can have her. They suit each other, in more ways than one.

Hinata’s grown a lot, he’ll admit. Physically, and mentally. She can speak to the blond now without issue, though Sasuke still notices the somber tinge to the smiles she gives him.

And given her friendship with Itachi’s wife...she was one of the first people to know the truth behind the elder Uchiha brother’s actions.

As such, she seems more...aware than anyone else. As someone from a clan, she knows their politics well. And as someone who struggled with her family as a child...she knows what it means to have been looked down upon. By her father, by someone she called brother...she might not have lost that family, but in a sense, she’d been cut off from it.

So rather than contempt...she offers him understanding. Not sympathy, which he doesn’t want...but she doesn’t treat him like a maniac. Like an explosive tag about to go off, walking on eggshells. She just...talks to him.

...and maybe he appreciates that a lot more than he thought he would.

Naruto had always been butting heads with him. Sakura couldn’t go two words without batting her eyes. Orochimaru had always had that hunger when the spoke. Suigetsu had been a tease, Karin an obnoxious flirt...and Jūgo, well...he just didn’t say much at all.

Neither does Hinata, in all fairness. But she’s quiet in the same way Sasuke is. No need to fill the air with noise. Just...sit and enjoy the atmosphere. And only speak when there’s really a need, or something on her mind.

So it’s really no surprise when he just starts...ending up in her presence. After all, they both end up third wheeling it rather often where Naruto and Sakura are concerned. Of course, Hinata has her teammates to tend to as well. And her family, as Sasuke does. But on his end, at least, he has few to go to when it comes to company his age.

Of course...that comes with its consequences.

Even something as harmless as stopping to chat outside a shop brings up the realization: it’s not just Sasuke that gets targeted by his aggressors. It’s anyone he spends time with.

Standing idly with a hand resting on the butt of his sword, he’s simply having a conversation with her when someone bumps him from behind. A glance shows one in turn, a few shinobi looking back over their shoulders at him sourly. Sasuke doesn’t otherwise react, straightening and simply pretending it didn’t happen.

Hinata, on the other hand, stares after them with an open glower.

“Leave it, Hyūga.”

“But that was so ru-!”

“I know. But if you pick every fight I run into every day, you’d run yourself ragged.” He can’t help a small hint of amusement in his features. “Don’t worry ab-.”

Thwack

Hinata can help a gasp as a splatter of mud drenches down the front of her lilac shirt. Staring at the mess for a moment, she completely misses the blur of movement that is Sasuke. In a blink, he’s across the street, holding the culprit to a building with a forearm against his neck. His unhidden eye glows a furious red.

“...that was uncalled for,” he offers in a voice far too calm for his expression. There’s no acknowledgement of the shocked people around him, clearly on edge. “Why don’t you go over there and apologize to the lady...before I change my mind and just coat your shirt with healthy helping of blood…?”

“Sasuke-kun, don’t!” A pleading hand tugs at his shoulder.

He ignores her. “...look, asshole. Do what you want to me. But leave my friends out of it. Because as much as I couldn’t give a shit what you do to me...I’m not gonna be happy when you drag someone I care about into something that’s got nothing to do with them. Got it?”

Pale as a ghost and looking ready to cry, the guy just give a jerky nod, sliding down to his rear when Sasuke releases his hold. Nonchalant as ever, he lets his kekkei genkai fade. “...c’mon Hyūga. We’re done here.”

Glancing between the two, she eventually trots after him. “Was...was that wise…?”

“Hn?”

“I mean...people already are afraid of you. Really, you didn’t have to do that. Not if it’ll only make things harder on you.”

“I’ve had a lot worse happen to me than someone taunt me. Especially someone I can lay flat on their ass in a blink.”

“...but…?”

“What pissed me off was involving you. My mistakes and actions have nothing to do with you. And they need to know better than do that, even if it means giving me more shit. I can handle it.” A dark eye glances to her. “...you don’t deserve that.”

“...well neither do you.”

“A lot of people would beg to differ.”

“Well...screw them.”

A brow lifts at her language.

“...you’ve done wrong in the past, sure. But you’ve moved on, and you’re changing for the better. Continuing to treat you like that is wrong...and doing so in the first place isn’t any better.”

Watching her as they walk for a few paces, Sasuke eventually snorts.

“...what?”

“...nothing.”

Huzzah, two weeks down! And I actually had an easy time with this prompt, just...had a busy day, hence the late posting! Anywho, this one's...pretty straightforward. Sasuke honestly couldn't care less what people do to him. But mess with someone he cares about - someone who doesn't deserve it - and you've got a storm coming, bud! Sooo...yeah! I guess that's it for tonight - thanks so much for stopping by and reading!

#uchiha sasuke #hyūga hinata #sasuhina #blood //#vulgarity //#a light amongst shadows [ canon verse ]#365daysofsasuhina

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shay-has-moved · 7 years ago

Photo

AAAH I FINALLY FINISHED MY MAIN OC FOR BNHA

This took so long you don’t even know- But after months of procrastination, here he is!

This will be a long post, but his bio is below.

General Info

Full name: Takumi Byoga

Nicknames: Momma's boy ( He doesn’t like this one because he loves both of his parents equally ), Matchmaker ( Refer to trivia )

Hero Name: Ink Blotch

Age: 15

Date Of Birth: June 27

Gender: Male

Status: Alive

Morals: Chaotic good

Occupation: Student at U.A.

Personal Information

Positive Traits: Outgoing, Determined, Open minded, Optimistic, Creative

Negative Traits: Emotional, Easily flustered, Stubborn, Curious, Hopeless romantic, Over protective, Insecure

Favorite Food: Peaches

Likes: Lions, fluffy things, sweet food, playing with his hair, meeting new people, warm blankets, anything romance related.

Dislikes: Spicy food, the cold, storms, loud noises, spiders, most reptiles, smudges in his drawings, clichés.

Fears: Poisonous bugs, snakes, separation.

Habits: He’ll curl his hair around his finger when he’s feeling bashful, doesn’t make eye contact when he’s lying, taps his pencil when he’s impatient.

Physical Information

Height: 5’5 ( 165cm )

Weight: 122 lbs. ( 55 kg )

Eye Color: Icy Blue

Hair Color: Light Blonde

Scars/Markings: Mole under right eye, Mole on his right shoulder blade

Clothing Style: Always seen wearing shorts and boots in the heat, wears pants and a scarf in the winter, also wears a leather jacket no matter the weather.

Relationship Info

Marital Status: Single

Sexuality: Homosexual

Family:

Birth Mother: ??? Byoga - Whereabouts unknown

Birth Father: ??? Byoga - Whereabouts unknown

Siblings: Tomoki Byoga - Twin sister - Doesn’t know she exists

Adopted Mother: Terra Jones - Stay at home mom

Adopted Father: Brandon Jones - Pro hero

Aunt: Kamira Jones - Works at cafe

Cousin: Josh Jones - Regular college student

Friends/Acquaintances:

Iida Tenya: Takumi greatly admires Iida for his enthusiasm, leadership, and intelligence. So much so that he has developed a crush on the said male, which only is noticeable to those who actually squint. However Takumi would never admit it, he gets flustered and denies his feelings when someone brings it up as he wants to be the one to tell Iida himself, but he just doesn’t know how yet. Iida is completely clueless to this crush and just sees Takumi as extremely friendly.

Mina Ashido: They get along very well and Mina was actually the first friend he made in the class, he even sees her as a sister. When he’s bored, he’ll often play with her hair or let her do the same.

Izuku Midoriya: Takumi respects Izuku for being so ambitious and sees him as a true future hero. They tend to only make small talk, but they still work well together.

Ochako Uraraka: Takumi really enjoys talking with Uraraka because of how cheerful she is and feels as though he could talk to her for hours. He’s super interested about her quirk and has even said it really fits her.

Katsuki Bakugou: He finds Bakugou extremely intimidating but it didn’t stop him from trying to socialize with him. Although he doesn’t appreciate his vulgar way of speech, he still thinks Bakugou will become a powerful and successful hero. Takumi actually has asked to be trained by him so he can get stronger.

Minoru Mineta: Takumi doesn’t appreciate his perverted and sexual comments towards the girls, although it may just be a grudge from his first meeting with him as Mineta mistaked him for a girl.

Mashirao Ojiro: Takumi enjoys his company, although sometimes it’ll get awkward once they run out of things to talk about. He also likes to play with his tail, with permission of course.

Tsuyu Asui: He doesn’t mind socializing with her every now and then, he’s also fascinated with her quirk and hopes to see her become a popular hero in the future. Mezou Shouji: Although it mostly goes unseen, he talks a lot with him and admires his quirk. Shouji’s calm and friendly attitude is what really drew Takumi in to talk with him so much, he trusts him enough to spill out his secrets to him, he’s a good shoulder(s?) to lean on. Takumi’s really curious about what’s under his mask but doesn’t have the guts to ask.

Hanta Sero: These two can hold a long conversation, and Takumi does his best to defend him when someone makes fun of his quirk, saying if his quirk wasn’t great then he wouldn’t be in U.A.. Takumi appreciates his modesty but didn’t expect his blunt way of speaking when they first met.

Kyouka Jirou: Takumi considers her lucky for having such a cool quirk, and has told her that many of times. He was a bit scared of her at first, but that went away when he realized how protective she is of her friends and that she doesn’t mean real harm.

Momo Yaoyorozu: He has plenty of respect for her and really likes her skills in leadership. He has once accidentally blurted out in front of Momo that he shipped her and Jirou together, he was thankful Jirou wasn’t around, but knew he deserved the scolding he got from Momo instead.

Tooru Hagakure: Takumi feels bad when he forgets she’s there and will immediately apologize for it. The two are surprisingly sociable together.

Denki Kaminari: Takumi admits that Denki is definitely one of the most fun people in the class besides Kirishima. They get along pretty well, but Takumi worries over him when he shocks himself stupid.

Yuuga Aoyama: Just like Tooru, he tends to forget Aoyama is there, but he appreciates his company. Takumi also likes the French terms he uses.

Eijirou Kirishima: Takumi really enjoys being around Kirishima because of his chill and caring attitude, he can never say no to an invitation from him.

Kouji Kouda: He finds his quiet nature adorable, and respects him when he doesn’t want to talk. He absolutely adores the rabbit Kouda keeps with him.

Fumikage Tokoyami: They’re both on good terms with each other, and Takumi likes to play with Dark Shadow as long as Tokoyami doesn’t mind.

Rikidou Satou: They don’t get to talk very much, but Takumi tries his best.

Shouto Todoroki: Surprisingly, he’s the only person Takumi hasn’t talked to, only because he’s more scared of him than he is of Bakugou. Todoroki’s power intimidates him immensely, but Takumi promised himself to talk to him one day.

Shota Aizawa: Takumi didn’t believe he was a teacher at first, and was shocked upon realization that he was. Although Aizawa doesn’t look the part, Takumi believes he’s a good teacher because of how he pushes everyone beyond their limits.

Summarized Biography

It’s unknown when exactly Takumi was abandoned by his parents, but he speculates it was around the time he was four and hadn’t developed or figured out his quirk yet. Most of his memories are fuzzy past that point, but he was told to not worry about them. His adoptive family brought him in with open arms, as they’ve been wanting a child for a while because his adopted mother was unable to have children.

Takumi wasn’t a problematic child and did well in school, he had no problem making friends with other kids. He was bummed out however when kids in his class already had their quirks, which made him believe he’d never have one. It took him another month to figure out he had a quirk, with much support from his parents and teachers. Although his quirk wasn’t as flashy as the other kids, he didn’t complain, Takumi was glad to have it.

After receiving his quirk he began to think about his birth parents, he hadn’t known why they left him, but he assumed it was because they didn’t think he had a quirk. After that thought, he planned to become a great hero, to show his parents he wasn’t quirkless. Takumi then worked hard on perfecting his quirk, taking an art class to improve his drawings and pushed himself at home to figure out his limits.

Once getting into middle school, he lost contact with his friends from elementary, them either moving or going to a different school. This however allowed him to focus on himself and his quirk, eventually taking gymnastics to increase his strength and flexibility. He sees his middle school years as his worst school years, only because he was picked on due to his feminine frame.

Takumi had passed the entrance exam with his drawing quirk, he earned 45 hero points and 18 rescue points. He held his head high as he entered U.A., mentally praising himself for making his first goal.

Quirk

Sketch

Takumi has the ability to bring his drawings to life, and he can control the drawings to an extent depending on if that drawing is friendly or not. His quirk’s full potential is still a mystery to himself as he is still practicing and trying to find out new techniques he can use in a fight. So far, Takumi’s quirk is able to bring any drawing of his to life, no matter what the creature is, even if he were to make a drawing of himself. The current disadvantages of his quirk is the time limit he has when controlling them and that the mistakes he makes on a drawing stays with it once it’s been brought to life, which is a problem when he’s rushing to finish a drawing in a fight and is bound to make a handful of mistakes.

Quirk Advantages:

His drawings can last for however long he needs them or until they are destroyed.

He can use any type of material as a canvas, basically if he can draw on it, he can use it to bring his drawings to life.

How big his creation turns out to be depends on how big he draws it.

As long as the drawing wasn’t destroyed, he can re-use it as many times as needed.

He can save his friendly drawings to use in battle so he can summon more drawings and not have to worry about controlling them.

He’s able to make a drawing come to life even at a far away distance.

Whatever material he decides to draw on is what the drawing will be made of, so drawing on paper will make his creation made of paper, or if he draws on rock then it will be made of rock, etc

Quirk Disadvantages:

If he makes a mistake on his drawing it will stay on it when he makes it come to life. Ex: If he draws a cat and forgets to draw a leg, then the cat will have three legs, and he can’t fix it once it’s brought to life, he’ll have to discard the old drawing and create a new one.

When he brings his drawings to life it leaves a hole on whatever he drew on, which can be bad if he has limited materials and uses up a whole page.

However many drawings he can bring to life depends on the size of his canvas.

If he decides not to control his drawings then they will do their own thing, and whether or not it’ll do good is completely random. This can be fixed.

He can only control one drawing at a time. This can be fixed with practice.

He gets a massive headache from controlling his drawings for too long, the max he can control them is 30 minutes. This can be fixed with practice.

If his drawing is damaged before it comes to life (Ex: his drawing is torn, burned, wet, smudged, etc.) he can’t use it and will have to draw it all over again.

The drawing MUST be drawn by him to make it come to life, he can’t make anyone else’s drawings come to life.

His drawings are not able to have powers. (Like control fire, water, etc.)

Equipment:

Mask: Hides his identity, and also protects his eyes from anything that would be eye irritant in the air.

Suit: His entire suit is made of many layers of material that enables him to draw on it in case his notebook runs out or he needs a bigger canvas, includes a built in fire sketchbook on left arm.

Utility belt: Holds all of his drawing utensils including pens, pencils, markers, paintbrushes and more.

Gloves and Boots: Both are made of a non abrasive and non smudge eraser material.

Rollerblades: Retractable rollerblades on the bottom of his boots for quicker maneuverability while drawing, including rubber stoppers on the front. The skates can also be used to draw on the ground.

Side rings: It’s how he removes his suit, he’s able to add more layers of paper if needed, and they also can be used to hold certain things like rings or cuffs.

Hero Costume Advantages:

Utility belt filled with different drawing materials, extra paint and ink included.

Sketchbook also removable if he needs to get rid of the extra weight.

The sketchbook is fire proof

He can draw on the ground with his rollerblades.

With the many layers of paper on his suit, he’s able to endure some pretty tough hits, it works as a vest towards any physical attacks.

He can also pack a good punch because of the thick eraser gloves, and a hard kick with his boots.

Hero Costume Disadvantages:

The suit easily overheats him because of all of the layers of paper, as well as the boots and gloves.

The suit is heavy and makes him slower, even with the rollerblades.

It’s easier to make mistakes while drawing if he’s skating around.

The suit isn’t waterproof or acid proof.

His left hand is basically useless with the sketchbook on his arm.

He only has a limited amount of materials.

The rollerblades can be broken.

It’s difficult times when he gets itchy.

Fighting Style And Combat

Physical Strengths:

He’s quick on his feet, with or without his skates.

Harder to hit due to his small frame.

Incredibly flexible, he’s able to stretch beyond regular limits.

Weaknesses:

Poor strength.

Low stamina.

His hand will cramp up after drawing too much or too fast.

Mental Strengths:

Comes up with plenty of ideas during a fight.

Even though he thinks too much, they’re often good ideas.

Weaknesses:

Easily distracted.

His artistic ability is limited, meaning he doesn’t know how to draw some things.

Takes too much time to think which may waste time.

Insecure of his abilities and most likely won’t act out on them.

Skills and Talents:

He is extremely good at gymnastics, his flexibility knows no bounds.

His current drawing skill is average, he’s able to draw humans to an extent and a small amount of animals like felines and bugs.

He only knows a little bit of hand to hand combat, he’s not the best at it but he’s practicing.

Power 2/5 D

Speed 3/5 C

Technique 4/5 B

Intelligence 4/5 B

Cooperativeness 5/5 A

Trivia

He found out about his quirk a day before his birthday, he drew a cat on the wall and brought it to life, which left a hole. Despite the cat shaped hole in the wall, his parents were proud.

He secretly ships people in his classroom, going so far as to call himself the class’s matchmaker, all of his ships are drawn in a separate sketchbook and they’re all chibis holding hands.

He’s extremely self conscious about looking like a girl, being afraid that the guys will be attracted to his looks instead of his personality.

There’s been many times where a guy attempted to hit on him only to not know he was a male, which all of those experiences have went horribly wrong.

There was a time he dressed up as a female to trick someone, but he doesn’t like to talk about it so the details are unknown.

He keeps a picture of his birth parents under his headband.

He has severe separation issues and can’t be left alone for too long, he’s capable of having a panic attack due to this, however he’ll prevent this by summoning one of his drawings to cuddle him.

He listens to old and slow music, his favorite being “We’ll Meet Again” by Vera Lynn, it helps him concentrate while drawing.

He’s actually drawn himself and made it come to life to take his place in school once, the only reason he got caught was because he forgot to draw the mole on his face and his mother noticed it after his clone came home.

He secretly is a sucker for romance films and books, there’s a whole stash in his room under his bed.

He likes when others play with his hair, as long as no one puts it up into pigtails, he’s ok with it.

He once kicked Mineta across the room for making a sexual comment about Mina, he didn’t apologize and said he’d do it again if he had to.

Often times he’ll train with his dad and doesn’t give up until he has knocked him down at least once.

He really likes peaches because his dad usually takes the seeds and carves them into animals, Takumi’s first one was a lion.

His aunt and cousins have a snake related quirk, and he’s deathly afraid of snakes, but loves his family no less.

It’s almost impossible to get him near snakes, especially his family’s snakes, he describes snakes as weird and slithery and usually ignores any explanation on why they’re not so bad.

His cousin was the one who taught him how to skate, which he then added onto his costume.

#bnha oc #mha oc #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia oc #my hero academia oc #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #my art #my oc #long post

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