#uses it to learn how to make things out of string

[brunhilde-oldest-valkyrie-ror]

Yandere Dracule mihawk, Crocodile, Shanks, and Doflamingo brat taming their GN! Reader.

Authors note: I’m sorry for missing yesterday you all I was busy and things came up but I’m making up for it today.💗

Warning: brat taming, yandere

🥀Dracule Mihawk🥀

• Your defiance is a quiet war, but Mihawk doesn’t raise his voice—he raises his eyes, and that alone shuts down your rebellion.

• The more you brat, the colder and more calculated his energy becomes. He’s not angry. He’s simply deciding how best to humble you.

• “You enjoy this dance?” he asks, low and deliberate, as he slowly follows you with his sharp gaze. “Then let’s dance, darling.”

• He doesn’t tolerate disobedience—you’re his claimed possession, and if you want to misbehave, he’ll correct you with an iron grip on your chin and a venom-laced whisper in your ear.

• You try to storm off? Suddenly his sword is in the ground next to you, a warning—you’re not going anywhere until you learn your place.

🩸 Crocodile🩸

• Bratty? That’s fine. It only makes the game more fun for him—for a little while. But the moment you cross his limit, that lazy smirk evaporates.

• “Cute,” he says after you sass him, but his tone is sharp as glass. “You must think I’m someone you can play with.”

• He uses his sand powers to immobilize you—soft at first, just a teasing trap… then suffocating if you keep pushing.

• He grabs you by the jaw and pulls you in close. “You’re mine. Not a pet. Not a toy. Mine. You don’t get to misbehave unless I let you.”

• Once you’re tamed—eyes watery, pride cracked—he rewards you with a rare, dangerous softness. “That’s better. Don’t make me fix you again.”

🗡️Shanks🥀

• At first, he laughs when you act out. It’s cute. Endearing. Until you really push him.

• You think you’re being clever, teasing him in front of his crew? He plays along, but the moment you’re alone—his entire vibe changes.

• “You really wanna test me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear as he pins you against the wall. “After I let you wear my mark so proudly?”

• The second you brat too far, Shanks snaps—still smiling, but that smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He grabs your wrists and makes you listen.

• “You belong to me. Try to act out again and I’ll remind you how serious that promise was.” His words drip honey, but they sting like poison.

🥀 Doflamingo💘

• Oh, you wanna brat? Good. He lives for it. It gives him an excuse to break you down into something even more dependent.

• He’ll let you run your mouth, smirk like he’s enjoying it—and then snap your legs out from under you with his strings.

• “You want attention?” he croons, forcing your chin up. “You’ll get it. But on my terms, little puppet.”

• He escalates fast—pinning you in his lap, gripping your neck, whispering the rules again in that low, deadly tone that makes your stomach drop.

• When you finally go quiet, trembling, trying to hide your pride behind flushed cheeks—he laughs. “Much better. My sweet, bratty thing all broken in.”

Authors note: like I said before I’m sorry for not writing yesterday I had something to deal with but I wrote this for you all because you guys really liked the first one I wrote. THANK YOU FOR READING 🎉💗

[batvillainz]

I don't talk about my spiritual worldveiw type stuff because I have been a wholehearted athaist from a very very young age and have a lot of emotions about it so i feel like I have a hard time being articulate about the subject and come off as an asshole or as disrespectful (mostly because the idea of a god really grates on the autism part of my brain and I can get irrationally irritated because it just. Doesn’t compute.). Which is a shame because I do like talking about it.

[ratspider]

i gotta be honest i am stoked to be a janitor. i see mops and i get excited

[mangled-by-disuse]

I feel like it's so easy to fall into thinking "how in the world did anyone figure this out?" partly because of the temptation to view the finished product as, you know. The Process. it's a form of irreducible complexity, where to learn to make paper, you have to have found all the steps.

but, like. maybe you make cloth, and you realise this plant sheds and felts easily if you weave from it and then wash it. maybe you cook it, to see what happens, and find it sticks together. maybe you come from a culture that already has a habit of pounding starchy foods, making them into flour, and making solids out of the runoff - soy, rice, curds. maybe you happen to think "oh what would happen if i did that?"

maybe when you're drying crops for the winter you notice that a bunch of them stick together, and that they do it more the more you pound them. you think it's cool. you try to make something that holds together. it works. you tell your mate. he tells his kid. they try it out. someone says "could we make clothes from this?" oh sure but we'll have to make it thinner.

maybe you're cooking fibres up for something else and you pass a spoon through it and the film sticks and comes off all in one piece. hey, that's neat. wonder what we could use that for?

maybe you make really shitty paper for centuries because you're using the wrong plant, or only washing it once or twice, or not pounding it fine enough. but it's interesting. people keep thinking it could be useful, but people also think it's neat. hey, we write now! wouldn't it be great if paper was smoother, whiter, flatter, easier to store? what if i try this extra step, this new ingredient?

iteration, my dudes. everything worth a damn is iterative. very few things in this world are invented in their final form. it's been millennia. people have had a cultural and political and financial incentive to iterate, sure - but also, people like to innovate. people like to play with ideas, try things that strike them as interesting. and shitty paper is still useful. making things into blocks is useful. finding that you can wet things and dry them out and change their properties is useful.

idk the answer to "how in the world did they figure [X] out" is less often "a wave of pure genius" and more often: over centuries or millennia, iteratively, through generations of better and worse products.

...except manioc root that one's still kinda baffling to me.

how do people make papers for traditional painting and calligraphy in the past by chinese artist 山白shan bai

[inbabylontheywept]

The Motherfucking Lizard King

No one at work trusts my boss. 

He's smart. He works hard. He's not trustworthy. He hasn't actually fucked anyone at work over, but he's ruined his last two marriages with affairs, and got dumped by his third fiance when he wouldn't sign a prenup. The fact that we all know this is just a hazard of working in a small town. 

Anyway: The thought process of the people in the lab is that if he screwed over his first wife, and his second wife, and was probably planning on screwing over his third wife, it would be insane for him not to screw us over. After all, what kind of idiot treats their employees better than their spouse? 

I dunno. His kind, I guess? He's had a few chances to fuck us over, and he hasn't taken them. Opposite really. When our parent company was doing furloughs, he stayed in the office almost a hundred hours, talking and talking and talking his way up the corporate ladder. And in the end, no one at our site got furloughed. 

He's pulled strings like that before. And it baffles me, right? Because it really does make zero sense. He'll move the heavens and the earth for us, but his wife and kids are afterthoughts. It feels like any moment, he's going to look into the mirror and realize how stupid that is. It feels like I'm betting on him making the same stupid mistake again, and again, and again - like it would be less cynical to believe he was, eventually, going to stab me in the back. But he hasn't yet, and as far as I can tell he's been making that mistake for close to fifteen years, and it's already cost him everything it can. If he was going to learn, he would have by now. 

So my position on him is that if he wanted to date someone I cared about, I'd warn them off. I don't trust him there. But I tentatively trust him to be my boss. Maybe one day he'll stick the knife in and twist, and everyone will say Ah, Babs, we warned you, but for now, I accept that he's doing a very predictable, very irrational thing, and I've made my peace with it. 

---

My job has glue traps. 

No one likes the glue traps, but we don't have a lot of options. Poison's banned by state law, spring traps are banned by company safety, and several non-lethal options tried in the past failed to work. The mouse problem can get pretty bad if it's ignored, and there's some real health hazards in that. Our site has never had a positive hantavirus test, thank God, but the big base about a half hour away has. That guy's gonna be on oxygen the rest of his life. 

If a mouse gets caught, we just euthanize it. But more than mice get stuck. Lizards can wander into those traps too, and the people working there have different feelings about the lizards. They don't pose nearly the same kind of risk mice do. They're chill little guys, and they keep the moths away, and they're just 

You know. They're friendly. There's something to be said about walking into a room, and hitting the light switch, and seeing two little guys on the wall start to do pushups as soon as they see you. 

People used to just euthanize the lizards too, but I had pet leopard geckos as a kid and I couldn't take that so I wound up googling how to free animals from glue traps. Now, when a lizard gets stuck in a trap - which happens once or twice a week - I get some vegetable oil from the breakroom, and a little plastic fork, and I'll spend fifteen to twenty minutes just kind of gently prying the little guys out. 

I have a team of technicians that help me operate one of the larger machines. They're real blue collar guys, ex-airforce, and they make me look like a little kid. Being an engineer means they'll look to me as a leader sometimes, which is a wild experience. And I started helping the lizards for my own conscience, but one of the crazier consequences of it has been that it seriously boosted my leadership cred. Because those guys see me, and they go: Hey. If he's willing to fight for a lizard, he's gotta be willing to fight for me. 

I cannot overstate how nice that is. Most engineers that want to make a change to a maintenance practice, or try an upgrade, they have to work their asses off to get the techs to buy in. But I can just ask. They already trust me to do good. They know I'm new, and they know I'm not the smartest engineer in the building, but they also know I'm the one who gets lizards out of the glue traps. 

And just because of that, they're willing to follow me. 

---

My boss has a meeting every month or two. It's typically basic house cleaning stuff - reminders about routines we've gotten lazy on, and updates on future projects. Maybe some warnings about problems coming from higher up in the company.

People are, in my opinion, a bit too cynical about the meetings. It stems from people not trusting our boss, which again, I understand, because it would make so much more sense if he wasn't trustworthy. It's a testament to the man's incredibly unhealthy priorities that he is. But as we made it to the end of the meeting, one of bullet points was: 

Do NOT mess with animals in the building. 

So I looked at my techs, and they looked at me, and when he got to the point, he was so scathing I actually just wanted to crawl under a rock and die. He said basically that he'd heard some reports about someone in the building handling animals that found their way in and got stuck, and that he just wanted to emphasize how insanely inappropriate that was, not to mention dangerous, and that if he needed to speak to anyone about it again, there would be severe consequences. 

I was willing to just take the shame and move on. I was. But one of my techs is old. Old enough he could've retired two years ago. And his actual literal goal is to one day get angry, yell at someone, and storm out. That's how he wants to retire. So instead of biting his tongue like everyone else, he stood up and said: I hate the glue traps. You hate the glue traps. We all hate glue traps. But we've all sat here for years, ignoring the little things that get stuck in them, watching them die, and then Bab's comes in, and he is the first person in decades to give enough of a shit to start pulling the lizards out. And I don't want him to stop. 

Get humane traps or shut up but we are not going back to the old way of just letting things starve. 

And my boss actually froze up. He got all wide eyed and stared at Marc, and then the other techs jumped in, and there was a very small but intense rebellion in the meeting and my boss kept trying to interrupt while getting absolutely bowled over by this gang of angry middle aged air force vets, and eventually he just went 

I will speak with Babylon about this afterwards! After! And then he will speak with everyone else, but I have more points to cover. 

So they went silent, and my boss rushed through the last five minutes, and we all adjounred. The techs really didn't like that I was going in alone - they thought our boss was going to try and shout me into compliance. Marc in particular was like, Look, if he tries bullying you, stand your ground, and if he threatens anything, just come get us, and we'll give him hell. 

So armed with that, I went to my boss's office. I sat in the chair across from him, and he kept his composure for maybe five seconds before just flopping back into his chair. 

I had no idea you were saving lizards, he said, but I'm glad you are. I always hated seeing them die in the glue.  

I wasn't expecting that. I was about to ask him what the comment from the meeting was about then, but he answered that before I even got the chance.

A snake got into the building last week, and - someone picked it up and chased a coworker around. Turns out that coworker was severely afraid of snakes, and now it's a shitshow. We're a small site, and now I can't ask those two to work together anymore, to say nothing about how the snake fared after all that. Being upset about that is a reasonable thing, right? 

And he gave me a look like he actually wanted an answer, so I said Yeah, totally, chasing a coworker around with a snake is a dick move. Especially if that coworker is already afraid of snakes. 

And he said Exactly! and then we sat there a few moments longer. He looked so incredibly tired that I did, actually, feel kind of bad for him. And then he somehow managed to sink even further into his chair, and said

Look, I know I'm not a good guy. But I'm not evil. I'm not some sort of crazy asshole that's going to demand that everyone watch lizards starve to death. When you go back downstairs, could you try to pass that on? That I'm not evil? 

I said Sure because it wasn't a hard request, and he looked relieved. I actually made it halfway out before I realized I had a question. 

Who grabbed the snake? I asked. 

Not supposed to talk about it, he said. But whoever comes to mind first is probably right. 

ThatGuy? I asked. And he looked me in the face, nodded his head yes, and said No. 

---

The techs seemed a little disappointed that they didn't get to storm the boss's office, but were otherwise in good spirits. They were actually a little bit embarrassed to hear about the snake story - apparently, it wasn't much of a secret. It'd just slipped their minds because it happened three weeks ago. 

We did maintenance after that, the same basic repairs we did every week. The meeting had been stressful and it was a relief to work with my hands. When the parts were reinstalled, everything cleaned and smooth and ready to go, Marc found me again. 

You know what the lesson of today is? he asked. And there were quite a few answers to that that I could have taken - from don't assume the worst of people to be careful with how you spend your trust - we all need it more than we think. 

But instead I said what? because I wanted to hear what his answer was going to be. 

That I got your back, he said. Then he clapped one very, very large hand on my shoulder, gave it a good squeeze, and walked back to dosimetry lab.

---

The next day, Marc gave me a package and told me to open it in my office. I was suspicious, but I followed the request.

Cardboard gave way to a small baggie, obviously full of fabric, which opened to reveal a t-shirt that read

"I Am the Motherfucking Lizard King."

I looked at it, I loved it, and then I got an idea. I went to my boss's office and knocked on the door. When he opened it, I asked him if he would be willing to allow something very unprofessional to happen for morale building purposes.

How unprofessional? he asked. I held the shirt up in answer. He gave the shirt a short look over and snorted.

You can wear it on weeks without customers, he said. Which just so happened to include that week.

I'll pass on that it came with your blessing, I replied, and he looked oddly relieved.

Thanks, he said. And then I went downstairs.

---

The techs were very, very happy to see the shirt. And while my boss's reputation remains in tatters, and probably will be until he moves (or dies), the next time there was a meeting, there was quite a bit less complaining about how mere presence. Which is, I guess, a start.

We'll see if he squanders it.

[littlemissprophetess]

what the fuck just happened

[abbotty]

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

jack abbot

☆ these walls have eyes | @asxgard

rumors always start somewhere - and the one about you and a certain attending started somewhere between a whispered confession and myrna overhearing you.

☆ no man's land | @butyoudidthis4what

there's a shooting where you work. jack is at the ed when the dispatch comes in and is terrified when he can't get in touch with you.

☆ edge of the dark | @thepencilnerd

what starts as quiet pining after too many long shifts becomes something heavier, messier, softer - until the only place it makes sense is in the dark.

☆ this city doesn't forget | @abbotjack

you weren't supposed to see him again. not like this. not in this dress, not in this city, not with his last name still catching in your throat. but pittsburgh remembers what you tried to bury.

☆ you, me, and the empty space between us | @mercvry-glow

jack abbot talks the reader off of the ledge.

☆ just a walk-in | @abbotsanatomy

jack's worst nightmare is you ending up in his er.

☆ bar fight | @tedmustache

a rough night leads the reader to the er, and jack's only priority is making sure she's okay.

☆ coffee swap | @tedmustache

it starts with coffee. then it becomes something more.

☆ safe and sound | @science-hoes

a stormy night in pittsburgh causes jack abbot to fall into a ptsd-induced psychosis episode, and the reader does everything in her power to bring them back.

☆ you say that like you care | @frombookstoretobookstore

after reader takes a punch to the face, abbot's emotions flare as he realizes he might care a little too much.

☆ overactive empathy | @lol-im-done

will a traumatic event force jack and the reader to confront their true feelings for each other or pull them apart forever?

☆ first thing | @stellamarielu

lazy mornings with jack are few and far between, but they always exceed your expectations.

☆ who you let in | @eddiesfaerie

jack has a soft spot. he didn't expect you to be the one to find it.

☆ you shouldn't be (down here with me) | @youvebeenlivingfictional

when you're almost shot at work, your body snaps into autopilot as your mind goes into overdrive. jack has always recognized parts of himself in you - he knows a mind teetering on the edge when he sees one.

☆ love me hard love me soft | @mercvry-glow

jack abbot isn't a soft man, but he'll learn for you.

☆ stop making this hurt | @mercvry-glow

you knew jack didn't want to go to pitt fest, instead suggesting you take a few of your girl friends on your day off. little does he know that decision leads to you experiencing the worst day of your life without him.

☆ valkyries and betting pools | @nocapesdahling

one of the most popular and secret betting pools is focused on what's going on with you and dr. abbot. meanwhile, you just want to figure out if the man you've had a crush on for months likes you back.

☆ someone new | @quickestgold

after witnessing the fallout from jack's failed marriage, dana and robby have been skeptical of his new relationship. but when a freak accident forces them to see the depth of jack's feelings, their perspectives shift.

☆ don't make me someone you can't have | @abbotjack

the fallout didn't start the day of pitt fest - it started when you told jack abbot how you felt and he told you he didn't want you.

☆ say it first | @quickestgold

jack has grown used to the emptiness in his heart, a quiet companion that has kept him safe for too long. but when you finally speak your truth, he realizes the hardest battles aren't fought on the field or in the chaos of the er, but in the silence between two hearts longing for each other.

michael 'robby' robinavitch

☆ companionship | @asxgard

he’s not sure how he got here, perhaps it’s the aching loneliness or the overwhelming stress. you’re there because it seems like easy money and you have a pushy friend. all in all, it’s a good deal — he gets the companionship he’s after, no strings, and you get your utility bills paid on time. it’s pretty simple, easy, until your arrangement bleeds into something a bit more…complicated.

☆ lead the way | @traumaone

after over a year of pining over robby, reader gets into a relationship to try and get over him, and gets cheated on. robby comes to the rescue.

☆ booked for one | @abbotjack

a black tie charity gala in chicago. one bed. months of tension. and a storm that forces both of you to stop pretending.

☆ glasses be damned | @thepencilnerd

lazy sunday mornings. you in his shirt. him wearing - glasses? what could be better?

☆ drunk confessions | @thepencilnerd

you're out drinking with your colleagues. robby's not there - until he is.

☆ sticky-notes and leftovers | @thepencilnerd

a glimpse into your daily notions with robby after moving in.

☆ sweet nothings | @thebestandworstdayofjune

you own a bakery down the street from ptmh, and dr. robby is one of your favorite customers.

☆ peace | @xximperioxx

the reader comforts robby after a hard shift (she talks him off the ledge).

☆ work crush | @xximperioxx

the reader has a crush on robby. spoiler alert: it's reciprocated.

☆ doctor's orders | @tedmustache

when one rough day pushes things to a breaking point, unspoken feelings come dangerously close to the surface.

☆ the right moment is you | @cherriready

robby didn't mean to propose today. not during a long shift, not without a plan, and definitely not in front of the er. but when he saw her, he saw the rest of his life. no speeches. no perfect moment. just her. always her.

☆ stitched together | @hauntedhowlett-writes

after accidentally cutting your hand, you seek out your neighbor for help. a favor becomes a friendship and a friendship becomes something more.

[alygator77]

──little things like this

a/n. just something small i felt like writing 🫶🏻 what i imagine grocery shopping with satoru would be like.

cw. domestic fluff. dad! satoru. husband! satoru. and just... satoru being satoru. also, he's missing you (like, a lot).

You should’ve known better than to bring him.

It was supposed to be a quick trip—milk, eggs, veggies, rice, soy sauce. Easy. You had dinner planned and everything. His favorite—the one he always says you make better than anyone. The one he begged you to cook the first night he stayed over, back when you were still figuring each other out in that too-small apartment with the broken stove and mismatched bowls. He used to sit barefoot on the counter, freshly showered, stealing bites before you could plate anything.

But now?

Now you’re married to Satoru Gojo, and he’s pushing your daughter through a grocery store like it’s the highlight of his week—sunglasses shoved into his windblown white hair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a smug grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He’d just come off a string of missions, barely enough time to breathe between them, but when you mentioned needing to grab a few things, he immediately offered to come. Said he missed you. Said he wanted to do “normal stuff.”

Which might’ve sounded sweet, sure—until somewhere between produce and frozen foods, he completely veered off-script. And now, fifteen minutes in, your cart is a sugar bomb. Sour gummies. Five flavors of Pocky. A jumbo bag of marshmallows no one in your household has ever requested.

Though here he is, your husband, pushing your cart with one hand, lighting up in pure joy at every little treat you come across through the aisles.

“Satoru Gojo…” you deadpan as he reaches for a pack of cookies. “That is not on the list.”

Clicking his tongue, he holds them up like a sacred offering.

“Buuut… neither were you,” he hums, batting those ridiculously pretty blue eyes. “And yet—best thing I ever brought home.”

Narrowing your eyes, he smirks.

“’toru…” you sigh. “I really don’t think we need more sugar in this cart.”

Tilting his head, he pretends to ponder. “Need? …nah,” he tosses them in the basket anyway. “But, deserve? Absolutely.”

Rolling your eyes, you turn back to the list on your phone. You have… what—three items checked off? You’re pretty sure Satoru has added at least seven more. And, he seems to be multiplying his haul by the minute.

As you make your way down the next aisle, your daughter’s delighted squeal draws your attention. Glancing over your shoulder, there is Satoru—holding up two bags of candy to her like a game show host.

“Mmkay princess… choose wisely,” he whispers, low and dramatic. “Red or blue. You get one.”

Babbling, her little hands reach forward, grasping for the blue one.

“Ahhh… strong choice,” he nods, handing it over. And then, with zero shame, he drops the red bag into the cart behind her back.

“Ahem…” you squint, and he straightens. “You said one?”

“What? She picked hers,” he says, all innocence, sliding his sunglasses down onto the bridge of his nose. “This one’s mine.”

You groan, laughing despite yourself, as he resumes pushing the cart—now like it’s a racecar, swerving down the aisle while your daughter giggles.

“Please don’t teach her to shop like you,” you call out.

“Too late~” he sing-songs, vanishing around the corner, muttering under his breath, “Drifting into dairy… snack thrusters engaged…”

You sigh—but there’s no real frustration in it. Just warmth. Familiarity. Love.

Because sometimes you forget—you’re not in that cramped apartment anymore, counting coins and comparing brands. Not since Satoru. You still catch yourself reaching for the cheapest option, still instinctively scan barcodes and double-check price tags. But he never even looks. He just fills the cart like it’s second nature. Like full shelves and soft snacks and mochi picked on a whim are things you deserve.

You’re still learning how to live like this—where love doesn’t feel like a debt, and money isn’t something to fear. And even though he could buy out the entire store without blinking, he still treats picking out snacks with you like it’s the most important thing he’ll do all week.

Shaking your head, you turn back to the list. Soy sauce. You still need soy sauce for his dinner.

But as you round the corner, you don’t find the aisle you’re looking for—you find him instead, crouched in front of the freezer, elbows resting on his knees, two tubs of ice cream in hand.

Why is he studying them like he’s trying to defuse a bomb? He looks… entirely perplexed.

“Satoru…” you step up beside him, brow raised. “You good?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He doesn’t look up. “Just, uh… evaluating options.”

Glancing down at the tubs—matcha and black sesame—you fold your arms.

“Umm… you evaluating them for fun, or is this, like, an actual crisis?”

“Mmm… crisis is a strong word,” he mutters, still avoiding your gaze. “It’s just… strategy. Y’know. Ice cream strategy.”

Crouching down beside him, you rest your hand on his knee.

“Uh-huh…?”

There’s a pause.

Then, he sighs through his nose. “Alright… fine. I… couldn’t remember which one you liked more,” he admits. “I thought it was matcha. But then I remembered that one week you wouldn’t touch it, so now I’m stuck here like a dumbass, spiraling in the frozen aisle…”

You try not to laugh. “You’re spiraling over ice cream?”

“I’m spiraling because it’s you,” he huffs. “I wanted to surprise you… thought maybe we could stay up late and eat it in bed like we used to?”

Your teasing slips away, replaced with something soft.

“Oh… Satoru.”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but there’s something in the way his voice lowers when he speaks again.

“I just… dunno. It feels like it’s been forever. Between missions, work, parenting—you’ve been running around nonstop. I just wanted tonight to feel kinda normal again. After dinner—after the princes goes to bed. Just… us? Even if it’s just ice cream.”

You watch him for a beat—your husband, who can bend reality, stand at the edge of the world, and still get hung up over picking the right tub of ice cream for you.

“I… like them both,” you mumble, bumping his shoulder gently against yours. “So why not both?”

He exhales like it physically relieves him. “Oh, thank god.”

You both stand, and without hesitation, he tosses both tubs into the basket.

“But… don’t go picking at mine and then pretending you didn’t like that flavor, okay?”

Grinning, you step ahead of him.

“Oh, I will steal yours. That’s marriage, babe.”

With a quiet laugh, he falls into step behind you.

“Brat.”

By the time you reach checkout, your cart holds three kinds of mochi ice cream, a suspiciously large bag of seaweed snacks, and absolutely no bread. Your daughter’s holding her bag of candy like it’s a stuffed animal, fussing while you try to scan it, and you’re juggling a reusable bag, along with what’s left of your patience while she begins to cry.

Noticing your frustration, Satoru slips in, insisting on scanning everything himself—for you. But when the self-checkout machine beeps loudly, his brows furrow and he pouts.

“The fuck? I did scan the damn carrots…” he mutters, narrowing his eyes, fumbling with the touch screen. “Don’t gaslight me... stupid thing..."

You sigh, somehow his presence makes the monotony feel… warm. And though this ‘quick trip’ has become what feels like an all-day event, you can’t deny how much you have also missed this man.

Outside, the air is soft with the promise of evening. Your daughter’s nodding off in her car seat, still hugging the candy bag like a teddy bear. Satoru loads the bags into the trunk with a proud little huff, dusting off his hands like he’s accomplished something huge.

“See?” he says, flashing a grin as he climbs into the passenger seat. “Told you grocery shopping as a family would be fun.”

You glance at the receipt. Then at him.

“You spent more in the snack aisle than on actual food….”

“I live off sugar and love. You know this.”

You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath as you slide into the driver’s seat. But as you buckle your seatbelt and glance down at the grocery list again, your heart sinks a little.

Did you…? Fuck.

You forgot the soy sauce.

Exhaling slowly, your gaze drifts over to Satoru in the passenger seat—slouched comfortably, eyes closed, perfectly content. The fading sun glows across his face, catching the edges of his smile.

“Y’know… I was gonna make your favorite tonight.”

His eyes open slowly. “Oh yeah?”

You nod. “But… we forgot the soy sauce.”

"...oh." He grimaces, genuinely. “Shit… I really thought I grabbed it,” he scratches the back of his head. “Want me to run back in real quick?”

You pause, then look at your daughter sleeping in the rearview mirror. Her gentle snore. The quiet hum of the car. The warmth in the air.

“No…” you murmur. “It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

You look at him again, and it hits you—not the ice cream, not the dinner. Little things like… this. Him. Her. This whole imperfect evening.

“Yeah… let’s get takeout,” you say, shifting the car into reverse. “We'll cuddle in bed. Split some ice cream.”

He smiles again, slow and warm.

“Deal.”

[luna-azzurra]

Genius Things to Do When You’re Stuck in Your Plot...

Make a fake conspiracy board connecting every character like you're solving a murder. Use string, post-its, color-coded chaos. Even if your book isn’t a thriller, this helps you spot secret relationships, hidden motivations, and “oh crap, this character actually caused that moment three chapters later” reveals.

Write a therapy session transcript for your protagonist. What would they say to a stranger? What wouldn’t they say? What does the therapist pick up on that they don’t? (Also: gives you instant internal conflict fuel.)

Record a fake podcast episode where your villain is a guest. The topic? “Why I Was Right and Everyone Else Is Just Soft.” Let them monologue. Let them get unhinged. You’ll learn so much about their worldview and how they justify their chaos.

Assign zodiac signs to all your main characters and write how they’d react to a haunted house. Not because astrology is the answer—but because forcing your brain to imagine characters in weird situations unlocks surprising truths. (Your Scorpio would definitely flirt with the ghost. Your Virgo brought sage.)

Write the worst possible ending to your story on purpose. Like, make it hilariously bad. Deus ex machina, everyone dies, aliens show up—it doesn’t matter. Sometimes mocking your plot actually helps you figure out what doesn’t work so you can reverse-engineer what does.

Do a “what if this happened instead?” daydream session in the shower or on a walk. No pressure. Just free-thinking. Let your brain go off-road. You might stumble into a better twist, or a softer moment, or a scene that guts you in the best way.

Write the one scene you’re most excited about—now. Even if you “haven’t earned it” yet in the draft. Screw linear order. Give yourself a jolt of joy. That scene might be the key to unlocking everything else.

Make your characters write Yelp reviews about each other. “One star. Always steals my fries. Would still die for him.” This is ridiculous, yes. But it will reveal interpersonal tension you didn’t know was there.

Tell your plot to someone who knows nothing about it—and see where they get confused. Your roommate. Your cat. Your reflection. If you can’t explain it out loud in 2 minutes, it’s probably too complicated. Simplify the heart of the story. Get clear again.

Write a flash-forward epilogue. Even if it never makes it into the book. Where do these characters end up? Who are they now? That can tell you where the real story wants to go—and help you figure out what’s missing along the way.

[grotesquevi]

18+ mdni, collage au, use of marijuana, high sex, blink and you'll miss perv!vi, you smoke while she eats you (feral), spit, stoner!vi that got out of hand. fic directory, requests?

if you recognize this it may be because it's from my previous account aka @vicorices who got deleted out of nowhere, i'm trying to get all my work back up again cause i'm not losing three months of writing. bare with me pls love me back this was good soup back then.

dealer!vi who’s deep down a damn loser when it comes to you, an unmeasured crush that started out when you bought weed for the first time and she got your number under the premise of talking to you whenever she had good stash.

she stares for a good while at her phone after, trying to find out a reason to talk to you without sounding lame, the last time she was so afraid to talk to a girl she was what? sixteen? so fucking lame.

dealer!vi who leaves in the middle of a party cause you texted asking is she was up and well, it's her fault when she's spoiling you rotten, constantly selling to you her very best stuff at a stupid low price: she wants you to keep coming to her, so she makes sure of making an undeniable offer.

she's knocking at your door and it's way to late to be in the streets, standing with her hands shoved inside her jacket as she waits for you to open up.

dealer!vi who's impressed actually by your rolling skills cause how the fuck did you learn how to roll a joint like that? you have such a good technique she finds herself looking at it, fingers in perfect control as they swiftly pour the green from your purple grinder into king-sized pink rolling papers — is it indirect kissing when you're licking the paper and she can visibly see strings of your saliva? must be.

she looks at you when you light up the joint and the air is quickly filled with the intense smell of weed, a subtle fruity and citric aroma as you passed her the joint. indirect kissing. indirect kissing when vi's smoking from the very same spot you did, sitting close to you after selling you a good amount of weed and accepting a sudden invitation to stay for a while and smoke, make the journey at least a bit more worth it and not leave after five minutes with you.

it doesn't have to be just pure business.

you're oblivious to it, but her gaze lingers in your legs and the subtle way your shirt rides up showing more and more skin without you noticing, worried you'll find out she's right there high and dry in your sofa.

stoner!vi who laughs at your jokes, leaning forward when talking to you cause even high she just thinks about how beautiful you are, eyes red, half lidded, relaxed in the comfortable of your small apartment close to the uni.

and like a good stoner she forgets about she's holding the joint at some point, too busy with the conversation, your company and the atmosphere you’ve so easily created, the ashes falling to the ground now. she has sold you marijuana for months, yet she's not able to talk to you for more than explaining you what strain she's carrying to sell until well — now.

liking your photos, flirting but not at all, it's absurd the amounts of times you appear on her mind without even trying to, messy haircut, she's sure you have a tattoo hidden under the winter clothes cause she can be a proud stoner, but she pays attention, at least when she wants something, when it comes to you.

"are you ever going to make a move on me, vi? cause i'm getting tired of waiting for you to snap out of it."

and maybe it's the weed, that dizzy and nice sensation on her chest that makes her smile, cause she's sure you're pulling her closer even when she's the one moving on her own.

"a move, you want me to make a move on you?"

you're taking the joint from her fingers and she swears it's the hottest thing she's ever experienced, the way you were suddenly so close to her only to pull away after, letting the smoke linger in the air when you light it again: she has felt that very same thing before, the awful need of pulling you into a kiss.

"i thought it was obvious when i texted you in the middle of the night, but you don't seem to get it much" the music seems to drown her unsteady breathing, the loud guitars by the speaker in the table while your bratty attitude only seems to turn her on even further. "should i spell it out for you? send a formal invitation?"

stoner!vi who's really bad in controlling her force when high, cause her hand fist in the fabric of your shirt and she's finally erasing the distance she was once polite to keep, moving you without much effort across the cushions to pull you closer to her, make you lay on the sofa to pin you down beneath her.

her muscles flex on top on you and she's finally aware of the effect she has on you, when she's finally kissing you and you're responding to her even when she barely touches you — so maybe it's not as lame as she thought, cause her kisses travels down your throat, messy, sloppy open-mouthed kisses she places as she holds you there, still and where she wants you to, not lame at all when you cannot control yourself either, squirming, already asking for more.

and fuck it's good. she can smell the subtle smell of weed in your clothes, and swear could choke 'cause you're parting your legs for her, a silent invitation she just gets with no need to spell it out for her now.

"gonna smoke it all by yourself?" vi's messing with you at first, watching you take the joint you forgot in your fingers to place it over your lips — "or are you gonna share that with me?"

stoner!vi who fantasizes with the thought of spitting right over your parted lips when she's helping you smoke, lighting up the joint as she sits on top of you. she's slower, but her hips press down against yours just right, and trapped in between her thighs is a damn sight. her blushed cheeks match her cherry hair who's much longer now since the first time you meet her, and you, a demon as always, let your hand find the skin beneath her shirt, the pad of your fingers roaming against her hip bone, trailing it down her pants.

with two fingers, she places the joint over your lips. your breathing collides against her hand, and she can feel the softness in your lips for a moment before you're blowing the smoke in her direction, slightly and for nothing more than five seconds but enough to make her think about kissing you again, yearning when she's stealing kiss after kiss, taking away the joint to have you pay attention to her instead. needy.

the weed makes her like that she'd say, but in reality vi's going to pieces even before her eyes become glassy. shambles when the music on the speaker is not enough to muffle your gasps, the irregular sound of your breathing after she slowly begins to ask you for more — hungry even when she's full fed.

she's building you up, taking her time since she dreamed about this a lot, and she desperately wants it to make it last, savor it as long as she can have it, so vi's dragging your shirt upwards, enough so she can see the obvious lack of a bra, latching on the skin of your breast until it's bruised and sensitive, purple because of her.

you do have a hidden tattoo, only for her to see.

yet it's her name on your swollen lips what she enjoys the most, how she's there in your lungs inside you, the sound of your moans when you ask if she could keep going. your always perfect hair lays now messy, and god she just want to imprint the sight of you in her brain, how your skin shiver when she's kissing the expanses of your belly, that flirty look on your face she can see even when she's completely on her knees for you already.

"you forgot about the joint again, peach" vi mutters against your navel, her chin presses against your stomach and the mere contact makes your skin burn "you okay up there? 'cause last time i recall i was invited to smoke with you love, you're making me feel a little betrayed here."

stoner!vi who likes the fact you're smoking from her weed. may seem stupid but she damn prides on knowing you choose her every time even when uni is fucking plagued with providers all around: you praise about her quality, chanting about how good your high was, how she never disappoints.

the world seems to stop against your skin, the time dies between your thighs, the intense smell of your arousal clouds her with longing and her mouth waters at the compulsion to lean forward.

"it's not fair, making me feel so- fuck so-" the words die on her tongue, cause your panties are soaked through, clinging to your folds and she's already drunk on it, lost in the haze as she looks up to you, barely illuminated by the lights in the apartment, the ember of the joint lighting every once in a while.

"talk to me," your voice is rough as your hand reaches down to her hair, taking the long strands of the mullet between your fingers — "how do i make you feel, huh? tell me vi."

stoner!vi who's a chaotic eater. she whimpers at your praises as her tongue laps from over your slick underwear, drool escaping from the corners of her mouth as her nose rubs against your sensitive cunt and she doesn't really care if she stinks like pussy after, if you're gushing all over her cheeks as she's making your underwear to the side; she's surrendering entirely, spreading you with her fingers and sinking her face in your puffy, swollen lips already sticky with a sheen of arousal.

she cannot seem to have enough, one arm tangled around your leg as she's comfortable enough to gather a good amount of saliva on her mouth so she can let it fall against your already leaky pussy, scooping it with her fingers to use it as lube when her digits are forcing themselves against your entrance, opening you up for her as vi's mouth sucks greedy around your clit.

so you forgot about the joint laying between your fingers as you hold her face against your sex, moving your hips against her mouth until she's looking at you through half lidded eyes and you can see how her face seems to glisten thanks to you. vi seems to be hitting all the nice places when her fingers scissor inside you, rubbing on your walls as you become pliant in her touch, inviting as you seem to suck her in deeper.

stoner!vi who pays attention, cause she's fixated in your face when you fall apart, dissolving into pleasure, splintering in lust for a brief moment she prolongs as much as it's possible, slowly pumping her fingers inside your tight entrance to keep seeing that pretty face all constricted in need, babbling about how good she's eating you, how full you are when her fingers fuck you dumb like that.

stoner!vi who shoves her fingers in your mouth right after fucking you, using her thumb to trace them along the seam at first, coaxing you to open them for her, pushing down on your tongue as soon as she's granted permission.

it's her turn to smoke now.

[pearlymel]

A dance— Capitano

Synopsis : your relationship with him grows, and he seems sweeter than ever.

Wc : 3.2k

Warnings : contains NSFW content, fem!reader, reader is mostly called 'wife', he's super sweet, soft sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink kinda, reader wears a dress and heels.

Notes : part 2 is heree! I highly recommend reading part 1 here. And part 3 is out here!

You've tried creating art, you've tried cooking (with the help of your personal maid, Marina), you've even tried planting.

Yeah, you're a plant mom now. Not only that, you're a cat mom too. Saving the poor kitty from the harsh rain one day, you couldn't leave the poor little one outside. It's mother seeming to abandon it.

All because you have become extremely bored on the days where Capitano wouldn't be here, and he forbade you to even clean your shared bedroom because he thinks it's useless when there are servants present to do the job. (He doesn't want to tire you out.)

Come to think of it, the last time you saw him, he kept avoiding you. Whenever you tried striking a conversation during dinner, he would only hum and nod. Or when you suggested to have another picnic, he flatly refused, and it felt like the hardest rejection to your face.

It's like he had his own mood swings that you had to deal with. One day he would indulge you in the activities you wanted to do, then the next he would refuse.

Like last week.

“I used to do this when i was young.” You tell him with the softest smile to yourself, your fingers working carefully with the flower petals and strings. You were determined to make this flower crown, and you were taking your sweet time just to have him by your side.

Capitano silently listened to your words, his gaze fixed on your gentle movements as you delicately fashioned a flower crown. The air between you was calm, "You have a talent for making flower crowns," he eventually responded, his deep voice breaking the tranquil silence.

"Did you learn it from someone?”

“No… just by myself.” He couldn't help but be impressed by your innate ability to create such an intricate accessory without any formal instruction. "Self-taught." He mused, "You have an unusual aptitude for discovering things on your own.”

You hum back while adding the finishing touches, and he watched your proud display of the finished flower crown.

“this is for kitty!” You smile at the thought of the little one purring with a pretty crown on it's head.

Kitty? Capitano is confused once you start talking about the cat, you seem even more excited when you described how you cuddled with it.

"You just happened to come across this crying feline in the rain, and you brought it home with you?”

“yes! Ah, well… i hope you don't mind.”

“i don't.”

And that was the last of your conversation, and it's been a week since you last saw him.

“my lady,” You recognise the voice of Marina as she knocks on the door, and you grant her the permission of her entry.

You set the sleeping kitten on the fluffed up pillow to reach for the letter she hands you.

An invitation to the grand ball… you read the contents of it, scanning every word as you pull the paper down.

“like a party?” you ask, glancing up at her, "Yes, that is correct. A grand ball is taking place tonight. It's a gathering of the higher-ranking Fatui members and a few... select guests.” she trails off, unsure of what else to add on.

“I can see that this invitation is for Capitano, not to me.”

“lord Capitano doesn't normally attend these grand balls. So my lady, you will have to go instead.” Marina explains this and you feel like you're going to have a headache.

All you wanted to do today was sleep in with the kitten. Not to trouble yourself in some party.

But… if it's for the sake of your husband's reputation, then you are willing to do it.

You hope you don't pass away too quick from your social anxiety.

“Marina, does this really suit me?” You stare at your reflection, and Marina looks at you approvingly, her eyes taking in your stunning appearance. "Sì, my lady, it suits you perfectly," she assures you, "The dress brings out your features beautifully and fits your figure perfectly.”

“and the colour?”

"Oh, yes, the color is exquisite. It complements your skin tone perfectly. You look like a princess attending a royal ball.” and you smile shyly as you take your seat, “You flatter me too much, you know?”

Marina chuckles softly, moving behind you to work on your hair with practiced ease. "It's not flattery if it's the truth. You look truly radiant today." She begins to style your hair, weaving intricate braids and pinning them in place with delicate silver pins.

Though you can't even lie to yourself, you looked absolutely gorgeous, even when you felt a little down since you would be going alone, and you barely knew anyone.

Marina pauses in her work for a moment, her expression becoming sympathetic as she sensed your nervousness. “It's natural to feel that way. But I believe you will be fine. You are strong and independent." She resumes styling your hair, her fingers moving nimbly to create elegant curls.

You smile at her, looking at her from the mirror, “thank you.”

"It is my honor to serve you.” As she finishes your hair, she steps back to admire her work, a satisfied expression on her face. "You are ready, my lady.”

You are ready.

You are not ready.

Because why was everyone's eyes piercing bullets through you as you entered the main hall?

The whispers and murmurs start almost immediately, the guests clearly intrigued by your presence. However, you manage to keep your composure, straightening your back and walking forward with confidence, just like how Marina taught you.

Stay calm they won't eat you, you tell yourself, trying to maintain your composure under the weight of their gazes.

You were here to make friends, hopefully.

You scan the room, hoping that someone would approach you to engage in conversation. Yet nobody, not a single soul, seems to have the courage to do so. The guests continue their conversations and dances, seemingly ignoring your presence.

And so, you find yourself standing alone, sipping on a glass of champagne, feeling lost and slightly out of place.

Well this is boring. You could've stayed in with Kitty and Marina, but at least you get free food. They always taste better, right?

Everyone went silent all of a sudden, but you ignored it at first and continue taking sips of your drink.

But the silence becomes uncomfortable, just what happened to the party?

You turn around, your eyes widening immediately in surprise as you see Capitano walking towards you. Your heart seems to skip a beat as you watch him approach, his presence commanding attention and authority in the room. Capitano stops in front of you, you can't make up what his face must be like right now, but you think he has a stoic expression on his face as he takes in your appearance. His eyes roaming up and down your figure, seemingly appreciating the elegance of your dress.

“husband?” You blurt out, setting your glass aside to greet him.

"Wife," he says simply, acknowledging the fact that you have finally addressed him by that term.

The tension breaks when soft, elegant music begins to play, signaling the start of partner dances in the middle of the ballroom.

Capitano seems to realize this as he glances around at the couples already making their way to the dance floor. He then turns back to you, his expression unreadable as he silently contemplates the situation.

He can see the slight tension in your shoulders, the way your hand clutched at your dress.

"I suppose we should dance, wife.”

“you want to dance?”

"Yes," he responds. "It appears it's customary for couples at these events to dance together." He extends his hand in your direction, gesturing for you to take it. You take his hand, wrapping it gently around his gloved one. His fingers close around your hand, his grip gentle yet firm as he leads you towards the dance floor.

You notice the whispers and murmurs among the guests growing louder. But you chose to ignore them.

Capitano guides you to the center of the dance floor and positions himself opposite you, his hand settling onto your waist, and your hands on his shoulders.

"Do you know how to dance?" You whisper to him, making sure no one listens, and your eyes are on him.

"I may not engage in these social events often, but even I understand the basics of dance." His hand on your waist pulls you closer to him, you follow his lead.

Interesting.

He leads the dance with of assurance and grace, his movements fluid and confident. As you follow his lead and swirl together across the dance floor, your eyes meet his, and you find yourself unable to look away. The closeness between you makes it feel as if the rest of the world has faded away, leaving only the two of you dancing together.

You notice how he seems to turn his head slightly to look at others, mimicking their movements swiftly, it makes you smile to yourself.

His hand on your waist feels warm, almost burning even through the fabric of your dress. It's a strange sensation you've never felt when touching him, despite having already kissed (once) before.

”my dress,” you whisper amidst the graceful dance, “what do you think of it?”

You figured you always needed to give him a little push when initiating things.

His attention drift down to take in the sight of your dress once again. His gaze roams over the fabric, lingering on the way it clings to your figure, and how the color contrasts against your skin.

"It's... " he pauses, you're just wearing a dres, but he finds it difficult to describe what he feels, "Very pleasing to the eye.” he manages to continue.

"You look rather well tonight, as well.”

“Thank you, wife.”

The music suddenly shifts to a slower tempo, and Capitano instinctively adjusts his hold on you, pulling you slightly closer as he continues to dance with you.

You totally ignore how your face is almost pressed up against his chest.

As interesting as the party was, the worst part of was walking back to the estate. Why? Because the carriage decided to break down, or maybe the horses were sleepy, you don't know.

You're glad your husband is with you, or else you might've been sacrificed to the dogs at night, now even ants will fear this big guy.

But what's worse? Your damn heels are killing you. The sides of your pinky toes are already aching that you are sure it will cause nasty blisters by tomorrow.

"Perhaps next time you should wear more comfortable shoes." He stated bluntly, his deep voice betraying no pity for your situation. “but they look pretty, plus i feel elegant in them.” you stop at your tracks, looking up at him with a defeated expression.

"I'm well aware." he says dryly, "But at what cost? You're practically torturing yourself with those heels.”

He's half right, your point still stands. Beauty is pain. And now you'll have to sacrifice your beauty.

Bye bye heels. You slide them off your feet, bow having your poor feet to walk on these rocky grounds. You do feel a little better after, though.

“stay still.” He utters, and you're confused, until he takes your heels in one hand before you feel a shift of your weight off your feet, finding yourself being carried into his arms.

you wrapped your arms around his neck silently, your eyes glancing up at him as he continues walking like he you weigh nothing.

The air around you is peaceful. You feel safe with him, he's not like the scary man you hear from the others. Maybe to others he was, but to you? He was soft for you.

Your head leans on his chest where his heart rested, the beats of his heart makes you sleepy, but you refuse to sleep just like this, you want to spend every single second savouring this feeling.

Capitano carried you all the way to the estate, and through the dark corridors, making his way to your shared chambers.

The soft moonlight filtering through the windows was the only source of illumination, the atmosphere around you quiet.

He gently deposited you back on your feet, you're back home safely.

“thank you.” You whisper, your hands reaching to take the pins out of your hair to let it breath from the scruffy yet beautiful hairstyle, and Capitano starts taking off the heavy layers off him as well, with the helmet out.

You don't notice how one of your dress straps seem to fall off your shoulders, but he notices, and oh did that make something in him stir.

His steps closer from behind you, his hand reaching to put the strap back in place, but instead, he glances at the other strap.

It looked rather lonely being on your shoulder, his fingers delicately sliding the strap down which makes you ultimately still in your place.

Your entire body trembled slightly as Capitano's hands caressed your skin, tracing gentle paths across your shoulders and back down to the zipper on your side. “May i.. help you out of your dress?” His low, gruff voice, asking for permission to help you out of your dress, made your heart beat faster.

You could only nod in response, your voice silenced by a mixture of anticipation and desire. Capitano's touch was meticulous, his thumb and index delicately moving down the zipper with deliberate slowness, prolonging the tension.

Capitano lets out another low hum as he watches the dress slide down to your ankles, now leaving you only in your undergarments. His hands traced the contour of your body, his touch delicate yet possessive. His own breathing became ragged, the sight of you partially undressed igniting a fire in his eyes.

“Will you allow me to touch you?”

The question makes you turn your head, of course he can.

When you don't stop him from wrapping his arms around you, his chest pressed against your back, he takes it as a green light to continue.

His hand first brushed your hair out of the way, to allow his lips to come in contact with the nape of your neck, “you're so beautiful..." he whispered, his hot breath sending jolts of electricity through your core.

“I don't…” he hesitates, wanting to move his hands away, “i don't want to do anything you don't like.”

And your expression softens at his concern, you turn around to take his face into your hands, your thumbs caressing the apples of his cheeks and he nuzzles into your touch, wrapping a hand around your wrist before pressing a kiss to your palm. You further reassure him by littering his face with your lips, giving every empty space of his skin with at least one kiss.

“Allow me to experience this with you, and i shall take care of you till i take my very last breath.” he hoists you up easily into his arms, rough hand under your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist, he laid you down on the soft sheets, his body covering yours as he looked down at you.

“You occupy my every thought,” he starts, “that it feels sinful to even look at your way.” He leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss as his hand continued its exploration, ripping your bra off to cup your breast, feeling your nipple harden under his touch. He rolled it between his fingers, pinching it gently as he deepened the kiss when you gasp, his tongue delving into your mouth, savouring your taste and angelic sounds.

He leaned down afterwards, his mouth latching onto your nipple, sucking it into his mouth and your hands find his ling strands instantly, tugging on them while being careful not to hurt him.

His fingers traced down to your hip, giving them a firm squeeze before ripping your panties off next, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit, feeling you writhe and tense up under him.

It felt like an unknown territory you've yet to explore.

Upon sensing your discomfort, he presses his lips to your eyelids, then to your neck, taking his time until you relaxed, until you started feeling good based off how you were bucking your hips now.

Oh how he wanted to take his time with you, but he was aching so bad that if he continues touching you he might just burst embarrassingly fast in his pants.

“Let me in, my wife.” He gently starts massaging your thighs as he parts them, making you feel more exposed than ever, but he distracts you by softly kissing you again and again while he's unbuckling his pants and pushing them down, revealing his throbbing thick, hard cock.

“Capitano—!” you try to squirm away when you feel his tip push into your tight hole, your lips parting from the way he stretched you open, but at the same time you felt relaxed with his soft whispers of ‘take your time’ and ‘you’re doing well, my wife.’

Your cunt soon takes in every inch, swallowing him whole until you were a panting mess, and you didn't even start.

Capitano then began to move, his thrusts slow and deep at first, letting you get used to his size, to how you feel, to how he feels as he makes love to you for the first time together.

You feel your heart up to your throat and ears, it felt incredible, something you've never felt before, your soft moans echoing in the air along with a few groans coming from him.

He shivered when he felt your fingertips trace the few scars littering his shoulders and back, his dick twitching almost instantly before his thrusts grew faster, more urgent.

His hand reached down, returning back to draw circles around the bundle of nerves, and he could feel your body tense, your walls clenching around his cock as he continued to rub your clit.

“come for your husband,” he breaths heavily next to your ear, and you come undone, your moans filling the room as he felt you milk his cock. He could feel his own release following after, his balls tightening before he slammed into you one last time, spilling thick ropes into your womb, until you were filled to the brim.

Your legs were shaking slightly around him, yet his warm embrace afterwards made you melt, eyelids heavy with him still being buried inside you.

—

You groggily woke up, still half in a dream-like state, the room bathed in shadows due to the closed curtains blocking out the morning sun.

As your senses slowly returned to reality, you heard a soft meow next to you, and sure enough, your little kitten had made itself comfortable in the middle of the bed. To your surprise, Capitano, who was still asleep beside you, didn't seem bothered in the slightest by the creature's presence.

“pst,” you whisper to your husband who only hummed in acknowledgment of your attention. “Can we go have a picnic this early morning? With our baby kitten of course.”

Tags: @sayastyx, @nastylilcvnt, @bigboygoose,

[undyingdecay]

pairings: robert reynolds x reader, very slight void x reader cw: mentions of menstruation (periods), mentions pwp, smut, afab reader, vaginal fingering, bloodplay, period sex, oral (female receiving) talks and mentions of mental health issues. 

he wasn’t stupid.

bob might’ve been a lot of things — anxious, awkward, prone to spacing out in tense situations and staring at you for a beat too long when he thought no one was watching — but he wasn’t dumb. he knew enough to be careful. to listen. and after a little over three months of being tangled up with you — not just in bed, but on bad days and restless nights, movie marathons in the compound rec room, sitting on rooftops pretending neither of you wanted more — he picked up on your offhand comment like it was some classified briefing.

“starting my period.”

simple words, said with that same careless tone you used to tell him to shut the fridge door with his foot or that alexei was hogging the hot water again. but it stuck. lodged itself in his chest somewhere.

and because bob reynolds hadn’t exactly had many long-term, intimate relationships with women — the extent of his knowledge of menstruation limited to a half-assed, awkwardly delivered high school sex ed class taught by a red-faced gym coach and a string of blurred, impersonal hook-ups that rarely lasted beyond a week — he did what he did best when something scared him: he researched.

‘how long does a period last?’ ‘do periods hurt?’ ‘how to ease period pain?’ ‘can you have sex on your period?’

anxious google searches at two a.m. his leg bouncing as he read articles, scrolled reddit threads, watched a youtube explainer hosted by a painfully chipper woman named emma.

he even cornered yelena in the kitchen, pretending to root through the fridge while asking casual as he could manage.

“hey… uh… what do you do when someone, uh, y’know… it’s their… cycle? anything you’re supposed to do?”

yelena, amused and not missing a beat, rattled off a list of practical things between mouthfuls of leftover chinese takeout. heating pads. herbal tea. gentle back rubs. don’t be squeamish. clean towels. listen. don’t make it weird.

bob, as always, took it far too literally.

not an hour later, he’d returned to the compound with four bulging cvs bags in either arm — pads, tampons, menstrual cups (he’d bought one of each brand), midol, heat patches, three kinds of herbal tea, three heating pads, a lavender-scented candle, and for reasons only known to him: two pints of ice cream and a stuffed bear he swore “looked like you, kinda.”

when you looked up from the couch, bleary-eyed and cramping, at the absurd pile of supplies in his arms, he gave you that sheepish, boyish smile. the one that dimpled his cheek, hair falling into his eyes. your faint shake of your head was all the reassurance he needed. you weren’t upset. just quietly endeared, and he could live off that feeling.

since then, bob had gotten weirdly good at tracking your cycle.

he downloaded a period app, color-coded days on his own calendar, learned terms like ‘luteal phase’ and ‘follicular.’ he experimented with herbal teas in old mason jars, a little heavy-handed with the dried chamomile and raspberry leaf, but the warmth was good.

so was the way his palm would settle over your lower stomach when you curled up in bed, heat radiating from him in a way that always felt other. not like normal body heat — but something deeper, something from whatever endless void lingered behind his kind blue eyes.

his presence clung to the walls now.

or maybe it was just in your head. the cool, electric pressure of a storm about to break. the scent of rain on concrete, that heavy, metallic sweetness of ozone before lightning strikes. not sadness — not quite. something heavier. thicker. impossible to name.

you didn’t question bob about the void.

never pushed. you let him come to you, when he wanted to, which was rare enough that it gnawed at the back of your throat sometimes.

and when he didn’t — when whatever it was hung around longer than it should, curling in corners like cigarette smoke, clinging to the ceiling, coating your skin in its cloying, electric hum — it rattled you more than you’d ever admit. why did the void feel like it — no, he — was everywhere?

a dull throb spread through your gut like a tight fist, and you groaned.

“fuck…”

not the kind of sound bob was used to hearing from you — not the breathy, pleased kind that made his stomach flip and his cock twitch.

he lifted his head quickly from where he’d been lazily mouthing at your nipple, his lips sticky with spit, a faint pink flush creeping up his neck. he still swore up and down that it wasn’t for him — no, of course not, it was practical, he’d read somewhere that breasts got sore and maybe a little gentle stimulation helped, okay? it wasn’t weird. it was helpful.

“are you okay?” he mumbled into the cold, close air of the room.

he must’ve dozed off again without realizing it — body heavy and sprawled half over you. the scent of rain was stronger now, though the windows were still shut tight. the room felt thick, close. the kind of pressure that made your ears pop.

he fumbled for the lamp, light spilling out in a soft, murky halo, and his gaze flicked to where your arms were curled tight around your stomach, your body instinctively folding into itself.

“do you — wanna tea? i can go—”

“it’s too late, bob. can’t wake everyone up over this.”

he hesitated, then nodded. chewed the inside of his cheek.

“do you want your heating blanket, or my hand?”

you managed a pained little nod and a sharp suck of breath, and he was already moving — that too-warm palm pressing flat against the curve of your lower stomach. his touch wasn’t normal. not like anyone else’s. it wasn’t heat like a person’s. it was deeper, more like something that seeped under your skin, heavy as wet wool, a warmth that hummed and thrummed in your bones. you wondered, sometimes, if it came from there — from that endless place inside him where the void lived.

he murmured soft things — stuff you couldn’t even really parse, his voice a low, steady rumble against the ringing pulse in your ears.

and it did help.

at least until another sharp pain twisted through your core.

“i—uh—” he started, then coughed, rubbed the back of his neck, staring somewhere over your shoulder like he was too embarrassed to make eye contact.

“i read somewhere,” he began, voice too fast, words running together, “i promise it’s like a well-accredited article, well—that—thatorgasmsreallyhelpperiods.”

he said the last part in one rushed breath, barely audible.

you barked a half-laugh, breathless around the ache.

“jesus, bob.”

“i mean—if you want. i just—if it hurts that bad—i just—”

“yeah,” you said, exhaling sharply. “yeah, okay.”

his pupils dilated, something shifting behind his gaze. that thing you didn’t name.

the air went heavier, thicker.

he was already moving down between your legs before you could change your mind.

and bob wasn’t smooth. wasn’t practiced. not with this.

his big hands gripped your thighs, palms sticky with sweat, faint tremors betraying him. when he spread you open, the scent hit him sharp—metallic, hot, dizzying.

he flinched—just barely. you caught it.

his throat worked, adam’s apple bobbing.

but he didn’t stop.

he dragged your panties down slow, eyes flicking from your cunt to your pad, gaze lingering, fascinated. like he’d thought about this too many times, and now couldn’t believe you were letting him.

he tossed the fabric aside, messy, fingers sinking into the softness of your thighs again—pressing them wider, holding you open like he couldn’t help himself.

he looked up, that boyish smile on his face—so painfully sweet, so wanting. eyes glassy, breath already shaking. like he needed your approval or he’d die.

you glanced down. the wet patch on his boxers was already blooming, precum soaking through, a pathetic stain against his cock straining hard beneath the fabric.

you gave him a nod.

he whimpered. quiet, desperate. and dove in.

the first kiss landed on your inner thigh—mouth hot, open, leaving a smear of spit against tacky skin.

another kiss, closer.

closer still, tongue flicking out, tasting the salt, the faint tang of copper just beyond.

he swallowed thickly.

messy. gross. it should’ve stopped him.

it didn’t.

when his mouth finally pressed to your folds, tongue dragging a thick, trembling stripe through them, the sound he let out wasn’t human—half-moan, half-choked gasp.

his fingers dug harder into your thighs, grounding himself. and he kept licking. clumsy, hungry, not even trying to be careful—letting blood and slick smear across his lips, chin dripping, tongue sliding through the mess.

“fuck—” he breathed, voice thin, eyes fluttering shut. “taste so—so fuckin’ good—”

he didn’t stop. couldn’t. nose bumping your mound, breath catching.

and below you, he was moving—hips grinding helplessly against the bed, rutting like an animal. obscene. desperate. soaking through his boxers like he’d cum already and didn’t even notice.

“mmm—please—” he gasped into you, voice muffled. “wan’ more—wan’ all of it—please—”

he sounded sick with it. sick with how badly he wanted this.

every now and then he’d pause—just to mouth over your slit, tongue dipping inside, sucking down everything you gave him, swallowing audibly.

you felt the scrape of stubble against raw skin. the sting of his fingers still bruising your thighs. the way the room seemed to press in.

heavy now. dense.

the void.

you felt it in the air—cold, slick, like smoke crawling across the ceiling. static buzzing against your skin. bob didn’t seem to notice—too far gone, too drunk on you.

“fuck—need—need to put my fingers in too—” he babbled, voice raw.

you barely had time to brace before he shved two fingers inside, knuckles deep, slick with blood and spit. the sound was obscene—wet, filthy, echoing in the quiet.

you gasped, hips jolting.

bob whined. high and thin, hips bucking helplessly against the bed, precum staining the sheets beneath him.

“you—taste—so fuckin’—perfect—” he sobbed, voice cracking as he leaned in again, licking around his own fingers, swallowing everything he could.

the air felt tighter now. heavy. thick with something not yours. not his.

the Void still watching. feeding.

but bob—poor, ruined bob—kept going. kept crying soft against you, tears mixing with the mess on his cheeks, fingers shaking inside you now, tongue dragging another slow, broken stripe through blood and slick and salt.

and you felt him—still grinding, still humping the bed beneath you like a dog in heat.

“love you—please—don’t wanna stop—please don’t make me—”

his voice was wrecked.

and when you looked down—his face a red-smeared mess, mouth open, tongue shaking against your clit—you knew he was too far gone to save.

too sick on you. too deep.

and somewhere in the shadows—something else smiled.

[foldingfittedsheets]

I’d like to entertain and enliven you now with the saga of my Slut Era.

I’ve always been a serial monogamist and my shortest long term relationships clocked in at three years. So perhaps that’s why when I finally broke it off with my ex I went insane on dating. Part of it was definitely just that between anxiety and loneliness I wanted to fill up my time.

This happened when I was living alone for the first time, no roommates, just me and my little cat Leeloo. I didn’t want to come home to an empty house so instead I set up dates.

Most of these were disastrous. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea and I had a lot more first dates than second because they’d seen enough, including the one where people aggressively complimented me.

But after a few months I had four people I was seeing simultaneously. I was up front with all of them that things were not exclusive, and they all agreed, so no infidelity took place here, just a lot of hijinks.

Here’s who was on the dating roster:

• An apprentice woodworker that we’ll call Jill. I honestly thought at 26 years old that her being 21 wasn’t a problem age gap and I quickly learned that there was a vast gulf of both maturity and life experience between us. Jill described herself as “heteroflexible” and had just dumped her first boyfriend to flirt it up with me.

• A married woman looking for a friends with benefits. We’ll call her Alice. I insisted on meeting her husband first to be sure I wasn’t part of a cheating mess and he gave me his blessing when I stayed over at her house. Years later when he and Alice had divorced I would go on to sell him and his new fiancée an engagement ring and we both realized at the end how we knew each other and it was wildly awkward. Alice was nice, but a hardcore vegan who insisted I brush my teeth if I so much as ate string cheese before I could kiss her. She was also unhappy in her marriage and was feeling out if I’d want to get serious.

• A bartender dubbed Snakebites, so called because of her signature piercings. She cooked me a steak so raw it was still mooing and some of the best asparagus I’d ever had. In our singular sexy encounter she bit my nipple and I never got over it. Really don't bite someone if you don't know their preference and work up in pressure. We weren’t terribly compatible but neither of us were willing to admit it yet. Truthfully I considered still dating her solely because I desperately wanted her bathroom. It had all black tile, black toilet, black sink, a rain shower in the corner and a jacuzzi tub. I may not have loved her but god I loved that bathroom.

And finally,

• My beloved, who I would go on to marry, who was dealing with a lot of personal stuff at the time. Obviously that meant I liked them the best of all the people I was seeing because we were both disasters at the time.

So that’s the cast of this little misadventure. Now, our story begins with Jill.

Jill was someone who heightened my anxiety. Each of the three times she came to my home she brought and left more stuff. A self help book, a ramen kit, the entire Teen Titans collection of DVDs. It was like she was trying to move in. She also liked to deride my taste in things, frequently calling me a pleb when I mentioned a band or show I liked.

She was working on a gorgeous little decorative table in her woodworking program. The main wood for the top had a beautiful dapple of knots like jaguar spots, and when she showed me a picture I exclaimed how pretty it was.

“Do you want it?”

“Oh- I mean it’s lovely, I wouldn’t mind having it, but you should sell it and make some money!”

But she was adamant. She’d give me the little side table. At about this time, Alice was starting to get awfully lovey for a FWB. I knew she wasn’t happy with her husband but I also knew we were not a good fit. Fun fact: Alice and her husband were step siblings with a pretty hefty age gap. They got together when he stumbled upon a kink photo shoot she’d done with vegetables. None of their family was happy about the relationship but they weren’t related by blood so it was fine.

So I was fending off more overt romantic advances from Alice, and feeling increasingly like I needed to break things off with Jill. Snakebites wasn’t ever initiating communication and I decided to pull a lot of plugs at once.

I ghosted Snakebites, told Alice that I thought we should cool it, and in a move worthy of a rom-com I asked my beloved if I could pretend we were exclusive to put off Jill. They agreed and I texted Jill to let her know that I was no longer single.

I was not prepared for Jill’s response. She. Was. Devastated. She flew off the handle. She’d just been waiting for the right time to tell me how she felt about me! How dare I do this to her!

What about the table?!

“You should keep the table, it’s gorgeous, you’ll be able to sell it, but I don’t expect a free table.”

Silence met me after that text. I worried and fretted and eventually headed home.

There on my doorstep. The table.

It was a small little end table, reeking of oil and polish, but very beautiful. I brought it inside. The little drawer didn’t even have a knob or guide rails. But it did have a handwritten bill proclaiming that it was costing me $500.

“I can’t afford a $500 table, Jill!” I texted.

“Well you kept saying how nice it was. I spent a lot of time on it.”

“I’m not saying it’s not worth $500” (it wasn’t, it was a tiny side table made by an apprentice) “but I can’t buy a $500 table.”

“Make me an offer.”

I stared at the little table. I did actually like it, but I worried about the repercussions of entering into this deal. Hesitantly I typed back, “$300.” I didn’t think it was worth that much but I didn’t want to insult her too badly.

This suited her for the night. But the next day she informed me she needed a new bed, and that she’d take her $300 in credit toward a new mattress. I spent the whole next day basically wrangling with her over what she wanted and eventually she spiked back up to demanding $500 for the damn table.

“Let me just give it back,” I begged. It was not the first, second, or even third time I’d asked to return the thing but this time she finally relented and gave me her address. Since she lived with her parents still I’d never been over.

I called up my beloved and said, “Hey, I need moral support, can you run an errand with me?”

They agreed which is how we loaded up a self help book, a ramen kit, the entire Teen Titans DVD collection, and the table from hell into my little car together. Jill had said to meet her at one o'clock. I intended to drop everything off at noon and be done with this madness.

But while my beloved and I were on the doorstep leaving everything I heard, “Jill? You’re home early,” through the door. Her mom opened it to peer at us in confusion.

“I was just bringing Jill’s stuff back!” I chirped in alarm.

With little tact and a lot of speed we left her with Jill’s collection of things and then I sped out of there like my tail was on fire. I handed my phone to my beloved as I zoomed away instructing them to block Jill’s number. I was free. The tabletross around my neck had been returned.

It was about a month after that when my beloved and I officially began dating exclusively. I had wrapped up all my messy dating threads and it was a relief to be in a relationship again. They went on a trip to Mexico shortly after we made it official.

So I knew they were out of town. But next morning I walked out to my car and beheld a lipstick kiss pressed to the drivers side window.

I was petrified. I had just dumped three girls at once and had an extremely messy back and forth with one of them. Did I have a stalker?!

Of the girls, Alice seemed like likeliest candidate, being of a stronger lipstick variety girl than Jill or Snakebites. We had ended things a bit stiffly, but still cordial. She just laughed when I asked if she knew anything about it. “Nope,” she said, “but good luck.”

I’d rather have walked over broken glass then text Jill, and I’d firmly ghosted Snakebites so I was scared to reopen communication to ask if she was stalking me. I had to drop it. But it haunted me, that lipstick kiss.

For months I was jumpy, wondering which of my spurned lovers had done it. And why. Was it a threat? A goodbye? I lay awake thinking about it, worrying about how everyone I’d dated knew where I lived, which car was mine.

Finally, nothing else happened and I moved on. The kiss would remain a mystery and I had to be content with that.

It was a year later when I finally started filling my mom in on my dating escapades that I finally got closure. She was hooting and laughing as I went over the table debacle. Then I paused and added, “And then this kiss showed up on my car.”

“Did you like it?”

“What? No! I’m pretty sure one of them was stalking me! Who else would leave a kiss on my car?”

My mom started bellowing with laughter. “I did!” She wheezed.

Apparently. My mother had been driving by my place. And decided that a cute little gesture would be to leave me a kiss. And then decided to never mention it to me even though she’s never done anything like that previously.

“It scared the crap out of me!” I yelled while she collapsed with helpless laughter. “I thought I had a stalker! How could I possibly have known that was you?!”

“How could I have known you’d just broken up with three girls at once?” She wheezed in rejoinder and like. Fair play.

So that’s how my mom convinced me I had a stalker and I got out of buying a $500 table.

[dakusan]

MAYBE, BABY

Tattoo Artist!Yang Jeongin x Reader | Clean lines. Dirty talk. No strings. Lies.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. What started as a no-strings-attached hookup with your tattoo artist turns into something much messier—and much more intoxicating. You only wanted a rib tattoo. He only wanted a night. But from the moment Jeongin drags his fingers across your skin like he’s signing his name, the lines start to blur. And you let him. Again and again. Until something shifts. What was supposed to be a fuck-only situationship turns into something terrifyingly close to love.

💌a/n: I have no fucking idea how long this thing is. I blacked out while I was writing and organising the Ask Dump. I present to you a full-course meal with a side of feelings and a kiss on the forehead?? If you made it to the end, congratulations. You now have an Innie-sized corruption kink and a severe attachment issue. You’re welcome. Enjoy??? IDK??? I’m too far gone to process anything except the words “say my name again.” p.s. reblog if this fic ruined you. I wanna know who survived and who ascended. p.p.s. added my Spotify + Apple Music links on my pinned, just saying 😗 p.p.p.s. no strings, my ass. You’re mine now.

⚠️ warnings: NSFW / 18+ ONLY — DEADASS | MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. GO TO BED | Unprotected sex (wrap it irl) | Oral sex (m & f receiving) | Fingering, spit play | Face sitting, thigh riding | Degradation kink (light) | Praise kink (heavy) | Possessiveness / “mine” kink | Bratty teasing, power play | Multiple orgasms, overstimulation | Breathless, sweaty, studio sex | Aftercare (eventually… Jeongin learns) | Lowkey romantic shift under the filth | Explicit language | “No strings” turning into: oops, we’re emotionally attached now | ✨ Tattoo shop + apartment sex ✨

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. Ice your thighs.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Stay Tonight — CHUNG HA « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:37 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Jeongin was the youngest artist at NO SAINT INK.

When Chan opened the studio—an industrial-meets-artsy little corner spot on the edge of Itaewon—Jeongin was still a baby, barely legal, and fresh out of a back-alley apprenticeship that nearly made him quit the industry altogether. His lines were good back then. His hands were steady. But it wasn’t until Chan saw the sketchbook he kept buried in the bottom of his bag—spine cracked, filled with anatomy studies, linework so fine it looked like thread—that he offered him a space.

Not a job. A future.

“You’ve got hands like a ghost and an eye like a scalpel,” Chan had said, flipping through the pages with the kind of quiet approval Jeongin would chase for years after. “Let’s make you sharp.”

So he stayed.

Became Chan’s apprentice first—studied under him like a monk, learned symmetry, balance, the rules before he broke them. But Chan was a generalist, and Jeongin was greedy. He wanted more than just solid lines. So he floated—between Felix, who taught him piercings and dotwork with the same flirty chaos he used to charm every client in a five-block radius; Seungmin, who drilled design philosophy and made him redo stencils six times until the curves were perfect; Minho who didn’t teach. Not in words at least. Minho was instinct. He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Jeongin watched him once sketch a full spine piece upside down without lifting the pencil. And Minho didn’t explain it—just nodded toward the chair and said, “Try it.” ; Hyunjin, who was chaos of a different breed. Rarity. Flash. Pure art. He lit up the room. He painted with colour, emotion, movement. He made skin weep and bloom. So Jeongin learned to feel. Not with his mouth. Not with his words. But through ink. Through hands; And finally—Jisung. The wildcard. He made Jeongin rewrite every script piece by hand—no fonts, no tracing, no stabilizers. Taught him how to letter like a poet on a deadline. Drilled gradient theory into his skull until he could shade a full moon from memory. He also got him drunk exactly once.

But, Jeongin absorbed all of that information. He rarely spoke unless it mattered. Didn’t flirt, didn’t joke. Just worked. Clean ink, smooth lines, deceptively delicate work that always left clients breathless by the time he wiped them down.

And that made him dangerous.

Clients came in expecting the sweet-faced boy in black gloves to be safe. But he wasn’t. He didn’t smile. He didn’t talk. But he saw. He looked through you with those fox-sharp eyes and touched you like he already knew what would make you shiver.

He wasn’t even your artist.

But you asked for him anyway. Over and over again.

And honestly? You didn’t expect to find anyone like Jeongin in a place like NO SAINT INK. You were a digital artist—head designer at a massive marketing firm in Seoul, the kind of job that paid well but chewed through your soul one brand guide at a time. Long hours. Clean lines. Corporate clients who wanted “authentic grunge” and then asked you to make it “less aggressive.”

You came to the shop for the first time six months ago. It was raining. You still remember the way the neon buzzed through the window, warped by the fog. You’d booked the session weeks ago, and if you bailed now, you’d never go through with it.

The piece was for your sister.

Delicate—inked across the side of your ribs. A fine line moth with wings shaped like her initials, its body drawn from her favorite pressed flower. You designed it yourself. Could’ve gone to anyone to ink it. But Felix—who you’d met at a gallery party once—told you to book with the youngest.

“Jeongin’s got the hands for it,” he said. “Real gentle. Real quiet. Real clean.”

And he was.

He barely said five words the whole session. Just pressed the stencil into place, gloved up, and looked at you once—soft and serious—before asking, “Can I touch here?”

That was all.

But when the needle buzzed to life and his hand steadied on your ribs, something cracked open in your chest.

He didn’t talk. He didn’t flirt. But his touch was so steady. So precise. You tipped your head back. Exhaled. And something in you settled. You didn’t think of him again until a month later—when your hand brushed the moth in the mirror, and you remembered how warm his palm had been against your skin. You booked again. And again.

You weren’t looking for anyone. Least of all him. But something… clicked.

Maybe it was the way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking. Or the way his gloves lingered a little too long during placement. Or the fact that he remembered your preferred ink tone without asking.

You didn’t flirt. Not at first. But that changed the night you showed up just before closing—allegedly to “ask about a touch-up,” but really, you were just bored and restless and wanted to see him.

The tension snapped before either of you said much.

He was the last one cleaning up. You were the last one out the door. The shop lights were already half-dimmed when he finally looked at you across the counter and said: “You’ve been staring at my hands all week. Just ask.”

You didn’t ask. You just kissed him.

That was the first time. The second time, he pulled your panties off with his teeth. The third time, you were already naked by the time he locked the door.

Your current dynamic? No rules. No titles.

Just fucked-up timing and bad habits and “this doesn’t mean anything” muttered between gasps. You swore it wasn’t serious. You weren’t stupid. Jeongin was a fuckboy—quiet, calculating, the kind who didn’t do commitment but did make you scream into his sheets like it was your religion.

“Friends with benefits,” you called it once.

He snorted. “We’re not friends.”

That stung a little. But you let it go.

You told him once, arms still trembling from orgasm, voice flat:

“You’re just easy to fuck.”

He didn’t miss a beat. Just wiped his hand on the sheets and replied: “You’re easy to keep fucking.”

Fair enough.

But then he started looking at you differently. Staying longer. Not reaching for his phone. Brushing hair from your eyes like it mattered. And you? You haven’t slept with anyone else in weeks. Not since the last time he kissed your throat after, then said—barely audible—

“You smell like ink.”

Like it was a compliment. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

Seoul, South Korea. Tuesday, 2:41 AM.

It started with a text.

Technically, it started with a drunk sketch at 2:41 a.m. on a Tuesday and a half-eaten tub of mint chocolate ice cream balancing precariously on your thigh. But the text came after—blurry photo, minimal explanation.

[YOU]: [image attached] [YOU]: thinking of putting this behind my ear. or on my hip. thoughts?

You didn’t expect him to reply right away. He never did. Jeongin had a habit of leaving you on read, sometimes for hours, sometimes until you forgot what you’d even sent. He only ever texted back when it mattered.

But this time, he answered in six minutes.

[JEONGIN]: Hip. [JEONGIN]: Bring the original sketch. I’ll clean it up. [JEONGIN]: You free Friday night?

You stared at the screen. Blinked. Then typed:

[YOU]: Yeah. I can come.

He didn’t respond after that. Of course he didn’t. Classic Jeongin. Always just enough. Always just under your skin.

The design was something you’d drawn weeks ago without realizing what it was for—a feather, sharp and broken at the tip, its spine twisting into barbed wire that coiled once before vanishing into smoke. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t meant to be.

You’d doodled it while zoning out during a strategy meeting about a toothpaste rebrand. But when you looked at it later—really looked—you realized what it was: grief, rebellion, exhaustion. A tattoo for survival. A promise inked in blade and burn.

You hadn’t told anyone else about it. Not even your coworkers. Not even your therapist.

But you sent it to Jeongin. Because you knew—knew—he’d get it. Not just the aesthetic. The weight.

You didn’t need him to ask what it meant. You needed him to take one look and say where. You needed him to act like it already belonged on you.

And he did.

Friday, 9:00 PM.

You’re standing outside NO SAINT INK, hood up, hands stuffed in your jacket pockets, trying not to fidget. The shop’s sign glows dull red in the rain—flickering slightly like always—and the front is dark, already closed to the public.

But Jeongin’s still inside.

You know, because he buzzed you in five minutes ago with a single-word reply:

[JEONGIN]: Door’s open.

Not hey. Not come in. Just… open.

That’s how he is.

You push through the door. The familiar scent hits you first—clean metal, warm ink, faded cologne. The space is dim, soft playlist humming low through the speakers.

Jeongin’s still working. Alone.

He’s at his corner desk, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, sketchpad in front of him, pen tapping silently against his lip. Jaw set. The light above him halos his head like something cinematic—sharp shadows, gleaming ink bottle.

He doesn’t look up when you walk in.

Doesn’t say anything either.

Just flicks a glance your way as you approach, then turns the sketchbook toward you.

It’s your design. Redrawn. Sharper. Cleaner. But still yours.

He’s added fine line smoke along the base, twisted the barbed wire tighter, bled the feather edge into a fragmented wing. It’s heartbreak. It’s rebellion. It’s right.

“You didn’t say where on your hip,” he murmurs finally. “Show me.”

Just that. No hello. No how’ve you been. Just show me.

With a quiet exhale, you step out of your sneakers, slide your thumbs into the waistband of your jeans, and peel them down slow. The denim sticks slightly from the rain, catching at your thighs before finally falling to the floor. You kick them aside. You’re left in a long tee and a pair of black panties, the thin lace riding high on your hipbone.

Jeongin doesn’t comment.

He never does.

But his gaze drops.

Not in a gross way. Not even obviously. Just… that half-second sweep he always does—eyes dipping to skin, breath slowing, jaw flexing once like he’s cataloguing the exact shape of you for later.

You swallow. Your voice comes out quieter than you expect.

“Here,” you say, brushing your fingers along the curve where your waist narrows into your hip. “I want the feather to sit right above the bone. Barbed wire trailing low.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands, gloves already on, stencil in one hand. He moves like he’s done this a thousand times. Like you’re just another canvas.

But when he steps into your space and kneels to your level—face suddenly inches from your bare hip—your lungs forget how to work.

“Don’t move,” he says, and his voice is low. Focused. The same tone he uses when he’s mid-linework. When he’s inside you.

You still.

His hands are warm even through the gloves. He smooths the skin once—just once—with a barely-there touch, and then carefully presses the stencil into place. It’s cool against your skin. Wet with transfer gel. His fingers trail after it, holding it down, checking placement.

You feel his breath before you hear it.

He’s close. So fucking close. One exhale and his mouth could be on your thigh.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice quiet now, more smoke than sound. “Once it’s on you, it’s permanent.”

You know he’s not talking about the ink.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you glance down—and Jeongin is still crouched in front of you, one hand on your hip, the other brushing the edge of your thigh like he’s testing the gravity between you.

He looks up.

You meet his eyes.

And that’s when it snaps.

Because the silence between you has never been empty. It’s always been a loaded gun. And now, standing half-naked in the soft hum of NO SAINT INK, it finally fires.

Jeongin rises without warning—slow, fluid, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’ve been thinking about it,” he says, voice low and even. “This exact moment.”

You blink. “What moment?”

He tilts his head, steps closer, so close you feel the heat off his chest.

“The one where I press you against this chair and make you forget what you came in for.”

You breathe in. Sharp. Shaky.

He smirks, just barely. “But you came in for the tattoo. Right?”

You nod.

“Then sit.”

He turns—walks back to his tray like you didn’t just melt a little under his stare. Like he didn’t just say that shit and leave your brain scattered like ash.

He pulls the stool over, checks the stencil one last time, preps the needle—buzzing low now, hungry in the quiet.

“Underwear stays,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “But pull the side up for me. High.”

You do as he says.

The chair’s cold. Your thighs are bare. Your panties cut high over your hip now, nearly indecent. But Jeongin doesn’t touch you yet. He just kneels again—level with the stencil—and studies it. His hand smooths along the edge, careful.

Then his voice, soft and dark: “Try not to shake too much.”

And then the needle kisses your skin.

“Fuck,” you hiss through your teeth, hands gripping the chair’s armrests like it might help. It doesn’t.

Jeongin doesn’t look up. “Too much?” he asks mildly, like you’re inconveniencing him by reacting to literal pain.

You glare down at him. “It’s a needle in my hip, Jeongin.”

He hums—an amused little sound low in his throat. “You’ve taken worse.”

Your breath catches. “Excuse me?”

He finally glances up. Eyes dark. Unbothered. That faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

“You heard me.”

You grit your teeth, refusing to squirm—even though the sensation is starting to blur now, sharp heat ebbing into something deeper. The rhythm of the machine. The drag of his gloved fingers. The low thrum of tension that has nothing to do with pain.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter.

“Mm. But I make pretty things,” he says, gaze dipping back to your skin. “Stay still. You twitch and I’ll have to fix it.”

You mutter something under your breath.

He glances up again. “What was that?”

“I said—” You inhale through the sting. “You’re lucky your dick game is unreal.”

Jeongin’s laugh is barely audible, just a huff of air through his nose. But the way his hand slows for a beat at your words? You feel that.

“Oh?” he murmurs, adjusting the angle, fingers spreading slightly against your hip to stretch the skin. His touch is professional. Barely. “Is that why you keep coming back?”

You scoff. “Please. I keep coming back for your artistry.”

“Right,” he deadpans. “Not because you came all over my tongue in this chair two weeks ago.”

Your stomach flips.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper.

He leans in—just enough to make you feel his breath again, warm across your skin.

“You’re the one who begged.”

“Jeongin—”

“Begged,” he repeats, eyes flicking up, daring you to deny it. “With your thighs around my head.”

You do squirm now, fingers gripping the chair harder, breath shaky.

He smiles. Just a little.

“Thought so.”

Another line starts, slower this time—agonizing in the way it presses in deep, steady, confident. You hate that it’s turning you on. He’s too close. The buzz of the needle is too low. His voice, when he speaks again, curls up your spine like smoke.

“What’s it say about you,” he murmurs, “that you’d let a fuckboy mark you this many times?”

You narrow your eyes, forcing a breath. “What’s it say about you,” you whisper, “that you keep memorizing every place you’ve touched me?”

He doesn’t answer.

But you see it. That flicker in his eyes. That shift behind the usual quiet. He does remember.

And then he says—calm, quiet, almost cruel: “Stay still, baby.”

And fuck—you do. You have to. Because if you move now, you’ll either ruin the line—

—or climb into his lap.

And you’re not sure which would be worse.

He works in silence after that. Not the kind that feels cold or distant—but sharp. Loaded. The kind that listens. Every brush of his glove against your skin is surgical. Every pause is precise. Every inhale from your side? Noted.

You swear he’s dragging the needle slower on purpose.

“I can feel you smirking,” you mutter.

“Am not.”

“You’re such a dick when you tattoo.”

Jeongin’s mouth twitches—just slightly, just enough to confirm what you already know. He is smirking.

But all he says is, “You’re squirming.”

“Because you’re being annoying.”

“Because you’re wet.”

Your mouth drops open.

“Fuck you—”

He tilts his head innocently, like he didn’t just say that with the same tone someone might comment on the weather.

“You get like this every time I ink your hips.”

“That is not—”

“Every time.”

He lifts the needle for a moment, wiping gently—grazing your skin with a motion so tender it makes you shiver.

“Remember that piece on your inner thigh?” he asks, like he’s recalling the weather again. “Took longer than it should’ve because you wouldn’t stop clenching.”

You bite down a moan. “That’s because you breathed on me, Jeongin.”

“And you begged for a break halfway through.”

“I needed water—”

“You needed a dick.”

Your hand flies out and slaps his arm.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just laughs under his breath—wicked, warm, devastating. Still not looking at you. Still focused on the curve he’s finishing.

“You’re evil,” you whisper.

He hums. “Maybe.”

Another pause. Another wipe.

You think the worst is over—until he speaks again.

“Why’d you ask for me this time?” he says suddenly, soft. “Not your usual spot. Not your usual style.”

Your throat tightens. “Yeah,” you say.

He doesn’t ask why. Just keeps going—needle buzzing like a wasp in the quiet. But then—because maybe he does want to know, just not directly—he asks, “You never said what this one’s about.”

You hesitate.

He wipes gently. Adjusts his grip.

And this time, when you speak, your voice is quieter. Flat. “Drew it by accident.”

He pauses. Looks up. Not fully. Just enough that you catch the flick of his eyes.

You go on. “During a rebrand pitch. I was half-listening, just doodling. Didn’t even realize what it was until later.”

He stills the machine and wipes

again—more slowly this time. Then leans back just enough to glance at the stencil he’d reworked from your sketch. Your pain. His hands. It looks exactly like what you were afraid to say out loud.

“You added the rest.” you murmur.

He nods.

“It’s better.”

“It’s honest,” he says. “Didn’t want to pretty it up.”

“Thank you.”

A beat.

Then he leans in again, steadier this time. “Ready?”

You nod.

He starts again and goes silent. But not for long as he then parts his lips to talk again. “What does it mean to you?”

You swallow. Then: “Grief. Rage. The part of me that stayed after everything else gave up.”

He exhales slowly. Not surprised. Just—understanding. “You draw like someone trying to survive,” he murmurs.

You huff a laugh. “You tattoo like someone who already died.”

Jeongin chuckles—just once. Quiet. Dark. “Maybe I did,” he says.

Silence again. But not cold. Just… full. And then—without lifting the machine, still tracing ink into your skin—he adds: “I redrew it three times before it felt right. I didn’t want to fuck it up.”

You turn your head. “You never fuck it up.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

He doesn’t answer. But you see the flicker in his expression—something unspoken and sharp and vulnerable. The kind of thing you both ignore because naming it would make it real.

The needle hums again. His other hand steadies you with the barest pressure.

“Stay still,” he murmurs. “Almost done.”

Before you know it, he's done and for a second, there’s only silence. Then the soft rattle of his tray—tools settling, gloves flexing, the gentle hush of something opening. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t say done or look at that or any of the things other artists might say.

He just sets the machine down with care and shifts back on his stool, gaze flicking over your skin with a craftsman’s intensity.

Then—quieter than before: “Go look.”

You blink. “What?”

“The mirror.” He gestures with a tilt of his chin toward the full-length mirror across the room. “Go see it.”

You hesitate—your thigh prickling with heat, the skin raw and new—but then slowly rise from the chair.

He doesn’t watch you walk. Not exactly. But he feels you go.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing over the tattoo. Your idea. His craft. You stare at it—at you—for longer than you mean to. Behind you, Jeongin moves again. You hear the snap of fresh gloves, the squirt of antiseptic, the fold of paper towels. Then—

“You like it?”

You nod. Still watching your own reflection.

He walks over slowly, crouches behind you again—this time not kneeling to tattoo, but to clean. The disinfectant is cold. His touch is not. You flinch anyway.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Stings a little.”

You exhale. “It’s fine.”

He works quietly—wiping carefully, checking for any sign of irritation, scanning the lines with a gaze that misses nothing. Then he grabs the wrap and tape from the tray and starts dressing the tattoo, pressing the edges down gently.

“You’ll need to keep it clean,” he says. “No tight pants. No soaking. I’ll send you the aftercare again.”

You glance at him in the mirror. “You think I’ve forgotten?”

He lifts a brow. “You think I trust you?”

You smirk. “Fair.”

The tape seals into place with a soft press. His palm lingers on your thigh a beat too long.

Then—

“There,” he murmurs.

You look down. The tattoo is covered, secure, safe.

But the tension is not. Neither of you move. His hand is still on your skin. And in the mirror—you catch it: His eyes, locked on you. Not the tattoo. Not the wrap.

You.

That same look he gave you the first time you fucked against the wall of this shop. The look he had when you said you didn’t want anything serious. When he nodded like it didn’t matter—and then kissed you like it did.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

Just stares at you like he’s trying to decide if now is the moment—if this is the time he finally stops pretending that you’re just another client, another warm body, another convenient fuck.

Your breath tightens.

And then he speaks low and even: “Say it.”

You swallow. “Say what?”

He tilts his head, fingers flexing just slightly against your skin. “Whatever excuse you’re about to make to leave.”

You flinch. Not visibly, but enough that he feels it—because his hand slides higher. Not inappropriate. Not quite. Just enough to remind you of every time before. His fingers warm against the edge of your hip. Just under the hem of your crooked panties.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. And whisper, “I wasn’t gonna leave.”

A pause.

Then: “Good.”

His hand flattens, slow, spreading possessive heat across your thigh. His voice stays soft—never louder than the buzz of your heart in your ears.

“‘Cause you came here for more than a tattoo.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. Because he’s right. And he knows it—because his mouth brushes just behind your knee, a featherlight kiss that shouldn’t be as devastating as it is. Then another. Higher.

“You always come back,” he murmurs, lips grazing up the inside of your thigh. “Even when you say you won’t.”

Your eyes flutter closed. “Jeongin—”

“I waited,” he says, almost to himself now. “Thought maybe this time you’d ask for someone else. Felix. Seungmin. Minho.”

You shiver. “I didn’t.”

“I know.”

He stands. Rises slowly—like a shadow overtaking light— and moves behind, close enough that his chest is against your back, and his breath fans against your ear. His hand stays where it is, gripping the meat of your thigh. But his other hand—oh, it trails up. Over your ribs. Your waist. Until his thumb drags under your bra strap.

His lips hover at your neck. “And I told myself this was the last time.”

You can’t breathe.

“But you walked in wearing that little smirk,” he says, voice darker now, rougher, “and sat in my chair like you knew I’d ruin you again.”

You glance at his reflection. His pupils are blown wide. His jaw tight.

“You think I did this on purpose?” you whisper.

His smile is sharp. “Didn’t you?”

You don’t get a chance to answer. Because his mouth is on your neck in the next second—hot, open, biting just enough to make your knees weaken.

“You said no strings,” he mutters against your skin. “But you let me draw on you like I’m signing my name.”

You gasp.

And then—his hand slides up, past your tattoo, past the tape, until his palm cradles your lower belly.

His fingers splay. Possessive. Intentional.

Like he’s reminding you where else he’s touched. Where else he plans to.

“Still no strings, baby?” he whispers. “Even now?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your turn around to face him, lips crashing onto his. Hungry. Needy. He groans into your mouth—low and wrecked—like he’s been starving for this, for you. Like he’s been holding himself back since the second you walked in, cocky little smirk and all, asking for him again. Like every time you said “no strings,” it sliced just a little deeper.

His hands are on you instantly—one gripping your waist, the other fisting into your hair as he drags you closer, mouth devouring yours like he’s reclaiming territory he never really lost.

Your fingers claw at his shirt, dragging it up, desperate to feel skin. He helps—yanking it over his head in one sharp motion and tossing it somewhere behind him. You don’t even get a second to admire the view before he’s on you again, teeth grazing your bottom lip, hips pinning you against the counter.

“Tell me to stop,” he mutters, breath hot against your cheek.

You don’t.

You grab his jaw instead, kiss him harder—tongue, teeth, everything.

And that’s all he needs.

He lifts you onto the edge of the sink like you weigh nothing. The mirror rattles behind you, your thighs parting as he steps in close, his fingers already dragging your panties aside.

But he pauses—because of course he does. Jeongin, for all his unhinged quiet-boy energy, never forgets to check. His thumb presses gently against your inner thigh. His mouth brushes yours.

“May I?” he whispers.

You nod—shaking, desperate, soaked.

But he waits.

“Words,” he breathes. “Give me words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes, Jeongin—please—”

He growls, low and filthy, and drops to his knees like a man worshipping something he’s already ruined. Because that’s what you are now. Ruined.

Jeongin's hand grips your thigh—tight, possessive—spreading you wider as his mouth descends like a death sentence. The first lick is slow, deliberate, a warning shot. Just the flat of his tongue dragging through your folds, gathering every ounce of heat you’ve been soaking in since the stencil hit your skin.

Then—he moans.

Like it tastes as good as he remembered. Like he missed it. Like he fucking needs it.

You choke on a gasp, hips jolting—only to be slammed back down by the firm pressure of his palm.

“Stay still,” he mutters, mouth grazing you as he speaks. “Wanna do this right.”

And then he devours you. Not sweet. Not gentle. Just—Jeongin. Filthy, focused, starved.

His tongue works you open with slow circles, sharp flicks, then a sudden seal of lips around your clit that makes your vision flash white. He’s quiet, but his mouth is chaos—sucking like he’s trying to pull your soul through your cunt, fingers digging into your thighs like he can feel the pulse from the inside.

You tangle your hands in his hair, back arching off the mirror behind you. “Jeongin—fuck—please—”

His grip tightens.

He hums, tongue stroking deeper, and the vibration nearly undoes you.

“You always beg so pretty,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you. “No strings, right? So let me ruin you.”

And ruin you, he does.

His pace shifts—knows the pattern that makes you shake, that makes your knees weak and your breath break in your throat. He works you like a song he’s played a thousand times. Like your body was made for his mouth.

And when he slips a finger in—then a second, slow and curling—you nearly sob. His fingers curl again—precise, relentless, stroking right where you need it. His mouth stays locked around your clit, tongue flicking in sync with every pump of his hand. Like he’s in your head. Like he knows exactly when you're about to fall over the edge and drags you back just to watch you tremble.

“Jeongin—” you gasp, voice breaking. Your thighs twitch around his shoulders, muscles drawn so tight you’re shaking. “Fuck, I’m—”

“Cum for me,” he breathes, lifting his mouth just long enough to say it—wet and ruined against your skin. “Come on, baby. Let me have it.”

And you do.

The tension snaps like wire—hot, vicious, absolute. It hits like a wave crashing through your core, stealing the breath from your lungs as you cry out. Your hands clutch at his hair, your back arches against the mirror, and your hips buck once—twice—before he locks you down again, tongue lapping through your orgasm like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your moans taper into a long whimper as he slows, soft licks now, gentle—comforting. His fingers slip free with a final curl that makes your whole body flinch. You sag against the glass behind you, boneless and wrecked, breath catching in your throat.

Jeongin rises slowly.

Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes heavy, lips swollen.

And smirking.

He cages you in with a hand on either side of the mirror—still fully dressed, still composed, like he didn’t just make you fall apart on a bathroom sink with the kind of head that ruins lives.

“You came so hard you almost forgot your name,” he says softly. “Want me to remind you?”

And you—your hand already at his belt—just grin. Weak. Wrecked. “Only if you use your mouth again.”

His mouth twitches at that—half smirk, half growl—and his hands drop to yours, guiding them as you undo his belt. The metal clinks through the quiet, obscene in how deliberate it sounds. You’re still trembling, your thighs sticky with the aftershock of what he just did—and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

But you can feel how hard he is. Pressed against the fabric. Heat radiating between you. Dangerous.

“You sure?” he murmurs, breath hot against your cheek. “Because if I fuck you now, it’s not gonna be soft.”

You nod. “I don’t want soft.”

He laughs—dark and low—and kisses you again.

One hand fists in your hair while the other drags your panties down your legs. They drop to your ankle and stay there—forgotten, tangled.

He pulls his cock out—thick, flushed, already leaking—and runs it once through your folds. Slow. Teasing. He watches your face as he does it, watches your eyelids flutter and your lips part.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmurs.

“You’re still stalling,” you shoot back, voice ragged.

That earns you a sharp snap of his hips—just the tip breaching, making you gasp.

“Say it again,” he rasps.

“Fuck me, Jeongin.”

And that’s all it takes.

Jeongin thrusts in—deep, perfect, filthy. The stretch has you gasping, clawing at his back, your head tipping back against the mirror with a soft thud. He groans low in his throat like he’s the one unraveling—like you are the ruin he can’t stop coming back to.

You’re wet. Still fluttering from the orgasm he gave you. And he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. Just starts moving—deep and rough, hands gripping your hips like they’re his handles. Like he owns this moment.

“Still no strings?” he pants, voice cracking as he fucks into you.

You can’t answer. Only moan.

“Still just a fuckboy?” he grits out, dragging your hips forward, fucking deeper. “Even now?”

Your nails dig into his shoulder. You’re close again, already—tension building fast. Too fast. His thrusts get sharper. His forehead presses to yours, and when he speaks, it’s quiet. Desperate.

“Say my name when you cum,” he breathes. “I need to hear it. And you will cum. All over my cock.”

His words detonate something inside you.

You clench around him—so tight he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder for a split second before he snaps back up, hand fisting in your hair to keep you exactly where he wants you.

“Louder,” he pants. “Let them hear you. Let the whole fucking street hear how good I fuck you.”

And fuck, you do. You're moaning, gasping, whining his name like a prayer dragged through broken glass. Your hips grind to meet each thrust—sharp, fast, brutal—and the mirror shudders behind you, rattling with each slick impact.

He’s everywhere. His mouth is on your neck, biting, dragging bruises like signatures down your skin. He sucks just below your jaw—hard enough to make you whimper—and bites again. Possessive. Proud. Like he wants every inch of you marked.

“You’re mine right now,” he growls, breath hot against your pulse. “Every time you fuck someone else, you’re gonna feel this. Right here.”

He drives in, deep, angling his hips until your legs twitch around him.

“Feel that? That’s me. That’s how you’ll remember.”

Your mouth opens—maybe to sob, maybe to curse—and he doesn’t give you the chance. His thumb presses into your bottom lip, demanding, and your body obeys before your brain catches up—sucking it in, lips closing around the digit as your eyes flutter shut.

“Just like that,” he whispers. “So pretty like this. Fuck—don’t stop.”

His cock grinds deeper. Filthy. Perfect.

And then his hand moves—thumb slipping free, wet and shining, before he curls it beneath your jaw.

“Open,” he orders, voice hoarse.

You do.

He spits—hot and slow—straight into your mouth, watching with half-lidded eyes as it lands on your tongue.

Then he crashes his mouth into yours. Kisses you like he’s drowning. Like your mouth is the only thing keeping him alive. Tongue fucking, teeth clashing, breath shared like oxygen isn’t real unless it passes between you first.

The thrusts don’t stop. He fucks you through the kiss—fast, messy, ruthless.

You feel it building again. Pressure winding tighter. Ready to snap.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers against your lips. “Cum for me. Say my name.”

And this time, you scream it.

“Jeongin—fuck, Jeongin—”

Your body breaks. Wrung out on his cock, his mouth, his name. Everything shatters. Every nerve lights up. You cum so hard your vision blacks out, breath gone, hands shaking. You collapse forward, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest heaving, body limp and twitching from the aftershocks.

But Jeongin doesn’t stop. Truly insatiable.

“Mm-mm,” Jeongin hums, low and cruelly sweet. His pace slows just enough to feel—deep, dragging thrusts that have you sobbing into his skin. “What, you thought that was it?”

His cock pulses inside you, thick and hot, still painfully hard.

“You’re shaking,” he coos, like he likes it. Like he’s proud of it. One hand smooths up your spine, mock-gentle, before he fists your hair again and tugs—just enough to tilt your head back.

“Look at me.”

You try. Barely. Your lashes flutter, lips parted and glazed with spit, wrecked in every sense of the word.

He groans—deep and hungry—at the sight.

“Fuck. You are pretty like this.”

Then his grip tightens, and he pulls out slow—just the head still inside—before snapping his hips forward again, hard enough to make your voice catch on a moan.

“I’m close,” he pants. “But you’re not gonna take it here.”

You blink. Confused. Barely able to string two thoughts together.

“Wha—”

He grins, eyes dark.

And then—he pulls out, dragging slick down your thigh as you whimper, empty and raw.

“On your knees,” he orders, already stroking himself, cock flushed and angry in his fist. “Mouth open.”

You slide down, dazed, trembling, ruined—but obedient. And Jeongin watches you drop like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Eyes locked on yours. Jaw clenched. Chest heaving.

You kneel, wrecked and flushed, thighs still shaking—and he’s towering over you, fist tight around his cock, breath hissing through his teeth.

“Open,” he growls.

You do. Lips parted, tongue out. Wanton. Waiting. “Fuck—” he chokes, stroking faster now, his other hand gripping your jaw, thumb pressed just under your chin to keep you steady. “You look so good like this, baby. All mine."

He laughs, breathless—half-mocking, half-obsessed. And then he spits again. Right into your mouth.

“Swallow,” he commands, voice wrecked.

You do. Without blinking. Without shame.

He groans, low and rough. “Good fucking girl.”

And then he breaks.

A guttural sound rips from his chest—he jerks once, twice—then he’s spilling across your tongue, hot and filthy, painting your mouth like a claim he’ll never admit to out loud.

You swallow again. Eyes locked. He’s panting. Still holding your face like you’re fragile. Like you’re holy. Like you’re his, even if he’ll never say it.

And then—after a long beat of silence—

“You’ll come back,” Jeongin murmurs, voice soft and certain, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“Maybe,” you whisper, licking your lips.

But you both know the truth. You already did.

The air is now thick with sweat, sex, and something else neither of you dare name. You’re still kneeling, flushed and dazed, your breath coming in short waves as you finally—slowly—rise to your feet.

And Jeongin catches you.

No hesitation. No smart-ass remark. Just catches you—hands steady at your waist like instinct. His grip is gentler now, his gaze darker but softened. He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, his thumb dragging lightly along your jaw, and then he tilts your face up.

“You good?” he murmurs.

You nod, but he’s already moving—already kissing your temple like he didn’t just fuck the sanity out of you. Like it’s reflex now. Like it’s routine.

Because it is.

Pulling up his jeans again, Jeongin reaches for a clean towel from the cabinet—one of the soft ones, the kind he used to never bother with when this all started—and runs warm water over it, checking the temperature against his wrist like you’re breakable. Like you matter.

“I’ll clean you up,” he says quietly. “Don’t move.”

He kneels again. Not like before. Not like worship.

This time it’s care.

You feel the difference when he wipes between your thighs with slow, deliberate strokes. Not rushed. Not clinical. He even murmurs a low, “Sorry,” when you twitch at the sensitivity.

“You didn’t used to do this,” you whisper, voice dry with post-orgasm rasp.

His hand stills for a second. Then resumes.

“Didn’t used to care if you got home safe, either,” he says, not looking up. “But I do.”

You swallow. Something hot curls low in your chest.

When he finishes, he tosses the towel in the laundry bin and returns to you—pressing a water bottle into your hand, then grabbing your discarded jeans and helping you step into them. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t smirk.

He just tugs them gently up your legs, careful not to touch the fresh wrap on your thigh.

“Tell me if it starts to hurt later,” he says. “Text me if anything feels off. I’ll fix it.”

“Jeongin…” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “No strings.”

But still—he presses his forehead to yours. Just for a moment.

Something shifted.

You felt it first the next morning—not in your body (though, yes, your thighs ache and your tattoo’s tender), but in your phone.

[JEONGIN]: how’s my favourite canvas? [JEONGIN]: tattoo feelin okay? [JEONGIN]: or do i need to come kiss it better

You laugh—because of course he’s still a menace—but you also… pause. Because he’s never texted you first. Not like this. Not with check-ins, not with half-flirty, half-soft words that make your stomach twist in a dangerously not-just-horny way.

You reply. You always do. But this time, the thread doesn’t end at “come over.”

Instead, it leads to—

[JEONGIN]: wanna get boba or some shit later [JEONGIN]: bring your sketchbook. i wanna see more of what’s in your head

So you do. And he does.

He makes dumb faces behind his cup lid when the pearls hit your teeth wrong. He teases your handwriting. He compliments your line work in the same breath he makes fun of your playlist. He asks about your job—not just the annoying clients but what you actually like doing. When you mention the burnout creeping in, he hums thoughtfully and says: “You should quit and be my studio wife.”

“That’s not a job.”

“Then I’ll make it one. Full benefits. All the orgasms you can handle.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he says with a smirk. Then coughs. “I mean—not officially. But, you know.”

And then he blushes. Fucking blushes.

In the weeks that follow, the change isn’t loud.

It’s subtle. Warm.

He starts saving you a seat at the shop when you visit. Starts texting you good luck before meetings. Starts calling you after just to hear your voice when you sound tired. Starts drawing more—leaves his sketchbooks open, just in case you feel brave enough to peek.

He still fucks you like a goddamn fever dream, of course. Still ruins you in every corner of the studio when the door’s locked and the music’s loud enough.

But after?

He doesn’t vanish.

He lets you stay. Brushes your hair back while you’re curled up on his chest. Taps your ankle with his foot until you laugh again. Offers you a hoodie, then scowls when you steal it for real.

Sometimes—when he thinks you’re asleep—he traces your tattoo with his finger. Like it anchors him. Like he knows something changed, too.

And sometimes, you open your eyes just enough to see him looking at you like this—like he feels everything you won’t say yet.

No strings? Yeah. You’re both tangled as fuck.

Your sheets are already half-off the bed, twisted beneath your back, damp from sweat and friction and his mouth.

Jeongin has been between your legs for what feels like forever. Not rushing. Not teasing. Just—feasting.

Tongue deep and slow, then fast and flicking. Then back to slow, like he’s savoring something no one else is allowed to taste.

Your thighs keep trembling. One’s thrown over his shoulder; the other keeps spasming, jerking whenever he sucks that one fucking spot. He’s holding you open like you’re an offering, like you owe him this.

“Fuck—Jeongin, please—”

He hums against your clit. The vibration makes your hips stutter, back arching off the sheets.

“Sound pretty when you beg,” he murmurs. His voice is wrecked. Drenched in filth. “Could make you do it all night.”

You whimper—high and helpless—and try to push his head down, needing more. Needing everything.

He laughs, dark and low, then gives you exactly what you want.

Sucks your clit hard, tongue circling, then sliding down to fuck you deeper. His nose nudges the swollen bud just right, and you choke on a sob.

You’re gone.

You can’t hold back. Not with the way he’s devouring you. Not with the way he knows your body better than anyone. You feel it—your climax crashing through like a violent wave, all heat and light and wreckage. You scream his name—loud, broken—hips jerking as your orgasm hits like a car crash.

But Jeongin doesn’t stop.

He growls into your cunt and doubles down. Licks you through it—messy, wet, relentless. His mouth is soaked, chin dripping, and you swear he smiles against you when your thighs start to close in.

Jeongin finally pulls back—face glistening, lips swollen, breath ragged—and climbs up your body like he owns every inch of it.

He crashes into you with a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and desperation. No finesse, no restraint—just need. His hands roam everywhere, gripping your hips, your waist, your face like he can’t touch you fast enough, close enough, deep enough.

“Mine,” he pants between kisses. “Mine—mine—mine—”

You’re still trembling. Still trying to come back to earth. But you manage a breathless laugh against his mouth. “Innie?”

He freezes. Just a little. Eyes flicking up to yours, wide and dark and soft.

“Mmm?” he hums, like he didn’t just break you open and eat your soul.

You smile, wicked and sweet. Drag your nails gently down his back. “Remember when I said no strings attached?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer.

You lean in, press your lips to the shell of his ear, and whisper: “And you said—maybe, baby.”

He exhales—shaky. Vulnerable.

You pull back, meet his gaze, and smile softer this time. No teasing. Just truth. “Well,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair, “I think that maybe was about more than you let on.”

You smile, smaller this time. “Because I want the strings now. All of them.” Your thumb then brushes his cheek. “You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

Jeongin stares at you.

Still. Silent. Like the earth just tilted on its axis.

Then—finally—he exhales. A soft, stunned sound. His eyes flutter shut for half a second, and when they open again, they’re wide and warm and wrecked.

“You’re really gonna say that to me while I’m still hard?” he mutters, voice hoarse, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

You giggle. Actually giggle.

And Jeongin melts.

His hands slide down to your hips, squeeze once—possessive, reverent—and then he’s rolling, flipping the two of you in one smooth, easy motion until you’re straddling him, flushed and still catching your breath, hair wild around your face.

He looks up at you like you’re the only thing left that makes sense.

“Let me fuck you properly, baby,” he says, voice low, hungry—but laced with something new now. Something real.

You smile—wide, wicked, his. You lean down, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Then shut up and show me, Innie.”

He groans—low and fucked-out—and lets his head fall back against the pillow. “Jesus, baby—gonna be the death of me.”

You roll your hips once, just to be a menace. “Thought you said you wanted to fuck me properly.”

His hands fly back to your waist like instinct, like gravity. “I do,” he pants. “But if you keep doing that, I’m gonna wife you instead.”

You freeze—then burst out laughing. “What?”

He grins up at you, smug and wrecked. “You heard me.”

You blink. Stare down at him. “You’re such a little shit.”

“And you’re on my dick,” he shoots back. “So maybe we’re both exactly where we belong.”

You groan, drop your head to his shoulder. “God, I hate you.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe.”

He pulls you down, chest to chest and kisses your temple, wraps his arms around you like he’s never letting go. And then—just to make sure you know? He grinds against your already soaked folds.

You gasp. “Fuck—Jeongin—”

He smiles.

“Say my name again. Say I'm yours.”

“You're mine.”

[consultingfujoshi]

ohhhh outie irving's thing goes so much deeper than I could have imagined. it was pretty obvious that he chose to become severed to try to use his innie self to communicate with and learn more about the severed floor and he's been doing all those paintings in the hopes his memory of the testing floor will bleed through to his innie, but this episode implies he's part of a much bigger conspiracy than just that.

irving is not some lone vigilante as I expected him to be. he's working with at least one other person to try to communicate with innies and spread knowledge of the goings on at lumon using his place as a plant on the severance floor. perhaps even the same people that helped petey become reintegrated.

he knows he's being watched and makes anonymous calls a ways from his home. he immediately had a cover story when milchick turned up like he was expecting to be questioned. he doesn't want to reveal that his innie woke up on the outside and is trying to figure out exactly how much lumon knows, and refuses to reveal his own hand before this. he tells milchick to tell him what all this is about so he can get a better grasp on how much he needs to lie about. he IMMEDIATELY distrusts milchick's motivations.

he has no idea what just happened and why, only that there's a chance all the work he's been doing on the outside has finally started paying off and he can't risk undoing all that progress by accidentally admitting to something. for all he knows his innie put this all in motion himself. he doesn't know it's part of a completely unrelated plan with his coworkers to break out. so he lies and pretends nothing happened because admitting his innie broke out might also fuck up the rest of whatever he's planning/working on. he's protecting both of his selves from a company he very clearly now is working to undermine.

he made sure to get home quickly after waking up at burt's (i still need to know how that played out, thanks!) so it looked as if he'd been there the whole time. the gears are immediately turning wrt his innie going to burt. he's trying to figure out how that guy fits into all this. maybe he's even going to approach burt thinking he's a co-conspirator on the outside and try to enlist him. I wonder how he will react when he finds out that's not the case at all and their connection is much more individual and personal than that. when he finds out his innie almost sacrificed all the work he's been doing the past three years because he fell in love and got his heart broken by this guy. I wonder if he'll ever find out.

AND WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH BURT FOLLOWING IRV AROUND. WHAT KIND OF SOULMATE MAGNETIC FORCES RED STRING OF FATE SHIT ARE THESE TWO ON!!!!!

[cas-spirit]

Give me more platonic affection.

Give me omega timeline residents approaching Asgores because they give the best hugs.

Give me Ink, learning about physical affection by observing people, having Blue explain the different ways people hold hands. Him tackling Top and Aster to the ground trying to figure out how hugs go.

Give me Dream who only cries when someone’s hugging him because it’s the only time he feels shielded enough to break.

Give me Nightmare and Error, who after years of working together, finally end their deals with a handshake.

Give me Blueberror who’s off button is any kind of physical affection.

Give me Core Frisk, still a child, clinging to people’s hands, holding a larger hand in both of theirs.

Givr me Nightmare falling asleep on a movie night and the rest of the gang can’t move because his tendrils lay on top of them like sleeping cats.

Give me Blue forcing his two semi-immortal friends into cuddle piles so they actually sleep for once.

Give me Fresh showing trust by letting people hold his head, so close to the eyesockets that hold his true form.

Give me Error and Geno readjusting to touch after the emptiness of their containments, telling the other that they’re there by knocking knees.

Give me Frisks in the omega timeline offering a shoulder to lean on for Charas, or anyone who asks.

Give me Underfell where the skelebros curl up around eachother to watch the other’s back, even in sleep.

Give me Outertales where handholding is common to make sure no one floats off into space.

Give me Gasters who use their many hands to give head pats to their sons/coworkers (Sans, Papyrus, and Alphys) as well as doing science work stuff.

Give me Nightmare who curls his tendrils on top of his subordinate’s heads like a strange pat on the back.

Give me Horror who will simply pick his teammates up and hold them like the wet cats they are.

Give me Cross who’s so unused to any physical affection he freezes up, and Killer using this to his advantage by grabbing his hand to distract him from the cow nearby or to get him to stop training for a bit.

Give me Nightmare laying a tendril over Dream’s shoulder to remind himself that his twin is there, and they aren’t fighting anymore.

Give me Dusts that will curl up on top of people like a cat.

Give me Inks who give surprise hugs to his friends.

Give me Errors who wrap his strings around people to give them hugs.

Give me Horror Papyrus becoming the center of hug piles in Nightmare’s gang because the boys miss their brothers a lot, and he’s the closest they’ll get with the gang’s reputation.

Give me Killer, just met Nightmare, and the baby goop clings to him while they explore the multiverse.

Give me Ink and Error pulling eachother along by the scarfs.

Give me Dancetale where duo dances end with a hug (or high five if too sweaty for a hug)

Give me Fell Papyrus holding Fell Sans’s hand out and about, using the excuse of making sure Sans doesn’t wander off when asked.

Give me post-truce spontaneous skeleton cuddle piles.

Give me Killer randomly tackling his teammates.

Give me Ink being so physically affectionate people think he’s flirting (he’s not).

Give me Papyrus calling Sans a cat while he curls up on his shoulder.

Give me Sans holding Geno’s hand carefully when things get a bit too much after his time of the Save Screen.

Give me careful fingers tracing the edges of Papyrus’s rarely-seen hands.

Give me Dust trying, and failing, to touch his Papyrus.

Give me Passive Nightmare’s ghost curling up around Dream’s shoulders like a purple boa, hugging him around the neck when things get rough.

Give me the gang curling up on Nightmare’s tendrils when he’s not paying attention.

Give me Dream learning about the different meanings behind touch after he breaks out of stone.

Give me Gaster’s who are almost too scared to embrace Sans and Papyrus incase getting out of the void was a dream, and Papyrus accidentally sending him to the floor with his enthusiastic hug.

Give me Undyines randomly carrying their Alphys around.

Give me Frisks who press their forehead onto people (Sans’s back, Papyrus’s thigh, Toriel and Asgore’s arm, Alphy’s side, Undyne hip) and lean on them.

Give me Frisks who randomly lean on people, almost falling over because Chara is a ghost and incapable of being my leaned on.

Give me Dust laying his head on Killer’s lap when Killer gets twitchy, because what’s he gonna do, move Dust?

Give me Error who’s glitching feels kinda like a massage, holding his hands to Nightmare’s back, Horror’s skull, or Geno’s wherever when they get pain.

Give me Ink who uses hand holding like a recalibration test after he goes blank.

Give me hand holding and head pats and hugs and cuddle piles.

Givemegivemegivemegivemegivemegiveme