#points lines angles I count all kinds of shots

[gonzodangerfeels]

Who is Mr Brown?

Are you asking for Mr Brown?

I wanna know Now

Just smell for the fresh buttered biscuits

The hot cross buns

Ferdinand's rump roast

#it's so beautiful and scary! #zzzzzzt zzzt electricity starts zapping the sky #welcome to Heaven's gate #you will make a fine landing pad #I will use their bones to build on #Indian burial grounds #my tribe fries the dead to a dark charcoal #ever hypnotize a school of barracuda #and the sun shows up in full chase #I can only assume I am also watching it from above and below #in the modified chart of values sometimes instead of a 2 the t becomes a 9 amd T a 3 #points lines angles I count all kinds of shots #so you were fully aware I was into you wheb you lived next door #I thought I was being cool and not bothersome to you #it shows you what I thkught of myself in that the best thing I could do was leave you alone (smh) #yeah I kinda daydreamed a lot about sitting on your bed ocer there while you smoked #you scoot closer to me and I turn to look at you #we donttaay anything #the next thing I know our heads get closer and our lips press and tongues interlink

[holymusicalmothman]

Eat at Baratie! - OPLA!Sanji x Fem!Reader

Might do a part two, there might be more of this that comes to mind!

Inspo is from @madmadamemimble who said : "Sanji recognizes reader as a former patron of the baratie a few years back. Why does he remember them? They dined and dashed. On his watch. Zeff. Was. Furious. He still begrudges them for the lengthy month of chore duty he got stuck with as a result. But how could he ever stay mad at someone so beautiful, kind and charming."

Warnings: none? mentions of a dine and dash in the past. Don't do that to your waiters guys :)

Word Count: 1k

Main Masterlist

You felt yourself tense when your little brother led you all through the fog and towards the Baratie. Normally you didn’t return to places that you had left on a rather…unhappy note. But you also knew that you didn’t stand a chance against Luffy’s appetite. 

But maybe the waiter from before wasn’t working there anymore? And the Head Chef and Owner, who you knew to be Red Leg Zeff, had never seen your face. So you knew there was a slight chance you’d make it through this. After all, you didn’t even have a reservation.

You weren’t proud of your prior actions, but back then the simple dine and dash had just been a moment in the wind. You definitely hadn’t planned on returning. 

And you definitely weren’t telling your brother. 

Growing up two years Luffy’s elder, you made it your own personal mission to look out for him. Especially after Shanks had left. You had taken his departure personally, the pirate genuinely being your father. Luffy had never quite told you how that moment had affected him, it was the one of the few things he had never opened up to you about. But you had seen how much he treasured his hat. He called you his sister though. And you called him your brother. 

You and Nami stood more towards the back of the group as Luffy and Usopp attempted to get a table. 

“You’re tense.” She pointed out. 

Being the only two girls aboard the Going Merry, you liked to think you and Nami were friends. 

You lowered your voice. “Don’t tell my brother, but I might have dined and dashed here a few years back.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You?”

You nodded. “Took a few months a few years back to see what I could. I felt restless back home, and Luffy wasn’t quite ready to head for the Grand Line. I wound up here, hungry and broke. I feel bad for the waiter, if I’m honest. He was…charming, and easy on the eyes.”

Nami smirked, a quick laugh passing through her nose. “Well then, maybe he’s still working here.” She walked over to the host and pulled some Berry from her pouch. “Excuse those two, they’re idiots.”

“Nami!” You were floored. Had she not been listening when you said you had dined and dashed?

“Relax, you said it yourself, it’s been years.” 

You groaned as you followed the group to the table, seating yourself between Nami and Zoro, trying to vanish into the booth. 

“Are you okay?” Luffy asked, not quite sure what to make of your antics but concerned none the less. 

You kicked Nami in the shin under the table as she opened her mouth.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” You told your brother, reluctantly sitting up. 

There was a shout a ways away, toward the entrance to the kitchens. You couldn’t quite tell what was happening from your angle, but you recognized the accented voice that followed. 

“No cause for alarm folks, return to your meals.”

Your gaze fused itself to the tablecloth. 

A basket of bread was set on the table. 

“Hi, welcome to our shitty restraunt where the only thing worse than the ambiance is our food. My name is Sanji, what can I get for you?”

You frowned, looking up. 

It was the same man from the last time you were here, but the charm was…missing. Odd. 

Luffy had dug into the bread with joy. “One of everything please!” 

Sanji glanced at your brother. “Anything to drink? Perhaps one of our signature cocktails to help you choke down your meal?”

Your eyebrows shot up. 

“Wow. Giving us the hard sell.” Nani’s voice was sarcastic and rather deadpan. 

It was like a switch had been flipped. Sanjis eyes flickered from Nami to you and seemed to linger. 

“Apologies, madames, I didn’t see you there. Would you care for an aperitif to start? We have several rare Micqueot vintages in stock. Or perhaps a glass of Umeshu? You know, something sweet for someone sweet.”

The wink that followed was obviously directed at you and you felt your cheeks warm despite the situation. You returned your gaze to the table.

“Something wrong with your eye?” Nami questioned. 

Sanji merely smiled. “Just blinded by beauty.”

You heard Nami order the both of you plain waters and the receding footsteps of your waiter. 

As soon as he was out of earshot, the boys started giggling at the obvious flip to his personality. You rolled your eyes and nudged Zoro to let you out of the booth. 

“I’mma get some air.” You muttered lamely. 

The open air bar was cooler than the dining room, you noticed as you leaned against the railing. 

“You caused me quite the bit of trouble the last time you were here. I trust you don’t plan on pulling such a stunt again?”

The blond was at your side, resting his forearms on the railing, a lit cigarett dangling from his fingertips. 

“I have berry.” 

He raised a brow, taking a drag. “And you didn’t before I take it.”

You shook your head. “Not at the time. I’m sorry about that by the way. I didn’t mean to get you into any trouble with Zeff.”

“It wasn’t too bad,” he smiled, grey blue eyes meeting yours. “Just a month’s worth of extra kitchen chores. Honestly, Zeff could have done much worse. I think, that as long as it doesn’t happen again, we’ll be alright.”

“We?”

“I trust you’ll be docked while your ship receives repairs, and I’d love a chance to get to know a lady as charming as yourself.”

You laughed. Something about him was enthralling. You couldn’t tell if it was the charm, the accent, the smile, the way his hair fell in his face, or even just the way he looked. Something about him reeled you in like a fish on a line. 

“Maybe a drink after my shift?” He asked, hopefully.

“I’d like that, Sanji.” You said with a smile. 

“Ah, and the beautiful lady blesses me with a drink. I should get back to work, I’ll see you later then?”

“Yeah, I should be getting back to my brother.”

“Until later, then.”

You smiled as he walked away, back into the dining room. Maybe coming back to the Baratie was a good idea after all.

#opla sanji x reader #opla sanji #vinsmoke sanji #sanji x reader #opla x reader #thismothwrites

[fourseasonsfigs]

A Pair of Devils

Since I already spoiled these two figs in my two previous posts, let's move on to them!

The name of this fig set comes from the Scorpion King's line in Episode 11, when he wonders:

You'd never guess, Scorpion King.

These figs are of course not wearing their Episode 11 outfits - they're wearing their full Episode 1 regalia, where they are in fact in their most devilish personas - Ghost Valley Master Wen and Tianchuang Leader Zhou Zishu.

Neither of them look too happy about it, either. Unlike me! I'm absolutely delighted by these figures! I couldn't wait for them to arrive.

This is the absolute best rendition of Wen Kexing's red robes we've seen to date. It looks fantastic. He is of course holding the walnuts we see him rolling around in his hands in our first sight of him in Episode 1. The red eyeliner is of course totally on point.

Zhou Shouling is no slouch either, looking every inch the shadowy assassin civil servant leader.

I love this angle! It looks like they are ready to go head to head in the most epic end boss smackdown ever. When in fact, they're mostly going to be just flirting, snacking, and drinking their way together together through the first few episodes.

Now it looks like they've had a good discussion and are walking off together. Delightful!

Both of their hair styles look fantastic. We have the Ghost Valley Master crown, which we never really see in fig form, and the straightlaced yet elegantly sophisticated "it's murdering time" Tianchuang updo.

Speaking of elegance, we also have Ghost Valley Master Wen's signature young master hand-at-the-small-of-the-back pose. Zishu is all business here with Baiyi ready to go.

This is a particularly good angle of Wen Kexing - this heavy bangs hiding his face is exactly the kind of shot we get in Episode 1.

They do look miserable. All I can think of is Zhou Zishu on his knees before Prince Jin, saying "My will is broken...my bones yearn to go home".

They're a beautiful pair of devils though. The fig maker did a lovely job on these.

These figs stand up just fine - Ghost Valley Master Wen stands up superbly, thanks to his long trailing robes. Zhou Shouling leans a bit to his right side, no doubt the weight of his sword pulling at his soul.

Here's a great view of both of their headpieces. Such wonderful detail.

The box cards and the box card art is quite lovely! We have each of them with their respective colors.

Material: PVC

Fig Count: 359

Scene Count: 24

Rating: Diabolical indeed!

[link back to Master Fig Index for more posts]

#wenzhou #word of honor #word of honor merch #zhou zishu #wen kexing #gong jun #zhang zhehan #junzhe #figthusiast

[mayhem-neverending]

What Should Have Been Expected

Part IV

Warnings: one cuss word, a little angsty

Edited.

Word Count: 1,255

V

You liked Mito from the moment she had welcomed you and Tobirama into her home. She was very kind, and ushered you in like an old friend. You knew she could sense your unease for the gathering, and made it her mission to squash it at the door.

When Hashirama had rounded the corner to greet you as well, he slipped the bottle you had brought from your hands and placed a peck on his wife’s forehead. She had smiled bashfully, playfully swatting Hashirama away. And, unbeknownst to you, Tobirama’s eyes slid to your small figure at this action.

She led you straight to the brightly lit dining room. In the middle was a brown wooden table that swirled with hues of red, and on the windows were thick olive curtains that matched the cushions around the table. The table had a thick line of artfully plated dishes along the center of it. The smell itself was mouthwatering and you couldn’t wait to chow down.

You and Tobirama were directed to your seats, with your back to the windows. Once close to the table, you immediately noticed your husband smelled of dragons’ blood. The scent clung to your nostrils as you sank down onto the cushion next to him. You shot him a glance. You were less than a foot apart; the closest you had ever been and you noticed his posture was stiff.

Across from you was Mito Uzumaki, who had just set down a beautiful tea set on one end of the table. It was white porcelain, decorated with red and gold dragons. You thought that it suited the beautiful woman. In your eyes, she was the embodiment of scarlet against shimmering gold. 

Hashirama sat comfortably next to her, their shoulders just short of touching. He was open and relaxed, the exact opposite of his brother. “Please, dig in!”

“Thank you for this meal, Mito, Hashirama,” you bowed your head gratefully.

“Yes, thank you,” Tobirama parroted in his deep voice.

You started with some delicious sashimi. While you chewed, Hashirama poured a glass of umeshu for everyone at the table. He chattered about nothing in particular, and blatantly ignored his brother rejecting a glass. 

“Y/n, I know your wedding was cut short, so I want to say now that it is an honor to welcome you into our family. I know how my brother can be, so I hope he doesn’t cause any strife,”

Tobirama shifted uncomfortably and shot his brother a glare. Mito giggled behind her hand, which caused you to giggle. You spoke once you finished.

“I can assure you there will be strife in any relationship. I’m sure I will be the cause, however,” you winked conspiratorially. 

Hashirama grinned brightly and Mito let out another giggle. And to your surprise, Tobirama looked down at you with a small smile. The way he angled his head made you realize that even when sitting, the top of your head only just reached his shoulder. It made you feel small, especially when across from you, Mito and Hashirama had only a two inch height difference. 

When you had filled your bellies and each had several glasses of umeshu and shochu, you all moved to the living area. Hashirama and Mito sat draped over one another on a loveseat, while your husband sat in a lone armchair and you lounged comfortably on the couch. Hashirama had been entertaining you with embarrassing stories of Tobirama all evening, much to his chagrin. 

Tobirama attempted to quiet his brother once again as he began a story, but Hashirama snorted out laughter and started cackling so hard he was crying. It was infectious, and you began laughing too, even Tobirama couldn’t hold back a chuckle at the sight with the alcohol in his system. You liked the way he looked that night, with flushed cheeks and relaxed shoulders.

You felt the warmth of the alcohol in your body, creating a pleasant haziness that further fueled your laughter. Once the laughing began to subside, Mito caught your eye. She was probably the most intoxicated of all of you. 

“Was it difficult-” she pointed a slender finger between you and Tobirama. “with the size difference?”

You scrunched your brows together. You looked at Tobirama, who was blushing deeply and avoiding eye contact with you. You were confused.

“What do you mean?” You questioned Mito.

She looked at you blankly for a moment. “To consummate your marriage - I supposed the size difference would have made things awkward, at least. I mean there’s, what, at least a foot of difference between the two of you?”

You stared at her for a moment, and then barked out a laugh. “We haven’t done that,”

Mito looked at you in shock, her mouth hung loosely in the over exaggerated way drunken people do. “Oh, why not?”

Tobirama cleared his throat, still avoiding eye contact. You looked over at him, curious to know the answer to her question yourself. He stood quickly, bowed respectfully, and excused himself. He made a hand sign and disappeared before anyone could react. You blinked in disbelief at his disappearance, and the couple before you did much of the same.

You couldn’t help the sinking feeling of rejection begin to seep through you. You felt yourself frown. “He hasn’t come to bed at all,”

Hashirama whipped his head towards you, one of his hands turning to a loose fist. “You’re joking,”

The alcohol in your stomach began turning. “No,”

His reaction caused a bubble to form in your throat. Mito’s sympathetic eyes furthered the feeling, and you felt tears try to escape you eyes. You sniffled, telling yourself that your reaction was uncalled for. 

“I suppose I should go home,” you choked on the last word. 

You rose from your seat and Mito followed you, taking a gentle hold of your arm as you made your way to the front door. You appreciated her kindness, but it only served to make you more emotional. 

“Any time you want to talk, or simply have company, I will be here. You will always be welcome,”

You nodded. “Thank you, Mito. I have a feeling I should seek you out soon,”

You exited with one more thanks, and made your way home. You lived next door, but there was what you thought to be about two acres between the houses. It was night now, and you were grateful the darkness was broken by a million stars, and the waxing moon illuminated the dirt path you took. 

You kicked absently at the dirt, stopping to stare at the moon at the halfway point between houses. 

“What I wouldn’t do to be in a familiar place right now,” you murmured. 

You looked down at the dirt, hanging your head. “How fucking embarrassing,”

A lone tear escaped. You wiped it away quickly, and returned to your walk. You would go home, have a little cry in the shower, and be done with it, you decided. 

You spent the end of your walk getting your breathing under control, the tears still threatening to escape. You took a deep breath at the front door before opening it, praying he wouldn’t be there. Once the door was shut behind you, you scanned the area. You let out a sigh of relief, and immediately scampered off to the bedroom. 

You hastily grabbed your pajamas and rushed to the bathroom, flipping the shower on as quickly as you could. A sob left you the second the water hit the shower floor. 

@unofficial-jaytodd-wife

#Tobirama #Tobirama Senju #x reader #x y/n #naruto #Tobirama x reader #Tobirama senju x reader #founders #hashirama #mito

[senditcolton]

call my bluff... call you babe (5)

CHAPTER FIVE

summary - what’s that saying? drunk words are sober thoughts? after a night out at a bar with the team, Madeleine is left wondering if drunk actions mean the same. 

word count - 4k

warnings - alcohol consumption & cheating, kind of (you’ll understand)

previous part ~ playlist ~ series masterlist ~ join the taglist ~ next part

Although the air was still sharp and crisp with the chill of winter, Madeleine’s life had never felt warmer.  And that heat had nothing to do with the bodies packed into the downtown Denver bar adjacent to the Pepsi Center. Or, at least not the bodies of strangers.

Instead, it was the bodies of Avalanche players and their partners – her friends – crowded in the corner section of the bar that made Madeleine feel as if the joy and happiness of summer was surrounding her constantly. Part of her still couldn’t believe that this was her life – a life that had changed so rapidly in the past seven months. But when Gravy handed her another tequila shot with a smirk, she gladly accepts, thinking that if this was a dream that she would eventually wake from, she wanted to make the most of every moment offered.

The tequila goes down her throat with a concerning ease and she leans back against Cale’s shoulder, sitting next to her. She can feel his chuckle, his body angling towards her causing her to sink deeper into his embrace.

“Still doing alright?” he whispers into her hair. Madeleine just looks back at him, never tiring at sight of his normally rosy cheeks darkening whenever he drinks.

“Never better,” she replies with a grin, one that Cale reciprocates before he leans in and places a soft kiss on her lips.

The connection that she had shared with Cale was a little over a month old and so far, it was really nice. He was genuine, respectful, and sweet. It was refreshing, especially since this was the first time she dated since Logan; a relationship that ended up being filled with deception and disdain.

Her relationship with the defensemen was still casual – nothing permanently defined, nothing official. But Madeleine liked it that way. It was easier.

An all too familiar laugh pulls her attention away from Cale, her eyes moving to were Tyson stood at the dartboard with JT, a beer in his hand as he watched his friend throw.

“I’m gonna go see if Tyson is losing,” she jokes, pushing away from Cale and scooting out of the booth seat. Cale’s only reply is a small nod before turning back to the conversation he was having with Nate and Mikko. Madeleine slips out of the corner section her friends claimed, weaving her way through the crowd until she reaches the dartboard area where Tyson and JT stood.

“Who’s winning?” she calls out, the two pairs of brown eyes looking towards her as she hops onto one of the barstools at the tables lining the wall.

“Tyson,” JT replies. “But not by much.” Madeleine watches as JT gathers his dart before walking away, Tyson taking his place behind the tape on the hardwood floor.

“I’m just surprised he is winning,” she laughs, her eyes turning towards her best friend.  

“Hey, I was pretty good at this back in high school,” Tyson says, the joking indignation clear in his voice as he lines up his shot.

“Lucky for you, the red and green on the board aren’t relevant to the point system. If they did, it might be a little harder for your colorblind eyes.”

JT lets out a snort of a laugh, almost inhaling his beer next to Madeleine. Her blue eyes sparkle with humor as Tyson shoots her a playful glare before collecting his darts from the board.

“Even if they meant anything, you’ve still never managed to beat me,” he teases, settling next to her.

“Only because I just have terrible hand-eye coordination. One of the many reasons why you became a professional athlete and I became a librarian.”

“Josty, you’ve never tried to teach your best friend how to play?” JT asks.

“Why would I? If I do, she becomes better than me and there goes my guaranteed win.”

“Wow, so honorable.”

“Hey, take any advantage you can,” Tyson laughs, with a shrug and a wink thrown in her direction. The action causes Maddie to roll her eyes in jest, her head shaking from side to side.

“If you ask Cale, I’m sure he’d be happy to help,” JT tells Madeleine from across the table, a wicked smirk playing on his lips.

“I don’t think it would help,” she laughs in response. “Cale has already tried to teach me how to play pool– unsuccessfully, I might add. I guess I’m just a lost cause.”

“Really, Cale taught you how to play pool? When?” Tyson asks.

“Attempted to teach me. And it was during, I think, our third or fourth date. Why?”

“No reason,” he replies, the inflection of his tone being anything but casual, despite his best attempts to be blasé. His true feelings are only punctuated by an errant throw of his last dart, the point of it digging into the plain cork surrounding the dartboard.

Madeleine can’t stop the laugh that comes at the sight of Tyson’s head falling backward in defeat while JT cheers next to her. The ginger playfully bounds away from the tables, something about Tyson paying for the next round falling from his lips. Tyson just sighs before settling back next to Madeleine, taking the last swigs of his beer from the amber bottle.

There is a brief silence, the only sound being the clicking of the darts hitting each other as Tyson rolls them across the hardwood top of the table.

“Do you want my help?” Tyson asks. “Playing darts, I mean?” he clarifies, picking up the red darts and extending them towards Madeleine.

“I’m not sure,” she hesitates. “Ryan and Clare somehow convinced me to take a few tequila shots so that’ll probably make me worse than I normally am.”

“Who knows? Maybe the alcohol will stop you from overthinking,” Tyson teases, his eyes sparkling in that good-natured way that always made her resolve weaken.

“Is that my weakness? Overthinking? It has nothing to with just having bad reflexes?”

“I think so. It’s your, um… Aegean heel,” he says with a proud flourish. Madeleine laughs at his complete – yet completely misplaced – confidence.

“Achilles heel,” she gently corrects, loving the way Tyson’s cheeks fill with color. “But pretty damn close; same first letter, right culture. I’m impressed.”

“Let it be known I’m not just a dumb jock with a handsome face.”  

“You know I’d never think that.”

“Which part?”

Madeleine hums, the inflection indicating a silent question, to which Tyson replies.

“You don’t think I’m dumb or you don’t think I’m attractive?” he elaborates.

This time, it’s her turn to feel her cheeks to heat up, faster than Madeleine would care to admit. She mutters a quick and teasing ‘shut up.’ Her response causes a cackle to escape Tyson, his head thrown back in delight. Thankfully, he doesn’t linger on her reaction, nor does he force her to give an answer. Instead, he simply holds out the darts again, the silent offer still standing.

She sighs, before taking the darts from his hand, the smile on Tyson’s face spreading even further than she thought possible.

Madeleine sweeps her hand out towards the dartboard, beckoning Tyson to go first. He accepts, walking up to the tape line. Maddie keeps her eyes glued to him, taking multiple mental notes about how he is standing, how he angles his body, how he positions his arms, and how he releases the dart.

JT wanders his way back to the tables, a beer in each hand, when Tyson is adding up his points.

“Did he feel that bad about losing that he’s picking on an easy target?” JT jokes, a sarcastic ‘ha-ha’ falling from Tyson’s lips at his friend’s words.

“Nah, he promised to help me,” Madeleine explains. “But he’ll probably still win anyway.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” comes JT’s reply, accompanied with his shoulder knocking against hers. “I think you can knock this guy down a peg or two.”

The gentle encouragement is what JT leaves Maddie with, dropping off one of the bottles for Tyson before moving back to the collection of tables where a few teammates still lingered. Madeleine turns her attention back to Tyson, who was walking back towards her, an expectant look on his face.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” he says, gesturing to the board. He just smiles at Madeleine’s accusatory look, one that screams ‘you’re supposed to be teaching me.’

“Have to know what you need help with before I can give you advice,” Tyson explains.

Madeleine sighs before pushing herself off the barstool, coming to stand behind the tape on the floor. She tries to remember how Tyson stood, placing one of her feet back as she leans forward. Madeleine takes a dart in her hand and focuses on the bullseye before tossing the small arrow. The dart – expectedly – does not go where she willed it, instead hitting the lower part of the board.

She hears a chuckle escape Tyson and is about to shoot him a glare but when her eyes drift in that direction, he had pushed himself off the wall and was walking towards her.

“You’re left-handed, Maddie,” he says, coming to fill the space behind her. “Switch your stance.”

Madeleine follows his directions, placing her left foot forward and her right foot back.

“Now, you don’t want to lean forward,” Tyson instructs, his hands landing on her shoulders as he pulls her back until her body stands straight. “Now the only other tip is to have the dart tilted a little upward, because that way when it arcs as it falls, it’ll land where you want it to instead of lower than you aimed.”

Madeleine takes each piece of advice, the heat of Tyson’s palms seeping through her shirt. She takes a deep breath, aiming for the inner ring this time instead of the bullseye. The dart flies from her hand and lands a little to the left but still in the correct ring. Even that minor success has a smile appearing on Madeleine’s face, her head turning to look back towards Tyson in excitement. He returns the grin, slightly squeezing her shoulders before returning to the table. Madeleine tries not to mourn the loss of his presence behind her, instead channeling her focusing back to the dartboard.

Their first game continues until Tyson decidedly wins. Even in the loss, Madeleine was happy their scores weren’t leagues a part from each other. The narrow gap between their points makes Maddie want to try again, convincing Tyson into another game with a plead and a convincing lip quiver.

About halfway through, Cale walks up to them both, his tan jacket already on his shoulders.

“Hey, Madeleine, I’m headed out. Do you still need a ride?”

“I think I’ll stay here for a little while longer,” she replies. “The train is still running so I should be fine. Thanks for offer though.”

“Of course,” Cale replies.

He leans into Madeleine, wrapping her arms around her in a hug before he pulls away. Cale presses a quick kiss onto her cheek, causing a giggle to escape her lips. Neither of them notices Tyson’s faltered throw, the dart secure in the space between the soft board and the metal frame. Cale simply departs with a quick wave to the two of them. Madeleine’s eyes follow him until he disappears from her sight. The sensation of cold glass pressed against her bare upper arm causes Maddie’s eyes to jump back to Tyson, now standing next to her with a grin on his face and a bottle in his hand.

“Not leaving with your boyfriend?” he asks, the tease in his voice almost a little too cloying.

“I’m not going anywhere until I’ve successfully deflated your ego,” she chirps back, practically bounding to the dartboard.

After a few more beers for Tyson, another two losses for Madeleine, and too many playful quips to count shared between them, Maddie within reach of her first win. Part of her has to thank the alcohol: Tyson’s continue consumption made his throws less accurate than before while her sobriety during this impromptu tournament helped her focus become clearer, her shots becoming cleaner.

In her last turn, she takes a few deep breaths, before firing at the dartboard. Her aim is precise, the darts falling in the exact wedges that she wanted them to. The points add up and Madeleine can’t stop the cheer that escapes her when she realizes that she finally beat Tyson; a victory that was only six years in the making, from their homes in Canada to this random bar in Colorado.

Madeleine spins to face Tyson, her arms still thrown up in excitement. Her eyes meet her best friend’s bright gaze, the smile on his face not dimming as he walks to her.

It catches her off guard when his body swerves around her and Madeleine’s excitement briefly dims, thinking that Tyson was going to be an uncharacteristically sore loser. But that thought is quickly disproven after he places his darts back into the cup attached to the board and rapidly flipping his body towards her, scooping her up into his arms for a celebratory hug. The laughter that falls from Madeleine is involuntary, her arms wrapping around Tyson’s shoulders as he starts to twirl her around, her body still held firmly in his grasp.

The weight of them together, coupled with Tyson’s not totally sober state has his feet tripping over each other, their center of gravity tilting to the side. Madeleine thankfully finds the ground, planting her feet and holding onto Tyson so his body doesn’t meet the hardwood floor with a hard thud.

The giggles still linger on Madeleine’s lips as Tyson regains his balance, moving back and reintroducing space between them, although his hands remain firmly on her hips, his grip strong. She looks up at Tyson, about make a joke about how mad Coach Bednar would be if he injured himself playing darts. But when her blue eyes connect to his deep brown ones, the jest catches in her throat.

Because Tyson – her best friend, the person that she’s known for years, the person that she missed, and the person that she was so thankful returned to her life – was looking at her. But more than that, he was staring at with such desire, a desire that hadn’t been directed towards her in what felt like years, that all of her thoughts abandoned her.

She just keeps her eyes locked to his, uncertain where this was heading but not determined to end it. The situation felt precarious, as if one misstep, one wrong assumption could send everything crashing down. Her gaze dancing over Tyson’s face, waiting for him to make the next move. She doesn’t miss the subtle flex of his hands on her hip, doesn’t miss the way his eyes soften as he drinks the uncertainty painted on her features.

The tension continues, Madeleine’s nerves spiking and out of habit, she takes her bottom lip into her mouth. Her teeth latch onto some of the loose skin and she tugs at it in worry, causing Tyson’s gaze to dart down towards her lips. Madeleine registers the departure of one of his hands leave its place on her hips but her mind falters at the new sensation of Tyson’s fingers coming to gently rest underneath her chin. The pad of his thumb lifts and lands on her bottom lip before pulling the skin down – a gentle encouragement for her to release it from her bite. She does, her mouth falling open slightly at Tyson’s behest. His thumb doesn’t fall away, instead moving across the dampened skin, brushing over the small split that Madeleine’s fretting opened.

The salt from Tyson’s finger stings as it touches the cut but Maddie realizes that she doesn’t mind it; the sensation grounding her to the moment.

She can feel Tyson’s hold shift, as if his entire body was debating every move. The tension is heavy, almost oppressive, the weight of nine years of words left unsaid hanging in the air above them. Madeleine feels her eyes inexplicably well with tears, as if the wait was too much to bear.

She doesn’t mean for it to happen, but when she blinks, a single drop falls from the ledge of her lower lashes, rolling down her cheek. The movement calls Tyson’s attention to the tear before his gaze returns to hers, the question plainly displayed on his face.

“Please,” is the only word that manages to escape from Madeleine’s throat.

It is a broken plea, soft and staccato. A plea for what, Madeleine wasn’t certain. For him to stop? For him to come closer?

Her lack of clarification leaves Tyson to interpret. Madeleine can feel his hold on her tighten as he pulls her closer, the press of his hand underneath her chin lifting her head. He leans in, seemingly in slow motion, and Madeleine can’t stop her eyes from fluttering close.

It is a moment of complete uncertainty before Madeleine feels the press of Tyson’s lips against hers.

It is delicate, gentle, a mere whisper of a kiss. But as soon as the sensation registers on her skin and in her brain, the trance she was stuck in breaks and Madeleine finally moves.

Her hands creep back, dancing over Tyson’s shoulders to the nape of his neck, her fingers teasing the curls there. She steps closer to press their bodies together, the warmth of him flooding her senses. Tyson’s lips stay politely on hers, unmoving, until Madeleine pushes herself up to him. She returns the kiss with a fervor that could only be described as hunger. Hunger for him, for this, for more.

Tyson responds quickly to her need, kissing her again before opening his mouth, his tongue pressing against the seam of her lips. She gladly grants him access, the floodgates opening and pure desire rushing forward. Tyson’s hand slides from her chin to grip the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair, keeping her as close to him as he can.

The way they tangle together is almost animalistic, as if all caution had disappeared and left the two of them to reckon with their untold yearning.

But the previously dim lights of the bar flip to fluorescent, signaling last call, the shock of the brightness causes Tyson and Madeleine to jump away from each other, their hands retreating from the other’s body. The white light crashes over them and when their eyes connect, it is as if the harsh overhead bulbs brought reason with it, recapturing their emotions, and returning them to the gilded cages they previously existed in.

“Shit,” Tyson curses. “Shit, I’m so sorry, Maddie.”

Madeleine wants to say it’s okay, if only to lessen his panic, but she can’t make the words form. Because she knows the statement would be a lie: nothing about this was right.

Tyson was her best friend. She was dating his teammate. She wasn’t supposed to kiss him in a bar when she came here with someone else.

The remembrance of Cale causes her to turn her head towards the corner booth in fear. A voice tells her what she already knows: he isn’t there. But she still worries that maybe Andre or Nate or, even worse, Gabe and Mel were still there and saw her and Tyson lost in each other’s lips.

A sigh of relief falls from her when she doesn’t see any of her friends, the only bodies still lingering belonging to a few regulars and bartenders picking up the abandoned bottles, cans, and glasses.

“I…” she starts, her throat constricting around the syllables. She swallows, gathering herself and piecing her thoughts back together, before forcing herself to speak.

“It’s – it’s really late,” she says. “I should go.”

She turns back towards Tyson, their eyes connecting. Madeleine tries not to notice how his expression shifts from alarm, to confusion, to sadness at her words. The space between them turns, the expanse feeling like a cold and barren wasteland – so different from the warmth and fire that was jumping between them mere seconds ago.

Tyson sighs and Madeleine watches as his entire demeanor changes, as if he was building a brick wall between them before he looks back at her with perfect practiced apathy.

“Is the train running this late?” he asks. It takes a minute for Madeleine to realize that he was talking about the RTD line, her go-to mode of transport between DU and the Pepsi Center.

“Oh,” she says, her mind racking the Light Rail schedule until she realizes that it was almost two hours since the last train departed. “No,” she sighs. “I guess I’ll just call an Uber.”

She turns away from Tyson, fishing her phone out of her pocket and she is about to open the app before she feels Tyson nudge her arm. She ignores the lingering sparks that his touch brings and looks back to see him holding out his car keys to her.

“Just take my car. It’s still in the parking lot of the arena.”

“I – it’s fine, Tyson. I can pay for an Uber.”

“Please. I’m… not sober enough to drive so I wouldn’t be able to get it until tomorrow either way. This way I know it’s safe in your lot. Plus, this way you wouldn’t have to rely on a stranger to get you home.”

The subtle way that he shows how much he cares for her and her safety leaves Maddie’s head spinning. How many signs has she’s missed? Did Tyson always feel like this towards her? How many times had she brushed off his advances with the excuse of their long-term friendship blurring the lines and acting as a smoke screen?

She wants to know, to get to the truth of everything. But right now, she was too tired, too confused to seek those answers. Instead, she takes Tyson’s keys from his hand.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “I can drive you home, if you want.”

“That’s okay,” he replies with a shrug. “I’ve got a spare set of keys at home. I’ll use those tomorrow when I pick up my car. So you don’t have to get up early.”

This time, the pang that echoes through Madeleine’s ribcage is painful, her instinct assuming the worst: he was separating himself from her, creating a distance between them. Part of her worries that it wasn’t going to be temporary. But she doesn’t voice these concerns.

She just offers him another gentle ‘thank you’ and a small nod. Tyson gives her a half-hearted smile before he turns to the small table, the one that they occupied for hours, and gathers the empty beer bottles his hands. He wishes her a soft ‘good night’ as he passes by her towards the bar, presumably to recycle the bottles and close his tab.

There was no reason for Madeleine to hang around but her body doesn’t seem to want to move, still stuck in that moment she shared with Tyson and what it all meant – not only for their past but for their future. She didn’t want to leave these loose threads hanging. No, she wanted to know exactly which one would return her life to what it used to be, which one would mend the gap between her and her best friend, and which one would make everything unravel at the seams.

Eventually, her logic and her exhaustion win out and successfully coax her to throw on her coat and move towards the exit.

The chill from the February air hits Madeleine as she pushes open the sturdy oak door of the bar. The sensation is a pleasant one, the fresh air clearing her head – or at the very least, emptying her mind of any thought except the desire to get home to her warm and comfortable bed. She moves forward, leaving the bar and all those complications behind her.

She can feel the weight of a pair of eyes on her as she departs; brown eyes that she knew better than her own. Eyes that could open her up and read her with an ease than no one else ever could.

Madeleine wills herself not to look back.

taglist: @starjoyyy @fallinallincurls​ @kenna-thomson @tkachvkmatthew @m00nlightdelights @cixrosie​

#nicole writes #CMBCYB #tyson jost fic #tyson jost imagine #tyson jost fluff #tyson jost x oc #buffalo sabres fic #buffalo sabres imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

[whysojiminimnida]

Maknae Line Sipping Things, Pt. 1

Maybe it's tea but more likely it's gonna hit and make us dizzy, knowing these guys. Because it's always something with them, isn't it?

WAIT BEFORE I GO ANY FURTHER PLEASE TO READ THE DISCLAIMER

ARMY is many things to "our boys" - who, by the way, have not been "boys" for nearly a decade, now. Can we just normalize letting grown ass men be, IDK, GROWN ASS MEN?

They DO LOVE US. More than we realize. We are their validation. We are their audience, their personal search engine, their friends in a weird kind of two-sided parasocial relationship (which I guess makes it nearly a social relationship). But we are also their paychecks.

BTS is at a point where none of them need to work. Ever. They could fuck off to Bora Borahae (don't get me started) and spend lavishly for the rest of their days and still leave an enormous inheritance to their pets. They're fine, financially, in a way that most of us will never be. It's a heady experience, I'm told, having fuck-you money, and they have that. And yet they continue to work.

They continue to move their lives within a very tight, very enclosed but entirely too visible bubble. They always will, because their level of fame is that, now. Their lives don't really belong to them - they belong to us. Which is a heavy and often uncomfortable reality for them. So that's my angle going into the whole What The Fuck Is Up With The Maknae Line thing. They are in an unhealthy relationship - with ARMY - and it's changed who they are to each other, over time.

To be fair it's not ARMY's fault, either. If we must lay blame somewhere throw it on the idol system, maybe. They were assigned their roles in the beginning and SO WAS ARMY. It goes both ways.

The hyungs handle it better, overall. They were a few very crucial years older. They were given more responsibility and less, I think, insecurity. Don't get me started on neurodivergency. Or gayness. I'LL PONTIFICATE, IT WILL TURN INTO A DAMN FILIBUSTER, LET'S JUST NOT OKAY.

"But we LOVE THEM," I hear you cry. How can our love be unhealthy? Oh let me count the ways.

I LOVE a good fansite photographer. And Black & White is the best of the best - supportive, great shots, excellent with boundaries. See that? Jungkook recognized and was not upset to see them - because he sees them. A LOT. Here's Jimin taking notice:

He ain't mad. But cameras are as normal to BTS as breathing. Kinda like stylists. They get so used to having them there they don't quite seem real without them. To us, certainly, but maybe also to themselves. And as we've been let in to (almost) every facet of their lives we've become a little entitled. We think we know them - and in many ways we do. We see them cry, laugh, snort, fart, snore, sneeze and cough. We've even managed to be privy to inconvenient wood and bathtub photos - usually dressed, but Namjoon is not here today. "They're so relatable", we sigh. "How are they even real," we swoon. And yet we know they are, because we see them like this:

Little derpcakes, all of 'em. And we go "must protect!"

We protecc, we attacc, we give a boy a snacc, we make up memes about it and feel a little superior to all those fans who don't protect their idols - as well we should, we're the bomb. THE BANGTAN BOMB BITCHES.

And in so doing we have "protected" the maknae line right into eternal teenhood.

I've done it myself. Ask me how old Park Jimin is and I am as likely as not to tell you he's 24. (He's about to turn 27 international. At the end of the year he turns 29, Korean age.)

Again, much of this is marketing and is done deliberately because teen girls spend money. They also write fanfiction, draw and paint fan art, and attend concerts. And some of the fics are amazing, most are porn-adjacent or straight (gayyyy) erotica. Ditto a chunk of the art. But keep in mind that minors produce and consume all manner of media. A Minors DNI warning might as well be a neon sign. And fiction and depiction are SAFE ways for ARMY to explore their own and other sexualities. Put a pretty boy naked in a high school locker room with a tattooed, musclebound alpha quarterback and the metaphorical or literal jizz flings itself into the stratosphere. BUT LORD HELP A GROWN ASS ADULT MAN THAT ACTUALLY GETS A GIRLFRIEND.

Or boyfriend.

Stay tuned for the rest of this mess, probably.

#parasocial relationships #maknae line #army #bts army #jimin #jungkook #taehyung #just out here on my bullshit don't mind me

[pharawee]

Every week I think, yep, Big Dragon - favourite show right there. But then the next episode is even better than the last one and here I am, with five gifsets in one evening and ideas for about a dozen more. I'm truly living my best life, even if my version of photoshop is waging a constant war against Windows 11 🥲

But on to this week’s episode review:

This episode is aptly titled Good Old Days, and there’s so many flashbacks and memories and little stories being told. It’s all woven together so well. It even comes with its own red thread of fate.

It all starts with a flashback of a flashback and we learn two things almost immediately: Mangkorn’s really close to his mum and she knows about her son’s crush. Being the amazing mother that she is, she approves.

Her son has his eyes on the Moon of Business Administration, after all (what a catch!).

That his crush goes back to their first year of uni didn’t really shock me because the reveal is pretty much the same as in the book (which has even more of an enemies to lovers vibe - honey, stop punching your future boyfriend just so you can be near him). I’m actually really happy that they kept this part in because I really liked the “plot twist” (hey, it counts as a plot twist if there’s hardly any plot). They even hinted at their whole rivalry only being a thing because Mangkorn kept hanging out at Yai’s Faculty and everyone thought he was there to “steal” girls (when in reality he was there to make heart eyes at Yai). 

Mangkorn fell first AND he fell harder. This is it, this is the whole show.

Well, a big part of it anyway.

And speaking of Big.

I’m definitely not immune to older characters kneeling down to tend to their lover’s shoes/feet. There’s just something almost reverent about it. An unwritten rule that is broken because someone just cares so very deeply.

If only Nine knew about the colour-coding in Big Dragon, then he’d realise that Yai's wearing a red jacket and that’s Mangkorn’s colour. He never stood a chance.

But I loved this repeat of a similar shot in episode 2, when Mangkorn and Yai meet in the hospital:

Nine is even wearing the same kind of shoes that Yai usually prefers. He truly is the embodiment of Yai’s comfort zone - which makes Nine’s metaphor about well-worn, comfortable shoes so fitting. Only that Yai is very direct in saying that he sees Nine as an older brother only.

Which is why I don’t get why he’s kissing Nine back for a full minute in slow motion and several different camera angles, but hey, it’s Big Thanakorn. I don’t blame him (Star Hunter, I beg you, give this man his own show! It’s been 84 years etc).

Maybe this is why Nine refuses to read the room even after Yai tells him to never do it again. 

Enter the yin & yang pendant Yai conveniently loses as a kid while playing with - gasp! - Mangkorn (negl I’m not a fan of the whole “I’ve loved you since we were children” trope but I get why they included it here). 

But the red thread of fate it’s hanging from is even more obvious, and it weaves its way through the entire episode, thereby connecting the past and the present - and binding together Mangkorn and Yai.

Meanwhile, in the present, Mangkorn contemplates doing his Master’s abroad - something he obviously didn’t plan for as long as he thought he had Yai in his life (no, really, was he like “no, I can’t go to New York. There’s this crush I fight every day at his Faculty building. Clearly I can’t go!”).

Oh, and apparently he’s told everyone - and I mean everyone! - about his crush on Yai. He’s told his Mum. He’s told Ajo. He’s told Hong. They’re all rooting for him! At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if he told his professors, too (which will come in handy once he withdraws from the program). This is just so damn adorable.

Too bad Yai won’t have any of it.

This scene is incredible in so many different ways, though.

It’s set in an empty room, one side red, the other a murky green, all strict vertical lines that can’t be crossed. The room is a piece of their past, a (messed up) memory that Yai wants to destroy, while Mangkorn (as part of his job as an intern) wants to preserve it. He clings to “their story” in the same way.

But Yai has a different story to tell. It’s shown through a mirror and it’s really unnerving, the way it makes Yai almost irrecognisable (and this is all Mangkorn gets to see - he doesn’t see how much Yai struggles with his emotions, too).

If only Yai knew how close he is to the truth, though. Mangkorn has wanted to get close to Yai for years, even though it hurt him. And now Yai is telling him to “stop fighting”. Ouch.

It’s the little nod he gives right at the end that absolutely kills me dead. And even before that, the whole scene is so different from every other conversation they’ve had so far. There’s no argument, no back and forth, not even any kind of miscommunication. 

It’s the way Mangkorn is literally fading into the background.

Good thing there’s still the red thread of fate.

And it’s interesting how Mangkorn is shown approaching the cruel mirrored version of Yai to return it to him - like he’s breaking through his barriers.

Yai, through the power of instant flashback, understands immediately.

And I love how later, when he lashes out at his father and his father’s girlfriend, the camera lingers on their reactions even after Yai has already left. He’s literally blind to the hurt he’s causing in his own distress. He’s accusing his family of being cold without his mum, but of course it is. That’s what grief does. That’s what it turns into when it isn’t shared.

Because of course his father has already visited his late wive’s grave first thing in the morning. But what good is that to Yai when he’s never seen his father grieve? No wonder he thinks him cold.

And now it’s Mangkorn’s turn to wear green as he makes up his mind (good thing he’s told everyone about his love life - that certainly makes it easier to seek advice).

While Yai, surrounded by red, is allowed to heal:

And the red thread comes full circle.

And maybe I’ve cried for ten minutes straight after I’watched this scene.

Anyway.

Nine. You’ve talked about this. How is this brotherly? What are you even doing here?

Now it’s Hong’s turn to give advice (good thing Mangkorn has told everyone) and maybe she and Nadear won’t have to elope to the UK after all, like they did in the book (but Star Hunter, consider this: it’d be very cute), because looks like they’re going to tell the dads to get with the times. Oh, yes, and Mangkorn looks very pretty as he finally dares to choose:

Also, finally someone who’s not completely oblivious to their students talking loudly in class. NatureBL is healing.

The green jacket! The soft lighting! The red brick and green leaves! 

And I wonder how many times Mangkorn has daydreamed about this exact scenario🥺

I’ll leave you with this brand new reaction image because you deserve it after reading through all of this. Thank you Jame, thank you Jet, thank you unknown third guy who I’ve never seen before.

#big dragon #big dragon the series #jane watches stuff #this was supposd to be shorter than last week #clown shoes squeaking tbh #i should give these reviews their own tag #bd meta

[ofsinnersandsaints]

Finish What You Start

rating: E word count: 3102 one shot

Lucy and Tim are doing an off-the-books stakeout For Reasons, and when they almost get caught Tim kisses Lucy for cover. Lucy, not anticipating this, kisses him back without thinking. Now they have to come to terms with the fact they practically devoured each other at the first opportunity. Naturally, back seat sex is how they do it.

AO3

Lucy looked at Tim and batted her eyelashes with so much exaggerated it would be visible even in the near darkness of his car. “Has anyone ever told you your eyes sparkle in the moonlight?”

Tim snorted, but she could tell he was amused which was the whole point, he’d been antsy and weird all day and she couldn’t figure out why. She knew there was very little chance of forcing the information out of him, so she’d settle for putting him in a better mood. “I hope that’s not your idea of a pickup line.”

She grinned, “You don’t think that would work on you?”

Tim didn’t look away from the door they were currently watching, and the way he wasn’t looking at her felt intentional. “No comment.”

“No fun,” she quipped back, shifting in her seat to look in the same direction as Tim.

They were doing an off-book stakeout in order to help Wesley who was certain the wrong man had been arrested for a crime. He’d been passionate in his plea, and Angela had been threatening in hers, so Lucy and Tim had agreed to keep an eye out on their night off. It was going to be a long night, and they weren’t actually sure if anything was going to happen, but on the off chance-

“Shit, come here,” Tim muttered as he put his hand on the back of her neck and pulled her towards him. She had half a second of realization of what he was doing before his mouth covered hers.

If she’d had any kind of warning, she would have been able to keep it…professional? But her hormones reacted before her brain could, and she kissed him back. There was a brief moment of pause on his part before his fingers tightened on the back of her neck and kissed her for real.

They went from nothing to everything in less than five seconds. It was dirty and hard, and Lucy wanted her hands on him in a bad way. As he angled his head to deepen the kiss, Tim’s own hand wandered down to her clavicle, and she could feel him stopping himself from going lower even as his tongue pressed into her mouth with all the finesse of a quick fuck in the backseat.

She was light headed from how quickly he turned her on, and all she wanted to do was pull off her shirt and put his hands somewhere they'd do some but with what little brain power she had left she pulled away to track their quarry. Lucy was not under the impression Tim had grabbed because of a sudden and overwhelming lust, he’d clearly done it so the person they were watching didn’t know they were watching. Her breathing was erratic as she studied the dim lighting near their suspect's house. “He’s getting in his car,” Lucy said, nodding towards the break lights. Tim didn't say anything as she prevented any kind of eye contact by focusing on putting on her seat belt. “We should follow and see where he goes.”

“We’re going to talk about this later,” he told her, voice strained as he put the car in drive.

“Mhm,” she agreed, pressing her lips together and stared straight ahead.

 It turned out Wesley had been right, the wrong person had been arrested; the man Lucy and Tim had been following led them straight to the place where he’d hidden the money he’d stolen from a local bank.

By the time they arrested him, did their paperwork, and began walking towards Tim’s car, the sun was only an hour away from rising.

Despite Tim’s warning, they hadn’t yet talked about the kiss. At one point they’d accidentally bumped into each other and they both moved away so fast they nearly fell over. Awkward didn’t even begin to describe it, and she was not about to spend her entire day off wondering and worrying about what would happen the next time they saw each other. She waited until they were alone in the parking garage before she gathered up her courage and stopped at the back of Tim’s car. “I’m not getting in the car.” Tim stopped and turned to look at her, confusion covering his face. Okay, maybe she hadn’t exactly worded that well. “Not until we talk about what happened earlier.”

He didn’t try to pretend he didn’t know what she was talking, which she knew he thought about doing. Instead, he fiddled with his keys and shifted his weight, looking over her shoulder instead of at her. “Yeah, okay.”

She waited half a beat for him to start until she realized he wasn’t going to say anything. “Seriously? You’re going to make me do this? You’re the one who kissed me.”

“I was just trying to keep that asshole from realizing what we were doing there,” he pointed out, sounding just as frustrated as she did. She tried to remember the likely reason they were both frustrated was because of their fast and furious make out session, but she’d been vaguely turned on for hours now. Patience was in limited supply. “You were the one who kissed me.”

#chenford #chenford fic #the rookie #the rookie fic

[dishtothedeath]

Never Use a Messy Recipe… [CH 3 Verdict, 1/2]

With a heavy sigh and loud bang as Skull-kun slams the table with his hands and pushes himself up from it, he goes ^_^ and begins to wrap up the third trial of Dish to the Death.

“Well, that certainly was… revealing! But did you really uncover the truth? Who knows! I suppose I do, but I will only reveal it once I’ve counted up the votes. Remember, the verdict is final—no takesies backsies! Now, let’s see—who do you all believe to be Emil’s beheaderer… Murderer. Ahem.”

The results light up your tablets…

FINAL COUNT: Bonbon - 4 Jun’ya - 3 Morgan - 3

“Curious, curious stuff. Makes you wonder…” Skull-kun begins muttering to himself. 

Little robots emerge with covered dishes as the lights dim, ceremoniously setting down their covered plates in front of each of you. Skull-kun disappears as a screen takes his place to show you what truly happened in Malwart™ merely hours ago.

The footage begins in Malwart™, and appears to be directly from one of the security cameras. The footage is a little grainy, but clearly captures a silhouetted figure in the break room. They pick up one of the pool balls from the table and turn directly towards the camera. The last thing the feed picks up is a ball coming straight for it before it cuts to another angle. Again, the figure uses the ball as a projectile, and again the scene changes. This happens with every single camera in the store, until there simply aren’t any left…

…visible at least. It seems that production is a little smarter than relying on easily noticeable cameras when there’s a show dependent on footage! The image on your tablets becomes clearer, and shot from a higher angle as the silhouette returns the ball to the pool table.

It moves to the warehouse, following the figure as they pick up rope from some of the crates, a spare doorstop, and traffic cones from the parking lot. They double back to the break room and take the radio with them into the warehouse to set up the trap. The silhouette finds a shelf with a big box already at the top and then easily climbs their way up without any assistance. They jam the wedge underneath the box and then loop the rope around various tension points before tying the bag of potatoes, as well as the bags of ballast to the contraption, setting the weight differential.

While the figure is setting the cones in lines through the aisles, the cameras finally pick up on Emil, entering the store. They cross paths with the silhouetted figure. There’s a momentary pause. And then the chase begins. Emil turns and makes a run for it, throwing their tablet back at the figure to try and slow them down. The camera cuts to the deli section and Emil races by, and the figure follows close after, grabbing the bonesaw on their way.

There are several fast cuts from different cameras and different angles, all capturing Emil as they run up one aisle, get cut off by the figure at the end of it, run back down the aisle and over to another, over and and over. Eventually, the figure manages to funnel Emil along the intended path with the cones, into the warehouse where the trap is waiting.

It happens so quickly, it seems like it was hard to pick up with just one take. There’s a flash of metal as the figure cuts the rope attached to the heavier ballast. The weight at the other end plummets towards the ground, pulling the bag of potatoes sharply upwards. It crashes into the wedge with just enough force to push the heavy box at the top, which slides off the shelf and falls with a sickening crunch. Then come the screams.

Emil wasn’t entirely crushed because they were moving, but their lower half is pinned beneath the crate. The silhouetted figure approaches them, and without hesitation, begins to wildly hack at their neck with the bonesaw. The footage is at least kind enough not to show the details, instead focusing on the splatters of blood that paint the warehouse floor.

When it pans back to the figure, Emil’s head has been severed, and the figure sets to work again. They pick up the head, carrying it and the bonesaw back with them to the deli’s sink. They drain as much blood as possible from the head, and wash off the bonesaw, but improperly hang it up by the blade rather than the handle. There is a brief detour to find a party hat in the aisles before setting it on top of the head, and then setting the head on top of a cake on display in the nearby bakery.

With that done, the silhouette turns to cleaning themselves up. They discard the bloodied clothes, washing up and changing with the speed of someone clearly practiced in making quick changes. Then, bundling up the clothes, they stop by the cosmetics section to cut a piece of brown hair from a wig, tucking it in with the rest of the dirty clothes. They place all of these back in the trash compactor and set it running to mangle the evidence.

Finally, on their way back, they stop in the aisle where Emil had thrown their tablet, picking it up and carrying it with them back to the bakery. They hold it up to Emil’s face to unlock it, type a message into the group chat, and then place the tablet in front of the cake.

As they set it down, the silhouette begins to fade. It begins at the hands, or rather the gloves, that leave the tablet free of fingerprints. It moves up to the colorful short sleeves, a flashy bow, and finally, the camera pans up to the familiar, painted face of…

BONBON BOURBON.

#ch3 #verdict #trial

[haruhey]

Point Of View

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Word count: 4.5k

Established Relationship Fluff !! | Smut | Filth February Prompt 1

You’re self-conscious about the weight you’ve gained since coming to Alexandria. Daryl endeavours to change that.

or

i wrote this on my period and was in my feels. i will not apologize for who i am. this is just a warning.

or

I wanna love me  The way that you love me For all of my pretty And all of my ugly too I'd love to see me from your point of view

It’s been a while.

It’s been a while since anything normal, really.

It’s just been survival for all you can remember, but it’s not anymore.

You don’t need to survive anymore. You can live now. There are children running around on the sun-heated concrete, garden plots lined with lettuce heads and vines that hang with ripe red tomatoes. Daryl - your Daryl, with his rough hands that hold you like an expensive china - hunts almost every day, bringing Aaron to fill the silence of buzzing cicadas, and returns with his rope miled long with caught squirrels.

And sometimes, on the off-chance Denise gives in to Daryl’s subtle persuasion, he brings you beneath the expanse of pine and birch, stealing kisses in the peace between the shots you let out from his crossbow. You’re his rabbit’s foot, he’d told you, body leant forward with the effort of carrying a dead hulking elk you’d pinned between the eyes, and the next time you went with him, you did it again.

Lightning never struck the same place twice, but you’re pretty damn lucky, all things considered.

It’s been good. And maybe - just… maybe - it’s even been a little too good.

You’ve got a bed - it makes your heart swell, too, knowing you get to share it with Daryl - hot water, home-cooked food, and you don’t have to be on your feet all the time anymore. You don’t have to risk your life finding supplies, run for miles to escape a hoard or less-than-friendly people, and your body is starting to show it.

It’s been a while since you’d had thoughts like these.

Standing in front of the mirror, you take in the sight of the woman staring back at you. She’s dressed like you are - one of Daryl’s shirts drops loose along her shoulders, her skin shining and shadowing underneath the moonlight - and you watch as she bunches the soft flannel in her hands, lifting it from her body until it exposes the overhang of her belly.

She’s not you. You don’t look like that.

She can’t be.

But she is, because when you drop one of your hands to the flesh there and take it between your fingers, she does it too, and you can see the same lump form in her throat at the warmth of skin which bulges between her thumb and forefinger. Letting go, you swallow down your dejection, spreading your palm over your stomach and sucking in, watching it recede to the state you’re so much more used to seeing it in.

“What’re ya doin’, sunshine? ‘S late.”

Whipping your head to the sleep-slurred voice, you drop the flannel from your grasp, smoothing it over your stomach and wiping your hands on your thighs before easing a smile on your face. Daryl’s standing lent along the doorframe, one arm propped up on it to keep his head from meeting the angular wood, and you can’t help but think of how perfect he looks.

His hair is a mess of hickory - stuck at odd angles from his slumber just moments ago - but his body looks like it was carved by Bernini himself. Why had he chosen you when anyone would have fallen for his wide shoulders and muscular torso? When his lips could be so soft and his work-weathered fingers could be so kind?

“Noth- nothing. Just go back to bed.”

You can’t see the way his eyes narrow at the stutter, but it doesn’t matter as he rubs the sleep from them and walks over to you, his long legs tapering out from the loose boxers that still manage to fit snug around his thick thighs. Daryl stands behind you, sliding his arms around your body to link at the front, and even still a little tired, he doesn’t miss the way you lift slightly to keep his body from resting flush against yours.

“Y’sure nothin’s wrong? ‘Sides, can’t sleep without ya.”

Grabbing his hands, you link your fingers in his, running your thumb over his knuckles before turning around and pressing a kiss to his lips. You feel good - you always do, sweet like he’s never been able to experience before - but he can tell something is off. You’re woven so deep into his being that he could recognize your uncertainty even if he was slurred drunk.

“Yeah. It’s- don’t worry about it.”

When you go to pull away, Daryl only holds you tighter, digging his head into the crook of your neck and kissing lightly, hoping to crumble your built wall of uncertainty with the careful constellation he outlines with his lips. You melt for him, but still, you squirm as his hands rest on your stomach, and when he feels you try to press your palms into his - feels you try to pull focus from the soft give of flesh he loves to feel - that’s when it clicks in his brain.

“Hey, y’know you can tell me anythin’, right? Whatever’s goin’ on, I can tell it ain’t just nothin’. Ya don’t lose sleep over ‘nothin’’.”

And he just sounds so safe to you. Like you could tell him all your deepest secrets, and the only thing he’d do would be absolve you - like he would drink your confessions down and turn them into something that only blossoms into adoration. You hate it, the fact you want to tell him despite you knowing your thoughts lean more towards stupid than not, but his blue eyes are home to you and they’re just so warm as they look at you from the reflection in the mirror.

“Do you- do you think I’m pretty?”

You sound smaller than you expect, but Daryl responds almost immediately, stepping in front of you and blocking you from the sight of the mirror. He hates the way you’re looking at yourself - hates the way your question drops from you as if he would think you were anything but perfect - and he takes your face into his hands, running his thumb along your cheek before speaking.

“I think you’re beautiful, sunshine. Thought you were the prettiest person in the damn world when I first saw ya. An’ I still do.”

Swallowing, you look down from his face, your arm sliding across your torso and bunching the shirt that now fits better than it did when you first took it in your hands, lifting it just under your chest and looking back up at him.

“Even… even with, uh, this? ‘Cause, before, when- when we first met, I know I wasn’t-“

Your words are cut from your throat when he takes your hand and places it against his half-hard cock, making your whole body stutter for a second with the way he rasps out an answer.

“This answer your question?”

The contact isn’t unwelcome. Daryl loves with his whole being: heart, body and soul, and he’s physical - your touch is his heaven as his is yours. It causes a rush of heat to lick up your body, and when he presses your hand harsher against his, you can’t help but go to grab at him, his length hardening in the warmth of your palm.

“Jesus, sunshine. You’re talkin’ like y’ain’t been all I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout since the prison.”

His hand is still gripped around your wrist as he speaks, and he tugs it slightly as he walks forward, each step backing you into the counter behind you. When your lower back bumps against the granite, it similarly knocks the breath from your lungs despite the contact being so soft.  

“Been all I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout since we got to Alexandria.”

It knocks the breath from you, and his whisper is almost a pure heat that lights you up. Daryl pushes his hips forward, advancing and advancing until there’s no space separating the heat of your body from his. It knocks the breath from you because he slips his fingers from your palm, and his greedy hands slide underneath your shirt, unbuttoning and throwing it onto the counter before he returns in a desperate search to touch every inch of your body.

“You’re so damn beautiful it hurts sometimes.”

His face dips then, words weighing heavy with their reverence, and yours heats up at his persistent attention. His fingers spread flush against your back and he pulls you into him, your head flustering from the onslaught of feeling as you steady yourself, and your hands clip like magnets to the bare front of his body, the pressure of your momentary hold making him groan.

“Let me show ya.”

Pressing his lips against the column of your neck, Daryl’s voice lingers in your head, his deep gravel dragging deliciously against each and every groove of your brain, and you tilt your head away, giving him more space in a selfish hope he’ll keep lavishing you.

“Ya gon’ let me show ya, huh, sunshine?”

You swallow the lump of lust in your throat just so you can speak, rewarding his efforts of leaving you a love-slick neck with nods of your head, each one more fervent than the last. His desire swells for you - makes other parts of him swell, too - and when you whine your permission in that voice which must be temptation itself, he hooks his hands beneath your thighs, uncaring of the counter’s ledge which roughs against his knuckles like a jealous lover.

He can’t care when he hoists you into the air, making a show of his strength with how little effort it takes for him to hold you as you press your face to the hiding spot of his neck, because he’s too busy basking in the way your arms tighten on either side of his body as he walks you both to bed. The night’s not young - he’ll have to take a nap tomorrow afternoon to make up for the sleep he’ll lose waking up for his usual morning hunt - but it’s all fucking worth it if he gets to spend it with you.

The second his knees hit the wooden bed frame, he leans forward, letting your back hit the dull gray sheets of your shared comforter before he’s clawing at your underwear. There’s a feral look in his eye - a lust so deep you’re scared you’ll drown in it if you watch him for too long - and in a second, he’s pulling off the cotton, the fabric lying limp in his palm as if it knew this was to be its fate, thrown away in a torrent of lust-fueled movements.

“Can I touch ya like this?”

You nod, an instinctual spread of your legs - an invite, extended from you to him only, a declaration of your trust and vulnerability - surging forward without the need of his question.

“Please.”

Just that word is enough to make him need for you, and right now, Daryl’s pretty damn happy his body woke up at the emptiness he’d felt from your side of the bed. Right now, he’s pretty damn happy he’d had half the sense to walk in silent search of you instead of calling your name. Right now, he’s pretty damn happy he’d admired you from the door and watched you lift his shirt, exposing each tantalizingly soft curve of your midsection despite the fact he felt just the littlest bit like a peeping Tom at the way his cock stirred from the sight because you’re letting him touch you.

Beneath the brown of his uncut bangs - you’d have to take some scissors to them soon, since they hide too much of his handsome face from you - he smiles at you, shaking the hair from covering his eyes before holding you apart for him and kneeling at the foot of the bed, his joints cracking at the movement. You giggle at the sound, receiving a playfully annoyed glare from him before you feel your thighs being pulled by his large hands.

Your back drags along your cotton sheets until the edge of the mattress is resting just below your ass, and his beard tickles your skin as his lips map out the length of your legs. Each one of his kisses are so familiar - each one is so comforting and affectionate despite the burn of lust in his eyes - and he slides his hands up the sides of your anticipation-squirming body, his mouth pressing messily against your inner thigh.

“I’m gon’ make ya feel good. Gon’ show ya how much I love your body. Gon’ make sure y’ain’t never doubtin’ how pretty ya are.”

Daryl’s voice rumbles against your skin, deeply-woven determination making you buck your hips up to him in offering, and he takes both your hands, linking his fingers in yours before burying his head between your legs. His tongue spears and laps, flattens against you and laves as it satiates the way he starves for you, and it's too dextrous, too practiced to the preference of your body. You’re sensitive - the overwhelming emotions from feeling wanted making your body cry out for him - and you repeat his name like a prayer, tightening your hold on his hands and clenching around him.

Though his jaw is cramping up and his tongue isn’t long enough to hit that spot he knows makes you gush around him, he doesn’t want to unlace his fingers from yours. Not when you hold him like a tether to reality and you’re soaking down his chin as he tries his best to lap all of you up, but when you whimper for him, begging him to fill the emptiness you’re desperate to not feel anymore, nobody can say Daryl Dixon doesn’t treat you right.

His touch is immediate, rubbing and massaging open your soft thighs which have warmed each side of his head, and they slip into you when you plead him for it, one hand gripping the unruly locks atop his head. He curls them then, thick fingers reducing you to a puddle with the press against those sensitive spots you can’t quite reach with your own.

It’s always him, the only one who can do this to you, and it’s always you, the only one he’s ever wanted to do this to.

Your climax is near, your flexing abdomen is telling you so, and when he pulls away to encourage you, his voice like a liquor you drink yourself drunk with, you hit it full-force, pulling at his hair with your trembling hands. It’s so intense - you can feel the way he pours the depths of what he feels for you into treating you right - and even through it’s lust that lies heavy in the air, affection swirls through his actions, drawing out the sickeningly saccharine feeling of adoration from your chest.

Crying out Daryl’s name, you tug at him again, trying to pull his skillful tongue from the way he laves and laps, but his eyes harden, squinting and obeying you only enough to speak.

“Want me to fuck ya, sunshine?”

The gruff swear of him and how serious he sounds draws out a sharp breath from you, and it makes your body light up again, telling him your answer with a flutter around his fingers before he sees you nodding.

“Please- please, Daryl.”

Your voice is hoarse when it hits his ears, and he takes the hand clasped in his, sliding it down and opening it until your hand rests flush against your tummy. His rests flush on the top of yours, and you can feel the way your body reacts to the slow pump of his fingers. You’re climbing already, still sensitive from your last release and the fact he’d never really let you settle from it, and you can hear him shuffling, knees knocking against your bare floors as he tries to press as close as physically possible despite the wood of the bedframe pressing into his chest.

“Then gimme one more. Wanna see one more from your beautiful body.”

And before you can even processes the first five syllables, you’re rutting up into his face, the force of your climax almost pushing his fingers out of you at the waves of molten fire rolling across your body, but he’s persistent, resting his palm against you when his tongue returns to gather all you have to offer. He groans at the way your hand grips at your stomach for reprieve, a pang of wet hot arousal making his cock throb pathetically in his boxers from the sight of the flesh gathering between your fingers and spilling over, and he wants desperately for his mouth to replace your hands.

He wants to kiss your flexing stomach - he wants to give you enough attention there and more until there’s no doubt in that pretty little mind of yours that you’re nothing less than perfect to him - and when you whine for him to fuck you, he sticks his fingers in his mouth and licks them clean before pushing up onto his feet and kneeling back onto bed. The mattress dips with his weight, and your release-muddled brain only registers that he’s on it when he takes both your hands in his and presses his lips up against both of them.

You want to kiss him - want to taste yourself on him, his touch against even your fingers make your desire tenfold - but Daryl’s moving you up the bed, comforter thrown askew on his side from when he’d awoken to the cold emptiness you were supposed to be occupying, and you maneuver with his urgings, the need to be full of him taking over your thinking.

He gets off the bed for only a second, and as you watch him strip from his boxers, you spread your legs, propping yourself on your elbows and swallowing down your saliva when he takes his cock into his hand, running himself in a stroke and blowing out a breath when your spit and arousal slick thighs shine with the moonlight streaming in through the windows. He loses himself in his staring, admiring your body on display for him, and it takes you calling out to him to break him out of his reverie, softly chucking out a response before he joins you on bed.

“Sorry, sunshine. Was jus’ admirin’ the view. Can’t help it. Looks perfect, y’know that?”

He presses a kiss against one of your knees then, watching the way you fluster from his compliment and your eyes scramble from his, and he bends down, lying heavy on your thigh in order to grab your chin lightly and tilt your face to look at his.

“Think I’d lie to ya?”

You know he doesn’t - Daryl knows you know he doesn’t - and it just makes him… angry at the fact you don’t believe his words. Not at you. No, never at you, but at the world, he supposes. It’s not your fault the it wasn’t kind to you even before all this, and he hates that he can’t make you change your mind about yourself.

But he’d promised to show you how much he loves you - body and all, whether you weighed a buck 25 soaking wet or not - and he’s determined to do so.

“I think you’re gorgeous. An’ I ain’t never gon’ stop thinkin’ that. I’d be an idiot if I did.”

Pressing a sloppy kiss against your lips, he swallows down your whine as his thumb slides over your cheek and other hand notches himself at your entrance. When he pulls away, your hands thread through his hair, holding him to you as your voice pleads for more of him, and he watches your face contort when he pushes.

Inch by inch, he pushes into you, and his gaze never falters from the way your mouth falls agape and your eyes screw shut at the stretch. When his hips rest flush against yours - it was slow, it always is. He doesn’t want to hurt you, and your heart swells with love for him - he slides his hand up your body, and when they make contact with the flesh you were scrutinizing, he slowly starts to massage. You want to go and stop him, that voice of insecurity making you think the action makes Daryl want to grimace, but a little part of you wants him to keep going.

“Open your eyes, sunshine. Want- want ya to see what I’m seein’. Want ya to see how much of a good girl ya are for me.”

He’s moving now, a careful in and out making you writhe against the bedsheets with his words, and he groans at the way you tighten around him, your wet warmth making his brain fall deeper into enamour with you. Pulling his upper body up, Daryl rests your thighs around his waist and bites his lip at the sight of you, sweat-slick and so fucking responsive to each heavy push of him. He’s kneeling - fitting, since you look like a damn goddess spread out for him - and when he looks down at the mess the two of you are where you meet, he swears and bucks forward, a stutter throwing off his rhythm for just a few haphazard thrusts.

You want to see him, too. You want to watch the way his cock disappears into you and see the erotic sight of how you take him into yourself, but when you look down, the flesh of your stomach is moving with each drive of his hips against yours, and you don’t want to see that. He notices - with every sense of himself heightened, how could he not? - and he grabs your chin again, sliding his thumb across your lips in a gentle urge to let your eyes follow his, and when you do, the sight of his desperate shove makes you whimper.

“You’re perfect, sunshine. Don’t ever forget that.”

And despite everything - how lecherous and salacious right now is - your heart wells up in a crashing wave of love, and you claw at his forearm, fingers barely enough to wrap around the muscle lined bone. You nod along to his words because when he says it like that, so reverent in his belief, you can’t help but trust him.

“Can’t- can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout ya, y’know? Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout- ‘bout this.”

He moves both your hands to your abdomen, his grip spreading your fingers open so you can feel your own body move from each shove of him, and you whine Daryl’s name, you arch your back. Pressing your stomach into your own palm, he groans at the give of your softness, and he’s speaking before he can even think, sliding his thumb across you and firing alight at the way you indent.

“Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how- how safe ya are. Eatin’ everyday an’- an’ sleepin’ comfy in my arms.”

There’s a possession in his voice that makes you hazy - an obvious desire for you that clouds your thoughts - and when he brings his hand up to your mouth, pressing his thumb against your open lips, you slide your tongue across it, wetting it with your saliva before he pulls it away and brings it to swirl at where he meets you.

You keen then, bucking your hips up to his and gripping his forearm with both your hands, and he leans down, his thighs flexing in order to keep him stable enough for him to press his face closer to yours while still being able to draw those sloppy circles that make the two of you almost boil over.

“Don’t gotta get hurt no more. Don’t gotta- don’t gotta go on runs if ya don’ wanna. You’re safe, an’- an’ I love it. Safe an’ wit’ me.”

He presses his lips to yours then, kissing you with the greed of a lush downing his third nightcap, and you can feel the heat crawling up your neck, almost asphyxiating you. Daryl’s everywhere - his hands chase your skin, his tongue chases yours - and just one more wet shove of him has you clawing at his back, falling apart with a gasped moan that he can feel spreading down the length of his throat.

He drinks it down and hauls himself away, your legs threatening to trap him in you, but he knows he has to pull out. It’s dangerous - another shake of your body makes him burn - and in a second, he has his cock in his hand, the length of him coated in the remnants of your climax as he tugs to reach the same euphoria you’d reached already. You still clench as you watch him because he’s so frantic with each movement. He’s so hungry for it, and the moan of your name chokes off when he folds forward, covering your abdomen in spurt after spurt of him as his flexes, the amount never seeming to end.

Panting, you both take the time to catch your breaths, sticky skin pressed up against each other when he kisses you with the same awe he did the he first felt your lips, and he caresses your beautiful tummy, smiling into you when your hands just rest at his sides and don’t surge forward to move his.

“This is what ya do to me, y’know that? You’re ruinin’ me ‘cause I jus’ wanna do this all day.”

He whispers against you, lips traveling to your cheek before he tilts his head up and just takes in the sight of you - just adores you.

“So don’t think that shit, alright? Else I gotta bring ya here and remind ya the best I can.”

But you wouldn’t mind that. And neither would he.

You and Daryl both know his release rests on the flesh he'd caught you scrutinizing, but in an odd way, it’s perfect. It’s perfect, and when he presses one more kiss to your collarbone in that well-practiced signal to tell you he’ll clean you up, your hands thread through his hair and you feel like you could cry from the way he’s looking at you when you speak.

“I love you, Daryl. I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone.”

He blushes then - reds from chest up despite what had just occurred between the sheets of your shared bed - and he dips down to kiss you just one last time. He wants to stay here with you. He wants to worship you with his hands and mouth all over again, but he knows it’ll get uncomfortable, the spend of him on your skin. He always feels an odd sense of pride and guilt when he sees you like this, and despite the fact you always tell him that he doesn’t need to and that you like to feel him like that, he still whispers apologies into your ear, carefully wiping until your skin returns to that perfect shade of you.

It’s been a while since you’d had these types of thoughts, sure, but with your softly snoring Daryl curled around you, both your bodies wiped clean and feeling like jelly, you know it’ll be a while until he’ll ever let them pop up again.

»»———— ⊱

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[muselin]

Kinktober 2021 Day 23

The Edge - TXT Yeonjun

Who: TXT Yeonjun x f!reader

What: 🔞⛔🚫smut. Trigger warning: knife play, edge play. Do NOT try this at home. If you do anyway, I beg you to research properly and start SLOW.

Word count: 1.7k

_________________________________________

It was only fitting he'd gone for rope over chains, your wrists tied up nice and tight and secured to the headboard. His main light was off but his side lamps were on, lighting him at an angle and casting long shadows on the walls. His jewellery glinted in the light, two hoop earrings and a chain around his neck. Something in his hands glinted too, and it wasn't just his ring. The blade nearly blinded you with its glimmer and it was the kind where you could tell it was just as smooth and sharp as it looked.

Nothing made you submit quicker than the feel of the cool metal and the scratch against your skin. He was toying with you. Twirling the blade in his fingers, making light bounce off it, making no move to approach you with it. Just as you relaxed against the rope securing your wrists, he grabbed the knife by the handle and sat down on the bed next to you.

Not a word, just his sinister grin as he brought the blade to his lips and his pink tongue delicately traced the sharp edge, his eyes fixed on yours. Your breathing quickened and your lips fell open helplessly. You wanted him to touch you, you wanted the cool steel pressed against you, you wanted the thrum of danger beating in your chest at the fact that you had put your trust in Yeonjun so completely. One wrong move and the consequences could be dire. You were so restless, chest rising and falling against the mattress with anticipation.

Your eyes were glued to his fingers as they curled around the handle and finally lowered, pointing the tip of the blade down towards you. Your heart hammered in your chest until you finally felt the light scratch and coolness against your skin, right between your breats.

Everything went silent. Your breathing stopped, your heart rate slowed down. All there was was the light rustle of the blade against your skin as Yeonjun dragged it down to the spot where your ribcage flared outwards. When he stopped there you swallowed, arms straining against the ropes. Yeonjun was looking at the path he was teasing over your skin as if entranced. His long fingers tipped the handle upwards so the point of the blade was directly pressing down on your skin, and he twirled the blade. You held your breath desperately, trying not to raise the tension against it and cut yourself.

But there was an art to this that Yeonjun was no novice at. He kept just enough weight off the blade to make you feel the scratch and the sharpness of the edge but no pain. He started tracing the outline of your lowest set of ribs, all the way from left to right, in a bow-like shape. When he reached the end, he notched the blade past the gap to make it graze the rib above, and repeated the same line all the way across.

Like this he kept you utterly subdued as he made the blade climb the long way up to just beneath your breasts. Once he could no longer go horizontally, he tipped the blade on its side to drag underneath your breasts. The blade was soaking up the heat of your skin but still felt too cold and you so badly wanted to shiver, every ounce of control going towards keeping your muscles rigid in their position.

Yeonjun circled the blade around the outlines of your breasts, finishing right in the centre of your chest again. His warm hand joined the tool on your skin and you sighed as the warmth spread over your breasts. He massaged and cupped them in turn, not forgetting your nipples and giving them the same care and attention. You almost forgot about the blade on your skin until you felt it dig into the soft flesh of your throat. Your eyes had drifted closed but now shot open, searching Yeonjun's face which still held his dreamy smile.

His other hand was still around your breast and he left it there as he leaned closer to your face. His lips hovered over yours and you so badly wanted to kiss him but the knife pressed into the side of your throat ensured that you could not move even a hair upwards. Too afraid to even speak, you looked up at Yeonjun. His dark eyes shone in the semi-darkness and his lips opened just enough for his tongue to swipe over them. He leaned down further but instead of the kiss you expected, his tongue firmly traced the entirety of your lower lip slowly, so slowly you could feel the light texture of his tongue and the friction over your lip. His hand on your breast travelled upwards and as he pulled away, his middle finger slipped right into your mouth. You instinctively sucked and swallowed but the motion increased the friction of the blade against your throat.

The thrum returned to your chest. The blade had not moved and you wanted it to. You wanted it to caress you just as Yeonjun's tongue had done to your lips. Unconsciously, your body undulated beneath Yeonjun's hands and his smile only grew as he swirled his finger over your tongue. He withdrew his finger but left the blade right where it was, pressing against your pulse point. You felt his warm hand trailing down over your body, dipping under the thin panties you were wearing and diving right into your folds.

The heat of embarrassment rose up to your cheeks. You hadn't noticed at all how wet you were and Yeonjun's finger entered you with no resistance. You couldn't moan or writhe with the knife pressed so intimately against you and it only drove you crazy not to be able to succumb to the pleasure of Yeonjun's fingers fully. Tiny whines bubbled up in your throat, your breathing quick and shallow as he fingered you, thrusting a second finger into you and testing your self-control. Your panties were getting more soaked by the second as your juices leaked out around Yeonjun's fingers.

You looked up at him desperately, the plea in your eyes couldn't be clearer. He tilted his head to the side and spoke for the first time since he'd started.

"Do you want to go on, baby?"

He withdrew the blade a little to let you speak but kept contact with your skin, a reminder that he was still in control.

"I trust you," you murmured, "but please, I need more, you're driving me insane!"

He chuckled lightly and the sound enveloped you just like the shadows in the room were twirling around the both of you. The blade was finally lifted off your skin and in a moment you felt it underneath the band of your panties. With a flick, Yeonjun sliced through the side of the garment then did the same to the other side, peeling the cloth off you. You turned away when it pulled a string of moisture with it from your pussy, undeniable proof of how much you were enjoying this.

Yeonjun's fingers at your jaw turned your face back just in time for you to see the blade being positioned at the junction of your thighs. He tapped your inner thigh with the wide side and you opened your legs wider instinctively.

"Mmmm..."

One of his digits entered you and you were finally able to luxuriate in the pleasure of being filled and stimulated. Your hips bucked into his hand as he thrust his finger deeply and methodically into you. But the next moment you froze again when you felt something hard, flat and cool against your clit.

"Don't move," Yeonjun warned but his finger was still pumping in and out of you. Slowly but firmly, the blade was moved in small circles, massaging your clit.

Feeling something so unyielding against your most sensitive of places was a new sensation and yet, the speed with which the tension built in your abdomen was undeniable. The hard surface of the blade ensured the pressure on your clit was firm, even and constant and it felt far better than you could have imagined, like pleasure being pressed and ironed into you. You soon found that your sensitive folds were too soft to have the kind of resistance against the edge that made you nervous, and you found yourself relaxing under Yeonjun's ministrations.

A second finger entered you and he hooked them slightly, making you cry out as your wrists strained against the ropes and your head fell back. Yeonjun observed your reaction and stopped massaging your clit with the side of the knife, instead tapping it. The sudden motion had a high-pitched moan squeezed from you and he continued tapping on your clit as his fingers still fucked and curled into you.

There was so much heat in your chest and you were trying not to move too much, but it was no longer out of fear of getting hurt. Now it was so that Yeonjun's perfect rhythm on your clit wouldn't break. The tension in your body was unbearable, you just needed that little bit more. Yeonjun mercifully obliged your body's wordless plea and alternated the tapping motion on your clit with pressing and massaging against it again. He quickened the pace of his fingers inside you and you couldn't hold on any longer.

You let your breath shudder out from your lungs and with it the heat spread through your whole body as you started to cum around Yeonjun's fingers. Needy, desperate moans were in his ears and he was all too happy to continue working you through your orgasm, the blade never leaving your clit as he kept it pressed down.

As you shook with the pulsations of it, you imagined how you must have looked from the side. Wrists bound, back arched with a blade pressed into your most sensitive spot, Yeonjun smiling just as darkly over you as he was when he started. This was a new level of submission that you could so easily become addicted to. But when Yeonjun pressed the hard metal down onto your clit again, the thought became so fuzzy and unreachable that the only thing you had to say was...

"More..."

#txt smut #txt yeonjun smut #yeonjun smut #txt hard hours #muselin kinktober #tomorrow x together #kinktober 2021 #txt scenario #muselin🍁

[captains-simp]

(Not me accidentally posting this when it was half done)

I knew I could count on you @wndrcarol for a jock!Carol request🥳 also....👀I heard you like Sharon

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

1.9k words

Warnings: harassment, degrading, face slapping, strap on sex, spitting, choking and hints of overstimulation

[ masterlist ]

Buy me a coffee ☕

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You groaned in frustration when you finished checking the kitchen for your girlfriend. Everytime you went to a party with her the same thing happened.

You'd arrive, take a while to get comfortable and as soon as you did Carol would be whisked away by her friends leaving you to stand awkwardly in the corner. You really needed to get more friends. The ones you had never seemed to come to those parties.

You wandered outside onto the wooden decking area to get some fresh air and leant against the fence as you lazily scanned the area for Carol. You knew she wasn't out there, you had already checked.

Your eyes landed on a brunet who had been watching you carefully but the moment you locked eyes he scurried away back inside, not wanting to be seen near you. You smiled at the memory of the last time you had met at a party.

"There was only 10 seconds of the game left but I kicked the ball as hard as I could and it was on the last second of the game that it scored and we won!" Tyler exclaimed before taking another sip of his bear and gleamed at the memory.

"That's great." You said as you continued to scan the room for Carol.

"It was, you should'a been there." Tyler said as he looked back at you, or more he looked above the line of your low hanging top. You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

"I was at Carol's game." Tyler didn't react to the mention of your girlfriend. It wasn't like he didn't know you were dating, everyone knew. Carol made sure of that.

"Unlucky, mine was a lot more interesting." He declared with a smug grin. A brief memory of Carol fucking you in the showers after that game flashed through your mind and you couldn't contain your smile at knowing how wrong the guy infront of you was.

Unfortunately, he thought that smile was at him.

"I had a pretty great game before that too. But it's getting kinda loud in here, wanna go somewhere more private?" He smirked in an extremely unattractive way.

"I'm good, I need to go find Carol." You said quickly, wanting to get the hell away from Tyler.

You hadn't seen Carol in a while. It was her idea to go to the party, it was an environment she thrived in. You, however, did not. It wasn't your scene and you didn't know anyone there, not well at least.

At some point through the mass of bodies, loud music and numerous people trying to get Carol to do shots with them or be on their beer pong team, you had been seperated from the Captain and you hadn't seen her since.

"Come on, I'm sure there's some spare rooms upstairs." There was a slight slur to his voice that made it even worse when he approached you and put a heavy hand on your waist.

"Get off me, Tyler!" You snapped and pushed his hand away but he continued with a frown.

"What? Don't you want this-" He was cut off when a fist shot out beside you and punched him across the face. Tyler staggered back, gripping his bleeding nose, as the people around you cheered loudly, oblivious to what had happened prior.

"Get your fucking hands off my girlfriend." Carol demanded as she continued to advance towards a cowarding Tyler who could only hold his hands out in defence. You pulled Carol away with to turn her towards you and Tyler scrambled to his feet to flee.

"Are you okay?" Concerned and familiar eyes met yours that instantly eased your worry. Carol brought her hands gently up to your face as she scanned you closely and you were surprised to see that she looked completely sober.

You nodded your head and breathed out a yes before you took her right hand away from your face to examine it carefully. The dull lighting in the room made it hard to make out but you could feel that there was nothing out of place.

"Come on." Carol said as she took your hand. "Let's get out of here."

Tyler had a bandage across his nose for a while. He had avoided you like the plague ever since, clearly have some sense in him.

"Want some company?" Came a voice from beside you. You glanced sideways and saw Sharon fall easily into place next to you. She mirrored your position of leaning against the barrier and gave you a knowing smile.

"Thanks." You breathed out, feeling kind of embarrassed someone had noticed Carol always seemed to ditch you at parties.

"No luck finding the girlfriend?" Sharon teased.

"Is it that obvious?" You asked but weren't sure you really wanted to know.

"You look like a lost puppy without her." Sharon chuckled making you flush. Maybe you were too clingy.

"She's the golden retriever lesbian." You corrected making Sharon laugh more.

"That seems about right." She went to move closer to you but a group of jocks spilled out onto the decking, without Carol among them.

"Fuck this." She huffed and took your hand to lead you over to the garden swing bench. Your hand felt like it was burning when she held it to pull you along. Although her hands were physically soft, they weren't the kind of softness you felt with Carol. It didn't make you feel warm inside, it made you feel uneasy. But it was a party, you had to hold onto people to move about.

Part of your brain pointed out that there was only a few people in the garden so there was really no need for Sharon to navigate you through it, while the rest of you really did just want some company.

Sharon sat down on the bench and you followed, feeling as though you could relax a bit more on the edge of the garden.

"You know, I think Carol's a very lucky gal to have you." Sharon said as she watched you closely. You laughed nervously as you noticed how close she was. You found yourself searching the garden for Carol again but Sharon lighting held your jaw and turned it back towards her.

"Pretty thing like you must surely be a lot of fun to play with." She smirked as her other hand crept onto your thigh.

"Um I d-don't-"

"Shh, you don't need to talk." Sharon cooed as she tilted your chin up more when you struggled to keep eye contact. The blonde glanced at your lips and licked her own before leaning forward slowly.

Until a strong hand wrapped itself around your bicep and yanked you from the bench.

You stumbled into a fuming blonde who was glaring at Sharon. You blushed deeply as you realised how it looked at what Sharon was most likely trying to do.

"You keep your fucking hands off of my girlfriend, Carter." Carol spat as her fists clenched.

"You really shouldn't leave her unattended?" Sharon said, amused by Carol's anger. "Who knows what could have happened." She winked at you and looked away instantly.

Carol scoffed simply as she continued to glare daggers at the woman infront of you.

"In your fucking dreams, she's mine." She all but growled as she pulled you away. You yelped as you felt her nails dig into your skin but didn't have the nerve to ask her to loosen her grip.

Carol pulled you through the crowded house and up to an empty bedroom that she shoved you inside.

"Did you enjoy that? Whoring yourself out to Sharon?" Carol asked as she threw you to the bed and started undoing her belt.

"No I-" You started as you went to sit up but Carol put a firm hand to your chest and pushed you back flat against the bed.

"Shut up, slut. I don't want to hear another sound out of you unless you're saying my name." She warned as she pulled her strap out and pulled your panties down.

You looked at her wide eyed, never seeing her so worked up before sex. Sure, you'd have a lot of needy, desperate sex and the occasional quickly, but she never showed so little regard to you before.

"What? Think I'm going to be nice to you and take my time? Want me to touch you gently? Whores don't deserve to be treated nicely. You don't get to prep my cock either." Carol taunted as she pushed the tip of the head in and kept it there as she stared down at you. "You'll have to just take it how it is, not that you'll have much of an issue. You've always got such a sloppy cunt."

"Please, Captain." You found yourself whining earning you a harsh slap to your left cheek. Your head whipped to the side and your cheek burned but Carol didn't seem to care.

"Who are you begging to fuck you?" Carol asked as she rocked her hips slowly as a reminder that you only had the very tip inside you.

"You Carol, I want my Captain's cock!" You cried out desperately.

"Only mine?" The blonde mused as she inched a bit more of the strap in.

"Yes Carol, only your cock. I only want you." You whined truthfully. Carol knew that of course, she knew you were incredibly loyal. That's what made the game so fun.

"Please! Please Carol I need you so bad. I want my Captain deep inside me, please please." You begged and felt as though you could cry in frustration.

"You really know how to plead like a whore, don't you. Did you learn that somewhere? Or are you just a natural cock slut?" She asked as she slammed her hips forward and filed you up with the strap at every angle.

You moaned loudly and threw your head back against the pillows as Carol set about her harsh and unrelenting pace. The thick strap filled you up entirely with every thrust. It didn't take long for your eyed to water from the sheer amount of pleasure she was giving to you so roughly.

Carol grunted as she pounded the strap into you and her grip on your wrists tightened, letting you know she wouldn't let go anytime soon.

"See? You've got such a sloppy pussy. And it's all mine." Carol spoke as she glanced down to look at your pussy taking her strap so well.

"You're gonna cum for me now. You're going to cum all over my cock." Carol demanded as she noticed your signs of approaching orgasm.

You cried out at the force of each of Carol's thrusts until it became too much to bear and you crashed over the edge without much to hold on to. As you did so, Carol brought her hand up and wrapped it tightly around your throat before giving it a quick squeeze.

"You belong to me, slut." Carol said as she continued thrusting mercilessly. She noted your blissed expression and open mouth and gripped your jaw tightly, much rougher than Sharon had. She pulled your face down with your mouth still open and spat. You moaned as you tasted her saliva on your tongue and around your lips. You swallowed it eagerly making Carol beam internally, not that she could let you know that.

"Cum again for me whore. I get to do what I want with you. So you're going to keep cuming until I get bored. I don't give a fuck if you get tired." She spoke next to your ear, poison dripping from her words.

"So fucking cum."

#carol danvers #captain marvel #brie larson #captain marvel imagines #captain marvel x reader #carol danvers x reader #carol danvers imagines #marvel #captain marvel smut #carol danvers smut #jock!carol danvers #jock!carol

[fourseasonsfigs]

Blue Flowers

I was looking up flower meanings, and Wikipedia tells me that blue flowers symbolize desire, love, and the metaphysical striving for the infinite and unreachable. It symbolizes hope and the beauty of things. Seems very apropos, don't you think?

The inspiration for Zhehan's fig is from this lovely photoshoot:

The BEAST brand (野兽派 Yěshòu pài) translates via Google Translate as "Fauvism", which threw me for quite the loop when I first encountered it. It's been a long time since my art history courses in college, but I didn't immediately see how the brand connected to an early modern art movement. Turns out the name fauvism is itself taken from the French les fauves, which means wild beasts. Ah ha! Dots, connected!

Now of course I'm very used to it, and my brain auto-translates the word into, "Gong Jun's endorsement brand BEAST. It's gotten to the point where if I go to a modern art museum, my brain will struggle! But that's a future figthusiast problem, right now we're moving on to Gong Jun's inspiration:

This was for BEAST's Mid-Autumn Festival 2022 celebration. It's a beautiful advertisement - I like how the shadows fall across Gong Jun's perfect face.

These two gentlemen came resting casually in an artfully insouciant sprawl. Excellent for selling all kinds of luxurious merchandise, but less so for display! They would not stand (lean?) up for anything, so on a fig stand they went.

I decided to have them facing each other. You can see a bit of the transparent fig sticker under Zhehan's tush - he had such a narrow line here (surprising, right?) that I had to do a decent amount of cutting and arranging the sticker to be kind of sorta hidden. Looking at it blown up in the picture here I can see I didn't do that stellar of a job!

I like this side view! I feel like they need to lounging around on velvet divans or something.

Ah here's a good view of the flowers, or at least Junjun's flower.

See what I mean about Zhehan's slim line? The angle of his leg curves his rear up, making it surprisingly narrow.

Not a ton to see from the top angle, although you get the nice hairlines and a swoosh of hair from Junjun.

The box cards. Oops, I got a string there in the photo somehow.

Ah, you're getting a preview of the other figs in this set! I have the red Junjun, but I did not buy the Coal Dust Han. That fig was from a scene from one of the movies he shot in Beihai where he was, yes, covered in coal dust. That is one fig that doesn't translate well to American sensibilities, and as much as I wanted to have a full set for my completionist tendencies, I just couldn't do it.

But stay tuned for Hot Pot Beauty! You'll have to come back tomorrow for the name alone 😄

Material: PVC

Fig Count: 214

Scene Count: 18

Rating: Hope and the beauty of things indeed

[link back to Master Fig Index for more posts]

#junzhe #zhang zhehan #gong jun #shl cast #word of honor cast #figthusiast

[differentkettleoffishalltogether]

A Lick of Paint

Summary: Spencer has no idea his best friend is harboring a secret talent

A/N: This was is one-shot request from a little while ago! I hope you guys enjoy it 

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (Artist!Reader)

Category: Fluff & Smut

Warnings/Includes: smut, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, riding, paint is involved (but it doesn’t go anywhere it shouldn’t), please let me know if there’s anything I’ve missed!

Word count: 3.6k

Request: “Would u do one where it’s a fem!reader x spencer (smut or fluff what ever feels right) where they’re best friends and the reader is very private and one day spencer comes over to her apartment and sees that she’s a really talented painter/drawer/artist ? Thank u!!”

Masterlist

— —

He didn’t have a crush on her. No way. She was just his best friend, nothing more. Just his best friend who he thought about all the time, his best friend who he knew everything about, who he couldn't wait until tomorrow to see.

They got in from their latest case at half past midnight, he was a night owl, and he knew she was too, so why would she mind him showing up uninvited? He hadn’t seen her in 15 days and he probably could wait one more, but he really didn't want to.

Showing up at her door after 1am with a bottle of wine and some snacks he took a minute to run his fingers through his hair and straighten out his shirt before he knocked on the door. He could hear a rustling from the other side, and he could see the light shifting about beneath the door frame. So she was home, and she was awake, and he was trying to suppress his eager little smile.

“You can’t keep calling over this late Mrs. Warner! I don’t have any of your mail—Spencer!” she says it in a little yelp as she pulls the door completely open. And she's standing in front of him in nothing but an oversized button up shirt, her hair’s all messy around her head and there’s a little pencil tucked behind her ear.

He’s not really sure what’s going on but he’s sure that he likes it.

“Just me” he pulls his lips into a small smile and gives a tiny little wave with his free hand, shaking the bottle of wine in his other. “I hope I’m not intruding, we just got in earlier than I thought we would and I figured you’d still be up”

As he’s explaining she’s shutting the door slightly again, hiding her body behind it just a little. And even if he wasn’t a profiler he’d know she was uncomfortable, so he starts to shake his head.

“You know what, don’t worry about it! I can come back another time— or I can— I can give you some space if you need it? This was a stupid idea anyway, I should go— I’m gonna go!” he knows he sounds stupid, he’s a rambling mess but before he can properly retreat she’s swinging the door open fully again, reaching out for him and just grabbing him by the strap of his satchel.

“No Spencer wait! I’m happy to see you, I really am” she pulls him to the doorway, letting him step inside. “It’s just— messy? And you haven’t seen my apartment like this before” she’s rushing it out once he gets inside, placing her hands on his shoulders to try and spin him around before he can catch a glimpse of the state of her living room.

“Just gimme a second to tidy—”

“Do you— are you an artist?” he’s not even listening to her anymore, he’s completely fixed on the pages and sketchbooks all scattered around her living room. The sofa is pulled back to create space for the huge canvas that’s spread out all over the floor. Paints and brushes all lined up next to it.

“No!” she shakes her head, “Well not really, I just, I draw sometimes, and paint I guess? But it’s just for me” she’s still got her hands on his shoulders, trying to turn him around in spite of the fact that he’s already seen everything she was trying to hide. Or had managed to keep hidden until now.

“You never told me?” he just looks confused now more than anything, but his eyes are still blown wide as he starts to walk towards the area of the room covered in her materials.

“It’s really nothing Spencer, I didn’t want to tell you, because then you’d want to see, and then I wouldn’t want to show you, or I would show you, and then you’d hate it, and you’d just tell me you liked it to be nice, and I can tell when you’re lying Spencer, and I couldn’t handle that. So yeah, I didn’t tell you. But I haven't told anyone.” she’s not looking at him when she speaks anymore, her hands are just wrapped tight around her body protectively. This felt like she was so entirely exposed.

She had only kept two secrets from him all these years. Her art. And her unending infatuation for him. How could she not let him in when he showed up at her front door so excited, and looking so cute in his little sweater with his messy curls.

“Hey” he reaches out, placing a gentle hand on her forearm, coaxing her to unwrap them. So they fall to her sides and she feels even more exposed now. “If you want me to go, I’ll go. If you want me to stay, I’ll stay. If you want me to stand out in the hall while you hide all of this stuff, and then we pretend none of this happened, I’ll get comfy out there right now. But I just need you to know that I love you very much, and I’d support anything you ever choose to do. And I know what I want shouldn't factor in, but for what it’s worth, I would like to see some of your work— It doesn't have to be now! But just, if you ever wanted to show me anything, I’d love to see it.”

She can feel how earnest the words are, and she knew he loved her, but it was always so nice to hear it out loud, coming from those gorgeous pink lips. She wants to speak but the words feel like they’re almost caught in her throat when she looks up at him, she has to force them out.

“I’ll show you” she breathes, “I want to show you”

His eyebrows shoot up as she speaks, “I didn't mean— you don’t have to!” he rushes out as she goes to fetch one of her sketchbooks from the ground, handing it to him.

“I want to, honestly. If someones going to see this stuff, I want it to be you” once the sketchbook’s in his grip and out of her hands completely she walks away from him, going to sit on the ground next to the canvas. Right where she’d been sitting when he knocked on the door earlier.

Neither of them say a word while he goes through it page by page. It doesn't occur to her that she’s not sure which one she handed him until she can hear footsteps approaching her from behind.

When he sits down beside her he’s got the sketchbook open to a double spread and she recognizes it instantly.

“Are these drawings of me?” he asks, and it’s almost a whisper, like he doesn’t want to scare her. But she nods.

“Um, yeah. There’s actually a bunch of you in these sketchbooks. Your bone structure is just— I don't know— it’s nice to look at” his lips curve up in a small smile at that.

“You think I’m nice to look at?” he teases and she rolls her eyes,

“From an artistic perspective, you're interesting” she tries to walk it back.

“So now I’m just interesting?” he asks, a little smug now that he can tell she’s nervous.

“That’s not what I said!” he starts to chuckle then, closing the notebook and placing it down on the ground behind him.

“Relax, I’m messing with you, and for what it’s worth I think you’re nice to look at too. From any perspective” those few words make her forget where she is completely, they make her feel an entirely different kind of worry than the one she’d been experiencing earlier.

“And I love your work. You said you could tell when I was lying, am I lying?” he’s looking straight into her eyes as he speaks, and she can feel the way her heart is palpitating.

“No, you’re, uh, you're telling the truth” she shakes her head, but his eyes stay focused on her.

“What’s going on this canvas then?” he asks with a smile, and she breaks the eye contact so she can grab another one of her notebooks to show him some of the thumbnails she’d drawn for it.

“This is the idea, I think I need to practice it on something smaller though, just to get a feel for it” she explains as she points to the different shapes on the page, but then Spencer gets an idea.

“Use me” he says, and she just looks at him perplexed, “You said I was interesting, use me as your canvas?” he pulls off his cardigan as he speaks, rolling up his shirt sleeves to expose his bare arms.

“Spencer, I meant like, a smaller sheet or something, not your arm!” she’s laughing it off, mostly because being in close contact like that with him would probably break her.

“Well use my back then” he says it like it’s obvious, taking off his tie, then unbuttoning his shirt from the top, getting to the third button before she reaches out to stop him.

“You don’t have to do that” she says it with a laugh, like her heart’s not beating out of her chest from the little glimpse of bare skin she can see through the open part of his shirt.

He looks straight into her eyes as he speaks, “I want to.” the words settle in the air between them and they come to a silent agreement. Her hands falling from his so that he can undo the rest of his buttons, shrugging out of his shirt so that she can see his bare torso.

He sits like that for a second, awaiting instructions.

“Um, you should lie down on your front” she says, gesturing to the canvas laid out on the ground, “Wait!” she calls out as he moves to lie down, “You should probably take off your trousers? I don’t wanna get paint on them or anything”

It’s the truth really, but it still feels silly to say out loud. Luckily he just laughs a little and takes them off, but the little clinking sound his belt makes does something to her breathing.

By the time he’s laying face down on the canvas, his head resting on his folded arms, she’s got her materials all lined up next to her. She kneels down beside him, but as she's about to start it occurs to her that this is the complete wrong angle to start the piece. And she knows where she needs to sit, but she’s got no idea how to ask.

“Spencer— I can’t really— this angle is a bit, um…” she stutters

“Maybe you should sit on me?” he asks, uncharacteristically calm, maybe it was the way her voice kept going up an octave, or how fast her heart had been beating almost this entire time, but something made him realize that he wasn’t the nervous one here for maybe the first time since he’d known her.

“You would— You don't mind?” she asks before even moving, and he smiles to himself.

“How could I?”

With that she climbs in top of him, resting a leg either side of his hips. She’s painfully aware that the only thing separating them now is the thin layer of each of their underwear. But she pushes the thought aside as she gets to work.

Spencer’s quiet and well behaved for most of it, only remarking every now and again when the paint was cold against his skin, or when he had to move just a little. All in all she’s finished within an hour.

“Are you finished?” he asks, his eyes closed, relaxing beneath her as she worked. There was something almost therapeutic about the feeling of the brushstrokes against his skin. But he hadn’t felt one for 3 whole minutes now.

“Yeah, sorry, I was just admiring it” she says, “I’ll take a picture for you” she reaches for her phone, snapping a quick photo. Then she sits up off of him and he misses the weight of her on top of him instantly.

When he sits up she sits down opposite him, handing over the phone so that he can take a look at the painting that adorned his back. He almost couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. The delicate lines, the striking colors, the perfect hands that had painted it.

“This is— I don’t even have the words” he says it in a hushed whisper, “I love it so much” she knows he’s telling the truth again, his eyes don't even look up from the screen to see her reaction, they’re still completely transfixed on the photo. When he does look up he’s smiling.

“Am I telling the truth?” he asks and she nods, but something about her nervous little expression, coupled with her sky-rocketing heart rate gives him the confidence he’s needed for years.

“What if I told that I’ve liked you for a very long time? Would I be telling the truth about that?” his smile is gone, instead it’s replaced with half-lidded eyes and softly parted lips.

For a second she’s not even sure if this is really happening, her eyes trail along his bare torso, taking in the tiny bits of paint that made it down his sides. When her eyes come back up to look in his own, still trained on her she can’t even speak, instead she’s lunging at him, pulling him in by the back of the neck and crashing their lips together.

She parts hers after a moment, allowing Spencer to slip his tongue inside, tangling with her own as his hands fly out to grab her by the waist, pulling her into his lap. When they break apart their chests are heaving, breathing ragged, staring straight into each others eyes.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long” he gasps before his lips are on hers again, hungry and eager.

Her hands start to roam all over his body, soothing over the planes of his skin, digging her fingernails in every now and again, forcing a little moan out of Spencer each time. When he finally grows too impatient his fingers start to work open the buttons on her oversized shirt.

After a minute he’s managed to get them all open and he can pull the shirt apart. As it slouches off of her shoulders he can see her underwear, it’s mismatched and there’s something endearing about it. The fact that neither of them anticipated this. But that was probably for the best, if he knew this is what he was going to do tonight his nerves would’ve gotten the better of him.

His hands are on her immediately, grabbing her breasts over the light cotton fabric, squeezing them gently as he presses his mouth against her neck, planting soft kisses all along it. She takes the time to shrug out of the shirt completely, and his hands snake behind her to unhook her bra and pull it off. Exposing her breasts completely for just a second before his mouth is on them. Cupping one in each hand and placing rough, sloppy kisses all over the soft skin as she moans above him.

“Spencer” she says it with a little gasp as his lips wrap around one of her nipples, just the sound of his name tumbling from her lips was enough to make him hard.

“I need you” she whimpers, and he's gone, bringing one of his hands down between her legs, ghosting over the crotch of her panties to feel the damp patch that had formed there.

“You’re so wet for me” he breathes against her ear, pushing one of his fingers harshly against the fabric, right against her clit, forcing another moan from deep in her chest.

“Fuck, I’ve been wet since I climbed on top of you” she moans, “I was worried you were gonna be able to feel it” she says with a breathy laugh.

“If I’d have been able to feel this,” he says, rubbing small circles over her panties, “then you wouldn’t have gotten to finish that painting”

Once he takes his fingers away she pushes him down by his shoulders, finally straddling the other side of his hips like she’d been thinking about doing for the past hour, or past several years. But he lets out a small yelp of protest.

“The painting!” he says as his back collides with the canvas but she chuckles.

“Fuck the painting” she leans in planting feverish kisses all along the expanse of his neck, sucking and biting in spots so that they’d hopefully leave little bruises later on.

From there they both give up on trying to preserve any of the art on Spencer’s back. Within a matter of minutes it was smeared all along the canvas beneath them. Along with some of the paint one, or both of them, had managed to knock over.

He’s not sure exactly how it happened but at one point he grips her waist and leaves a blue hand print along her skin from the paint he’d managed to put his palm in. When she catches sight of it she just lets out a small laugh.

“I don’t care” she says, when he’s looking up at her with just the smallest hint of worry, “As long as it doesn't get inside me we’re alright”

Before they get too messy she sits up off of him for a minute, taking off her panties and using them to wipe off the little bit of paint that had somehow ended up next to Spencer’s bottom lip. He lets out a small gasp as she traces the fabric along his skin and mutters a tiny, “Good as new” in her sultry sweet voice.

And then her lips are on his again as one of her hands snakes down in-between them to pull at the waistband of his boxers, she gets them down far enough to pull his cock out so that it was right in front of her. He was already achingly hard but something about the size of if in her nimble fingers made him twitch in her grip, leaking from the head with the anticipation.

“God, the things I want to do to you” she gasps as she pumps him up and down in long last strokes, squeezing every now and again as he squirmed underneath her, “But right now I need you inside me Spencer”

With that she rises up on her knees, hovering over him and lining his cock up right between her legs. She takes a second to tease him, running the head through her folds, so that he could feel and hear just how wet she was for him. Once he looks like he can’t take even one more second of the teasing she lowers her hips slowly, sinking down onto his length bit by bit. Right until her hips were flush with his own and he was buried completely inside of her.

They both had to take a minute to savor the feeling. The way she was so wet and warm around him, so tight that he could feel the way she clenched around him. 

The way he stretched her out so perfectly, filling her up in a way that made her think they might actually be made for each other.

And then she starts to move, pumping her hips up and down, leaning forward slightly so that she can rest her hands on his flushed chest for support. She starts off slow, almost at a teasing pace, taking him in as deep as she could each time.

“You feel even better than I imagined” he mutters, his hands coming up to grab her hips, leaving another set of handprints in their wake. “So perfect”

She leans down a little further so that she can place a small kiss on his lips.

“God, you do to! Didn’t know it could feel this good” she moans without really thinking about it, and then she realizes it’s the truth. Something about the anticipation made all of this feel so much better than it ever had with anyone else.

With his hands guiding her now, gripping her harshly, she starts to move faster. Working up and down with more force, both of them panting and moaning desperately as they grew closer and closer.

He’d dreamt about it, imagined it, thought about it, more times than he’d care to admit. But seeing her now, on top of him with her lips softly parted, little whines falling out of her as she hit her climax, he realized his mind could never do this justice.

“Fuck! Ah— Spencer, I’m gonna—” her hips slow to almost a stop, working up and down still but with staggered movements as she rides out her high. Thankfully Spencer’s only a second behind her and she can feel the way he's spilling inside of her, filling her up completely. Then she collapses flat onto his chest, both of them are covered in a sheen of sweat that almost makes their bare skin stick together.

“You’re covered in paint you know” is the first thing Spencer says, his fingers tracing along her back.

“You’re one to talk” she jokes, dragging her finger through the streak of red paint that had gotten on his neck somehow.

Then he finally turns his head, looking at the spilled and smeared paint that lay around them on the once bare canvas.

“I thought you needed this canvas for that painting?” he asks, but she just looks up at him with a smile.

“I think this turned out better”

– –

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[sunfish-studies]

Cogs

✄・・・ Feathery Ink [Karasuno Manager Series]

➜ Pairing: Karasuno x Manager! Reader

➜ Warning: none

➜ Notes: This is a separate series from Crisp Leaves. Similar to Crisp Leaves, manager in this story will be portrayed as a girl. She will be tall. This is just my appreciation towards tall girls, you guys are amazing.

Previous:  ‹ VS Umbrella › | Next:  ‹ Celebration ›

↷ SUMMARY ↶

Last day of summer training camp is here!

For the first time, you’re kind of reluctant rising from the warm and comfortable futon you slept on. However, once you’re mind began to work and realizing yourself that you’re still in the training camp, you jolted awake almost instantly–removing the blanket and began tidying up.

Gathering your facewash and toothbrush to freshen up, you found yourself yawning in between–it’s not just you fortunately, because Yachi did the same.

“I’m sure you’re pretty tired, Hitoka-chan, [Name]-chan,” Shimizu giggled at both of you. “Are you two okay?”

“Yes! We’re sorry!” Yachi was quick to apologize for the both of you.

“Today’s the last day, so let’s do our best.”

“Right!” this time, you’re the one who answered her.

Yachi said she was going on ahead, and that left you still tidying up–you’re thinking of just packed everything because in the evening, you’re already be on your way back to Miyagi. That and Takeda-sensei informed the managers about something so you would have no time to pack freely. After you finished everything, you finally could freshen up and start the day.

Descending downstairs towards the women’s bathroom, you bumped into Kageyama who went to fetch on something he left behind.

“Oh, Kageyama-kun, morning.” You greeted.

“Morning, [Name]-san.” He replied with a nod.

“You seemed energetic, weren’t you practicing with Hitoka-chan the night before?”

“Oh, about that,” you could see the excitement glittering from his eyes, he definitely had good news to present because for the past few days the boy was frustrated. “The tosses finally worked. Coach Ukai gave me some directions and it worked.”

“Really? That’s great!” the excitement was infectious, alright. You knew Kageyama had been working extremely hard to make it successful and after days of failure, he finally nailed it–you were incredibly happy for him. “I can’t wait to see it!”

“If that dumbass could keep up that is,” the raven-haired boy them grumbled underneath his breath.

“Don’t worry, Shoyo-kun changed,” you assured him. “Him, you, and the whole team too. Even Tsukishima-kun. That’s why I can’t wait to see this new Karasuno and the new quick.”

“We will make that quick happen,” Kageyama stated without hesitation. “Because we want to go to the nationals.”

You smiled at him. “I have no doubt.”

.

.

“Uhm, not to be offensive, but,” you found your shoulders shook violently from you tried your best to withstand the urge to burst out laughing and rolling on the floor–it practically costed you your whole will to hold it. “Why are you drooling, Kageyama-kun?”

Yachi watched from the sidelines–you approached Kageyama to gave him his water bottle and from whatever you’re talking about with him, he seemed to be extremely embarrassed. Then the raved-haired boy proceeded to lean closer and whispered something beside your ear–which made Yachi squeaked.

“[Name]-chan and Kageyama-kun is quite close these days, right?” Shimizu suddenly said.

“Yes,” Yachi answered almost immediately. “[Name]-chan said Kageyama-kun asked for her advices and Kageyama-kun usually walked her home after club when it’s too dark.”

“Do you think something else happened between them?” Yachi couldn’t help but feeling fire engulfed her face instantly from Shimizu’s (not-serious) speculation.

“WHA-NO-HEEE!?”

“I’m just kidding, Hitoka-chan!” still, Shimizu pretty much enjoyed the extremely flustered girl’s reaction. “Oh, [Name]-chan, what did you talk about with Kageyama-kun?”

After distributing half of the water bottles, you jogged back to where Yachi and Shimizu stood. You tilted your head before snickering underneath your breath and answered. “He asked something about barbeque this afternoon.”

“How did he know!?” Yachi yelped because mainly the info was shared only between the coaches, who arranged the whole thing, and the managers, who’s in charge to prepare all the ingredients.

“Sawamura probably accidently eavesdropping the coach,” Shimizu pointed out, smiling. “By the way, Hitoka-chan shouldn’t you give the other half away?”

“I-I’M SORRY!!”

.

.

Final match for Karasuno was against Fukurodani–even from all the losses, the boys were still in high-spirits thanks to Sawamura’s short speech. You knew they wouldn’t be disappointed even though they loss so many matches because now they earned several new weapons for the preliminaries.

Through the match, you understood how Fukurodani is called a powerhouse–the players are skilled and knew the opportunities to score even when their receives a bit off. That and Akaashi truly lived up to his name as a setter in the line-up. Also, Bokuto’s insane angle of spikes were sights to see every time.

“That’s an insane cut shot,” Sugawara commented which made Yachi looked at him questioningly, thankfully Shimizu was ready with an explanation.

“Hitting at a sharp angle against three blockers is really tricky. It can be hard on your shoulders if they’re not flexible, too.”

“[Name]-chan, [Name]-chan! Did you see that!? Did you see my awesome cut shot!?” Bokuto called out way from the other side of the court, looking at you expectantly after he pulled-off the move. You glanced towards Sawamura in search of his approval to reply to the excited owl-captain, to which he nodded.

“I saw it!” You replied with a smile. “It’s amazing, Bokuto-san! Do you think you could hit like that again?”

“ANYTHING FOR [NAME]-CHAN!!”

You almost laughed at Akaashi’s look of disapproval, both at you and the owl captain and clearly sent the ‘don’t encourage him’ message to you indirectly. Surely, today’s match was filled with many surprises–Hinata’s feint attack, Kageyama’s unexpected dump, and even the one you’ve been waiting for; Hinata and Kageyama’s new quick. Both you and Yachi instantly screamed in pure glee–hugging each other in excitement.

“You did it! You did it!” Yachi even cheered and jumping. “Nice kill, Hinata! Kageyama-kun!”

“Nice toss, Kageyama-kun! Nice kill, Shoyo-kun! You two are amazing!” You added, grinning widely–the two have been practicing hard for three weeks, and those three weeks of cold-shoulder towards each other too. It was putting quite a strain but now, the two were finally back in action.

The two thrusted their fists to you and Yachi in reply–you two were probably the happiest ever currently.

And the excitement only lasts for a few minutes because they nailed it one time, but not so for another. Probably just luck, still it’s happiness though–they needed to practice more, however it wouldn’t be a problem for the two.

This also could be count as Karasuno’s lucky day–Nishinoya and Azumane’s back attack pulled off perfectly although it’s still out. The libero, of course, was very much frustrated. The synchro-attack worked and you swore Tanaka was crying out of happiness and relief because he could score comfortably.

“Tanaka-san, nice kill!” you cheered, which made him perked up and then laughing in victory.

“Thanks, [Name]-chan!”

From all the matches you’ve watched, Karasuno clearly made a difference in this one–they’re in their top shape. When the score reached 18 for either team, a technical timeout was commenced. Both you and Yachi immediately worked on distributing water bottles and towels.

“Good work, Tanaka-san, Nishinoya-san!” you said, handing them their water bottles.

“Ryu!” Nishinoya suddenly gripped his chest tightly. “Our manager just praises us!”

“I’m feeling blessed, Noya-san!” Tanaka replied, mimicking the libero–and here you thought the heat maybe started getting into them. You panicked for absolutely no reason and then decided to excuse yourself.

“Good work today, Tsukishima-kun,” Tsukishima nodded and muttered a thank you in reply, taking the water bottle from your hand.

“…Is there a way to make your finger stays in place while doing one-touch?” now you’re surprised because he made an attempt to ask first, however you didn’t let it show because you knew how it would piss him off.

“You could tape it to made it stiff enough to receive one-touch,” you suggested in the end. The taller boy hummed in reply before giving you the water bottle back so he could return to the match.

The next match wasn’t going well–for the other team that is. You noticed how Bokuto seemed to be agitated and rash with his moves–he almost hit his teammate with his serve, demanding tosses from Akaashi, and finally, third time’s the charm, when he failed scoring from hitting the net instead. Another score for Karasuno, who managed to turn the match to their favor for the leading score of 20.

“W-was that a block?” Yachi questioned.

“No…” Shimizu replied, rather taken aback by the event. “It didn’t seem to make it over the net, so it was spike miss,”

“Bokuto-san, I mean #4’s movement is also unnatural,” you commented, making the two managers turned to look at you. “He’s been rushing things and has been on the edge ever since the time-out.”

“Now that you’re talking about it…” Shimizu nodded in agreement.

“Akaashi, don’t toss to me anymore!” Bokuto exclaimed, which sounded extremely out of place in the middle of a volley match. Sure, it not only confuses you but your whole team even Coach Ukai and Takeda-sensei.

“Do you know about this, [Name]-chan?” Yachi asked and you shook your head immediately.

“No, this is the first time I’ve seen Bokuto-san acts like that,” you answered. “And it looks like the team’s already used to this.”

True to your words, the team played like usual as if nothing happened–Bokuto only stared and follow the ball dazedly while the other working to attack and defend. What’s more amazing, with the lack of Bokuto’s participating they’re just as strong–something you would expect from a powerhouse school.

It caught your team off guard for a bit, however on the other hand, Tsukishima also wasn’t fazed a bit–could be seen from how he managed to shut out an incoming spike from #7. If Karasuno scored another, it would be deuce and a chance to turn the tables.

“Nice block, Tsukishima-kun!” you exclaimed, earning a glance and nod from the said boy.

When Asahi went for a usual serve rather than jump-serve, you understood he didn’t want to mess up their chance at winning. Fukurodani’s libero received in cleanly and Akaashi immediately went for a high-toss. Noticing how Tsukishima rushed towards the left, you knew your team lowered their guard.

“The left! Don’t let it open!” you yelled almost instinctively. Yachi’s soul jumped out of her body from your sudden loud voice, even Coach Ukai and Takeda-sensei was taken aback for a few seconds. Bokuto blew the blocker away because they’re only 1.5 block, it’s not even enough to had a one-touch. He killed it with a straight shot down the court and Fukurodani won with two points leading.

Disappointment flared in your team–from the ones on the court, the ones watching from the sidelines, even Takeda-sensei. Coach Ukai could only sigh, Shimizu resumed with her notes, and Yachi felt her shoulders slumped. You smiled bitterly at the turn out events.

“Whoo! Ace!”

“You’re so cool!”

“Nothing beats the ace in the end!”

Fukurodani’s team members started throwing compliments and it made you blinked in confusion–moreover, Kaori and Yukie even jumped in to join.

“Birds of prey!”

“Your hair’s like a great-horned owl!”

Was that supposed to be a compliment…?

“Otohaku-san…!” the call was in a form of a hissed whisper and unexpectedly came from Akaashi himself. The message he sent to you was clear, ‘please, help us this time’–you replied indirectly with pointing to yourself with a look of disbelief present on your face.

‘Me!? What should I say!?’

‘Anything. Just praise him.’

Probably taking a bit pity for the setter, Sawamura nodded to your direction and gave you a smile of reassurance. You wanted to cry from how compassionate he’s being–bless his beautiful soul. That and the look of doneness and a little pleading from Fukurodani’s team was extremely hard to reject.

“Y-You’re amazing! Nothing less from top ace of Japan!” You wanted to slap yourself from the poor excuse of praise. Thankfully it seemed to work magic because Bokuto was instantly revived back to his cheerful and boisterous persona.

“I’m the best afterall!!” he cheered, laughing in victory. “Hey, hey, hey!”

Meanwhile, Akaashi took his sweet time to get off the court to fetch his drink and towel. Although, he did give you slight a bow of gratefulness. In the end, it’s losses all the way for Karasuno, however they acquired several weapons to fight on the national court–it’s not overall a loss because they also gained something new in exchange.

“[Name]-chan! I’m the best, right!?”

“You sure are, Bokuto-san.”

“Stop bothering Otohaku-san, Bokuto-san.”

#haikyuu!! #haikyu #haikyuu #haikyu manager #haikyuu manager #karasuno x reader #karasuno x manager #kageyama x reader #kageyama tobio x reader #tanaka x reader #nishinoya x reader #hinata x reader #hinata shouyo x reader #bokuto x reader #akaashi x reader #tsukishima x reader #yachi x reader #yachi hitoka x reader #shimizu kiyoko x reader #shimizu x reader #kiyoko x reader

[andypantsx3]

shoto and 'when i find out who is responsible for this...' IM A SUCKER FOR OVERPROTECTIVE SHO LMAO

This one was one of my faves to write, I really hope you like it!

Damage | Todoroki/Reader

Prompt: “When I find out who is responsible for this...” Word Count: 1600 words Tags/Warnings: SFW, ye olde quirk accident trope Notes: Special thanks again to my lady love @bobawithpomegranate for beta-ing me!! Also, for anyone who hasn’t suffered a corporate job: KPIs = key performance indicators, which are a set of business metrics used to measure success in certain areas.

The first sign that something was wrong should have been in line for security. 

Ayako—your favorite member of the Todoroki Agency security team—was waving a detector wand over your clothes when she asked casually, “How’s it going?”

Any other morning, your response was something along the lines of, “Oh, it’s going. How are you?” This morning, however, you blurted, “Good! Except that I bumped someone on the train and spent ten minutes trying to get a coffee stain out of this shirt, and I feel a little sick when I think about leading the KPIs review because Shouto’s property damage numbers are up again which doesn’t look great, so I skipped breakfast but honestly I’m super hungry right now, that was a bad choice, and—”

You cut yourself off, utterly bewildered. Ayako looked similarly nonplussed, raising a slim brow. 

“Uh, nevermind. I’ll just be going,” you said, and hared off to the rest of the security checkpoints before she could give commentary.

So you might have known that something was wrong even before you let yourself into Shouto’s manager’s office, armed with your monthly spreadsheets and performance slide decks. But you hadn’t given it more thought since then, a move which proved to be a complete mistake.

Shouto was already there, lounging in the set of chairs in front of his manager’s desk, looking less like a hero waiting for a meeting and more like some airbrushed ad for his dark turtleneck or his close-fit grey slacks. Your heart shot into your throat at the sight of him, like it usually did, and you had to remind yourself to relax.

Though he was unbearably handsome to the point of distraction, Shouto was relatively easy to get along with, something that should have made you calmer in his presence. He was straightforward, possessed of very little ego, thoughtful, and a very linear and strategic thinker—you’d worked extremely well with him the past couple of years, and Shouto, though he had less to do with the daily operations of the agency, had helped push your promotion last year to Director of Public Relations. It should have added up to an easy and uncomplicated work partnership, but his personality only made your unfortunate crush on him even worse.

He was so horribly, horribly perfect. And you were an awful little metrics gremlin, called in to roast him over the open flame of public opinion once a month. Really not something Shouto might be interested in.

“Y/N,” he said, looking up from his phone and fixing you with an intent look. Your heart stuttered under those heterochromatic eyes.

“Hi, Shouto,” you said, setting down your bag and digging out your laptop for something to take your attention off of him. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” he answered in his deep tone. “How are you?”

And that was it. The damning question that sent it all to hell.

“My heart feels like it could explode any second, and I feel kind of faint, weirdly weak, and incredibly distracted,” you answered, naming the symptoms of his very presence.

There was a beat of silence. You froze, crouched over your bag, laptop halfway out of it. Then it hit you what had just been said, and you slapped a hand over your mouth in horror. 

Shouto was up out of his chair in the blink of an eye, kneeling in front of you with cool fingers on your face, angling it towards him.

“You’re not well?” he asked, those eyes locking on you with an alarming intensity.

His attention only made things worse. “I feel like I might pass out,” you said, cringing even as the words left your mouth.

Fuck, what the hell were you saying? You were making it sound like you were some Victorian maiden, ready to swoon in the mere company of a gentleman. And why were you saying this shit? You’d worked with him for years and you’d never let slip the effect he had on you—what was wrong with you this morning?

You thought back to the coffee incident on the train this morning, the way the girl whose drink you had spilled had startled, the way she had weirdly apologized to you even as you were in the midst of your own apology.

A sense of foreboding settled over you. 

Oh.

Oh fuck.

“I think I’ve been hit with a quirk,” you blabbed.

Shouto’s features shuttered, a hard look you’d never really seen before entering his eye. He went over to his manager’s desk, dialing a number on her office phone, and then he was talking in low tones, asking someone from medical to come up to her office immediately.

Then he was back at your side, easing you carefully to the floor like you actually were in danger of passing out, and not just a huge idiot with an incredibly fat crush that made you say the world’s most ridiculous things.

“When I find out who’s responsible for this,” he uttered, low and dangerous, “they might never be able to use a quirk again.”

For some reason, the threat warmed you, even as it sent a little shiver down your spine. Was it weird to find him hot when he was angry?

You clamped your mouth firmly shut, lest you tell him exactly what illness prevailed you, but your silence was all for naught.

Because when one of the medical staff made it up to the office, pressing a quirk testing strip to your skin, she pronounced, “A truth quirk.”

Shouto caught your hand before it could smack into your forehead, looking surprised that he had done so. And then even more surprised at the pronouncement.

“A truth quirk,” he echoed, looking down at you curiously. His fingers were gentle where they held your wrist.

You squirmed uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

“But then, you’re still not well,” he said. He looked up at the medical staffer. “She’s feeling faint, and having problems with her heart.”

“She’s fine,” the staffer confirmed, holding up a scanner with your vital readings. They were embarrassingly perfect—incredibly, perfectly, damnably normal.

You could have died. You literally could have died.

Shouto looked down at you with a little wrinkle on his perfect brow, obviously wondering how you could admit symptoms like that given a truth quirk, only for there to be no physical sign of them. You tried to hold down the truth, but another question from him doomed you.

“But how?” he asked, clearly concerned, cool fingers smoothing over your cheekbone.

“I have an insanely huge crush on you,” you blurted. Then you unleashed a string of colorful swears, flushing so hot you thought you might catch fire.

Those heterochromatic eyes went a little round at the edges.

The medical staffer looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh as she bade a quick farewell. She was out the door before you could catch her sleeve and hold her like a shield against Shouto’s incredibly penetrating stare.

“I’m. Um. You know, sorry and everything,” you added. “I won’t let it interfere with work. I mean, I haven’t, any of the past couple years—fuck, oh my god, I just said that—”

Shouto was watching your mouth like he couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of it.

“Say it again,” he said.

You paused, staring at him. “What?”

“Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“My heart feels like it could explode any second, and I feel kind of faint, weirdly weak, and incredibly distracted,” you answered obediently.

“Because of me,” he said, like it was a wonder.

You gave him an annoyed look. Obviously because of him, who the fuck else did he think wielded that combination of attractiveness and straightforward appeal like an S-class quirk of its own?

Shouto choked on a laugh, and you realized with some horror that you’d said all of that out loud. 

Damn the fucking truth quirk.

“I don’t know,” Shouto said, sounding amused. “I think I rather like it. When I find out who is responsible for this, I might have to thank them instead.”

This stopped you short.

He what now?

“I’m sorry, what?”

Something a little like a smirk curled the corner of Shouto’s mouth. “It is generally gratifying to know one’s feelings are returned, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I wouldn’t know—” you started, feeling annoyed with him again. Then you choked when the implication of his words sank in.

Shouto’s fingers slid down to cup your chin, and suddenly it felt like every nerve ending in your body was concentrated there, the touch magnified a thousand-fold into an all-consuming sensation. 

“Would you like me to kiss you?” he asked lightly, looking smug.

“Oh my god yes—” The answer was out of your mouth before he’d even finished the question.

Shouto laughed, and then he was leaning in. You could feel the smile still on his mouth when it met yours. Shouto’s kiss was careful and attentive, but you could sense something deeper beneath, the same kind of restrained sort of passion that underlaid his quirk. Having that kind of controlled intensity turned on you was something you could have never prepared for.

The kiss became deeper and more heated, and Shouto was just easing you backwards again, still pressed firmly to you, when the door opened and his manager blew in.

“This is a fucking office,” she said, stepping over the two of you like you were a grimy puddle in the street. “Now hurry the fuck up, we have KPIs to review. Shouto—don’t think this will derail me from your property damage numbers increasing.”

Shouto huffed into your mouth, slumping against you.

You couldn’t do anything but laugh.

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