#Wooden Partition Wall

[woodenstreetfurniture]

How Beautiful Room Dividers Can Create An Authentic Space For Your Home?

How Beautiful Room Dividers Can Create An Authentic Space For Your Home?

Are you old school by heart? or maybe someone with a keen eye for antique furniture. If yes, then having room dividers in your house is one thing that is a must. Woodenstreet is here to familiarize you with different variations and room divider ideas that include designs from the colonial period to the modern and now it is all about aesthetics, and we already live in aesthetic supremacy, don’t…

[pvcflooringuaeonline]

Wall-to-wall carpeting is a popular choice for homeowners looking to add comfort, warmth, and style to their living spaces. In Dubai, where interior design trends are constantly evolving, high-quality carpets can make a significant impact on the overall look and feel of your home. This article explores the importance of wall-to-wall carpeting, highlights top providers in Dubai, and offers valuable insights on selecting the perfect carpet to suit your needs.

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[girlwtdragontattoo]

Yandere elf x reader - Bath time :)

Character and Art belongs to @meo-eiru! Please check out her blog ✨ Another BIG thanks for creating him!

This is a follow-up to my last fic: if you want to read that one, click here. I'm not sure if I'll do another one, a bit out of ideas lol.

Warning: 18+ content, non-con, drugging, general nsfw !

—————

The water stung your damaged knee. Silas was preparing something in a wooden pail, humming some tune, while you sunk deeper into the hot spring. The water brushed your chin, as you glared at the back of the stupid elf’s head, bobbing back and forth as he dunked colorful fluids from flasks into the bucket. His long, luscious hair was levitating on the water's clear surface, covering his butt.

You were so close to freedom. He told you he’s enchanted the area now, stopping you from leaving entirely. No idea how that worked, but he showed you by pushing you gently against an invisible barrier. Your cheek had squished against the unseen partition, like when a human tests their cat’s intelligence against walls in those videos. “To protect you”, he explained in his sing-song trill.

If you hadn’t been injured, you would’ve made it. Away from this maniac.

“Look what Mama made!”

Silas held the bucket under your nose, smiling serenely. The liquid was a mix of pinkish goop and specks of sparkles. Your eyes lingered on the strange soup, then turned up to meet his excited face.

“What the fuck is this”, you mumbled crossly.

“No swearing, darling!” He patted your head. He didn’t know what the word “fuck” meant, but he read that it is bad for children to use. “It’s my healing salt! Doesn’t it smell amazing?”

Silas kept holding it under your nose. It did smell good, damn it.

“It will heal your poor leg. Plus, it makes everything feel a bit tingly. Healthy for cleaning up down there.” He gestured to his crotch.

Fuck.

Without warning, he dunked the solution into the bath. The mixture oozed slowly into the clear spring. The effect of it was almost instantaneous. You felt the biting pain ebb from your limb and you sighed in relief. Elf magic was so fascinating. If only Silas wasn’t such a freaking psycho. You would love to learn more about it. And then go back home and sleep in a bed without tits in your face.

He was right about the prickly sensation. You felt a warmth pulsate down there, as you absentmindedly sunk deeper into the water. Your gaze blurred and you felt the comfort of the heat engulf you.

Silas pulled you to him and placed you in his lap. His towering upper body remained out of the pool, the breezy touch of his skin a great juxtaposition to the searing heat of the water. To be fully engulfed, he would have had to spread himself across the whole spring, leaving no room for you.

You felt him grow below you. The effects of the water seemed to work on his form as well. His cheeks blushed.

“Be good, darling.” He breathed into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Let’s heal you completely.”

Your leg was fine. You didn’t need any more healing.

Silas’ lips brushed yours, his tongue slinking quickly and entangling in yours. The potion and his saliva were making you go crazy, your lap roaring with want. It was impossible to bottle up.

The potion made movement slow. You were attempting to push away with the last of your wits, but it came across as you gently pressing his chest together. He misunderstood and held your face up to his breasts.

“Drink up…”, he trebled, leading your mouth to his hard teat. It was hopeless.

Your wet lips traced around it and you felt the elf jitter under you with excitement. His hands were softly trailing down your back and took hold of your bottom, squeezing the soft tissue. The water delayed his movement, but you felt him lift you slightly, hovering dangerously above his throbbing shaft.

You could feel him against your entrance, nudging slightly. The heat consumed you, thrumming in the area, wanting. You released your lips from his chest, gazing dozily into his red face. If he was blushing more, you could not tell. He looked so enthralled; the big, dumb eyes full of devotion to you.

Silas crashed into your lips again, kissing desperately, lapping up every part of your mouth. The more saliva you exchanged, the more you felt yourself pulsate. The waves within you crashed, begging for relief. You tried to use your arms to push him off of you, but they felt so limp.

You hated this effect he had on you. You couldn’t stop yourself. This surge and needing the release - it drove you insane.

Floating above him in the spring, you felt him twitch there in unfair expectation. He was far too massive for you.

Silas wrapped one arm around your waist, pushing you closer into his body. Your breasts compressed against his and he moaned shakily at the sensation.

“Mama will heal you, dear…”, he huffed after releasing himself from your lips, with bits of drivel escaping his mouth. “I lov-“

You couldn’t take it anymore. You sat down on him, letting the beginning of him enter you with a strong jerk. He filled you up, with just so little of him inside. Your entire body shook from the flash.

Silas head knocked back; his eyes crossed as he let out the loudest yelp you had ever heard from him. He had never felt you like this before. He only dared milking himself in your sweet mouth, for fear of tearing you apart. But this… the feeling of your tight, velvety walls, the little he could feel of it was enough to make his world spin.

He instinctively grabbed your hips with a jolt and lifted you up and down on him. He wanted more of that sensation, more. More. More!

You were bouncing on top of him and felt every sinew explode with electricity. He bucked his hips slightly when you bobbed back down, but not too much in fear of breaking you, slowly deepening each thrust.

Although you could hear his pitiful “Ah! Ah! Ah!”s, your entire environment seemed to muffle. All you could feel was the inconsolable penetration. The way every jab made your groin burst into flames. The water splashed vigorously around you, as he guided your body into his. He lifted you like you weighed nothing. His head was still jerked back with his eyes in the back of his head, it seemed he was unable to do anything other than plunge halfway into you.

You couldn’t help but release low moans yourself, the note of your bellows making him tense up more. His large hands were clasping your ass, the flesh spilling out between his long fingers. You whimpered and let him consume you, every thrust splitting your walls further. The loud clapping of your bodies and the vigorous splashing, you were intoxicated. The sounds. The sensation. It was diabolical.  

You let out a string of deep moans, as you came, the wetness around his shaft increasing as you tightened your grip around him. Silas couldn’t hold it any longer, either, as he erupted within you, squealing from the overwhelming pleasure.

He spilled out of you. A puddle of white foam bubbled around you. Silas heaved loudly, blinking excessively and tilted his head back forward, staring dumbfoundedly at you.

He looked like you beat him up. Tears were escaping his rippling eyes, as a tiny sob hiccupped out of him.

Fucking baby.

“D-Do you feel better now? Have I healed you?”, he squeaked, pulling you into his arm cages again.

You rolled your eyes and nodded out of sheer vanquish. There was no point explaining to him that this wasn’t how you heal humans. There was no point explaining to him that mothers don't do this.

Silas kissed your head and swirled his hand in the water, making his semen drift away from you. “Oh…all the precious milk. Gone…”

He grabbed a sponge from behind him and started cleaning you feebly, his hands still shaking from the massive release. You saw a tear fall from his cheek. Without thinking, you brushed another one off his cheek.

He gaped at you after the gesture, pausing his scrubbing.

“O-oh darling. You really love me, don’t you? That’s why it felt so good…”, he smiled widely, more tears splashing out of his googly eyes.

You didn’t answer. You didn't know why you just did that.

Silas hugged you so tightly, you let out a wheeze.

“I love you too, my sweet!!” he squeaked and squished you more. “It’s getting late. We still need to have dinner! And you need a proper portion of milk!”

You closed your eyes, sighing.

Another milking session...

[megharesearch]

The wooden partition wall market is a sub-segment of the larger interior design and construction #industry. The market for wooden partition walls is driven by several factors, including increasing #demand for sustainable and eco-friendly building materials, rising demand for modern and stylish interior designs, and growing interest in creating flexible and modular spaces.

[noidabuildwell]

Modular Kitchens Accessories | Low Cost Elegant Modular Kitchen Services in Noida - Noida Build Well

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Visit Here: https://www.noidabuildwell.com/modular-Kitchen-designs

[justblades]

⋆｡˚ ♰・priest! sunday x afab! reader

┈─ ・(ex)plicit, mdni. contains 2.2 spoilers, blasphemous themes, impregnation, clit stimulation, oral sex, controlling sunday, not proofread.

Even a mere mortal can sense the regret lingering in the atmosphere of the vicinity, a small space dedicated for confessions and atonement of sins committed by those who believe in the Harmony. Numerous pews stand in rows before a single one, each being occupied by two people at best, to which you draw closer to the confession box— one more person to go and it is time to purify your tainted soul.

It was just muffled murmurs of two people from the latter reverberating inside the hall's six walls, along with the sound of the ceiling fans whirring. Your mind starts to drift onto something else: although you have no idea what others hold with regards to their sins, you still could not help but think that yours is shameful.

You can see the person beside you exit the birch box with teary eyes and stuffed nose as she holds a handkerchief to her face. "Next please." a resolute voice echoes, signalling for you to step forward into the confessional. With a wobbly stature, you stand up and tread forward, proceeding to close the oak door behind you.

The golden lights from the hall seep through the confession booth's partition, gleaming upon your stature - creating a silhouette as to where only the advocate from the other side can peer through the woodworks. You attempt to clear your voice before speaking, a dry throat halting the words you intend to verbalize within.

"I humbly ask for your blessings and the forgiveness of Xipe . . ." You mutter as your eyes dart to nothing that catches your interest except for the parquetry etched on the wooden floorboards. Your head held down low, staring at its intricate designing.

"Please feel free to proceed. I have sought their presence within us." The priest answers. "I have committed a grave sin of succumbing to passing emotions. Primarily, I struggled with regulating the purity of one's mind and it was late that I realized I indulged in an extreme activity to quench the thirst for sexual pleasure." 

A reassuring hum resounds. "As a devout follower of the Harmony, I believe my actions do not align with the path I stride. Therefore, I ask for forgiveness and assistance on how I will repent for the sins I have committed." After forming the confession where in sentences you never thought have ever been uttered, it feels as though a heavy weight was lifted off your chest and the shackles on your feet disintegrated.

Glancing at the frosted, colored glass window in front of you, you noticed how the warm yellow lights in the background flicker repetitively in an instant, as well as the birch surroundings creaking. "By committing a grave sin, you've engaged in an activity with a partner you are not married with." The priest reiterates as if the faulty lights are a common occurrence.

You hum in response. "And by committing an even graver sin, you took part in an activity with an objective aside from procreation. Please correct me if I'm wrong."

"Yes, esteemed advocate. Everything you said was indeed correct." Your heart starts racing, "Do you promise yourself you'll turn your back on this lascivious history to start anew?" He queries.

"Yes, Mister Sunday."

"Even if you were to encounter challenges to test your faith for the Harmony?"

Hesitation ruptures through your composure. Your resolution suddenly cracks, as if it was merely a façade with a longing for forgiveness to move on.

"Be honest." Like the advocate could read your mind as of the moment, you believe in the capabilities of Harmony, so there was no use in feigning cleanliness when you know it in yourself, you still struggle. "I wish to seek assistance from those with wisdom."

You receive another firm hum in response, "Very well. Please see me in the reconciliation room a short time after." Your mind spirals into confusion and bewilderment, the emotions painting your features like you were an open book to the audience.

Trekking off the confessional booth, you did not dare to spare a glance back at the priest and only made your way to the distinct, separate room - the reconciliation. It was small, enclosed, and only an oak table, two pairs of engraved chairs, a single ligneous partition and a kneeler reside within the space. Your vision anchors to the sculpted wooden cross sign hung on the beige walls, illuminated by a faint golden lamp on the table.

Patiently awaiting the presence of the priest, you stood still with a heavy heart, seeming like the relief you felt previously was only a glimpse of what you could've been if you didn't commit such grave sin. If only.

The door swings open, followed by the entrance of the figure you were anticipating. Faded sky blue hues of hair tumble upon the male's shoulders, along with the golden earrings he was donning. Feathered ears diluting into white ripple from his footsteps, and his distinct, golden halo stays afloat behind his head.

Being vis-à-vis with the highly esteemed figure of the Penacony like this tugs your heartstrings in unease. It felt bizarre, as you could recall from others' experiences that when you encounter priests or advocates of the Harmony, your heart rests. As for Sunday, it was the polar opposite. Chills run kilometers up and down your spine, your throat starts to become dry.

You trail your vision downwards, setting your sight upon his graceful features. His eyes were a radiant yellow tinged with an ocean blue, framed by his particularly long lower lashes. He purses his lips tightly, curving upwards, flashing a small smile. "Please take a seat." He motions for the chair in front of your figures, your eyes noticing the cross cut out gloves he's wearing.

Sitting down with guard held up high, Sunday follows suit as he opens the drawer from the oak table, retrieving something of a color white and frilly in texture, as you make of what you could from your peripheral vision. "This will certainly be of help to put your faith to test. If you would kindly turn around."

Your hands rest on your lap and as you hear the last phrase that came out of his mouth, you subconsciously gripped a handful of the fabric you're wearing in alertness. Not until your vision was impaired as Sunday blindfolds you with the latter material, it was soft and delicate to the touch - you could not see anything but faint shadows against the lighting. Everything was ivory white in stark contrast, and you could barely peer through the lace folds to see the priest.

"I will now be tuning your mind with the Harmony to which you will face repercussions if statements untrue to yourself are said." He pauses. Unsure where this will lead to, you had no choice but to nod in continuation. "Under the light of the Harmony, all wickedness is revealed. I implore them to shed their light."

What used to be a blurry white in your vision now fringes into colored edges, the prominent colors being purple, white, red, orange, and yellow.

"This will serve as a gentle reminder that I am assisting you to a path where grave sins  are not succumbed to, and only ▅▅▅ exists alongside philosophy to instill moral duties to a functioning member of a society."

His words cut through the thick atmosphere, thawing the glacial tension growing with each passing second.

He lowers his stature to face you, gloved fingers trailing from the hem of the laced blindfold down to your cheeks, cupping your face lightly with a careful grip. "Does this send a shiver down to your spine?" Sunday inquires and you shake your head in disagreement. It seems like he has a whole plan on how this will play out, and you were merely a pawn in his chessboard to see what you would react under these circumstances he will put you in.

The touch ghosts a caress on your lower parts, specifically, the frame of your chest. His thumb twirls on the middle part with an unraveled goal of making your buds perk up underneath the confinements of your clothing - making you grit your teeth as a poor attempt to stifle the sound threatening to escape.

A question arises amidst the confusing situation, a question that will surely be received in a poor taste as it will question his authority and legitimacy. You wanted to ask, is this really necessary?

However, the aura he exudes now was far different from what he displays when he's in front of the audience of the masses. He seems more strict now, judging from the tone lacing his voice from his query earlier. "Does this feel good?" He proceeds to unbutton your top, letting the fabric come undone and fall down to your lap. A singular  gloved hand of his snakes its way to your back, and with a single fidget, your bra was unclasped.

The priest takes his precious time in all these. He carefully observes the clothing that you wear, as he had come to adore the fact that you were wearing pearly white brassiere, one that was similar to the blindfold's texture and design, it was frilly in the edges and soft to the touch.

A light chuckle slips out, "Well? What's your answer?" Desire and temptation brews within your stomach, even spiking higher as he caresses your mounds with both of his hands. His touches feel light and blissful at the same time, like your body was basking in the warmth and enjoyment the priest had to offer. You struggle to keep your body still, knees trembling even though you were only sitting.

"N-No, Mr. Sunday."

A sharp throbbing ache courses through your head, granting him a wince of both surprise and pain. "It appears that you haven't put your mind and whole heart to this yet." He says as he walks away from your stature, leaving you dumbfounded. As silence encompasses the vicinity, you hear the male seat himself on the chair across from you. "Come to me." He simply orders.

"Just take steps forward and trust me."

With blind faith, you solemnly obey - approaching his figure with an extremely bleary vision. As your feet meet with an obstacle, seemingly the chair's legs, you stop in your tracks. "Now straddle my lap." Following suit, you feel a bulging sensation under your remaining clothing. Your breath becomes even more jagged than before, especially now that your clothed folds come in contact with his throbbing dick. It was clear cut enough that it was his erection continuously growing.

A brief moment passes and Sunday continues to envelop your hard buds within his lips, teeth grinding on your nipples in an attempt to inflict pain and pleasure all at the same time. "M— Mr. Sunday . . !" You yelp but he does not halt. He proceeds to twirl his warm, slick tongue all over your glazed areolas, your boob dancing in rhythm with his mouth in somewhat harmonic tunes played by your stifled mewls.

His other free hand pulls you tighter to his chest as he adjusts his position, bucking his hips upwards to create some sort of friction. The tip of his covered cock brushes against your already wet slit, granting him another lewd sound - this time, a soft moan. "I— I— I can't—" your hands clutch on the man's broad shoulders, feeling his long, muted blue and white locks tangle along your fingers. "You can. Yes you can. Only a little bit more you would be rewarded by proving your loyalty to the ▅▅▅."

Your sense of hearing downgrades as your mind drifts into pure bliss, lower limbs becoming numb as more pleasure courses through your veins. As if it's still not enough, Sunday simply lowers your remaining clothes to your feet, revealing your folds sopping wet with arousal already.

With haste and care in Sunday's every movement, he lays your back on the table in between the chairs, forcibly revealing everything down there to him — for him to revel in. The gelid wind traces shivers upon your sweat dewed skin, especially your folds now glimmering with muddy white liquids.

He raises your legs and stands up, resting your lower limbs upon his shoulders. The position is embarrassing enough as it is, but having the priest tower over you is another experience that feels even more intense than what unfolded previously. Not to mention that the throbbing pang in your head brought by your dishonesty upon the Harmony worsens minute by minute.

The male buries his face in your inner thighs first, flicking his tongue over your soft skin while his eyes are darted on your face, in high alert to which action of his you will react the most to. "Need I remind you to be honest this time around? Or is the headache that you're feeling not sufficient for you to stay true to your words?" He asks with a demanding tone, the margins of his lips drawing closer and closer to your slit.

"I have learned my lesson, Mr. Sunda—"

Gloved fingers begin to stimulate your clit, moving in motions you cannot fathom with your current state - your lower body jerking up in response to the stimulation. A sly smile creeps up on Sunday's face, his navy blue pupils fixating on each of your actions and expressions.

All you could think of was the fact that he didn't even let you finish, he went straight to pleasure you more, the sensation becoming more overwhelming as he starts to glide the tip of his tongue on your folds. "Do you feel good?" Although his voice was muffled from the proximity from his face and your pussy, you could comprehend and immediately answer, "Yes! I-I feel good . . !"

You rack your head back once Sunday buries his face further into your inner thighs, wallowing himself in your slit as he sucked on your sweet spot, sticking his tongue into your velvet walls while still toying with your clitoris. You bite back your moans, you cannot afford to lose the remaining dignity you had in you left - if there was any.

"Don't do that."

His voice sounds stern as ever, you were left with no choice yet again but to let mewls and moans come undone at this point in time. You were noisy, along with the sucking sounds accompanied by your hums of pleasure, continually bouncing off of the reconciliation room's four walls. "Very good. As for the last part, you must continue to be truthful, to stand by the ▅▅▅, and to ▅▅▅ to what I ought to be ▅▅▅ for you. Do you understand?"

Much to your relief, your vision was once again back to normal as he unties the lacey blindfold on your eyes. This time, you could see Sunday's disheveled hair, as well as the golden earrings dangling at every movement he makes. He swiftly unzips his slacks, therefore revealing his cock he had been concealing for so long before. It stands in its full glory, hues of purple and indigo veins threatening to pop - it was evident he's at his limit.

"Use your mouth. Make me feel good." He commands and peers at you with a somber expression. You muster enough strength on your body to stand up and kneel in front of him, positioning your head in a perfect angle to receive him. Slowly parting your lips open, he shoves his dick inside you, granting you a hoarse moan of satisfaction slipping past his lips.

You bob your head up and down and as if it felt natural to wrap your digits around the remaining length of his cock, you pump him in accordance to your pace, taking him inside with no hesitation, with only one goal in mind: to make him feel good. You could feel the crown of his dick kiss your throat every time you go deeper, making your eyes water as you try to keep yourself from gagging for the priest's satisfaction.

"That's enough, stand up." Your momentum was cut off as he hooks his arms on yours, making you stand from your previously kneeling position. It seems he has indulged enough in your submission and now it is time for him to try something new, something far more amusing in his perspective.

With both of your statures still standing up, he flips you around, making your back face him. He can examine every nook and cranny of your body in this way, and with a hum of approval, he bends you over slightly, wrapping his arms around your waist and reach for your tits. Your breath deepens, more beads of sweat proceed to trickle down your naked body. "M-Mr. Sunday, are we really going to do it?" you ask as he wraps his hand around himself, brushing his tip on your entrance.

He stops in his movements. "Do you have a problem with that?" A domineering tone laces that sole sentence, one that a person cannot delve deeper furthermore.

With one more stroke, he finally pushes himself inside your velvet walls, molding themselves around the shape of Sunday's dick - wallowing in the pleasure and warmth he emanates inside you. "So . . . warm . . ." He whispers, his breath ghosting a caress on the shell of your ear.

Sunday builds up his pace from a painfully slow one to picking it up, thrusting into you with additional force, pistoning your pussy as he's balls deep. Sounds of skin slapping add onto the lewd tune you two have been playing for the past hour, a whole sixty minutes of pleasure pooling your stomach and arousals seeping out of your holes.

Your legs start to quiver once more, exhaustion gnawing at your bones. But amidst this, Sunday kept you still with his force, hitting your sweet spots with the tip of his cock. If you could beg for mercy as of the moment, you certainly would take the chance. But to who, exactly? To whoever aeon is witnessing this lascivious act unfold in front of them, committed in such a religious place?

Or perhaps to Sunday, who you've knelt to before, received him inside your body in more ways than one. Perhaps. Perhaps it is he who shall show you mercy in the heat of the moment.

"M-Mr. Sunday, please forgive me!"

Interest sparks inside his mind, revelling in the way of being viewed as someone highly, someone sought out, someone in a legitimate authority. "You shall be forgiven." He states as he bites down on the blade of your shoulder, teeth leaving a bite mark and an aching sensation alongside it. You could do nothing but wince in pain, but waves of pleasure start to crush upon your conscious self.

Surely this is too much pleasure to handle for someone asking for forgiveness as they committed a grave sin for partaking in debauchery . . . but to be done this way by a priest is a little too exhilarating.

He picks up the pace, earning himself more moans of pleasure escape your lips, "I'll ▅▅▅ ▅▅▅ inside you." Sunday says as a fair warning, but a sentence you could only form at the present time was a lighthearted "Do as you please, Mr. Sunday."

With one single thrust, strings of satisfaction sprawl inside your womb. It feels warm yet again, but now, comforting in stark contrast to the nervousness welling up in your heart earlier.

"Well done. As you've shown resolution that you're on a path to atone for the sins you've committed in the past, you shall be forgiven."

[yoonkinii]

First date with Sukuna!

Warning(s): Minor cursing. Requests open (only for this AU) Masterlist (Check for more AU content!) Note: I apologize for any errors in my writing. I am the only one writing and editing so I may miss a few things that don't belong. Please let me know if you spot any. <3

“You’ve been staring at your phone for like 20 minutes, just text him already.”

Shoko remarked from your bed, flipping through a fashion magazine she found lying around. She had come over for a study session, but it quickly turned into you telling her about getting Sukuna’s number and having no idea how to proceed. 

“I can’t.” You whine, cheek pressed against the surface of your low living room table. 

Your studio apartment, though compact, was efficiently designed. The entryway doubled as storage, with hidden closets lining the walls and a discreet door on the left revealing the bathroom. The entry all opened into the main living area, where the lines between living room, bedroom, and dining area blurred. A small sofa sat against one wall, accompanied by a flower-shaped coffee table, with a TV hanging on the opposite wall, perfectly positioned for viewing from either the couch or bed. 

The right side of the apartment is occupied by your bed, creating a cozy sleeping nook, partially obscured by a tall bookshelf acting as a makeshift partition. The evening sun filtered through the window above the bed, casting gentle shadows on the floor. Sheer curtains adorned the window, more for decoration than privacy since you lived on the fourth floor.

The kitchen, tucked into one corner, was a masterpiece of compact efficiency. It contained the essentials: a stove, microwave, and small fridge. Wooden cabinets above the counter held a few cooking essentials and acted as a pantry.

“What do you even mean by that? You got his number, just text him,” Shoko counters, sitting up from her position on your bed and making her way over to you. She plops down beside and, with a practiced swipe, unlocked your phone.  

You hiss, raising your head from the table and narrowing your gaze at her. “I didn’t give you my phone password so you could just go through it whenever.”

“What else am I going to do with your phone?” She replied nonchalantly.

“You are insufferable.”

She hums, her thumb nail lightly grazing her teeth as she deftly types on your phone’s screen. You realize too late what she was doing and lunge for your phone, snatching it out of her grasp. 

You gasp, dread filling your insides. “Why did you do that?” you screech, practically flinging your phone back onto the table as if it had burned your hand. You stood up, running your hands through your hair as you pace around the limited space of your apartment. “You just basically screwed me over by sending that text.”

Shoko rolls her eyes, picking up your phone from where you discarded it. “I did not screw you over.” She insisted. “Look, he’s typing.”

Practically tripping over air, you were by Shoko’s side in an instant, staring at the typing bubbles on the screen. A moment later, your phone dinged with a new message- from Sukuna. Shoko grinned, glazing at you. “See? I helped you out.”

“Holy shit,” you muttered, grabbing the phone and staring at the few simple words on your screen.

Your stomach churned with anxiety. 

It had taken hours to get ready for this date, even with Shoko’s help. The fact that Sukuna had chosen a three-star Michelin restaurant didn’t ease your nerves- such a place was beyond your wildest dreams. Miraculously, you found something suitable for the occasion buried deep in your closet. 

You wore a sleek, off-the-shoulder black dress that hugged your figure perfectly. The sleeves flared slightly at the wrists, adding a touch of elegance without feeling too constricting. The dress’s hemline was on the shorter side, so you paired it with slightly sheer black tights. Completing the outfit were black pumps and a small purse slung over your shoulder, just big enough to hold your phone, wallet, apartment keys, and a few necessities. 

Taking a deep breath, you tried to calm your jittery stomach. The last thing you needed was a bout of nerves ruining your first date with the man of your dreams. Your inexperience with fancy places gnawed on you. What if there were specific forks you had to use? Or a certain way to speak?

Shaking off your nerves as best as you could, you finally stepped into the restaurant. The smooth sounds of jazz- saxophone and piano- immediately enveloped you, creating an atmosphere of refined elegance. The building was bathed in a dim glow, with soft light illuminating from bulbs hanging down from the veiling, reminiscent of a starlit sky. 

A hostess appeared before you, exuding an air of professionalism. Dressed in attire reminiscent of a butler’s uniform, complete with white gloves, she greeted you with a polite smile. When you gave her your name, her demeanor shifted slightly; her back tensed, and her eyes widened fractionally before she quickly regained her composure, making you wonder if you had even imagined it. 

As you followed the hostess, you took in the restaurant’s decor. White tablecloths covered the tables, each adorned with a lit candle and a bouquet of roses. Booths lined the walls, their half-circle seats echoing the elegance of the freestanding tables. In the center of the room, a dais hosted the musicians whose performance had captivated you to the point that you nearly collided with the hostess when she abruptly stopped.

Stepping back to create some distance, you meet her gaze. She smiles and tilts her head slightly, motioning for you to ascend the staircase you hadn’t noticed before. It was unusual for a restaurant to have a second story, so you didn’t bother paying much attention towards the ceiling. Now, you see a balcony-like area surrounding the walls of the building, offering a view of the first-floor patrons below. Tables similar to those on the ground floor were placed along the second-story banisters. 

Ascending the spiral stairs with the hostess following at a respectful distance, you reached the top and the hostess once again took the lead. She guided you past various tables to a secluded booth in a back corner, partially hidden by a sheer black curtain. The dark lighting made the booth hard to spot, adding an air of exclusivity and intimacy to it. 

Even in the dim light, you spotted him immediately, his pink hair unmistakable. His back was to you, giving you a few brief moments to take him in before you had to face him. He wore black slack, with the sleeves of his white button-up shirt rolled up to his forearms, revealing more of his intricate tattoos. Two bands of black ink encircled his wrists, their meaning being a mystery to you. You couldn’t dwell on his tattoos any longer as the hostess parted the curtain, gesturing for you to take a seat opposite of Sukuna. 

Your palms were sweaty; in fact, you felt a clammy discomfort all over. Biting your bottom lips, you slid into the booth, surprised by how deeply you sank into the cushion. 

A low chuckle from across the table snaps you out of your thoughts. Your head jerks up, and you find yourself staring at Sukuna. The first few buttons of his shirt were undone. Your mind goes blank as you take in the exposed skin of his collarbone and chest, revealing a peak of well sculpted muscles. 

“You should see the face you’re making right now,” he says, his voice tinged with amusement. He picks up a glass filled with amber liquid, taking a small sip and setting it back down. “I must say, I was quite surprised by how forward you were over text. No greeting or anything, just straight to business.”

Snapping out of your daze, you laugh nervously, your hands fiddling with the hem of your dress under the table. “Sorry about that.” You couldn’t help but apologize, worried that Shoko might have done more harm than good. You barely even knew Sukuna, having only encountered him twice and even those moments were brief. 

He hums, leaning back into his seat, his gaze fixed on you. You stare back, wide-eyed and unsure of what to do. His eyes roamed over your body, and he made no effort to hide what was doing. Your skin felt like it was on fire under his scrutiny. A smirk curled at the corner of his lips. 

“I never asked, but,” He pauses, his eyes locking onto  yours. “How old are you?”

“I’m 25.” 

“Oh?” He leans forward, forearms resting on the table. “That’s quite a big age gap between us.”

You couldn’t help the small pout that forms on your lips, your brows knitting together. “If a seven-year age gap is big for you, then I have a few questions. And I thought I made it clear I didn’t care.”

His eyes lit up with something akin to amusement. “So she does have some bite in her.” Sukuna raises a hand, and almost as if he had summoned them, a waiter appeared. Dressed similarly to the hostess, the waiter bowed slightly as Sukuna made a gesture at them. Without a word, a menu was placed before you. 

“Thank you,” you offered the waiter as you opened the menu. Your eyes nearly pop out of their sockets at the prices listed. Everything was outrageously expensive; even a simple salad cost a small fortune. Your heart sank along with your pride. 

Guess I’ll have to work overtime for a while, you thought to yourself, your heart breaking slightly at the mere thought of having to work extra hours. 

The waiter returned with a glass of water, taking your order after setting down your drink. You cast a curious glance at Sukuna as the waiter took your menu. He never received one and didn’t even look at yours. 

“Are you not ordering?” You questioned once the waiter was far enough, worry lacing your tone. 

“They already know what I want,” He replied flatly. 

Letting out a soft ‘Ah’ of acknowledgment, you settle back against the booth, taking in your surroundings. It’s not every day you find yourself in such an upscale establishment, so you might as well savor the experience. 

“I take it this is your first time at a place like this?” His voice draws your attention back to him. His eyes are fixed on you, a brow arched in curiosity. 

“God no,” you laugh softly. “I’m in college right now, so there’s no way I could afford places like this.” You admit sheepishly, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“What are you studying?”

“Biology.”

“You want to be a doctor?”

You visibly deflate, your hands cradling the chilled glass of water, fingers gently tapping against its surface. “I used to think so, but the deeper I got into my degree, the more I realized how difficult it is. I think I’ll just become a nurse and work for my friend.”

Shoko is determined to become a doctor, claiming she wants to be her own boss and not have to answer to, in her words, ‘stupid old people.’ You wouldn’t mind working under her as one of her nurses. She’s also said she wouldn’t mind it either, so that’s your current goal. 

Sukuna hums, nodding thoughtfully. 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you study him, taking in his appearance. He arches a brow at your stare, almost daring you to say something. And you do. 

“Your piercing.” You begin, pointing to your own eyebrow to mirror his. “Did it hurt really bad?”

“No.” 

“No?” You echo, surprised by his response. Even with a high pain tolerance, it still must’ve hurt a little. 

“No,” He affirms. “I was shit face drunk when I got them.”

You blink at him. Once. Twice before a laugh you can’t hold back escapes you. Your hand covers your mouth, slightly surprised by your own reaction. Sukuna tuts his lips, a slight frown pulling on his lips. 

“Think that's funny, brat?”

You heave out a breath, sighing away to remnants of your laughter. “Hey, I don’t think that warrants being called a brat.” 

“Well you are laughing like an immature brat.” He snarls lowly, lips hovering against the rim of his glass as he takes another sip.

“I’m not sure that I'm the immature one. I wasn’t the one that got drunk and pierced their eyebrow.”

Sukunas eyes narrow on you, lips curling into a half-smile. “Cheeky,” He mumbles more to himself.

Talking to Sukuna felt surprisingly easy. Even when the food arrived, the conversation continued to flow smoothly, with you doing most of the talking. It was clear that Sukuna had a slight temper, evident in the way he grumbled to himself when the waiter made a mistake or how his brows knit together in frustration. Once, when the waiter accidentally brought over a drink neither of you ordered, Sukuna dismissed him with a curt “It’s fine,” but you noticed the way his eyes followed the waiter, as if trying to burn holes in his back. 

Despite his temper, his annoyance was never directed at you. He listened intently when you spoke, adding his own bits to the conversation. You learned that he got all his ear piercings at once, with the gauges being the most bothersome to take care of. His tattoos came a few years later, taking longer to complete because his tattoo artist wasn’t comfortable doing such a large project in one sitting.

Sukuna also shared that his “dumbass nephew” lived with him, usually bothering him and rarely ever shutting up. Despite Sukuna’s grimace while talking about his nephew, it was clear he cares deeply for him. He shows you photos of Yuji on his phone, from baby pictures to ones from elementary and middle school, grumbling about how Yuji sucked at math in middle school. You could tell that beneath his gruff exterior, Sukuna had a soft spot for his family. Why else would he have so many photos saved on his phone?

Time flew by in an instant, and before you knew it, the check landed on the table. Acting on impulse, you reached for your purse, intending to retrieve your wallet. But before you could even open your purse, the waiter swiftly whisked away the bill. 

“Wait-” You called after the retreating waiter, but he didn’t turn back. Sukuna observed you with a bored depression, his temples resting against his propped-up hand. With a resigned sigh, you reluctantly close your purse. 

“We could’ve split the bill.” You suggested, eyeing Sukuna across the table. 

“Like you could afford it,” he retorted coolly

Your face flushed, lips pressed into a thin line at his comment. Though it rang true, you still felt a twinge of guilt. Who knew how much this dinner had cost, and whether Sukuna could even afford it without consequences. 

“When a man pays for your meal, you should really be thanking them more than complaining.” Sukuna remarked. 

You fix  Sukuna with a hard stare until he sighs at your stubbornness, relenting. “Fine. You can treat me next time.”

Your heart skips a beat, eyes widening slightly at the implication behind his words. A smile spreads across your face involuntarily. “Really?” you repeat, practically beaming with joy. Sukuna rolls his eyes but he couldn’t hide the half-smile beginning to form on his lips. “If I knew you were going to light up like the damn sun, I might have said otherwise.”

You clicked your tongue, letting out a faux laugh. “Ha ha, too late to take it back now.”

Chuckling softly, Sukuna leans back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, looking at you with a hint of sincerity in his eyes.

“No, I guess I can’t.”

-

Tag List (open):@kalulakunundrum , @fushipurro

[mmgwritings]

FULLY CLOTHED, STARK NAKED

Characters: Kaz Brekker / Dreg!Reader

Prompts: When Kaz felt guilty and decided to handle his problems by shoving them into a dusty, forgotten corner so he doesn’t have to face them... until now.

Warnings: angst; smut; nsfw; canon divergence.

The cart rumbled down the narrow alleyway, laden with crates of drinks, tobacco, and spices from the distant lands of Shu Han — or so it seemed from the merchants' slurred accents. One of the oxen snorted as a wheel got stuck in a muddy puddle, momentarily halting the small caravan trailing behind.

The passengers of the caravan, weary from days on the road, decided to step out of the vehicle and surround the ox cart, slowly carrying their belongings to the main street. Their worn and thick clothes marked them as ordinary people from inland villages, seeking opportunities in Ketterdam now that Shu Han had opened its borders for small exports.

It was a new government measure, introduced after years of peace negotiations between Ravka, Kerch, and Shu Han following the fall of the Fold. The law, ostensibly about simplifying the import and export of goods, was a stroke of Ravkan ingenuity. While its simplicity aimed to facilitate trade, it inadvertently opened the door to cruelty. The same freedom extended to the movement of products was also interpreted and applied to humans, leading to a troubling rise in child abductions and the proliferation of exotic brothels. This grim reality didn't go unnoticed by Inej — and, consequently, by Kaz.

A letter from Inej reached Kaz's hands just a month ago. In the meantime, the crows, who had previously managed the taverns and tourists' finances, were now stationed at the city's entrances, keeping a vigilant eye out for potential slavers. It was a straightforward task: watch people through the cracks in the city patrol loft, handle the work that the corrupt officials neglected, and, if suspicions arose, track their movements.

After that, the grimy details fell to Kaz's officers. That was the part I preferred not to know about, but I was content just imagining it.

Today, it was my turn to guard the entrance to Shu Han, northwest of the city. I sat alone on a dusty crate, peering through a crack in the attic window to keep watch over the alley. Wylan typically joined me during the early hours of the night, but today he had been given special leave to celebrate Jesper's birthday.

With a groan and the gurgling of oxen and two men, the cart — now half-empty after the merchants had collected their belongings — finally got unstuck and trundled onward into the city. I looked beyond the city gates and saw nothing but two patrol officers lounging under a street lamp, smoking cigarettes and chatting idly. Beyond them, the road stretched out, dark and empty.

With a sigh, I stretched and stood up from the crate, my eyes burning from hours of distant observation. The Stadwatch loft, once housing for patrol rookies before they were relocated to a building in the Exchange, was a spacious, open area with no partitions. It was filled with neatly arranged beds and small dressers, two desks, and a stack of old paperwork in the corner. The small, dusty windows were perfect for monitoring the street but couldn’t be opened, leaving the room with a stale smell. On the plus side, the thick walls kept the sounds from travelling outside — Wylan even used to play music when he was bored.

Even with the street empty and no sign of new arrivals at the gates of Ketterdam, I had to stick to my watch schedule until the next guard relieved me in four hours. It was while sitting at one of the desks, feet propped up and munching on a sandwich, that Kaz found me.

Despite the cane, the boots, the wooden floor, and the guards outside, I didn't hear him coming. One moment the loft door was closed, and the next, there was Kaz, his dark coat gleaming in a patch of light from the night dew. His stoic expression scanned the room with interest, his lips pursed as he took in the musty smell.

“Good evening, boss” I said, shifting in the chair and setting the sandwich aside. “Come to check on the poor soul stuck here?”

“No, I’m just joining them,” he replied, lowering his voice as he walked over and sat on my abandoned crate. “Clive can’t make it today — caught a nasty cold and can’t stop sneezing. I’ll keep watch with you.”

“Then enjoy; it’s your turn to stare at the vast nothingness,” I murmured, returning to my sandwich with a smirk. Kaz, always busy and never idle, had come personally to take on a task that involved doing absolutely nothing. And above all, spend a considerable amount of time in my company. Someone he had been avoiding like the plague for the past few weeks.

That would be funny.

As anticipated, five minutes later, the complete silence was broken by his first sigh of boredom. Seven minutes after that, he began rummaging through some of the old paperwork.

When the dust started to rise, I decided it was time to stop. I didn’t want to end up competing with Clive and his sneezing.

“So, have you decided whether it really happened, or are you going to keep avoiding it?” I asked, my eyes fixed on him. Though he had his back to me, I saw him stiffen as he grasped the weight of my question. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks, you even stationed me here at this end of the world, so far from everyone that Wylan felt sorry enough to keep me company.”

“I didn’t mean to put you here; it’s part of your job—”

“Don’t even start, Kaz. You know exactly what you’re doing. You felt guilty and decided to handle your problems—me—by shoving them into a dusty, forgotten corner so you don’t have to face them.”

Kaz, still with his back turned and hiding his emotions as he always does when cornered, remained silent. The weight of the truth settled in the attic, spreading through the shadows.

Over the past few weeks, as I spent hours watching the city, I replayed our past interactions in my mind and planned what I would say to Kaz when I finally saw him.

I fantasized about him offering a gentlemanly apology, imagining him walking through the door, confessing some naïve and heartfelt sentiments, and making promises. But once I accepted that it was all just a fantasy, my frustration grew. Clive, my watch partner, sometimes found me with angry tears streaming down my face. He’d ask what was wrong, but what could I tell him? That his boss was a smug asshole who was indifferent to other people’s feelings?

And that this same smug asshole was in front of me and still didn't say anything?

“It’s not my fault that you love Inej. It’s not my fault you’re hung up on someone who hasn’t been around for seven years. And it’s definitely not my fault that I love you more than you even like me,” I said, my voice cracking, the weight of my emotions evident as tears threatened to spill.

I stood up from my chair and grabbed my coat. “If you want to live like this, fine. But don’t pretend like nothing happened… because it did.”

Kaz sighed, slowly turning to face me. His expression was almost tortured, his eyes bright and warm.

I waited, but no words came from him. It wasn't necessary, not when in three quick steps he was in front of me, with his hands adorning my face, with his lips on mine, demanding a desolate kiss.

His tongue slid across my lips, which, with my surprise, parted in a breathless sigh, allowing him to greedily suck my tongue and massage it with his own. I was too stunned to react, surrendering any control over my body as I followed his lead. His hands moved persistently from my face to my waist, drawing me closer until our bodies pressed together.

Noticing my lack of reaction—or perhaps sensing my need to breathe—Kaz pulled his face slightly away from mine. He placed gentle kisses on my flushed cheeks and trailed them halfway down my chin. “You are the stupidest person in the world for not realizing that if there was a lack of words on my part, it was because I couldn't explain how much I want you”

“You’re the stupidest person in the world for not realizing that if I was at a loss for words, it was because I couldn’t find a way to express how much I want you,” he said, his eyes finally meeting mine. “If there was any ghost from the past, you’ve exorcised it. Any teenage feelings are nothing compared to what you make me feel. Don’t you understand? You didn't realize any of this when, that night, I was more yours than I ever was mine?”

His eyes were clear and filled with truth—the same eyes I gradually fell in love with over the years. One night, driven by youthful impulse and drink, I boldly declared my feelings to Kaz with a kiss. That kiss led to a messy night in his room, only for me to wake up alone and to live with his indifference. Or that's what I thought.

"That doesn't make any sense. Nina told me you're still-" my thoughts didn't align.

“And what does Nina know about my feelings? What does she know about all the times I think about you? I’m sorry; I didn’t know what to do that day. I was an asshole, irresponsible, a coward—any term you want to use. But I don’t deny that I do love you, and it’s much more than you love me.”

Kaz’s voice was assertive, as if he were stating an undeniable truth. He loved me. He’d made a mistake out of fear. I was scared too, but nothing compared to the fear that gripped me when he admitted, in so many words, that he loved me.

His lips found mine again, this time demanding much more. His hands moved to pull my body even closer, fingers reaching for the ties of my vest and moving up to my breasts, squeezing them as he guided me towards one of the beds.

My heart raced and my body was covered in goosebumps.

“Kaz, please,” I murmured, trying to pull him closer. I didn't even know what I was begging for, I just wanted more.

It felt so good to have him there, feeling the heat of his body, his weight pressing down on me, and his lips trailing kisses across my chest. Pulling my shirt aside, his lips find my nipple, pebbled by his fingers.

It was all so different from last time, that we were scared enough to take off our clothes, just finding pleasure through our hands.

Now, Kaz suddenly stopped. His eyes marveling at my bare breasts. And I marveled at him. With his swollen lips, heavy breathing, which made his chest rise and fall quickly. With his body pressed against mine, hips unconsciously rubbing against mine in search of relief.

Finding some independence, my hands pushed him until Kaz was kneeling over me. That way, I completely removed my blouse, and when I heard a sigh coming from him, I smiled. "Beautiful" he whispered.

My hands then went towards his vest, agilely undoing it and throwing it onto one of the dressers. The black, long-sleeved shirt remained on his body.

I knew enough about Kaz to see his limits. Clothes were his limit. But not mine.

Gathering up some courage, I hugged Kaz and in a kiss, pulled him on top of me again, and when we were lying down, I rolled on top of him.

"I want to try something." I whispered in his ear, my hand trailing down his body, caressing his abdomen and trailing down to his groin.

There, I found the bulge of his dick, and when I stroked it again I got a deep breath from him. "Yes, do whatever you want," Kaz replied, already too lost in his desires.

I got up quickly, Kaz was surprised and looked at me questioningly. Then he understood when I started pulling my pants down, removing my boots too. I laughed a little when I lost my balance while removing one of my shoes and fell with my face on Kaz's abdomen, too close to his crotch.

Taking advantage of the moment, I planted a playful kiss on Kaz's face and went down to the end of the bed to remove his boots.

He was in a good mood and trying to contain himself from laughing. His face was red, his hair was messy and he had an anxious expression.

"There, done. I hope you don't mind the socks" I said pointing to my mismatched socks with a smile on my face.

"I couldn't care less," he replied, hands resting on my waist as I straddled him. "But I care about one thing..." she spoke, her fingers lightly tugging at the hem of my panties.

"Worry about this little thing?" I asked, adjusting myself into a better, much more comfortable position, one that was on...

"I'm a petty man" He sighed, his eyebrows furrowing and betraying his pleasure. I moved a little, enough to make him abandon any kind of argument he was making.

His fingers found space between the hem of my panties, lightly caressing the crease between my leg. But not there, not where I wanted most, where I needed it. Just close.

Truly, a petty man.

Kaz's vibrant blue eyes were completely dilated as I began rubbing myself over his cock. Trying to find some pleasurable point, my panties were wet over the seam of his pants.

His other hand, not needed to guide me, moved up towards my nipple, squeezing it painfully, only to be tamed by his warm tongue. Now, the two of us sitting, me straddling him and Kaz sucking my tits, were like two teenagers in heat.

"I can't," I said, almost crying. My face hidden in his hair, my hands gripping his shoulders.

Then Kaz mercifully slid his fingers over my core. Not inside, where I wanted most, where my walls squeezed with emptiness. "Please, Kaz." I whispered in his ear, seeking his lips for a sloppy kiss.

As we kissed, as I sucked his tongue and kneaded his shirt, Kaz's hands went down to his pants, undoing the button and zipper, trying to pull them down. Realizing this, I helped him, putting my hand in his pants and freeing his dick.

It was wet with cum, it was big and it stood completely hard. It was as pink as Kaz's swollen lips, and all I could think about was how good it would taste in my mouth.

But I didn't have time for that. I felt like I was going to cum just from rubbing against Kaz. And he also felt the same way, as he quickly pulled my panties to the side and I guided the head of his cock towards my clitoris, rubbing it lightly, enough to make everything wet with my desire and his.

Kaz groaned throatily. Laying down on the bed and watching me as I slid down his cock, my folds wetting him all over and my white panties were almost transparent.

Unable to hold it any longer, I stood up and pushed his cock into my pussy. Feeling myself open up as he slid in, all the way to the base. Allowing myself to stand still for a moment, with goosebumps rising through my body, a painful moan escaped my lips in unison with Kaz's.

Me, stark naked and Kaz completely clothed. My hands found support on his chest as I slowly moved up and down his dick, finding a good rhythm for both of us. Kaz's eyes met mine, and that way, as he filled me and rolled his hips to meet my pussy mid-motion.

His mouth, swollen from all the kisses, was open, panting. His cheeks were pink, his forehead was sweaty and his hair stuck to it. Kaz was a beautiful sight.

With his eyes locked on mine, Kaz's hands went to my ass, helping me with the rhythm. Making me slide on it instead of going up and down. This way, my clitoris rubbed against the base of his dick, finding the perfect friction in the movement.

"Good?" he asked as I closed my eyes and groaned. "Perfect" I replied with a drunken smile.

"Open your mouth" I order Kaz, with a tone very similar to the one he used in meetings with the Dregs.

I opened it, my eyes still closed. I felt Kaz sit down, his chest against mine, my sensitive nipples against his shirt. Kaz, stuck a thumb in my mouth, gently touching my tongue and massaging it.

Instinctively I closed my mouth over his finger and sucked. Kaz put his face to mine and moaned. I thought I was going to keep that substitute for his cock in my mouth, but Kaz removed his finger and replaced it with his tongue.

His thumb, coated with saliva, trailed down to our junction. His dick filled me very well, but the need for more arose from the moment Kaz started massaging my pussy. I thought it couldn't get any better.

It was instinctive, as I had never experienced any of that rationally before. I moaned into his kiss and hugged him, trying to get closer, rubbing myself even more, trying to find relief from that sweet torment.

Kaz also felt the same, his dick moved inside me, trying to go deeper. I felt our sweaty bodies clinging to each other and Kaz's moans, not at all shy, made me shudder.

It was like we were boiling, feeling something tighten in my groin, feeling the need to have something faster, stronger, bigger, inside me. Until, when Kaz hugged me, his nails scratching my sweaty back, his other hand squeezing my ass and his hips pushing deeper into me, I felt like I was going to come apart.

Breaking our kiss for a gasp, I came, my face still placed on his, I felt tears running down his face. I felt, moments later, as my walls squeezed his cock and my body trembled, his hot cum filled me and then slowly slid out, even though he still had his cock stuck inside me.

Kaz then slowly lay down, taking me with him. Our chests rising and falling in search of air. Exhaustion taking over us and happiness bubbling up through our bodies.

We were still united, there was no need for us to separate now. So I adjusted myself to a more comfortable position, and looked at him. The tears were Kaz's, who was so overcome with pleasure that he didn't even notice he had cried. I kissed his face, chin and his lips.

Kaz's hands slowly caressed my body: my back, my arms, my hair, until finally he rested on my ass, playing with the hem of my panties.

We had nothing to talk about when, later, we separated enough to settle into a tired embrace and fall asleep. Kaz still in his clothes and without any criticism regarding my socks and panties.

[januaryembrs]

I SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE | Marc Spector x reader

Request: @happyhauntt says - okay i am BEGGING for a fic based on the song 'forest fire' by brighton (be warned that shit HURTS) but i fully cannot decide between poe dameron, steven/marc or spencer reid so i am giving you full creative direction and i look forward to getting my heart ripped out!!

Description: Marc had always carried her with him, since they were small kids playing pirates in the yard, before things got messed up by grown up feelings and burdens. It's not until he sees her twenty years later, he realises he should have saved her.

length: 3.9k

Warnings: Heavy warnings for childhood / domestic abuse/neglect (both from Marc and also reader has a neglectful father) warnings for alcohol, the cave scene, drowning, death etc. you asked for angst, so I served!

authors note: sorry this took so damn long, today isn't even my day off and I have been too exhausted to even look at my computer, but I hope you like it!

Before Randall was too little to be part of his adventures, Marc used to play on his own in the yard. 

Usually that entailed kicking a football at the wooden fence that lined their garden, trying to knock it off his chest when it would come bouncing back the way he’d seen the professionals do it, even if it had led to three milk teeth coming loose already. 

But there weren’t kids on his street to play with, at least that’s what he thought until the one day he kicked his ball a little too high and watched it fly right over the top of the fence, bouncing into the neighbour's yard, a soft “ouch” meeting his ears. 

In minutes, a little head appeared over the wall, beady eyes frowning down at him, and he realised it was a girl around his age, maybe a little younger. 

“Did you lose this?” She held up his soccer ball he was worried he was going to have to kiss goodbye to forever, the small digits of her other hand holding onto the fence tightly. 

“Yeah! Sorry, I didn’t mean to kick it so high,” Marc said, and with no more explanation than that, she threw it over to his side of the partition, and her tiny head disappeared back below the fence line. 

He felt stunned. He knew there were moving boxes over that way a couple weeks ago, but as far as he could see there was only a man living there on his own, a scowl on his face most days. Marc had seen him shouting at the other kids on his block to stop riding their bikes in front of his house because it ‘upset the dog’, though Marc had yet to see for himself this canine friend he was speaking about. 

But there was a girl living there! A real life girl who spoke to him; granted he had lobbed a heavy soccer ball at her, from what her distaste told him, and he wondered if perhaps, despite the grumpy look on her face he realised mirrored the man he’d seen living there, that she might like to even make friends with her neighbour. 

“Wait!” He yelled, running up to the fence where she had slipped away from him, grabbing on to the top and pulling himself up to the point he was on his very tippy toes and he could only just about see her yard. 

The grass was unkempt, which was odd because Marc’s own dad cut the grass every fortnight, and there were planks of wood with nails sticking out of them strewn across the side of the shed she had used to pull herself up with. He fought the urge to cringe in disgust, because there, looking up at him from where she was making a daisy chain in the long, dry grass, alone in a pink plaid shorts and a white, dirt stained top, was the girl. 

“Do you want to play?” Marc asked, his foot nearly slipping under him where he was trying to rest it on the wood to take a closer look, “I have tennis, or swing ball we could play?” 

She looked interested at the mop of curly, black hair for a moment, before she looked back at the house that he had still yet to see any sign of a dog. 

“I’m not sure my dad would like it…” She said cautiously, almost whispering to him, picking the soil under her nails. 

“My mom could come around and get you, she could talk to him,” He offered, because this was when his mother was still mom and not Wendy. 

Before she had yet to flip his world entirely upside down with her cruel hands and vicious tongue. Before Steven. 

She seemed unsure, biting her bottom lip and stroking her arms like she was giving herself a cuddle. But she nodded, looking up at him, and he tried to hide just how excited he was to finally have someone to play with. 

“I’m Marc,” He said, grinning at her, his tongue poking between the space where his adult teeth were only just growing back in. 

She told him her name back, and it was the first time he understood what a crush was. 

–

“Marc, I’m not sure we should be doing this,” She said, grabbing his hand so tight he thought his heart might explode. 

“It’s okay, we come here all the time, don’t we, RoRo?” He reassured, looking back to where Randall, now a few years older and big enough to play with them, held onto the side of the cave, his own face nervous. 

“All the time!” The little boy echoed, because Marc knew he had a bit of a thing for her as well, because she was older and cool and smelled like a field of flowers and he hated seeming like he was scared, even though he was. 

He was just a kid. 

They were just kids. 

And being kids, they stumbled into danger without realising it, not even when the rain started coming down outside torrentially and they had to pause their game of pirates to run for cover. They hadn’t expected, in their childish excitement to continue the adventure, that the water would start pooling into the cave; that it would fill up like a basin, whether they were in there or not, and it wasn’t until the screaming started that they realised they were in the kind of danger that required an adult. 

Marc was the first one to get out, his hair soaked, his heart racing, and he used a grown up word he heard his dad use sometimes because he could have sworn they were both right behind him. 

And if that had been true, then where were they? 

He called her name, debated going back in there himself to see where they had gone, then he yelled for RoRo, because she didn’t seem to be answering. 

And there was only silence, except a clap of thunder overhead that said the rain was going to get worse; was not going to stop for hours. 

Which was when he ran to get his dad. 

By the time Elias got there, his glasses wet and steamed, his thick thatch of curls too similar to Marc’s soaked through, all he could see was a head of hair peeking out of the mouth of the cave, and his heart sank. 

He dragged her out of the dark water, arms under her shoulders as he rolled her on her front and started patting her back, trying to get her to spit some of the water out, because her face was ice and her skin was soaked and her playsuit was ripped from where she’d snagged it on the rocks. 

Marc remembered crying into his hands, gaze flicking back to the cave to see if RoRo was right behind her, if he was just waiting to be pulled out as she had been. 

But there was nothing. Nothing but rain water and moss and those damn rocks he’d been gripping onto not an hour earlier. 

His heart leapt when she spluttered finally, after his dad had thrown her over his knee and taken to giving her a one handed heimlich right between her shoulder blades. She spat the water out, her body shivering immediately, eyes bleary as they looked around as if she expected to still be in that dark hole in the wall, and Elias set her down on the grass to go look for his youngest son. 

“Stay with her, Marc,” He barked, uncharacteristically sharp for him though Marc guessed it was fear, and took off towards the cave again. Marc pulled her into his arms, and it was only then they started wailing together. 

They sat there for an hour when the rescue team finally arrived, a medical team with warm hands and even warmer blankets ushering them to the safety of the back of an ambulance, and the last thing Marc remembered for that horrible day was sitting on the stretcher with her pressed against his side, trembling under the reflective wrap they’d been tucked in that made them look like baked potatoes, wishing he had never suggested they go in that damn cave. 

–

“You’re leaving?” She said, her lip quivering, her eyes lined with tears. They sat on his bed, his duffel bag already packed, his acceptance letter burning daggers into his head from his nightstand, “Military? Marc, just think about this for a minute-”

“I have thought about it. I’m not some dumb kid making rash decisions, I want this,” Except he didn’t, not really. What he meant to say was he wanted to leave, to run away and never come back, but the idea of never seeing her again was too difficult to think about. 

She thought about it for a moment, and he held her hand when he saw her face really start to crumble then. “If you go, I’ll have no one left. You’re all I have,”

He didn’t hide the fact he saw how nervous she was when Marc would pick her up from her house and her father would see her out the door, a nasty, inebriated glare in his eyes at the Specter boy. He saw all the times she would tiptoe around the floorboards, the way he knew too well, as if she was scared of what would happen if she took up too much space, made too much noise. Or when his mother had been kind, way back before any of this had happened, and had fussed over her pretty hair, had piled food on her plate because Wendy said she needed the goodness, she had locked up entirely and looked at his mother as if she was an alien. 

Even now, when they were both seventeen, nearly adults in the grand scheme of things, he knew her father was cruel. 

“I’m sorry,” He said honestly, and he felt his own throat clogging up with real emotion he only ever let himself show when he was with her, “When I get a place of my own, I’ll come back here, and we can pack your bags together, and we can live far away from all of this,” 

And it sounded like he was spinning her a fantasy; which he was. She felt like an idiot for believing him, for flashing him a small smile and leaning her forehead to his which was the closest they ever got to admitting how they really felt about each other. 

He wanted to kiss her then, before he left to start his new life, one where they could be happy together, and he made a promise to himself that when he came back for her that would be the first thing he would do. 

He could see it now; he would be in some kind of flashy car with the top rolled down, a man grown from the regime and fitness they would teach him in the army and she would come running to him like an angel parting the clouds, like a dream that was finally within reach, and he would kiss her then, so hard it would make up for the time they had lost, the time they had grieved together, it might even make up for that day she nearly died because of him. 

So he left her, that fantasy of coming back to her keeping him going in the months of training, during roll call and exams and the small, clinical portions they would serve him in the military. 

But that day never came. Somewhere between losing himself to the alter that had formed and led a full life separately to his, between hiding Steven from the ugly truth and becoming a mercenary after dropping from the army, he tucked the dream away as a what if, and he didn’t return back to that house where his mother had caused so much hell. 

Not until the second day of her shiva, that was. 

-

“Marc?” He forgot how sweet his name sounded from her lips, and he hated to admit it in the middle of his drunken state, but he’d wished he’d never heard it again in his entire life. 

Because the second his front door opened, and a woman in a long black dress, heels and lace gloves stared back at him with a face that looked similar to a girl he once knew, only a notch between her brows that said she had done nothing but frown for twenty years, he wished he had never seen her again. 

She was beautiful, more beautiful than he ever gave her credit for, yet she looked tired. Sunken. Like she had wept and screamed alongside all the frowning. 

“Marc,” She said it more determined this time, pacing down the stairs to his home, her footsteps rushed and worried, “Are you okay?,” 

He knew he must look like a mess. He hadn’t stopped crying for three days since he got the first phone call from his father in almost two decades, since he’d learned his mother had passed, and he was already a bottle of whiskey deep by the time he’d stepped out the cab onto the street he grew up on. 

He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought she would be there. He guessed she would be far away from this place, just like he had been, in a mansion with a 401k and a dog and a neurosurgeon for a husband. She had always deserved it. 

But here she was, grabbing the bottle out of his hand gently, rubbing a hand over his shoulder like not a day had gone by that they hadn’t seen one another, and it didn’t take him much convincing at all to pull her into a hug he had needed since the day he left. 

“My mum’s dead,” Marc said, sounding like a little boy again when he wept into her neck, squeezing her body to his, and he felt her rubbing his back soothingly. 

“I know, Marc, I’m so sorry,” She hummed, and she smelled like a fancy floral perfume he couldn’t afford to give her before, “I know you must be feeling complicated,”

He nodded, because he couldn’t have put it better himself. He felt complicated. 

“I missed you,” She said, like it was a confession, and he cried harder, his face burying into the crook of her shoulder. 

“I missed you too,” 

“How’s Steven? Is he still around?” She asked, pulling him away to root through her pocket for the pack of tissues she’d kept handy for the day. He took a deep breath, rubbing his sleeved arm over his face to dry it even the slightest. He could feel his cheeks sopping wet from where he had sobbed in the back of the cab like a madman all the way here. 

But she was still fussing over him, and she looked just as pretty as he had remembered her, sitting on his bed that day, if not only a little more tired under her eyes.

Ofcourse she had known about Steven. How else was he supposed to explain the times they would be playing boyfriend-girlfriend together and he would become a different person. 

Sometimes Steven would remember her too, because it didn’t matter to her who he was, she was his best friend either way. He remembered a girl who smelled like summer, sitting on the swings and eating ice lollies together, taking it in turns to push each other, blue tongued and happy. 

“Yeah, sometimes,” He replied quietly, as she handed him the tissues, “He misses you, too,” 

She smiled at him with her lips pressed tightly.

“I take it you’re not coming in?” She said in a careful tone, and he shook his head quickly. 

“No- I just can’t,” He said, tears welling up in his eyes in seconds, and she wrapped him in another hug immediately, soothing his hurt as fast as it had bubbled back up.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay, you don’t have to,” She hummed, stroking down his back gently, and he hugged her tightly as if she was the only thing keeping him together. 

He opened his mouth to speak when his front door opened again, and he worried for a second that it was Elias. 

Instead, he saw a girl no older than five emerge in a cute, poofy dress that met her knees, her hair tucked into a neat braid, lace gloves matching her own as she lingered at the doorway. 

And perhaps the thing that struck him the quickest; she was the damn near double of the girl he’d hit in the head with his soccer ball in that very yard. 

“Mommy,” The girl said in a gentle coo, her eyes empathetic as she met his gaze, more empathetic than he knew children could feel. But, he supposed, if she was her daughter then it didn’t surprise him in the slightest. 

His best friend turned, her face smoothing out into something peaceful when she saw her little girl, and he knew then she was born to be a mother. Nothing like his own, nothing like Wendy, and he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. 

She was a mother. 

“Yes, baby?” She said, half stepping towards her child as the girl stumbled down the first step towards them, and she was quick to swoop her into her grasp and onto her hip. 

“I need to use the bathroom,” The girl said shyly, peeking a glance at him over her mum’s shoulder, and she waved at him with tiny fingers. 

He waved back, even if the sight of her had dumped a bucket of cold water all over his body. 

“Alright, baby. Just wait in the foyer, I’ll come take you in just a second, I’m just speaking to my friend right now,” She said, stroking over the back of the girl’s hair softly, and kissing her chubby cheek. “Is that okay?”

She nodded, and her mum kissed her once more, plopping her back on the top step to direct her back into the house. And they were alone again. 

She looked at him guiltily, stepping back towards him as she fiddled with her sleeves nervously, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t get childcare and I don’t really know anyone in state anymore-”

“No, it-it’s fine,” He stammered, feeling her watching him for his reaction carefully, “What’s her name?” 

“Dalilah,” She replied, rubbing hands up her arms to calm herself. 

“Where’s her dad?” Marc asked, hoping he didn’t sound bitter, but the whiskey made it sound like a bite. 

She shrugged, “He wanted the cars and the house when we split; I wanted her,” She said calmly, like it wasn’t one bomb after another to be dropped on him. 

He knew nothing about her life. He had tried to run away from that promise he’d made her for twenty years, because he knew he would never be good enough for her; that he could never give her the happiness she deserved, even before he had become the Moon Knight. 

At his core, he would rot her, ruin her. He would destroy her.

And yet hearing it was just the two of them alone, he felt like he could take out the piece of shit who ran out on them barehanded and go home to sleep next to her soundly.  

He felt like perhaps, as much grief and anguish as returning back to that house had caused him, perhaps this was his second chance. His chance to be what she needed, to be something good.

He would be so good to them. He would give them everything if she asked. 

“I’m not really in town much, especially with my dad still around,” She said, gesturing to where her yard still stood, full of junk and a dog that had supposedly been kicking strong for two decades, “But I would love to see you again. Lila has school most days so you’re free to come over any day of the week if you want it to be just us; I work at home,” She scribbled an address about two hours away down on a piece of paper, along with her phone number, handing it to his distraught face with a sad smile, somewhat hopeful he would take the olive branch she was shaking his way. 

He took it with a nod, his bottom lip still trembling before he bit it hard enough to force it to stop. He would love to see her, if he would even allow himself something good. If he would just let go of the resentment for everything that reminded him of that time, he could see the two of them healing one another slowly, but surely. 

She could fix him. And he could fix her. The way it had always been with them. 

“Yeah, I’d love that,” Marc said softly, allowing her to grab him tightly one more time, “I really did miss you,” 

She laughed, not properly more like a sad breath out, squeezing him to her, “I loved you so much. I never let you go, you know that?” 

He tried not to sob, almost holding her so maddeningly hard she couldn’t ever leave. 

But he had to let go eventually, and he watched her walk back up the stairs to where his family mourned, her face glinting with something hopeful, holding a flashlight out to him where he was walking around in the dark blindly.

He tried to smile back, though he knew it wouldn’t be the same, wouldn't be truly untouched by the grief he wallowed in. 

And by the time he got back to his hotel room, alone, even more drunk, Khonshu had another job for him that would whisk him away for two weeks. But he kept her number, the piece of paper gripped in his hand tight, like he was determined to keep his promise this time around.

He dialled her number exactly fifteen days later, his body aching, his nose bloodied, but something lighter in his chest at the prospect of seeing her again. The light in his dark, the girl on the swings he’d once pretended to marry during their game of house (the rings had been tiny daisy chains she’d woven together just that morning, their officiant was Randall who could barely ride a bike let alone remember the vows he was supposed to say.) 

Only when the phone got put through, a different woman answered, and the light flickered back out into something cold and dark and vengeful. 

“Oh, oh god, you haven’t heard?” He swallowed thickly, “She was hit by a drunk driver last week picking Lila up from school,” The woman, her cousin, explained, her voice teary and solemn, and he didn’t doubt she’d had to make a thousand of these calls the past few days, “They said it was quick, and Lila went fast so she wasn’t in any pain- and she was only in the ambulance for ten minutes before her heart stopped so she wasn’t hurting long either-” 

But he put the phone down, his eyes wide, his body numb, his chest empty and lonely. 

Because the very last bit of good in him was gone; because everything he touched was cursed and tainted from the offset. 

It took what felt like twenty cups of whiskey for him to black out that night, he knew sleep would evade him, he knew not to even bother trying. And Jake Lockely woke up for him, something mean and hateful in the black of his eyes. 

He didn’t care who, but someone was going to pay for his cielo being taken from them. 

[skepwith]

More Parts of the Revenge for OFMD Fans

Part of a series: Revenge Master Post.

This post is about stuff in the body of the ship, going more or less from top to bottom. I’m saving the sails and rigging for my next post. If you want to know more basic terms like fore and aft and bow and stern, look for “Parts of the Revenge” in my master post.

Obviously, using these terms is entirely optional, since David Jenkins et al. are free and easy with the ol' historical accuracy. This list is for pedants like me and people who like historical and specialized language. Enjoy!

Main Deck

The low “walls” on the sides of the open decks were called the bulwarks—they were to keep people from falling overboard. On the Revenge, the bulwarks are topped by a rail (railing).

A gap in the bulwark, together with a set of rungs on the hull, was called an entry port. It allowed people to climb aboard from a dinghy.

The top edge of the bulwark was the gunwale, pronounced gunnel. The expression “loaded to the gunwales” is still used to mean very full. The top edges of a dinghy are also called gunwales.

An opening in the deck is called a hatchway. I wrote about hatches a while ago, but what I didn’t realize was that the hatch is the part that covers the hatchway. The wooden grid that lets light and air through is called the grating.

In the bow, the curving rail that goes from the figurehead to the hull is called the head rail, which would’ve been really helpful to know for my toilet post. Oh well.

Stede’s journal could at a stretch be called a logbook (or log). This was a book in which an officer noted details of the ship’s daily progress and journey. Probably a bit less fanciful than Stede’s version.

Weaponry

The Revenge has guns (the word used for cannons) on her main deck and her gun deck. Before a gun was fired, the barrel was cleared with the sponge, then loaded with gunpowder and shot and wads of cloth, all of which was tamped down with the rammer. There were different types of shot, or ammunition; cannonballs were called round shot.

To fire a gun, a lit fuse (usually a slow match) was brought in contact with the vent at the top of the gun—called the touchhole—to ignite the gunpowder. (The wick added in OFMD isn’t accurate. Shocking, I know.) The slow match was usually held with a staff called a linstock, tucked into a notch on the end. You didn’t want to be right next to the cannon when it went off, because there was a non-zero chance it would misfire and explode in your face.

Despite what you see in movies, cannons didn’t produce a lot of fire and smoke; the cannonball did damage by going unstoppably through hulls, masts, and people—often many at a time—like a deadly Energizer bunny.

The gunpowder was kept in kegs in a small room called the powder magazine. (A magazine is an ammunition storage area.) This room was in the hull of the ship, below the water line, to minimize the chances of a stray spark sending the whole ship up in flames. The shot was kept in the shot-locker, a small room in the hold (though this word wasn’t recorded till 1805). As we know, Stede calls this the ball room.

Besides the regular cannons, the Revenge also has swivel guns, small cannons mounted on swivels. These were too small to damage another ship; they were there to fire at boarders and approaching boats. Or, you know, to set off fireworks.

To take an enemy ship, sailors might use a grapnel (or grappling hook). These were attached to a rope and thrown at enemy bulwarks or rigging so the ships could be pulled together for boarding.

The Gun Deck

Everything on a ship had to have a special name: stairs were always called ladders; the floor was called the deck; and a wall or partition inside the hull was called a bulkhead.

Some of you may know that a ship’s kitchen is called a galley. However, this usage wasn’t recorded until 1750; the earlier word was cook-room.

Likewise, the mess is where you eat on a ship, but this sense wasn’t recorded until the late 1800s. In OFMD’s time, mess meant “a group of people who eat together,” like officers of the same rank or sailors on the same watch.

You might know a berth as a shelf or box to sleep on, like Stede’s (and Ed’s) bed, but this usage wasn’t recorded until the 1790s. The earlier meaning, used from at least 1706, is “a room where a particular group (such as officers or midshipmen) eats and sleeps.” So you might call Jim’s room a berth—except that it changes hands, and its name has been firmly established as the Room.

A berth is also a place in a port or harbour where you can moor (park) a vessel, and thirdly, the safety margin around another vessel or object, which gives us the phrase “to give [it] a wide berth.”

Finally, the area where the animals (remember them?) were kept was a small triangular area in the bow called the manger. This seems to be where the Revenge’s en suite is, at least as far as I can figure, but if you want to include the animals for whatever reason, they’d probably live somewhere around there.

Storage

Some of the stuff on board was stored in casks, a.k.a. barrels. These could be any size, but a large cask was also called a butt. A scuttlebutt was a butt full of water attached to the deck for sailors to drink from. Unfortunately, the word wasn’t recorded before 1800, and the “gossip” meaning not till a century after that. But it’s a great word and you should use it anyway.

A keg was a small cask, usually less than ten gallons, used for things like gunpowder or rum.

A sea chest was a wooden box used to store an officer’s personal effects—or to confine a nosy hombrecito.

The Ship’s Bottom

(As it were.)

In several of my posts and diagrams I said the lower decks of the Revenge were the gun deck, the orlop, and the hold. But my friends, I made a grievous error: the Revenge has no orlop. I know!

In season 2, for the first time we get to see what’s below the gun deck. When Frenchie opens the secret passage in the kitchen, he reveals a set of stairs—sorry, a ladder—down to a grim, damp space. The kitchen is on the gun deck, so this is the deck immediately below it, and while on most ships that would’ve been the orlop, in this case it’s the hold.

The hold was the lowest compartment of the ship, used for storage and cargo. It also sometimes held the ballast—heavy stuff (e.g., pig iron, gravel, stones, lead) put there to improve the ship’s balance. The lowest part of the hold itself was called the bilge or bilges—the area where bilgewater collected and had to be pumped out.

Episode 3 shows the water on the floor—sorry, deck—making it pretty clear we’re in the bilges of the hold. On top of that, an Instagram post by crewmember Will Giles (shared on Tumblr by @ourflagmeansbts) mentioned repurposing the “bilge set.”

Which all proves that the Revenge’s hold is immediately below the gun deck, with no orlop in between.

The keel is the structural piece that runs lengthwise along the middle of the hull’s bottom. Keel-hauling was to drag someone along the outside of the keel, underwater, as a punishment—very nasty, often fatal.

Also underwater, at the stern, is the rudder, whose movement makes the ship turn. On a dinghy you steer by moving the tiller, a horizontal bar attached to the rudder post. On a ship like the Revenge, you turn the ship’s wheel, which is attached to the tiller via cables, and that moves the rudder.

That’s all for now! Coming next: sails and rigging, in port, and more sailing lingo.

Sources: Wikipedia, historicnavalfiction [dot] com, Oxford English Dictionary

[anbubros]

Lose my breath - KakashiXReader

[So, this is a bit of an experiment for me… I’ve seen a few mentions of a lack of Kakashi/KakashiXReader fics in tags recently and (despite not having written anything publicly for a long~ time) I thought I would try my hand at putting something together.

If you give it a read, enjoy it and would be interested in more then interact and let me know – maybe I’ll see about writing the idea out from the beginning as a longer, multi-chapter piece!]

Context:

Set during the Naruto & Naruto Shippuden 2.5 year time skip, Kakashi has been told to remain on standby, as word has reached Tsunade, that Naruto and Jiriya are due back to the village within three days.

For the past year, reader has been living in the Hatake family home.

Caught in a freak electrical storm, reader was catapulted into the Naruto verse, with a sense of self, but with only the memory of their name and the knowledge that their dog is missing.

Having found said dog on his return to the village, after a mission, Kakashi is tasked with monitoring reader when she is released from hospital. On examination, Tsunade is confused at the discovery that reader possesses a chakra network that has never been activated and appears to somehow be dormant.

When reader becomes overwhelmed and panicked at the hustle and bustle of Konoha, as well as the prospect of living (in what feels like a confined box), at the apartment complex which serves as the Jonin barracks. Kakashi invites reader to stay at his family home while she recovers.

In this chapter – some angst and heated emotions, with a sprinkling of passionate kisses~

Word count - 2497

His lids felt heavy as the strange, dancing shadows of dreams drifted and Kakashi returned to the waking world. For a moment he simply lay there, an arm languishing across his forehead and his silver locks tousled against the pillow. When had he fallen asleep? His other hand lay folded between pages of his book, and he raised it absently to glance at the page number before letting the tome fall together on the floor beside his head.

It was something about this room, something about this place that brought back those dreams and the memories he tried so hard to bury within him. Yet the darkness of sleep had chased them to the forefront of his mind and his body felt heavy from the assault.

His red orb traced the walls of the room automatically for danger as he turned to look at the clock with open eyes. It was two in the morning and a full moon cast silver rays through the crack in the wooden sliding doors. He realized he must have been tossing violently in his sleep, having rolled from his mattress across the smooth tatami flooring.

A loud snuffling snore drew his attention to the corner of the room and as he sat up, pushing the sweat slicked hair from his face he noted the pile of dogs, cuddled against each other and taking up the space nearest the farthest door. Their presence was perhaps the only reason he could sleep at all in this place… As he turned to rise, his hand brushed against soft fur, a pug and spaniel curled up beside his bed, not waking as he ran a few fingers over their heads affectionately.

He moved with practiced stealth and silence, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders as he stepped over their bodies and slid open the door into the main living area. The Hatake family home was a traditional style building, with sliding partitions and polished wooden floors. Although he kept the house in good order and housed his dogs in the sprawling grounds, which backed onto woodland and fields, he had spent many years avoiding it completely.

Kakashi was immediately aware of the open door, leading to the pretty little garden where she stood, cast in pure moonlight. Her hands, curled around each other were clasped behind her back and her head tipped up.

What was she doing up at this hour… Had his dreaming woken her?

He slid the door shut behind him without making a sound, feet effortlessly moving across the solid floors until he stood in the doorway, raising his own eyes to the sky above where a nebula of unbroken sky glittered above them.

He slid his hands into his pockets, his stance casual. She appeared totally unaware of his presence and despite himself, he smiled. Her breathing was quiet, soft and as Kakashi lowered his gaze from the sky, let it trace her figure, outlined as it was in the soft glow of the full moon above them.

Her hair fell in waves down her back, but he noted the slight tangle on one side, where she had obviously been sleeping, a somewhat adorable cow lick of hair, sticking up at the back.

Kakashi allowed his body to relax, just enough, so that his presence could be sensed and in the same moment she spun around.

It took a single moment for his breath to catch, losing it as he always did when she smiled. The movement lit up her entire face, shining with an ethereal glow that transformed her from lovely to utterly beautiful. It was as captivating now as it had been almost a year before when he had seen it that very first time.

As their eyes met, his heart almost stopped, and warmth radiated through his entire body. The hands in his pockets curled into fists to hide the tremble. Beneath his mask he licked his lips, dry as they were from the power she had over him, it hit like a wave.

They held each other’s gaze for several long heartbeats before Kakashi realized she had been crying and his own chest tightened, unable to draw his gaze away. When he made no motion to move towards her, she took it upon herself to turn fully and bridge the space between them.

Each step closer made his heartbeat harder, louder and by the time she stood before him, he was sure it could have burst through his chest and lay at her feet, betraying him.

The air around them shifted and this close he could feel the heat from her skin as she slipped off her shoes and stepped up onto the veranda, which wrapped around the entire building. He fought the urge to take a step back, to run as an inexplicable fear beat at his temples.

In the stillness of this shared moment, something had changed. Something between them shifting, realigning itself, and he was powerless to stop it.

He didn’t stop her hands as, eyes still on his, she lifted them to curl against the dark fabric of his mask and with gentle fingers, roll it down against his skin until his face was free. He gulped against his dry throat, forcing a shuddering breath through teeth, revealed before her for the first time.

He didn’t stop her still, as she ran her hand gently across his exposed flesh, in a gesture that had his spine tingle, his body tremble.

He didn’t stop her, as she leant up on her toes. Hesitant at first, as her hands pressed against his chest and with a flutter of lashes, eyes closed, pressed a feather light kiss to his bare lips.

Something new swam within his mind, a flush of heat from her touch flamed down his spine.

Was he still dreaming…?

The touch was like electricity as it coursed and sparkled through his body, igniting a fire so bright that the cage in which he had barred his feelings seared beneath his skin, red hot like a brand of truth.

All his restrain fell away as she pulled back, his hand lifting from his side to snake through her hair and clasp gently at the base of her scalp. He paused only for a moment as his eyes, heavily lidded, searched hers for approval. He didn’t need to wait for her answer to know it, pulling her back to his lips.

Gentle at first, he deepened the kiss slowly, tasting and exploring as their lips met. Soft, feather light kisses to chase the long, heated caresses. Lips parting, he probed his tongue in search of hers, roving and twirling over the muscle and pulling away just enough to press their lips together again. His sharp, canine-like teeth nipped at her lips as he tilted his head, guiding her single handedly to keep her in place.

As they finally pulled away, both breathing in hard shuddering breaths, cheeks flushed and eyes hungry, Y/N found her voice in a shuddering whisper, the sentiment taking him by surprise. “I don’t want this to be the end… I don’t want this to stop…”

“This?” Kakashi queried, his voice husky with disuse and sleep.

“Us…!” Y/N blushed hotly with exasperation. “You’ve… become my home… Kakashi… I can’t imagine being here in this place, not without you…”

Kakashi leant forward, their foreheads touching as he pressed against her. This close he could feel the warmth radiating from her body and longed to encase her in his own, the bristle of his skin as they touched and her scent, soft and sweet, warm with sleep, enflamed his blood.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you like this, from the moment I first saw you smile…” he finally admits, his voice low and raw.

She seemed taken aback by his words, her eyes snapping wide in surprise “But… but you never-“

Her words were cut off as Kakashi straightened, letting his hand drop from her neck, his gaze became guarded, cast with a dark distance, unreadable. He thread dexterous hands through the hair which tumbled freely over her shoulder, and his head tilted in thought as he played the strands absently between his fingers.

As Kakashi began to speak, Y/N found herself enraptured by his beauty. The angles of his face, the strength of his jaw, the glint of those elongated canines when he spoke, the mole, somehow soft and adorable in contrast, at the corner of his hard, yet seductively curving mouth. Despite living together like this, for almost a year, this was the first time she had seen his face, and he was beautiful, that’s all there was to it.

“There’s so much you don’t know…” his red eye closed as he spoke, his voice wavering ever so slightly as he forced the words from his lips. “I couldn’t allow myself the selfishness, I shouldn’t have, just now-”

“Do you mean… Obito and Rin…?” she dropped her gaze as she spoke, “Or is this about… Sasuke?” a glittering of tears trembled in Y/N’s eyes as she gently gripped at the front of his skintight, sleeveless tunic. The pads of her fingers curled against the solid muscle of his chest as though if she tried hard enough, she could rip away the armor that kept him so at arm’s length.

Kakashi raised his hand to her cheek, the back of his fingers tracing the curve where a single tear dripped.

“It’s not just that…” His voice seemed loud in her ears despite the hushed tone, the world had gone still around them. “You became my escape, a distraction… and there were even times with you, I could forget.” He swallowed and took a shallow breath. “But this world, this way of life – it’s not what you think, I’m not what you think and there is still so much more I have to do. Too many promises I need to keep.”

Y/N began to tremble, her body vibrating in waves as she fought to hold back the torrent of tears and Kakashi dropped his hand to his side. “Simply living it, as I must, I would hurt you. It would hurt you… The life of a Shinobi is not only hard on those who walk it, but their-“ he hesitated on the word, catching in his throat. “Their loved ones… as well…” he attempted to clear his throat before continuing. “Your smile is so precious Y/N.” his voice cracked this time as he spoke her name, forcing him to pause, swallowing hard this time as he continued. He fought to keep composure, his fingers, curled within his pocket, dug deep bloodied welts into his palms. “I won’t be the reason you lose it…”

“Then don’t leave me!” Y/N’s voice broke with desperation as she snapped her head up at his words, her bottom lip trembling.

Kakashi winced, narrowing his eyes at the sight, his chest constricting, making it hard for him to breathe.

“Kakashi…. In this world- It’s you… you’re the reason I smile…. That I can smile…” She took a shuddering breath of her own and shook her head as though she couldn’t believe what he was suggesting. “I was so lost in the beginning… I knew nothing, about this place, about myself… But you made me want to keep going, you made me want to get stronger, to understand… to do better… so please… Please don’t go, stay with me… Kakashi…”

Kakashi’s heavy lidded eyes trembled with anguish as he heard her words, head bowed, silver tresses falling across his forehead and into his eyes.

“Don’t you understand…” his voice was barely a whisper, though his tone felt distant like it was withdrawing in on itself. “I say this to you…. Because-” once more, the words stalled on his lips, lowering his head until he was resting his forehead against her shoulder. He turned his head just enough to breathe her in, the scent that had become home to him.

“I have to do this…” he breathed; unable to look at her, not wanting to show his face as his lips brushed so close to her ear it was hardly even a whisper. “Because I love you….”

At his admission, Y/N’s world shattered. Her face broke, unable to hold back the tears which rolled freely from her eyes. She raised both arms and wrapped them around his neck as though if she let go, he would slip away from her, back into the shadows forever…

“Three days!” she managed to sob between breaths. “You s-said you were on s-standby…. You s-said about three days…. Give them to m-me…. Give m-me those three days…” she curled her hands into his hair, though despite the desperation of the gesture her fingers were gentle and tender as she held his head.

Kakashi raised a hand to snake around her back as together they dropped slowly from where they stood and onto their knees.

Y/N slid her body closer, arching her back forward so to press against him and felt Kakashi jolt at the contact.

Relaxing into her touch, pressing his body into her own, he released a heated shudder. He raised a second hand, grazing his fingers along her arm, gently taking hold of her wrist and unfurling her hand from his hair, letting him raise his head to investigate her face. He held her hand within his large, rough palm, completely encasing her digits with a sense of security nothing else could replicate.

As their eyes met, she could see the war that raged within him at her offer, her desperation. She searched his face the hand that gripped at his neck, scared to let him go, slipped to his cheek. Her fingers dusting the sharp contours of his cheekbones, feeling the tension in his jaw as he grit his teeth, trying desperately to maintain control.

Rising on her knees to bring their faces together, Y/N kept his gaze, leaning in close to bring her lips once more to his.

As their lips brushed, the hunger within Kakashi roared for supremacy and when she moved to break the kiss, was pulled back in with tormented misery. A hand travelled the contour of her spine as she arched once more into his chest, holding her body possessively, thoughts of letting her go in this moment became unthinkable.

With a nip to her lip that broke skin, he ran a tongue across the wound. His breath was hot against her skin, feral desire in his eyes that made her skin heat dramatically.

“Three days….” He breathed, reclaiming the kiss and with clever, effortless movements shifted her body, laying her back against the wooden deck, supporting his own weight above her.

“Three days….” Y/N echoed in agreement as he broke the kiss to follow the line of her jaw, soft lips finding the hollow of her neck.

For now, he would allow himself this… These three days, which would be their last goodbye.

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[urdreamgirls-dreamgirl]

Steve looks up when there’s a knock on his cubicle wall. Robin stands on the other side, leaning over the flimsy partition that gives the busy office floor the illusion of privacy.

“Hey, Steve, wanna get lunch?” She asks him.

“Yeah, let me finish this,” Steve says before turning back to his computer screen to save his notes from fashion week. He can’t help but sigh as he looks at the endless lists of what celebrity wore which brands and who sat front row at each show.

He and Robin make their way downstairs to the cafeteria, where they head to the end of the long line. The lunch room was always packed at this time of day. Steve thinks for the thousandth time that they should plan their breaks better, maybe for a time when the entire building wasn’t battling a sudden salad bar craving.

After about twenty minutes and several sharp elbows to the ribs at the refrigerator where the pudding cups are kept, they make their way to the only open table with their sad, wilted-looking lettuce. Steve stares down at his plate, stomach rumbling, before Robin catches his attention.

“Ready for the pitch meeting?” Her brows are furrowed, anxiety written across her face.

“I mean, yeah.” Steve shrugs his shoulders. “Not much to pitch. I’m just gonna get that lame premiere assignment anyway.” His voice comes out an irritated grumble.

“What about that story about the teachers’ strikes you wanted to pitch? The teachers organizing across districts?” The furrow in her brow deepens.

“Face it, Robin,” Steve sighs. “If we want to write what we really want to write, we’re not gonna do it here. Best to get these few years under out belt and do what we’re told, so we can get a good reference for a publication that actually cares about the things we care about.”

Robin looks down at her own plate, moves her fork around her pile of browned lettuce and ranch dressing. “Well, I’m pitching my rail nationalization story. Imagine what this country could do with a high speed rail system organized by the state. It would be a game changer!” She sounds excited about her pitch and Steve wonders if that’s the way he used to sound, too, before he’d been relegated to “Who Wore It Better”s and celebrity advice columns.

As Steve’s contemplating his entire career trajectory, Nancy makes her way over to them with a tray in her white-knuckled grip. Steve would never say it to her face, but he thought it was only a matter of time before she popped a blood vessel because of the cafeteria line.

“I fucking hate this place,” Nancy practically snarls as she slams her tray down on the table between them. She takes a chair from the neighboring table without even asking before sitting and hanging her crossbody bag on the back. She glances at Steve’s tray. “You got a pudding cup?” Steve says nothing as he moves the pudding cup further from Nancy’s reach. She rolls her eyes.

“We were just talking about the pitch meeting,” Robin tells her. “I’m really gonna pitch the railway story. This is important stuff, Nance, we should be publishing it.”

Nancy takes a sip from her orange juice before responding. “I don’t disagree, Robin, but Erica will never go for it. You know those serious pieces are reserved for Terry, Patrick, and Elaine.”

“Terry, Patrick, and Elaine are practically geriatric,” Robin rolls her eyes. “The magazine needs fresh new voices. Erica understands that. I’m pretty sure it was her who said that at last month’s meeting.”

“Well, good luck,” Nancy says, twirling her fork in her pasta. Steve’s not even sure what sort of sauce the pasta’s supposed to have. He grimaces.

“Thank you,” Robin grins, choosing to ignore Nancy’s sarcasm.

~*~

Steve, Robin, and Nancy sit side-by-side in the conference room as they wait for their editor, Erica, to finish the phone call she’d taken in her office. They were surrounded by their coworkers--photographers, stylists, journalists--and there was a massive pile of donuts in the center of the huge polished wooden table. Steve’s fingers itched to reach for one, but the last time he’d eaten a donut at one of these meetings, he’d gotten a huge glob of strawberry jelly on his slacks. He’d had to beg to borrow a pair of pants from the fashion closet so he could go do an interview without a massive red stain on his leg later that day.

Everyone looks up when Erica enters the room. She always looked to Steve like she floated around the place, somehow both intimidating and approachable all at once. Steve’s palms were always sweaty whenever he had to have a one-on-one conversation with her.

The meeting starts and Erica directs the conversation around the room, hearing pitch after pitch for the next few editions of the magazine. Steve’s head is starting to bobble as he listened to the stylists pitch five different fashion spreads. He’s startled from a daydream when Erica says, “Alright, what do you three have for me?” from the end of the table.

Robin looks at Steve and Nancy before she speaks. “Well, uh. I had this thought that we could, uh, maybe do a piece, like, an article, you know? With, uh, interviews and first-person accounts and statistics and all that stuff--”

“Right, I know what an article is, Robin,” Erica says firmly, but not unfriendly.

“Right, Robin swallows, squirming. “Sorry. Um. Well, there’s been a lot of talk recently about the railway workers unionizing and the derailments and how corporations are going about handling these issues.” Steve notices how Robin’s voice starts to sound much stronger when she really gets in to her pitch. “And there’s a renewed interest online and in DC in a potential nationalization of the railway system in America and I think that could be a really worthwhile and interesting story for our readers.”

Erica looks at Robin for a long moment, thinking. Steve holds his breath, waiting for Erica to speak.

“I like it,” she finally says, a slow smile spreading across her face. “We’ll talk to residents where the derailments occurred, doctors and scientists, state representatives, workers, officials. It could even be a serial piece.”

“Wow, really?” Robin’s eyes brighten.

“Yeah, really,” Erica smiles again, before turning to her right. “Terry, what do you think? Can you handle that?” Steve sees Robin’s face fall out of the corner of his eye. Terry responds in the affirmative, before Steve cuts off the conversation that they’re having about Robin’s story.

“I have a pitch,” Steve says, voice loud in his own ears. His hands shake in his lap.

“Really, Harrington?” Erica asks, eyebrows shooting up in surprise as she turns to look at him.

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “About the teachers’ strikes and how they’re organizing across districts in the city.”

Erica looks at him, like she’d looked at Robin. Her eyes shift back and forth between the two of them.

“That’s not a bad story,” she tells him. She pauses again, looking at Steve for another long moment before continuing. “Listen, I see what’s happening here. You want a chance at more serious stories. But you’ve both been here only a year. I need to know that you can write more than an analysis of what Selena Gomez was wearing when Justin Bieber broke up with her.” She looks at them and she looks so far away from where Steve is sitting. He feels like his vision has taken on a fish-eye lens, distorting at the edges, making everyone look tiny. “So, here’s what we’ll do. I was just on the phone with Corroded Coffin’s PR. Apparently the band is coming out of retirement and they’re announcing a new album and a new tour kicking off in March. They’ve asked us to publish something about the band, with full and complete access to recording studios, one-on-one interviews with each member, and live shows before the tour starts. We’re doing a whole issue on the resurgence of grunge and metal style from the eighties and nineties for it. I’ll let you, Buckley, and Wheeler have the central article. If you can get me some new, interesting, and relevant information on the band’s personal lives, I’ll let you start writing more serious pieces for the magazine.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise as the blood rushes in his ears. He hadn’t expected that to actually work. Plus, the Corroded Coffin article itself was a huge deal. Nancy’s saying yes on everyone’s behalf before Steve can even really wrap his mind around the offer.

~*~

After the meeting, Steve sits at his desk doing a cursory Google search of Corroded Coffin. He wasn’t the biggest metal fan and the closest he’d ever come to really giving the genre a try was adding a few Nirvana songs to his workout playlist.

He’s scrolling through the search results when he realizes that there’s a significant lack of interviews, even though the band has been active for almost a decade. Most of the articles were descriptions of the lead singer’s rather outlandish public stunts.

“Hey, Rob?” He calls out over the partition that separates their cubicles.

“Yeah?” She responds. Steve doesn’t like when he can’t see her while they’re talking, so he rolls his eyes and pulls himself from the chair to look over their shared wall.

“Have you noticed that there’s, like, no interviews with the band?”

She looks up from her computer screen. “There’s a few,” she says, sighing. “On the second page of Google. But there’s none with Munson.” Robin throws herself against the back of his chair. “A few of the articles say he’s ‘notoriously private.’” She rolls her eyes as she puts air quotes around the last two words.

Steve stomach drops. This was supposed to be an easy article. Full access usually meant a lot more intimacy between the journalist and the subject, but Steve knew first hand how hard it was to get a cagey and jaded celebrity to talk, even when the request for the interview came from their own camp. Sometimes especially when the request came from their camp.

“Is this going to be harder than we thought?” Steve asks, brow furrowing in concern. “”What are we going to do?”

Robin smirks. “We’ll just have to get creative.”

part one part two

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[16woodsequ]

Sunday Steve - Day Twelve

Things that would be new or unfamiliar to Steve in the 21st century, either due to the time period he grew up in, or his social-economic status and other such factors.

Day Twelve: Soap

One day I was looking at a bottle of dishsoap and I wondered, would Steve have used this? So I looked it up. Liquid soap was patented in 1865 but "despite its popularity throughout the early to middle 1900’s, it wasn’t until 1980 that liquid soap became mass-produced for domestic use." (Link)

From what I've found liquid soap was not that commonly used. There were liquid shampoos in the 20s but many people used shampoo powder or liquified grated soap bars.

It's the same for other soap. Laundry soap and dishsoap came in powders and soap bars. Below you can see a box of soap flakes shown to be used for both laundry and dishes.

Soap flakes sold for 10 cents circa 1929

Here are some more laundry soap options we covered in the laundry post.

Laundry soap options in 1927. They included purchasing flakes, chips, or powder; liquifying your soap ahead of time(right); and (left) grating your own laundry soap from a bar. Fels Naptha soap, which came in a big bar, was rubbed on difficult stains and rings around the collar. (Link)

Liquidizing the soap entails taking soap shavings and dissolving it into boiling water. The liquid would then be poured into laundry water to be used. If left over night the soap re-solidifies.

For dishes another option besides powders or flakes is a soap shaker. This blog discusses early 20th century dishwashing, showing things like soap shakers and dish scrapers. Looks like one could use a soap shaker to more easily get suds from a bar of soap.

Modern soap shaker reproduction (Link).

But what about public bathrooms?

Most public bathrooms nowadays use liquid soap, and if liquid soap wasn't so common, what did they use?

It's possible some bathrooms used bars of soap it's not very easy to find information about that online. What I can find that is soap dispensers that dispensed powdered soap!

There's this one that had a crank to push the soap forward to an opening. Another type of seemed to have a lever/button press to dispense soap. Some styles shave off soap bars inside the canister as well.

I've never experienced these types of dispensers but looking online a lot of people seem to remember them growing up.

1940s era bathroom experienced in the 70s:

They were very simple -- white plaster walls with a wooden partition painted dark green, a painted concrete floor, and a plain white wall-mounted toilet. The sinks had cold water only, and over each sink was mounted a metal Boraxo dispenser -- Boraxo was a dry, gritty, powdered soap, and the dispenser was a sort of mechanical sifter with a lever that hung down below. You'd bang on the lever and a small amount of the powder would sift out. The towel dispensers gave out rough folded-red-paper towels

Circa 1936 powdered soap dispenser with crank handle. Note is says "pure dry cake soap ground into powder as you use it without any waste". So this dispenser seems to ground soap cakes (bars) into powder itself.

The video below is an example of push button powdered soap dispenser. Some dispensers have labels suggested to wet the hand first before using the soap. (37 sec video).

I have also seen people talk about soap leaves being available in women's bathrooms. The soap leaf booklets could also be carried around in a purse and used by the owner at their convenience.

You can see in this accessory pack that at least some soldiers were provided with soap leaf packets to use during World War Two.

In conclusion

It is unlikely Steve would be used to using liquid soap. From what I could find liquid soap, and especially the liquid hand soap dispensers, were not popular until the 80s (this seems to be partially because of the difficulty of developing a pump soap dispenser for liquid soap, so that would also be new for him.) I think the prevalence of liquid soap would surprise him as soap is so basic you don't really expect it to change but basically the whole experience of soap has changed for him.

Also, fun fact! Soap operas are called that because when they rose to popularity in the 20-30s they were regularly sponsored by soap companies!