#Concise is hard for me; that's something I'm working on

[screambirdscreaming]

Something that peeves me whenever I see another post going around with some variation on "autistic people take things literally which means we are the only people who communicate Clearly and Directly" is that - for any given statement, there is not one singular, agreed on, universal Literal Interpretation. If there was, none of this would be a problem!

The nature of language is that there's always some degree of interpretability. Words have several different meanings, often overlapping, and there's nuance of context, cultural references, and so on.

Faced with a statement, most people will quickly come up with an interpretation that to them makes the most sense. But if you asked a roomful of people to explain in detail their interpretations, everyone's would probably be a little different, even for a pretty simple statement. Regardless of whether those people are autistic! Everyone conceptualizes the world a little differently, and everyone has a unique personal history of all the language they've encountered, and these things effect our interpretations.

In order for communication to be workable, given this slosh in interpretability, there's another couple of processes that go on. As conversation goes on, people reassess if their initial interpretation matches up with additional context. If it doesn't, they revise it, or ask clarifying questions. And on the flipside of this process, the other person in conversation is tracking if your reactions make sense with *their* understanding of what they're trying to convey to you, and offering context or rephrasing things if it seems you're out of alignment.

These processes are social skillsets that are, like most social skillsets, not ever directly articulated or explained. Many people are bad at one or both. Sometimes you encounter someone who is really, notably good at it - the vaunted "good listener", who puts in the effort to really understand what you're trying to say, or that really excellent teacher who engages with you back and forth until you really get it. But a lot of the time, it's a sort of passive social friction - people just not getting each other.

Sometimes, you encounter someone whose brain works so much like yours that talking to them feels almost effortless - you just get each other. But that's a pretty rare occurrence for anyone. More often, as you get to know someone, you start to understand the shape of the way they interpret things and learn to account for it, so over time it's easier to make sense to each other.

It's honestly not uncommon in society for people to aggregate in groups of people who interpret things similarly, and who are thus easier to talk to, rather than actually building the skills of communicating across interpretation gaps. Particularly egregious are those groups of men who talk about Women as an incomprehensible monolith, but it turns up to a greater or lesser degree on a lot of levels.

I suspect this is the root of a lot of parenting problems - people who have never built this communication skillset, and relied on choosing friends who make sense to them without a lot of effort, and who are then totally unprepared to interact with a child who interprets things in ways they don't expect.

Obviously I can't speak to The Universal Typical Experience, not least because it doesn't exist. But in general I would posit that:

Most people, give or take a few assholes, are not trying to say things that are confusing. Most people think they are communicating clearly, because the first interpretation *they* would come up with on hearing one of their own sentences is the correct interpretation.

Many people are not very good at accounting for different ways people could interpret things they're saying. However, it is normal and polite social behavior to be somewhat flexible about this and forgiving of misunderstandings. If people are being shitty to you about not understanding them, they are assholes. And I wouldn't assume that the rest of the communication they have with everyone else they know goes totally smoothly for them.

I suspect there is a bit of an unfortunate feedback loop, where people have bad experiences when someone gets mad at them for not getting something, and learn to hide when they're confused. Which then leads to larger, more complicated misunderstandings, which other different people get upset at them about, because those people think they should have asked for clarification in the first place.

Truly you can't win with everyone. No one can win with everyone. There is no monolith of "neurotypical communication" which resolves all these contradictions - all those people you're lumping in together under "neurotypical" have just as much trouble with each other.

[outlying-hyppocrate]

positively despising how my consistent personality is leaving me and how i resort to such strange lies

[heart-of-the-morningstar]

Alr hear me out, the service top lucifer with a very insecure reading. (Fem or GN) like he has to coax the reader to like open up (God damn I'm blushing thinking abt it-). Maybe even having to like talk them into even taking thier clothes off. Just a little idea stuck in my head.

Thank you very muchly.

Ooooooohh you’re giving me IDEAS (tbh I’d be the same boat)

~~~~

✨Opening Up✨

Lucifer x f!reader

Warnings: 18+, smut, nipple play, pet names, oral (m & f receiving), p in v, service top!Lucifer

It has become evident that I am unable to write anything concise 😅

I’M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG I MEANT TO POST THIS DAYS AGO 😭😭

Tag list: @trashbin-nie

@yellowsubiesdance

@j-jinxee

@stevensdickrider

@airwolf92

@mrssabinecallas

@myhornybrainonlyknowsthis

@bee-sinner

@thesoccerenthusiast

@katshyperfixations

@logybearsblog

@bigfatbimbo

You sat upright on Lucifer’s king sized bed, the King of Hell straddling your lap. You don't know how you even ended up in this position, not on this bed necessarily, but how you ended up as Lucifer's beloved. You believed in your heart that you did not deserve him, but time and time again Lucifer has showered you with praise and adoration like no one ever had before. He was perfect. And you were...you. It didn't make sense.

Regardless, that didn't stop him from holding your face tenderly in his hands while he kissed you with a fiery passion. You were self conscious about being so vocal around him during intimacy, but he made it his mission to elicit as many moans and whines from you as possible. Slowly, he reached down to the hem of your sleep shirt, grabbing a fistful of fabric. Your eyes popped open, your mind racing. You pulled away from his lips and went to grab his wrist that held your clothing.

"I-I'm sorry, love," he apologized, releasing your shirt immediately. You sighed and let go of the grip you had on his hand. "I didn't mean to scare you, I should have asked. Please forgive me."

"No, no," you breathed, "it's alright. I'm not upset, I just panicked. I'm sorry."

Lucifer pressed his lips to your forehead and planted a small kiss. "Please don't ever think you need to apologize to me for how you feel, sweetheart."

"O-Ok," you stuttered.

"Do you want to stop?," Lucifer asked. You could hear the genuine concern in his voice. Hard as it was to believe, he cared about you more than anything.

You shook your head. "No."

"You're sure?," Lucifer questioned further, "because if you're uncomfortable, we can-"

You cut him of mid-sentence with a quick peck to his lips. He smiled bashfully, a cute blush spreading across his face. "Believe me, Luci, I want this. I mean I really want this, but..." you found it difficult to articulate what you wanted to say.

"Well, if that's the case darling, what if I go first then?," Lucifer proposed. You cocked your head, unsure of what he was talking about. He reached up and began to unbutton his shirt, starting from the top and working his way down. Oh...OH.

Your face instantly feels hotter and your breathing becomes staggered. You tried to say something, but the words caught in your throat. Your mouth had never felt drier. He finally reached the last button of his shirt and you finally see some of his chest. You could almost feel your brain short circuiting.

"Do you wanna do the honors, my dear?," he asked playfully. You gulped as your hands reached towards his shoulders. Gingerly, you slid his sleeves down each arm, slowly revealing more and more skin to you. Once his shirt was completely removed, you couldn’t help but stare. His chest was so smooth and toned, almost like it had been sculpted. “Like what you see?” Lucifer questioned coyly, noticing your unwavering expression of awe.

"W-Well that's hardly fair," you whispered, finally finding your voice, "you're an actual angel. Of course you're going to be gorgeous, I-" you slapped your hand over your mouth once you realized what you had said. "Please pretend you didn't hear that!," you begged through your hand.

Lucifer's face was flushed pink, he could help but smile. He chuckled as he went to remove your hand from your face. "Is that what you really think about me, sweetheart? I'm truly flattered to hear that coming from someone as exquisite as you."

"You...You really think..." you started to say but couldn't finish. Tears began to well up in your eyes, you tried to rub them away before Lucifer could see but it was too late. Lucifer cupped your face and ran his thumbs under your eyes to clear away the tears that had fallen. Your breath hitched, you tried to take in deep heavy breaths so you wouldn't start sobbing.

“Hey, hey, hey, shhhhh,” he spoke with a soothing tone. He removed himself from your lap and sat down next to you, embracing you in his arms. “It’s okay, angel, it’s ok. I upset you and I’m sorry, I never want to be the reason you cry.” He rested his head on top of yours while you clung to his chest. The scent of him hit your nostrils, it was like breathing in a warm spring day. Purely intoxicating. It calmed you down, you started to breathe normally again. You felt safe in his arms, you could have stayed there for the rest of your life.

You wrapped your arms around his torso, your tears finally drying. “Thank you, Lucifer,” you murmured. He gave you a tight squeeze before you lifted yourself back up, sitting at his hip and leaving your head on his shoulder. “You weren’t the reason I was sad, you know? You never have been.”

Lucifer turned his head to you, “Really? Then why-?”

“Because I’m afraid,” you quickly responded. “I’m afraid that I’m not good enough for you. That I never will be. You’re the all mighty Lucifer, King of Hell. You have so much strength and power and respect. And I’m…I’m just me.” You sighed and pulled your legs up to your chest to rest your head on your knees. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“Darling?,” Lucifer spoke at last. He brought himself in front of you on all fours and placed his hand under your chin, forcing you to look at him in his scarlet eyes. “ “Just you” is perfect. You don’t need to be anything but yourself! I understand what you’re feeling, and it’s okay to express that. But please know that I love you just the way you are. You are my true strength.”

You chuckled softly, leaning into his hand that was now pressed against your cheek. You took his words to heart; he loved you. He loved you so much. You had to show him that you felt the same way. You drew in a few quick and deep breaths before reaching for the hem of your sleep shirt.

“Wait, wait, what are you-” Lucifer tried to say, but you were too fast. Your shirt disappeared from your body and was tossed across the room. Silence filled the space, the only thing you could hear was your heart threatening to burst through your chest.

It was at that moment you noticed you couldn’t see Lucifer’s face. His hands had flown up to block his view of you.

“Lucifer?” you called to him.

“Y-You didn’t have to do that, love,” he stuttered. “I never wanted you to feel that you had to-”

“Please look at me, Luci,” you pleaded. “I love you. And I trust you. Let me show you. Please.”

You saw Lucifer’s hands slowly fall away from his hands, his eyes still screwed shut. “Are you sure?” he asked softly.

You leaned in to plant a kiss on his soft lip. Lucifer’s eyes shot open in surprise, you pulled away before he had a chance to react. Blood rushed to your cheeks when you saw him staring at you. Your first instinct was to cover yourself and shy away, but you pushed those feelings deep down. You were going to be vulnerable, you needed to be brave. Not just for him, but for yourself. You gripped the bed sheets so hard that you felt your nails digging into your skin through the silk.

After what seemed like an eternity, Lucifer had snapped out of his trance. He started to crawl towards you on his hands and knees, only stopping when his lips were inches away from your own. You felt his hot breath on you, you were finding it more and more difficult to keep your composure.

“You…are breathtaking,” he cooed, crashing his lips into yours hungrily. His tongue begged for entrance to your mouth, and you happily allowed it. You felt yourself slowly drifting down onto your back as you and Lucifer desperately devoured each other. He pulled away from your lips, trying to catch his breath, but you noticed he wasn’t looking into your eyes. His attention had drifted a little further down. He swallowed hard.

“May I?,” Lucifer asked breathlessly. Your face felt extremely hot and you couldn’t find the power to speak, so instead you nodded your head vigorously. He gave you a cheeky grin before lowering his mouth down onto one of your nipples. The noise you made sounded more high pitched than you meant it, but God, did it feel amazing! His tongue worked one nipple as his hand played with the other. You loved the sensation of him sucking and licking at your sensitive skin, the tiny bites from his teeth driving you insane. He rolled your other nipple between his two fingers, the pinches he gave sent your brain into overdrive. You never knew how sensitive you were, but Lucifer was more than happy to service you.

All of a sudden you noticed a different sensation, you felt something press against your inner thigh, dangerously close to your clothed pussy. It took your brain a few seconds to realize what was happening.

“Uhh, Lucifer, a-are you…”, you mumbled. Lucifer looked up from your chest with a puzzled face. “I can feel umm, I-I can feel your uhh…”, you didn’t know why you couldn’t say it. Maybe you were too embarrassed, which seemed silly considering what position you found yourself in. You pointed down towards your pants where Lucifer was wedged.

“Oh…OH,” Lucifer exclaimed pushing himself from you and onto his knees. “Oh my gosh, I-I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize you could uhh, feel that…please forgive me!”

Seeing him so flustered somehow calmed some of the nerves you had before. It was cute, really. Demon overlord Lucifer getting embarrassed about unintentionally pushing his hard on against your thigh. You let out a small giggle.

"It's alright, Luci," you chuckled. "I'm flattered, really!"

Lucifer smiled, placing his hand behind him to rub the back of his neck. "I'm still sorry about that, love. I'm a little embarrassed."

“Well,” you breathed, “I guess it’s only fair that I embarrass myself too then, right?” Without warning, you grabbed the waistband of your pants and ripped them off along with your panties in one fell swoop. You laid naked in front of Lucifer, whose whole face had turned a shade of red you’ve never seen before.

“Ffffuck,” was all Lucifer could muster. You watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall, attempting to regain his thoughts. Looking at you, it was plain to see how soaked you were.

“Like what you see?,” you teased. Lucifer nodded his head eagerly, still at a loss for words. You lifted your hand and curled your finger, beckoning him to you. Obediently, Lucifer crawled on the bed towards you with no reservations. “You’re not the only one that’s worked up here. Now we’re even.”

“My love, please…” Lucifer whined, “please let me taste you.”

"Don't you...wanna get more comfortable first?," you asked him, knowing the problem in his pants had probably only gotten worse for him.

"Not until I've had my fill of you, sweetheart," he smiled before forcing his head between your legs. The moan you let out was guttural, almost feral, he lapped your folds like a starving man. He took long, drawn out licks up your slit before focusing on your clit. His lips kissed and sucked on your sensitive nub, sending waves of pleasure throughout you entire body. You couldn't pull away if you tried, he had wrapped his arms under your legs so you couldn't escape his assault on your cunt.

"Sh-shit, oh-oh my God Lucifer, FUCK," you moaned. You could feel a smile form on his face as this seemed to have made him pick up the pace. You screamed from his tongue darting in and out of you, feeling so close to snapping. Your thighs started to fold in on his head and you grabbed a fistful of his hair trying to regain some assemblance of control. “Fuckfuckfuck, mmmm…gonna c-cum, aaggghh, gonnacumgonnacum!” Lucifer’s tongue relentlessly circling your clit finally caused your body to spasm, your orgasm causing you to scream out in pleasure. Lucifer didn’t stop though, he let you ride out your orgasm and hungrily devoured your release. Once you finally came down from your high, Lucifer lifted his face from between your legs and flashed you a toothy grin, seemingly quite proud of his work.

“You alright, darling?,” he asked innocently, almost pretending like he wasn’t the cause of what you had just experienced.

“Y-yeah, I’m…I’m fine,” you breathed. “Just…Jesus, that was intense! Give me a little warning before you go all in on me like that again!”

Lucifer laughed. “I’m sorry, love, I couldn’t help myself.”

You rolled your eyes at him playfully. “Oh, I’m sure you couldn’t. Now, let’s get these off you, hmm?,” you said tugging at his pants.

Lucifer stood up from the bed quickly. He undid his belt and let his pants drop to the floor. From the outlines of his briefs, you were surprised that they could contain him at all. Before he could pull at the hem, you jumped off the bed to stop him.

“Allow me,” you offered, getting on your knees in front of him. You reached up and grabbed onto his briefs, snaking them down his legs. His cock sprang free of its cage and hung in front of your face, its tip already leaking. Without thinking, your wrapped your lips around the head of his cock. Lucifer let out a moan that you’ve never heard before, filled with absolute lust and need. You took one of your hands and grabbed the base of his shaft, slowly stroking up and down while your mouth continued to work on his head. You ran small licks against the slit, tasting and lapping all of the precum that was forming. You loved the taste of him.

“Love…f-fuck,” Lucifer panted, trying to fight through his moans, “if you don’t s-stop now, I-I’m gonna cum. I wanna…wanna feel you. P-Please…”

Reluctantly, you pulled your mouth away from his cock with a *pop*, pouting slightly. Lucifer leaned down to grab your torso and tossed you onto the bed like you were made of paper mache. That angelic strength of his always caught you off guard. Lucifer crept between your legs, planting a tender kiss on your lips.

“I promise,” he whispered against your lips, “next time you can finish what you started, but right now I need you. Need to feel you.” Lucifer brought his fingers to your needy cunt, feeling the slickness of your folds. Your breath caught in your throat at the sensation. He took his other hand and lined up the tip of his cock to your entrance. “Are you ready, my angel?,” he asked softly.

You grinned and nodded your head. With that, Lucifer closed the space between you once more with a fiery kiss as his cock entered you inch by inch. Your cries mixed with his as he finally entered you completely.

“You feel…amazing, darling, fuck…” Lucifer choked out. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you murmured, “I-I’m okay. You can move.”

“Anything for you,” he smiled. Lucifer slowly began to rock his hips into you, his cock filling you up completely with each thrust. You could feel every inch of him ruining your pussy, hitting just the right spot every time. It didn’t take long for his pace to become erratic and uneven. He buried his cock deep inside you, both of your moans filling the room.

“Lu-Lucifer, o-oh shit, Lucifer, I-I’m so close,” you pleaded. “Please don’t stop, p-please don’t.”

“Cum for me, darling. Wanna feel you cum.” Lucifer groaned. He bit down on your should as he continued to pound into you, biting and sucking your tender skin. You were shaking, he was going too fast, you were coming undone.

“Cuminme…FUCKCUMINME,” you screamed and wrapped your legs around him as your orgasm flooded over you. You felt your walls pulsating around his cock, it was too much for Lucifer to handle. You heard him cry out and felt him twitch inside you, filling you up with his hot cum.

Coming down from your highs, you both laid there for a moment trying to catch your breath. You played with Lucifer’s hair as he laid across your chest, completely worn out. A minute or two passed before Lucifer sat up and pulled himself out of you. He laid down next to you, staring at your flushed face.

“Are you alright?,” he asked. “Did I hurt you at all?”

“No, you didn’t hurt me,” you smiled. “That felt…really good. Thank you, for everything.”

Lucifer hummed and leaned up to press a gentle kiss to your lips. “No, thank you, love.”

You chuckled returning the kiss. “Would…you mind if I held you, Luci?”

Lucifer’s eyes widened, but he smiled wide. “Of course not, I’d love nothing more.”

Lucifer rolled on his side, giving you the chance to push your body against his back and wrap your arms around him. You both didn’t move until the morning.

~~~~

Hope you enjoyed my second attempt at NSFW content lmaooooo

AND YEAH I MADE HIM THE LITTLE SPOON, IT’S WHAT HE WOULD WANT

[alllgator-blood]

updates/vent/idk

feel the need to post SOMETHING on here cause I've been gone so long, I don't think I'm going on a long hiatus or anything, I just don't like posting/replying to anything when I'm not doing well. I haven't been able to draw in a few weeks but I HAVE been working on plushies. I'll try to post some pics when they're done, I think you guys will really like them- I have shamura pretty much done aside from their robe, and aym + baal just need their faces and clothing details. About to start work on leshy but idk if he'll be done anytime soon, he's gonna be ginormous I hope. Actually the amount of cotl plush toys I've made is in the double digits and I haven't bothered to post any of them so I should really do that sometime...

give me til this weekend and I'll try to get some pics! Shamura in particular is my fave but I'm biased so that's no big surprise...

anyway vent type stuff below the cut, I can't get into detail about anything so it's a lot of nothing but it's mostly just an explanation for not being on much recently I guess.

I want to apologize for not responding to messages or asks or mentions or anything. I'm at a point where I can't mask like at all, and I feel sick thinking about posting or talking to anyone and pretending I'm alright, but I can't really talk about what happened either- so I'm at an impasse. I don't really know how to describe the year I've been having without getting into detail of what's been going on, and that's not terribly appropriate I don't think.

I wish I could concisely convey my feelings recently in a way that's not overshare-y, especially because there's not anything anyone can do to help, so I don't want to startle anyone?? I just don't feel good knowing there's people who want to talk to me but all my stupid ass can do is lay in bed and imagine I'm dead instead of typing some words back to them. I have a laundry list of conditions (big surprise huh?) so I easily crumple under any kind of stress, and when it's this prolonged with no reprieve or clear way out, it's hard to make it to the next day. It's hard to go online and seeing everyone able to act so normal while I feel like I'm in hell, idk. Waow it's just like that kallamar comic I did where he wanted 1 day off.....

All this stuff below the cut is pretty pointless but I think I just wanted to feel like I at least put it out there *somewhere* that I'm not alright, so I don't feel as guilty isolating. I promise there is a reason I've not responded to anyone in weeks or opened my messages. With time I'll get over it, I've lived this long so w/e, I just need time to feel shitty I think.

[notiddygothgf]

xii

★ pairings: aki hayakawa x fem reader

★ ❝ You're a devil ❞

★ c.w.: public foreplay, vibrator, smut, confusion again (thank you aki, we all say in unison), lovemaking ( uh ohhhh ), an epiphany. not beta'd

★ a/n: I'M BACKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!! omg i have been writing this chapter for like weeks now. it's been so hard. honestly i'm not even entirely sure if i'm happy with the way it turned out, but it was necessary, i'll say that. y'all are gonna have a lot of fun! until shit gets real. not saying tm but enjoy my lovelies ;) (also, if you wanna be on the same wavelength i was on when i wrote this, stream 'My All' by Mariah Carey)

★ w.c: 20k

pornstar ; chapter index

FRIDAY EVENING, after work, after taking a long, relaxing shower, you pulled on some loungewear and wrapped yourself in a cardigan, but you couldn't quite settle. Your thoughts kept drifting back to tonight.

Aki hadn't called it a date, not exactly. He had only said, Are you free Friday at 7?. That was it. No real details. No mention of where you were going. But something about the way he had said it—calm, deliberate—had made your stomach flip.

Now, as you made your way downstairs to the mailroom, you felt a strange nervousness settling in your chest. It was ridiculous, really. It was just Aki. You had spent countless hours with him, had some... late nights together, had made more drunken mistakes with him than you were willing to admit. But tonight felt different. Like something was shifting, tilting into unfamiliar territory.

You ran a hand over your arms, trying to shake the feeling as you entered the mailroom. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you rifled through your usual stack of bills and junk—until something unexpected made your breath catch.

A box.

You froze, staring at it for a moment before picking it up. It was light, unmarked except for your name printed neatly on the label. No return address. No clue where it had come from.

Your heart gave an uneasy thud. You didn't remember ordering anything.

A prickle of curiosity ran through you as you carried it back upstairs, your fingers gripping the edges a little tighter than necessary. Once inside your apartment, you set the box on your bed, hesitating only a second before peeling away the tape.

The flaps folded open easily, revealing something soft inside.

A dress.

Your breath hitched.

Beneath it, a folded letter. Handwriting – neat and deliberate. Calm, calculated slopes and curves of pretty cursive lettering. You recognized it from the post-it note Aki had handed you the other day. Clean. Concise. Him.

I hope this gets to you on time. Wear this on Friday. I'll be around to pick you up at 7 PM.

No explanation. No unnecessary words. Just a simple request.

You read it again, something warm and nervous blooming in your chest.

Your fingers brushed over the dress again, lifting it from the box. It was beautiful. Black, sleek, form fitting in all of the right places without giving too much away. The fit looked perfect, which meant—

Aki had asked someone about your size.

The thought sent a quiet shiver through you. Maybe he had checked the uniform orders at work. Maybe he had gone through the trouble of asking someone. Either way, it meant he had thought about this. About you.

A nervous, fluttering feeling stirred in your stomach as you held the dress up to your body in front of the mirror. Your reflection stared back, wide-eyed, lips parted.

Was this a date? It felt like one.

You traced your fingers over the fabric, smoothing it down over your waist, picturing Aki standing in a store, picking this out for you. Would this suit her? Would she like this?

The thought made your breath catch.

And suddenly, the nervousness shifted into something else.

Excitement. The giddy kind, the kind you hadn't felt in a very long time.

What the hell is he doing to me?

The room seemed to hold its breath as you stood before the mirror, the dress clutched in your hands. The soft fabric felt almost foreign against your skin—smooth, delicate, but somehow heavy with meaning. You had barely noticed the tremble in your hands as you slipped it over your body, as though something deep inside you was already anticipating what tonight would hold.

As the dress settled, the sensation of being clothed in something that wasn't just meant for you, but for him, sank in. It wasn't about just looking good—it was about being seen, being chosen, being claimed. The way the dress hugged your form, the way it shaped you just perfectly, it felt like it had been made with him in mind. And suddenly, the nerves were no longer nerves. They were something else, something thrilling.

You traced your fingertips over the fabric again, feeling it stretch across your curves as you imagined him standing behind you, his eyes on you. The thought made your heart beat faster, the anticipation building as you imagined how he would look at you. This is for me, you thought. You belong to me tonight. The thought sent a surge of heat through you, a rush of excitement so powerful it almost made your knees buckle.

He had chosen this dress. He had seen you in it, imagined how it would feel against your skin, how it would look under his touch. This wasn't just a gift—it was an ownership of you, a declaration that tonight, you were his in every way. The dress was a symbol of that, a quiet but deliberate statement that you were being taken, in a way that made your pulse race.

You couldn't help but admire yourself, and it wasn't vanity. It was the feeling of being something to him—something special, something his. You wanted to look good for him. You wanted to embody everything he had imagined, to fulfill his desire for you. You weren't just getting ready for a date. You were preparing yourself to be his. And that thought made your breath hitch.

The mirror reflected your image, but it wasn't just the fabric of the dress or the way it accentuated your body that caught your attention. It was the way you felt in it—controlled, owned, desired. The weight of the dress felt heavy with that unspoken promise, and the excitement only intensified. Tonight, you weren't just dressing for yourself. You were dressing for him. You were preparing for what he had planned. The thrill of his expectations made the anticipation damn near unbearable.

You slipped your fingers into your hair, tugging it back into an intentional style, something that would look just right when he finally saw you. Every touch felt deliberate, as though you were getting closer and closer to being the vision he had in mind.

Your makeup, too, was done with the same careful attention—nothing extravagant, just the subtle touches that made you look like his. A hint of blush to highlight your cheeks, a soft dusting of mascara to make your eyes appear just a little more doe-like, just a little more vulnerable. You wanted him to see that. You wanted him to see you, but a prettier versionof you, the one that was his to look at, to control.

The sound of your flip-phone ringing snapped you back to reality. You glanced down at it, at the small computer that held so much weight. Slowly, you reached for it, turning the thing over in your palm and flipping it open.

Aki Hayakawa.

Worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, you hit answer and held it up to your ear. "Hello?"

His voice replied to you – deep, smooth, sexy as all hell. "Hey. Did you get the package I sent?"

You glanced down at the smooth, buttery black fabric draped over your legs, fighting back a grin. "Oh, that was you?" You teased. "Didn't have a return address. Figured it must have been a secret admirer."

"Very funny," He replied, not sounding the least bit entertained. (Okay, well, maybe a little bit). "We're going out to dinner tonight. I don't know if you figured that out by now."

"Where?" You asked. You surmised that it would have been somewhere nice, given the sleek nature of the dress he had sent you.

"That's for me to know and for you to find out," He replied, leaving your question unanswered. "I'll be heading out within the hour. Be ready for me."

Gently, you set your phone down on the counter. Then, taking a deep breath, you sighed – a dreamy, breathless one. A dangerous one.

He finally showed up, and the sight of him stole the breath from your lungs. That damned suit—you knew it well. You had seen it many times before, perfectly tailored, sharp against the broad line of his shoulders. But tonight, it looked different. Or maybe it was the way he stood in the doorway, framed by the dim evening light, holding a bouquet of fresh flowers in one hand and an elegantly wrapped gift box in the other.

Flowers – freshly cut. A bundle of red and pink roses, speckled with white flowers in between. They were swaddled in brown wrapping paper, tucked neatly in his palm.

Your heart stuttered.

"Oh my God," you murmured, stepping forward as warmth spread through your chest. "Come in, let me put these in a vase."

He handed you the bouquet, his fingers grazing yours for the briefest moment—just enough for a flicker of warmth to pass between you, a silent awareness neither of you acknowledged aloud. He didn't move right away, watching you as if memorizing your reaction, as if uncertain whether he had done enough to make up for his absence earlier.

You held the flowers close, inhaling their delicate fragrance, then looked up at him with something between wonder and quiet amusement. "Would you believe me if I told you no one's ever given me flowers before?"

He let out a low chuckle, something soft threading through it. "I'm glad I could be the first," he said, his voice gentler now. His gaze searched yours, unreadable for a moment before he added, "It's the least I can do after leaving you hanging at the office."

You turned away, busying yourself with the flowers, though you could still feel his presence behind you. There was something unbearably tender about the way he stood there, waiting, watching you as though he was trying to piece together the right words, the right way to express what he couldn't say outright.

And then, just as you reached for a vase, his voice came again, quiet but certain.

"You look beautiful, by the way."

Beautiful.

Your breath hitched.

This is a bad idea, you thought. It was a very, very bad idea. You knew how your brain worked – going on a date with the man of your thoughts would do nothing to quell the storm of emotions he seemed to leave in his wake.

Still... he thought you looked beautiful.

The compliment settled over you like a warm, unexpected touch, igniting something deep in your chest. You swallowed, feeling the heat bloom along your neck, your cheeks—an involuntary response, no matter how hard you willed yourself to stay composed.

You turned slightly, your fingers tightening around the vase as you fought to keep your voice steady. "Thanks," you murmured, though the word felt too small to contain the way your heart fluttered.

Nothing about this seems very casual, you thought. Not when he smiled at you, not when he moved to take a seat at your kitchen table, and certainly not when he nudged the pink gift baggy towards you with two fingers.

"I got you something for tonight," Was all he said, sitting back in the chair and watching you while you filled the vase up about halfway with water and plopped the flowers inside – after cutting them free from their wrapping, of course.

With a smile that could have powered a fucking car, you hesitated before reaching for the box. Then, as slowly as you had picked it up, your trembling hands undid the little bow sealing it closed at the top and let it fall open. You reached into it, past the layers of pretty, pastel-pink tissue paper, until your fingers brushed up against something – a box.

Curiously, you cast him a glance. His expression, of course, gave away nothing, so you pulled the thing out anyway, and nothing could have prepared you for what you saw.

It was a pretty pink vibrator. One that looked like it was supposed to go inside of you.

You snapped the cover of the box shut, jaw flying open. Wordlessly, Aki grinned, as if this was all a part of some plan you had yet to understand.

Still, the image of him pursuing the aisles of an adult store just for you, fingers skimming over the boxes in search of something that would fit you – like that fairy tale with the three bears. Not too little, not too much, but just right – did something strange to your gut. You weren't entirely sure you hated the idea.

"Something else for you to wear tonight," He added casually, eyes raking themselves over the dress he had carefully picked out just for you. "Thought it might be fun if we had a little challenge."

"Challenge?" You reiterated, face flushed with embarrassment. "So, what– you want me to just... like– keep it in... me...? The whole time?"

"Something wrong?" He asked. His tone was genuine, but his eyes... his eyes burned with a challenge.

His brows lifted slightly, and then, with a smirk just shy of smug, he said, "Just the other day, you were on your knees below my desk." He tilted his head, considering. "With a coworker in the room." He let that hang between you for a moment, savoring the way your breath caught before adding, "I think this might actually be pretty tame compared to that."

Your face burned as he pushed himself to his feet, moving with slow, deliberate purpose. It was a short distance between you, but somehow, it felt like he crossed an entire mile just to reach you. The space between you shrank to nothing as he reached out, his fingers brushing your cheek before tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was gentle—unbearably so.

Then, with the same ease, he pried the box from your grasp.

"Unless, of course," he mused, his voice impossibly soft, "you don't think you can handle it."

A sharp pulse of heat curled through you, something electric buzzing beneath your skin. Without thinking, you snatched the box back from him, your fingers curling around it with quiet defiance.

His smirk deepened.

"I could put it in for you, if you'd like," he offered, his voice dipping lower, silkier, as he took half a step closer.

"No, no—" You laughed, shaking your head. "No. Let me do it."

His gaze lingered, amused, knowing. But he leaned back, conceding.

You brushed past him and walked towards the bathroom, keeping the box tucked beneath your arm as if that would make this whole ordeal any less embarrassing. Then, once you had closed the door behind you, you set the thing on the counter, staring at it.

Intimidating – it stared right back at you.

Momma didn't raise no bitch, you thought.

Then, you were hiking the skirt of your dress up over your thighs and letting your panties drop to the floor. Once that was done, you reached for the box and pried it open. The thing was... kind of cute, actually. You turned it over in your palm, taking a moment to admire it.

You had used your fair share of vibrators before, but this one was different. It was longer than your finger, and was crooked up at the end. The base was flared, and looked as if a part of it was meant to sit outside... pressed up against your clit to provide even more stimulation.

And... well, there was no button.

Maybe this isn't a vibrator at all, you thought.

Still, that didn't stop you from getting a little nervous at the prospect of having it in you the entire night. Holding it up to your lips, you spit on it, letting your saliva run down its shaft, smearing it around. Then, you reached down, between your legs, and...

"Shit," You gasped the moment the cold silicone brushed up against you.

You pressed a little deeper, until the thing broke past the first layer of flesh, until it pressed right up against your entrance. You took a deep breath, willing yourself to see it through, then you pressed in a little deeper.

Do it for him, you thought.

It slipped in a little deeper.

Before you knew it, the entire thing was seated neatly inside of you, pressing up against all of the right spots, and–

"How the fuck am I supposed to walk with this thing?" You whispered to no one in particular, shifting your hips from side to side, just to test it. It would be possible, sure, but not without giving you a limp.

This feels so fucking weird, you thought. Still, you felt... full, and that was enough to have you squeezing your thighs together. Uncertainly, you slid your panties back up over your legs, holding it in place.

You smoothed down your dress, inhaled deeply, and stepped out of the bathroom.

Aki was waiting in your kitchen, seated casually, fingers drumming lightly against the counter. The moment he saw you, his gaze flickered down, then back up, slow and deliberate.

A smirk played at his lips. "Did I tell you that you looked great, by the way?"

You rolled your eyes, but the grin that tugged at your lips betrayed you. "Once or twice."

You reached for your bag, adjusting the strap over your shoulder. "Feels weird, but... I think I'm ready to go."

Aki hummed, standing up, his movements easy and unhurried. His eyes never left you. As he stood to his full height, you fiddled with your hair, reached for the purse you had left on the counter.

"So..." You slid the purse over your arm. "What exactly is this thing supposed to– like– do...?"

Aki didn't answer.

Instead, he held up the remote.

Your stomach dropped.

Before you could protest, before you could even process, he flicked it on.

A sharp jolt of sensation tore through you, white-hot and overwhelming. Your knees buckled, and you caught yourself against the counter with a strangled gasp, doubling over as your breath hitched in your throat.

"Oh—God—" You choked out, shaking your head, gripping the edge of the counter like a lifeline. "No, we can't... we can't do this."

"Of course we can." His voice was maddeningly smooth, entirely too calm. He took a step closer, tilting his head as if he were enjoying the way you trembled under his control. "As long as you don't make a sound, who would know?"

You glared up at him, biting back a whimper, your body still reeling from the sudden, unrelenting pulse.

"You're a fucking devil, Hayakawa," you grit out between clenched teeth.

Aki only smiled, smug and devastatingly pleased with himself. "You ready to go?"

"You're not gonna press that thing while I'm walking, right?" you asked, narrowing your eyes at him as you adjusted your bag over your shoulder. Your voice was casual, but the suspicion in your tone was unmistakable.

Aki stood in front of you, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the remote. He twirled it between his fingers absently, as if weighing his options. His expression was unreadable, but you didn't trust the way the corner of his mouth twitched—like he was barely holding back a smirk.

"If I fall," you warned, voice firm, "I'm gonna kick your fuckin' ass."

That made him roll his eyes. "Yeah, yeah," he murmured, placing a hand at the small of your back as he guided you toward the door. His touch was steady, firm, a quiet reassurance despite the teasing glint in his eyes.

The night air was cool against your flushed skin as you stepped outside, locked up the apartment. The city hummed around you, neon lights flickering against the damp pavement, the distant murmur of voices and the occasional honk of a car filling the silence between you. Aki walked beside you, silent but ever-present, his pace easy and controlled.

When you reached his car, he opened the door for you—always infuriatingly gentlemanly when he wanted to be. You slid into the passenger seat, adjusting your dress as you settled in. The moment the door shut behind you, a tense silence fell over the car like a thick, invisible veil.

Aki started the engine, but he didn't put the car in drive right away. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and rolled it between his fingers before glancing at you.

"You can say pineapple if you want me to stop," he said simply.

You blinked. "...Pineapple?"

He nodded once, eyes flickering to you before shifting back to the road. "Pineapple."

A beat of silence passed. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, your stomach twisting—not with nerves, exactly, but something close. It was one thing to tease, to flirt, to push back against his games. But the quiet, firm way he had said it, the way he made sure you knew you had a way out—it made your chest tighten, just a little.

You turned your gaze out the window, the city lights blurring past as he drove. Neither of you spoke.

The tension in the car was thick, electric, stretched taut between you like an invisible wire. The remote sat in Aki's lap, and you had to fight the urge to glance at it every few minutes, unsure whether he'd press the button just to watch you squirm.

By the time you arrived at the restaurant, your palms felt a little damp against your thighs.

Aki pulled into a private lot, smoothly parking before shutting off the engine. He didn't move right away, only tilting his head to glance at you. The streetlight outside cast long shadows over his face, softening the sharp edges of his jaw, making his expression unreadable.

Then, without a word, he got out.

You inhaled deeply before following suit.

The moment you stepped out, Aki was beside you. He didn't hesitate before reaching for your arm, looping his through yours as he led you toward the entrance.

The gesture was... unexpected. And more than that, it made your breath catch.

You glanced up at him, but he was looking straight ahead, his grip gentle but firm. Your heart gave an unsteady flutter, something warm curling in your chest despite the nerves still buzzing beneath your skin.

The restaurant was stunning—warm golden lighting, sleek marble floors, soft jazz playing in the background. The air smelled of expensive wine and seared steak, and the quiet murmur of voices hummed through the space like a steady undercurrent.

Aki walked up to the hostess stand, his voice smooth as he said, "Reservation for Hayakawa."

The hostess, a polished woman with dark red lipstick and neatly tied hair, checked the list before offering a polite smile. "Right this way."

She led you through the softly lit restaurant, weaving past white-clothed tables and elegantly dressed patrons. Your heels clicked against the polished floor as you walked, your heartbeat a steady rhythm against your ribs.

At the table, Aki pulled out a chair and gestured for you to sit.

You arched a brow. "Such a gentleman," you teased, but you sat anyway, smoothing down the fabric of your dress as you settled in.

He only hummed, taking the seat across from you.

The waitress appeared moments later, offering water and letting you know that someone would be by soon to take your order. Then, just as quickly, she disappeared again, leaving the two of you alone.

You leaned back in your seat, letting the tension ease slightly as you picked up the menu. The prices had you raising an eyebrow. "This place is fancy," you murmured. "Didn't know you were the type."

Aki merely shrugged, looking at his own menu.

You tilted your head, studying him. Then, with a small smirk, you asked, "You take all your playthings out to dinner?"

Aki didn't immediately answer. He closed his menu, setting it down beside his water glass.

Then, he looked at you—really looked at you. His expression was unreadable, his gaze steady and quiet, but when he spoke, his voice was softer than you expected.

"No."

You blinked.

He didn't smirk, didn't tease, didn't roll his eyes the way you had anticipated. Instead, he answered you honestly. And that, somehow, was worse.

You swallowed. "Oh."

A pause.

Then, he tilted his head slightly, observing you, and added, "You're the first."

Your heart skipped.

A slow, warm feeling spread through your chest, catching you off guard. Your fingers curled around the edge of your menu as you tried—tried—to keep your expression neutral, to not let him see how much that simple statement affected you.

You looked away, staring at the flickering candle in the center of the table.

"I should feel special, then," you murmured, voice quieter now, lacking its usual teasing edge.

A pause. You could feel his eyes on you, studying, assessing.

"You are special," he said simply.

Confusing much?

Before you could decide what to do with that, the waitress arrived, all polite smiles and professionalism. You busied yourself with the drink menu, forcing normalcy into your voice as you ordered, though your fingers still gripped the menu a little too tightly. He ordered without hesitation, his voice smooth and confident, as if none of this affected him at all.

As soon as the waitress turned to leave, he shifted in his seat. The movement was small, barely noticeable, except you felt it immediately. A soft vibration, low and teasing, flared to life inside of you. Your body tensed – you bit back a gasp.

Your fingers twitched against the menu.

You exhaled through your nose, forcing your shoulders to relax, feigning nonchalance as you slowly lifted your gaze to his.

His lips twitched, just barely.

The buzz lasted only a brief moment, a fleeting reminder, before it stopped as abruptly as it had started. He had only pressed it once, just enough to get a reaction. A test, a warning – a reminder that he had all of the power.

You took a slow sip of water, using the glass to hide the heat creeping up your neck.

"Really?" you said finally, voice low but pointed.

He hummed, tilting his head slightly as he flipped a page of the menu, as if he were deeply invested in his options. "Something wrong?"

You shot him a glare, but he wasn't even looking at you. If you didn't know him so well, you might have believed he was actually deciding between pasta or steak.

The worst part was the way he remained so composed. You, on the other hand, could still feel the lingering sensation against your clit, inside of your walls, a phantom buzz that made your pulse stutter.

You set your glass down with a deliberate clink. "Cut it out."

This time, he did look at you. Slowly. A dark amusement flickered in his gaze, and then the corner of his mouth lifted into something that wasn't quite a smirk, but close.

"No."

Your stomach tightened—not from the toy this time, but from the way he said it, quiet and confident and so sure. It was a single word, but it carried weight, a kind of promise.

You opened your mouth to argue, but just then, the waitress returned with your drinks. You reeled yourself back in, schooling your features into something neutral, ignoring the way your fingers still felt unsteady as you reached for your glass.

She placed a cocktail in front of you, a neat whiskey in front of him. "Are you both ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes?"

You were about to say you needed more time when it happened again.

A second buzz.

You sucked in a breath, your grip tightening around the stem of your glass. It was brief, just as before, but somehow more insistent, more purposeful. Your body betrayed you, tensing before you could control it, and his eyes flickered, catching the movement.

He was doing it on purpose now.

You forced yourself to exhale slowly, smoothing your expression as best you could. Your heart pounded against your ribs, but you kept your voice steady as you turned to the waitress. "I'll have the—" you hesitated, the buzz still lingering in your nerves, still pulsing inside of you, "—the salmon."

If she noticed anything off, she didn't show it.

"And for you?" she asked him.

Dear God.

He leaned back slightly, taking his sweet, precious time. "The ribeye," he decided, then added, "medium rare."

She nodded, jotting it down before collecting the menus. "I'll get that started for you."

As soon as she walked away, you let out a slow breath and shot him a look. "You are impossible."

His lips curled around the rim of his glass before he took a slow sip of whiskey.

The rest of the dinner passed by in a similar fashion.

The candlelight flickered between you, casting shifting shadows along the white tablecloth, distorting the reflection in your water glass. Your fingers traced the condensation on the stem, trying to ground yourself in the cold, the solid, the real. But it was difficult when every few minutes, he pressed that damned button.

It wasn't constant. That would have been easier to handle. Instead, he wielded it with precision, pressing it just enough to catch you off guard, to remind you exactly who was in control of this moment.

Like now.

A fresh buzz pulsed inside of you, insistent and teasing, and your breath hitched before you could stop it. You hunched slightly, squeezing your thighs together, fingers tightening around your fork.

"Something wrong?" he asked, the picture of innocence, casually slicing into his steak as if you weren't actively trying to keep yourself from making a sound.

You shot him a glare, heat crawling up your neck. "You know exactly what's wrong," you hissed under your breath.

His mouth twitched, amusement sparking in his eyes as he chewed thoughtfully. "I really don't."

The worst part was that no one around you had noticed a thing. The restaurant hummed with soft conversation, the clinking of cutlery against plates, a low melody playing from unseen speakers. Everyone was completely unaware that under the table, you were gripping the fabric of your dress, fighting for composure.

You exhaled slowly, straightening, trying to salvage some dignity. He was enjoying this too much. You weren't going to give him the satisfaction of breaking.

With careful movements, you speared a piece of salmon with your fork and lifted it to your mouth. A distraction. If you just focused on eating, maybe—

Buzz.

A choked noise escaped before you could stop it. It wasn't loud, barely more than a small gasp, but it was enough. He heard it. You knew because his gaze darkened slightly, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth.

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the table as another wave rolled through you. The vibrations weren't strong, not really, but they were persistent, perfectly timed to make your body betray you.

You bit your lip hard enough to sting, hands trembling slightly as you set your fork down with exaggerated care. "You're such an asshole," you whispered.

His fingers brushed his chin as he leaned in slightly, eyes sharp, interested, voice low enough that no one else could hear it. "You should be more careful with your words. I'm the one with the remote, remember?"

Your breath hitched again as another pulse hit, and this time, you hunched forward, instinctively bracing yourself against the table. It was too much, too sudden, and a small, helpless sound slipped past your lips before you could swallow it down.

Mortification burned through you.

He heard it.

Worse, so did the couple at the next table. Not enough to know why, but enough to turn their heads slightly, their conversation pausing.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, heat flooding your face.

I'm gonna fucking murder him.

He had the audacity to smile.

"You alright?" he asked again, voice perfectly neutral, as if he wasn't the cause of your current predicament.

Your nails dug into your palm. "You know damn well something's wrong."

His smile widened, slow and satisfied. "Do I?"

You wanted to kill him. You wanted to grab the remote from his hands and throw it across the restaurant. You wanted to do something, but it was hard to think when the silicone toy was nestled so perfectly inside of you. Because you were sitting, it crooked right up against that spot that had you shifting your hips for more, rubbing you in all of the right ways.

The buzzing stopped.

Your body was still tense, coiled like a spring, your breathing uneven. But there was nothing. Just silence. No vibrations, no teasing pulses, nothing pressing against your stomach.

You blinked at him, suspicious.

He simply took a sip of his whiskey, regarding you with a look that sent a shiver down your spine.

"That's better," he murmured.

You exhaled, releasing the table from your death grip. The couple next to you had already resumed their conversation, the moment forgotten. You picked up your fork again, taking a small, careful bite of your salmon, hoping to find some sense of normalcy in the simple act of eating.

But the second you started to relax—

Buzz.

Evil asshole. A strangled whimper broke from your throat, too quiet for anyone else to hear, but loud enough for him. His grip tightened subtly around his glass, and you caught the way his jaw tensed for the briefest moment.

The realization sent another rush of heat through you.

Oh.

He wasn't as unaffected as he pretended to be.

You swallowed thickly, adjusting your grip on your fork, as if the very motion could somehow keep you grounded.

"My stomach is killing me," you murmured, barely moving your lips, your gaze dropping to his hands.

A lie, of course. One that anyone would be able to see through.

His fingers tapped against the rim of his glass, slow, measured. "We can leave whenever you want. Just say the word."

You almost took him up on the offer. Almost. The promise of paradise, of being taken home with him... of finally getting this damned thing out of you was almost too tempting to bear. But, then, he looked at you, and you knew what leaving meant.

It meant that you were throwing in the towel.

And you would be damned if you let Hayakawa win.

You licked your lips, feeling lightheaded from the heat, the tension, the thrill of it all. "You're awful."

"And yet," he pressed the button again, just once, just enough to make your body shudder, "You haven't said the word."

You couldn't argue with that.

The candlelight cast a warm glow over the table, flickering against the deep amber of Aki's whiskey. His fingers rested idly on the rim of his glass, tapping a slow, measured rhythm against the crystal. To anyone else in the restaurant, this was just another quiet dinner—a couple engaged in light conversation, enjoying a meal together.

But beneath the table, hidden from curious eyes, something far more dangerous brewed.

You took a slow breath, steadying yourself as you picked up your fork. You couldn't let him see how much this was affecting you, couldn't let him have the satisfaction. If you could just get through dinner, if you could act normal, if you could pretend—

Buzz.

Your body jerked before you could stop it. The vibration shot through your core, sharp and insistent, and you had to grip the tablecloth just to ground yourself. Your breath caught, your thighs pressing together in an attempt to suppress the reaction, but it was too much, too sudden.

Across from you, Aki took a slow sip of whiskey, watching you over the rim of his glass. His face was unreadable, composed as ever, but you could feel his amusement, the quiet, patient way he was waiting for you to crack.

You forced your grip to relax, exhaling carefully. "You're quiet tonight," you said, forcing your voice into something resembling normalcy. "That's rare."

He hummed as he set his glass down, tilting his head slightly. "I'm just enjoying the view."

Your stomach tightened.

Buzz.

Your hand twitched violently, nearly knocking over your glass. You barely swallowed down a choked noise, your breath breaking in the middle.

Aki speared a piece of steak, utterly unbothered. "You seem jumpy," he remarked, his voice smooth, unaffected. "Something wrong?"

You shot him a glare, your nails pressing into your palm beneath the table. Bastard.

"No," you said flatly. "I'm fine."

Aki's lips twitched, but he let it go, cutting into his steak with slow, deliberate movements. "Good."

You took a shaky sip of your drink, gripping the stem of your glass tighter than necessary. You could do this. You just had to hold out.

For a while, it was almost normal. You both ate, making idle conversation, the tension beneath the surface like a live wire waiting to snap. Aki asked about your day, and you forced yourself to answer, focusing on each word, pretending nothing was wrong.

But every time you got comfortable, every time you thought maybe he would let up—

Buzz.

Your fork clattered against your plate.

Your shoulders tensed as another wave of heat rippled through you, your thighs squeezing together under the table. Your breath hitched, and you barely bit back the sound that tried to escape.

Aki took another sip of his whiskey, watching you closely. He noticed.

And he liked it.

You wanted to wipe that smug look off his face.

Swallowing hard, you picked up your fork again, though your hands still trembled slightly. You tried to keep eating, tried to act normal, but your body was betraying you, your skin flushed, your breathing unsteady.

You clenched your jaw. If he thought he was the only one who could play this game, he had another thing coming. Quietly, you kicked your heel off of your right foot, creeping towards his side of the table.

Your foot slid forward beneath the table, slowly, deliberately, until it pressed up against his thigh.

Aki's breath hitched.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you caught it—the way his fingers briefly tightened around his glass, the way his exhale was just a little too sharp.

Victory.

You tilted your head slightly, feigning innocence. "Something wrong?"

His jaw flexed, his grip tightening around his fork. His expression was still composed, but now you saw it—the crack in his calm.

Two can play at this game.

He exhaled through his nose, his fingers shifting subtly near his pocket. "Careful," he murmured.

Careful. A warning. A promise.

Your heart pounded, heat curling in your stomach. You knew it was indecent, knew it was reckless, but at this point, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

He was unfazed, calm as ever, while you were strung tighter than a bow, every muscle in your body aching from the strain of staying composed. Your hands, curled tightly around the edge of your glass, trembled ever so slightly. The soft hum of conversation in the restaurant around you felt distant, almost drowned out by the chaos of your own thoughts.

Aki's eyes flickered briefly toward you, a subtle smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he placed his empty glass back down. He knew. He knew exactly what he was doing, and that knowledge made you feel both exposed and... well, entranced. He was playing with you, a slow, deliberate game, and he was winning.

But you weren't ready to give up just yet.

When the waitress returned to clear your plates, you took a deep breath, trying to gather yourself. You couldn't let him see how badly he was getting under your skin, how every little touch, every playful press of a button under the table, had your body taut with barely contained tension.

The waitress, oblivious to the storm between you and Aki, set the check down gently between you two. "Can I get you anything else tonight?" she asked, smiling brightly.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could form a word, Aki took the check into his hands, pulling his wallet from his jacket with a fluid motion. His fingers slid easily over the leather, pulling out his card with a practiced precision. Without missing a beat, he handed it over to the waitress, his calm demeanor not giving away a single hint of what was happening beneath the surface.

"No, thank you," Aki said, his voice steady and smooth, but there was something in his eyes—a quiet, almost predatory glint that made you shiver despite yourself.

The waitress took the card and left without another word, leaving you alone with him once more.

Your chest felt tight, your heart still racing from the unrelenting pressure. You didn't dare look up at him, afraid that if you did, you'd see that quiet satisfaction written all over his face. Instead, you focused on the table in front of you, picking at the edge of your napkin as if it could somehow anchor you to reality.

Minutes passed in heavy silence, the weight of his gaze never leaving you. Every time you thought you might catch your breath, you'd feel that subtle buzz deep within you, that dangerous reminder that he hadn't let you off the hook yet. The need to break free, to run, was becoming overwhelming, but you wouldn't give in—not yet.

You were wet – an understatement. Practically dripping down your own thighs, in fact.

Aki, on the other hand, was relaxed, at ease as if the world outside this small table didn't exist. He watched you, his gaze never faltering, like he was studying you in a way only he could.

Studying you the way a lion studied its prey before striking.

A few moments later, the waitress returned, her presence bringing a quiet relief. She set the check down in front of Aki, her smile polite and professional. "Here you go, sir," she said cheerfully. "All set."

You glanced up briefly, catching Aki's eyes as he took the check, still unaffected. He gave the waitress a polite nod before pulling the pen from the side of the folder, the small motion sharp against the quiet of the room. He signed his name fluidly, the pen moving effortlessly across the paper. The whole act was so smooth, so routine, but you couldn't help but watch him, feeling the tension rise once more.

There was a stillness in the air as he capped the pen and placed it back in the folder. His gaze turned back to you then, almost casual, but you saw the flicker of something in his eyes—amusement.

You hated him at that moment. Not for the first time tonight, but this time it was different. This time, it felt like the weight of everything was crashing down on you all at once. You were so close, so close to losing it.

How dare he stop? 

Wait... no.

"I hate you," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. You didn't even know if you meant it, but it didn't matter. The frustration, the heat, the maddening pull between you—it all exploded in that simple admission.

Aki's lips quirked into a smile, and you could see it in his eyes—he was enjoying every second of this. "Yeah?" he asked, his voice low and teasing, almost affectionate.

You wanted to slam your fist against the table, wanted to scream at him to stop—to just let you be. But instead, you just sat there, your fingers curling against the tablecloth, feeling every inch of your body wound tighter and tighter.

The waitress returned again to take the folder, a small polite smile on her face as she walked away. Aki remained seated, unfazed, as if nothing had happened. But you were still burning. Every part of you, every nerve in your body was screaming for something you couldn't even name.

Aki stood, and the movement was so effortless, so fluid, it almost felt like he'd been waiting for this moment. His fingers brushed against the edge of your chair, the touch so light, so deliberate, that it made your breath catch. Then, before you could react, his hand was at your back, guiding you to your feet. You weren't sure when he'd moved so close, but now, his presence felt like it had always been there, surrounding you. The moment he touched you, a shiver rippled through your spine, curling deep within your chest.

He was careful, but there was no mistaking the firm pressure of his touch, the quiet assurance that he was in control, and you were—somehow—allowing it. You didn't dare look up at him, knowing that if you did, you'd see that knowing smile, that quiet satisfaction he always wore when he had you on the edge.

"We'll see about that tonight," he murmured, his voice so close, so low, it made your heart flutter, the words slipping into your skin and curling there, leaving a mark that felt too tender to ignore.

You wanted to respond, but no words came. Instead, you nodded slightly, as if it was the only thing your body could manage. His hand remained at your back, gentle yet firm, as he guided you through the restaurant. The world around you blurred, the chatter, the clinking of silverware, the quiet hum of music—all faded into the background. The only thing that mattered was his touch, the feeling of him close to you, pulling you along, leading you somewhere that you knew would change everything.

The door swung open with a soft chime, and the cold night air hit you, a stark contrast to the heat simmering between you. It was a relief, a brief moment to collect yourself, but then Aki was there again, his hand still at your back, steady and unwavering. His touch was like a promise. It was like a tether that held you to him, reminding you, pulling you closer, whether you wanted to or not.

You didn't say anything as you walked toward the car. You didn't need to. The space between you was filled with something too complicated for words. His hand never left you, never strayed far enough to make you feel alone. And as much as you might have wanted to step away, to breathe on your own, you didn't. You let him guide you, your steps in sync, your hearts beating in a quiet rhythm.

When you reached the car, Aki didn't release you. His fingers slid along the curve of your arm, a soft, deliberate touch that made your breath catch again, a feeling so intimate it left you dizzy. There was something about the way he touched you, something that felt like it was meant to be. His eyes met yours, and you saw that familiar spark in them—something that made the air between you both crackle with electricity.

He opened the car door for you, a small gesture, but it was enough. You hesitated for a moment, caught in the web of his gaze, before you slid into the passenger seat. The moment your body settled against the leather, you felt the absence of his touch, but it didn't last long. Aki slid into the driver's seat next to you, and the air between you both seemed to thicken, a silent understanding passing between you.

You were wrapped around his pretty little finger.

When the two of you stumbled into Aki's apartment complex, brushing past the desk clerk – who shot the two of you an incredulous look – practically giggling the whole time, it took a great deal of effort to keep yourself from ripping his clothes off right then and there. The car ride had been tense – the good kind. The kind where Aki's strong hand had maintained its firm grasp on your thigh the entire time, occasionally teasing a finger just beneath the slit in your dress. On the outside, you were calm, composed, even, but on the inside? You were dying.

Dying to get in his pants, that is.

Aki led you over to the elevator and pressed the up button with his finger. In the moment that it took for it to arrive, he didn't give you a moment of reprieve – stealthily flicking on the vibrator in a way that had you covering a gasp up with a laugh.

Then, he was ushering you into the elevator's open doors with a gentle tap on your ass. You shuffled in, breathing out a sigh of relief when he turned the thing off, and then settled into the corner furthest away from the buttons, away from where Aki had his back turned to you, fingers pressing into the sixth floor.

Long ride, you thought, swallowing as the doors slid shut with a quiet thud.

Then, there were two.

Subconsciously, perhaps, your eyes raked over the elevator's interior. Aki inched towards you, a devilish smirk on his face. He looked as handsome as ever, of course, and that was the worst part – it wasn't the way he pressed you up against the corner of the elevator like he didn't give a damn if those doors opened and someone saw the two of you. No, it was the way your heart skipped a beat when he slipped a hand beneath your neck, cradling the back of your head and then leaned down.

Your lips brushed against his tenderly, then again – just barely there, just enough to tease. It felt easy, kissing him – too easy. It felt easy when he tilted your head to the side to deepen the kiss into something more sinful, lick at your lips, your tongue for entrance. It felt too easy to melt into him, letting him press you into the wall, moaning his name into the kiss.

Fuck. I love the way he kisses me.

"Aki," You breathed, the words smothered by his lips.

"Mhm?" He asked, kissing and kissing your skin until he crept closer and corner to your jaw, where he latched on. Not too much, but just enough to have your eyes fluttering shut.

God, he's depraved.

"Aki– the–" You shuddered, looking up at the camera behind him – the one in the opposite corner of the elevator. "There's cameras–"

He seceded, then, pulling back to get a look of you, and you swore you felt the energy change. It wasn't entirely lust anymore. No, the air around the two of you was steeped in something different. His baby blues scanned over the planes of your face, dropping down to your nose, your lips, for just a moment before returning to meet your gaze. Like he couldn't bear the thought of not being lip-locked with you. Like he needed you. Like you were so much more to him than just another hookup.

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished, and Aki was pulling away. Before you could protest, the elevator dinged, coming to a stop at the sixth floor.

Aki cleared his throat, nodding towards the doors as they opened. Wordlessly, you stepped past him, slipping out of the elevator. Your heels met the carpeted floor of the hallway, and then he was right behind you, ushering you towards the right.

What the hell was that? You thought.

It was silent, in fact, as the two of you walked further and further down the hallway – came to a stop right in front of his door, where he reached into his pocket and stuck a key into the knob.

I'm about to see his apartment. You realized. I'm about to see my captain's bedroom, and his kitchen and probably his bedroom.

This is dangerous, You peered up into his eyes. Without breaking eye-contact, he twisted the key and opened the door for you. Immediately, the scent of him wafted over you. The detergent he used. The hints of nicotine that always seemed to linger on his clothes – something so distinctly unique to him that you wished you could have packed it into a bag and taken it home with you.

You saw a peek of the foyer – the cubby where a few belongings were stashed away, along with a jar full of incense. Certain shoes were organized, neatly tucked away, and certain ones were strewn about. You didn't have to look at their small size to know they belonged to one of the other two.

To the right, a series of doors. Bedrooms, perhaps. There were three of them, all closed. In front of you, the open kitchen, the TV room, the glass-sliding-door balcony. Not a single thing out of place. Neat, as if he had cleaned up before leaving (only for Denji to leave his shoes out).

You whistled. It was way nicer than your old place on the other side of the city. Bigger, too, with a lot more open space to breathe in. "I gotta get a promotion."

Aki kicked off his shoes while you did the same, "Trust me, it's normally a mess. I feel like a single dad with those two freeloading here."

I could play mom with you, the thought – as fleeting as it was – crossed your mind. The thought of spending some time here with him. If he cooked, you would clean the dishes. If Denji was agitating him, you could pry him off his back, if only for a moment. He listened to you better, anyway.

It was a stupid thought, of course. One you tucked away. You were getting way ahead of yourself.

It's just sex, you thought. Our relationship is purely sexual.

Aki deposited his keys in the trinket tray on the empty kitchen counter, saying over his shoulder, "They're gone for the night. Power and Denji."

Oh.

Aki's fingers brushed yours as he led you down the dim hallway, his touch lingering for a moment too long before retreating. He didn't need to pull you along—your feet moved of their own accord, as if your body had already decided to follow wherever he went. The apartment was quiet, unusually so. Just the two of you now.

Alone.

Your finger found its way to the back of his shirt, trailing down the crisp fabric, tracing the line of his spine through the cotton. You felt the shift in his posture when you did it—how he went still for half a breath, muscles coiling just beneath his skin like he was trying not to react. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

He opened his bedroom door with a casual push, revealing a space dimly lit by the glow of the city seeping in through the curtains. It smelled like him—cool and sharp, with notes of cedar and something warmer underneath, like spice and sleep. You'd never stayed long in this room. Just enough to feel the warmth of his body, then the cold of his silence once it was over. But tonight felt different.

Or maybe it was you who felt different.

You stepped inside, hands at your sides as he moved past you, his tie already loosened at the collar. The top button of his shirt undone. Hair a little messier than usual, like he'd been running his hands through it on the way home. He didn't look at you right away, just dropped his keys on the nightstand and toed off his shoes. The moment stretched. You let it.

You stood at the edge of the bed, turning slightly so your back was to him, fingers reaching behind to toy with the zipper of your dress. Just enough to let him hear it. Just enough to make him look.

"Can you help me with my dress?" you asked, your voice soft, almost innocent—but the undertone was anything but.

There was a pause. The air shifted. You felt the heat of his presence behind you before he even touched you.

It was intimate – far too intimate, perhaps.

Wordlessly, he reached for the zipper, his fingers grazing the bare skin of your spine as he dragged it down with deliberate slowness. The sound was deafening in the quiet room—a hushed whisper of invitation. The fabric loosened, slipping off your shoulders with barely a breath of resistance, sliding down your body like it wanted to be rid of itself.

He didn't say anything. Not at first. His hands hovered for a moment before withdrawing, letting the dress fall to the floor with a gentle sigh.

You stepped out of it slowly, deliberate. You had chosen your undergarments carefully tonight—not that you'd ever admit it aloud. Black lace, sheer in places that mattered, hugging your curves in a way that always made his eyes darken.

"You look as ravishing as usual," he said, his voice low, a rasp of breath just against your ear. Then came the pause, the smile you couldn't see but could feel in the way the air shifted again, thick with it. "No, scratch that — much better than usual."

A shiver slid down your spine, and he caught it, the way he always caught those little tells. That was the dangerous thing about Aki. He paid attention. Even when he pretended not to.

With one hand at the small of your back, he nudged you gently toward the bed. You went without protest, letting the mattress meet your knees before sinking back against the soft, dark sheets. The comforter was cool against your thighs, a stark contrast to the heat building steadily inside you.

Aki followed, kneeling on the bed with you, his knees framing yours. He undid the rest of his tie slowly, watching you with that unreadable expression—equal parts focused and detached, like he was trying to memorize you without letting it show. The tie slid free and he tossed it beside you.

He leaned down and kissed you then—slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world, and maybe he did. The kiss started soft, his lips brushing yours with the gentlest pressure, but it deepened quickly, his hand cupping your jaw, his thumb dragging along your cheek. You melted into it, into him, letting your hands find the open collar of his shirt, the slope of his neck, the quickening pulse beneath your touch.

"Did you have fun tonight?" he murmured between kisses, his mouth brushing yours, voice barely more than a breath.

You smiled against him, eyes half-lidded. "Yes," you breathed, then paused just as he kissed down your neck, lips dragging heat along your skin. "But you said have... like there's no more fun to be had."

He chuckled, low in his throat, his breath hot where it hit the shell of your ear.

"You wouldn't leave a girl hanging, would you?" you added, letting your nails drag gently down his chest through the thin cotton of his shirt.

Aki pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes darker now, pupils blown wide. That quiet restraint he always carried was still there, but barely. Just beneath the surface, you could feel the tension coiling tighter, like he was holding something back—and you wanted him to break.

He kissed your collarbone, then lower, each press of his mouth deliberate, unhurried. He didn't just want to get you undressed—he wanted to ruin you piece by piece. And you wanted him to.

God, I'm so horny for him.

His mouth trailed down your chest, grazing the swell of your breasts, leaving heat in his wake. You arched into him, just a little, just enough for him to notice.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said, voice thick with desire, words vibrating against your skin.

Then he looked up at you from beneath those dark lashes, his gaze searing, his breath ragged. And you knew—you were his for the night.

Maybe, dangerously, he was yours too.

One last time, Aki plucked the small remote from his pocket — cruel little thing, harmless in size, devastating in what it did to you. You were already trembling, breath uneven, your thighs twitching with the aftershocks of his slow torment. You barely had time to protest before he flicked it on again, the soft hum of it cutting through the silence like a warning.

"Aki—" you breathed, but your words melted into a moan as the vibrator pressed deep inside, right where you were already raw and too sensitive.

"Just one more," he murmured, almost mockingly tender. "You can take it."

You wanted to tell him no—you should tell him no—but your hips betrayed you, jerking up into the touch with a desperation that made you feel stripped down to something primal. He watched you intently, jaw clenched, the same composure he always wore hanging on by a thread.

The sensation built too fast, already unbearable. Every nerve felt raw, each vibration slicing through you like heat lightning under your skin. You clenched the sheets, back arching, a helpless gasp escaping your lips.

"Aki—please—"

You didn't even know what you were begging for. For him to stop. For him to keep going. For him to end this exquisite ache that he kept building and building until it felt like you might unravel from the center.

Then, just when your body started to break apart beneath the pressure, just when you were about to fall over that edge—

He turned it off.

The silence left in its place was deafening. Your breath caught in your throat, your body still shaking with the ghost of it, your muscles tensed and coiled, suspended in some cruel, endless moment of not-enough.

He leaned down, slipping two digits beneath the drenched fabric of your lacy panties and reaching for that damned toy.

He pulled the toy away with maddening slowness, then brought it to his mouth. Eyes locked on yours, he licked it clean—deliberately, slowly, like he wanted to savor not just the taste, but your reaction. You felt your stomach tighten, something needy catching in your throat. You could barely breathe through the desire thick in the air, and he was feeding it like fire to oxygen.

Your hands, without thought, went for the front of his pants. You wanted him—needed him—so badly it hurt. The hunger had been clawing at you all night, and now it was a wildfire. You fumbled with his belt, fingertips brushing over the hard line of him through his slacks, and he let you—just for a second. Just long enough for your pulse to spike.

Then his hand caught your wrist, firm but gentle.

"Not yet," he said.

His voice was steady, but just barely. You heard the tightness in it, the restraint. He was just as wrecked as you were. That only made it worse.

You looked up at him, flushed and trembling, eyes wide with disbelief. You'd have begged him, if you thought it would work.

He leaned in, kissed your cheek once—frustratingly sweet—and murmured, "Stay just like that."

Then he stood, running a hand through his hair as he adjusted his shirt, fixing nothing, only stalling. You could see it in his eyes—he was holding onto control by the thinnest thread.

"I'll be right back," he said, voice low.

You heard the soft click of a door, the muted shuffle of movement just beyond the bedroom. He was in the closet, you realized—quiet, deliberate. The room felt colder without him in it, your skin still flushed and humming from where he'd touched you, teased you, ruined you—then left you wanting more.

You shifted against the sheets, trying not to think about the ache between your thighs, or the taste of his breath on your lips, or the fact that every second stretched longer with the weight of anticipation.

When he returned, your breath caught.

He was holding a box. Dark wood. Simple, unmarked. It looked old—worn at the corners, like it had been opened and closed a hundred times. Your heart picked up speed without your permission.

He didn't say anything right away. Just set it down at the edge of the bed and flipped open the lid.

Inside: rope—coiled, soft-looking, pale in color. A spreader bar made of polished black metal, a few small leather cuffs, and some other implements you didn't recognize at a glance. Not harsh. Not intimidating. But your mouth still went dry.

You looked up at him, eyes searching his face.

He was calm. Focused. His expression was unreadable—but not cold. There was a softness in the corners of his eyes, an edge of restraint you knew well. He saw the flicker of hesitation in you. The way your breath caught. He came closer.

"You're okay," he said gently. Not a question. A reassurance. "I'll walk you through it. I'm not going to do anything you don't want."

Your gaze flicked past him—up—and then you saw it.

A mirror. Mounted above the headboard. You hadn't noticed it before, not in the haze of arousal and low lighting. But now it was undeniable. You could see yourself. The rise and fall of your chest, the flush across your cheeks, your legs still curled under you, barely covered.

And you could see him, too. Behind you. Watching. Waiting.

"Come here," he said softly, extending a hand. "Stand at the foot of the bed."

You hesitated only a second before pushing up off the mattress and going to him, your feet unsteady beneath you. There was no smirk on his face now, no teasing. Just quiet intent.

He knelt down in front of you, holding the spreader bar in both hands.

"This is a spreader bar," he said, voice still low, almost clinical in its clarity. "It's adjustable. These cuffs go around your ankles—it keeps your legs apart."

Your throat tightened at the image, the implication of it. Your knees wanted to knock together.

He looked up at you again, watching your face closely. "Do you trust me?"

You nodded. It wasn't even a question in your mind. Not really.

"Use your words," he said, almost a whisper.

"Yes," you breathed.

His fingers brushed your calves as he knelt and gently fastened the cuffs around each of your ankles. The leather was cool against your skin, snug but not tight. Then he adjusted the bar, clicking it into place, widening the space between your legs.

Just enough to make you feel exposed. Just enough to make you tremble.

Oh God

You looked down at him—his hands still on your legs, his eyes lifted to meet yours. He stood slowly, the proximity between you electric.

He didn't touch you again. Not yet.

He let you stand there—open, waiting, your breath coming faster—and let the moment stretch. A mirror above you. A box of rope and silk on the bed. His gaze steady on yours like he could see straight through you.

And in that unbearable silence, you realized: he hadn't even started yet.

You were still standing at the foot of the bed, breath catching with each moment, the spreader bar forcing your legs apart just enough to make the air feel colder between your thighs. The room smelled like him—like cologne and something warm and cedar-rich—and you felt that scent wrap around you, heavy and intimate.

Aki stepped closer, holding something small and smooth in his hand. Another toy.

He didn't put it in immediately—just held it out between two fingers, letting you see it. A delicate, curved shape. Subtle slope. Sleek, purple-colored silicone.

"This one's new," he said, voice gentle, like he was offering you something precious. "It's soft. Stays in place. It's not going to hurt—just curl in deep and tease you a little."

You swallowed. He didn't need to be more specific—you could already feel what he meant. You tried to squeeze your thighs together instinctively, but the bar held you open, a frustrated whimper leaving your throat.

He looked down at your legs, satisfied. "Trying to run from me?" he murmured, then tilted your chin up with two fingers. "Can I put it in?"

You nodded. Then, remembering—use your words—you whispered, "Yes, sir."

He knelt again, slow and deliberate, and slipped it into place with practiced care, fingers brushing against you, warm and unhurried. The sensation wasn't overwhelming—yet. Just pressure. Promise – an ease with which it slipped into place.

You exhaled shakily.

Aki stood again and reached for the box. This time, he pulled out a coil of rope—soft to the touch, red, and carefully wrapped. It looked almost like silk in the low light.

"This is body-safe rope," he said. "It shouldn't hurt. And if it does, I want you to tell me immediately. Got it?"

You nodded, your pulse spiking again.

He unraveled it slowly, letting you hear the subtle swish of the fibers slipping between his fingers. Then he stepped behind you, the heat of him ghosting across your back.

"I'm going to tie your hands behind your back," he said. "But first..." He hesitated. "Pick a safeword."

You blinked. "You mentioned that earlier," you said quietly. "What is a safeword? Is it something I say when, like, I want you to stop?"

"That's right," he answered, stepping to the side just enough that you could see his face in the mirror. "Whenever it gets to be too much, or if anything doesn't feel right—you say your safeword, and I stop. No questions. No delay."

You bit your lip, thinking. He waited, patient.

"How about..." You glanced toward the mirror again. "Red light?"

He paused.

"Like a stoplight," you added, cheeks flushed.

Aki huffed a quiet laugh, fond and breathless. "Okay," he said. "Red light it is."

He stepped behind you again, and you felt the brush of the rope against your skin as he guided your wrists behind your back.

"Is this okay?" he asked, voice low in your ear, threading the rope beneath your arms and across your wrists.

"Yes," you whispered.

The fibers glided over your skin, warm and soft and sure. He was methodical—each loop measured, each knot secure but not cruel. The feeling of your wrists bound behind you made your chest tighten with something more than arousal—it was trust, raw and dizzying, as much as it was submission.

He's done this before.

You watched yourself in the mirror: bare, bound, and spread. And behind you—Aki. Focused. Beautiful. In control, but never far from tenderness. His hands – large, precise – and his blue eyes trained carefully on your body, searching for signs of hesitation.

When he finished, he stepped in front of you again, fingers trailing along the tops of your thighs.

"You look incredible," he said, quiet and reverent. "You're doing so well."

And then, he reached down—flicked on the toy.

You gasped, legs buckling slightly against the bar. It was gentle, at first—a steady pulse deep in your cunt, just enough to tease the edges of your sanity.

You couldn't close your legs. Couldn't cover yourself. Couldn't do anything but stand there and take it as he stepped back to admire the way you trembled.

It felt vulnerable – in a way you weren't entirely sure you hated.

"Do you remember the other night?" Aki asked, voice a low drawl in the stillness. "How you behaved in my office?"

Your stomach dropped. Your breath caught before you could answer, your thoughts immediately spiraling back—too tight skirt, too slow steps as you passed his desk, bending over too obviously to pick something up. Flirting with fire because you knew he'd catch it. You knew he always did.

He didn't wait for your reply.

"Wearing that skirt I specifically told you not to wear?"

A slow smirk tugged at your lips despite the heat already rising in your cheeks. "Maybe."

He clicked his tongue, stepping closer—dangerously close—until his shadow curled over your skin. His gaze dropped over your bound body, taking in every inch of you like you were a puzzle he already knew how to pull apart. The mirror caught your expression, your half-teasing smile, but you didn't miss the way your legs trembled, the subtle shiver you tried to suppress.

"Good," he hummed, reaching for something behind him. "Then you'll also recall that you asked me to punish you."

The words knocked the breath out of your chest.

You did.

You heard the sound before you saw it—a gentle swish of air, and then the soft thunk of something hard against his palm. He brought it forward, twirling it between his fingers like something casual.

A leather paddle.

Wide, smooth. Black letter patterned with red hearts. Firm enough that you knew he wasn't bluffing.

"I couldn't do what I wanted in the office," he said. "Too many ears. Too little space. And I had to show up to my meeting somewhat on time, of course."

Of course.

He tilted his head slightly, catching your gaze in the mirror, and his voice turned low and firm.

"But here, there's no one listening. No one to stop me. And you're going to take what you earned."

You squirmed, the anticipation already crawling down your spine. You tugged instinctively at the rope around your wrists—still tight, still binding—and tried to close your legs again. Useless. The spreader bar kept you open, vulnerable.

"Face the mirror," he said. "Back straight."

You obeyed without thinking, without questioning. Heart pounding in your ears as you craned your neck around to look at your disheveled reflection.

He stepped behind you, the paddle brushing teasingly against the bare curve of your ass.

"You're going to thank me after every one," he said. "And I want you to count. If you mess up, I'll start over again."

The paddle lifted.

Your body tensed.

"And you're not going to come. Not until I say you can."

Then the first strike landed.

A clean, sharp slap echoed through the room, and you gasped, legs jolting slightly in the cuffs. The sting was immediate, warmth spreading beneath your skin like fire licking its way into your core.

It was so much worse than his hand – or the riding crop, for that matter. It was flat, covered more area, and it stung.

But, shit, it felt exhilarating.

"O-one," you stammered. "Thank you."

"Thank you, what?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, "Thank you, sir."

"Good girl."

The second was harder—he wasn't holding back. The paddle cracked across the opposite cheek, the sharp sound punching the breath from your lungs.

"Two," you choked. "Thank you, sir..."

He hummed again, satisfied. Walked his fingers slowly down your spine as if to soothe, only to draw away again, cruel in how gentle he could be between blows.

He's so mean.

Each strike stole more of your control, every count tumbling from your lips between shallow breaths and stifled moans. The toy inside you hadn't stopped—its slow, curling rhythm synced with each rise in pain and pleasure until your whole body felt caught in a current you couldn't escape. Pressing right up against that spot so deep inside of you that you couldn't help but drip down your own thighs.

"Eight," you gasped, knees buckling. "T-thank you, sir..."

Aki stepped closer, his chest brushing your back, his voice like velvet against the shell of your ear.

"You're doing so well, Baby" he whispered, thumb tugging on the rope that bound your wrists. "Twitching, though. You close?"

He called me Baby.

You were. Too close. The pulsing toy, the heat in your skin, the tension in your thighs—it all coiled tighter with every breath.

"Aw... you look so pretty, I almost wanna let you cum," he said. "But, see, that's the problem. Brats don't get to cum. They need to earn it."

He dragged the paddle up the inside of your thigh, so slow, so cruel.

"I suppose I can't stop you. I can always just start the count over."

You whimpered.

Because you believed him.

And God help you, you wanted to behave. You wanted to please him. You just weren't sure you could.

What's happening to me?

"Nine," you gasped, breath hitching around the word, your voice barely more than a whisper. "Thank you, sir..."

The sound of your own voice felt distant, thready. Your knees trembled under the weight of sensation, thighs aching, muscles tight and burning from how long you had been holding yourself upright. The toy between your legs continued its slow, relentless pulse, curling heat deep into your belly.

It was too much. It wasn't enough.

Your wrists were bound tight behind you, arms straining slightly against the give of the rope. You were exposed, every part of you laid bare, trembling and flushed and dripping.

And still, he hadn't touched you.

Not really.

He was standing just a few steps away. Calm. Composed. Controlled, the way he always was when he had you like this—strung out and pleading, held up only by the tension in your limbs and the sound of his voice when he spoke.

"One more," Aki uttered, his voice low and even. "You can do one more."

I want to please him.

You shake your head before you even realize it. "Aki," you whisper, "I—I can't—I don't think—"

His footsteps were slow as he approached, a measured, steady sound against the floor. He didn't rush. He never did. He stopped just close enough for you to feel the heat of his body, the way your own ached for his, like your whole being was reaching for him.

"You can," he said softly, almost like he was speaking it into you, willing you to believe it. "You've already come this far."

Tears stung the corners of your eyes. Not because you were in pain, but because you were so close to breaking, and the only thing you wanted was him.

Him, him, him.

"I don't want—" Your voice cracked, catching on the words. "I– Can't take it."

His brows drew together, gently, not out of confusion—but recognition.

"You can. I know you can," he murmured, stepping closer. One of his hands settled at your hip. The other rose, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek, his knuckles warm against your skin. "You're not alone. I've got you."

Your heart felt full. Your face was alight with warmth.

What am I feeling right now?

You shuddered at the contact, the gentleness of it breaking something loose inside of you. Your lips parted, and before you even knew what you were saying, it was pouring out of you—unfiltered, needy, raw.

"Aki," you breathe, desperate, aching, "I just want you. Please—please, I need you. I can't—I can't do this without you—"

You make my heart feel weird, The words built up on the back of your tongue – shocking you, forcing your eyes to widen. What's going on?

His hands were on you now, steadying you, holding you upright when your legs threatened to give.

"I got you," he said.

"I need to feel you—just—please, touch me, please—" You weren't even sure what you were begging for anymore. His hands, his mouth, his voice, his presence—you would have taken anything. You just wanted him. Only him.

He exhaled softly, a sound that carried both restraint and affection.

"You've been so good for me," he breathed, gently, firmly. "You've taken everything I've given you."

Your wrists were shaking behind your back. Carefully, Aki undid the knot, unraveled the rope from your arms with slow precision. He didn't rush—he never did. His fingers were gentle, deliberate, like he was undoing something sacred.

The second the rope slipped away, your arms fell forward, weak. You collapsed into the bed, burying your face in his sheets that smelled just like him, just like home, hands curling into the fabric.

He soothed you easily – one arm around your back, the other cupping the back of your head, his fingers threading into your hair.

Don't leave me.

"Don't go," you whispered.

Don't ever leave me.

"I'm not going anywhere," he replied. "I've got you."

The toy had long since stopped its humming, but you didn't care anymore.

I need him.

You tilted your head up, searching his face. "Can I... have more?"

Aki studied you curiously. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, where a tear had tracked down.

"You want... more?" He asked, seeming thoroughly surprised by your request.

"Yes," you breathe. "Want you."

For the first time that night, something cracked in him. His eyes went darker, softer, deeper. His thumb lingered against your jaw, then dipped down to graze your lips.

"You're insatiable."

You trembled at the words.

His hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting you with ease. He lifted you onto the bed—finally, finally—and laid you down like you were something fragile.

But the way he looked at you... hair disheveled, blue eyes peering into yours, chest heaving up and down like a wild animal...

Just sex.

It's just sex.

Nothing more.

He set the toy to the side – again, finally – and you whimpered, not from the loss, but from the anticipation.

"I've got you now," he smiles, pressing a kiss just above your knee. "You can have whatever you want."

Your mouths met in a messy, breathless rush—more instinct than intention, a blur of teeth and lips and too much feeling. He stumbled a little, catching himself on his forearms, laughing softly into the kiss as you both nearly tumbled back.

You laughed too, surprised, lightheaded. For a second, it felt easy. Like maybe this didn't have to be so heavy. Like maybe you could float in the in-between forever.

But then your heart fluttered.

And you knew. You knew how dangerous that was.

You weren't supposed to feel like this.

Even when your hands rose of their own accord — shaking, unsure — and tugged at his shirt, dragging it up and over his head with a sudden burst of urgency, he didn't rush. He didn't make a sound. He just let you.

The sight of him unraveled you further. Pale skin dappled with old scars, lines of healed violence mapped across his ribs, his abdomen, as though his body had collected every storm he'd ever walked through. You reached out before you could think better of it, fingertips skimming the faintest line along his side — one you hadn't noticed before. A scar, thin and jagged, raised ever so slightly.

Your touch paused there.

You didn't ask where it came from. You didn't need to.

He tensed, just slightly, as your thumb brushed it. But he didn't pull away.

The silence was thick, a held breath stretched between heartbeats. You let your hand fall back to the bed, watching him watch you — your chest rising, falling, your lips parted in some half-formed thought you couldn't speak aloud.

Because this wasn't just desire. Not anymore.

It was everything you weren't saying. The things you needed but couldn't admit. The way your chest ached with the simple truth of it: you wanted to be known. Wanted to be seen — and you knew, without him ever saying it, that he did. He saw you. All of you.

And that's what scared you most. You had never let anyone in like that before.

He moved again, this time smoother, more sure. He pressed you into the mattress, hands finding the dip of your waist, your hips, your thighs. His touch was reverent — like he was memorizing you by feel. He looked at you like you were something holy and wrecked at once. Like he wanted to worship and ruin you all in the same breath.

And you wanted it. You wanted him.

Your breath hitched as his weight shifted over you, settling into the space you hadn't realized you'd made for him. He hoisted your legs up onto his hips, and the sensation hit like fire and wind — devastating, electric. A gasp escaped you, unbidden.

He didn't move right away. He just held you there.

The moment stretched — your legs trembling where they rested against him, your palms gripping the sheets in desperation you couldn't name. There was something terrifying in how still he was.

Maybe all of this — the tension, the ache, the way your body answered his so willingly — was just a way of saying what you didn't have the words for.

That you wanted him.

That you'd always wanted him.

That you didn't know where this ended, and for once, you didn't care.

"You're not gonna take 'em off?" You teased, nodding towards your black panties.

He quirked a brow, "And ruin this pretty outfit you put on just for me? That would be a crime."

So, rolling your eyes – with no real amount of venom – you gripped the zipper on his slacks, rolling it down slowly, tentatively. "That's a shame, because I plan on taking these off."

And, a little breathlessly, a little flushed – he let you. He let you unzip his pants, cobalt gaze tracing your fingers as they undid his belt, grabbed the waistband of his pants and pulled them down. There, before your hungry gaze, his boxers were strained with the pressure from his erection. You took a moment to admire him, admire the way the thick bulge stood out against the fabric – the way it was tinted darker where he had leaked a bit of precum.

"What's the matter, Baby?" He teased, "You need something?"

Baby.

Your eyes flitted up to him. Then, wordlessly, you reached for the elastic waistband, slipping your fingers beneath and tugging them down – just enough to free his cock from its constraints. The damn thing nearly hit you in the face when it sprung free, pink tip glistening the way a blade of grass held dew in the morning.

And you couldn't help the way your body reacted. No, you couldn't help it when you wrapped your hands around him, or when you licked your lips. And you certainly couldn't help it when you leaned forward – keeping his gaze the entire time – and wrapped your lips around the flushed head, sucking him into your mouth with a satisfied hum. The bead of precum melted onto your tongue like butter, salty and real.

Instinctively, perhaps, his hand went for the back of your head – fingers tangling themselves into your hair, gripping you by the base. Gently, of course, but just enough for it to sting.

The pain balances the pleasure.

"That's it, pretty," He groaned – low and relieved, like he had been aching for you all night. "Get it nice and wet," Above you, his head rolled back. Below, you hollowed your cheeks, pushing him a little deeper into your throat. "Fuck, just like that."

Call me a good girl.

Tell me I'm a good girl.

You moved, back, then forth – going a little deeper each time. Your saliva did a great job at getting him wet. In fact, as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked on him once more, you could hear it – hear how wet you had gotten him every single time he met the back of your tongue, your throat.

"Shit," He huffed out.

And the word only motivated you to suck him in harder, faster. You had long since forgotten your goal of teasing him. No, now all that remained was the desire to please, the desire to make him feel good.

The desire to be good for him.

"Your mouth feels so good," He purred, guiding your head while simultaneously allowing you to set your own pace. "Deeper, Baby, just like that."

You felt that fire in your core reignite, making you press your legs together while you pulled back for a moment to slurp on the tip, spit dripping down his shaft. You tilted your head to the side, wrapping your hands around what you couldn't fit into your mouth to work the rest of him.

As you braced your hands on his hips to sink your head the rest of the way down, you met some resistance, eyes watering as you felt yourself gag on him.

What? He was big.

Above you, the muscles in Aki's arm tensed. With a blissful sigh, he leaned his head back. He ran a hand over his hair and down his face, lashes fluttering shut. He was so fucking pretty, it made your heart skip a beat.

That's normal. Totally normal.

His chest rose and fell steadily. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, which parted soon after to release a trembling sigh of your name.

Then his hand fisted itself tighter in your hair, and you moaned – really moaned, none of that fake shit. You never would have guessed that you were into hair pulling, but... well, here you were.

Just when you went back for more of him, he tugged you off. His dick sprang free with an uncharacteristically funny pop.

You knitted your brows, peering up at him through lust-ridden eyes. "W'happened?" You asked, still a little breathless.

"If you keep going the way you're going–" He panted, catching his breath softly, gently. "I'm not–" He paused again. "I feel like... if I can't be inside of you, I'm gonna go fucking crazy."

Well, shit.

Deciding that you couldn't have agreed more, you climbed back on the bed – back, back, until your head hit the headboard. His eyes trailed you the entire way, not at all unlike the way a cat's eyes might have trailed its prey. Then, when you parted your legs slowly, savoring his reaction, his eyes darkened, pupils dilating at the mere sight of you.

He climbed back onto the bed with you. His lips met yours in the middle – but only briefly before he was kicking his boxers off somewhere to the side and pressing himself right up against you.

Right where you needed him.

He teased the head over your heat – hand gripping the base while the tip smeared an obscene mixture of your spit and his precum over your needy pussy. You jumped when he brushed up against your clit, back arching up off of the bed.

And, of course, cruel man that he was – he smirked, rubbing your clit back and forth, back and forth with his dick. It was as if he couldn't have cared less about how dirty it was. And you could do nothing but mewl, cry out, arch... rut your hips down to chase more of that sweet, sweet stimulation.

When you decided you'd had enough, you reached down between your body and his. His gaze flicked up from the place where the two of you met for a moment – just briefly enough to catch your eyes as you steered the head of his dick down against your dripping cunt.

And, when it caught on your entrance, the head slipped in with ease. (You had been teased all night, after all). The two of you released a similar sound, gasping in perfect tandem with one another as he finally breached the surface.

Then, he was sliding in the rest of the way, and fuck, the stretch felt good.

Your hands flew up to his back, fingernails digging into the muscular planes of his shoulder blades. He slid out a little bit – only slightly, like he couldn't bear the thought of not being inside of you – and then back in. Out, then in.

The slow tenderness wasn't something you were used to. In fact, your pussy was clenching down on him already, heat boiling up in your stomach at a rapid pace because you had been waiting all night for him to fuck you like this.

He rolled his hips down, back, down again – and then something wildly embarrassing happened.

You came. You came with a warning cry of his name, legs twitching around his waist. You came, spilling arousal onto his dick and his bed. You came only a few thrusts in.

The world seemed to tip on its axis as you came down from your high. Through it all, he kept you pinned down, eyes boring into yours like watching you fall apart all over him was his favorite pastime.

And, then, he laughed. It was a little breathless, a little impressed, but a laugh nonetheless. "You missed me that much?"

Kill me now.

You covered your face with your arm, slapping him on the chest. "Fuck you."

"If you say so," He grinned – you decided that you loved his smile.

And then he was moving again.

Not hurried. Not careless. Just slow — so unbearably slow — pulling back like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Like he felt the ache coiled beneath your skin, the anticipation building, rising, threatening to spill over.

Your body tensed before you even realized it, back arching, a silent plea written in every trembling inch of you. And he answered — with pressure, with presence, with that rhythm only he could find. He returned to you all at once, all heat and weight and tension, and you met him there, instinctively, helplessly, grounding yourself in the friction where your bodies aligned and moved and pressed together.

It wasn't frantic. It wasn't rushed.

It was tender.

It was the kind of closeness that blurred the lines between pain and need, between comfort and desperation. His breath ghosted against your cheek, your shoulder, your throat. Every part of you lit up where he touched — and where he didn't.

You couldn't separate yourself from him anymore — not in this moment, not in this movement, not with the way your hips rose to meet his. Not with the way your fingers curled into his shoulders like you needed to hold onto something, anything, just to stay grounded.

Because it was too much – and it still wasn't enough.

The world narrowed to this: the press of him, the tension winding tighter, the heat pooling deep in your belly as your body moved in sync with his, again and again. Like a language only the two of you knew. Like breathing.

Like wanting. Like need.

He felt like too much, all at once.

His weight over you, his breath against your skin, his hands clutching your hips like he couldn't get close enough—you couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't stop. Your bodies moved in frantic rhythm, messy and hungry and loud. Skin slapped. Your spine arched. Your thighs trembled where he held you, kept you, pinned you down like you were something he needed to ruin while he fucked you past the point of hypersensitivity.

And maybe that was what you wanted. Maybe you wanted to be undone, to have something else tear you apart so you wouldn't have to deal with the noise building behind your ribs. It was easier to focus on the pull of his body, on the rough, perfect friction, on the sound of him groaning under his breath when you moved just right.

It was easier to pretend that was all this was.

Because anything more—anything deeper—felt too dangerous to name.

You clung to his shoulders, nails biting in, eyes fluttering shut as he drove into you harder, again and again, like he couldn't get enough. He felt so good it was almost unbearable, like pleasure was too thin a word for it, too neat.

No, he was fucking the shit out of you.

But your body betrayed you. The way you gasped his name was a dead giveaway. The way your arms wrapped tighter around him.

I wish I could keep him here forever.

Buried inside of me.

You shook the thought out of your head.

It didn't mean anything. He didn't mean anything. It was just the heat. The urgency. The way he made your nerves light up and your stomach twist in on itself.

He shifted his weight and grabbed your thigh again, rough this time, pulling your leg up and over his hip in one practiced motion. You gasped—sharp and startled—as he sank deeper, pressed closer, sweat slipping between your skin and his.

"Aki, fuck," You cried out.

It felt so good. God, it felt right. And that's what scared you the most.

Because it shouldn't. It wasn't supposed to.

This was supposed to be simple. Just release. Just bodies. Just a way to burn off the ache.

So why did your chest ache?

You squeezed your eyes shut, desperate to block it all out – the thoughts, the tightness in your throat, the strange warmth curling in your belly that had nothing to do with his touch – and just focus on him. You could hear the rush of his breath, the rasp in his throat, feel the way his muscles tensed under your fingertips. It made you dizzy, made you want to dig in deeper, to hold him there and never let go.

But no. You wouldn't go there. You couldn't.

Because the second you thought about what this might mean, what it might become—you'd lose control completely.

And he wasn't looking at you like someone who was seeing you. Not really. He was looking like he always did: focused, sharp, lost in the moment. Not in you. Not in what this was doing to you inside.

So you matched his rhythm. You moved with him, against him, chasing sensation, grounding yourself in it. Anything to drown out the noise in your chest. Anything to ignore the unfamiliar tightness wrapping itself around your ribs like a question you didn't want to answer.

"You take me so well, pretty," He commented.

Your head fell back. He followed, pressing in deeper, his hand splaying against your thigh like he owned it. You let him. You wanted him to. Because if he touched you like that—rough and hungry and full of intent—maybe it would mean you didn't need anything else.

Maybe you could pretend that was enough.

But even now, tangled together, breathless and shaking, some part of you whispered that it wasn't.

Still, you didn't let yourself listen.

You just held on tighter. Let your nails drag across his spine. Let your body move in time with his, fast and reckless, until all that existed was this—the blur, the heat, the tension stretched thin between your lungs every single time he fucked into you.

You couldn't think.

Not clearly.

Not with him buried up to the hilt in your tender pussy.

Everything had bled into sensation — too much and not enough all at once. The drag of his hands down your sides. The weight of his body over yours. The sharp snap of his hips against yours that made your back arch, made your vision spark at the edges, made you cling to him like you'd fall apart if you didn't.

You didn't mean to be this far gone.

But he was relentless.

And now you were just feeling — mouth parted, breath caught somewhere in your throat, pulse beating fast beneath your skin. You felt yourself spiraling, unraveling, losing track of where your body ended and his began. Every inch of you was taut and burning. Everything about him — the sound of his breath, the strength in his grip, the way he moved with precision like he knew what you needed before you even said it — it overwhelmed you.

It was raw. It was animalistic.

You couldn't hide how much you wanted it.

Worse: you couldn't hide how much you wanted him.

He pressed his forehead to yours for a second — brief, heavy — before shifting his angle again, and the noise you made at the sudden change was nearly a sob. You reached for his back, nails raking over damp skin, trying to ground yourself in something. But nothing grounded you. You were weightless, untethered.

It was just pleasure, you told yourself. That was all.

It had to be.

But then you looked at him — really looked — and the ground tilted under you.

His eyes were locked on your face, not your body. And he looked ruined in a way you hadn't seen before — jaw slack, brow furrowed, hair sticking to his temples, like all of his focus was in this. On you. He wasn't talking. He never did during moments like this. But there was something in his silence that made it worse — made the tension snap even tighter in your chest.

"Oh god," You breathed out, like it was a prayer. Like he were some divine entity and you a devout follower.

A sound caught in your throat. A broken gasp. You didn't even recognize your own voice anymore. Every moan, every breath, it all felt like something you weren't controlling. Just responding.

God, he was everywhere.

His hands gripped your thighs and pulled you in closer, hoisting your legs high around his hips, and you felt him sink deeper — all the way in — and everything inside you locked tight around it. You cried out. Clung to him like you were drowning.

The worst part wasn't the desperation.

It was that you didn't want it to stop.

You weren't thinking of after. You weren't thinking of the mess or the confusion or the fact that, when he walked out that door, you'd be left with nothing but the memory of how close he'd made you feel.

You were thinking about the way his eyes flicked to your mouth when you gasped.

The way he held you like you were something he wanted to touch, not just something he needed to use.

The way your body burned for him — not just with want, but with something you didn't have a name for.

You tilted your head back into the pillows and shut your eyes, trying to focus on the rhythm, on the pace. He gave you no time to catch your breath — kept driving into you, deep and sharp and perfect, like he knew you were right at the edge and wanted to hold you there, stretch it out.

"Fuck me!" You pleaded with him. "God, Aki– fuck– don't stop!"

You needed more.

"Aki—" His name slipped out again before you could stop it, broken and hoarse and filled with too many things you didn't want to unpack.

He grunted — just once — like the sound of it meant something to him. Like he liked hearing it from you.

And your stomach turned again.

Not in discomfort.

But in that way that told you you were spiraling toward something you couldn't undo.

He leaned over you more, mouth brushing your jaw, and the way he was panting — hard, wild, desperate — almost made you forget he was the one in control. That he always was. You could feel it in the tremble of his arms, the way his hips faltered just once, just barely at the sound of your voice.

It made you feel powerful and helpless all at once.

"Keep saying my name like that," He begged you. Commanded you.

You clutched at his hair. Pressed your face into his neck. Tried to disappear into his body, into the moment, into anything but your own thoughts.

Because something inside you was starting to crack.

Not from the heat. Not from the building pressure.

But from how right it felt.

It was just sex. Contractual. It wasn't supposed to feel like being wanted. It wasn't supposed to feel like a connection.

You weren't supposed to care.

But your chest was tight. Your hands were shaking. Your breath was caught somewhere between a sob and a moan and your body was begging for release, for him, for something you couldn't even name.

What the fuck?

His pace quickened, erratic now — like even he was on the verge of losing it — and you whispered something against his skin that you couldn't even hear.

"Close–" You exhaled shakily, digging your nails into his back so hard that you knew you would leave marks. "Don't stop– Aki, Baby–"

You didn't mean to say his name again.

You didn't mean to sound so needy.

But everything about this was out of your hands now. Out of control.

You were burning. Blinding. Drenched in heat and confusion.

You were unraveling.

Every breath came fast and uneven, your body stretched so taut it felt like even the smallest push would break you open. Aki moved with a focused intensity, deliberate and unrelenting, like he knew exactly how close you were—like he could feel the way your body clung to him, how you trembled under every thrust, every shift of his weight against yours.

You gripped at him blindly, hands slipping up his back, over his shoulders, fingers pressing into sweat-damp skin like you were trying to memorize him by touch alone.

He's so beautiful.

You couldn't think. You couldn't speak. You could barely breathe.

But feeling—you felt everything.

Every inch of him. Every sound he made. Every glance he gave you between half-lidded blinks, his brows furrowed like he was trying not to lose himself too soon. Like he needed you to stay with him through every second of it.

It should've been just your body reacting.

Just nerve endings firing, just heat and friction and the way he filled you so completely that you forgot how to hold yourself together.

But it wasn't.

It wasn't just that.

You looked up—just for a moment, just to see his face—and the sight of him, undone and gorgeous, looking down at you like you were the only thing in the world—

That was when it hit you.

It was like being slammed in the chest with a truth you didn't want to see. Your breath caught. Your heart stuttered beneath the pressure of it.

You wanted him.

Not just like this. Not just the physicality of him or the way he made you feel like you were burning alive.

You wanted him. The person. The man. The quiet steadiness, the rare softness, the way he touched you like you meant something even when he didn't say it out loud.

"Fuck– 'M gonna cum–" Your legs trembled around his waist, eyes fluttering shut. "Akiiii– Oh, God."

You'd been trying not to name it. You'd buried it under desire, under the illusion that this was just about chemistry, just about two people using each other to escape.

But it wasn't. Not anymore.

Not when he looked at you like that.

Not when your body was seconds away from shattering around him and all you could think was I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose him.

"Aki–" You breathed.

He replied back like he meant it, "I got you, Baby."

The sensation built inside you, unbearable in its intensity. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to hold it back, to keep some piece of yourself from slipping out along with it.

But it was no use.

Your body was already tipping, pushed past the point of no return.

And this time, when the pleasure surged through you—hot and sharp and consuming—you didn't fight it. You didn't hide from it. You let it take you.

You came for the second time that night, crying out for him as you did so – colors and shapes dancing behind your eyelids. You gripped him like a vice, like you would die if you let go.

He wasn't far behind you – hips staggering only a few more thrusts later. When he tumbled over the edge after you, he buried himself as deep as he could go, nestling his head into the crook of your neck, brows furrowed. He came with the prettiest sigh of your name – the syllables tumbling off his lips like they were meant to be there. Like you were the only name that had ever been there. And when the warmth came – an explosion like fireworks deep inside of you – you arched up into him one final time, wrapping your arms around him and cradling his head to your chest. It was something so intimate– so off-limits.

Sexual intimacy? Easy. But having him pressed up against your chest, back rising and falling with the weight of his breaths... that was something else entirely.

The heat between you both hadn't faded. In fact, it lingered, curling around your skin like a soft burn, more familiar now than the fire that had taken over you earlier. Every breath you took, every small movement of his body against yours, sent waves of warmth flooding through you.

His chest rose and fell against yours, slow and steady, but you could feel the slight tremor that still lingered in his muscles, in the way he gripped you, as though you might slip away from him. You didn't want to slip away. Not from him. Not now.

You let your fingers trail over the lines of his back, tracing them absentmindedly, though you could feel the weight of it pressing into your chest. The tenderness of the moment felt like it was seeping into you, something quiet and unexpected. It was a stark contrast to the chaos that had preceded it, yet it felt so much deeper.

It didn't come all at once. It wasn't some sudden revelation, but more like something deep within you slowly unfurling, pushing itself out into the light.

His fingers lightly brushed the side of your face, gently guiding you to look up at him. You couldn't avoid the look in his eyes—the raw, unguarded tenderness there, the way his gaze softened the edges of the world around you. It wasn't just affection, not just care, but something deeper. Something that made your heart beat erratically, something that you couldn't hide from, no matter how hard you tried.

"You okay?" he whispered, voice barely above a breath.

You could only nod as you held onto him, wrapped your arms around him as though he were the anchor in a storm, trying to ground yourself in the moment

And as you did, that terrible, rotten truth bloomed fully in your chest.

You were catching feelings.

The bed felt too empty when you woke, a coldness that you hadn't expected wrapping around you. The comfort of his touch, the weight of his body against yours, had faded like a dream. You didn't want to move. Didn't want to acknowledge that you were alone again.

But the absence of him—his warmth, his presence, the steady rhythm of his breath beside you—was undeniable. And in that moment, the pull of loneliness, sharp and raw, snaked its way into your chest. It felt different than the quiet isolation you were used to.

You ran your fingers through your hair, your skin still flush with the remnants of him, and with a reluctant sigh, you rose from the bed. The silence in the room was almost suffocating, pressing down on you like a weight you couldn't shake off. Above all else, you were dressed in one of Aki's sweaters. Nothing else.

The air was cool against your bare legs as you moved toward the window. The quiet outside seemed to mirror the stillness inside you, and the moment your eyes landed on him—leaning against the balcony railing, cigarette between his fingers—you felt that same pull.

You hadn't meant to look, hadn't meant to stand there, watching him like that. But there he was, his back lit by the dim glow of the streetlights below, the faint haze of cigarette smoke curling in the air around him. The darkness seemed to swallow him whole, yet he stood there.

You hadn't expected to find him like this. But here he was, alone, like he didn't quite belong in the world around him.

The door creaked as you stepped outside. He hadn't noticed you yet, lost in the quiet world he had made for himself on the balcony. You hesitated, uncertain of what you even wanted. To speak? To retreat? You couldn't tell. The pull was too strong, though, and before you could stop yourself, you stepped further into the night, closer to him.

Even though you knew you shouldn't.

The soft scrape of your feet against the ground was the only sound between you, and Aki turned slowly, his gaze meeting yours. It wasn't an angry gaze, or even a surprised one—just quiet, a little weary, and with something you couldn't quite place.

"Did I wake you?" His voice was low, but it had a softness to it that caught you off guard. It was just a question, simple and harmless, but you felt the weight of it settle over you, heavy and almost intimate.

"No," you said, shaking your head. You weren't sure why you felt the need to lie. But it was more than that. You didn't want him to know. The vulnerability of the moment, the strange way your chest felt so full and yet so hollow, was something you wanted to hide.

He nodded, taking another drag from his cigarette, his eyes never leaving yours. There was something in the quiet between you that made everything feel fragile, like the air itself might shatter if either of you said too much.

The night was cool, the stars hidden behind the haze of city lights. You stepped closer, but even then, there was a distance between you. Not a physical one, but an emotional divide you couldn't cross. You felt it pulling at you, making every movement feel like a decision.

"I didn't mean to interrupt you," you began, your voice faltering slightly. You didn't know what you wanted to say. You didn't even know why you were standing there. But the question hung in the air, and the tension between you two only grew.

Aki's eyes softened slightly, his lips pulling into a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "It's fine. You're not interrupting anything," he said, his voice a little lighter. But there was something heavier in his tone now, something that wasn't there before.

Does he... feel it too?

No, you corrected yourself. Don't be an idiot.

For a moment, you both stood there, the cigarette smoke lingering between you like an unspoken barrier. His gaze never wavered, but it wasn't the usual guarded look. There was a softness to it, something open, but only barely. And that, more than anything, made you feel more vulnerable than you ever had before.

"So... you gonna tell me where you sent Denji and Power off to for the night?" You teased, elbowing him before leaning over the balcony. "Or are you gonna keep pretending they just so happened to be out for the night?"

The ghost of a grin lingered on his lips. He looked so pretty beneath the moonlight that – for a moment – you wondered if this was all even real.

"I don't know what you're talking about," He replied.

"Bullshit," You jabbed back. "Not like they have friends."

With a sigh, he tapped the end of his cigarette, casting his gaze onto the empty streets below, flicking ash off of the end of it. "Alright. I might have sent them to Himeno's."

The answer should've been funny. It should've made you roll your eyes and laugh and call him out for how goddamn obvious he was. But the words just sort of sat there between you, too heavy to move.

You nodded, lips pressing into a thin line. "Why?"

A beat passed. Two.

"I told her I needed a break," he said finally. His voice didn't waver, but it wasn't guarded either. Just honest. "But, to be honest, I knew I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off of you the moment I pictured you in that dress."

You didn't know what to say to that.

Your brain was still buzzing. Your body ached in places you didn't want to think about. You could feel the remnants of everything—the closeness, the heat, the way he'd touched you like he meant it. And it should've been simple. You'd done this before. You knew how to compartmentalize.

So why didn't this feel like all the other times?

You reached for a distraction.

"I should probably head home," you murmured, arms tightening across your chest. "While I can still catch a taxi."

You didn't move.

Aki turned his head just slightly. "It's late. Just stay the night."

Oh. Okay.

Your throat closed up for a second, because the way he said it wasn't casual. Not really. Not cold either. Just quiet. Just like him.

You should've said no. You knew that. Knew you'd already crossed a line somewhere in the dark, maybe back in his bedroom or maybe before that—maybe when he looked at you across the table earlier tonight and you'd caught yourself smiling like a damn idiot. Somewhere in all of this, the rules had changed, and you didn't remember agreeing to it.

But you stayed.

Fuck, you always did.

So you just gave a small nod, barely visible, and leaned back against the railing beside him.

It was quiet again. The kind of quiet that felt like it should've been peaceful, but instead it settled in your chest like static—like the edge of something unsaid scratching at your ribs.

You didn't know what any of this meant.

You didn't know what he meant.

Aki wasn't looking at you, but you could feel him anyway. The space between you was loaded. Not tense, but not easy either. It was just... too much. All of it. The way he touched you. The way he looked at you.

It was messing with your head.

You weren't supposed to care like this. You weren't supposed to look at him and feel your stomach twist like that. You weren't supposed to want more. Hell, you weren't even sure what "more" looked like. But you knew what it felt like—this pull in your chest, this ache just under your skin.

You closed your eyes for a moment and tried to breathe past it.

And when you opened them again, he was looking at you.

Not with the flat, impassive stare he gave everyone else. Not with the vague irritation he usually wore around Denji and Power. No, this was something else.

He looked at you like you were a puzzle he didn't want to solve. Like he didn't want to break whatever fragile thing was happening here.

And, shit, neither did you.

So you didn't say anything.

You just leaned in, hesitant and slow, until your shoulder brushed his. And then, after a long pause where neither of you breathed, you let your head tip gently against him.

He didn't move.

Didn't flinch. Didn't pull away.

And you didn't know what the hell that meant either.

All you knew was that the words "I'm falling for you" were sitting on the edge of your tongue, heavy and stupid and dangerous.

You didn't say them.

Not because they weren't true, but because you weren't ready to give this – whatever this was – up.

You decided you would do whatever it took to keep him next to you like this, his scent surrounding you, hand tracing shapes on your arm. You would do whatever it took to keep this train chugging, keep him looking at you like that, even if it meant lying to yourself a little along the way.

You looked up at him, into those pretty blues of his, like he could be so much more than what he was – like you and him could actually amount to something. And, maybe it was the lighting, but you could have sworn he looked back at you with the same glint in his eyes.

No harm in catching feelings if I keep them tucked away, right?

a/n: im sorry yall. things were going too good. it had to be done lol. (lmk what yall thought in the comments thooooo, maybe even what yall THINK will happen lol ;P see u in the next one mloves! wish me luck on exams)

credits: einruji__ on twitter . I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

taglist: @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505 , @acethebrave , @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505 , @mrshayakawaa, @xxpr3ttyk173rxx

wanna join the taglist? | pornstar ; chapter index

(i finally fixed the taglist so it should work now!!!! click away!!!)

[22ayla21]

Hello!! Congratulations on 1000 followers!! For the event can I have Idia Shroud with Vanilla Ice Cream with Caramel and Strong Espresso??? Please and thank you 💙

"Vanilla Ice Cream with Caramel and Strong Espresso"

Event: "Sweet Stories, Intoxicating Feelings"

S.T.Y.X was a place where dreams took on nightmarish shapes, and love seemed impossible. In this labyrinth of steel walls, humming laboratories, reports with alarming red "CRITICAL CONDITION" markings, and inexplicable magical phenomena, the very thought of something tender and human seemed absurd. Especially in the heart of Idia Shroud, a person who mostly preferred the flicker of screens to live interaction and looked at his reflection warily, as if expecting betrayal from it.

But she appeared not as a dazzling flash, but as a weightless touch on the glass behind which Idia sheltered from reality. She didn't pull him out, no. She was simply there. As if saying without words, "You can stay in your refuge for as long as you want. I'll still be here."

He didn't notice her right away. Not out of unwillingness – more out of an inner fear. In S.T.Y.X, every day followed a strict routine: waking up, checking monitors, updating Overblot logs, an obligatory joke in an internal code language understandable only to him… and Ortho. And then – night again, loneliness again, screens again, from which his eyes grew tired, and his heart remained strangely indifferent.

She burst into his usual rhythm as unexpectedly and pleasantly as a drop of caramel accidentally falling into his morning cup of strong black coffee. He was used to bitterness, to invigorating solitude, to the fact that everything should be clear, efficient, concise. And she… she was like vanilla ice cream on a hot day. Simple. Sincere. Like a long-forgotten feeling of summer.

"You know, your work is important, but you yourself are more important," she said one day, finding him working when he had completely forgotten about food, immersed in lines of code and magical algorithms.

He blinked, not immediately understanding how to react to such a simple truth. In his world, everything was clearly delineated. But she didn't demand. Didn't insist. Just handed him an ice cream – vanilla, with caramel drizzle.

"You're like espresso. Dark, strong, and incredibly invigorating," she added, smiling. "But you could use a little sweetness. Or someone to add that sweetness."

From that day on, he began to listen for her footsteps. To catch the quiet hum when she worked at the neighboring terminal. To notice how her hair played in the light of holograms, how quickly her fingers ran across the keys, typing reports, how she sometimes looked thoughtfully into the void, and then he desperately wanted to know what she saw there.

They didn't talk about feelings right away. It seemed too… open. Idia was afraid of words, felt defenseless in ordinary conversation. But he started communicating with her more than with anyone else. First through messages, then – in person, but separated by a wall, then – face to face. Over a cup of coffee. Over a serving of ice cream.

Love turned out to be quiet. It didn't shatter walls, didn't tear his heart to pieces. It was like that ice cream – classic vanilla, understandable, familiar, but with that very caramel note that made every day special. Sometimes it invigorated, like a strong espresso, suddenly pushing forward: in work, in emotions, in confessions.

"Are you afraid of me?" she asked softly one day, when he stumbled, not knowing how to express what she meant to him.

He looked down. Not because he didn't want to answer – it was just that his heart was beating so hard, as if it was about to explode.

"No… I'm afraid that you'll leave when you realize how… broken I am."

She smiled and touched his hand with her palm.

"Even the most bugged code can be debugged. The main thing is not to be afraid to do it together."

Then he laughed. Sincerely, almost to tears. And for the first time, he didn't want to hide. He wanted to stay – with her, in this strange place, where even among scientific reports and classifications of magical disasters, something simple was born. Something real.

Love. Like vanilla with caramel. Like espresso with the tart aroma of passion. Like the life he used to be afraid of.

Now he lived in it. With her. And no longer hid.

[offtorivendell]

What you all seem to be missing is that this isn't even a topic of infertility, it's of delivery. The discussion is NEVER "can Elain get pregnant" because the problem was not "could Feyre get pregnant." The plot introduced into the series was what happens after she became pregnant and carried the baby to term, could a non Illyrian safely deliver a baby with wings which has now carried over into the discussion of Elain since it's canon that Feyre and Nesta were changed while we were not told the same of Elain. It's not a reason Elain can't be with Az but it is a valid topic of discussion within this series since the author posed it as a plotline. In the real world, most women safely choose a Caesarean section if they're dealing with delivery issues in their pregnancy so acting like delivering a winged baby has real world implications is simply you jumping on a pedestal for something to yell about. That's not to say there aren't delivery issues in the real world but this scenario is not one of them.

TW: death, infertility, pregnancy and childbirth related trauma. Also a brief mention of sexual assault.

Hi anon,

Respectfully, please stop being deliberately obtuse. Let's break this down, line by line.

What you all seem to be missing is that this isn't even a topic of infertility, it's of delivery. The discussion is NEVER "can Elain get pregnant" because the problem was not "could Feyre get pregnant."

I'm aware! I assume that you sent me this ask because I reblogged an old post of mine yesterday, so what you seem to be missing is that I've already discussed this.

Here, where I implicitly acknowledged both infertility and trauma related to pregnancy and childbirth as potential triggers in the post:

And here, where I explicitly stated that we know you guys don't mean that Elain is unable to conceive at all - which is impossible to know, as per the text she hasn't tried. If you read what I wrote, you'd see I said that - assuming Nesta had not changed her anatomy and would not be able to in the future, or that Elriel would even conceive winged children if they wanted kids at all - Elain and Azriel together would be functionally infertile*, as any child with wings (which is not a guarantee, by the way, though as you guys treat it as a foregone conclusion I worked off that premise) would die before or during birth, killing Elain at the same time.

* Is it more correct to say they'd suffer from "impaired fecundity"? Yes! But please read a little further.

The plot introduced into the series was what happens after she became pregnant and carried the baby to term, could a non Illyrian safely deliver a baby with wings which has now carried over into the discussion of Elain since it's canon that Feyre and Nesta were changed while we were not told the same of Elain.

It's really not hard to understand that we are discussing a fictional woman's ability to successfully have a specific man's children, and that their impaired fecundity does not (or should not) impact her worthiness to be loved by that man; that it has been equated to the struggles that many real, living people have experienced with regards to conceiving, carrying their babies to term and giving birth; and that - while an oversimplification - all these issues are being lumped under the umbrella of "infertility struggles" to be concise and accessible.

That being said, let me correct you quickly. While you very carefully said that we were "not told the same of Elain," with regards to Nesta changing her anatomy, you neglected to mention that SJM actually had her choose wording that didn't explicitly exclude Elain from the change, either.

The brisk spring wind whipped her golden-brown hair across her face. “I gave it back to the Cauldron in exchange for the knowledge of how to save them.” She swallowed. “But a little remains. I think something else—someone else—stopped the Cauldron from taking all of it. And I made some changes of my own.” The Mother. The only being who would see the sacrifice Nesta had made and give a little back. Perhaps it was she who had peered out at them through the Mask. “What did you change?” Nesta rested a hand on her abdomen. “I changed myself a little, too. So none of us will have to go through this again.” - ACOSF, chapter 78

Also of note, Nesta specified she had the "knowledge" to perform the change, which suggests that even if Elain wasn't changed then, it could be done in the future.

It's not a reason Elain can't be with Az...

Literally all that ever needs to be said on the topic.

... but it is a valid topic of discussion within this series since the author posed it as a plotline.

You should have stopped after the first half of the sentence. Elain's lack of pliable bones - ie. the second half of the "Illyrian womb" discussion that posits Gwyn as the only logical love interest - is not even a medically accurate theory, so it shouldn't be entertained full stop. While SJM may have posed Illyrian womb/wing issues as an issue for Feyre and Rhys, she never suggested it would impact any couple's decision to get or stay together. In fact, Nesta and Cassian were mates while Nesta was still unable to birth winged babies, too.

In the real world, most women safely choose a Caesarean section if they're dealing with delivery issues in their pregnancy so acting like delivering a winged baby has real world implications is simply you jumping on a pedestal for something to yell about. That's not to say there aren't delivery issues in the real world but this scenario is not one of them.

Once again I'm asking you to put your thinking cap on.

Obviously we do not have to consider the delivery of winged babies in the real world, but if you cannot see how the frequent suggestion (that Elain's hypothetical inability to successfully have Azriel's children is a valid reason as to why an author would separate, or even hint at separating, a potential couple) could be hurtful and upsetting to the many people who have/are currently struggling with infertility - or who have lost their much wanted and loved babies during the course of pregnancy or childbirth - then I have to assume that you're either suffering from a catastrophic lack of empathy or, respectfully, you have a sheep or two loose in the top paddock.

As I mentioned in the post I linked above, if the fandom is (rightfully!) expected to handle the topic of Gwyn finding love after experiencing SA with grace - out of respect for real life assault survivors - then it is not wrong to expect the same degree of care in return when discussing the anatomy change in ACOSF, out of respect for those who have trauma associated with infertility, pregnancy and childbirth in real life. It's an incredibly simple act to listen in good faith, rather than jumping straight to accusing us of wanting to "yell about" something just because you are prioritising shipping discourse over being kind.

It's 2025, the "Elain doesn't have an Illyrian womb or pliable bones" theory is both medically inaccurate and hurtful, and it really needs to end here.

Please.

[gummilutt]

250 followers Custom Memory Bonanza

It's finally time! To thank all you lovely people for your support, I have been working hard to get this ready for upload and here we are. Today I am sharing my custom memory object, and my library of a whopping 201 custom memories. Based on the wonderful Tattered Diary by DiLight over on MTS, and the tutorial she shared of how to make your own custom memories.

I've always cared a lot about memories, to me they tell the story of the Sims life. Some of you from MTS may recall when I did the whole several year rebuild of my hood, replicating every last detail of the original. I'm memory crazy, okay? And when DiLight gave me the power to make my own, I may have gone a tad overboard. Or just the right amount, you get to decide :P DiLight taught me most of what I know about making custom memories, and the base BHAVs are from her, but as I've learned more I've added some bells and whistles that I hope you will enjoy. It's a new clone and separate GUID from the original tutorial object set up by DiLight, so if you have your own you can have mine too without issues :) Found in misc/misc, costs 1 simoleon.

Download on simfileshare

Features - Brand new form, created by me. Resized BV photo album with new mapping and new texture (seen above, in game pictures at the end of this post). I wanted something that was uniquely mine, and that you don't necessarily have to hide away in the attic or under the foundation. If you don't like it, you also have some additional model forms you can switch between through the pie menu. - Adaptable dynamic menu. Thanks to a really neat trick from @picknmixsims the menu reflects the memories you put in your downloads. If no file with the correct guid is found, the option for it won't show. Which means that although I am crazy enough to have 201, you can go ahead and only pick your favorite ones and the object will automatically detect and adapt the menu to that selection. - Memories all have a custom icon, that's made from game icons from TS2 or TS3. Some I am quite proud of, some are admittedly not great. Not everything is easy to convey through game icons, but I've tried my best, I hope the effort shows. 5 memories have icons that are not from the game, but I tried to match them to the aesthetic as best I could. - Memory subject menu shows only relevant age groups. For example, if the memory is about having a baby, only baby/toddler Sims will show as options. Goal being to keep menu as concise as possible. If you wish to assign memories retroactively, please see jonasn's excellent Memory Commander object, which has support to add my custom memories without age limitations. As well as a whole lot of other useful memory-related stuff. - Extensive documentation detailing everything you may need to know about the memories (text, icon, background, who can get it, who they can get it about, repeatability, where to find it on the object) to help you select the ones you want for your game, and familiarize yourself with them. - English and Swedish translations of memories, and object menu. If someone wants to add their language, that would be great but it's a lot of work so I don't expect it. You are welcome to share your translated versions directly if you wish, or you can send them to me for me to update files shared here :) If you want to learn how to translate the files directly, Episims has a great tutorial found here.

Examples of types of custom memories included - Extended family members memories (got cousin, got aunt/uncle, got sibling, got twin sibling, got great grandchild, got stepparent, got stepchild) - Birth related memories (pregnancy, becoming parent, late in life parent, had multiples birth, premature baby) - Marriage related memories (divorce, parental divorce, custody things, alimony) - Relationship related memories (fighting, breakups, additional love memories) - Woohoo related (memories for specific woohoo locations, repeatable generic woohoo/public woohoo) - University degree related (declared major memories, got a minor degree memories, got a major degree memories, for remembering having studied multiple things and being able to see what major your Sim chose without looking at their diploma) - Loan related, for remembering taking and paying off loans of different types - Moving memories (first apartment, child moves out, various memories for sims moving in with others) - Kids related (child's first day in school, got their own pet, nursery rhyme, giving up for adoption, living at orphanage)

Mods automating delivery of my CC memories (more to come) Learned nursery rhyme from - Found here, by me Wrote restaurant guide - Found here, part of jonasn "Novel Writing Improvements" mod

Credits: DiLight, @picknmixsims, @morepopcorn, @latmosims, @joplayingthesims, maxon, @keoni-chan. For detailed info on how they all impacted the creation of this, see readme :) Policy: Give credit to DiLight, beyond that, totally open. Enjoy!

[nondelphic]

creatives, please use alt text

one of the first things i learned in journalism school was how to write alt image descriptions.

at first, it felt tedious. every single photo or graphic required a description, and if we skipped it—or wrote a lazy one—our professors didn’t hesitate to fail us. at the time, i didn’t fully understand why it mattered. but now, i’m so grateful they drilled it into us. if i’d never gone to journalism school, i might have never known how vital alt text is.

for those unfamiliar, alt text (short for “alternative text”) is a written description of an image. it allows people who use screen readers to know what’s in an image, making content accessible to those who are blind, visually impaired, or have other disabilities that prevent them from viewing images. you're basically translating visual content into words.

as creatives, whether we’re writers, artists, photographers, or meme page admins, we have a responsibility to make our work accessible. after all, what’s the point of creating something if a huge portion of your audience can’t engage with it?

why alt text matters

it ensures accessibility - a visually impaired person using a screen reader should be able to understand the context of an image just as easily as a sighted person.

it’s inclusive - adding alt text isn’t just for people with disabilities. sometimes, images don’t load due to bad internet, and alt text helps everyone understand what’s missing.

it’s good practice - if your work exists online, you want it to be as widely understood as possible. accessibility makes your content stronger.

okay, but how do i write alt text?

writing alt text isn’t as hard as it might seem! here are some tips:

be concise but descriptive - describe the essential elements of the image. what would someone need to know to get the gist of it?

include context - if the image is part of a larger story, explain its relevance. for example, “a black cat sitting on a pumpkin, used to illustrate a halloween-themed story.”

don’t overthink it - you don’t need to describe every pixel. just focus on the most important details.

alt text and ai tools

in the era of chatgpt and microsoft copilot, we’ve got a major advantage: ai tools can now generate alt text for you!

while these tools aren’t perfect and often need a bit of tweaking, they’re a great starting point. platforms like adobe, microsoft, and even some social media apps have built-in options for generating descriptions. if you’re overwhelmed by the idea of writing alt text from scratch, let ai do the heavy lifting, and then refine it.

a creative responsibility

alt text isn’t just for journalists or big companies, it’s for all of us.

as creatives, we have the power to make the internet a more inclusive place. whether you’re posting a masterpiece, a meme, or a picture of your cat, take a moment to add alt text.

adding alt image description is SO EASY and quick and we all need to get better at adding it to our posts. i, myself, am not perfect. on here, for example, i've been really bad about writing alt image descriptions, and it's something i'm very disappointed in myself for. (i hereby pledge to do better, and please call me out for lacking in the future!)

writing alt text is not only about respecting your audience, but it's also about recognizing disabled people's right to engage with your work.

accessibility isn’t optional !!

[minks-country-club]

Dearest PopGirls,

I'm beyond proud to finally present Mink's official guide to Parseltongue, created with the invaluable help of @creature-of-insomnia . This guide wouldn't be what it is without Ana; I couldn't have done it without her.

We've both worked incredibly hard to develop the Parseltongue language, not only for my story but also for you, dear readers. Now, instead of relying on mindless hissing or made-up words, you have a structured language to use in your fanfictions. The guide draws from the Parseltongue used in the films and is influenced by Greek words. Unlike the existing Parseltongue alphabets I've seen on the internet, which feel unrealistic and are often just based on the English alphabet, as well as entirely too long to be used in actual sentences, we've crafted something authentic and concise — something that can be used naturally in sentences.

It fills me with immense joy to finally share this with you all. I'm incredibly proud of what we've created.

The majority of the spreadsheet is complete, although me and Ana are still working hard on it to be as perfect as it can be.

My only request is that you give credit if you use it in your fanfics. If you'd like to contribute by suggesting words you'd like to see in this guide, please feel free to comment, and I'll do my best to add them.

You can find the official guide here:

[melodic-haze]

hi!! could I request ayaka nsfw headcanons? thanks!

☆ — DEMO TRACK: sub!Ayaka x dom!Reader

☆ — TYPE: NSFW

☆ — CONTENT WARNINGS: Corruption kink, exhibition kink but it doesn't acc get acted upon 🤷‍♀️

☆ — NOTES: shut up omg another one I LOEV AYAKA THANK YOU

She seems like the type to be extremely vanilla at first, not bc she's scared (well no she is a lil bit) but bc she hasn't really? Had the chance to explore or anything??? But she seems like the type to be interested in it, just that she didn'r know HOW to explore it......until yk. You came along

She's like a willing subject to corruption, it's rather lovely 🫶

The way she'd approach you about it too 😭😭 like ohhh you're so precious my bbg :((( she'd breach the topic carefully, her cheeks tinted very red thanks to her skin betraying her and the blood that rushed to her face

Side track as much as I do adore Ayaka stumbling on her words and stuttering, I actually personally don't think she would unless she was EXTREMELY flustered or completely out of it. She's probably really good with forming sentences and stuff with very minimal stuttering, esp when she'd have to think ab her speech a lot to make sure she isn't offending anyone generally (I wish that were me cuz I stutter a LOT it's acc embarrassing)

So when she asks, she's VERY red but also very clear and concise with her speech. If it weren't for the embarrassed look on her face, if it weren't for her covering her face with her fan, you'd have thought that she wasn't shy about such an ask at all

It was hard to concentrate and gather your bearings at least a little bit when the soft scent of cookies and the mochi she had made a while ago never fails to overtake your train of thought, but you managed to pull through as you slowly undressed her.

"Are you completely sure?" You asked in concern for her, despite the fact that she had approached you about such a request, "I'm worried you might not like the experience. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable..."

She shook her head in reply, giving you a gentle smile, "I'm sure. I admit that I've been.. curious, and I trust you completely."

You couldn't help but soften at your white-haired partner's proclamation, giving her a lingering kiss on her temple, "Just remember to tell me if something feels wrong, you know I worry for you."

"I know," she giggled, "but you don't need to treat me like I'm fragile."

And before you reply in turn, Ayaka cuts you off by leaning her head on your shoulder, her lips close to your ear as she whispered in such a tantalising way--

"I'd like to think I can handle whatever you do to me."

--before drawing back with a much cheekier smile compared to moments before, "I hope that clears most of your reservations?"

By god, yes it does.

She turns out to be a FREAK❗️❗️❗️👹👹👹👹

No but fr though? I already wrote it but she def love love LOVEEEESSS being your good girl 🥰🥰🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶 wants to do anything you ask her to do bc she wants to make you happy. Absolutely gets off to whenever you praise her for the stuff she does

But also? Kinda very much adores being roughed around!!! Being an important figure to Inazuma, she's not necessarily used to being treated anything less than with respect and caution, so for you to essentially make her forget all that as you "disrespect" her rank? Mmmmyes definitely Something :3

She's a very very curious person who's open to a LOT of things, going from binding to sensory deprivation to roleplay

Oh my GOD she'd ESPECIALLY be into roleplay; pretending as if she were someone else, esp if she was absolutely ravaged by you? My word it gets her wet just thinking about it

I think she'd LOVEEEE to be overstimmed 🫶🫶🫶 she wants a break from thinking!! She wants a break from responsibilities, and the way you can make it easily go away by fucking her brains out gets so addicting for this little princess

SHE'D DEFINITELY BE A SQUIRTER OH GY GOD fuck off listen she's def so so very sensitive that if you work her up enough (which doesn't acc take long) she would and she'd APOLOGISE for making such a mess but you just Cannot Help but try to get another one from her so it goes around alllll over again until she passes out :3

Don't think she'd act it out irl bc no way is she actually risking her reputation (and in extent, her brother's and her entire family name), but she'd develop?? A taste for exhibition???? Perhaps it's through the times you've just decided to drag her away to a semi-secluded spot, or maybe it's bc of the times she's touched herself while thinking of you with the risk of SOMEONE coming into her room. Either way, she starts to fantasize scenes from time to time where you're fucking her out in the open or you get caught or even that she's walking around with her pussy unknowingly stuffed with toys, who knows 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

If she doesn't tell you then she probably clues you in unconsciously when you start talking to her about how ANYONE could find you absolutely ruining this whore of a princess 🫶 by her inner walls clamping onto you as she lets out a particularly loud whine 🫶🫶🫶

Ayaka had tried to go back to sleep, she really did. But her thoughts had caught up to her, hazy made-up images and scenarios of the simplest thought of getting caught doing things unbefitting the White Heron Princess and her demure, innocent stature.

Even as she had her fingers inside her needy hole, even as she grinded on her palm in a deaperate effort to chase that needed release, she had found that she couldn't be satisfied in the least. The fact that she had to silence herself in an effort to prevent herself from getting caught didn't help with sorting out her current issue, either.

It wasn't enough—she needed you to satisfy her, to put her in her place, to take her fully until she could no longer care to think about anything else but being your personal doll. There was no way she was getting off all by herself, she needed you.

Biting the fabric of her blanket in an effort to stop her teary moans from being as loud as it would've been, she could only hope any pray that this aching need within her subsides in time before she has the chance to see you again.

(And perhaps she'll gather the courage to ask you about recreating.. a very exposing scenario, to sate her torturous curiosities.)

Bonus bullet point it'd be really cute to see her cry from the stimulation 🥰🥰

[lullabyes22-blog]

hi <3

i am once again asking your thoughts on the latest act of arcane?

Honestly, my feelings on S2 so far are pretty mixed.

:')

On the one hand, visually, it's absolutely heartstopping. The cinematography is incredible, and it's the first time in a while where every episode felt like an experience I had to endure in a good way. Plus the score, the voice-acting, and the sound design is, as usual, top notch.

Buuuut when you have all these stellar spheres working on this show, it makes the areas where they drop the ball stand out.

For me, that's the plot.

Alot of folks have criticized the pacing and how there's too much piled into one season. Personally, at this point I've made peace with the breakneck speed and sort of taken it as a given in a series where 'War' is the overarching theme. I can even let go of the fact that certain plot beats don't feel earned, as there's so much subtlety and foreshadowing that you can easily make the case for them via long-drawn out analyses of every frame.

But the writing, ohhhh boy. The writing. It feels like there's a disconnect between the overall plot and the individual character moments.

It's really hard to articulate, but I'll do my best.

I love that we're getting so much characterization for the main cast. Every episode, it feels like there's a new layer peeled back, and each of our leads has an opportunity to shine.

And that's exactly the problem. They're all shining.

Separately.

When I think about it, the reason why S1 worked so well was because every episode gave us a glimpse into the mind of someone different. We got a taste of what it was like to be in the head of every major player in the cast, and through this, we grew to understand their motivations, their fears, their hopes. I've used the 'gem' analogy in previous reviews, and the way the show handled that concept was amazing. Every character was a facet of the gem that was Arcane, and each shift of PoV allowed us to see them from a new angle.

There was coherence. There was cohesion. And there was a sense of complexity told in a concise and well-planned format.

S2, for me, doesn't quite work the same way.

It's not that I don't understand the characters, or that I don't appreciate the way they're handled. It's just that their individual journeys are so self-contained. I'm not getting a sense of their interpersonal connections. More as if they're crashing into and out of each other's lives, without ever stopping to have a proper conversation.

It's a common complaint with ensemble casts, and I don't mind it for the most part, but the problem here is that Arcane has been very careful about establishing its characters as part of a cohesive whole. They're not just random individuals who happen to share a stage. They're siblings, lovers, colleagues, friends, enemies, etc. And the reason why we can relate to them is because, on some level, they mirror our own relationships. We've seen how they treat each other, and we've come to care about them.

But in this season, I feel like there's been a failure to communicate.

Scenes between characters feel like a series of disconnected vignettes, some of which are great and some of which are not so great. It's as if the writers are trying to force the characters to react to the plot rather than the other way around.

I don't want to be overly critical. So much love and effort has gone into making this show, and I'd never want to disparage the efforts of so many talented artists.

But, yeah. Coherence is a bit of an issue.

I will say, however, that re: the subject of grief, especially in Jinx's journey, this season has delivered some beautiful moments. It's a surprisingly nuanced treatment of a complicated and ugly emotion, and it's something I wish more shows would tackle. The problem with a lot of modern storytelling is that, because it's trying so hard to be edgy, complex and subversive, it doesn't really leave any room for just letting characters exist. And Jinx's arc in particular is a perfect example of this.

I was worried, going into the season, that they'd take the easy route and paint her as a pure monster, utterly deranged from her loss. That's what the fandom seems to want, anyway, and it's what you'd probably expect given the general climate.

But instead, the show has chosen for Jinx to be vulnerable, and to let her arc be honest. Granted, Isha, though she's adorable, still doesn't quite feel like a full-fleshed out person, but Jinx's bond with her has been written with such heartbreaking realism that I'm inclined to forgive the former for the sake of the latter. It's just refreshing to see the series not to take that insulting and reductive 'but Jinx is crazy' route, and instead allow her to grapple with the pain of losing her family and the horror of what she's done, but to also heal old wounds with brand-new connections.

'Crazy' does not mean 'irredeemable.'

And it's about time more mainstream media got this memo.

The series also continues to be stellar at showcasing so much with such restraint. A lot of the scenes don't last longer than a few minutes, and yet you can feel so much conveyed in that brief window. And the framing and composition is consistently masterful.

Overall, though, I'm a bit underwhelmed by this season so far. It feels like an incomplete masterpiece, and the sense that the narrative has lost control is starting to get overwhelming. We've still got Act 3 left, and I'm hoping the final stretch is able to tie things together a little more neatly.

Anyway, thank you for reading this mess! And feel free to share your thoughts as well. I'm curious to hear how other people are finding the series.

<3

[d-criss-news]

Tony Nominee Darren Criss on the 'Miracle' That Is 'Maybe Happy Ending'

[UHQ] Darren Criss photographed by Laurel Hinton

"I always like to say that the victory is in the conversation."

Darren Criss is an Emmy-winning actor, but deep down he's a musical theater nerd. Which is why he's so proud to be part of this year's Tony-nominated musical Maybe Happy Ending. "Everybody involved in [Broadway], we all work within a 10-some-odd block radius, and it is really like a campus celebration." For Criss, who plays Oliver, a robot in futuristic Seoul in love with another robot, Claire (played by Helen J. Shen), it's "nothing short of a miracle." "You kind of hope for this your whole life." After picking up 10 Tony nominations, including Criss' for Best Performance by an Actor in a Leading Role in a Musical, it's clear countless others did too. "I hope it runs for many moons in other countries and in other dimensions." Part of what makes the show unique is its path to Broadway. "Every step along the way, it has been an exponential groundswell of positive response, because everything is just earnest ideas believed in by earnest people." And it's been a benchmark for diversity and Asian stories on Broadway. "I always like to say that the victory is in the conversation."

How does it feel to be a Tony nominee?

I don't know what to say that can be concise and all-encapsulating without me shortchanging a lot of ideas swirling in my head. Especially if I'm talking to folks like yourself in situations like this, when people ask about these things, something that is a big concept suddenly becomes like a press conference answer. Let's make it easy and good old-fashioned—It's great. Feels great. Cliches exist for a reason. It's an honor, because it is, and it feels great because it is great. And hopefully that doesn't shortchange any of the ideas I mentioned in my head.

Not at all. A lot of millennials, and some Gen Zs too, I suppose, have been with you since the start of your career when it blew up because of Glee. And the fact that you're in a category with a person who was also on Glee, Jonathan Groff...

There's a lot of things. I'll be honest—I haven't gotten to unpack this at all. This is the first time anybody has asked me this question, or that I've had to speak about it since I found out. Literally right now. So, you have a very interesting position of watching me process this in real time. You're bringing up something that I haven't even really gotten to get to my head, which is—It is so exciting to be in a category where I know every single person. That's awesome, and not in a sort of superficial way. These are all men whose work I have gladly paid money for to watch them perform time and time again, and I love their stuff. And this isn't some kind of cute, charming way to pose the nomination pool as this brotherhood of men. We all work on Broadway, and we all work just as hard as the other guy, because we all have eight shows a week. It's a nice thing. I've been in situations where I've been nominated with people, and there's people that I've been nominated with that I've never met. I love them. I love their work. And I was so excited.

I figured that's a Hollywood thing, where you're only friends at award shows.

Hollywood—and I don't mean this in a trivializing or mean way—but it's a very partitioned thing, for better or for worse. It's very impersonal. It's just separated. Again, that's not to pooh-pooh it, but it's just how it is. Whereas working the theater and Broadway, as any stage performer can tell you, is infamously familial, personal. We're all roommates. We all live with each other.

Things happen, the backstage is small...

Yeah. We're all living in closets, and we all show up, and no matter what happens that day, we got to do the damn thing the next day, if we're lucky, right? All these men and women, everybody involved in this sort of thing, we all work within a 10-some-odd-block radius, and it is really like a campus celebration. And that's why I love the Tonys. I think it's a wonder and a miracle that it's still nationally televised. I think that in this day and age, it's an amazing thing. When things are honored at this level, it's so beyond the self. It's about connecting with kids like me growing up wishing that [the] thing I saw on the Tonys would come to my hometown and be on the cast album that I clung to. And...with any luck, this show that I'm in, I hope it runs from many moons in other countries and in other dimensions. If I'm lucky, I get to see a mishandled version of this show, because it will have survived long enough to be part of the cultural fabric that I can go to a maybe not-so-hot version of a production of this show. When I get to do that, I'll sit there going, "We made it."

There's nothing I enjoy more than watching YouTube videos of local theater fails—someone falling, or some set piece falling—like that's all I want to see.

I have that s*** for breakfast. It's so enjoyable. I mean, you are watching a little bit for the schadenfreude of it, but there's something so endearing about the Mickey and Judy paradigm of like, "Hey kids, let's put on a show. Let's just do it. Let's make something." And I am so endlessly endeared to that concept. But that's the dream for this show. So again, the breadcrumbs go far. It goes all the way back to things like these accolades. To be with all these people and to celebrate this community and the people that it represents, and just how hard everybody works. I love this community so f****** much, and I love getting to watch the Tonys because I know everybody in there, and I know how hard they work. No one's in here for the glitz and glamor. Everybody's here for the real love of the game. It's an honor to be rubbing shoulders with those people.

Maybe Happy Ending feels so unique, not just for you but for a Broadway show in general. Do you see that? And how did it come about for you?

Oh my God, it's a big question. I kind of white-lied a little bit about...me being able to process this. I generally stay away from Instagram, but I wrote a small piece this morning to acknowledge what happened yesterday. And the word that I keep coming back to is—this show has just been nothing short of a miracle on so many levels. It's an exponential miracle across so many facets. Making s*** at this level is obscenely expensive. I think what's interesting about this show is that the guys who made it—Will Aronson, Hue Park—they had no intention of this being a Broadway musical. I think that's a really important thing to mention. And every step along the way, nobody was like, "Let's make some money!"—said nobody ever making a Broadway show. That's kind of a way to just paint a target on your back. It's just not a really healthy way to make any piece of art. We know this is not the way to make stuff. Every step along the way, it has been an exponential groundswell of positive response, because everything is just earnest ideas believed in by earnest people. And just incrementally over a long period of time, that sort of lightning-in-a-bottle cream rising to the top over time.

This did start in the States, but was originally produced in Korea. You have two writers in New York that have an idea to make something, but because one of them is Korean, he was like, "Well, we can get this made in Korea." Which is a very novel concept, because most things are incubated in the States or maybe overseas in the U.K. So, they kind of moonshot in and got the gravitational pull of what was going on in Korea, because they could get it made instantly over there, and it did very well. And it was with support there—it did so well over there, it kind of got moved. It was in China and in Japan—those ain't the same three places. Those don't have the same culture or language. Yes, it's Asia, but by no means are those the same audiences. So, if that doesn't speak to its universality, I don't know what does. Finally, after however many years, because of the pandemic and [actors'] strike and everything, it finally came back here, like, turnkey. Because it essentially had an out-of-town tryout for years.... It's been just such a gift. You kind of hope for this your whole life.

In the way that I gravitated towards Hedwig [and the Angry Inch] when I was a teenager, I loved it because it was just so f****** original. It checked all the boxes for me. It was subversive. It was rock and roll. It was queer, and all the things that means, just like, culturally, or sex. It just had all these things that were just so, like, "F*** you," but like, moving. There's real pathos in Hedwig, which is, I think, why it has stood the test of time, and why it's connected with some people. Like, yeah, it's cool. Yeah, it's funny. Yeah, the music kicks ass. But like, those have a ceiling, you know? It really is about the beating heart and the pathos and of storytelling that has made it move on and translate. And that's exactly what's happening with Maybe Happy Ending. The songs are beautiful, the story and the concept is cool, but it's really the beating heart of the storytelling and how strong the dramaturgy is that has made this so interesting to me. And it's something that you kind of pray for as an actor, but you can't just summon that lightning to fall into the bottle.

And we got nominated for 10 Tonys yesterday. This was not part of my itinerary. I did this because I was available and because I thought it was beautiful, that's why. And I got to work with my friends. It's why you do things. It's a polite reminder of the zero-loss game that it is to follow your heart. I am not patting myself on the back. Everybody in this piece loved it and was passionate about it before other people told us we should feel that way. And that's what's been so validating and encouraging about the response that we've had, because it's just something that we have cared about, and to have other people respond in the same exact way that we did when we read it or watched it is like, OK, good. There are other human beings that we can connect with on this feeling.

With a show like this, this is not a Tony-nominated show, historically. A show like this—and I want to compare it to Oh, Mary! in that respect—they're just so far outside the box that you just think it's almost too not in that lane to get a Tony nomination, even though it is great, you know what I mean?

I think folks like us that tend to subscribe to the left of centerness are used to those things not being part of the cultural zeitgeist, which is kind of why we like them. It's this weird catch-22. It's like when you're in high school and you like this band that no one's heard of, and as soon as somebody else hears about it you're like, "I don't know if I like them anymore." Which is really silly, and I'm not saying that's how we are now. But I told Cole [Escola, from Oh, Mary!] this. I got to do an Actors on Actors interview with them, and it was so awesome because I said this; I was like, I saw that off-Broadway, and I felt like it was built in a lab for people like me who just think, I just eat that s*** all day. It's so funny. It's just, again, subversive and clever and original. And I think the key here is being singular and authentic to yourself. This is no new concept. Artists have said this forever and ever. Oscar Wilde said, "Be yourself, darling. Everybody else is taken." It's true. I'd rather see something that is so undeniably of that one person and thing and have it not be very well put together, but authentic, than I would something disingenuous, but, like, glued together really well. Because again, there's only so far that can go. Audiences are smart. They can smell a rat pretty quickly. So yeah, I appreciate the comparison to Oh Mary! because, even though we're different stories, there is something that can cut through if you double down on your own singularity. And I think that's what happened with Maybe Happy Ending as well.

With this show, one of the things that I found so surprising in watching it is with this character, it does feel like you almost have to change how you sing in order to do the character. Because there's a cadence to the way the songs even go that I find so fascinating.

I just thought about this recently, because I will sing the songs outside of the show. And this happened with Hedwig. I've actually never sung on Broadway with my own voice, ever. Content dictates form. I'm not gonna sing with my usual flair—another Sondheim line, God, I'm such a musical theater nerd. Hedwig had a voice and an accent and a panache, but it was still my voice at the end of the day. I'm not gonna sit here and pretend that I'm like some chameleonic Daniel Day f****** Lewis. It's me. It's me up there. However, there are margins of difference that have to be applied for the character and the type of show. So Hedwig sounded like Hedwig, because there's an East German accent that's been in the States for a long time. So I'm singing with that accent, and then in this, because it's a robot that's sort of overproving consonants and vowels in the way that a lot of our artificial intelligence [does] now—now, it's becoming a little more colloquial—but like 10 years ago, when you would like put something into a dictation software, it would be very articulate. And to sort of denote that this is not actually a human. Now, it's so humanlike, it's crazy. It'll only get more humanlike. But for me, it was very important to use the body. This is drama school s***, but, like, the body, voice and mask [need] to telegraph as much as possible that this is not a human being. So, I am singing with a certain over-precision, which is a really great gift, because it's the kind of thing that helps you actually lock into notes and lock into character.

[anotheroceanid]

because you're my writing inspiration, i've decided to pester you with questions about it! >:) if you don't mind ❤️

what's your creative process look like? what normally comes first to you, the idea for a plot, specific moments, vibes/themes, world building, etc.?

what type of character is your favorite to write? what's your favorite relationship dynamic to write?

how do decide a character needs to die? (like a named, known-by-the-audience character, not Red Shirt #3 lol)

favorite type of comment to receive? don't say "any comment" >:) longer, more WTHB-centered questions:

WTHB is shaping up to be a very long story juggling a lot of characters that spans YEARS(i'm obsessed with it—so excited), how do you even begin to break down and organize the story beats for something this big? do you picture it like a series of movies or novels? like tv show episodes? or does it truly just all come together as one massive plot arc in your mind? summing such a large work down into one concise summary sounds daunting

any advice on writing romance? Percy and Apollo have barely appeared together in flashbacks even, most of their love story has been off-screen, but you make them so compelling! i feel their yearning in my soul T-T

i find this question hard to ask for some reason. WTHB!Percy is a mother currently being held hostage, do you ever worry that people will think she's been relegated to a damsel in distress or just "the mom" character?

This will be a long answer but I got soooo excited with this ask

Soooo

1. Yk how people categorise themselves as plotters and pantsers? I think I’m a plantser 😅

Like, my first “inspiration” can be anything (I’ve literally dreamed with things that then became stories), so when I get some idea banging on my head I start to imagine how it’d look like as a story, so I set the tone I want before I write anything.

From then, I start imagining important scenes that will drive the plot. One of the first scenes I imagined for WTHB (once I had defined who the kids would be, because I spent a lot of time making up kid ocs until I ended up with the triplets, with Luke being the only one I was decided from the start) was the boys being taken scene, then Hector meeting Jason, then a few scenes between Annabeth and Milo that didn’t happen yet.

So, like I said, I am a plantser, which means I do plot (a lot) but I still like to keep some things open so I can change if I figure something out while I’m writing.

What I do, I set the main plots and it’s narrators (if there is more than one), since I’m using WTHB as an example, rk we have these

The Greek Arc (Annabeth & Milo)

The Roman Arc (Jason & Hector)

Percy’s Arc

Apollo’s Arc (which is also the god’s arc)

So, these arcs affect each other. What character A does in Place 1 can affect Character B in place 2 and vice versa, so even if these characters aren’t interacting directly, they still cause things to happens in each others lives.

This is relevant because rk almost all characters of WTHB are separated geographically, but their stories are interconnected.

What I like to do, is write each characters arc but using a mind map, so I make a linear mapping using some structure (heroine arc, hero arc, seven plot structure, you can pick whatever you want, I usually use heroine’s arc even for men).

You can use obsidian, miro, or even draw it at hand.

But the mind map give you a visual way to develop your plot, so you can see when each plot point takes place. And the thing is, not always the characters are synchronised, so I organise it in a way that events happening more or less at the same time are aligned, and if some event from A affects B I draw a line connecting them or even explain what happened.

I don’t have my laptop with me rk, but it is more or less like this:

This way, you can figure out the main events of the story without having to write EVERYTHING that will happen. If you need to change something, you know more or less how it’ll affect every characters.

I also make a timeline of events (this because I’m dealing with a lot of worldbuilding, so I better know when things happened even if I’m not using it directly on the story). I also, sometimes, write down some topics like I live in that world and I’m giving myself a class about those events.

Another thing I like to do, is organising the chapters even before I write them. I use scrivener to write, but you can do it on obsidian to (I use scrivener for worldbuilding only). Each character have a different number of chapters, it depends on the arc. Like, Percy and Apollo are the only narrators of their arcs, but both the Greek and Roman arc have two narrators, so the narrators share the amount of chapters.

This is it, then I write. If needed, I go back and re-do something. I’m always re-reading the chapters I already posted, because sometimes I forget a few details.

Sometimes I draw to inspire myself to write, this helps too 😂 and vice versa. I think the hardest part is when you’re dealing with a large geographical space, and your characters are all scattered, specially when they have to move around and you have to make math so it makes sense, specially when it’s not your own country 🤒

2. I like writing the “colateral effect” characters. Like, using WTHB as an example again. I love writing Percy, Apollo, the triplets, ofc I do. I love them. But there’s something so enjoyable about writing Annabeth and Jason because, while they did a not of horrible things, they were thrown in that mess and they’re just dealing with it.

3. 😵😵😵 Okay, harsh. But usually, since I keep going back and forth and imagining different outcomes, so I play with killing characters. Then I consider the impact of their deaths to the other characters and to the story as a whole.

4. As you can see, I love talking. So I loooveee comments I have to answer topic by topic. But I still appreciate all of them, it’s just that I like interacting 😅

5. I kind of answered this one in the first topic, but I make myself a lot of content where I can check my own work. And yeah, I imagine as a show 😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️ as a novel 😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️ as an animation 😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️ as a Bollywood movie 😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️ as a broadway musical 😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️ as a lot of things.

But nope, even though now I can’t tell the whole arc as block of text if needed, I think that’s counterproductive to me. So I work with mind maps, I use the actual map to have an idea where the characters are and where they’re going, I make sheets sometimes, and ofc, the timeline (I mean, I always say that, but the timeline of the story ain’t linear, so things are happening in different times for different characters, and I need to know 😂)

6. Actually romance is actually hard to me, I just focus in creating a meaningful connection between the characters through their similarities and their differences. I’m a sucker for friends to lovers, so I try showing how character A and B learn things from each other, and appreciate each other beyond a physical sphere. Idk if that makes much sense, but this is it. And to antagonise it, their own faults (in the case of Percy and Apollo, both have terrible self esteem and are always expecting the worst to happen, which lead them to jump into conclusions waaaay to fast).

7. The “damsel in distress” or “just the mom” character usually carries a lot of “why is this female characters who’s obvious in a vulnerable situation don’t get out” that comes from a misogynistic point of view. It’s always the double standard: male characters are manipulated, female characters take dumb decisions, male characters are, among other things, fathers, female characters are mothers, sisters and/or lovers.

So like, I try being truthful to the character because IK this sort of interpretation will exist either way. Ik that Percy, despite being in that state, isn’t reduced to none of those. While she may be way to believing of Gaea, she doesn’t jump into the conclusion Orion and Medea are good people just because Gaea had them on their side. She’s in a place where she have to deal with the circumstances that she had, not with the circumstances that were ideal. From her standpoint, she doesn’t have any other allies.

And yeah, her main focus right now are her three sons, but is she meant to say “yup, not my problem” when they get kidnapped? Like, in canon, Percy was ready to die for his friends and etc. fem Percy too, and now she’s ready to die for her sons. It’s a very male Kronides x Female kronides situation. Demeter? Obsessive, awful mom who wouldn’t let Persephone do anything. Hades? Well, he was in love. Hera? Crazy women. Zeus? Oh, he’s just a man of his time.

So like, maybe some people think she’s falling into mom or damsel in distress trope? Maybe. But there’s nothing I can do about it. I just enjoy my time writing, because it’s not as if any of those people are paying me to write the character arc THEY want to see.

Btw, thanks for this ask. Hopefully it made sense, because I know I tend to talk a little more than necessary 😆

[cantareincminor]

Fandom Wrapped (Reader Edition) 2024!

Thanks to the wonderful @kattyelf for creating this template! Links and detailed reviews under the cut.

Disclaimer: I probably read hundreds of SxF fics in the past year, and it was not easy to choose which ones to put in the list above (or below)! This fandom is full of wonderful, friendly creators and I am so glad to be part of it. I also had to narrow it down to only the ones I read and reread in 2024, not 2022 or 2023. Finally...I also happened to read many good fics only once. Sometimes a fic is just too painful or sad to reread, especially if it's not finished.

Favorite fic and author: After peace by @unhappy-sometimes!

I could gush about unso for a whole post and not be done, but I will try to contain myself. Her fic After peace originated from an AU comic she drew where Twilight was forced to retire early due a major injury, and drifted aimlessly until WISE asked him to take care of an orphan they had rescued from Project Apple. There are several things that amazed me about this fic and cemented it in first place for 2024:

The premise. It was original and so full of potential.

How personal Twilight's journey felt to me. I didn't have a life-threatening injury, but I did put my career on hiatus in the past year and have often struggled with questions of -- what am I worth when I'm not "doing" anything? I was so used to going 150% in the rat race and coming out on top at great personal cost to health and family; even if all that was bad, how else can I get that sense of accomplishment? How can I stop wanting that sense of accomplishment?

Her style, which is both vivid AND concise. The fic was around 22K words if I remember correctly, with a well-constructed plot, character arcs, plenty of emotional beats, and a satisfying resolution. I often wonder if my writing is too verbose and when I see something like After peace, it challenges me to do better.

THIS WAS UNSO'S FIRST FIC EVER. THE HELL. It's like a freshman album that gets put up for a Grammy.

Fic(s) I reread (plus runners-up):

That Time Yor Seriously Thought About Leaving by peonydee: This is a WIP with one more chapter before completion, I believe. Peonydee's style is unique in how it's hard-hitting and disarming at the same time. Yor and Twilight find themselves in impossible situations, their relationship tested to the limit (and one of them in a close brush with death), yet there's still an undercurrent of wry humor, almost fatalistic due to the fact both of them have been steeped in death and dirty work for decades, yet still hopeful and reaching for each other. I also cackle every time she makes Twilight go off on a mansplaining tangent without ever using the term outright. A masterpiece of show not tell.

Is It Really All Right? by zyzy1083: This one is tender. A jealous!Loid fic with a fascinating portrayal of Loid from Yor's perspective. The imagery of a dark sea choking down any true thought or emotion from breaking for air will stay with me for a long time. There's also the fact she basically made up lyrics for an indie song as part of the plot and I had to ask whether it was a real song. Finally, there's the fact she was bold enough to portray Loid as less than a perfect, kind, smiley husband toward Yor, but in a believable way. He snaps at Yor at times. He loses his patience. It feels like a real relationship, in the awkward tension when one partner wants to talk and the other absolutely does not want to talk. I admire that courage and wish more authors would take that risk (calling myself out I guess!).

Green-eyed Monster by bigbruja: another jealous!Loid fic that's lighthearted and fun. This is a comfort reread. I enjoy seeing Loid recognize the threat of a supposed "old friend" of Yor's, questioning his own feelings and how far he needs to go to fend this guy off. The guy is a Garden assassin, unbeknownst to him. I also love Yor's own inner struggle of just wanting everyone to get along, but showing steel when she needs to.

dalliance by rosetintednerdglasses: this is a WIP, but it is HILARIOUS and I hope everyone will go encourage this author to pick this fic back up when they have a chance. TLDR, Twilight (in disguise) is sent on a joint mission with Thorn Princess and flips out internally when he sees it's Yor. Handler then orders him to ensure Thorn Princess continues to cooperate. So as Twilight, he has to sort-of honey trap Thorn Princess, while as Loid he has to keep Yor happy. Poor Yor believes she's torn between two different men and close to cheating on Loid! Situational hilarity all over the place, and fun world-building, like this other WISE agent randomly named "Steel Bunny" (LOL).

Not According to Plan by @kyrathel: love you girl! This is a gift fic for me, but that's not the reason I reread it (even though it's a WIP as well!). It's SO FUNNY. Twilight gets it in his overly anxious head that he MUST defend his wife from the bullies at City Hall, so what does he do? HE INFILTRATES CITY HALL AS A NEW FEMALE HIRE. The world absolutely needs more petty!Twilight! The latest chapter features laxative brownies. Enough said.

Let's start living dangerously by @beannoss: I specifically reread the later parts when dumb Twilight gets over his dumbness and finally talks to Yor! And they kiss again! I love the way huhwaku (beannoss) portrays overthinking Twilight AND overthinking Yor. And also, the simplicity of Yor at the same time. The voice she uses for both of them is refreshing, it really puts you in the mindset of the character. Yor's giggles ("teehee!") as she teases Twilight about his little perfectionist habits are a cute touch to a gentle, heartwarming fic about these two highly competent professionals just starting to take baby steps in how to be competent at a relationship.

Fic that made me emotional:

100% Perfect by @sometimesiship. Where do I begin? How about with the gut aversion I initially had to the premise of a futuristic AI dating bot AU, due to all the tragic, dark AI movies I have watched? But as it neared completion, someone convinced me to give it a try and I AM SO GLAD I DID. You can see my gushing comments in almost every chapter. The development of the relationship between human Yor and AI Loid is so natural, funny at times, poignant always, and beautifully written, even though from an objective standpoint not much exciting stuff happens (I mean canon-typical excitement like murders and spy missions). Sometimesiship has a way of describing emotion that is so raw -- she can portray the same emotion a dozen different ways with analogies and setups and dialogue and whatever -- and it still doesn't feel old. And the emotion that dominated the second half of the story was grief. Basically the grief of loving someone you know you're going to lose. Like being the spouse of a terminal cancer patient. I didn't cry while reading, but it was a closer call than I have had in a VERY long time. So much beauty and humanity in this story. And spoiler (?), it's a happy ending. So I hope you all go check it out!

That's a wrap! If you read this far, stay tuned for a Writer version of Fandom Wrapped 2024!

[goldsnek]

So, I saw the question about tips for aspiring comic artists and it actually reminded me that I am curious about the topic as well😅

I like to write stories and I like to draw so it seemed logically for me to try my hand at comics as well but I'm struggling extremely with the layout.

It's seems very daunting when you sit in front of the empty page and you have to consider how to arrange the panels.

I'm the kind of artist that sometimes does big changes to almost finished works, so the idea of having to make a final decision before I even start with the actual drawing process, is kind of terrifying for me.

Long story short, how do you put your drawings into panels?

Do you really have to make a final panel layout at the beginning, the way I've been attempting to, or are there other possibilities I simply haven't thought of?

Last but not least, I want you to know that I absolutely love your comic, both because of your spectacular art and the amazing story! ❤️

Hello! Okay this is going to be long but I'll try my best to explain and be concise (and truly sorry for the english!) So, the first rule you need to have in mind is that you don't imagine the scene PER PAGE but PER SEQUENCE. What I mean is, you don't have to imagine a comic (like ''what I'm putting in this page'') but you have to imagine it as a video in your head, like you're directing a movie ( movies and comics are a lot more similar than we think as a media) For example, try to imagine someone waking up and going to open their window, that's a full sequence. it can be done in various ways, depending on what your character is doing and what's the ''mood'' of the scene. Remember always that your character emotions sets the mood for the entire scene. A thing that helps me a lot is ( like I said XD) watching movies, I focus on the mini sequences, a kiss scene, a fight, I pause the movie and rewatch that scenes various times, trying to understand the mood of the scene and how is shot. A sequence can even take 3 or 4 pages or even 10, it depends from whats happening, even more if it's a fight! But like I said the number of pages comes later. another importart thing to remember is that your characters needs ''a place to live'' If you make a story and never show a single panel with a background, the story is gonna lack something 100%; and I know... backgrounds are hard (I hate them) but you need at least 1 panel where you show the places your characters are living in. That is called establishing shot and it needs to be used when your character are moving to other locations. (or if you're talking about other characters in your comic and they are somewhere else) I'll show u some establishing shots now:

Took 3 different comics (narratively and stylistic speaking) Bone, Batman and TinTin to show you that even if the setting of the panels is extremely different, they still all have an establishing shot. Now, of course you don't have to put this in EVERY page, but like I said at least at the start of your comic, or when the characters are moving somewhere else, it's very important to show that. Also remember that the biggest panel you need to have in your sequence is the one where the most important action is happening. For example, if two people are fighting and someone gets slapped, that's the most impactful scene, so that's the scene that will need the biggest panel on your sequence, because it's the most important. Another rule is to make the camera breathe. Let me explain this properly, you, as a comic artist, are like a movie director with a camera. You need to turn the camera in various ways, up and down left and right, but always remember this : Never make a page of faces only. example, here are character A and B having a conversation, a page like this is extremely wrong, because the camera is basically attached to the character face and the viewer/reader is going to feel like they're suffocating in the room with the story characters :

You as an artist have the power to zoom the camera in and out, showing extremely tiny details or making a big panel that shows how Idk... beautiful or eerie or mysterious the background is. The biggest advice I can give you is to read a lot of comics, try to find series you love and study them, see how they make the panels, how the sequence are shown etc. The last rule (there are a lot more so if you have more specific questions just ask) I can give you and this is about your question in specific is that: Yes. Unfortunately you have to make the structure first and that has to be your final decision, if you make a 10 pages comic for example and you decide you don't like some stuff anymore and decide to change all the pages, you're just gonna end up in a endless cycle of always fixing and fixing and never be satisfied. Remeber this: The sketches and layout of the pages are the MOST important thing in a comic. The coloring, lineart, etc... it's just decoration. So hang on and start making layouts, and focus only on those for a period of time and then when you're 100% satisfied with the structure, you go and start adding the ''decorations'' Hope this helps! I'm not very good at explaining , especially in another language, but I tried my best XD