#Dangling sashes

[fisheito]

everyone gets a turn in the ridiculous skintight edmondsuit. or at least, .everyone SHOULD

[kingdomoftyto]

Spent THREE HOURS at the mall yesterday trying to find anything that I could use to make a Halloween costume (I had several ideas), and found NOTHING

Swung by Goodwill for about an hour today and scored 90% of Luz Noceda's school uniform

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: enemies to lovers, past bullying, reformed bully x victim

♡ fem reader

“No way.” You shake your head—face warped in something akin to disgust. Judging him for even asking, glaring in disbelief at him and what dangles from the clothing hanger in his hand. He couldn't be serious.

“Come on, please, for me?” he pleads, downright pleads. But there’s no way.

“No.” You say more firmly, planting both hands on your tilted hips. “I don’t get what you’re thinking, but it’s not exactly a time in our lives I want to relive.”

He pouts and sags a little where he stands, clasping his hands together in prayer, making the ill-taste outfit swing. “Oh, come on, it won’t be the same as then,” he promises with zero believability backing him. He even dares smile as he spouts the bullshit in his next words, “It’ll be like therapy. Let’s reframe your trauma together.”

You scoff. He’s unbelievable. “You’re stupid.”

He feigns feeling insulted. “I’m serious!”

“You always said I looked like trash in that—no way I’m not putting it on,” you dismiss.

But then he gets down on his knees. Hands still together as if in worship. Looking up at you with puppy dog eyes. “I was lying through my teeth back then—you know that! I’ll be honest this time around. Tell you exactly how often I had to change my pants because of you—”

“Ew, stop.” You can’t believe the spectacle he’s creating—such a drama queen—and all for getting you to put on a make-shift copy of your old high-school uniform.

“Come one, pretty, pretty, pretty please?” He shuffles forward on his knees until he’s right by your feet—bottom lip jutting out in his pout. “The prettiest please?”

You look down at him—you mouth a prim pursed line, gritting your teeth to try and steal yourself. Grimacing at the outfit sprawled on his lap. There’s no way. Absolutely no way.

“Pretty please?” he continues, making you roll your eyes with a sigh.

“Fine,” you bite out but quickly add, “But you have to wear one, too.”

You think you’re being smart. But he only grins—a wicked little twinkle in his eye.

“Way ahead of you.”

From behind the outfit meant for you, he pulls forth a black gakuran to match.

Okay, so you hadn’t really thought he would have bought one for himself—you realize now the mistake in your speculation. Of course, he’d bought one for himself. But hold on… You raise your brow, folding your arms atop your chest. “And where’s the pants?”

“They didn’t have my size, but my sweats are already a good lookalike,” he explains away. “This doesn’t really fit either, but it won’t stay on for long, so’ doesn’t matter.”

He gets up and hastily pulls his shirt off of his head, then, with just as much enthusiasm, pulls the black school jacket on. And he’s right—his black sweatpants could pass for the old Tobi trousers he used to wear. All in all, it’s a sight for sore eyes. Looking at him feels just short of seeing his old high-school self.

“Come on. You said.” He holds out the rendition of your old uniform. “Get dressed.”

You regret conceding. But it’s too late to go back on your word now. Rolling your eyes, you receive the hanger with a sigh, “Oh, fine. Just this once, you freak.”

You get dressed without making much of a show. Leaving your current comfy outfit in an unceremonious pile, you pull the tacky articles on hastily. Black pleated skirt and sailor blouse with a little red bow sash—there’s even a pair of knee-high socks to go with it. As a grown-up, it’s utterly humiliating having to wear it now.

But he doesn’t seem to share your discomfort. Only groaning, “Damn. There she is—my prettiest little junior~”

You ball your skirt in your fists. Glancing up at him only to look down again, fixing your gaze to the floor. Heat in your face. Mumbling, “This is weird—you look dumb.”

“Oh yeah?” his voice curls with newfound enjoyment. “Well, you don’t look a day older.”

He comes closer, and oh god—you don’t know why you’re so nervous. But fuck—you feel like your back in time—back in time when you were a sorry loser getting picked on, and he was… he was a—

“Perv,” you manage to say. Though, that’s not really the word you’d been thinking.

He chuckles, so close now that he also starts to play with the hem of your skirt. “That’s for damn sure.” Agreeing, he hums, “Only for you though. So’s fine.”

He bends down and finds your neck with his tongue and teeth—his hand traveling up under your skirt without further ado.

“Hey,” you protest, wringing his ill-fitting jacket in both fists, hauling him off. And even though it makes him look back at you like a kicked puppy, you don’t let it get to you as you scold him, “Thought we were reframing my trauma. At this rate, you’re just itching to make me relive it.”

He tries giving you one of his innocent smiles. “Oh?” His arms curl around your waist, pulling you close—chest to chest—simpering while leering down at you, voice in a purr, “It won’t be any fun if I can’t bully you a little bit like I used to.”

He tries leaning down to catch your lips, but you push him away. Breaking free, then scoffing, “Tch, if that’s how you’re gonna play this, then have fun beating off on your own.”

“But—” He starts, but you’re already on your way to leave the room. Hooking two fingers into the band of your skirt, he stops you and spins you back, now all mopey and sorry, “I’m sorry, don’t go, princess—how about we one-eighty it, and I tell you all the reasons I love you? Will that make you humor me?”

He’s back to pleading.

And you can’t help the small smile it gives you. Muttering, “Maybe.”

He smiles giddily, too, “I love how pouty you can be sometimes.”

Your brows furrow, “Hey!” That’s not a compliment.

But he only laughs and continues, “And I love your snippy little tsundere attitude.”

“Those are both insults, you tit—” you argue, but he doesn’t care, hugging you close, lifting you off your feet before falling with you down on the bed. Hanging over you, he admires every inch of your perfect body tucked into that cute little uniform he used to make fun of because he was scared of how silly you made him feel.

“I love how you tell me off.”

Deciding to face his fears was the best decision he’d ever made.

“I love how you look at me.”

It’s crazy to think you’re here with him still, after all these years.

“I love how you put up with me, how you make all my wishes come true—how, even though I don’t deserve you, you stay with me anyway—how you’re mine even though I’m a scumbag.”

You’re eyes soften under his speech. For all his tactlessness, he can also be really quite sweet. You raise both hands, reaching out to cup his face—beholding the softness in his eyes—that way he looks at you. It makes your chest stir.

“You’re not that bad,” you confess, pulling him down to tease his lips with yours.

Kissing you once, he accredits you, “That’s ‘cause you make me a better man.”

You smile and kiss him again, then resume your teasing, “Don't get ahead of yourself. You’re still a boy.”

He lifts and raises a brow down at you in retaliation, “Is that so?” And oh no, you recognize that look.

“Well, this boy is feeling hormonal and horny and just raring to go—” he overplays. Gasping, “And what do you know? How lucky!” He lowers himself again, then starts peppering kisses all over your face in between words, “I’ve got this perfect little high-school sweetheart lying here all up for the taking—”

♡ BNHA – Hawks, Dabi, Bakugou, ♡ JJK – Gojo, really silly in-love Sukuna ♡ HQ – Kuro, Atsumu ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Sanemi ♡ WB – Suo, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[ladygrei]

Mithril Lined

NOW WITH ART BY THE AMAZING @lorbalith!

Words count: 6,370

Rating: Explicit

He moved on to the jewelry. Something he felt unsettled by for one reason or another. He would not wear gold, and the bronze that he was so naturally drawn to was not enough for the statement he was trying to make. As he dug through the chest, a glittering silver chain caught his eye. He pulled it out and discovered that it was, in fact, not silver like he thought. It was an armband with dangling chains, the band itself set with a square-cut sapphire in the center. The metal that shone was identical in coloring and shimmer to his mithril vest. Glancing quickly back at the clothing he had set aside, he placed the piece behind him and continued searching for similar items. By the time he finished he had found a whole matching set of jewelry. A set of anklets that connected to one of his toes, an ear cuff that had several looping chains, four rings, the aforementioned armband, and a bracelet. Though the most surprising thing to him was the fact that every piece fit him perfectly. Something that he would ponder later, maybe at second breakfast, perhaps. 

Placing what he was secretly calling his armor aside for the morning, he went to bed, hoping that tomorrow would not get him thrown out of the mountain.

The next morning came, and Bilbo woke still caught up in his thoughts. He knew Dis and Ori would be by as soon as the caravan arrived. With no small amount of trepidation, he got ready for this proverbial battle he was walking into. When the two dwarrow did arrive, Bilbo saw that they, too, had dressed for the occasion. Dis wore her hair and beard braided in a menagerie of twists and loops with silver clasps and chains dangling throughout. Her dress was blue with silver embellishments. Ori looked every bit the master scribe and potential advisor to royalty he was training to be. He wore a purple sash across the front of his scribal robes, and his hair was braided, though his beard was unadorned. Both stood stock-still when Bilbo bid them to enter his room. Ori looked as if he might cry and Dis looked like a cat that caught the canary.

“What? What is it?” Bilbo asked.

Ori gapped like a fish as Dis strode forward, pushing Bilbo into a chair. “Nothing, it’s nothing. Just sit here. Ori, please, do not say a word about protocol.” Dis commanded, pointing a motherly finger at the scribe with a small smile. 

[neopuppy]

Hi 😊 hope you're doing well. Can I ask for just the tip scenario with jaemin please 💙 love your work.

think of this as…..a teaser of something to come in the future☺️💚

warnings: ‘just the tip’, unprotected penetration

“I thought you said she was special for a newbie.”

Jaemin’s glaring at you, arms crossed over his chest annoyed with his ankles mimicking the same position. Only to further intimidate you, test your will and see just how serious you are about this.

“She is.” Johnny’s quick to confirm, quickly shooting him a stern look before moving to stand in front of you and hide you with his larger frame. “Don’t listen to anything he says.”

“I’m still sore from yesterday..” you try to whisper, Jeno standing nearby scratching at his nape shyly.

“Sorry…” he mouths, shrugging and smiling sheepishly.

“Do you want to reschedule?” Johnny’s assuring as always, squeezing your shoulders to calm you. “We don’t have to film today if you’re not up to it.”

Jaemin’s mumbling curses under his breath, tightening the sash around his waist, robe concealing more of his chest. “This is bullshit.”

“No no..” you know Jaemin’s pissed off, rolling his eyes behind Johnny’s back while repeating ‘special my ass’. “Can’t we just, I don’t know.. take things slow?”

“We’re shooting a gonzo scene, how the hell do you imagine we can take things slow!” Jaemin moves to stand next to you, his expression clearly filled with frustration. “This is stupid Johnny! We’re wasting filming time.”

“We can always rework the filming style, nothings set in stone alright? Calm it down.”

“What if we..” Jaemin’s eyebrows furrow at the sound of your voice, teeth gritted between his lips. “A little at a time, you know.. slow.”

Jeno clears his throat, continuing to set up the camera’s position. “Just the tip scenes do great from what I’ve seen, just saying.”

“Just the tip?” Johnny’s eyebrow cocks up, slowly nodding. “POV Just The Tip….innocent slut struggles to take a 9 inch cock for the first time.” His fingers snap, nodding and smiling. “You think you can handle that?”

Jaemin smirks over his shoulder for only you to see, tongue dragging between his teeth as if daring you to back down.

“I can do it.”

Johnny nods, tugging you into his side to whisper against your hair. “I won’t get mad if you can’t.”

Tucking into his chest you double check that Jaemin’s moved away, wrapping around Johnny’s waist. “Is it really 9?”

He laughs at that, stroking your waist through the robe. “Nothing you haven’t handled before.”

He’s right, between filming with Johnny and Jeno you’ve been put through thicker and bigger than you fathomed to be possible, but Jaemin..

As if on cue he unties the sash around his trim waist, eyeing you from your toes up to the anxious look you give him in return. Grinning slightly he bites down on the corner of his lip, robe dropped down leaving himself completely bare, length half hard dangling between his upper thigh and pelvic bone.

Fuck.

Tugging himself to full mass his brows lift at you suggestively, as if to say ‘you next’.

The settings simple today, nothing plot heavy, plain set only for the purpose of close-up shots, a few cameras set up around to capture your lower halves connecting, Jeno handling a handheld camera for up-above shots from Jaemin’s point of view. It’s different, and as you approach the edge of the couch in front of him you remind yourself that this has to do good. It’s only your second week working at Suh Films, and the last thing you plan to do is let Johnny down so soon after taking a chance on you.

“Jeno fuck you too good yesterday?” Jaemin asks, low toned, grabbing onto the knotted up sash keeping your figure covered. “You know, if you can’t handle a little pain..”

“I can.”

“He’s not really..” Jaemin leans in, licking at your earlobe. “As thick as me.” Untying your robe, he steps closer and grips onto your waist, fingers digging into your sides purposefully to manhandle you onto the couch, robe completely slipping off in the process.

Gripping around your knees, he hoists you closer until half of your ass hangs from the edge, shoving your legs into place until you sit spread open, feet curled against the couches ledge and your palms flat to support your balance.

A sadistic thrill runs through his chest, inspecting your swollen core. Jeno really had done a number on you, fucking like a horny teenager finally nailing his wet dream. Palming down your inner thighs, he pulls your center open with his thumbs, wet folds spreading out met with the cool air filling the room.

“You’ll let me put it in a little, right?” He asks, no longer whispering. The cameras rolling not even crossing your mind, too engrossed in each flex of muscle rippling through his chest and arms. The dumb whiny nod you give is all he needs to grip around the base of his length, girth appearing ridiculous in thickness surrounded by his fingers.

Smoothing his thumb between your folds, he bends at the knee, the tip of his length swiping between to smear arousal up to your clit. Slit sucking at the bundles of nerves with each slow pass.

“Too wet for a whore that can’t take a big cock.” Jaemin sneers, tip pushing down a glob of wetness back to your entrance, the sound of it bubbling out embarrassingly loud.

“I can..”

“Oh yeah?” His teeth poke out, hiding back a smile as he pushes down against your resistant opening, having to suck back a hiss at the first bit of his length making it inside. “Fuck that’s tight.”

Jaemin whispers too low for the cameras to pick up, zoned in on the tip of his length struggling to push past the pulsating band sucking around him.

He keeps still for a second, inhaling short deep breaths as the veins lining his rod thrum violently, hungry for more. “Need in this pussy.”

Chewing at his bottom lip for a minute, his cockhead dips in and out furiously; stomach muscles contorting with every snap of your entrance around him. Focusing on your cunt gripping around his size, the stretch too painful to even look at. Heat scorches between his thighs, balls tightening up forcing him to tear his gaze away, distracting himself with your mouth, hung open and panting.

“Can you take more?”

[iiiumihottie]

[Image descriptions available in alt text and under the cut.] second batch of character portraits for the fic This Dark Thing That Sleeps In Me by @late-to-the-magnus-archives! wonderful, wonderful fic. i am cradling it in my hands.

first batch

[ID 1: A drawing of Jonah from The Magnus Archives. He has a stern expression and stance. He wears dark, ruffled clothing like a billowing coat and necktie. He has very pale skin and wavy black and white hair. End ID.]

[ID 2: A drawing of Tim from The Magnus Archives. He has a confident hand hooked through a sash on his waist and a smile on his face. He wears an unbuttoned, frilly white shirt, dark pants, and a red sash, as well as blue eye makeup and berry colored lipstick. Tim has tan skin and brown, short hair, as well as defined muscle. End ID.]

[ID 3: A drawing of a young Jon from The Magnus Archives. He looks nervous and glances to the side. He wears a green vest, white shirt, and dark pants. From his ear dangles a small cage, and he has scars on his hands. He is depicted with brown skin and dark, barely shoulder length hair tied back. End ID.]

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Swallowed Whole by The Flame (Messmer the Impaler x Tarnished! Reader) 3

MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS | NEXT

Summary: You find out who Aldwin is, and you get the cleansing you deserve.

A/N: Mentions of taking clothes off, nothing further than that. Also, my hc is that the tarnished has short curls, but you don't need to imagine that if you don't want to.

A03 link

-

Chapter 3: Treatment

It is uncertain how long you were being dragged for, past winding corridors you couldn't remember, hallways seemingly going on forever, until you were pulled into a large room. You could only guess you were back on the ground floor, where Messmer mentioned the so-called Sir Aldwin. When the knights threw you to your knees, you hissed from the pain, panic rushing in your chest as you looked around your new surroundings.

The room is oddly clean for what you feared was the torturer's chambers, yet it seemed to be the opposite. Cleansed instruments decorated the walls, candles had been lit and an aroma so sweet yet husky filled the air, bringing a sense of tranquility to fill your lungs. Lavender, you noted, silent as you slowly rose to your height, waiting for when it was all a lie to bring you to a false sense of security.

"Ah, my Lord mentioned a Tarnished would be sent to me?"

A reedy voice called from behind you, jolting you into action as you turned to face him. You had not spotted him right away, tucked in the corner with books he was drowning in. He lifted his head to you, a white beard, long and uncombed was the first thing you noticed on him, followed by his silver-grey skin.

"You're Nightfolk?" you whispered, already feeling slightly in awe and uneasy. Nightfolk came from the City of Nokron, with few in numbers. Some say they were bred with humans or Nox to create human-like offspring. At closer inspection, Aldwin seems to glint his eyes, and when you look too hard, you realise his eyes are a pale silver. It was said they bled silver, and you could only imagine it may have been true just from looking at him.

Aldwin was slightly taller than you, with a spindly body, dressed heavily in robes you could almost compare to the robes of Raya Lucaria, but theirs were of blue with red sashes, his was black and grey, no emblem in sight. "I am simply just a man," he says earnestly. "I am Sir Aldwin, the healer and physician of this keep. Messmer asked me to look at your wounds."

"Messmer cares for me now? His prisoner." You scoffed, though you found unease as you picked at your nails. 

There is unease, no matter how the man in front of you tries to make you feel safe. Your first immediate thought is to find any weapon in this room to use to fight your way out, even if it means using it in self-defense against this man. He seemed old and weakened, but you could not trust what waited outside those doors. It would be simple enough, and it would also be a maze to find your way back to the previous site of Grace. But you knew Messmer was no fool, it would be easy to leave a knight posted outside this room, to sound the alarm if you dared overstep. No matter how tempting it was, you straightened your spine, trying to hide the discomfort from your pain, watching him cautiously. 

Ser Aldwin was gentle with you in your surprise, nodding wisely. "Indeed. He asked that I take a look at your wounds." Reaching forth with a hand, he pointed towards the cot, larger and more comfortable than the one in your cell," May I have a look?"

You hesitated for far too long, which brought the aged man to reassure you further, "I do not plan to inflict pain on you if you are concerned. My healing is far recommended by everyone in the keep, even his Lord himself."

You didn't question what he meant by that, but you had no doubt Messmer came to him when he was injured. Slowly inching your way to the cot, you sat on it, legs dangling as you watched the man move around you to find what he needed. You watched him for far too long, out of vigilance, silently too engrossed in what he was doing before you found something pressing into your wrist, checking your pulse.

You recoiled your hand quickly, expecting pain, yet none came. Aldwin looked at you calmly, as if he had all the experience and patience of a saint to deal with a patient as difficult as you. "I did not mean to scare you, milady." He responded, retracting his hands, waiting for you to accept rather than him continuing. It amazed you how kind he was, treating a prisoner to treatment far better than the kinder hands of allies who had helped you bind your wounds.

Aldwin worked beside you, humming a soft tune you couldn't recognise from the tune, rummaging until he found salves, cloth and glass cauldron already simmering on its own without the need for heat or flame. You watched in amazement, as he began applying a white ointment to your burns, wrapping them lightly to exposed areas of your skin. He paused, looking up at you, "I will have to look under your shirt to see for further burns."

Silently and begrudgingly, you removed your shirt, thankful for the breast band covering you up. It stung when he applied the ointment to wounds that were bigger and deeper, yet when he was done, you were silently thankful. It was when we shocked you, placing a hand to put over your burnt skin, he whispered an incantation, words foreign to your ears, but miraculously, you watched a burn that would've taken months even years to heal, disappear to become barely a visible scar.

"My mother was a sage," he answered as if he knew you would ask how he knew of magic, "she helped a great many, including against the purge done by the Hornsent." There was a sense of doom that could be present in his eyes. "My mother suffered alongside those of Queen Marika's village."

Messmer's mother. You thought, and it did indeed bring a sense of sympathy to fill your heart, despite him being a tyrant. Your family were destroyed by war, and being a sole survivor, you in time, forgot their names and faces, a relic in time to fade away. "Thank you." You murmured. 

When he was done, you could finally pull your shirt back on, looking over the content on his desk.  Jars of different sizes, salves and notes scattered in a language you couldn't recognise, scribblings that could belong to a madman. Aldwin noticed your curiosity, shooting a glance to his table before beginning to pour the content from the cauldron into a decanter.

"The oils I use bring great ease to some. It brings great relief to those who suffer in daily pain. They can be used in baths or body oils." Aldwin presented you with the cup, still bubbling with the heat. You could feel it press into your palms, a great relief to soothe your cold bones, but the smell seemed suspicious. "What is this?"

"Just something to help if I missed anywhere, it helps give you the much-needed strength." He chimed, "For example, having been in a damp call for three days, can do a lot to the human mind and body."

You had already brought it to your lips when you nearly spat it out. "Three days I've been stuck up there?"

"Indeed, and it was in those three days, that his Lord was not seen, keeping to his throne room."

You were silent, idly sipping on your drink which helped invigorate you greatly. There was a strong taste of ginger and pine, though you couldn't place any other ingredients.

It was only once you washed down the content did Messmer's knights entered the room, three you counted, all awaiting your next moves. You watched them back before Aldwin butted in. "Ah, milady, they're waiting to see if you're going to put up a fight."

"Right," you stood back up, feeling the strength come back to your legs, "I will be right with no need to be touched."

They formed a circle around you as you were escorted out, Aldwin waving his goodbyes before resuming whatever he was doing. An odd man, but a kindly one that was needed in these lands.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Strip."

Something scratched at the back of your shirt, almost ripping it from your body with enough force that made you jolt. Messmer's knights had escorted you into the bathhouse, with hooded willowy figures awaiting you. The bathhouse steam helped your pores, relieving your lungs. The much-needed relief was being cut short by the way Messmer's maids he assigned to you swarmed you like a pack of hounds. 

"Strip." The older of the women ordered again, and you did not like the way they watched, even if you could not see their eyes. You obeyed silently, thankful Messmer's knights awaited outside, not that they would care if you were to be attacked in your most vulnerable state.

Your body, now nude, could still feel the cold despite the heat and steam of the room, covering yourself best as you quickly waded your way through the water until it reached chest height. The bath you laid in was small and narrow, but there were a great amount of oils that helped you feel slightly more relaxed.

With a nod from the older woman, the two others gathered around you, suddenly grabbing you by your wrists, plunging their ashen hands into the water, and grabbing sponges that they used to scrub you to death.

"Hey!" You yelped, taken aback by their boldness as they scrubbed you as if you were incapable of doing so. The roughness of the sponges hurt your already healing skin, leaving it raw and almost as if aflame by Messmer's kindling once again.

The elder woman came behind you, grabbing you by your head, her long nails digging into the back of your helm, lifting it from your dampened scalp-

"Enough." Your voice cut the air like the cut of a blade. The women scrubbing you even stopped as they all three watched.

"The helm." One of the women spoke, but you were not sure which one. 

"I am perfectly capable of washing myself," you commanded, making sure to use a voice stern enough and direct. "Leave me."

They hesitated at first, unsure to trust you, as if you would disappear in a puff of the steam and make your escape, but you simply waited, "Leave me." You repeated louder this time.

The three left, their robes swishing as if they were floating, rounding the corner in what you thought was the exit, but you knew wasn't. When you felt you were alone, you slowly raised the helm off your face. The steam was making it almost hard to breathe, but you sighed in relief when you could finally feel your face getting the much-needed cleanse.

Your curls were short in a bob, and when you ran a comb through them, it took much of a struggle to get it through a few times. Using the hair oils provided, you cleansed your scalp, dunking your head beneath the water and pretending you could drown. 

You sighed, the warmth of the water felt like the hug you yearned for, enveloping you and leaving you with the feeling of safety. When was the last time you felt safe? Maybe never.

You rose your head out from the water, drying your hair as you cleaned the inside of your helm before putting it back on, sighing in defeat as you could feel the steps of the maids return for you.

-

A/N: Sorry guys, the helmet stays on during bath time.

[formulalfc]

but here me out

Y/N and trent are celebrating trent winning any trophy, and she has his medal around her head while they're doing it. He slides his head in the ribbon to keep her as close as possible and starts bounding into her so hard with their foreheads touching cause ain't no space. Once they're done trent slides his head out again and says "wow this was.... you're the real champ" Y/N then leaves the bed and leaves trent confused then goes into the wardrobe and gets him "the best dick ever" sash and puts it around his shoulders, he brust out laughing then goes for round 2..

i changed it a little bit but i hope you like anyway <3

you've got his premier league medal resting around your neck as you ride your boyfriend, bouncing on his dick as he moans from underneath you, going crazy at the feeling of you around him. he opens his eyes to watch you, tits bouncing and his premier league medal dangling in front of his face. he groans at the sight before planting his feet and fucking up into you like there was no tomorrow, there are bruises on your hips from where he grips you and you can't help the whimpers that escape you as you clench around him and collapse into his chest. he finishes right after you, cumming deep inside you and staying in you to make sure none of his cum falls out. after resting for a few moments you pull yourself up smirking down at him in satisfaction as you tell him how good he made you feel before hopping off the bed. he looks after you confused until you come back with a medal for him that says "best dick EVER." he barks out a laugh as he reads it and then puts it over his head and pulls you onto his lap. he's deffo like "i guess i'll have to make sure i earn this medal then" and is flipping you over, smothering your surprised squeal with his lips.

inbox is open send me some ramble requests <3

[thecrowsart]

I'm back with more Mononoke movie obi analysis! The movie team has been putting out a lot of clips on their various accounts, so I've managed to get a more full look at the back of Kusuriuri's obi! This is my proposal for the structure of the knot, but if anyone has any other ideas, I'd love to see them.

I had to make a little paper mockup to figure this out lol:

However, because it's small and paper, it probably is behaving differently than a large, fabric obi. So I'm not sure how well this knot would work with a real obi, but if someone has the means to try it out, please let me know! Something that was interesting and made this a little frustrating was that both ends of Kusuriuri's obi are free, whereas it seems like for most established types of obi musubi, one end will be tucked into a loop shape or otherwise hidden away, and the other will have a free end (Even many examples of the men's obi knot I included a picture of above. I purposely found one that looks more like the knot I did, but in many cases you will fold one tail into a loop so there's only one free tail). This is also a feature of TV Kusuriuri's obi:

It's a little hard to tell because of the low resolution, but I'm sure you've seen enough of him by now lol; his obi is tied into a bow with both ends hanging loose. I've seen his knot compared to a tateya musubi, and they are visually similar, but from what I can tell, a tateya musubi is structured like I described, where one tail is folded into a long, rectangle shaped loop, and the other is wrapped around the center of it to squeeze it into a bow.

See how there are no hanging tails? It's because both tails are making the whole bow. Contrast that with Kusuriuri's, where the tails are dangling because the loops of the bow are made by the upper sections of the tails. His obi is tied like you'd tie a shoelace, basically, whereas a tateya musubi is like a bow you'd see on very nice gift wrapping.

Anyway, I also was able to glean more about the pseudo-obijime:

Previously, I thought maybe both white cords were connected to each other and looped through the knot, as shown on the top left. However, these two shots (and others not included) seem to disprove that. The left shoulder cord starts from underneath the obi, loops around the back, under the right arm, and ends in between the two layers of the obi. The waist cord starts and ends under the ohashori (waist fold). What it's attached to, I'm not sure, but I'm guessing it's anchored to the smaller obi/sash that's worn under the actual one.

[justsescape]

[Since I'm sick, how about a throwback drabble?]

“Oh, so that’s what you like, anon?“

Your soul sunk through the floor; it’s too bad your body couldn’t follow suit. There was no getting around it. Your hand was trembling far too much to click away from the breast expansion sequence on your computer screen. “Wouldn’t her back break with giant jugs like those?” Misato leaned over your shoulder. You couldn’t bear to face her, but you heard the cheshire cat grin in her voice nonetheless. “Honestly, you are so weird, nonnie...”

You thought you felt her hand on your shoulder – like that of a teacher comforting you over a failed test. But what slipped into your peripheral vision removed all doubt of what she was doing. There it was, an erect nipple tenting against her black shirt with every intention of piercing the threads. One of her heaving tits was draping itself over your shoulder like a sash. “Though you know, anon,” she continued, leaning even further forward, “I suppose it is normal to like huuuuge boobs...” Her voice trailed off, but her rack certainly didn’t. More and more of her breast was creeping down your collarbone and toward your ribcage. But it wasn’t just gradually descending; her flesh was also bulging against your neck like a pillow you might wear on an airplane. If you were sweating before, you were drenched now.

“Oh, whoops! Sorry about that,” Misato feigned, groping at the underside of her overgrown boob and hoisting it up. You felt her supple skin rub against your neck and chin. “I’m still getting used to… all this~”

The captain’s heels tapped on the floor as she took to a stand, and your gaze was reeled in behind her like a fish hooked on bait. Just a moment ago, you couldn’t bear to look her in the eye… and nothing had changed now. Why look her in the face? A bust as big as hers demanded your attention, and Misato was cupping them in her hands like she was volunteering them for show-and-tell. She was far, far bigger than ever before. Bowling balls would surely be envious of their size and their weight alike, but the way they plunged in her shirt was almost more breathtaking than if they were simply round – though, they were getting close to that shape as the captain presented them like she was lifting watermelons.

“Soooo yeah, I may have snooped on your PC,” Misato giggled. She let one of her breasts fall (and jiggle) against her torso to reach into her jacket pocket. After a bit of rustling, she produced an empty vial. “And I have privileged access at work, so... you know the rest! It’s not the most powerful dose so it’s very gradual, but I’ll be growing and growing for hours~”

Misato released her other boob from her grasp and then plunked the container into her cleavage. “Won’t need this anymore,” she teased – and with two fingers, she pressed the vial down until it nearly disappeared. Fortunately, her cleavage eagerly did the rest; that dark, deep line lengthened and swallowed it up like it had fallen into quicksand. “Ooh, they’re hungry~!” Misato’s boisterous laugh only served to make her colossal boobs sway to and fro. “Hope you enjoyed that little display, ano-... whoa, what? Something’s... there’s something else in there?” Misato dove wrist-deep between her breasts, sifted around for a moment, and then... she slowly fished a bra strap out. The cups following behind it were impressive in their own right, but they had been practically maimed. Perhaps this is what her shirt would look like once her nipples reached their goal.

"Oh, I almost forgot that I was wearing this before I started blimping up," she mused, letting it dangle from her hand like a recently caught trout. "I must have had it since college, and now it's all broken and worthless... guess I'll need to get resized and refitted..."

You couldn’t ignore her eyes anymore. They looked at you in the same way a supervillain looks at a hero imprisoned in their lair. “And I know just the person who can help me with that~...” A broken bra in one hand, and an unspooling measuring tape in the other; Misato sauntered toward you, her unsupported rack swaying back and forth like the swings on a swing set. Forget bowling balls; they were rivaling beach balls now, and her shirt was paying the ultimate price. Holes peppered the fabric and revealed bulging, creamy skin underneath. Her midriff would have also clearly been visible if not for her gigantic bust obscuring it. It wouldn’t be much longer until you wouldn’t even be able to see her thighs.

"If you promise me that I'm the only big boobed woman you'll chase, maybe I'll have a little fun and give the breast expansion formula to all the girls at work too!” The measuring tape dragged across the ground behind her. Every passing moment rendered it more and more ill equipped for the task. All you could hear was her voice – and your heartbeat pounding in your ears. She stopped in front of your chair, her head now fully hidden behind the expanse of her underboob. If you rose your head only a few more inches, her tits could envelop you completely. “Just promise me that you won't try any funny business with them, ‘kay? Now get to work, anon! These honkers won’t measure themselves~!”

[boundinparchment]

Blasphemous Rumors - V

“Marry me.” He said it with such blasé that you weren’t sure you heard him correctly.  Silence surrounded the two of you and he leaned down and tilted his head, watching you like a specimen under a microscope. “Just for a year.  A marriage of convenience.  Consider it nothing more than a harmless experiment for the sake of curiosity.” Il Dottore/Female reader with established personality.  Slow-ish burn.  Semi-enemies to lovers. On AO3 here. Likes, reblog, and comments appreciated.

You peered out between the crack in the doors at the back of the cathedral.  Every pew was full.  Breakfast, what little you had of it, churned in your stomach.  Your hairpins were too tight and you fought the urge to fix them. 

The front steps were packed to the brim with common folk shivering in their coats and furs, eager to get a glimpse of you despite the bitter cold.  Why would the inside of the church have been any different?

Everyone seemed accounted for.  You had gone through the guest list extensively; it was far too long for your liking.

And it was far too late to back out now.

The high collar and long lace sleeves of your dress were soft, rather than irritating; you were right to have chosen the shop you worked with.  Your final fitting had induced tears, both of lamentation and awe; you only wished you shared such a moment with anyone other than the Tsaritsa.  Who were you to deny an Archon, after all?

She gifted you the veil that now covered your hair and face, as light as freshly fallen snow.  

Part of you wished, hoped, that perhaps you might catch a familiar shape in the crowd.  But as far as you could see, neither of your parents were present.  As expected.  Your father wouldn’t have been in good shape to attend, at any rate.

All that waited for you was a Harbinger, dressed in white, and the Tsaritsa beyond.

You rehearsed this for the past few days with the Omega Segment acting in its master’s place.  The very act did nothing but weigh on your nerves like your boss weighed his mora.  It was infuriating, actually, that Lord Dottore did not deign to show up to his own rehearsal ceremony.  He had that luxury.  You were required to appear.  After all, you had no copies of yourself to delegate tasks to and you were the only one in the ceremony who would do more than just stand and speak.

Typical Harbinger.  Others suffered while they reaped the benefits of their positions.

Running would get you nowhere except a shallow grave.

You agreed to this.  You gave your word.  And such a position would give you plenty of information to pass on.

The music started, the doors opened, and on beat, you began the long trip down the aisle. 

Your grip on your flowers tightened as you went.  The bouquet in your hands was a monstrous thing, flowers practically spilling out of it in an array of irises, cecilias, glaze lilies, and an overabundance of greenery.  The florist had gotten far too overzealous and you wish you hadn’t been so tired during those meetings.  Around you, the church was sparsely decorated except for the long carpet you walked on.  All eyes were, inevitably, be drawn to you.

 Brides were supposed to smile, you reminded yourself.  You hoped your smile only felt tighter than it looked.

Lord Dottore was dressed in mostly white and, naturally, not without that feathery mechanical thing draped over his shoulder like a mink pelt.  His mask was black with blue accents, different than usual mask he shared with Omega.  The tails of his coat were accented with bright blue, matching his waistcoat, and it even looked as though he repurposed the usual dangling tubes into accessories for his suit jacket.  Across his chest, a red sash, not unlike the Tsaritsa’s, denoting his station and affiliation.  A bright and luminous aquamarine gem was nestled into a pin at the base of his throat, floating above a white cravat. 

Despite the upper half of his face being covered, he did a decent job of appearing enamored: a tilt of the head; a charismatic smirk that passed for charming; a shifting of his weight as he fixed his cuffs.  If you didn’t know any better, you might have believed it yourself.

As you approached, you realized his shirt wasn’t black but a deep blue, almost as deep as the midnight sky back home.

You caught the quickest glance at his sharpened teeth when he attempted to match your smile.  It came off more like a snarl as you passed your flowers to an attendant and took Dottore’s awaiting hands.

You shared his sentiments.  Your feet were already aching and the event had barely begun.

The Tsaritsa spoke of a blur of sentiments that, perhaps in any other situation, would have brought you to tears.  Selflessness (impossible for the man before you), a reciprocity of compromise and challenge (only out of necessity to keep your job), sharing in the accomplishments of another (again, impossible for your future husband) were things that, surely, the crowd collected here knew to be absolute bullshit.  Il Dottore, Second of the Fatui Harbingers, was infamous for his ruthlessness, his lack of humanity, unwavering resolution for knowledge at any cost.

Hell, you even severely compromised on traditions that might have added authenticity.  Normal couples celebrated in Snezhnaya for at least two days; a marriage for a high-ranking military official would have warranted far more.  Back home, it was still common to practice the tradition of ransom for the bride but that required your parents and you caught a muttered remark about the cost of your ring.  Betrothal and Crowning were replaced with a simpler ceremony that would not insult the Tsaritsa while remaining true to Dottore's sentiments towards godhood (absolute bullshit, in his opinion). 

He cared little for ritual.  Ritual was nothing more than unsubstantiated nonsense to explain a world instead of looking closely for answers.  So long as everything was legal, it didn't matter to him otherwise.

In exchange, both of you would instead endure a tour of the main city for photographs before the reception.  Pantalone's idea.  Of course.

Would anyone really believe the two of you were serious about this…

The Tsaritsa did though. 

Didn't she?

You tried not to marvel at Lord Dottore's long fingers when he removed his gloves to exchange vows and rings.

His recitation was, of course, perfect.  If he wasn't a scientist, you were certain he might have been a stage actor in another life.  Dottore's touch lingered as he carefully arranged both of your rings and slid them home, ensuring they nested into one another perfectly. 

Compared to your pair of rings, his appeared plain when you slid it on after affirming your vows in return.  Then again, this union meant nothing and his adornments were always more about his rank and their functionality.  An unassuming band of platinum suited him just fine.

Touching him was less a sparking jolt at the sensation of skin on skin and more akin to a burn, as if thawing one's hands in front of a roaring fire after a day in the tundra.

The Tsaritsa spoke again, giving closing remarks.  You wanted to pull away already but there was little choice in the matter.  Dottore's fingertips were curled into yours, the smallest amount of contact you could get away with already, and it wouldn't take much for him to decide that you weren't playing along.

"…your union will be sealed with a kiss."

Lord Dottore's shoulders squared instantly and you felt the tension run into his fingers, now feeling more like curled claws.  Fuck.  Of all things you had discussed…practiced, even (you stepped on his feet more times than you cared to consider and yet still had your feet).  Had both of you truly forgotten…

The longer neither of you moved, the worse this was going to be.  You felt expectant gazes and heard a soft wave of whispers.  Convincing.  This needed to appear true—

You let go of Dottore's hands and you were thankful that he took the cue to lift the edge of your veil.  Disappointment sunk in your stomach as he kept his head as level as possible, preventing you from sneaking a look up his mask.  You stepped forward to close the distance, cupping his cheek with your left hand before you tilted your head to the side and pressed your lips to his.  Fluid, smooth, natural.

That was your role, you reminded yourself.  It would take both of you to make this work.

His lips were soft, as warm as his hands (warmer, perhaps, you considered).  As human as any other person you kissed before.  You pulled away, catching a glimpse of his ears turning pink, before he ducked down and captured your lips again, finally back on track. 

He turned his head to break the kiss but didn't pull away immediately.

"Quite efficient, Accountant," Lord Dottore whispered.

His words tickled your neck and threatened to send a shiver down your spine.

The closest you would never get to gratitude.

Touring the city was excruciating.  In-between trying to put names to faces and track who was speaking to whom, you waved and smiled from the carriage window, thankful the gray clouds were holding off their inevitable snowfall.  Every stop meant a photo, meant standing too close to your husband, all the while hoping you came off as shy and dutiful rather than stiff and uncomfortable. 

The schedule left little time for breaks.  You managed to nurse a glass of water, fix your makeup, and gather your remaining strength as an attendant bustled your dress before you entered the Palace Ballroom, arm in arm with the Harbinger.

If your husband was a different person, you would have pushed back on his insistence to get the first dance out of the way as soon as you were in the room.  But you agreed with him and it was better to get it over with.

As rehearsed, you took your position, thankful all the while he had slid his gloves back on as soon as you were in the carriage hours ago.  Bad enough you had to be essentially pressed up against him for this.  You would rather eat glass than touch him again, especially if he was going to feel warmer than he truly was.

He smelled more pleasant than you usually experienced.  The lack of viscera and disinfectant helped.  This close, closer than you had been all day as he led exactly on beat, you caught hints of musk, along with sandalwood, mint. 

Dottore pulled you flush against him after spinning you out, angling his head towards the crook of your neck.

"Relax your shoulders," he muttered.  "You're resisting the rhythm and making this harder than necessary.  All that convincing work earlier can be undone quite easily, Accountant."

"Is that a threat, my lord?" you teased, passing off a playful smile.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth but it didn't stay long.  He was quiet in the carriage, professional.  Other than his vows, he barely said a word to you all day.

"For once, not from me."

You schooled your face, instead resting your chin on his shoulder as the mantle's feathers brushed against your cheek.  It was much softer than you expected.

What had you missed?  Other than perhaps appearing, as any person might, a little weary during the tour, you had been nothing but polite and warm during any interactions with guests. 

"Even one as erudite as myself knows to move with the music and the flow of the event.  Stop thinking, Accountant."

You tried to ignore the slight squeeze of his arm around you; it was a little too tight to be assuring.  Focusing on the music, a song you could hum in your sleep by now, you tried to relax your shoulders and hips and follow through with the sway of each step.  The song ended; its final note was cut short by the sharp sound of knives on glass.  You fought a grimace, realizing your guests were goading you to kiss again.

This time, the Harbinger was quicker, stealing your lips as soon as you lifted your head from his shoulder.

"Better," Dottore whispered as he pulled away.  "By the end of this, you might even fool yourself."

You threw him the same smile and demure look as you did in the jewelry store and fixed his cravat to stifle the urge to punch him.

"Are you sure I won't fool you, Lord Harbinger?"

"I'd like to see you try."

The socializing took the longest.  The Harbingers themselves, although never without a quip to throw, were civil enough.  You led most of the conversations once the two of you reached the tables of dignitaries and nobles, Dottore falling back to either have more in-depth discussions or to observe, as he often did.  Eventually, it was just you when he muttered something about getting air and you were determined to get greetings and gratitude off your plate before dinner.

Your head swam as you recalled every single face, every name, every seating arrangement.  It wasn't that different from data, from account numbers, balances.  No one would call you an extrovert by any means but the only thing keeping you going was the very knowledge that Dottore was not going to do it.  Such things were not worth his time.  Without his Segments in normal situations, he was protective of his time; now, it was your turn to fill in the gaps.

It took everything in you not to roll your eyes at yourself.  Your duty was to the people of Snezhnaya and beyond.  Your duty was your family.  This marriage was a means to an end.  You only played your part because if you didn't, the consequences were far, far worse than you wanted to consider. 

You were partway through the final table when you felt a hand on your elbow and you saw everyone at the table straighten considerably, as if they were puppets ready to perform.  Instead of any kind of introduction or pleasantry, however, Dottore turned his attention to you, his hold gentle.

"Dorogáya moya, come eat before your plate gets cold."

You felt your face flush at the use of the term, both at the familiarity and the double meaning.  Over the last few weeks, you learned that he was not a native to Sneznhaya, as you were, but he spoke the language so fluently one would never know.

With a smile, you let yourself be taken to the head table, where the first course of many sat waiting for you.  Your stomach grumbled at the sight of food.  You'd been hungry since before the ceremony.  Now that you looked, you noticed that the wait staff were well into bringing out dishes, carrying trays over their shoulder.

Funny that he would come find you when he left you alone to tackle the ridiculous social obligations of his station.  Then again, Lord Dottore couldn't exactly have you fainting at your own wedding. 

"So, I'm expensive, am I?" you asked, glancing through your peripheral at him as you took a long sip of water.

You half-entertained wine earlier but you needed your faculties and wits about you.  Water was best.

"If time was a currency, yes," Dottore turned his head to you, fork and knife still poised on the plate.  "Surely you can quantify how much of my time could be better spent on almost anything else."

"And surely you know how easily anyone could read into a Harbinger calling his new wife expensive as establishing an amazing matrimonial foundation."

Dottore tilted his head and raised a shoulder, a gesture you always took to mean silent acquiescence.  If you could see his eyes, you imagined his eyebrows would be rather expressive as well.

“I never cared for the opinions of others, especially those who never had to try to improve their life, such as most of our guests who were born into their position.  There is little reason for you to be anything beyond polite.  It is those closest who must be fooled, not the rest of the country.”

“All it would take—” you hissed.

“You’re forgetting who you married, Accountant.” Dottore gave you what anyone else would have called a charming smile. “Unlike you, they fear me.  Now eat.”

He needed you to cooperate but if he thought he was going to spend the next year commanding you around...arrogant, self-important, manipulative ass…

You kept your face neutral as you lifted a utensil, pushing away the thought of driving your fork into his leg.  It was the least he deserved. 

Flavor exploded in your mouth as you took a bite to eat.  Any other time, you might have reacted beyond simply reaching for another forkful from your plate.  The finest thing you tasted in months, years, and just like everything else, it was wasted on this moment.  A moment you would never get back. 

Funny how right he was.

Food helped.  Each of you played the part of doting newlywed, dancing, smiling, laughing.  You only ever heard Lord Dottore chuckle but never outright laugh.  It was almost sweet, how genuine the sound was.  Did he even realize it, you wondered, when the mask slipped and for a moment he appeared almost human?

Of course he did.  Nothing would ever get passed him.

Except you.

If you made it out of this alive.

It was no secret that a Harbinger's station meant a certain quality of life.  Estates of their own, entire wings within the Palace for work and for leisure.  After all, the Cryo Archon only had her Harbingers to dote on, who else would make use of the space, you often wondered.  Staff were well-compensated and taken care of but the stark contrast between your dormitory and living spaces compared to the soaring ceilings and marble pillars and gilded frames turned what little food you managed to keep down.

You weren't in charge of auditing the annual operating budget (that was exclusively for the Ninth himself) but you could estimate.  More than what you would make in your lifetime thirty times over, probably.

The walk from the ballroom to the far reaches of the Palace was shared in silence.  Exhaustion was woven into the very layers of your gown and by now face-planting into the bed, makeup and all, sounded like a wonderful idea.  After all, it was not as if anything about this arrangement was normal and Lord Dottore himself expected nothing, he had been quite clear about that from the beginning.

He was impossible to read right now, even for you.  Mouth in a flat line, shoulders back, arms behind him as he walked as if he were simply out for a stroll.  Without the context of a common discussion topic, mostly regarding his funding, you couldn't tell if he was simply bored, exhausted, or annoyed.  All three in a stormy cocktail seemed likely. 

The rooms themselves were as lavish as the rest of the Palace.  Opulent furniture that was dusted but never used filled the sitting room that you walked into, the walls lined with filled bookshelves.  Floor to ceiling windows revealed the usual white landscape and the mountains beyond while projecting your reflection back at you from the illumination of a nearby lamp.  Your bag, the singular container of all of your packed belongings sat on a sofa, as if discarded hastily.

Through a set of double-doors was a second private sitting room and the bedroom, as large as half of your entire dormitory floor.  Dark wood, flowing lines, clearly hand-crafted rather than assembled on a factory line.  Too many pillows on the bed. 

Did he even sleep?

The only details the space was even occupied were the books piled haphazardly on a coffee table, on a bureau, scraps of paper and blueprints scattered but clearly organized in a way that made sense to someone.  A coat strewn across a couch arm.  Mechanical parts and a small set of tools on a table where one might ordinarily hold a private dinner party.

You caught sight of a large closet and beyond it, a washroom, each room with their own set of double-doors to close the space off.  For a man as arrogant as Il Dottore, perhaps even vain (after all, who made clones of themselves if they weren't?), you expected far more clothes and shoes.  His budgets rarely, if ever, accounted for clothing unless it was for a specific occasion but that didn't mean much.  And you doubted he would have made room for your pitiful amount of belongings.

On one side of the closet was a large three-way mirror, the kind you dealt with at the seamstress, complete with a platform.  Obnoxious.  This felt out of place compared to the amount of space in the closet itself.  Unless, of course, he did his own tailoring or a Segment did.  Would explain the lack of receipts and mentions of it for his budget reviews.

You locked eyes with your own reflection and saw where your make-up was thinning, how your hair had finally succumbed to the weight of the product in it.  No matter how hard you tried to keep your eyes open, they seemed to have minds of their own; you were beyond tired at this point.

And the dress was finally taking its toll.  The lace was scratchy and the corset was digging into you.  Without thinking, you finagled your feet and removed your heels without bending over.  You closed your eyes, instantly relieved at the sensation of your heels sinking into the carpet.  The pain was still there but it nice to be on even ground again.

Your eyes snapped open when you felt slight tugging on the buttons of your dress and it took everything in you now to jump, nerves frayed and split.  Dottore looked up from behind you, mask still in place, and you could only presume he was making eye contact.  Harder to determine without facing him.

"Don't tell me you expected to reach every single button yourself, Accountant," he sneered.

"More like I didn't think you would help.  Not without prodding."

Dottore scoffed as he undid the buttons running the length of the dress and loosened the back stays of your corset.  He tugged slightly at your dress' sleeve but not enough to reveal your shoulders.  Never once did you feel the brush of his gloved hands on your skin. 

Dottore stepped back when he finished, your gaze remaining fixed on his mask.

"Polite for a man who stepped foot into my office covered in blood on more than one occasion," you remarked.

You were graced with the wide, vicious smile you knew so well, sharpened teeth gleaming.

"Go wash up, you smell like you wandered through a florist's nightmare."

He nodded his head in the direction of the bath but made no attempt to leave the dressing room.  You held back a grimace as a sound of disgust escaped your lips.

"You have such a charming demeanor, Lord Harbinger."

You gathered up your dress and entered the bathroom before he could remark further, shutting the doors behind you with the resounding clicks of the latch and lock.

The bathroom was tiled and just as ornate as the rest of the rooms: a large vanity with more counterspace than you ever saw in the dorms; a water closet for the toilet; a standalone shower; a tub that stood on its own feet and looked as if it was intended for at least two people, maybe more.  You were beginning to think there was no in-between in the Palace; either everything was utilitarian and functional or overly-decorative and wasteful of resources. 

Here too, you could only see a smattering of personal effects.  Signs the room was occupied but not necessarily used.  Curiously, you picked up a bottle and read the label once, twice, and then again, realizing it was actually some kind of acid and not a mouth rinse solution.  Whoever brought your things over from your dorm had at least been insightful enough to unpack your toiletries and you were thankful you would not risk burning off your scalp to wash your hair.

Just as you were rummaging around for your things, you noticed a bundle wrapped in soft tissue on a chair near the door.  Weird.  Was this for you?

You removed the rest of your jewelry and tugged gently on the lace sleeves, the upper body of the dress coming free without further resistance.  You stepped out of the dress, arranging the pile of tulle and lace neatly nearby before turning your attention back to the small package.

Gently, you pulled apart the paper.  From the pile of cloth, you plucked the top piece and held it up, frowning.  It left little to the imagination.  Same for the other half.  On the bottom was, you presumed, what was meant to be worn over the lingerie, made of the same fabric with a small bow on the back and ruffles on the hems.

To the credit of whoever put it there, it was very fine material.  The kind that was befitting of your newly acquired station.  Lace this soft and sheer was painstaking to make and couldn't be machine-replicated. 

There was no note in the packaging.

Lord Dottore held no expectations, you reminded yourself.  Had a servant put this here?  If so, on whose behalf?

You put the lace back down and ran the shower, adjusting the water as you ran through scenarios in your mind.

Was Dottore testing you?  Could he have only said such a thing to get you to agree?  If he'd changed his mind, it would have been more prudent to tell you.  On the other hand, telling you would allow you to prepare and he wasn't in the habit of allowing anyone, subject or not, to have time to skew results.  Plausible enough.

Or perhaps Pantalone, in his ever-insistent and nosy nature, had this planted here?  Considering the state of your ring situation, this was also viable.  He wasn't above planting evidence, arranging scenarios so they worked in his favor without fail.  From Lord Pantalone's perspective, Dottore acquiring a wife so soon after their deal was struck would have been immediately suspicious and potentially short-sighted, subject to various tests of his own...

Maybe it was neither and a servant or even a Segment thought the notion would be funny.

But it was too expensive for that.  No one paid that much mora on something without a purpose…or at least, most people didn't.  Your boss was, as always, the worst exception.

You stepped into the shower, ridding yourself of your makeup and perfume and the rest of the day's trappings.

As you stepped out of the shower, feeling at least a little more human, your stomach sank.

In your frustration with Dottore, you never grabbed a change of clothes. 

Because your bag was in the sitting room.

Your heart squeezed as you lamented your poor planning.  Really?  At this rate, you would be found out.  How the hell could you possibly think this was going to work when you didn't even grab your things and put them in the closet?

Why hadn't the one responsible for the task done that?  That just made sense!

You could walk out in a towel, go grab your things, and make it even more obvious that you were only doing this because, perhaps, you might get better intel. 

And while Lord Dottore wouldn't care about any of that, was it really necessary to make a show of how much you didn't want to show skin around him?  No. 

He thought well enough of your professionalism.  And part of that would be embracing the role you were supposed to play.  If a servant were to see you not in lingerie as befitting a wedding night, but in drab pajamas…whispers usually spread like wildfire on a good day.

You dried your hair as best you could, freshened up, nestled the lace against your skin.  While you weren't used to the cut of certain things, it wasn't uncomfortable per se.  Altogether, it was quite lovely. 

Another thing wasted on the wretch in the other room.

When you stepped back into the bedroom, you found Lord Dottore laying on the bed, covers pulled back as he scribbled into a book.  Even now, his mask was still present.  His hand stilled and he turned his head to you briefly to acknowledge your presence before he went back to what he was doing.

Steeling yourself, you crossed the room, crawled onto the bed, and straddled him.  He hadn't changed at all, only bothering to remove his jacket, cravat, and waistcoat.  Deftly, you grabbed the book from his hands and tossed it to the floor to force him to look at you.  He was solid and warm beneath you, the same as any other, and you tried not to think of how little separated the two of you, how bare you were under the lace.

Dottore tilted his head, lips pulling into a smirk for a moment before it spreads into a full-toothed grin, his hand reaching for and gripping your thigh.

A leg wrapped around yours and you met the bed quicker than you expected to, soft sheets and a firm mattress under you.  You blinked, Dottore's grinning face above you, never far from reach.  You felt a hand ghost over your side, your breast, your collarbone, before it settled on your neck, caressing your pulse point.  Despite your proximity, you never felt him press against you, not even when he brushed his lips over your cheek, where the faintest scar remained.

"I hardly you know, my dear.  Besides, I already told you that I have no expectations beyond those in public.  Such acts between us are quite unnecessary," he said.

Dottore rubbed his thumb up and down the column of your neck before he angled his head so his lips were near your ear.

"Unless, of course, you're simply needy enough to put yourself in the maw of a wolf so easily for a quick reprieve.  You never struck me as the sort but I suppose there's a first time for everything."

Heat flooded your cheeks at the insinuation but before you could protest, the Harbinger rolled off of you and out of the bed.  He bent down, picked up the book, and made his way to the door to the sitting room.  For a moment, Dottore looked at the leather-bound cover in his hands before he turned his attention back to you.

"There is little need for someone as lovely as you to give more than is asked to a monster such as myself.  We leave at daybreak."

Oh.  Right.  Honeymoon.  He took care of that and you still had no idea where you were even going.

Without another word, the doors shut, leaving you alone in the large bedroom.  Light bled in through the bottom of the doors.  No doubt he would be awake a while longer. 

You clutched at the bedspread, embroidered with silk and stuffed with down.  It gave easily under your hands, as such soft feathers often did, providing nothing substantial to squeeze.  You weren't insulted or even hurt, as many others in your position would have been.  Confused, certainly, but your ego was intact.

Seduction wasn't precisely a skill you practiced.  Numbers told stories in unique variations and patterns and provided more consistency than people.  People were unpredictable.  Il Dottore especially.

You fell asleep, wondering when all of this would come back to bite you.

[petvampire]

having a rough day, so have some cute Monty.

Feathering the Nest, Monty drabble. Just little crow behavior.

~

The others might occasionally poke fun at the birdlike tendencies that translate from crow to human, though Monty is never bothered by it. It doesn’t change anything, especially his tendency to nest, to build comfortable spaces for himself to settle wherever he spends a lot of time. And while they might tease, they also end up supporting, helping more often than not.

His room at the cannery is the most obviously comfortable of his spaces, his belongings piled everywhere in a seemingly haphazard, chaotic sort of way. He always knows exactly where everything is. It’s a far cry from the bare storage space with a bed shoved into one corner that it was when he first came here; that same narrow mattress is softened with piles of blankets and pillows. Books are stacked on the floor, or on top of the dresser, sorted by topic, or color of the cover, or whether they’re the library’s, Edwin’s, or just something he’s picked up for himself. He has star charts tacked up on the walls, along with a few photos - mostly of the girls, since Edwin and Charles don’t show up on film, and the Cat King surprisingly tends to dodge the camera.

He also has glow-in-the-dark stars spread over his ceiling in precise, exact configurations of constellations. Crystal had given them to him as a joke, but even she has to admit, they suit him. Sometimes he’ll smile up at them as he curls up in his bed, mapping the patterns he’s chosen for these stars.

There’s always a lingering trace of cat hair on his blankets, both from the feline residents of the cannery, and from the Cat King himself. Monty doesn’t mind, almost finds it comforting.

Since spending so much time working with the Dead Boy Detectives, he’s made a little nest for himself at their office as well. A hefty, fuzzy blanket in a bright purple with a design of stars and crescent moons, a gift from Niko, a couple of pillows pilfered from the girls’ rooms; he’ll settle comfortably amongst them on the floor in the corner he’s claimed as his own, most of the time, rather than actually use the furniture. There are also hints of the ghosts themselves tucked amongst the soft materials; a pin Charles had worn on his jacket until the back of it broke off, one of Edwin’s apparently vast collection of bow ties. Monty isn’t asking how the objects are made corporeal enough for him to hoard them like tiny treasures; he just appreciates them.

They’re comforting in a different way, reminders of the people who mean so much to him.

He’ll pick up more bits and pieces as time goes on, stow them away wherever it feels right. He has a pencil sketch of his crow form done in Edwin’s painstaking hand that he keeps in the back room of Tragic Mick’s, pinned up in the little break area he’s made for himself. The sash of one of the Cat King’s ridiculously fluffy, over-the-top robes is woven through the piles of blankets on his bed, fabric worn down from his fingers stroking over it again and again. One of Jenny’s little cleaver earrings dangles from the lampshade, catching the light; she lost the other, ended up tossing this one at Monty, muttering about how he’s the one who likes shiny stuff. It never fails to make him smile.

He has pieces of all of them with him, whenever he nests, and they make him rest easier.

[hannahssimblr]

Jen is fully awake, bright eyed and stomping around looking at the art when we arrive at the gallery. I suspect she's hopped up on sugar after I bought her a plate of overpriced pancakes in a cafe in the middle of town. 

“Woman, yearning,” after reading aloud from a gallery placard next to an abstract work she stands back to ponder it for several seconds. “Where’s the woman? I just see blobs. Ugly blobs too.”

“Is that a serious question or are you just giving out?”

“I’m offering my critiques,” she says haughtily, narrowing her eyes at it. “The point is that I wouldn’t hang that in my house.”

“Hang it where? It’s like, fifteen feet tall.”

“Well, all I’ll say is that I’m now a woman, yearning for my ten seconds back.”

Evie titters. 

“Don’t encourage her,” I mutter, “It’s better to ignore it. She did this when I took her to the zoo once too.”

“You don’t like the zoo?” Jen doesn’t hear her because she’s already rushing to the next room, and as I suspect, to the merciful end as quickly as possible. I answer for her, “No, she hated it.”

“Was it the sad animals?”

“No, her feet just hurt. There was too much walking.”

The room we follow Jen into is stark and completely bare, save for an enormous, rusted iron sculpture dangling by a chain from the ceiling. I know what she is going to say about it before she does. 

“I just don’t understand how this is art. It’s just ugly, and it makes no sense to me. I’m sorry if that makes me sound ignorant, but I just don’t see the skill in this.”

“It’s not really about the skill though. It’s all in the process,” I'm explaining this for probably the fourth time this hour, but I can see in Jen’s face that she's frustrated, genuinely so, and I really do feel bad for her. While it was nice of her to come, I feel I should have just let her stay at home and hang out on the beach with one of her magazines for the day.

Evie bends to read the placard, “It’s supposed to evoke a reaction, and I guess you being confused by it counts as a reaction, so you could say that it’s done its job,” She turns and flashes a sympathetic smile at Jen. This is a very nice thing she’s done, attempting to help her to relate to the art, but I suspect from the aura of complete resignation emanating from her that we are past the point where such a thing is possible. 

As a last ditch effort I try to gently explain the purpose of modern art in a way that sounds accessible, and not like I’m just regurgitating my art history textbook, but her eyes have glazed over. She doesn’t care about the sculpture, she doesn’t care about what it means or how it’s intended to make her feel, she’s simply had enough. 

“I don’t know, guys, I think I'm going to go browse in the gift shop. I’m not picking up what this exhibition is putting down,” she trudges off towards the stairs and leaves us on our own, her footsteps echoing, distant, then gone.

I’m aware of the quiet once she isn’t there anymore, poking fun at the exhibit, and Evie, who was quiet already, becomes even more so. As she examines the sculpture for longer, I wonder what meaning she’s found in it. Really, to me it is just kind of a big rusted lump, but I’m nervous about admitting that to a person who seems to understand what she's looking at. I stand and pretend to enjoy it for an amount of time that feels more acceptable.

When she wanders into the next room I follow. This one has an old TV in the corner, and sunlight streaming in through the big sash windows catching specks of dust drifting through the air. We watch this uncomfortable performance art video of a man stripping down to his underwear and climbing into a bed. It feels sexual in nature, while also feeling kind of weird and not that way at all. I don’t know the intention, or which emotion it’s supposed to awaken in me. I say “cool” so that she thinks I understand the point of it, though I’ve never much liked performance art. I find it embarrassing to watch.

I don’t think she’s going to try and make any kind of conversation, but maybe she doesn’t want to make too much noise in an art gallery. Maybe she’s shy. My nose runs so I sniff, and even that sounds offensively loud. 

“So what’s your deal?” I ask her as we move onto another exhibit. 

She pauses, surprised, “To be honest, there’s not much to say about me.”

“Of course there is.”

“No, well,” she laughs self consciously, “I’m not that interesting, is all. I don’t want to bore you.”

“Seriously, I want to know.”

Her eyes dart around the room as though she might find something to distract the conversation away from herself, then failing, says, “Like, Tullamore is dull, I go to an all girls’ school and really, nothing very interesting happens day to day.”

I exhale a laugh. These are her bullet points. I bet this is what she says to everyone to make them stop asking. Unfortunately for her I'm only comfortable when someone is speaking. “So you wish you could leave.”

She makes a small sound of agreement, and then says nothing for a few seconds. From the centre of the room I watch her drift about glancing at the works. “Yeah,” she says eventually, “all the time. I kind of feel like… I don’t know, like I don’t belong there or something. It’s a small town and I think I’m just a bit different from a lot of people.”

“I understand that.”

She nods, “I’d love to be somewhere with likeminded people. That’s why I really envy you going to Berlin, I just imagine what it’d be like to be able to be fully myself and everyone would be just… fine with it.”

She envies me? Already?  She won’t for long. “Oh well, it was an easy choice for me. I feel the same as you sometimes too, like, I just want to know what else is out there. I don’t want to go back to the US, but I don’t really want to stay in Ireland either. I don’t know about needing to be a different person though. Don’t you think that if you were yourself here then people would be fine with it?” 

She runs slender fingers along the plush velvet of a barrier, and I’m struck by how easy she makes it to have this conversation, even with the back of her head. I don’t usually talk with strangers like this, but maybe it’s precisely because we are strangers that we can.

Michelle complained sometimes that strange men would corner her on the bus from time to time and start spilling their secrets entirely unsolicited, things like affairs they’d had, money they’d gambled away, unforgivable lies they had told. They unloaded it all on some random girl in her school uniform who couldn’t ruin them, who they’d never see again. I wonder is this like one of those demented conversations. There isn't much about Evie that strikes me as especially demented though. Her openness is refreshing.

“I don’t know. I feel like I’ve such a history of being… odd, and doing weird things, and I don’t know if I can come back from that,” she admits, “I’d rather just start again and be a new, better version of myself somewhere else.”

I suppose she is a bit odd. Not in a bad way, but there’s a certain manner in which she moves, floating about the room, this dreamy cadence to her speech, these brief moments of intensity that cross her face and interrupt that other worldly, spacey look she has. She’s her own person. I'm not surprised stuff is hard for her, since teenagers resent people they cannot understand.

I picture her at my school, how the girls might have spoken about someone like her, what the rugby boys would have thought. Yeah, obviously she’s real fine, imaginary Fitzy says in my head. He’s picking dirt out of his studs with a twig, bit kooky, though, isn't she? Weird. Like she’s an alien from Mars or something like that. 

She meanders over to a bench and sits. “What about your friends though?” I join her, “and your boyfriend? Don’t they like this current version of you?”

She squawks out a raucous laugh that ricochets through the room, and several people look at us. Her eyes widen and she clamps her hands over her mouth, like what I just heard was the expulsion of a demon and not just a natural laugh, “Sorry, I don’t know what that was!”  

“Did I say something I shouldn’t have? Sorry, your reaction was just-”

“No no, just you said that Liam is my boyfriend and-”

“Oh, shit, he’s not? My bad, I just assumed,” I assumed because he told me as much. Was he lying or does he just not know? 

“No, he’s not. I don’t know what he is, we just hang out and stuff. He’s a really nice person.”

“He is,” I debate whether to say more. “Hm. I always feel so bad about Liam.”

“What? Why?”

“Because we used to be so mean to him when we were younger.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he was just this happy little kid, he always wanted to be involved with us, but it was like, he was always way too eager, you know what I mean? We thought he was this hokey little country boy, we used to think it was really funny to mess with him.”

“What kinds of things did you do?”

“Nothing terrible. Just… it was more like…” I shouldn’t have started this conversation, “He thought that we were really grown up or something, I guess, and he wanted to come and hang out the whole time, which was fine. The guys just had this thing about not sharing our drink with him, you know, because it’d be a waste because he’d just end up getting sick and having to get his mother to come and pick him up from the party. So we started pouring him drinks out of a vodka bottle filled with water, and he never noticed.”

“That’s not bad” Evie says charitably, “That’s actually responsible in my opinion, and I honestly wish that Kelly would fall for that kind of trick, but she can sniff out alcohol like a bloodhound.”

“Nah, like the bad part is how much he really didn’t notice it. It was like a crazy placebo effect or something, and he’d still stumble around like he was drunk. We thought it was hilarious. And then one time when we were fifteen Joe got weed from this guy in town and everyone wanted some, but like, Liam was there and we knew it’d be a bad idea to give him some.”

“So what did you do?”

“The classic - I got some herbs from the kitchen cabinet and rolled them up for him, and then guess what?”

“He didn’t notice?”

“Right! He didn’t even notice. He smoked our little fake joint and then-” God, why am I laughing? Shouldn't this story have stopped being funny? “-and then after an hour he was rolling around on the rug saying that he could taste colours and that like, the fibres of the rug felt so soft. We had to get his mother to collect him again.” It’s my turn to let out an obnoxious, echoing cackle, and once again, everyone in the room looks at us.

“You’re a mean boy,” Evie chides, but she doesn’t look like she means it. She looks like she likes it.

“I know. I’m a bastard.” 

I get to my feet. “We should go and see the rest of the exhibits. I don’t want to leave Jen down in the gift shop all day, she’ll be bored.”

Evie’s smile wavers, but she nods, “Okay. Sorry... I didn’t mean to hold you up.”

“You didn’t, I just thought you’d be rearing to see the rest of the art.”

“Yeah,” she says, then hesitating, “it’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?”

I chuckle, “To be honest I’m not sure I like it.”

“Oh, thank God you said that. I hate it too, I didn’t think I was allowed to say it.”

We giggle and I swerve straight for the exit. “C'mon then, let's do something else.”

Beginning // Prev // Next

Corresponding LG Chapter

[every-aj-needs-an-angel]

Happy Birthday to the lovely @estrellami-1 I hope you're feeling better and that you're having a wonderful day ❤️

Eddie wasn't sure who the party was supposed to be for, he wasn't sure Steve knew either to be fair. It was someone's birthday party, he'd seen a sash on one of the girls, couldn't say for sure which one though. And of course it was hosted, as all parties were these days, at the Harrington residence.

He remembers Wayne telling him that no-one had seen Harrington Senior or his wife since just after the Byers kid went missing, so Eddie supposed that made this massive mansion all Steve's.

And it'd been obvious since his massive blow up with Wheeler that he'd just stopped giving a fuck.

So Tommy and his band of merry fuckheads organised parties in Steve's house, and made a fortune out of it too, even though Steve wasn't really even friends with any of them anymore.

Not that Eddie cared. He didn't. The bigger the parties, the more parties they had, the more money he made. It was all the same to him.

Just sometimes, Steve would catch his eye across a classroom or like now across a party and Eddie thought that he looked kinda… lonely. Not that he was sure why Steve would choose to be that way, he might've fallen from grace but the guy was still gorgeous, he could have anyone he wanted; but he just seemed to wander ghostlike around the edges of life these days.

It seemed like forever since Eddie had last seen him smile, not sneer or grimace like he tended to now but a proper eye crinkling, dimple showing smile. Not for a lack of trying on Eddie's part of course, he'd taken to acting like a jester trying to get the fallen king to even so much as smirk, but his attempts haven't worked so far.

He thought he'd managed it earlier, during English when they were discussing male protagonists and he'd said Steve would make a pretty good Mr Darcy and winked exaggeratedly at him but his face had just gone through a multitude of expressions before he'd huffed in annoyance and leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed, staring grumpily out of the window.

Eddie didn't know why he was so determined to fix him. They weren't friends, they were barely even acquaintances, but Wayne always said he had a tendency for strays and even though Steve's house was brimming with people, Eddie knew as well as Steve did that if he didn't have all this, he'd be well and truly alone, which thinking about it was probably why he was letting the dickhead jocks walk all over him.

Tonight was the third party Eddie's worked here in as many weeks and he's made a fortune but Tommy decided to start a fight with the birthday girl's boyfriend, which is one way to kill a party he supposes, so now everyone's starting to make their way home, groups of teens staggering their way down the middle of the road; which is just plain stupid really, they're all going to get caught, not that Eddie gives a fuck, keeping the cops busy on the main roads gives him chance to get away unnoticed.

He knows better than to draw attention to himself like that, he learned a long time ago to only work parties with a good escape route, so he heads straight to the sliding doors, that way he can slip out through the backyard and take his chances with whatever creatures live in the forest.

That's the plan anyway.

Until…

"Eddieeee!!" Steve yells, drunk as a skunk and half dangling out of the sunlounger he's supposed to be sitting in, reaching towards him and making grabby hands.

"Harrington," he greets wearily, he's been surreptitiously watching Steve all night, he knows he's had four too many and knows all too well how unpredictable drunk people can be, if it wasn't for the fact that he and Wayne need the money he wouldn't even be here.

Steve just sulks, sticking his bottom lip out in a pout, all big sad eyes, "Don't call me that," he mutters. Eddie doesn't say anything, just rocks on the balls on his feet and watches as Steve tries and fails to right himself, "Help?" he pleads like a toddler and Eddie can't help feeling endeared, he sighs, shaking his head to himself as he walks over to the sunlounger, picking Steve up under the arms, like the baby he's acting like and gets him settled properly.

"There you go," Eddie mutters, patting him gently on the head.

"Thanks," Steve mumbles, a surprised look on his face and a blush spreading across his cheeks, tapping the space in front of him in invitation for Eddie to sit and as much as part of him thinks it's a terrible idea, he knows if he leaves he'd be leaving him alone in this state and he just can't do that, so he sits.

"Hi," Eddie says, for a lack of anything else to say.

"Hi," Steve greets, a dopey smile on his face blinking owlishly at him, but then his face shifts like he's just remembered he's supposed to be annoyed with him, "Why'd you call me that earlier?" Steve asks petulantly.

Eddie frowns, he hasn't called Steve anything, at least not that he can remember, "Your name?" he clarifies.

Steve shakes his head excessively, "Mr Darcy!" he spits with a snarl, like it's a swear word, "You've been nice to me for weeks and then you went and said that!" he whines.

Suddenly the weariness is back in Eddie's stomach, tries to think why Steve might be insulted and comes up empty, "I don't know, does generous, kind and good looking not suit you?" he babbles before he can really think about how that sounds coming from another guy.

Steve's face does something complicated, he opens his mouth to say something, shuts it, his face changing expression, opens and closes his mouth again before settling on a confused but soft little "oh".

Now that he knows he's not about to get punched, Eddie relaxes a bit, and curiosity killed the cat or whatever because against his better judgement he asks, "What did you think I meant?"

Steve shrugs and looks forlornly at the ground, "What everyone else thinks. That I'm an elitist, condescending wanker. That you'd been being nice to me as a joke so it'd hurt all the more when you were mean. I got drunk because I was sad because I thought we were friends but you were just playing a prank on me," Steve tells him and there's such sincerity and pain in his eyes it hurts to even look at him.

But Eddie can't help it, he's beyond surprised so he can't stop his eyebrows hitting his hairline, "Friends?" The fallen king of Hawkins High wants to be his friend? Was hurt when he thought Eddie wasn't his friend? Cares at all what Eddie thinks about him? That's way beyond his comprehension.

Steve just smiles dopily at him, lifting Eddie's chin with a gentle finger to make Eddie look at him and it's like being gut punched because who'd've thought this sweet, vulnerable guy was hiding inside Steve Harrington this whole time?

"Yes, friends! Do you wanna be my friend, Eddie?" And all Eddie can do is nod because he's been thrown back into a memory long since forgotten, of two little boys playing together in the forest, games of pirates and cowboys and aliens and those same hazel eyes looking deep into his soul and asking that very same question.

Jesus H Christ!

A gust of wind blows through the yard making Steve shiver bodily but given his clumsy movements earlier, Eddie wonders how to get him inside without risking him falling in the pool, because everyone else has definitely already left and Eddie can swim but not well enough to rescue someone who's drunk and not fully in control of all their limbs.

But Steve for all his height and his muscles isn't actually all that heavy, not in comparison to band equipment, he could probably manage…

Eddie twists slightly away from Steve, "Right, hop on," he instructs, tapping his shoulder. Steve just gives him a puzzled look, Eddie smiles encouragingly, "I'm gonna give you a piggyback indoors. I don't want you to drown!"

Steve smiles then, really smiles, and if Eddie knew it was this easy he'd've done it weeks ago, and wraps his arms loosely around Eddie's neck and his legs tightly around his waist.

Eddie tries not to think too closely about it, he's known for a long time that he's queer, knows full well endearing, pretty jocks are his type, knows that tightening in his chest isn't because Steve is heavy but more because their cheeks are smushed together and they're sharing the same breath and Eddie can smell his aftershave and the beer he's been drinking and for some reason when it's coming from Steve it isn't making him want to hurl.

The house is an absolute shittip but whoever was last out at least had the decency to turn off the music and turn out all the lights, so Eddie just slides the door shut behind them and heads straight for the stairs. Steve grips a little tighter, leaning into Eddie making balancing easier but other than that he makes no effort to leave Eddie's grasp.

He's waddling up the stairs but only because Steve's long, long legs are in the way. A secret part of Eddie thinks about doing this regularly, having Steve this close, so pliable and snuggly. Eddie feels a little guilty about it but he can't help himself from filing the memory away for rainy days when he feels sad, it's just such a priceless moment, chances are this is never gonna happen again.

"Which one's yours?" he asks when they reach the landing and he's faced with several closed doors. Steve doesn't say anything, just sighs heavily and points Eddie in the right direction.

Eddie steps forward, twisting the doorknob, the door swinging open, and flicking the light on to reveal his room looks… exactly how Eddie expected it to and suddenly he can't keep the fond smile off his face, because of course Steve has plaid wallpaper and matching curtains, it's so cliche it's adorable.

He walks over to the bed, turns so he's facing the door and drops Steve unceremoniously onto the mattress making him giggle uncontrollably. Eddie turns back to watch him because how can he not? He made Steve giggle! It's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard, even when he breathes in too fast and he snorts, his eyes are all crinkled in the corners, showing off his dimples and his perfectly straight teeth, he really is just perfect.

Eddie tries not to let his affection bleed through onto his face but he must do a pretty poor job because when Steve opens his eyes to look at him, his breath hitches and he stops laughing. And Eddie kicks himself because the house is far too silent without Steve's quiet laughter. He needs to get out of Steve's bedroom but he can't leave without getting him some provisions for the morning. He glances around and spots the ensuite in the corner, nipping inside and grabbing a glass of water and a packet of paracetamol from the medicine cabinet, wandering back out to leave them on the bedside, dragging the wastepaper basket closer to the bed just in case.

Steve is now more settled in bed, head on his pillow, snuggled up under the covers, Eddie smiles, putting on his persona so he can make it out of here alive and hopefully with his heart still intact because if he gets any cuter Eddie isn't sure he'll be able handle it.

"Okay, my liege! Now thou art safely in thy bedchamber, I shall bid thee adieu," Eddie says with a bow, he feels okay about leaving him now he's got him all set up and safely in bed.

Steve grins at his dramatics but frowns when what Eddie said sinks in, "Wait!" he yells unnecessarily given Eddie hadn't really made any attempt to leave, even though that's what he said he was going to do.

Eddie's eyebrows raise all by themselves, reaching new heights when Steve pats the bed beside him, "Stay," he whispers and how is Eddie supposed to deny him? He can't even use Wayne as an excuse because the poor bloke's at work, all Eddie would be going home to would be a cold trailer and crap TV, how could that ever compare?

He tries to think of a reason because this is so far from a good idea but Steve wants to be friends and he so clearly needs a friend and Eddie can do that, he can be here for his friend.

"You sure?" he checks but when Steve nods vigorously in reply all his misgivings leave him, he sits on the edge of the bed as far from Steve as he can get, leaning back on his hands, looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to say whatever it was he wanted to say.

Except Steve doesn't say anything, he just gets a hold of his wrist and pulls knocking Eddie flat onto his back, his head landing in Steve's lap and it happens so quickly all Eddie can do is blink up at him. Steve smiles like he's won the jackpot and starts running his fingers through Eddie's hair like he's petting a cat and Eddie daren't even breathe let alone move but it feels so good his toes are curling in his Docs and when Steve starts to giggle again he realises it's because he's enjoying it so much he's making little noises in the back of his throat.

"Sorry," Eddie mutters but Steve just shakes his head fondly and continues his ministrations, just watching Eddie watching him but it's been a long day, between school and the party and Eddie can feel his eyes drooping no matter how hard he tries to fight it.

He isn't sure how long he lays there for but his legs have been dangling over the edge so long even his shins have pins and needles when Steve rouses him with a gentle tugging of his hand and a whispered "C'mon, get in!"

Eddie does as he's asked, absentmindedly kicking off his Docs and getting settled on top of the blankets, both of them laying on their sides facing one another.

"Night, Stevie," Eddie mumbles, already half asleep, only just feeling Steve place his hand into his own, interlinking their fingers and leaving a kiss on his knuckles with a whispered, "Goodnight, love."

(I hated this fucking ending so much because I did the typical thing of thinking of it without writing it down and not to give tmi but whilst in the shower I just remembered I wanted it to be "Goodnight, Teddy." and now I'm just mentally kicking the crap out of myself because I posted it with the wrong ending 😭😭😭 sorry @estrellami-1)

[acupofqueercoffee]

“Caught in a web, drunk on love”

Shutara Senjumaru x Reader

wc : 3100

cw : not really unrequited love // jealousy // misunderstandings // a sprinkle of drama // fluffy floofs

well what can i say. she’s so mommy and i’m a hoe for mommies so i couldn’t help it. always wanted to write something for her but i was just needing that little push which obviously her bankai gave me 😩

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Spider. A creature you have never been too big of a fan of. Those creepy crawlers with their beady eyes and fuzzy limbs are, and will always be the genesis of your nightmares. Simply the idea of the word will forever have dread burgeoning within you and ice cascading down your spine, or so you have believed. Why, then, are flowers blooming inside your chest as you watch the bane of your existence weaving a web? In other words, you are atrociously, irreversibly, positively, and utterly fucked.  

In the Soul King Palace, you are one of the less important guards under the direct command of one Shutara Senjumaru. Less important of course than the esteemed Royal Guards, but certainly on par with the strongest of shinigamis. Although there is no official title to it, your position beside your lady is an equivalent of a Lieutenant down in Seireitei.

Ever since the beginning, the divine general of the north, with her onyx hair and golden halo, eyes oozing with mesmerism, and lips a delightful red, but the most arresting of all, her spindly automatonic limbs sprouting from her back like six unworldly wings, has reminded you of a spider: one that is elegant and teeming with splendour. The lady’s introduction into your life has seeded in you a habit of conjuring up her face whenever you see or even think of your once-dreaded friends. In fact, when you think of an eight-legged crawler, you are rarely thinking of one and very much thinking of the six artificially limbed stunner. Hence, you are decisively fucked.

In pursuit of comfort, your hand, as if having a mind of its own, glide towards your waist where a knitted red charm dwells, the tassel of which dangles from the white sash of your uniform. Running delicate fingers along the intricate patterns of fine silk, your lips flourish into a smile.

From socks to scarfs and whatnots, your lady, the great weaver as her name suggests, has tailored many a thing for you. Not only has she remedied a great many holes in your battle worn uniforms, she has also graciously showered you with a miscellany of pristine garments. After all, artisanship is your lady’s forte, occurring as naturally as breathing to her, and her six hands are either sewing, knitting, embroidering or doing all three of it at the same time. She does it with such great finesse and dexterity that she may as well be carving a statue of herself out of your heart, for it worships the very ground she walks on. 

When you notice her presence, you smell it before you hear it. Delightfully floral with a touch of dark undertones, heavenly, mysterious and so undoubtedly her. 

“It was my understanding that you have a strong dislike for them, no?”

Comes the mesmerising lilt of her voice, glazed with a trickle of tease, and you smile a little, knowing smile, bringing your gaze from the spider to its human counterpart.

“I’ve steadily started finding them charming I’m afraid.” The little blossom of a smile on your lips once you search her eyes is that of softness. Your lady regards you coolly with a barely noticeable smile, drenched in enigma by her siren-eyed gaze, the caress of which is well-nigh tangible on your face. It does a quick travel to your waist, and upon finding the gift that you carry on your body since acquiring it, a hum spills forth a pair of bewitching, blood-red lips. 

“Walk with me.”

You take the hand that she offers, smooth, spindly and rather ample in size that you are only truly able to grasp two of her lithe digits. 

“With pleasure, my lady.”

“Am I allowed to wonder what exactly is the architect of your change in impression of arachnid? You of yore would flee the site if she so much as catches a glimpse of an itsy-bitsy one, I’m sure.”

You love that she remembers things about you the way you do things about her. She fancies her tea with a drizzle of honey. Not unlike a spider, she does have eight arms, the two of which are of her own flesh and blood, and because she keeps them hidden under her cloak at all times, only a handful of people have witnessed them. You have, during a visit to the hot spring in Kirinden. Nobody has given her a gift personally hand crafted by them, so when you have made for her a braided charm, a very clumsy attempt at that, she has told you that she would cherish it, and cherish it, she does. Despite it being faulty, it has found its forever home tucked safely in the red sash of her outfit, the tassel of it peeking out from under her haori with every elegant step she takes. Playful banter is her favourite pastime and it amuses her greatly that you indulge her. So once again, you do.

“You have every liberty to wonder, my lady. The decision to answer lies in my hand after all. I will say this though, it’s who rather than what.”

“My,” So she drawls in a tone that deliciously tickles your spine, and when she stops, you do too, watching as lips reveal teeth in a kittenish smile. “is that so?”

You have an inkling that to an extent, she knows of your fondness for her, evident in the way she humors you. Judging from her behaviors, she does not appear entirely opposed to it, and you might even go as far as saying that there is a good chance of her considering you should you confess.

Suddenly, a droplet touches your cheek. In the small interval of time that it takes for you to look up, your lady has expertly woven an umbrella out of thin air, all the while her one hand holds onto yours. By the time a drizzle escalates to a downpour, you are well under the protection of your lady’s masterful craft. However, your heart is going haywire, for the space between the two of you has considerably narrowed when your eyes meet. Leaning forward, a cool pad of a thumb presses a delicate kiss onto your cheek, caressing the wetness away from your face which inadvertently leaves a pink tinge in its wake. 

“Let’s call it a day, shall we?”

At your nod of approval, she adjusts her hold on you, slipping her fingers just so that your hands are intertwined together. The tips of her robotic digits easily reach your wrist, and when the cool pad of her thumb gingerly traces the hummingbird flutter of your pulse, the little creature coos inside your ribcage.

Roses are red.

The sky is blue.

And oh how you love Senjumaru. 

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“Yoohoo Shutara, look who I found dilly-dallying around!” 

The guffaw of Hikifune jolts Senjumaru out of her bath induced reverie. Her head tilts, propped up by her fist, the dark waterfall of her hair swaying slightly as her eyes lazily search her friend.  

Think of the devil and the devil is here. 

A ghost of a smile graces her lips, for she finds you tucked under the arm of the ruler of grain. It has been a while after all since the two of you have spent time together. 

“Can you please unhand me?” More laughter ensues, louder this time, and your request is effectively nipped in the bud. Ruffling your hair, she tugs you closer to the point that you are smothered by her generous bosoms. 

“Lady Hikifune, you- you’re-”

Killing me with your breasts! You wanted to say, but instead, you are left a sputtering mess.

“My my, haven’t you bagged yourself a cutie, Shutara!”

Granted, Senjumaru would find the sweet strawberry shade on your cheeks ridiculously charming, that is, if it had been a product of her doing. Certainly not after you have just been called a cutie by a woman who has her breasts shoved into your face. 

And so, she rises with all the grace of a nymph, droplets on her body twinkling like little diamonds in the soft light. 

“Why Kirio, I thank you on behalf of my girl for escorting her to me,” Meanwhile, she has effortlessly drawn you into her arms, one of which is slithering across your waist. Alas, the little wasp has been caught in a spider’s web. “but if I do recall, you have matters to attend to, have you not? By all means, do not let us hinder you.” 

“Ugh now my mood is spoiled, thank you very much Shutara.” The divine general of the south’s voice drips with sarcasm, and that of the north replies just as sarcastically. “Of course.” 

“On another note, I smell ya later cutie!”

With a wink thrown towards your way, the cheery general is gone. 

“Wild woman.” Murmurs Senjumaru as two fingers pinch the bridge of her nose. 

You on the other hand, through the flimsy fabric of your robe, can feel her body pressing into your back; all the ridges and the valleys, every dip and dent, and lord is she so wonderfully soft. 

Suddenly, along with a ghost of a breath on the shell of your ear, her voice greets you. “Hello there, my girl.” Like a dollop of butter on a pile of warm, fluffy pancakes, you melt, all giddy and toasty inside. “Now that you’re here, could I trouble you to give my hair a wash?” 

“It’s no trouble at all. I’d be delighted to.” You do not dare turn lest your legs fail you, and in a desperate need of a moment of reprieve for your sorry little heart, you chance a glance at her. “Why don’t you go relax in the water, my lady. I’ll be right with you.”

There is a beat of silence before you feel hands on your hips and a delicate touch of lips on your nape.

“Do not keep me waiting for too long.”

The milkiness of her skin practically glows in the warm water while her luscious mane, like the finest of silks, effortlessly slips through your fingers. The urge to bury your nose in her silky smooth strands is strong, but not as strong as the urge to nuzzle your face in the exquisite beauty of a neck that is captivating you from beneath those onyx mane. Lost in a daydream, you do not realise that you have paused amidst your task until your lady turns towards you. Without so much as a warning, she pulls you into the pool. The sorry excuse of a cloth on your body gives way to water, and you mirror your lady in that you are now thoroughly soaked and bare. 

Her gaze roams, and you notice the exact moment that the warm mischievous glint in her eyes goes glacial. She has seen your body, or rather the marks peppered across your neck and chest in varying shades of red. Her face is unreadable, the very picture of aloofness, and although it stings, although it seems as if a chasm has suddenly appeared between the two of you, you try to bridge it, take a step, an olive branch of sorts. It is your darkest nightmare comes true however when she avoids the hand that reaches for her, a look of, dare you say, disgust etched onto her face, and without so much as a word, she takes leave.

What have you done wrong, you do not understand.

All you know is that you feel discarded as though you are but a stale meal.

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To have been branded by this enchantress of a woman and afterwards carry the very traces of herself on your body, even with a good chance that she will no longer have any recollection of your little moment together, has filled you with bliss as much as having her mouth on your flesh did. 

Although her mien has betrayed nothing and she was the very picture of poise, you knew she was drunk as soon as endearments fell freely from her lips. “My darling sweetheart” so she has called you, and you have been too naive, too lovesick to believe that, albeit being under the influence of liquor, she has peppered you with kisses while thinking of you, while still being aware that it was on your body that she was leaving her traces. Alas, it has never crossed your mind that you would turn out to be a cheap substitute for the one she truly desires.

“Oi oi Lady Senjumaru has brought a girl to her palace.” 

When you have heard such murmurs amongst the guards, as selfish as it is, you were hoping it to be a falsehood.

Your little glimmer of a hope is crushed into smithereens once you are summoned to her chambers only to have your heart join the pile of dust on the ground. Nestled in your lady’s arms like a baby bird, a naked girl mewls and trembles whilst red lips leave messy kisses along her jaw and down the length of her neck.

The spider is making a show of devouring its prey, but instead of fear, you fall victim to pain, oh wretched, unforgiving pain. She is being deliberately cruel because ultimately, you are an audience to this play only due to her invitation.

“My darling little sweetheart.” And you watch, drenched in melancholy, as your lady savours the lips of someone who is not you.

Oh. 

“You.” Comes the voice, indifferent unlike the loving coo that was just uttered to the girl cradled close to her chest. “I want you to tidy up my place while I take my darling home.”

Oh. 

A nod, or rather, a bow is all you can manage so as not to bare your features that is now marred with an endless cascade of tears.

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Peeved would be a horrible understatement. It does not bode well with Senjumaru that while you were all she could think about, you had been cosying up to another, who, for all she knows, could have been one of her friends. Judging from the little display the other day, it could very well have been Kirio. How laughable she must have appeared, being all overly defensive for naught. 

She admits however that she was unnecessarily cruel with her reaction, and that her little act of revenge was childish at best. Essentially, she has only herself to blame, misinterpreting your innocent admiration for her to be something else, something sacred. And now, with that calloused display of hers, she might have even ruined the bond that the two of you have shared. 

No matter how she reasons with herself, it still perturbs her after all, and once again, something ugly rears its head when she finds more of those lingering hickeys on your body while she crosses paths with you in Kirinden. 

Good and evil play a tug of war, and evil emerges victorious.

“Back from another fun, I presume?”

“Why do you care?”

“My, what gives you the impression that I do? I’m merely curious which one of my comrades’ bed one of my guards is diligently warming every night.”

“Curiosity kills the cat, Lady Senjumaru.”

Rising out of the pool like a predator on a hunt, she corners her prey. Whereas her spindly arms manipulate you so that you are facing away from her and then, trap you against the wall, her two hands find home in the dip of your hips, pulling you until your back fits into the curve of her body.

“And oh does it pounce!” Growls the hunter as lips find your nape, teeth bestowing bruises and tongue soothing stings, all the while you shake like a leaf in her bodily confine.

Her hands wander over to your ribcage, holding you there, thumbing the soft underside of your breasts. It has your back curving into her body.

“Swift work is my biggest selling point, you understand. Do not underestimate the name of Senjumaru.” The sinking of her teeth directly into the throbbing vein on your neck triggers your fingers to dig into the flesh of her thigh. “Shu- ngh- Shutara.”

Senjumaru remembers a dream, an all too tantalising dream. In it, her charming little prey was deliciously caught in her web, and the great weaver has taken her sweet time savouring the delectable creature. What a divine little thing her prey was, squirming in her grasp and panting her name, ambrosia to her ears, while her mouth has mapped as many inches of skin as she could manage, committing everything to memory. It stays with her even when dawn breaks, except that, the dream she had was all but a dream, eluded Senjumaru. 

Amidst her arm twining round your chest, she hears it, a broken little sound that is but a tiny whisper. 

“Why are you doing this to me?”

The lady turns you in her arms. With gentle fingers, she tucks a few wayward strands behind your ears to reveal more of her colourful works, which she gingerly traces with a delicate digit. 

“These were my doing.” It is not a query, merely a statement.

“I understand that you have mistaken me for someone else.” You release a sigh, eyes slipping shut when a thumb presses onto a particularly sore spot. “So please, just let me be.”

“Is that what you want of me? To let you be?”

“What I want doesn’t matter.”

“Why doesn’t it matter?” Your attempt to flee from her gaze is effectively put to an end by a hand cradling your jaw. Mindlessly, a thumb bestows soft caresses to the apple of your cheek. “Answer me.”

“It just doesn’t, alright? Because I’m not- I’m not what you want.” When you look into her eyes, she finds in yours the first dew of tears, and before they could escalate into a cloudburst, she pulls you into her six-armed embrace, your face safely tucked into the nook of her neck. Along with a soft lingering press of a kiss atop your temple, she breathes her words into your skin. “Though I have a penchant for darning, it seems I’m superb at tearing the one thing I want perfectly weaved.”

“I hate you, my lady.” By the way your hands are fisting into her flesh as though your life depends on it, she begs to differ, though she only indulges you, a ghost of a smile hanging loosely on her lips. “Do you now?”

“Very much so. I hate that I love you.”

“Oh, but my dearest, how I love that you love me.”

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[conchiferrous]

pretend i posted this on usopp’s birthday

[IMAGE ID 1: Usopp from One Piece being held in the air by a claw hand, pre-time skip. He’s being held up by the sash around his waist and he’s holding a hammer labelled “5t” in his dangling arms. He looks up at the mostly unseen person or creature, panicked, and screams: “Wait! Don’t hit me! Uh... It’s my birthday today! You wouldn’t hit a guy on his birthday!” END ID 1] [IMAGE ID 2: Franky cracks his knuckles while Usopp hides behind him. Franky looks stern and a red glint appears behind his sunglasses. He says: “He said it’s his birthday.” in red blocky text. A wisp of fire escapes his mouth as he says this. Usopp is hugging Franky’s right leg and is on his knees as he peers out from behind Franky with big scared eyes. The top of the drawing has a dark colored gradient on the top for dramatic effect. END ID]