#the tips of those lapels though

[weskie]

Brave (Albert Wesker x gn!Reader)

obsessed w kissing this man | Fic Directory

You know you’re special to him. 

You can tell from the way he relaxes around you.  Tight shoulders loosening, the edge fading from his voice…

His gloves coming off.

That last one is how you come to such a bold conclusion.  Wesker doesn’t take his gloves off for anything these days.  Well, anything except for you.

And he certainly doesn’t put his bare hands on anyone unless he can absolutely help it.  It’s almost a mystery that it’s taken you so long to come to the realization that this man, this god, is infatuated with you.  That it wasn’t just mere circumstance that had his knuckles brushing against yours as you walked together in the halls, nor a stroke of fortune that he’d come to show you such favoritism. 

So when that bare fingertip trails along the edge of your jaw and he gazes down at you, eyes glowing behind his shades, you find yourself leaning into the touch– finally giving yourself permission to reciprocate at least some degree of his tactile advances. 

“Peculiar little thing,” he murmurs, lifting his glasses away.  That was special, too.  It wasn’t often that he took those off, and you felt privileged to behold the odd beauty of his inhuman eyes.  Better yet was how soft they seemed for you.

Those featherlight strokes along your face become more, and he smooths the backs of his fingers along your cheek.  You’re not technically trapped, but his proximity and the wall a foot behind you make you feel that way.  But it’s not a bad feeling.  Not at all.

No, you like this.

You like the way he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, titling you perfectly to gaze into his crimson eyes.  You like the carnage hidden within them, and you like that they look at you as though you’re the most perfect sight he’s ever come across.

You watch the tip of his tongue glide slowly over his upper lip, which curls into a smirk.

Oh, fuck it, you think to yourself.  You grab the lapels of his jacket and bridge the divide to kiss that pretty little grin right off his face.  To your surprise, he doesn’t take the lead.  He lets you kiss him senseless, only moving his hands to pull you closer. It’s as though he means to both indulge you and satisfy his own need to see just how far you’ll go– how brave you’re willing to be to take what you want from a god.

You’re in the best kind of trouble when your back hits the wall.

part two here

[ghsttk]

being thirsty.

scenario: You thirsty for Johnny, locked in a restroom stall during an event.

warnings: smut, female reader, the word “cocksucker”, blowjob, male receiving, public (restroom), dirty talk, cum.

words: 1.2k

a/n: maybe some sentences or words are confusing or written wrongly, english is not my native language and i'm far from fluent. This is my first smut, thank you for the patience and time. Hope you have a good read!

You were at an important party full of well known celebrities as Depp’s companion, since you’re his beloved wife. You were standing at his side, his hand on your waist, while he talked to a fellow actor. 

“Is that wine?” You ask, glancing at the glass on his hand. “Yes, it Is. Would you like some?” Johnny suggests, giving you a small smile, his hand gently squeezing your waist. “Excuse me for a moment, I need to get my wife a drink.” He says to the person he was talking to and takes your hand, leading you towards the bar.

As you both walk, he whispers in your ear. “You look stunning, m’dear” He plants a kiss on your neck, below your ear. “It’s your eyes, honey” You answer with a shy smile as you two reach the bar.

Before Johnny could order your drink, you lean into his ear. “I have a better idea…” You whisper, leaning back just enough to see his reaction. Johnny raises an eyebrow at your comment, a mischievous glint in his eye. He leans in closer to you, his hand sliding down to rest on your lower back. “Oh? And what that might be?” He asks, his voice low and smooth like honey.

You don’t say a word, just bite your lower lip, lowering your gaze on him and then looking into his eyes again with a heated look. And, oh, he knows that look very, very well. It’s the look you get when you want to be alone with him, when you want to explore each other’s bodies and lose yourselves in the pleasure you give each other.

He takes your hand and leads you away from the crowded party, down a quiet hallway. He enters the restroom and pulls you inside, closing the door behind you. His hands cups your face and kisses you deeply, passionately, while yours goes to his chest, gripping the lapel of his jacket to pull him closer, as if that was possible. 

You two stumble backwards inside a stall, his tongue explores your mouth - even though he knows it so well. Your hands slide up to his hair, feeling his smooth threads between your fingers, tugging them gently. And his hands roam your body, caressing its curves through the thin fabric of your dress.

He jerks the door closed, pressing you against it with his body. Johnny groans into the kiss, your fingers tugging his hair does wonders on him, sending shivers down his spine. He breaks the kiss, his breath hitching as he gazes into your eyes. “God, I love you” He whispers with half lidded eyes. Johnny’s fingers deftly unzip your dress, letting it fall to the floor, revealing your lacy lingerie. 

You don’t get behind and start unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his slight toned chest, which you adore. You plant kisses on his neck, slowly tracing down to his chest, then abdomen… Until you’re on your knees for him, holding his thighs. Johnny bites his lower lip, the ghost sensation of your kisses making him shiver. He runs his fingers through your hair, gently tugging on the strands as he leans against the cold metal of the stall.

“You’re driving me wild, love.” He whispers, his voice thick with desire. “You’re such a naughty girl.” He chuckles, his voice low and rough, a clear sign of his arousal. You look up at him with those eyes and a not-so-innocent smile, excited. He unbuckles his belt with his free hand and unzips his pants, freeing his rock hard member. He strokes himself a few times, watching your face with a smug smile. He strokes your cheek with his cock, smearing a bead of precum on your skin. “Open up, baby. Let me feel that pretty mouth.”

He guides it to your lips, rubbing the tip against them. You slowly spread your lips, allowing him in your warm mouth. He starts to slowly rock his hips, fucking your face with shallow thrusts, giving you time to adjust to his side. Your cheeks hollow and get filled as you bob your head up and down his shaft. He guides your pace with hands on your hair, tugging them tighter.

Johnny’s head falls back, touching the cold stall wall, as he feels your wet mouth enveloping his cock. He moans lowly, his hips instinctively thrusting forward, pushing more of his length into your mouth. “Oh, fuck yes. Just like that, baby. Take it all. Fuck, it feels so good.” He breathes, eyes closed.

Your hands gently grips his thighs, holding on them to go deeper on his shaft. Johnny’s eyes flutter closed, savoring the feeling. He continues to fuck your mouth, his thrusts becoming deeper and more urgent as his arousal builds. “That’s it, take it all. Fuck, you’re doing so well. Such a good little cocksucker.” He praises you, his voice low and husky with desire. He can feel his orgasm approaching, his balls tightening, ready to explode.

You moan around his cock, you raise your inner eyebrows in desire, looking up at him while bobbing your head up and down. Your tongue swirls and flickers on him. “I’m close, baby. You want my cum? You want me to fill that pretty mouth?” He asks lowly, opening his eyes just enough to look down at you with his dominant gaze, you whimper at the sight.

You take him deeper as a yes, closing your eyes, preparing yourself as if you two have never done this before.

Johnny’s grip on your hair tightens, his hips bucking, driving his cock as far into your throat as he can. “Fuck, yes. Take it all, baby, swallow it all.” he commands, his voice rough and deep. A few more thrusts and he can no longer hold back, he erupts with a loud groan, flooding your mouth with his hot cum. Johnny holds your face against him, milking his orgasm, his hips still rocking, pushing the last drops of cum down your throat.

After a few moments, he pulls out, panting heavily. “That was amazing, baby. You’re so good at this..” he breathes, tucking himself back into his pants, his chest heaving. “You’re okay, princess?” He helps you get up on your feet again. He takes a piece of paper from the toilet paper roll that was nearby and gently wipes the remnants of cum from your lips, his eyes filled with love.

“Thank you, dear.” You smile, your voice a bit hoarse. Johnny helps you to get dressed again, gently zipping up your dress and pressing a tender kiss on your shoulder. He unlocks the stall, making sure that you two are alone in the restroom before leading you out of it. You go straight to the sink, washing your hands and then fixing your hair, since Johnny messed it up during the passionate act.

He watches, admiring you in the mirror. He steps up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. “You look gorgeous, as always.” He nuzzles your neck, placing a kiss on your skin. He gives you a reassuring squeeze before pulling away, holding your hand and leading you towards the party again.

But that didn’t end there, no. Johnny would never leave his wife’s arousal unnoticed. He took good care of it at home, very good care.

-- If you want to be tagged, just dm me!

[scotianostra]

July 5th 1847 saw the final run of the Edinburgh to London mail coach.

By the mid 19th century coaches had become outdated throughout most of the country with improved rail links, the Newcastle Berwick Railway opened throughout on the 1st July 1847 which caused the demise of the coach service. The last coach carrying the London mail arrived in Glasgow on 14th February 1848. The extension of the Caledonian Railway from Beattock to Glasgow came into operation the following day.

Horses have been used to carry messages from the very early days, when post boys would deliver messages by horse. In the 18th Century horse-drawn mail coaches were introduced, which cut mail delivery times by more than half.

The coaches also carried fee paying passengers, at first four inside, later more were allowed on board but had to sit up with the driver outside, the passengers sitting inside the mail coaches had to pay considerably more than those exposed to the elements on the outside.

The average speed of the coaches was usually 7-8 mph in summer and about 5 mph in winter, but with improvements to the quality of the roads, it had risen to 10 mph by Victorian times.

The coaches were privately operated and the coachmen earned much more in tips than in wages. They were fined if caught carrying goods on their own account. The only Post Office employee aboard the mail coach was the guard. He was heavily armed, carrying two pistols and a blunderbuss. He wore an official uniform of a black hat with a gold band and a scarlet coat with blue lapels and gold braid. He also had a timepiece, regulated in London to keep pace with the differences in local time, and recorded the coach’s arrival and departure times at each stage of the journey. The guard sounded a horn to warn other road users to keep out of the way and to signal to toll-keepers to let the coach through. As the coach travelled through towns or villages where it was not due to stop, the guard would throw out the bags of letters to the Letter Receiver or Postmaster. At the same time, the guard would snatch from him the outgoing bags of mail.

Mail Coaches continued in the north of Scotland until modernised rail connections were introduced, the last one was in Kingussie and ran until the beginning of World War One The horses didn't enjoy a happy retirement though, they were requisitioned by the Army and sent to the continent during the first world war, 8 million horses were killed during the conflict.

[hey-august]

“Do you know how much I love seeing you like this?” Buggy saying to Reader please? 🥺🥵 I love all of this.

i gotchu, anon!

Warnings: NSFW, NC17, oral M receiving, buggy x GN!reader Word count: ~800

all damn day. all fucking day, buggy has been messing with you. teasing you. at first it was subtle. standing a little too close. putting his hand on the crook of your neck, instead of your shoulder. then he got bolder. and more annoying. finding reasons to brush against you. any excuse that let him whisper in your ear. soon those whispers turned into teasing moans. just soft enough for you to hear. he loved seeing how red your face became. even better was waiting until you stormed off and sending a hand to grab your ass. the scowl you’d throw his way only made him want to do more. so he did.

buggy took advantage of any moment when people weren’t paying attention. empty hallways, blocked corners - hell, as long as people weren’t looking at either of you - he increased his advances. crashing his lips against yours, slipping his tongue into your mouth, pressing into you as much as he could. anything to rile you up, before pulling away, leaving you breathless and wanting more. and that damn chop-chop ability meant that you couldn’t keep hold of him. whenever you tried, the clown would simply dismantle himself and escape your grasp.

you’re nearly in tears by the end of the day. the last ferocious kiss pulled an embarrassing whiney noise from your mouth when buggy broke away. you had to pretend it was a sneeze, hoping your crew members believed the excuse. someone eventually passed along orders for you to report to the captain’s office and it didn’t seem like they suspected anything.

you knock on the door and wait. he’s expecting you, so it doesn’t take long for the door to swing open. you were only expecting a hand to be at the door. instead, it was buggy. all of him. and instinct takes over. you push yourself inside and grab the lapels of his jacket, using them to both pull him in for a kiss and to maneuver him around so he’s pressed against the wall.

you barely register the click of the door shutting and being locked, focusing only on the soft moans buggy releases against your lips. you get on your knees and try to undo buggy’s pants, but your hands are too shaky. your own desperation getting in the way. frustrated, you grasp helplessly at his pants and look up at your captain. that fucking smirk turns you into putty.

buggy places his bare hand on your face and runs his thumb on your bottom lip. you maintain eye contact and obediently open your mouth. his thumb slides in for you to suck and swirl your tongue around. it’s nice, but this isn’t really what you want.

“puh-lz” you beg around his thumb and tug on his pants again. you swear his eyes dilate.

“fuck, do you know how much i love seeing you like this?” he asks, finally undoing his pants. 

his hard cock springs out, nearly as desperate for attention as you are. buggy smears his dripping precum on your lips. he just can’t stop teasing you, even though you’re already sitting there, mouth open, begging to suck his cock. he breaks when you give him that pathetic look, though. a needy frown with tears collecting in your eyes. as though you’re taking it personally that he’s not coming in your throat already.

“open all the way,” he grunts, pressing the head of his cock into your mouth. 

the way your tongue curves around the bottom sends a shudder through buggy’s body. you start bobbing your head, taking as much as you can before you need to pull back for air. it’s still not enough for you, though. starting from the tip, you slide your mouth down the shaft, making sure every piece is surrounded by your plush mouth. you press down further, ignoring the tears in your eyes and tightness in your thought, going until your nose is pressed against buggy’s pelvis and his heavy balls rest on your wet chin.

“fuck! k-keep going, i-i’m gonna come,” buggy groans. you pull back and wrap a hand around his spit covered cock. it doesn’t take long before buggy feels his balls tightening. he places a hand on the back of your head and thrusts his hips in time with your movement, being sure to keep the head of his cock in your mouth when he starts coming.

you try your best to capture all of his cum in your mouth. despite some trickling down the back of your throat, and a few drops leaking out with the last few thrusts of his cock, you’re left with a surprisingly large mouthful as a reward.

“s-show me”

you open wide and stick out your tongue just a little, so buggy can see how much there is. he uses a thumb to wipe the cum dribbling from your mouth back inside for you to swallow. once your mouth is clear, you show him again, feeling pleased when he nods in approval.

now, it’s your turn. you were kind enough to not tease buggy, so hopefully he’ll return the favor. and if not, at least you’re in for a fun night.

(prompt list)

[macaroonff]

Taste- Lee Minho

Genre: Undercover detective x gang leader; the roaring 20s Paring: Minho x fem reader Content Warnings: Spice (no smut),mentions of alcohol, inaccurate historical representation, not intended to be factually correct, please forgive any inaccuracies. Word Count: 5.6k Suggested Songs: Taste- Stray Kids Whatever Lola Wants- Ella Fitzgerald Fall in Love With Swing- Trio Manouche Smooth Operator- Sade

Refer to this for context regarding specific terms in bold

No one would ever fathom how utterly guilty Lee Minho felt with his tongue driven down your throat in one of the many dressing rooms the jazz club contained. He hated how his sweaty palms digging into your lower back barely managed to keep both of you steady against the rough wall.

He despised how desperately you held onto the lapels of his tweed suit, as the cold pearls around your neck jingle against his watch with every turn of your head. Every jingle was followed by a gasp, and together they seemed to override the perky jazz coming from the stage. 

He hated how he was stuck here, unable to release himself from his hedonistic urges, to the point where he neglected his work, the reason he entered this shabby club. 

Priv. Detective Lee wasn't supposed to be here today, not in your embrace, not under your enchantment, not under the influence of something he was prohibited from. 

Alcohol.

Despite his deceptive actions and seemingly careless attitude towards alcohol at parties, Lee Minho had a restrained regimen for himself. Especially when he’s working, which is almost everyday.

He only lets himself go when necessary in social gatherings, in  those crowded salons where everyone had their eye on him, forced to follow skewed norms to strengthen his reputation as an owner of a winery acreage in France. A false identity pasted on him to get any sort of tip-off in this industry.

The industry where smuggling had become as common as a family buying a car.

Last Sunday, when he happened to be at another one of these parties, he was invited by his neighbour Mr Brown to a different wine tasting session at a strange, albeit new jazz club, rumoured to sell cheap booze. Of course he’d go.

Not just because of the "good" alcohol, but because of the fact that any place selling cheaper goods meant that it was smuggled. Not necessarily, and not always; but in this day and age he was sure it could be nothing else.

So he enters this somewhat run down club behind the busy streets of downtown Chicago, surprisingly packed with locals, a pungent smell of alcohol immediately welcoming him. A smell he thought he was used to, but clearly not enough to refrain from wincing, his eyebrows furrowed at the chaos and the crowd; at the suffocation he felt walking in.

At the centre of this chaos stood, in all her glory, the lead singer, her sweet voice accentuated by the saxophone, the quartet following it. She stood below the dim yellow chandelier hung above her as a spotlight, in her white satin, semi beaded dress which fell just below her knees, rather provocative.

He doesn't look away until Brown reminds him of the wine testing and ushers him towards a VIP parlour.

He makes his way through the crowd, pushing against bodies dancing the Charleston, a recently popular dance that Minho found amusing. All of this while he probes the ins and outs of the club, looking for all entry ways through which big cartons could arrive, as well as places for them to be stored.

All he found was a door that appeared to lead into the dressing rooms. That didn't deter his ambitions though, because he knew that behind this lively exterior, there had to be secrets involved . He would do whatever he had to in order to uncover the operation.

If he had any flaws, it would be this, that he was too stubborn to give up on what his intuition said. He was hard headed, but in no way was he stupid. He'd be devious if it was necessary, he'd lie if he had to. He'd also seduce if it was extreme.

It wasn't his first time trying seduction. He'd done it before, at least six attempts, and maybe five successful ones. The last one was into girls, and he hoped, fairly desperate that this one wasn't.

After a while, he uses needing a trip to the toilet as a somewhat acceptable reason for leaving the now boring session. The drunk men weren't their most reasonable, and paid no heed to the poor excuse. Apparently being a connoisseur meant taking proper breaks. He shrugs it off with a smile, promising to come back in some time.

Lies.

He was long gone to meet his mysterious flapper who he surveyed every corner for.

Under the new frosted light bulbs bought for the bar, you find yourself in the company of many men and women alike, all desperately trying to sink their teeth into your precious minutes. All of whom you appreciated but wanted nothing to do with. Most of them were here to sign record deals from new radio channels wanting to capitalise on the upcoming modern woman movement. All of which you supported but didn't see yourself working as.

Not because you liked working as the main singer for a rundown jazz club. But because your actual work meant that you were never supposed to find fame. Fame meant prying eyes, and nosey neighbours; something you'd have none of in this lifetime.

Why risk it for fame, when you had important business to take care of here?

You had to make sure that not a single thing was out of line and that not a single person would ever find out about the second business run here.

So far, you've done a good job at pretending to be the club's owner's sister. And although it was true, the story behind renovating your grandma's old house into a jazz club wasn't. There was no grandma's old house, there was no renovation, no grandma either. This was always a place for trade.

Your kind of trade. Where you’d find the good dupes and sell it at a higher price, and the actual bottles would be shipped out for a lump sum.

The excess or the bad bottles would be sold in this club, at a discount. It was pretty simple actually, and it made you money.

Sure it was illegal. But sometimes you needed the money, no questions asked. This was how your family knew to fend. This is how you'd continue to fend for yourself.

The risks you took were calculated, and you weren't afraid.

While your brother looked after the actual shipments, you'd deliver intel, in control of all the information passing through here. Nothing happening in town would ever slip away from your grasp.

So what if it was a jazz club?

Most people from different backgrounds always ended up at "The Charmer". Most people let themselves go. They always end up telling the bartender about their business, the dirty dealings that they've also been up to. The fact that most were more grey than the white that they appeared to be.

It was no different for you.

And if there was any difference, it was that you'd never let yourself slip-up. You weren't stupid. You weren't a naïve little Tomato like most believe. Even if you did find yourself faltering, you'd know how to convince others into changing their mind about you.

The same way you knew you could convince Mr Brown that you were interested in the specificities of wine when he almost caught you switching bottles from the basement. You barely convinced him, saying that true wine from France would have plum and black cherry aromas, which it did have. Lucky for you, Mr Brown had no idea that dupes could have chemical fragrances added to them too, because he'd never had to collect wine right from the port. Defeated, he said he'd ask his "very dear friend" to figure out the truth.

At first, you were shocked that there was another wine connoisseur you didn't know of, but after asking your people to investigate, you realised why Mr Brown was so confident. Why he was after your tail.

You knew he was new to this part of town; an insanely handsome, Big Cheese foreigner who wasn't yet used to life in America.

That his speciality was French Wine, and that if he was rich here, he was even richer back home. That he might even be a scofflaw, since he hung around in as many alcohol parties as he could, including the ones for the middle class. This piques your interest, and in a long while, you haven't been as excited to unearth someone's mask.

Now, all you had to do was wait. Because you hoped, no, you knew he would come to find you tonight, regardless of never having spoken before. Because most people do the first time they visit this club.

Most people come looking for you when you're done singing. Because they're enthralled, curious, or physically attracted to you. Because you're almost too beautiful for them to admire from a distance.

These weren't just based on what you heard, but accounts from your members, beyond tired of regulars ravishing about you. But that wasn't enough . You needed beyond sensuality to tempt and guarantee clients. Sure your circle of customers had grown over the last five years since you took over, but that didn't mean the risk had dissipated.

So while your confidence was with justification, your anxiety insisted on you keeping things tight-lipped. You had to know everything that occurred in this paltry but pertinent place.

Maybe that was why you were grateful when your target approaches you of his own accord. His deep brown eyes intent on yours, his long hands embellished by his expensive Rolex oyster- an wrist watch only few would dream of affording-, an orange tie loosened as though he had drunk the daylights out of himself.

He was perfect. Both handsome and tipsy, there was nothing more you'd want out of a potential threat?

"Stunning performance," you hear a deep voice say, in a slurred accent, you can't tell if it was because he was French, or just drunk.

"Thanks, first time here?" you ask.

He nods, leaning ahead. "Mr Brown told me, you have some really good wine down here, something I might be familiar with."

"Ahh you must be the foreigner Mr Brown keeps raving about... Mr?"

"Just call me Claude," he replies sweetly.

You raise your eyebrow. Was he so private as to not let his last name slip? You call the bartender over.

"A bottle of our finest Cheval Blanc." you look back and smile at him.

Claude smirks. "I'm familiar with this wine you know. It's made from the labour of my vineyards."

You examine his face, looking for any sign of deceit. You'd come across many con artists, most of whom didn't have adequate expertise in alcohol. Nobody knew the real in a world where fake was deliberately greater. But here's someone who claimed to know, here's someone who you were sure was lying, despite no hint of deceit.

Why would a rich French billionaire come down personally to your shabby store, instead of asking someone else to collect it?

Unless he had something to prove.

Soon the glasses are laid out, and half a bottle poured. You wait as he swirls the glass in his hand. Despite the loud jazz, you hear nothing but the sound of ice clinking in his glass, and the aroma of plum piercing through, making it difficult for you to breathe. You realise, that after a long time, you're nervous. You see him smell the alcohol briefly.

The cup reaches his lips, and he closes his pretty eyes. You watch him gulp a miniscule sip down. It is silent as his eyelashes flutter slowly as his mouth twitches in slight distaste. Just as anyone else would frown, but for some reason his seemed deliberate, somewhat dangerous.

Dangerous was what Lee Minho thought you were, with the real thing in the glass in front of him. Somehow, he knew it wasn't a dupe. It had the same percentage of alcohol as he knew it should, and not one flavour felt out of place. But then again, he couldn't be sure; he wasn't actually the person he claimed to be. He wasn't an actual connoisseur. If this was the real thing, then it made no sense for you to sell it at a discount.

"Why is one bottle so cheap?" he asks carefully, leaning against the counter. This time, he looks at you in search of deceit. Instead all he reads is a hint of surprise on your face, along with a little bit of glee, he couldn't be sure.

"You should know after tasting them shouldn't you?" you ask, eyebrows raised, a small smile on your lips, as though you had it all figured out.

Lee Minho falters, suddenly unarmed. What did that mean? Did you admit that it was fake? Or were you trying to gauge his identity?

A wrong answer now, and he'd give himself away.

"Of course I know why, but I'd rather hear from you." he avoids, to which you don't reply.

He needs to draw everything from you. "The discounts are unreasonably low, especially for a Cheval Blanc. It almost hurts my pride," he playfully pouts.

He sees you shaking your head in slight disappointment, an amused smile along with it. "You shouldn't worry about that, you're not losing any money here," you whisper close to his ear.

He tries so hard to ignore the smell of may rose and jasmine that accompanied your Chanel no. 5 parfum, and he tried to ignore how some of the others gaped at him, envious of how close he'd gotten to you.

"How can I be sure?" he questions his breath slightly arrhythmic.

How would you know rather, whether a rich business man would have lost his money? Really nobody would know unless they went through the ledgers. Something you were sure didn't exist in his company, or else he'd know just how much he'd lost.

Everything he said pointed to him being a careless business owner, something you thought would never be possible for a man so rich. You scan through his appearance again, his suit looked genuine, the tweed proper. You even gently caress the back of his broad lapels to confirm. He was rich, but was he anything close to the person he says he is?

Out of all the people you met in this small place, there was one thing you knew too well. If something or someone is too good to be true, it probably was. He was no vineyard owner from France, foreigner maybe, but not someone who knows business.

Something about the way he tried so desperately to gauge your business instead of you meant that he wasn't here to play, nor was he here to strike a deal. Most businesses that advertise try to get their way into you, instead of the business. They usually came knowing you were a snake charmer, someone who could sell all the bad ones for better prices. Selling rejected alcohol ended up being a way for them to reduce their losses.

The man in front of you, "Claude", could be one of two things. An embalmer like you, jealous of the profit you're making; or someone here to investigate your business. A situation you were familiar with.

Multiple cops had come to investigate before, all of whom were easy to shut up. However the person in front of you didn't feel like a cop, he didn't try to exert power, nor did he try to undermine yours. A man so hard to read, you weren't sure how to make head or tail of who he really was.

"Hmm, only if you tell me why you don't think it should be sold for less" you offer, laying out your cards in front of him. His response would determine if he was a tremendous master of deception.

"It is indeed the real thing; however the aroma feels diluted, although the drink's concentration seems correct. It is from a batch of wine of secondary quality made from bad grapes. However the year it was made in, suffered from excessive rain, and the waterlogged condition meant that production had reduced that year. It would make sense for you to sell it for a higher price due to excess demand."

You smirk, as he answers correctly. Somehow, he knew his stuff. The details however did feel as if he had thoroughly prepared for an interrogation.

"Unfortunately the people who buy here don't care about a particular year, they care just for the alcohol. It matters to only a few, such as Mr Brown and your friends who care enough to investigate, Claude."

"We're just curious, since we're linked to the same industry. I hope you don't take it the wrong way miss...?" he enquires, his eyes never leaving your lips.

"My name is a secret for those the first three times, if you return after our third meeting, I'll tell you. For now, goodbye; I have other patrons to meet."

With that you leave hastily, already unnerved at the fact that he somehow picked at your disguise. Annoyed yet excited.

After a long time, you find something vaguely resembling a challenge, and the following meetings would ensure that you get every second worth of thrill from him. You'd make sure that Claude, or whatever his handsome name was would only tread carefully from now.

Lee Minho should've known better, that a woman so beautiful was so secretive. That a woman so desired in this mysterious club would obviously play hard to get. Did it help that she was also the owner of this place? No it did not.

But what did help was that a set of the smoothest pearls had fallen into his lap, and either on purpose or by accident, you had left him your necklace. Lee Minho couldn't decipher your intent, but at the very least, he found himself an excuse. It was as though petty fate that stopped him before was helping him proceed in this mission.

He searches for you in the crowd with continuous effort, but you seem to have disappeared a long time ago, as though your conversation with him was just another of his delusions. Lee Minho also realises that he's a little tipsy. He's starting to sweat under the warm suit in the crowded room, and he feels his heart rate pick up rapidly. Unlike how he had become tolerant of the alcohol here in Chicago, he wasn't used to this club as an entity, he especially wasn't used to you. For a trained detective like Minho, two minutes was all it took for him to decipher what a person desires, what their intentions are, but you were so hard to read. He had never felt so incompetent, so out of it before. He looks back at the bartender, who had offered him another free drink.

"What do they call her, that flapper?"

"She isn't just any flapper," the man replies with a smirk, "she's the most famous in the city, her stage name is Estelle Vin."

"Is she always that... mysterious? I can't help be drawn to her," Minho confesses foolishly, wanting to gauge the bartender further.

"Well, you're not the only one." the bartender jokes.

"Well then I'll need these," he reveals. the pearls dangling from his hand, "if you know what I mean," he flashes a wink, pretending to be a lovesick fool, unsure if it was pretention on his part.

Lee Minho leaves with a small stumble, feeling the blood rush to his ears, his entire body getting warm. His vision is somewhat blurry, as he pushes his way towards the door he was eyeing before, his hands clutching the pearls close to his chest in his breast-pocket, holding on as though his entire life depended on it, and maybe it did.

He had to duck through the entrance to the dressing rooms, where he found himself standing in a complex maze. There were doors to the right and left of him, and a long corridor leading down. The shabby exterior was deceptive of the space within the club, and he could barely believe that it was just a small, rundown club that lured people in. He walks further down the corridor, when a singer comes out of a door on the left. She looks at him, startled by his intrusion. "Who...?How did you enter? It's authorised personals only."

He quickly apologises, and in convoluted sentences that his brain pushed out, explained that he had something to return. "The door was unlocked, and I need to see Ms Vin."

The lights dimmed nearby, signalling that a new performance was about to start. The stranger looks rushed and tries to shoo him away.

"Get out, and stop acting like a stalker. This would ruin your reputation Mr Claude Landry."

Lee Minho's eyebrows furrow in confusion. Why did a singer working here know his surname? He had only disclosed it to Mr Brown and a few other aristocrats. He was sure that most of them were tight-lipped about it, but now he was somewhat alarmed. Of course, as a man of public curiosity, along with him being a foreigner, it may not be as alarming. Maybe a clerk saw him sign as Landry, and he overruled his previous suspicions. Absorbed in his thoughts, he slowly back away from this new area shrouded in mystery, until he feels the floor under his feet vibrating, as though something heavy was moving below.

"There's no way what I'm feeling is an earthquake now ma'am?" he questions, his suspicions aroused for perhaps the hundredth time in the night.

"I think you've had too much of hooch Mr Landry," the stranger replies.

Sure, he was somewhat intoxicated but there's no way he'd be this gone. He also made sure that the bartender didn't have any chance to spike his drink, which makes him feel fluky. The feeling increases, and he swears he can hear glass shatter below him, although faint. The Whangdoodle from the stage increases their volume as this happens, and Minho finds his ears ringing.

It was at that moment you spring out of your dressing room, almost alarmed. "Why are they so lou-" you exclaim but stop when you notice Minho.

His eyes look into yours, and for a second he feels relieved to see someone he knows, though barely. At least the situation didn't seem as unfamiliar as it did before.

"It's loud isn't it Ms Vin?" he asks, back to his stoic self, as though examining your anxious demeanour.

You hold back a breath, unsure how to answer the question. A new shipment was supposed to arrive today, and they're usually stored in the basement, which unfortunately happened to be right below where you were standing. You'd ensure that the entrance to this area was secure, but most of the men had gone to help carry the shipment in, which happened to be in excess today, and you must have left it open when you came back with your head muddled with thoughts of Minho. It was scary. The fate that usually favoured you, happened to be sabotaging you today.

"Yeah, the band is louder than usual, I should probably check on them."

You locked your door to stop him from entering, and nod at your colleague. She tries to usher Minho back to the main area, and you also try to leave past him. He grabs your hands instead, and you feel his eyes on the back of your head.

"This must be yours," you see your pearls drop from his hands, clinking against his watch.

You only now notice that your neck was bare, putting your hand against it. Another sound erupts from the basement, and you get frantic. You watch as your colleague runs down to the basement to make them aware of how conspicuously loud they were being. Minho is quick to follow her with his eyes, suspicion written all over his face.

In spontaneity, you pull him into the dressing room you had previously locked. It was a last resort to distract him, stupid as it was.

"I... I can wear the necklace here," you say, pulling him closer to you. "Or maybe you'd like to put it on me?" you try flirtatiously hoping to keep his attention on just you. You sit down on the red chair, and remove the makeup from the counter. Luckily for you, Minho seems to appreciate this opportunity just as much as you, walking closer until his hand rests on your naked shoulders. He carefully held your long bob in a fist, placing the cold pearls as delicately as he could around your neck, taking his sweet time. As he moves in closer, you feel his warm breath fanning your ear, where you're taken aback by his rapid breathing. You could feel his sigh travel down your spine as he bends to snap the necklace in place. It felt like he was holding himself back, deliberate. Careful. Once he's done clasping the necklace, you look at him through the mirror, his eyes focused on you. You see him take your appearance in, and a small gasp leaves his mouth.

"You look beautiful y/n," he says in a deeper voice, taking you by surprise. You weren't taken aback by the compliment itself but by the fact that you had never once given him your real name, and the only thing he could find out was your stage name. Even some of your closest workers were hidden from your real identity.

But you didn't want to confirm this with this stranger, deciding it would be best to feign innocence. You furrow your brows as though it was annoyance. "Who's y/n? Your wife? A lover? A tomato you fell in love with?"

He smirks, "Future wife, maybe. Lover, if we're looking to start from today" he counters, snarky, yet in a weird way seductive. At this point you were beyond alarmed and tried extremely hard to keep yourself grounded to this new predicament.

"What do you mean by we? Besides if you want to address me, then you can call me Estelle."

"Well, are you jealous Estelle? Cause to be honest I'd rather call out your name later instead of y/n. I really hope you aren't y/n."

Who was he and Why did he care so much? Maybe he was mistaken, your name might be popular in France, or wherever he's from. Because there's no way he was referring to you.

You wanted to change the conversation desperately, you absolutely had to. In so many years of hiding behind a façade, it was scary having it disintegrated, crumble in seconds by a mere stranger.

"I'm not jealous, Claude. I don't think you should be here, unless you have more to speculate?"

He says nothing, instead he reaches for his breast-pocket for the umpteenth time, removing his linen handkerchief engraved with C.L and a classic fountain pen with gold borders.

"Time and date, for our next meeting," he asks sweetly, a charming smile painted on his lips.

You take his pen and examine it carefully. "Looks expensive, must be a family heirloom," you ask carelessly.

Minho smiles, as though he had already won this game of deception. Did he actually know your name? No. But he made a somewhat educated guess. Like most of the women of the time, you had tattooed on your back your social security number. As a celebration of autonomy, it had become a popular trend, which you also seemed to have followed. Luckily, for him, he had access to the case of a few bootleggers who were hidden so well that the only thing that could be traced was the social security number on someone's back. The number belonged to y/n l/n. Did it help that the social security number had no pictures? No. But did it help that the numbers on your back were visible to him as he placed the necklace on you? Of course it did. He decided to take a dangerous bet, and observe your reaction.

Beyond your unperturbed expression, he could see a shift in your body language, your fingers clasped onto your necklace tighter for some time, before you recovered, your confident face wavering and your beautiful eyes shifting away from him . All he had to do was catch you in the act.

"You're such a liar Claude." you say out of nowhere. "What are you? A cop? you say also catching him off-guard.

"A cop, those incompetent people with a meagre salary? Of course I'm not, don't be ridiculous darling." he replies slowly.

He watches you smile, a menacing one that pretended to be comforting. "It was a joke, of course you're not a cop, you're big cheese around here," he takes the handkerchief from you, where he sees all you've written on it is "today" with a red lipstick stain on it.

"Today?" he raises an eyebrows in surprise. "Yeah, unless your bank's closed?" you entice.

He smiles and pulls you in swiftly. His unexpectedly rough hand that you would not expect someone rich to have, is on your back, drawing circles as his lips are pushed against yours. You taste the same cheap wine you had offered him towards the back of his tongue, except that it tasted so much better this way. You could taste remnants of the fake plum flavouring, mixed with the scent of your Chanel no 5 parfum taking over all your senses. You feel as his cold fingers trace definitely around your back. "Three" he whispers, "Eight," he continues, moving leftwards, causing goosebumps where he'd left his impression. "One" he continues. You pause for a moment, confused at the numbers he was repeating, until it eventually dawns on you. You push him away worried, your pearls clinking as you move back. "Anything wrong?" he asks innocently. You knew you couldn't directly admit to being a criminal. He wouldn't know just by your social security number, unless he was working with someone important. But he also somehow knew your name.

At this point you knew he wasn't a French Casanova, observing how his supposed "heirloom" had different initials engraved on the pen, L.M., which you were sure didn't belong to a Claude Landry, or that of a real family. It must have been a stolen good bought illegally, or that L.M were his real initials. The only way you could find out was if you played along.

"Nothing, I just needed a breather, your kisses are quite intense," you make a stupid excuse. Despite realising that you weren't yourself around him, you go back to making out with this handsome stranger, his hands going back to where they were until he managed to trace your entire number. He removes his tweed suit, and lifts up your dress until it was hiked far above your thighs, and with every movement the tassels of your dress get tangled up near his zip. You unbutton his cotton shirt, holding the fabric close, revealing his chest which was so much warmer than your hands. A chill blows through the window, and you shiver in between his warm touches. He stops there for a minute, and eyes the bottle of rum on your counter. He lifts you with ease, and places you on the counter, where your social number was reflected in the mirror, as though everything about you had finally been revealed.

"We should make our last toast," he speaks up breathless, sipping out of the bottle, then holding it to your lips. You accept, and gulp down more than you usually do. Something tells you it would be the last time you'd be this delirious, yet so satisfied. It was like with every kiss, he meant to take you down, in more ways than one. His kisses travelled down your body, scattered, frenzied. He kissed as though this was the first and only time he'd be this close to you. Soon you also gave in to the delicate pressure with all your being, overruling your innate intuition, lost in his seduction.

You were so guilty of doing this. Of finding comfort in the way he moaned your name, your real name, in low whispers, something you'd never trust anyone to do. And it didn't matter what secrets he hid when he made you feel this good. Though you were always guilty of lying to others, so was he. In a weird way, for tonight both of you would be equals- equally guilty parties for betraying yourselves.

Similarly, no one would ever fathom how utterly guilty Lee Minho felt with his tongue driven down your throat, enjoying it despite knowing you were a criminal. It was as though he couldn't let go, and for a minute he felt like none of it mattered, and that you were as innocent as your kisses fluttering over his collarbones. For tonight, he'd become the sinner, not you.

The same Lee Minho who hated being drunk during work hours, was beyond pleased, convincing himself that it was just for tonight. For just this night, he'd given into this hedonistic urge, of wanting nothing but a taste of your body, of your attention and your entire world which he would eventually have to destroy tomorrow. But tomorrow was so many kisses, so many secrets and so many bottles of alcohol later. So he continued deluding himself with your moans and soft lips, until he could no longer despise himself for his new intoxication: you.

Hi there, a small repost. I thought this read better as a single post instead of a two part, hence why some transitions may be bad.

I hope you enjoyed

<3 macaroon

[snowblossomreads]

After Hours

Summary: In where [Y/n] gets pulled into a late night romp in the office with her partner in crime.

Pairing: David Friedman x FemReader

Tags(s)/Warnings: Office Sex, Daddy Kink, Pet Names, Spanking, Implied Age Gap, Teasing, Penetrative Sex, Are those dom/sub vibes I see?, yes, mention of voyeurism, also both characters are detectives so if bothers you

Word Count: 4.5K

A/N: LOLOL I'M HERE AGAIN SURPRISE! I am on a roll right now as you can see and I hope it continues to go that way (she's very horny for this one old man as you see) Also don't fuck in the evidence room in the police department I'm pretty sure it's illegal.

Shout-out to @smilingformoney for enabling me and giving me horny ideas to write for this old man while also writing horny fics for this man😌😌. Iysm this is for you and I hope you enjoy a lil southern Alan💖💖💖.

MDNI!

"D-Dave what are you doing," [Y/n] hissed under her breath as she found herself being dragged into the evidence room of the station and pushed against one of the many shelves that littered the room with items on them.

She had only come down to check on the man who was now currently kissing her neck hungrily because he hadn't come back after half an hour. And being alone in the precinct in the middle of the night was actually quite creepy even if it was probably one of the safer places in the city.

"Dave! Oh, Jesus fuck slow down," she groaned trying to pry the man off of her as he switched from kissing to sucking at the tender flesh of her neck that had her knees going weak. His hands ran up and down her sides, squeezing at them causing her to giggle even as she tried to push him off. "Oh my god you're gonna get us fired!"

Whether it was the threat of being fired or her trying to push him off that made him stop, it didn't stop the sly grin on his face as he pulled away.

"What? Not likin' me jumpin' your bones in the office while no one's watchin?" He teased, a smirk on his lips as he placed a quick peck on [Y/n]'s. One she happily accepted signaling that she wasn't against what they were doing.

"Now I didn't say nothing about not likin' it detective," her answer coy and a bit breathless as she thumbed the lapel of his dress shirt, "I just think we should you know, make sure the door's locked before someone finds you balls deep in me."

The loud chuckle that rumbled through his chest could be felt by her with how close they were pressed together, and she couldn't help shivering at the feeling. God damn this old man for being as hot as he was, and having such a stupid sexy deep voice.  And damn her for loving him so much that she lowkey would risk getting fired for him.

Never in her life did she think she would end up getting bent over in the police station but here she was about to absolutely let the man in front of her do that. Once he locked the door though.  

"What not a fan of an audience?" He asked releasing her from his grip and taking a few steps back to lock the door as she suggested.

"Oh me? I'm perfectly fine with one, it's you that I'd be worried about."

With a raise of an eyebrow, David was slinking back towards [Y/n]  her eyes narrowed playfully as he caged her against the shelf by putting both hands on the opposite side of her head. His breath tickled her face and the smell of coffee was evident as he leaned down near her ear.

"Really and why's that doll?" He drawled nuzzling the side of her face, causing her ear to tickle again at how gruff his voice was.

"Mmm oh come on Dave you know why," she sighed breathlessly, feeling the tip of his nose glide down her neck, goosebumps growing in its wake before he was nibbling at her neck again.

She was no doubt going to have bruises the next day and she hoped she had enough concealer for it as she didn't need more questions about her love life.

"Naw I sure don't, tell me why doll," he muttered, his hands slipping from near her head to find themselves squeezing at her sides again before one of them began to dive underneath the pencil skirt that [Y/n] had decided to wear today on account of it being paperwork day.

"Ah fuck Dave!" The feeling of his thick fingers moving her underwear to the side and rubbing her dampening slit had her hands reaching out to grab his shoulder.

Her head fell back against the shelf with a soft 'thud' as he began to drag his digits up down her opening collecting her wetness with each swipe. He took his time when he reached her clit that was still hidden beneath her folds.

Fingers brushing against the skin gently before rubbing circles against the flesh to try and coax the little bud out. All while [Y/n] huffed and whined at his touches, her hips jerking towards his hand with each stroke.

"Right there Dave," she sighed softly as his fingers kept stroking her and his lips continued to leave a trail of wet kisses down her throat.

Chills of excitement ran up her spine, spreading all over her as he kept touching and riling her up the way she knew he could.

"Mm right there Dave, please keep going boo~."

Yet at her words, he did the complete opposite. And she didn't know if she wanted to yell at him or burst out laughing because even in the delicious haze her brain was in she already knew what she had slipped up on.

Pulling away from her neck, but keeping his fingers against her David was looking at her with a raised eyebrow and hazel eyes that had a spark of annoyance in them.

"Now what did I say about callin' me that?"

She was right. She was fucking right and she wanted to laugh so much, though she wasn't sure if it was a good idea considering he literally had her in his hands. But she loved teasing him and she wasn't about to pass up the chance.

"Callin' you what?" She teased mischievously, her eyes narrowing and issuing a challenge as she bit her bottom lip to give him a smoldering look in hopes he would ignore the slip-up or at least make it worth her wild.

"Don't go playin' dumb with me now [Y/n]," he hissed trailing his fingers down from her clit to her opening and pushing the thick digits inside her with no warning.

A shriek of surprise left [Y/n]'s lips at the sudden intrusion but it quickly morphed into an elongated moan as he began to curl the digits inside her, stroking the tight walls that slowly began to loosen at his touches.

"Mmm I'm not Dave, I promise," she whined, letting a high-pitched gasp out at the feeling of his fingers thrusting shallowly inside of her as they went in search of something he fully knew the location of. "I'm sorry, fuck I'm sorry didn't mean to darlin'."

The change in tone, and in terms of endearment had him smirking as he pressed his fingers deeper in her causing her to squeal and shudder at his movements. Her arms flew up and around his shoulder, as she pressed her front to him hugging him and moaning in his ear as he continued to open her up.

"Oh, so now you remember what I told you when I got my fingers inside you huh?" He hummed punctuating the question with another harsh thrust that had [Y/n] squealing and shaking in his hold as he increased his pace causing her to squirm. "All it takes is makin' your pussy feel good and you change that tune quick right doll?"

"Y-yes, yes," she stuttered out, rocking her hips at his touch trying to guide him to that spot inside her.

"Yes what?" He purred while the hand that was resting at her side slid to her backside. His fingers squeezing and massaging the flesh underneath her skirt before he was raising his hand and swatting her behind causing her to yelp out a startled,

"Dave!"

"Wrong answer doll." And then came another swat that had her shuddering and her insides clenching at the fingers that were still taking their time and toying with her.

Oh. So he was in that kind of mood.

Leaning her head up, she couldn't help but shudder at how his pupils were dilated. Hazel eyes were almost completely covered by his dark pupils and a hungry grim was on his features while he waited for her answer.

Oh, they were so going to get fired if someone showed up wondering where they were and found them like this. Unfortunately, though it was a risk she was willing to take as one of her hands fell from his shoulders to lay on top of his hand that was squeezing her ass. Stroking the top of his hand, she proceeded to put pressure on it causing him to squeeze her harder making her moan.

"Yes daddy," she groaned, kissing his lips softly as he slipped his fingers out of her, giving her clit one last stroke before removing his hand fully from under her skirt.

"That's what I was lookin' for, now turn yourself around. And bend over," he commanded but not before kissing her on the forehead, "gotta teach you a lesson and hopefully it'll stick this time."

She knew there was no point in trying to convince him otherwise and that she would be wasting her breath but she couldn't help but let out an upset groan as she did as he told her.

"I'm sorry," she whined once more, as she turned around to face the side of the shelf. Bending at the waist and outstretching her hands in front of her, placing them on the frame of the shelf while spreading her legs a little.

A strong pang of arousal shot through her stomach when she really thought about what was about to happen. Getting spanked and railed in the middle of the night at her job should not have been turning her on as much as it was but she couldn't deny it as she felt her skirt being rolled up and her damp underwear being pulled to the side causing her to shiver as the cool air of the room met her wet opening that was on display.

A hum of appreciation left David's lips as he caressed the globe of [Y/n]'s ass. The tips of his fingers danced over the warm flesh as they made their way toward her glistening opening. Swiping two of his fingers through her folds, he couldn't help but chuckle at the way she keened and rocked her hips back toward him.

"You'll get some more of that in a minute but we got some countin' to do. Think ten of 'em will get what I told you in your head?"

It was his way of asking her if she was alright with all of this as he went back to stroke her skin. Such a gentleman he was, [Y/n] mused as she looked behind her and caught his gaze.

"Mhm, yes sir," she purred, wiggling her hips and causing him to chuckle as he took his hand off of her for just a second.

"Alright then let's get to countin'."

No sooner had he said that the sound of a harsh 'thwack' of his hand landing on her skin echoed around the room and it was mixed in with a choked,

"One!"

Another smack.

"Two!"

And another just as hard as the two before.

"Three!"

Each number was squeaked out in a higher pitch than the next one as his hand landed on her ass three more times in rapid succession. And each spank had her insides clenching and unclenching from the punishment she was receiving as she swayed her hips from side to side as if she was trying to tempt the man behind her.

"Daddy please I'm sorry, I won't call you that again," [Y/n] mewled, her behind already stinging from the force. As much as she did like a bit of pain with her pleasure, the feeling of arousal in her stomach was bubbling up quicker than normal and she wasn't sure if she could contain herself if it went on much longer.

David seemed to have sensed that yet kept his tone leveled even as he stroked her ass rubbing his thumb against the already sore flesh.

"Now you know I don't wanna hear none of that [Y/n]," he said, "how many we got left now?"

"Four...sir," she whimpered quietly, eyes fluttering close and fingers balling into a fist against the shelf as she felt him dip his fingers just past the opening of her before pulling out. Teasing her insides with what could be inside her rather than what they were doing right now.

Though as if he could read her mind, because he surely knew how to read her body, he made an amused hum as he wiped her wetness off on his slacks.  Good thing they were dark in color.

"Well then I say we hurry up then because from the looks and sound of it you're 'bout ready to combust, aren't you?" He purred lowly placing his hand back on her bottom and squeezing gently causing her legs to feel as if they were about to just give out beneath her.

God damn him and his stupid talented fingers. And her stupid pussy that was absolutely soaked and wanting him to just fuck her.

"Yes sir please 'm not gonna last long." She mewled, leaning her forehead against the cool shelf side and sighing at the contact against her warm face.

"Alright then four more."

If she thought the last four strikes were going to be pleasant just because he seemed to take notice of her need. She (and her butt) were sorely mistaken as the last ones seemed to be even worse. Maybe it was because of the quick break in between but when she finally sobbed out a broken,

"10!"

She had to wonder if she was going to be upright by the end of this as she was sure her legs were actually about to give out this time. Not to mention the way her arousal was dripping down her thighs making the skin sticky and damp as she trembled with a desire that was literally leaking from her.

"I think we've learned our lesson right [Y/n]?" David teased his hand still on the globe of her ass rubbing the skin as if trying to soothe the burn and residual sting licking at it.

"Y-yes," [Y/n] sniffled pitifully, whimpering at his touch to her sensitive flesh.

"Ah yes what doll, don't make me have to give you another 10."

"Yes, I've learned my lesson daddy please," she begged needily, tears that she had tried to keep at bay during her punishment threatening to spill from the arousal burning in her stomach, "please I need you, please just fuck me I won't call you that again."

A little hum rumbled through his throat as [Y/n] turned to look at him, and as if the tears in her eyes were enough, he let out a sigh before saying,

"Alright alright, needy lil' thing you aren’t you. Don't start cryin' on me sweetheart," he said giving her lower back a gentle pat, "since you did so well how 'bout I let you choose what you get?"

Oh thank god.

As much as she would love for him to keep the foreplay up she wasn't sure how long she was going to last on his fingers, or tongue for that matter. And if she was going to come she wanted it to be on his cock especially if it was going to be at work.

"Mmm want your cock, just want you inside me please." She answered with no hesitation anywhere in her tone as she turned back around to face the shelf, a sudden burst of energy flooding her veins as she heard the sound of his belt unbuckling and him unzipping his pants. "Just fuck me please I'm already so close."

"Huh just from a little spankin' doll?" He teased palming at his erection that had been straining in his boxers with one hand as the other one had its fingers brushing and rubbing [Y/n] wetness all over her slick opening making her shudder and moan. "So fuckin' messy back here, all this for me ain't it?" He purred, removing his fingers from her before rubbing her wetness over his cock. Getting himself nice and slicked with both of their arousals and groaning as he fisted himself prepping himself for her.

"Always for you daddy, only want you inside me," she groaned hotly, listening to the slick sounds behind her as she not only proved her want with words but by also taking her fingers and spreading herself open for him.

The sticky sound of her opening herself for him had both of them moaning as David took this as his cue to tap the tip of him at her entrance before slotting the thick head inside her causing both of them to shudder with matching languid low groans.

Taking one more deep breath, he grabbed at [Y/n]'s hip before sinking inside her with one fluid thrust. His cock easily breaching her walls as he slid in with barely any resistance causing [Y/n] to let out a mixture of a choked sob and a broken moan as he easily bottomed out on him. Her cunt fluttered and her body shuddered as it quickly adjusted to having him inside her.

And it didn't take him any time to begin rocking his hips, moving at a steady pace as he began to rut into her. Low pants and groans filled the air along with the sounds of flesh smacking against flesh as David held tightly onto her waist as he began to thrust.

"Oh fuck daddy yes fuck me fuck me please! Just like that," she begged breathlessly as her insides sucked at him each time he slid back inside of her trying to draw him deeper into her.

Each of his thrusts were met with her whining and him groaning noisily as she squeezed him with everything she had. Her channel rippled and leaked more of her juices as she felt her body trying to give out with each push of his hips against her. All while David was growling out the filthiest things she had heard from him outside of their bedroom.

"Got the hungriest cunt I've ever fucked you know that doll," he panted out gripping her hips roughly and pounding into her with such force that she could barely keep up with each thrust. Each one caused her to slide a bit down before she tried to scramble back into an upright position against the shelf. "Can just hear how fuckin' wet you are, doll. Bet if the whole office were here, they hear loud and clear how good you're getting fucked ain't that right?"

"Oh god yes oh fuck!" She almost yelled out partially forgetting where they were and more interested in the pleasure that was building hotter and hotter in her veins,"you fuck me so good daddy please it's so good!"

"Best this little cunt has ever had isn't it," he growled increasing his pace the sound of their fucking echoing around the room as the shelf  [Y/n] was holding onto shook at the motions. Some of the items knocked into each other and she could have sworn she heard something fall but that was none of her concern at the moment.  

"Mhmm I feel you squeezin' me darlin' think your about to come real soon aint' you."

"Uh-huh please, please can I come, I'm so close," her words came out as a strangled beg as she felt her body about to slide entirely down to the ground. And while she wasn't against getting fucked on her hands and knees, she wasn't particularly interested in doing it on this floor.

She still had standards.

"Please daddy please I c-can't can't hold it anymore," she wailed as her words seemingly spurred him on to fuck her harder causing her to reach a hand back to try and grab his wrist lest she fall.

David in turn took that as permission to grab her hand, yanking her towards him in an upright position and lifting one of her legs by wrapping a hand under her bent knee and bringing it to his side while his other grabbed her waist to keep her from falling over.

A clipped surprise screeched left [Y/n]'s lip at the position that caused him to slide deeper in her as she threw the arm closest to him behind his neck. Her body now angled towards him enough that they could both see each other as they raced towards their peaks.

"Gonna come on my cock aren't you doll," he growled, thrusting in shallowly before pressing and holding himself deep inside of her. "Make a mess all over us for anyone to see if they show up? I bet you like that lettin' everyone know I've been the one fuckin' you all this time."

His words made her shudder as he ground his hips against hers, causing her eyes to flutter shut just as he made her insides flutter with excitement. He had her trembling and making incoherent high-pitched whines that had his cock hardening even more as it began to throb ready to spill itself inside her.

"D-Dave please, I can't," she sobbed as he leaned down to kiss her neck before picking up his pace again, her mouth falling open as she begged him, "please let me come I'm gonna come daddy please."

A smirk crossed his thin lips as he kissed her on her cheek before nodding, his hand tightening around her waist as he began to slowly move his hips again.

"Go on then, wanna watch you rub that pretty little clit of yours while you come on my cock," he drawled huskily watching as she immediately lit up, her free hand dropping down to her front and playing with herself. “And you better scream my name when you come, you hear me?"

She nodded furiously, fingers gripping onto him while her other hand began to rub tight circles around her clit that was throbbing and pulsing with each pass of her digits. Her breathing became erratic and her insides began to seize up with each flick and stroke at her swollen bead. It was like her heart was about to beat out of her chest as she felt her pussy bare down on David causing him to hiss and thrust inside her at a quicker pace.

"Daddy, daddy oh fuck," she panted out her body writhing in his arms as his sensual groans and moans near her ear had her shaking. Her strokes increased in pace and so did his thrust as they pushed themself closer and closer to the finish line with each movement.

The sound of his cock fucking her grew wetter and wetter, increasing in volume as her pussy grew tighter and tighter until,

"Dave!"

His name tumbled from her lips in a watery cry as she felt her stomach tremble and her insides convulse around his cock. The feeling of her clenching and unclenching around him over and over had him growling and cursing loudly as she began to milk him of everything he could give her. His seed came out in hot spurts as her insides drank it all while thanking him with more gentle throbs around him as he emptied himself into her.

It took a moment for them to gather their bearings as they stood there panting and staring at each other with blissed out expressions. [Y/n] moved first going to kiss the man, while running her fingers through his messy hair while he stroked her waist tenderly.

They were both a complete mess as David began to drag himself out of her, a hiss of discomfort leaving [Y/n] due to how sore she felt along with how her underwear went back into place causing all his seed to begin to pool in the ruined piece of fabric when he put her leg down.

A shower was most definitely needed after this.

But there was also something else on her mind as she tried to straighten her outfit to make it look like she hadn't just been fucked six ways to Sunday. Hard thing to do considering she was about to walk limp from this no doubt.

"You know I told you so," she said, turning to look at David who was just finishing redoing his belt, and looking a bit more disheveled than he usually did.

"Told me what?"

"When I said I was worried 'bout you and an audience I told you you would hate it," she grinned up at him as she helped straighten his tie and shirt.

There was a twitch of his lips as he frowned at her, yet amusement glinted in his eyes at her little statement.

"Aw now don't you start with me again about that," he grunted, taking her hand that was messing with his shirt in his own and kissing it.

A giggle left her lips at his action right before he was leaning down to kiss her on the cheek, his five o'clock shadow tickling her and making her giggle even more.

"I'm sorry, daddy," she teased sweetly, laughing as his lips moved over towards hers, nipping it lovingly and causing her to grin.

"Of course you are doll,” he sighed exasperatedly as he watched her eyes shine with mirth. “Now let's get outta here before someone comes lookin. If I 'member correctly I'm pretty sure Matty suppose to be coming in later for somethin'."

The change of demeanor from [Y/n] was frighteningly quick as she pushed herself away from him as if he had burned her, a deep scowl on her face.

"David Friedman have you lost your goddamn mind!" She hissed, bolting to the door, pressing her ear to the cold metal of it and listening to see if she could hear footsteps, "if that man finds us- you know he still has it out for you because of last time Dave!"

"Well that's why I'm tellin’ you now doll, best get a move on," he chuckled watching her open the door carefully and looking around the corner before she turned to look at him. Her eyes still narrowed as she glared at him.

"Also I better be getting late dinner after this David, can't believe I let you- oh lord I can't even," she huffed not even finishing her thought as she opened the door fully and scurried out of it since the coast was clear.

Following behind her he couldn't help but let out a loud guffaw as he watched her grab her purse from underneath her desk before hurrying past him, off to the bathroom to clean herself.

“Late night dinner doll, that’s fine with me,” he teased as she went past him causing her to turn around and stick her tongue out at him before continuing on her way.

Sigh, he was going to be the death of her one day. 

A/N: So glad these horny ones did not get caught. Though I'm sure their coworker will find the evidence room trashed and be like you what the fuck. Anyways I hope all like it, please shout at me about what you think!

See you guys!! 😘😘

[mega-ringsandthings-world]

this is far far into the future of the lougetown AU and not mishanks but their dynamic has me in a chokehold so here y'all go, Ace and Bogard ignoring the very Not Good situation they are in; ...He. 

He's standing by one of the windows, profile turned to it, illuminated by the fading, burning sun. One of his hands is resting on the windowsill, fingers tapping against it, wrist-chain dangling down from it. He looks peaceful, golden, but only for a moment, only until he notices - senses - Bogard's approach. He turns, hand slipping off the windowsill. The sun shines on his back instead, caping him in light, filtering through his hair. His hair. They've tried to slick it back for whatever they were doing, but Bogard wonders how long that truly lasted. It's kicking and waving around his neck and ears, falling over his face, into his eyes. Unruly, uncooperative, fetching.

"Bo," Ace says, and smiles. Not a particularly wide or bright smile, - it wouldn't be, couldn't be - but it is what tears at Bogard later. That smile. That he smiled at all. That he smiled at him. Ace's head dips down after a second, smile still in place. He tips it towards the soft-covered file case Bogard holds. 

"Lines?" he inquires, quietly sardonic. There is amusement in his eyes, but that however, is nothing but genuine. Bogard's mouth twitches at the corners, although for his part, he can't hold even that suggestion of a smile for long. He covers for it by flipping open the file, tilting it down towards the floor to show the blank pages he'd pulled to the front beforehand. 

Ace looks even more amused, though it stays in his eyes, does not touch his lips. Bogard's heart aches suddenly and terribly. 

"One for the tabloids," Ace says, and there's an echo of laughter in his voice. 

"...No, not for the tabloids," is all Bogard can think to say, distracted by that faraway laughter. Then, letting quiet steel slip in for Ace's benefit; "They'd have to kill me for that." Ace smiles just a bit more that that, Bogard thinks, and his heart aches a little less for a moment.

"Oh, they wouldn't take it by force," Ace says. "They'd try to buy it from you first." He pauses then, and Bogard can see Ace's pragmatic side - pirate side, the boy is a pirate to his very marrow and will be forevermore, no matter what they do to him, how they hurt him, why they hurt him  - visibly rear its head. "Bet they'd pay good money for it too," Ace goes on, and suddenly Bogard is the entire focus of those black black eyes, warm and for an instant, snapping with a boy's mischief. "Need a new suit, Bo?"

There is no word to describe the clawing pain in his chest, under his ribs, no word that could come close. Except for the one. Bogard loves him. Loves him so much he thinks for one moment he's going to vomit on the pristine floor of the hallway.

When he speaks, it is a struggle to keep his voice steady.

"Not me," he says mildly. "But you need one."

Ace laughs then, quietly, lowly, unexpectedly, because it's true - perhaps because he knows how much Bogard needs, wants to hear him laugh. He's in his double-breasted red and gold uniform, and Bogard notes once again how utterly gauche the ornate costume is, how unflattering to his slender frame the bulk it adds. 

"Yeah," Ace agrees, and turns back to the window. Sinking back into whatever he was thinking about before. Or maybe he wasn't thinking at all. Maybe. Maybe.

Bogard watches his face go golden again, catch fire, and slides one hand under his crossed lapels in search of the charcoal pencil tucked away under them. It feels inadequate between his fingers as he draws it out, he wants - he should be using - paints, oils, colors, he should be immortalizing this moment, this boy.

It takes Bogard a moment to shake off the sense of impotence, but as soon as he does - before it can come again - he steps closer, closer, leans his shoulder against the wall framing the windowsill and sets his hand to paper.

He captures Ace's form in a few quick, loose strokes, then begins to define them, beginning first with his body - to get the ordeal of the uniform out of the way - saving Ace's face for last.

Ace remains still, Bogard would say he's standing at attention if only he was capable of it, and time passes in the shifting and deepening of the sunlight on his features. Bogard piles details on details, the heavy drape of the placket, the lines of button over the chest, the ropes of braids and tasseling on the shoulders. The blocky swoop of the gold chevrons on the arms, the useless gold designs everywhere else.

It is the antithesis of what Bogard knows Ace likes to wear, which is to say, as little as possible. The uniform is undeniably masculine in its tailoring too, both a statement and a thick veil. Bogard's fingers feel clumsy reconstructing it, it's the first time he's done so. With good reason. 

He thinks of Ace's clothes before, and his fingers suddenly itch. Before, the things seen only in flashes on a screen and all the more alluring for that, the silks and flames and candy-red pearls. Gold in the crease of an eye, in the hair, fingers gleaming. Dark patterned linen, bare legs. What he'd been wearing when they dragged him in, threw him at him at the mercy of-

No. He pushes the thought away, and realizes he's at the uniform's collar now, dutifully shading in the marine symbols pinned at the throat. He stops, leaves them unfinished, and darkens the curve of Ace's jaw, his ear, the beginnings of his mouth. When Ace speaks, he nearly adds a jagged scar across Ace's cheekbone.

"...Do I really look like him?"

It takes Bogard a moment, he has to stop sketching for the question to click. In the interim, Ace raises his hand back to the windowsill in a soft jingle of chains and slowly starts plays his fingers on it.

Bogard watches him, and thinks. Or rather, recalls, recalls for the first time in many years, the exact details of Gol D. Rogers' face. It's a face that's been broadcasted far and wide since Ace's capture, but those images of the man, older and inundated with illness, taken in a way to garner contempt, are not what Bogard wants to recall. He thinks. Of the pirate king, two decades and more ago, wild and full of life, his hair down around his face in the same manner Ace's is now. 

The tail end of a brilliant smile flashed his way, a look of interest. A laugh, a boy's mischief in black black eyes. "Who's your shadow, Garp? Ooh, he's a pretty one."  

"You bear an undeniable resemblance to him," Bogard says, and lines Ace's chin so he doesn't have to see the boy constrict on himself like he's taking a blow. He wonders why Ace is asking him now, when he's never asked before.

Gol D. Roger. Gold Roger. Damn the man. Damn him to hell. Look what you do to your son. Look. Fury waxes in Bogard's chest for a moment, a hot fire-glow that wanes just as quickly, leaving something in its wake, a small spark of inspiration. 

"But," Bogard goes on, choosing his next words as carefully as he can, because this in turn is something that he has never said to Ace, never once mentioned, never once had found the time or place for. Why he's saying it now, he has no idea, only the thought that for some reason he should. The thought to wipe Gol D. Rogers' face from the boy's mind. "More than anything, you look like your mother."  

Ace's head snaps towards him, so quick and sudden that Bogard's fingers go rigid around his pencil from instinct. Ace stares at him, eyes wide, his mouth wavering, unsettled. His brows are drawing in, just a little.

Bogard knows that look, opens his mouth to defuse it. He's made a mistake, he thinks. Ace's mother is also something he's never spoke to the boy about, except impersonally, in passing. Ace's questions about her were always directed at Garp, Bogard was never given the chance nor the authority to speak about her, and was content for it to stay that way. Now-

-Now- 

-Ace speaks first, and he sounds almost scared. No, hopeful. 

"...Do I?" 

Ah. Maybe Bogard hasn't made a mistake after all. He loosens his grip on the pencil, fills in Ace's lips.

"You do." Bogard says. Then after a second's pause, deliberately; "It's a shame that no one ever sees the likeness." 

Ace's face does something that Bogard doesn't like, and he stops just shy of Ace's nose to weather the coming storm. 

"Why would they?" Ace says, everything, anything vulnerable gone from his voice, leaving it thin, bitter. "Whenever anyone looks at me, all they see is him."  

Bogard waits a moment, tasting the bitterness on the air. "I don't," he says quietly, and draws in Ace's nose. Portgas D. Rouge's nose. Portgas D. Rouge. Debonair, fastidious, dead before her time. It is perhaps one of the world's great injustices - apart from what is happening to her son in the here and now - that Ace never met her. 

"Then what do you see?" Ace prods, but his tone rings hollow, devoid of any true aggression. Tired. He's so tired.

Bogard presses a few freckles across the bridge of Ace's nose, dots a few more under the space where his eye will go, a space where Ace has no freckles. "I told you," he says. "I see your mother."

The light coming through the window shifts again in the time it takes for Ace to realize, sinking into a warm amber. Ace's skin goes bronze under it, his hair a dark mixture of overlapping shadows.

"You knew her," Ace says.

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 3: Misanthrapologist (1)

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter

Summary of chapter: Time for a sacrifice.

Author's note: This chapter was originally part of the upcoming one, but I decided it should be standalone, both because it is Hidan-centric and because of its contents. I plan on more installments with this song, and if I follow through they should overall end up more fucked up each time. In addition, please regard the notes and warnings of chapter 1 if you have not read it already. Song is Misanthrapologist by Will Wood.

CW for references to periods, being on your period. Also, Hidan, of course, does not reflect how a normal person should view a chronic condition and he's a bit of an ass about it.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I wanna meet your maker

Shake him by his ensanguined damask lapels

Holler "Look what you've done, gave this planet a sun

And made a man to wonder if he's more than the sum of his cells"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It becomes impossible to hide, no matter how hard she tries. A flush face, tired bones, and overly sensitive heart make one very vulnerable, especially if those who judge know the reason why. The two Akatsuki don’t yet, and the performer hopes to mitigate it as much as possible.

Doesn’t keep Kakuzu from inquiring, though.

“Sick?” he asks abruptly, looking up from counting the tips made yesterday. It’s been half ten minutes, and the most she’s done for practice is hold her guitar to her abdomen and look pathetic and self-pitying. She fidgets from her seat on the rugged couch, embarrassed as hell.

“...A bit,” she admits.

“Will it effect how well you can work?”

She forces herself to shake her head “no.”

“Alright.”

And that’s the end of that on his end, but unfortunately, after much deliberation, the performer finds she must stand up. A violet eye cracks open from his side of the living room. It watches as she leans down closer than she’s every purposefully been to Kakuzu, and covered lips whisper in his ear. “...Hn,” the older one grunts, “How much?” She mumbles a number as Hidan’s mouth goes into a lopsided pursing. “Mm.” A few bills are dropped into her trembling hand. “Get a receipt.” Without even a look to the prophet, Jashin's disciple is gone; the nature of the whole thing leaves Hidan sour.

“The hell was that all for?” he inquires, praying hands still clasped around his pendant. Kakuzu doesn’t even look up.

“Nothing,” he responds, same tone as ever.

“Fucker.”

“Sure,” he dismisses.

Kakuzu gets the receipt he asked for an hour later, slip of paper in his hand from out of a bag the bard otherwise keeps closed up, lest contents see daylight. He grunts again. Couple cents off, but same bill amount-- decent enough guess, and he got all the change. She thanks him with a small bow and excuses herself up the creaky stairs. As soon as Hidan’s nose is in his space, Kakuzu shreds the paper till unrecognizable.

“OI!”

The old man hasn’t decided yet if this is funny or about to be supremely, unnecessarily annoying, seeing his partner squirm so badly. “Just don’t bother her about it.” Oh, how he should know that kind of talk will only plant ideas in Hidan’s head.

Ugh. People speak too lightly of this kind of thing, she laments in her head as she props herself up against a bedroom wall. “Sick” is the only way to describe the sensation. Her stomach curdles and insides burn. It’s like a vampire bit her and pulled out a cork at the same time-- just totally drained of energy. This pain is so bad her lips quiver as she frowns. The door is closed, but Hidan isn’t the type to knock.

“Oi!” Her eyes flutter open; he walked up without her noticing, somehow, so close she starts with his legs and works her way up. He continues speaking once the eyes lock. “The bastard won’t say anything.” A silver eyebrow raises. “The fuck is your problem?”

Oh. The woman’s cheeks get so red they begin to sting, her mouth feeling more like a squiggle than the line she tries to maintain. “I’m just sick.” The word “just” was a mistake.

“Dying? Fuck, you’re not contagious, are ya?!” Sounding bored with the former option and annoyed with the other. Urgently, the woman shakes her head. “So! What else is it then?!” Frustration loosens up in his expression as he comes up with the only option left. “...Chronic?”

…

…

She nods.

“Painful?”

Quietly, again she nods.

The expression he has is something you never want from Hidan:

Pity.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

'Cause you defy creation

I hate you, I hate you, I do

Hands to the night sky, praying you might die

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The preparations have been made for her mercy kill. Yes, Jashin has convinced him, Hidan needs to end this now. Despite being an immortal, he understood at least a little bit what Deidara was always on about-- the beauty of the end. Last breaths, a body draining till pale like a tipped inkwell, till it stains the ground around it. It was glorious. His disciple had even witnessed first hand! She listened to Hidan, eagerly, curiously; she always asked questions, ones that no one has bothered to since the Akatsuki swallowed him up. Yet...she doesn’t LEARN. The beauty of slaughter has yet to sweep her away in a tangible way, not just philosophical bullshit. The follower will never, ever WANT to kill.

And so it’s better to kill her now and not make anything more of it. Maybe Hidan misunderstood his lord, perhaps she was only to serve as a refresher to his faith, his excitement for the hunt. No more of a pointless existence being whored out for cash by his dumbass partner while he watches idly by. What kind of life is that for him to come back to, night after night?!

It’s time for a sacrifice.

“Uh.”

As she’s wont to do, the performer wrings her hands when particularly anxious about what’s to come. He’s certainly set...a mood…to warrant some tension, her corner of this dilapidated home swathed in shadow, shades down, door closed as a candle passes its light to the others while Hidan savors the burning wax bleeding down his fingers.

For once, he says nothing to even the slightest of words. His gaze concentrates on the fire till he sets the last one, light flickering in anticipation over his purple irises. It’s a sight to behold, someone willingly within his ritual circle. She’ll be good for something, after all.

“I think I complained too much,” she tries to backpedal with less urgency than she really should have, as he begins to prowl towards her backside. “It’s not...curable, per say, but it’s not something I can’t handle. If that’s what this is about,” she adds almost guiltily.

There’s no going back now-- in his mind, she’s a wilting flower, one he’d rather cut and frame for his savior than let decay into nothing at all, but damn if he isn’t curious still about whatever it is making her suffer so much. “Really,” he states, skeptical. His own shadow now doubles over the others, over-top her head. The shift from blades hitched to his spine to being wielded in front of him is unperceived from where she is, seated on the floor, thanks to the refraction of candlelight upon shapes making every one a blur.

“Hidan, I-- it’s-- it’s not a big deal. I promise.” The scythe pauses in place from the height of his swing, only being held by his own insatiable need to know what- exactly- has made her such a tragedy.

“If it ain't a big fucking deal, then stop dancing around and tell! Me! What! It! IS!”

His words come vicious and desperate, hardly contained before, and it makes teeth grit so much Hidan’s mouth begins to ache. Later, he will find, this passion surprised even him-- not because he’s incapable of passion- hell no!...it’s the reason behind it.

Jesus, it’s really going to be like this, huh? Breathe in...breathe out. Alright. It’s gone too far, she decides. He needs to know.

“I. I....period. I’m on my. Period.”

Static and white noise briefly take up the space of the voice in his head, the narrative he made no longer words but nonsense, drowned away. He shorts out, not moving an inch, like a guillotine still waiting to drop down.

“I’m sorry. It’s not a big deal, it’s really not! I can handle it, I have to. I’m just...in the bad part.” The part where she can hardly stand up, that is. Pathetic. “I’m sorry,” she says again.

The shadow of the blades shifts, slowly, surely, bit by bit, as his wrist lowers to his side. Ah, what sort of punishment was she going to endure? For making him go through...whatever all this preparation is meant for.

He walks around the circle, scythe still in his hands as he wraps his head around this. The woman is kneeling down, obedient to him, to his judgment. Her face is drained of color, hardly keeping her head up and not bothering to brush the hair out of her way. Hands folded, hands praying. Her eyes are wet, refusing to meet his own. Something occurs inside of him that’s less of a “click” and more like a sunrise: gradual, consuming, warming. It's foreign, and yet a part of him-- guiltily-- accepts it. Though he doesn't fully understand why, he is granted wisdom that this "condition" is not something he shall remedy.

After all, bloodshed is bloodshed.

“Ah. Well. Shit, then.”A small clink as he reattaches his red guillotine to his back. “Why didn’t you just say so?” Truth is, the performer had correctly guessed that he has a bit of a religious obsession with blood-- didn’t need Kakuzu’s advice to keep the subject private. God, but does she really have to feel so silly right now? That Hidan thought that he needed to do something to save her from it?! She’s...huh.

She’s flattered.

The woman sits lowered before him, and though as helpless as she is, damn if she isn’t curious.

“Did I really worry you that much?”

He quickly spits the taste of affection out of his mouth.

“Sorry.”

“...Shut up,” he murmurs.

“Sorry.” She shuts her eyes.

But just as soon they have reason to flutter open; they can only do so, of course, when she finds a gentle hand takes her own. Hidan’s fingers brush over her knuckles. It’s him, this time, that won’t meet her eyes, his own narrowed while closed lips try to seal in the little breath not lost. The chain around his neck rises over his head. The pendent is set into her palm, and then his own palms fold underneath it. Abruptly, the world is hers.

“We praise Jashin for this pain, for this blood. Thank you for our lives, as we are reminded of the mortal cycle. In life, we anticipate death. In death, we begin to feel alive. Thank you for blessing your disciple, lord Jashin.”

He’s never prayed out loud before in the time they’ve known each other, let alone for both of them. There’s a long pause; the assumption it’s her turn comes around. What should she pray for?

...She doesn’t know. But still, with this spectacle, she’s filled with something overwhelming, and it should come out. Instinctively, she leans down at the end of his prayer, and Jashin’s cold silver sigil is pressed to her lips gently, reverently. He’s foolish enough to look up at this moment and witness this kiss. For the first time, in all her pure, weary glory, Hidan sees he was wrong. He sees she is radiant. He sees she is beautiful.

And silently, unknown to her, he repents for the sin of doubting his lord.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Before I fall in love with you

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[daincrediblegg]

omg for the ask meme 'you look like you need to stop, do you?' with valery - with him being asked??

you look like you need to stop, do you?

It's all too much. He feels a fool for not knowing sooner that it would be.

It was he, after all, who had caught your fingertips with his as you strode through the mostly abandoned Pripyat Hotel to meet with Boris for work. He, whose eyes combed over the way your hair fell over your face all day, nose deep in your own research as he was meant to be deep in his. He couldn't blame you, then, for returning longing glances right back at him that tore the ground out from under him, for slipping that little piece of paper into his suit pocket that told him where he could find you.

And for bringing him to where you are now, hidden in a darkened corner of this horribly empty place, lips locked with yours.

The kiss itself he thought he might be able to handle, arms curling around your waist as your lips slotted unbelievably perfect against his, moving, unbreaking against him as though glued. He couldn't think of a more perfect feeling than the warmth you'd brought to him if he tried.

But then there were your hands. Those impossibly gentle hands that cupped his face as he drew you into him, that wandered, then, to cover the expanse of his neck, into his hair. Then lower, his chest first, and then...

It was so intense, those first touches of your leg, drifting up his inner thigh, as your hand just grazing along his waist, just above his belt, no further, had him flushed like some kind of schoolboy. He never thought he'd feel like that again. But now, as your other hand returned to his neck, the wayward hand drifting towards his center, this time to pull him further into you, he felt himself absorbed by you. You were everywhere. You couldn't get closer (although still yet there were far too many layers of clothes between you for that), and yet the ache to be nearer still felt so strong, it felt like he was drowning, clawing for breath, and it shook him to the core.

... Is this how it felt, then? When oxygen met hydrogen and super-heated graphite? Was he so poisoned with fear that to meet such a simple force would rend him apart? Flung open, just for something so inevitable as air? As life itself?

He broke the kiss, with great difficulty as your lips tried to follow him, and oh, how it hurt to not let you. Air rushed in his lungs at force but still felt not nearly enough. His exhale was dizzying, and it took all he had to not fall over on the spot.

"Valera..." you uttered, lips fluttering just over his. He so loved the sound of his name when it came from you, so gentle it made his heart ache. Your eyes met his, then, and you pulled back a little to get a better look at him. Your hand slips from the back of his head to rest on the juncture between his neck and shoulder, just over the stiff lapel of his suit. Your eyes, half-lidded, flick over him then, absorbing the state of him, flushed as red, no doubt, as he is breathless.

"You look like you need to stop." Your hand moves again, his lapel to his cheek. A tether, that snaps his eyes to yours and holds him in your gaze, concerned.

"Do you?"

You say it so gently. There is no shame in his answer, whatever it may be. He breathes deep again as his hands fall to your hips, fear, intense, bubbling away, slowing to a roll at last, as he tips his head into your hand to press into his weathered cheek. Then, finally, he shakes his head no.

"I don't want to stop, but..." He says, a gently sway forward drawing him into your touch, lips curling inward, his forehead pressing against yours. His eyes meet yours again, and catches the small nod of your chin, understanding, and a twinge of guilt pricks at him.

"I'm... I'm sorry. It's been a long time since I've done anything like this."

"No."

In this, your voice was firm. A habit picked up from dear Boris, perhaps? Or comrade Khomyuk? So many assertive figures around you both, it is difficult not to hear them in certain words anymore. But then your off hand joins to mirror the other, holding him as tenderly as a child.

"You have nothing to apologize for. We can go slower, if you like. It's just..."

Your hands fall to his collar bone. Defeated. He saw your mind turning over thoughts as if they were right in front of you, in a scramble, only to weave them faster than he could ever comprehend to make your point, plain, effective, as a poet might. It was beautiful to watch, but what came of it made his heart sink.

"You're so close, and yet, I miss you. All the time," you utter, breathless. He catches the mist just gathering at your eyes, drifting from him, shaking it off, and in that moment, he understood.

You were both absolutely crazy about each other, and he knew what you meant. All of it. From the longing glances, the faint touches away from prying eyes, the need to be near you, being overwhelmed by that need. You felt it too. Just as much as he. And that pull was just as inevitable. It was only a mater of gravity. You shook your head, turning away from him.

"It doesn't make sense."

Valery felt something then, something deep inside his core, he didn't know where, or what it was. But he felt it snap like a twig under the weight of your broken voice. It compels that need again. The one he's felt all day at the briefest curl of your fingers around his. The need to hold.

So he does. Fast. A wide hand, drifting up your back to the shoulders, to keep you still, against him. He sighs, weary, a softness overcoming him.

"Nothing that is happening here does...", his other hand now held your cheek as you did his, and he breathed easy what came naturally into his mind.

"But you do," he whispered, voice low, the gravel that grates against his throat making itself known as he does. But just as soon as it leaves him he knows it's wrong.

"You do."

There is softness in his eyes when he says it, that he wills there. So you know without knowing. A hard breath escapes you, as his thumb strokes the apex of your cheek. The corner of your mouth catches the heel of his palm in a kiss, and you nod your resolution.

"Slower, then?"

His answer was on his lips, as they collided with yours, moving with a sweet intensity distinct and suited to him as his hands pulled your shoulders into him to settle, warm and grounding. You didn't have very long, after all, he thought. If he was going to fall in love, then damn it all, he would happily burn out to his very last atom with you.

CONSENT IS SEXY PROMPTS

[babydxhl]

are you unwell? (from my OC Rachel, one of Mary Dahl's new goon's/bodyguard - whichever you prefer :3)

leopoldstat sentence starters | still accepting.

Mary rests her elbow on Rachel's shoulder; her fingers fiddle with the woman's lapels, tap little rythms across the fabric. One shoe bobs a twin pattern, absent, in the open air over the pavement.

"Just thinkin'," she says, almost hums it, and though her tone is light her gaze is fixed somewhere around the midpoint of Gotham's downtown street, squinting shrewdly into the glare off the skyscraper windows and taxi cab paint jobs.

Mary Dahl covets a specific kind of codepency in those who work for her. A part of her is, inescapably, always fixed on it, as if there is some twisted fawn response thrumming along in time with her heartbeat. Smile this way, tip your head that way, figure out what they want and what they'll give for it.

She looks back at Rachel and smiles in a way that makes her look rueful, one corner of her mouth twisted up.

"Did I go too quiet?" She doesn't look back as the black car she'd been eyeing pulls away from the curb and joins the slow commuter traffic. "You worried about me?"

[sapphire-weapon]

i enjoy meta analysis of RE4make but even though a big part of the fun in shipping leon x ashley is extrapolating from all the little details in the game, sometimes i wonder what is it about them exactly that makes me go insane and the answer really just boils down to: royal/knight dynamic, fighting through hell to get back to you, blurring the line between duty and love

It's because their relationship doesn't end when the game does. The dynamic that they have in canon will actually carry over into their everyday lives when they're home, but... they're home now. It's different now. Their relationship is Not Normal, and they both know it even if they'd never acknowledge it out loud -- even to each other. And they have to find some way to live with themselves and also each other within the confines of mundane reality after escaping from a waking nightmare together.

It's the possibilities that pop up around that kind of conflict.

It's them at the same government function and locking eyes with each other from across the room until they can't bear to keep it up anymore. Ashley nervously draws her gaze down and to the side to look at nothing. Leon puts his hands in his pockets and quietly clears his throat, trying to tell himself that the anxious fluttering rising up from the center of his chest isn't there.

It's the way they still try to pass their tiny touches back and forth -- because they both feel the need to be in physical contact with each other for reassurance -- but they both know without saying aloud that they have to be much more subtle and natural about it in order to not raise eyebrows.

It's Leon sitting nervous whenever he's alone in the room with the President, because he's terrified he's been too obvious about even the quiet, subtle affections he's given Ashley since they've been home. He's sure he's going to get the "stay away from my daughter" talk any day now -- despite the fact that even those little affections have been infrequent and wholly innocent -- but it never comes.

It's the way that Leon has to physically choke back the urge to put himself between Ashley and anyone who gets too close to her. That's not his job -- and, in fact, it was an offer he knows he consciously turned down -- but it's an automatic impulse that he never fully trains himself out of.

It's Ashley making sure that she doesn't ask her dad about Leon too often as to be suspicious or annoying -- which equates to her doing it almost never, even though the desire to is always at the forefront at her mind, and not a day goes by that she doesn't think about him.

It's the way they just ignore the growing tension between them from their forced distance apart. It goes on for days, then weeks, then months -- until they can't ignore it anymore. They're not sure who kissed who first, but Leon has both hands buried in her hair, and she has one hand curled into the lapel of his suit jacket and another hooked around the knot of his tie, pulling him ever closer. Before long, he has her back pressed against the wall and her skirt hiked up just far enough to tuck the tips of his fingers beneath the hem of her panties. She can't get the buttons of his shirt open fast enough before pushing the fabric around his shoulders and down the length of his arms. Leon knows that he should stop this -- that this is wrong -- but Ashley's hands on his bare skin has him feeling normal for the first time in almost seven years, and he can't stop kissing her like the cure for his nightmares is written somewhere on the surface of her tongue.

It's Ashley on her back and running her fingers through Leon's sweat-damp hair as he hovers over her, eyes closed and head bowed as he tries to catch his breath and recover in the afterglow. Drops of sweat fall from his brow and the tip of his nose onto her bare chest and neck, and she lets them lay where they land. He's beautiful from this angle, and she so desperately wants to allow the words "I love you" tumble from her lips, but she holds back out of fear that, if she said aloud the truth they've refused to speak for so long, he'd put a stop to their now-repeated yet still infrequent midnight trysts. He kisses her slowly -- gratefully -- as he takes hold of one of her hands and weaves his fingers between hers. Her heart aches. Even though she has him for this moment, she still can't call him hers.

At least

I mean

That's what does it for me about the ship idk about you LMAO

[jae-bummer]

My Idol 3: Part Fourteen

My Idol from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

My Idol is a South Korean competitive reality dating game show. It currently airs on Saturday nights on Jae-bummer’s blog. First broadcast in 2016, the show offers the opportunity for a lucky fan to go on seven blind dates with seven idols. The idol plans the date with the show throwing in a specific mission to complete during the day. At the end of the initial dates, the show opens up an audience vote to decide what four idols will move on to the second date.

My Idol 3: The Series

Stumbling over to the first of the small tables set in the dining room, you felt like you had been pushed into the middle of a dream. The whole concept behind today's date seemed like a monumental task. How could you possibly spend a few minutes with each of the thirteen members and come out with an accurate guess?

"From the look on your face, I can tell this was a really bad idea," the man in front of you cringed. You furrowed your brows in an attempt to zero in on the nametag covered by his lapel. "I'm Seungcheol, by the way. I'm the leader of the group and here to usher you into your evening."

You nodded, trying to remain calm as even he acknowledged how panicked your expression must have been. "I'm Y/N. Would I be going about it the wrong way if I just asked if you were my date?"

A mischievous glint winked into his eyes as he laughed. "What fun would that be?"

"The type where I don't have to do a challenge at the end of this," you grimaced. It didn't help that each of these guys was devastatingly gorgeous in their own ways. Seungcheol for instance had smooth, dark hair, kind eyes, and full (totally kissable) lips.

You couldn't think about just kissing anyone though. If he wasn't your date, that would make for a weary conversation with yourself later.

"I know this seems like a lot," he sighed. "But let me give you a tip or two."

Swiveling around in his chair, he looked at all of the men seated at tables behind him. Those who were not conversing with each other were busy watching the two of you interact.

"The overeager ones are going to be suspect. If they're trying too hard, they likely aren't your date." Pointing to the brunette who first shouted out to you, he continued. "Take DK for instance, he's literally vibrating with excitement.

"CHOI SEUNGCHEOL!" the blonde from earlier shouted. "Turn around and mind your business!"

Ignoring him, Seungcheol pointed to another member. This one had a smaller stature and was glaring off into the distance. "But then you look at others like Woozi, who even if he were your date, can act disinterested until your actual date starts."

"So no one too eager, but also no one too disinterested?" you asked, lifting a brow.

"Pretty much," he grinned, turning back around to face you. "Just gotta go with your gut about who feels the most genuine."

"That was not helpful at all," you laughed, shaking your head.

"Well, that's a weird way to say thank you," Seungcheol grinned.

"Switch!" the hostess called pleasantly into the dining room.

Pulling yourself to your feet, you gave your first speed date a small nod. "I'm going to assume it's not you."

"You know what they say about assumptions," he chimed, his smile even larger than before.

After Seungcheol, you sat with Joshua, and then Wonwoo. Joshua was definitely kind and acted normally enough, while Wonwoo seemed very shy and admitted to being awkward. After those two, you moved swiftly toward DK (who was already outed by Seungcheol), followed by Dino. The boy was an incredible sweetheart, but he was definitely going over the top with his attention.

"How are things going?" your next date asked as you nestled into the chair across from him. At this point, the shock of seeing gorgeous man after gorgeous man had started to wear off.

"It's definitely been a challenge," you sighed, reading his name tag. "Nice to meet you, Jeonghan."

"I know it is," he smiled slowly. "Get comfortable. I like the company."

"I think you're stuck with me even if you didn't," you chuckled, taking a sip of water. It felt like you had been running a marathon.

"Stuck isn't exactly the word I would use," he hummed, taking a long sip from his water as well. "I would apologize for this being so overwhelming, but I have to admit, it's been very entertaining. Your facial expressions have been priceless."

You felt heat creep up your neck. "Was it really that bad?"

"Depends on your definition of bad," he laughed. "When Dino went into his speech about how he cherishes the stage-"

"He was very passionate," you interrupted, trying to avoid eye contact. He had been passionate! Just a little...too passionate.

Jeonghan smiled knowingly, his eyes trailing across your face. Something about his attention made your stomach flip.

You mentally chastised yourself. Just because Jeonghan was making you feel things, didn't mean he was your date. The worst part though? You had a feeling that he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

"Any hopes of who your date might be?" he asked, lifting a brow as he leaned back. It felt like he was trying to gauge your value and if he was deciding to steal you away or not.

"I think I'd be lucky with any of you."

"Canned answer," he grumbled. "You'd win me over with honesty."

You bit your lip, your stomach doing another weird flip. If Jeonghan was your date, were you already making a fool of yourself?

"I-" you began, unsure of how you were going to finish your statement.

"Switch!" the hostess cut in. Relief flooded over you as you vaulted out of the chair.

"Nice to meet you, Y/N," Jeonghan sighed, his eyes following as you moved to the next table. "Don't be a stranger."

You didn't want to admit it, but he had left you a bit ruffled. His level of confidence and cunning caught you completely off guard. Luckily, the next table was Woozi. He didn't say much, and what he did say was very matter of fact. You suspected he wasn't your date based on Seungcheol's comments. After, you moved onto Mingyu, who was just as nice as the others. Before you had even reached the table, you had eliminated him simply because he had made an appearance on Season 1 of My Idol.

Once your designated time with Mingyu was complete, you shuffled over to the next.

"What's your opinion on aliens?"

You hadn't even gotten yourself fully seated before you looked up in surprise. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Aliens," he repeated. "Martians, UFO's?"

"Uh," you hummed, glancing around the room to see if anyone else heard your conversation. "I don't think I have much of one."

"That's crazy!" he gasped.

"I'm guessing you have an opinion?" you smirked, not exactly sure how to take...you read his name tag, Vernon.

"Not really," he shrugged. "I just always thought it was something people normally did have an opinion about one way or another."

After concluding that interesting conversation, you moved on to Jun, who, bless his heart, did his best to keep it cool. He was like an overeager puppy trying to remain calm, but completely ruined his own cause when he admitted he wasn't going to be your date that evening.

Flopping into the chair across from a man whose nametag read "Hoshi", you were instantly met with a huge grin. While you had smiles directed your way dozens of times this evening, this one, by far, felt like the best.

"I've been having a really hard time," he pouted, trying to hide his grin. "Having to be so patient while I'm watching you visit everyone but me."

"You were towards the back of the room!" you cried out. "And you aren't last."

"Might as well be," he sighed dramatically. "I thought you'd give up before you had even gotten here."

"This may be an absolutely insane date idea, but I'm not one to give up."

"We're a group full of tricksters," Hoshi nodded. "It was natural that someone would come up with an over-the-top idea for this date."

"Are you?" you asked, sarcasm dripping from your tone. "I hadn't noticed."

"You know what I have noticed?"

"Hm?" you hummed, waiting for some sort of compliment or pick up line. The rest of the group had you well prepared for all of the cheesy behavior.

"How well hydrated you are!" he gasped. "You've drank at least half a glass of water at each table."

"Oh my god," you breathed, immediately collapsing into a fit of giggles. "I'm not sure what I was expecting but it wasn't that."

"I like to keep a date on their toes," he quipped.

"Apprently."

"Switch!" the hostess called again.

Smiling sadly at Hoshi, you hated how disappointed you had become having to part with several of these men. They really were lovely.

Seungkwan (the blonde you had already been acquainted with) came after, his jokes and commentary on the situation leaving you in spurts of giggles. You weren't sure if he was your date, but even if he wasn't, you wanted to be his friend after this.

The last table you visited belonged to The8, introduced to you as Myungho.

"I'm impressed with how well you're keeping it together," he said, sliding a drink across the table to you. "And if you're not, you're an incredible actor."

"Thanks," you chuckled, cradling the glass as a comfort. "You probably figured it out already, but I'm Y/N."

"Wonderful to meet you, Y/N," he said, maintaining eye contact. "I'm Myungho."

Staring back at him, you tried not to get lost in his quiet intensity. You were sure he had a goofy side (just like the rest of these boys did) but right now, he was sizzling.

"Nice to meet you," you managed, taking a swig of your drink, only to splutter. "Is this - did you give me soju?"

"I figured you might need it after today," he smirked, taking a swig of what you also assumed to be soju. "Cheers."

Settling your cough, you took a deep breath. He wasn't necessarily wrong.

"Any idea of who your date is?" he asked, tilting his head.

"I have plenty of ideas on who it isn't," you chuckled. Looking up again, you locked eyes. Remaining silent as you stared at each other, you nearly jumped when he spoke again.

"Hopefully, whoever you end up with, will have no problem with showing you a good time," he smiled. "You deserve it."

"Thanks," you sighed. Sometimes you wondered if you really did.

"Dates Over!" the hostess called from her stand.

Giving a small nod to The8, he raised up his glass in response. All of your mini dates had finally come to an end.

Now came the actual hard part.

Wandering over toward the hostess, she smiled kindly at you before motioning to follow her toward the back of the restaurant. The main dining area had once again been plunged into darkness, masking the men of Seventeen as if they were never there.

Leading you to a set of doors that seemingly opened up to a patio eating area, you took a sharp inhale as you noticed the shadow of a single person. You couldn't make out their features, but you assumed it was whoever you were here to see.

"Alright Y/N," the hostess chimed. "It's time for you to let us know your answer. Who are you going on a date with this evening?"

It was suddenly very hard to keep everyone's names straight in your mind. Sifting through each interaction, you tried to analyze the small things.

A few men had really stood out to you, while another handful were very clearly not your date. Otherwise, you were at a loss. Seungcheol had instructed that you should go with your gut, and as nonstrategic as that sounded, you'd have to do it.

"Jeonghan," you said quietly, instantly feeling the pressure of guessing wrong. If you chose incorrectly, would your date think you favored that person over them?

It's not that Jeonghan was your preferred choice, but he had to be your first guess. His behavior was so sly and calculated. You just couldn't discount him yet.

"If it's your date," the hostess advised. "The door will open to you."

You nodded before brushing your fingers against the handle. Here goes nothing...

Gripping more tightly, you took a deep breath before giving it a turn.

Or lack of one.

"I'm sorry, Y/N," the hostess sighed. "Jeonghan is not your date for this evening."

Alright, that's fine. You could still recover from that.

Blazing fresh in your mind, you felt the burn of soju surge up your throat.

"Myungho," you said confidently. He was another one who just seemed right. His confidence and attention reeked of someone just waiting to meet you in private.

Trying to turn the handle again, you were met with resistance.

"I'm sorry," the hostess winced. "Myungho is not your date for this evening. You have one chance remaining."

That was it, you had run out of options you considered obvious. Who would you reserve your last guess for? Vernon? Joshua?

"Hoshi," you whispered to yourself, nodding slowly. You hand't seen it before, but the answer seemed to be glaring in your mind's eye like neon.

He wasn't over the top, but he was eager. It threw you off initially, but now that you looked back, it was more likely that that was just his personality.

"Hoshi," you said again, a bit louder. This final turn of the handle was much gentler, anxiety pumping down to your fingers. It was your last chance.

To your complete shock and dismay, the door clicked open, allowing you to push it further.

"You got it?!" Hoshi screeched as he spun from the balcony railing he had been leaning against. "Thank God!"

Caught off guard, he wrapped you in an immediate hug and began rocking the two of you from side to side. "Smart AND beautiful, I don't stand a chance with you."

Letting a giggle burst forth, you were filled with warm pride. Not only was this man completely silly, but you had guessed correctly. Between your victory and the compliments, you weren't sure what to do with yourself.

Hoshi unwound his arms from your torso and took a step back. "Sorry," he smiled shyly. "I was really excited."

The sunset was doing phenomenal things for his cheekbones and jawline, so you needed to take him in before you could reply. His dark hair was parted slightly off from the middle, styled yet still soft. The angles in his face were sharp, and his eyes were the most beautiful shape. You knew you would have been lucky going on a date with anyone from Seventeen, but Hoshi took your breath away.

"I'm really excited too," you finally managed, snapping yourself away from hyper focusing on your date's face.

"Let's sit!" he said, pointing toward a table that was made up to serve dinner.

"We've been sitting so long," you sighed. "Why don't we stand over here while we wait for food...I'm assuming there will be food?"

"When I'm involved," he grinned. "There will be no shortage of food. But sure, let's look at the skyline!"

Similar to your date with Jackson, this restaurant had a gorgeous view of Seoul. If the boy next to you wasn't enough to make you weak, the view would certainly do it.

Shuffling the short distance from the door to the railing, you were surprised as Hoshi slid his fingers between yours. Looking up at him in surprise, you noticed his expression was open, patiently waiting to see if the skinship was okay with you.

You gave him a small nod before you both took the final steps toward seeing the city.

"What made you pick this as a date?" you mused, shaking your head. "It was wild."

"I don't know if you're familiar with our show Going Seventeen," he said with a wink. "Not to namedrop, BUT a lot of our show ideas are like that. I guess I just learned from experience."

"And it's made you into a variety show planning mastermind?" you teased. "What a skillset."

This caused him to erupt into laughter. "I wouldn't say I'm the mastermind here. That's more Jeonghan or Coups."

Shutting his mouth as if he had said something wrong, he opened it again before actually verbalizing, "What-uh, What did you think of them?"

"Jeonghan and Coups in particular?" you asked. "Or your members in general?"

"The second one."

"Everyone was really friendly," you nodded. "I enjoyed each of their company in different ways."

"But you picked two people before you landed on me?" he trailed, his eyebrows lifting. "You have some explaining to do."

This caused a surprised laugh to burst from your chest. "I had a bad feeling that would come up."

"Was I not dashing enough?" he hummed, making an obnoxious model pose. "Not charming?"

"Hardly," you giggled. "I guess Jeonghan and The8 before I got to you. They were both very..."

"Lowkey? Alluring? Smooth?"

"Unbothered," you settled on. "Like they knew they didn't have to work hard to win me over."

"Interesting," Hoshi hummed, tapping his lips with his free hand. "And how did you land on me?"

"You were really genuine," you said, looking from the skyline and toward him again. "And really warm. You were like a little sun ray. I went with my gut when I picked you."

"And look at you now!" he grinned. "Staring straight into the sun. You know that's not good for your health."

"Should have offered a complimentary pair of sunglasses then," you quipped.

"Speaking of!" he gasped, dropping your hand and moving swiftly toward the table. "I got you something."

You clenched your fingers, aware that Hoshi's palm had become sweaty at some point during your interaction. It was cute, but it was nice to give your skin a little air.

"You didn't have to get me anything," you groaned, trailing behind him.

"I could've gotten you plenty," he snapped back playfully. "And I may still! I've heard your entire tragic backstory."

"Great," you muttered.

Popping back up from his scrounging under the table, he held a small box in hand. "I didn't want to get you stuff for your house because picking out things you like is a personal thing."

You smiled softly, taking the package from him. "That's very thoughtful of you."

Slowly lifting the lid, you huffed out an exhale. You were surprised to be greeted with a small, intricate necklace. Stepping toward you, Hoshi lifted the chain from the box's velvet backing. "Mind if I help?"

"Not at all," you said, still trying to figure out exactly what the pendant of the necklace was supposed to be. Cylindrical in shape, it was a bright silver, covered in intricate carvings.

Hoshi took up position behind you, much closer than you had anticipated. It was hard to stop yourself from leaning back into him. Pulling the necklace around your front, his hands worked quickly to secure it in place. Looking down at the pendant again, you picked it up gently and rolled it between your fingers.

Stepping around you, Hoshi watched you trying to figure out, a small smile on his face. Looking up at him, you furrowed your brow.

"I was worried," he said quietly, looking towards his feet as he started speaking. "With all of the crazy fan interactions. I know you have security and you're likely never left alone...but I wanted to get you something that made you feel a little safer. I thought a can of pepper spray wouldn't be as romantic, so I got you an emergency whistle."

You hiccupped a small laugh of disbelief. The gift was a bit bizarre, but so overwhelmingly sweet. Looking more closely at the item in your hand, you made out the shape of the whistle. Even negating its purpose, it was beautiful.

"Thank you, Hoshi," you said, unexpected emotion altering your voice. "I love it."

His smile grew as he watched you, his expression now filled with gratification.

"Excuse me," someone from the wait staff appeared from the open doors. "Your dinner is ready to be served."

Both you and Hoshi let out small noises of alarm as you scrambled to sit down at the table. The next couple of hours were filled with laughter and openly baffled glances. You weren't exactly sure how to take some of the things that came out of his mouth, but he had a great spirit that made up for any awkwardness between the two of you.

After being signaled from the production crew to wrap things up, Hoshi leaned across the table, once again taking your hand in his. "I hope I get to see you again soon."

"Me too," you smiled. "You made today so special, no matter how crazy it was."

"Just means that it's memorable," he chimed, pleased with himself. Giving your hand a gentle squeeze, he met your eyes. "Be safe out there, okay?"

"I will," you promised. Or at least you'd try to be.

VOTING STARTS NOW: CLICK THE LINK HERE TO DECIDE WHO YOU WANT TO SEE FOR A SECOND DATE! (None of your information is being recorded and every response is anonymous).

Voting will close. 9/20.

Happy Voting! :)

[scotianostra]

July 5th 1847 saw the final run of the Edinburgh to London mail coach.

By the mid 19th century coaches had become outdated throughout most of the country with improved rail links, the Newcastle Berwick Railway opened throughout on the 1st July 1847 which caused the demise of the coach service. The last coach carrying the London mail arrived in Glasgow on 14th February 1848. The extension of the Caledonian Railway from Beattock to Glasgow came into operation the following day.

Horses have been used to carry messages from the very early days, when post boys would deliver messages by horse. In the 18th Century horse-drawn mail coaches were introduced, which cut mail delivery times by more than half.

The coaches also carried fee paying passengers, at first four inside, later more were allowed on board but had to sit up with the driver outside, the passengers sitting inside the mail coaches had to pay considerably more than those exposed to the elements on the outside.

The average speed of the coaches was usually 7-8 mph in summer and about 5 mph in winter, but with improvements to the quality of the roads, it had risen to 10 mph by Victorian times.

The coaches were privately operated and the coachmen earned much more in tips than in wages. They were fined if caught carrying goods on their own account. The only Post Office employee aboard the mail coach was the guard. He was heavily armed, carrying two pistols and a blunderbuss. He wore an official uniform of a black hat with a gold band and a scarlet coat with blue lapels and gold braid. He also had a timepiece, regulated in London to keep pace with the differences in local time, and recorded the coach’s arrival and departure times at each stage of the journey. The guard sounded a horn to warn other road users to keep out of the way and to signal to toll-keepers to let the coach through. As the coach travelled through towns or villages where it was not due to stop, the guard would throw out the bags of letters to the Letter Receiver or Postmaster. At the same time, the guard would snatch from him the outgoing bags of mail.

Mail Coaches continued in the north of Scotland until modernised rail connections were introduced, the last one was in Kingussie and ran until the beginning of World War One The horses didn't enjoy a happy retirement though, they were requisitioned by the Army and sent to the continent during the first world war, 8 million horses were killed during the conflict.

[kimyoonmiauthor]

Hanbok design--mix of European, Contemporary, Korean and gender fluid to Korean standards.

I technically have the cloth to do this and the tailoring skills. Not the boots, but ya know, sometimes...

So the basics for those that are not sighted/low vision is an Audrey Hepburn dress with an added bow on our left and empire waistline with pinstripes and a black ruffle at the bottom. And it has.... pockets. This mixes business dress attire, Korean chima, with a classic style that won't go out of fashion easily. The dress overlaps in the back, but ties in the front. I think the skirt will be sewn up. In terms of flexibility the top can also be made into a longer skirt by simply folding down the top section into skirt section, making for an elegant black tie.

The pinstripes I'm envisioning in white on a black background.

Over the top of that is a business jacket that's styled like a durumagi, though shortened to business jacket length. It's tied with a otkoreum and has a button underneath. I added the button so it doesn't depend solely on the ties. The ties are short because toilet+ ties is not fun.

There are of course added pockets on the pinstripe jacket. 'cause NBs and women deserve pockets.

Below the skirt are trouser/pants which mimic sokpaji/paji. Which were both worn by women and men.

I changed the collar from the traditional collar to a lapel collar, because I wanted to make it feel like a business suit situation. I was told by a relative that there is no way one could make hanbok look "formal" business attire and this is my way to say, "yes, it can."

But the sleeves will be Korean with the original curve, rather than the straight ones... 'cause I think it's a travesty that they are being made into Western sleeves to fit Western clothing.

As for the other set dressing? Boots in traditional Korean wear was for men. The reason the paji were designed as they were were so they could fit into boots.

And the top knot is obvious.

So I think this is NB-ish, gender fluid, celebrates European clothes (granted from the 19th century and 1950-1960's-ish), has traditional elements of hanbok, so it still reads as one. But not too masculine that it reads "woman tries to look like she's trying to imitate men." type of fashion. Just that little bit of a ruffle for a throw back in history to remind people that men loved ruff(le)s too.

I also designed it so it's not male-gaze centric. 'cause screw that.

One can also remove the dress and wear the jacket with a shirt and just the pants too. ^_^

BTW, I had a thread a while back on Twitter about Lois Lane and the hanbok she wore being odd...

While I know pinstripes are hard to animate for a number of reasons, though it's slightly easier with the current tech, this is closer to what I would have envisioned for Lois. All at once masculine and feminine in both a US throwback style and a tip off for Korean. (granted maybe not the hair, but a ribbon could be added that's similar. Or she could go and don one of those wigs/do a clip on.. though that might be a stretch) It's formal for a party--it screams reporter who can't quite quit being off the job, and it celebrates both shores without compromising anything.

While I didn't originally design this for her, because I drew it sometime last year, this is probably the best rep of Korean American-ish feels I could pull. 'cause Korean women love Audrey Hepburn who had that mix of masculine and feminine and tomboy which usually looks good on smaller frames.

I suppose, too, me knowing a bunch of hanbok and how they've bent, not bent, and how they work, their symbolism, and having physically made some... I understand how to flex it like this.

I also kind of have a history of fashion in my head... so I know what to pull to make it feel timeless and I understand the types of clothes that has traditionally been on Lois Lane.

So this is my strongest suggestion for design.

[mandowifey]

The Jack one you just did was 😍😍😍 there’s not enough love for him !!

How do you think Jack would do a first kiss with reader ?

Oh!!! You are so sweet.

Yeah I noticed going through his tags there isn't much x reader stuff... I'm gonna have to fix that hahaha.

Thank you for the blurb idea!

- - - - - - - - -

Note: This is SFW, and unedited.

● ● ●

As I've mentioned before; Jack Duquesne is a romantic.

Your first kiss wouldn't be planned, however.

This would be your third date. You are genuinely surprised the guy hasn't made a pass on you yet. Though he does like to hold your hand or touch your arm, he is respectful of your boundaries.

That being said, you two would be somewhere quite beautiful. He'd have made a whole day of this date. A train ride into the countryside, lunch at a tiny vineyard which would be followed by a wine tasting. (You told him you'd never done that before and he had been adamant on treating you.)

As the day winds down you are feeling good! You had swallowed a couple sips here and there but had followed the instructions to watch how much you ingested.

Jack would have called your name.

You walk around back and see him standing at the edge of the winery's back porch, leaned against the hand rail and looking towards the setting sun.

"Come watch the sunset with me, y/n! It is quite lovely."

As you come closer he draws you in and puts an arm around your lower back, keeping you close. Warmth floods your cheeks and you lean into him. Has he always smelled so good?

"It's beautiful." You remark, comfortable at his side.

"Isn't it?"

You look up and he's not looking at the sunset, he's looking at you.

Those lovely, endless pools of copper are sparkling in the setting sun, and his smile softens into a look of affection.

Jack would put his large hand under your chin and tilt your head up, before he leans in. First, he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead that nearly drops you to your knees.

"May I-"

"Yes," you whisper, not wanting to wait any longer.

His mouth would slot to yours, gentle at first. It's like fireworks going off under your skin. Your hands grasping at the lapels of his suit, not wanting him to pull away.

Jack leans into it, returning your vigor and deepening the kiss. You'd feel an arm around your hips, drawing you securely into him. There is no place in the world you would rather be.

After he kisses you, he tips his head back and smiles, before looking towards the sun as it vanishes behind the horizon. You're hot all over, cheeks flushed and lips kiss swollen.

"Ready to head back?" He caresses your cheek with his knuckles.

"I'd like to stay here, just a little longer." You admit, reaching up to cup his cheeks in your smaller hands.

Jack would nod and turn his head to gently press a kiss to your palm. The two of you holding each other as day turns to night, and stars begin to speckle the sky.

There is no place either of you would rather be.

[1ore]

question for yuri, the lastborn, and blighted trahearne—fave physical feature on each person (self & the others)?

(rubs my shitty little fly hands together)

Yuri

@ himself:

His legs, for running like hell when shit hits the fan LOL. He doesn't think about himself very much, but if you were to ask him, I think he would say something like that. There's an extra layer of significance to them, what with the Orrian diaspora living with one foot in the ocean and one on shore, not taking terra firma for granted, and being forced out of their homeland to wander abroad. Also this sentiment that the Museum of Walking impressed on me, that walking is like knowing a place, kissing the ground.

otherwise I think he might say his hair. It takes time to style and care for, so he must enjoy it on some level.

@ trahearne:

Impossible to narrow down to a single trait, and I imagine this will be a theme.

I think Yuri was arrested by Trahearne’s silently-amused/knowing eyes, after they met at Claw Island. The resting gay nod. A funny side-effect of meeting Trahearne in the middle of a crisis is that seeing him out-of-action for the first time comes as a surprise. Like, this is The Same Guy. It’s a far cry from his serious and sometimes grim Pact Marshal demeanor, but at the same time it's not really that different. (Aside: when Yuri realizes that this isn’t rare for him, he just finds himself so burdened with responsibility that he doesn’t have time to put it all aside, Yuri’s heart bweaks.)

Also his coattails and “second skin” of armor in general…….. Trahearne gets a kick out of it when Yuri sidles his hands under there, but I think Yuri gets inordinately excited. He loves ruffling his hair, his collar, the combination body hair / coat lapels that run down his chest, all of it.

Yuri also thinks Trahearne’s jawline and "beard" are so handsome. And when his pseudo-snakebites catch on his lips when they kiss. Well. That’s just what it’s all about, isn’t it

@ the lastborn:

Yuri was intimidated by the Lastborn’s attention because of a lot of reasons, but one of those reasons is because he thinks the Lastborn is a beautiful person from toe to tip. Like YES he thinks Trahearne is unattainably handsome in his own way, but the Lastborn has an ethereal or fey-like quality to him that makes him truly untouchable to Yuri… Even though he’s been serving “Born on a mountain / raised in a cave / truckin’ and fuckin’ is all that I crave” since the moment they met.

If he had to point to specific areas, I think it would be his wrists, neck, and shoulders. They’re elegantly lithe but inelegantly lanky/gangly at the same time, in the way a fawn’s legs are. Also his stomach. I think the exposed area where his "coat" comes apart feels velvety soft, like the flat of an agave blade.

Yuri also gets a kick out of the Lastborn's yucca mane for concealing his body, the way clothes or armor otherwise would. Getting a flirty peek of collarbone feels special. It helps that the yucca blades are so sharp, he feels privileged when he’s allowed to be physically close with him.

Aaaaand his profile in general is handsome to Yuri, especially the broad curve of his nose and the way his eyelashes hang over his lidded eyes. He feels like the Lastborn is truly Seeing him, even when he’s just absently glancing at him.

Lastborn

@ himself:

His scar. I’m not sure how he gets it, but it’s probably from his time in the Nightmare Court. To him, it marks him as irreparably “broken” in the eyes of both the Grove and the Court—he is neither the Pale Tree’s perfect step-son, nor is he the Court’s little prophet-prince. He doesn’t belong to them anymore and he’s free to be his own dude.

@ trahearne:

🙄 You’re so vain. You probably think this post is about you. You’re so vain. (so vain.) I bet you think this post is about you, don’t you, don’t you?

Anyway. God. Where does he begin. I think the severity/sharpness of Trahearne’s features left an impression on the Lastborn, when they first met. Like, he had been fed such an idealized picture of The Firstborn ™ (good and bad.) It disarms him to realize that YES Trahearne has a presence and is handsome in his own way, but it’s a rugged handsomeness. He has nicks in his leaves and gnarled corking on his arms and his shoulders and elbows stick out at awkward angles, sometimes. This guy’s been all over, and he isn’t pristine like the Firstborn who stayed in the Grove.

This sentiment also allows him to help Trahearne, as he reconciles with the scars he got from battling Mordremoth. They give Trahearne a little bit of dysphoria, because they’re a painful reminder of his failures in Maguuma, and they're not what anyone imagines when they think of him. But the Lastborn met him so late in his life that they’re an indelible part of Trahearne's image, in his mind's eye. The Lastborn thinks of them the same way he thinks of his own scar--that they’re a visual reminder that he’s free to be his own dude now. And he also just thinks they’re hot LOL.

What else… That he’s a short twunk is endearing, sure, but I think the Lastborn genuinely loves what a solid little dude he is. In the same way that he loves how soft Yuri’s body is, it’s comforting to drape himself over someone who is physically sturdier? stronger? than him. When they start to get closer and Trahearne gets to be more physically affectionate with him, it really makes him feel held.

He’s also a little envious of his nighttime glow. The Lastborn doesn't have one, and it clearly identifies that something is "wrong" with him in the eyes of most Sylvari. But he also just thinks it suits Trahearne that he can always see him—however faintly— even when it gets dark.

@ yuri:

God. Not to be like this, but during their flight from Maguuma, I think the Lastborn saw Yuri’s warm eyes looking up at him with exhausted gratitude and felt something for the first time in years. The Lastborn is embarrassingly fixated on how warm and tender he is in general. Not just emotionally, but physically warm, soft, unarmed—no sharp edges on him, like there are on the Lastborn. He doesn’t have to restrain himself to be around other people, he can just be with them.

Also his scent LOL. Yuri is well-groomed, but I think the innate smell of his skin is novel and exciting to the Lastborn. He likes that he can smell him on his clothes or his bedding, and it doesn’t get lost the way his own scent might.

The Lastborn also has an oral fixation loves his mouth and nose, just the shape of his face in general. Again because there’s not a single hard edge on him, and because he thinks he's hot. But Also because he's charmed by how openly Yuri expresses himself, he smiles so widely and frowns so deeply. The Lastborn doesn’t have to guess what he’s thinking, it’s usually written on his face. He’s very honest in that sense.

Trahearne

@ himself:

Not sure if “favorite” is the word, but I think Trahearne has a complex relationship with the unarmored parts of his body. I think it reminds him of the vulnerability he felt, during those first hours he spent under the Tree, newly emerged. Just him and the whole wide world.

I think he also has a similar relationship with the ground as Yuri does, where keeping his feet and hands exposed keeps him in physical touch with his surroundings. He’s well-armored, but it’s a conscious choice not to close himself off completely.

@ yuri:

His hands. Sorry this is a basic answer for this audience, but I think they would have been the first point of physical contact for Trahearne. They were also the only part of Yuri’s body that was exposed (i mean, besides his face) when he was still wearing his Pact uniform. Trahearne was lucky enough to learn the rest of his body, but his hands were first.

After Yuri becomes a shambling war spirit, I think this fascination with his hands is re-awakened by the fire magic that Yuri stole from Balthazar. Trahearne would never admit it-- he knows what a fraught relationship Yuri has with Balthazar, and for a while, it’s difficult to see him as a pale shadow of the man he knew. He would also rather die than admit that, because it IS powerful magic, it feels physically good to him and to the Dragon. But still, he’s fascinated with Yuri’s control over it. It seems effortless for him to take command of something violent and unpredictable. Trahearne struggles to wrap his head around it, when he’s had to fight tooth and claw to control his own Mordy powers.

Trahearne loves all of him though, I think he takes quiet joy in giving and receiving physical affection. He's lucky that Yuri is a big guy with a lot of love to give. Getting a hug is like getting bodied, and there’s no shortage of chest or stomach real-estate to rest his head on.

@ the lastborn:

I think Trahearne shares a little bit in common with Yuri, in that he initially sees the Lastborn as someone he doesn’t know how to “be” around. But the similarities end there. For him, it’s because the Lastborn has always been framed as dangerous, strange, and other to him. His body was made for a desert far away from the Grove, with plants that arm themselves and shrink from the sun. They don’t aggressively associate with one another the way a forest understory does, so they seem to him to be unfriendly and inhospitable (if strangely beautiful.) This is very much how he feels about the Lastborn before they get to know each other, to the point that the Lastborn notices how unwilling Trahearne is to do his usual microgestures, like touching shoulders or grabbing hands, and this stings.

(The Lastborn was also created to chew on the roots of the Pale Tree with his weird little mandibles, so. that's a lot to take in.)

This changes bigtime when Trahearne starts to appreciate how much they have in common. I think he learns to love him truly, not for some austere beauty that exists “despite” his thorny exterior, but just as he is. The blighting pod exaggerated his own thorns and sharp edges, after all. They aren’t so incompatible with one another.

I think he also enjoys the Lastborn’s mane for the same reason Yuri does, and the same reason he finds Yuri undressing to be hot (removable clothes are a funnie concept to guy whose skin is also his clothes.) Tousling it, fussing with it, getting past it is a ritual. It’s always there to keep his hands busy while they gossip.

What else... Trahearne has a strong knee-jerk reaction to his scar, as well, because he initially sees the Lastborn’s face as a sole touchstone of familiarity. It reminds him that he's looking at the face of someone from the Grove, someone who is part of his family... And may or may not be strangely handsome in a way he doesn’t trust… But then the scar reveals his underlying mandibles, and the illusion is broken.

Later on, he realizes that he’s drawn to it more than he is pushed away by it, and this feeling supplants any feelings of repulsion/othering he used to have. The scar mostly reminds him of Malomedies. It seems terribly unfair that someone would do something so violent to him, and it would stay with him so permanently, but he is learning to appreciate it from the Lastborn’s perspective.