#it really does change your way of putting lines on paper

[black-leather-sketchbook]

Everyone and their mother is raging about sketching with a pen instead of a pencil. So I gave it a go. And oh boy, look at the difference between page 1 and 4!

[yeyinde]

when your need grows teeth | John Price x f!Reader

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than let it go. It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog.  Of course he's going to take a bite.  He thinks you ought to have known this by now. 

SMUT 18+ | gratuitous smut; HEAVY breeding kink, breeding; Dom!John Price; p-in-v sex, unsafe sex; rough sex; mentions of spanking; mutual manipulation; this is roughly 10k of John Plotting and fucking you; John is: unhinged, obsessive, possessive, and Scheming. mentions of birth control tampering but nothing is followed through. No. He’s going to knock you up the old-fashioned way—by making you beg for it.

AO3 MIRROR

John has always had this desire—this awful, instinctual drive in the back of his head to knock someone up. Get them fat, swollen with his child. His. 

And maybe that's the crux of it. Possession. To have something of the most rooted kind. To irrevocably change someone—their anatomy, their body, the chemistry in their brain, their status in life from them (single no dependents) to mother (mother of his child), their very atoms—and create life from the combined parts. 

It's this almost fantastical beast, this unreachable dream for him. 

It's his Shangri-la. His castle in Spain. 

He's not under any disillusionment that this idea of fatherhood, of parenthood, is slightly skewed. That most men who want children don't feel this overwhelmingly greedy desire to fundamentally alter someone in such an irreversible way. It's not quite ownership, but it's the same ilk. A bastardised, unwanted child of it. 

And it's not just this idea of claimation—to forever be the father of their child, even if neither of them stays together; a piece of him will always be there, parasitic, no matter what—but something deeper. Something a bit less—egregious. 

This is, and always has been, about yearning. 

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than to let it go. 

Marriage, he finds, is breakable. Divorce, separation. He's always on his worst behaviour in the initial stages of dating, so it's never something he has to entertain since no one ever sticks around long enough for it to be on the table, much less the menu, but the idea of it—of signing papers, of hashing out the split, of being known as ex-husband—leaves a bitter tang between his teeth. It won't do. He needs permanence. Perpetuity. 

Nothing says forever quite like a child, does it? 

And sure—he’s aware that countermeasures exist: custody orders, sole custody, shared; allotted visitations; divisional lines in this new age that keep the parents from ever interacting—but while you can get divorced, you can't unmake a child, can you?

The child would never write him out, either. 

Where deadbeats exist, it's important to note that their counterparts do, too. The ones like him who will gouge their eyes out of their skulls before they ever let what happened to them growing up trickle down and impact their child, polluting the pool. 

Simply put: John Price knows he'd be the best dad there is because he's stubborn that way. 

It helps, he supposes, that he really only has so much love to give out to the world, and greedily, he stashed the entirety of it away in a box to give to his would-be wife and their child. An overwhelming deluge that promises happiness should it ever be unlocked. Pandora's box, perhaps—down to the very essence because if John Price were to ever love someone, then it's probably in their best interest to run from it, this gaping, needy chasm. 

Not that it would ever be a possibility, of course—he’s much too good at compartmentalisation, in taking out his anger, his viciousness, on the ugly world he drenches himself in, the one his hands have a tangible cause and effect principle in place that will forever feed that starving beast inside of him.

Ergo—he’s a staunch supporter of the theory: happy wife, happy life. Though where those men think in a box stuffed full of emotional intimacy, flowers, chocolate, maintaining love, all-consuming and enduring, he takes it to extremes that would have them cowering a little bit. Maybe a lot.  

But that's fine. He only has to make sure his family is happy. No one else matters, save a select few who have a seat at his table during Sunday dinners. 

The rest, though? Spare parts. 

(The ice-cold resolve in those two words is apodictic, brass bound, and he's sure if his higher-ups knew about it, well—

His chest candy would be a hole in the ground. Put the rabid dog down before it has a chance to bite.)

But that all-consuming, devouring, obsessive love he has to give, that begs to be let free, is the reason why it's so tightly leashed. Locked up in a box. Untouchable. Inaccessible. 

It's why he isn't married. 

Ghost once asked him why the women he dated were older. Much older. Menopausal (always). And he'd said something to the effect of it being his type. Older women who wouldn't cower away from the acrid burn of him, who wouldn't hurt their delicate little hands on his gritty surface. 

But the real reason is because he knows better. 

He's a starving dog, and it's just bad form to dangle a piece of meat in front of it. Especially when the hand holding it is his own. 

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all. 

(The keen look in Ghost's eyes told him that, perhaps, the man already knew the reason when he asked, and was just satiating himself with kinship—the dark, awful look on Simon's ugly mug after the dredging the underbelly of Price’s rotten, mouldering mudfloor of things unsaid spoke volumes. 

They'd both nodded. Content, then. And promptly ordered a shot of whisky to drown the salivation, the hunger, from clogging their throats. Killing the urge to bite.

A pair of packless, stray dogs.)

But then he found you, and all his careful planning, all his distance, blew up in his face. 

It's always been on his mind since then. Lingering in his periphery—this fevered, tantalising vision of you, round and swollen with his child. 

It's unattainable, of course. A fantasy. 

Though, this—you throwing up in the washroom of his penthouse, undoubtedly knocked up by his machinations—is probably because he kept that desire too close to where he hides his questionable mortality, the one that allows him to throw innocent people to their deaths, and send mothers and fathers to an early grave just so he can rip his fists apart on their bastard offspring in his own brand of catharsis that always bites back when they grow up, hankering for revenge. 

He's always been good at snatching dreams out of the air, clenching them tight in his fists. Taming chimerical wants, whims, until they were docile, domesticated. Making realities out of fiction. 

And really—he’s just not a good man.

He thought you'd have known this by now.

He remembers the first time he growled the words into your ear as he came, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Desperate for it, he teased after, fingers fucking into your sloppy, leaking hole. Pushing his spend back into you. Half-drunk on the taste of you still clinging to his beard, but mostly just mesmerised by the sight of you—pretty pussy all ruined, swollen from the vicious, hateful pounding he gave it, and dipping with his cum like a faucet. 

(It pissed him off—still does, really—when you waste it like this.)

Gonna fill you up, he snarled, low and wrecked. Gonna make it take—

It was a fantasy. Still is. But the way it took root in the garden of your bedroom, like it belonged—native flora, he thinks, a touch mad with it—had something ugly, oil slick, rearing up from that untouchable place in his head. 

He could really blame you for it—and does. The way your ankles locked tight around his thighs, hands reaching, grabbing at his waist, clawing at his asscheeks to press him in deeper, deeper still, as he came inside of you, cock lodged right against your plug, had that untameable beast cocking its head in consideration after you danced too close to it, waking it from his long, restful slumber. 

You wanted it. Ached for it. He could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him, practically starving for it. Your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back into your head. Drool running down your chin. A litany of pleas spilled from your kiss-bruised lips, begging him for it. Please, John. Please. Please—

Who was he to deny you? 

Even if you made a big, flustered show of waving it off—not something I've ever imagined for myself, you know? and–and your lifestyle, what you do—is something like that even possible for us?—he saw how it curled around your shoulders, dipping its silver tongue into your ear. Germinating. 

He let it. Encouraged it. 

“Something to talk about later,” he indulged, reaching over for a cigar just to smother the urge to breed you stupid. To tie you to his bedposts and keep you full until your belly was swelling with more than just the absurd volume of his seed he pumped inside of you. 

And, oh—

The uneasy smile on your face reeked of disappointment. 

Fuck. Fuck—

John went to the washroom after that, heart pounding out of his chest, and jabbed the lit end of his cigar into his thigh to kill the fever in his veins. To rewrite the desperate, ugly howling in his head with pain instead. 

It worked. Works—

Until you came to him, all watery-eyed and worried, and told him to please, please stop falling asleep with a lit cigar because you think you might just go mad if you lost him to a cigarette fire. And doesn't he see how silly it is, these burns look so bad, John, and I worry—

His teeth ached. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. A dog holding back the instinct to bare its teeth. 

“Sure, love,” he'd said, and started taking out his anger on your cunt instead, fucking you deep, and stupid. Getting you all cockdrunk, and hungry for the dream that spoiled so badly in the back of his head, he's sure a proper man would call it a nightmare. “Anything you want.”

(Brassbound. Apodictic. You know that, he knows you know that, so imagine his surprise when you come to him, all soft and tender, and ask him to pick up your birth control as if he hadn't spent the better part of two years grumbling every fucking time you took it and wasn't on the verge of tossing the damn bottle out the window, and fucking you until it took—

But—you do know that, don't you? 

Well, then. Whatever his lady wants, right? Right.)

“Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way home tonight?”

He hums, fiddling with the belt of his slacks in front of the mirror. “Sure, love. You feelin’ sick?” 

“No,” you murmur, sliding behind him on your way to the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel tucked under your arms. “I need my refill. For birth control.” 

His hands still. A gnarled, rotted tendril curls over the edge of the cesspool, murky, ink black water splashing all over the place. “Oh, yeah? Still taking that, hm?”

You fluster. Hands waving, chock full of nervous, emotive energy you can't seem to shake off. “Well—yes. I mean, obviously.”

And he'd leave it there, let the spillage dry on the hot pavement, if you hadn't glanced back at him, all damp keenness, slightly skittish, and asked, feather-soft and utterly fragile, “right?” 

Right? A question, he notes. Not a statement. 

He licks his teeth. Tastes something rancid in the gaps. 

“Mm. I suppose so.” He leaves it vague, but drenches it in the heavy weight of his disappointment. Anchors dragging it down. You flit around the space like a house-locked bird, slamming into the walls and ceiling as you try—blind and panicked—to find an escape. Any escape. 

He finds the whole thing utterly charming. Especially when you realise he pitched himself in front of the only exit, thick, heavy hands curled around his belt, cock outlined against his slacks, already thickened, drooling in his pants. 

There's gasp—wet, and sharp—as you take him in. The liquid of his eyes as his want bleeds out of his skull. The flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his cock at the mere mention of you not taking your silly little pills. 

John lets it sit for a moment, taking in greedy lungfuls of your unease as you glance everywhere but at him, as if looking in his direction, breathing in this toxic miasma will give you a contact high. Infectious. Gnarled. 

The little seed that started germinating blooms. 

He fights back the urge to grin, all teeth. Madness staining them black. 

“It's—it’s on—” and fuck, he's never seen you so unsure before, this nervous. You handle him like a wrangler, wrassling his brutish dominance until it's putty in your hands, splitting his head into pieces and galvanising the madness inside until it's scripture for you to peek at whenever you need guidance, insight into him, his essence, his being. 

Your dyadic has always been built on permeance. 

John doesn't think there's a single person alive who understands him as much as you do. The only person who seems content to gorge yourself on his rotted marrow like it was a delicacy. 

Seeing you like this rents his resolve in two. 

“It's the pharmacy near the, uh, the school. The kindergarten.” 

He chokes on a groan, and thinks he tears something in his throat with the strain of keeping it down. There's blood, ash, in the back of his throat.

“Alright, love. I'll pick it up.” 

You smell it, and shiver. 

It's giving meat to a starving dog, and saying, dog, don't take a bite. 

And so, of course he does. 

John picks up your prescription, tossing it in the passenger seat like it personally offended him. And it has. Does. It's what's standing in the way between what he wants, what he craves, and there's a distinct thrum of irritation welling inside of him. One that started when he had to bark out your name at the counter earlier, and the pharmacist looked at him, and calmly, kindly, explained what it was he was picking up. 

Make sure she takes them once a day. Preferably at the same time. This brand of oral contraceptive can be taken with or without food—

Fuck off, he thought—thinks, even now, glowering into the tinted window of the pharmacy. 

He grips the steering wheel tight until his scarred knuckles bleach white under the strain, and sits in the parking lot, staring, unseeingly, at the shops. Pensive. Thoughtful. It gnarls over his expression until he's the picture of that grizzly-like intensity you often accuse him of. All furrowed brows and a pinched, angry twist to his lips. 

There's a series of complex equations running laps in his head. He's no stranger to this process, needing to make life or death decisions in less time it takes someone to snap their fingers, or tentatively stammer out his title. 

This one is more linear than the rest. One plus one, so to speak. But the weight of it is profound. Heavier, even, than deciding between the success of his mission and the life of an innocent bystander. 

(But he thinks he's just selfish like that.)

In his head, he debates the ethics of replacing all of these silly little tablets that stand in his way with sugar pills. 

It would be the quickest path to the end, but the risk-reward ratio ebbs and flows the more he considers things without the miasmic influence of that abomination throwing itself at the walls of its enclosure, howling in an endless cacophony of do it, do itdoit—

A better man wouldn't even have such a temptation. He supposes that's what you deserve, but he already had this particular crisis a few months after he met you, and realised that the things he wanted to do to you would undoubtedly put him on a list. Slapped so hard with a restraining order, his ears would still be buzzing. 

That something about you made his jowls twinge, and his teeth ache, and no amount of stay away from her, Price; she deserves better than you was going to keep his dirty hands from curling around your throat, leaving soot-stains on your skin in the shape of his fingerprints. Brandishing ownership in burst blood vessels; a pretty collar for you to wear because as much as you like to pretend otherwise—

You're a dog just like him. 

In any case, he's the best choice for you. The only one who'd burn the world just to keep you warm, and that's what you really need. Protection. 

And fuck—you toy with that particular urge that has always been etched in fine lines within the walls of bones; dipping your fingers into it, and spreading it over the apples of your cheek. Everything about you prickles along his hindbrain. Renders him from a modern man with modern ideals to an animal who can only speak in growls, snarls; pure primalism, all instinct. 

You're made for each other down to the bone. He's sure he could split your head apart and find that your cranial sutures are perfectly mirrored. Made in the same image: you were grown from his missing rib, and he always meant to be cradled in the brackets of your thighs. 

So, crisis of worthiness aside—because there are none, not anymore—he plots. Plans. Schemes. But his machinations keep catching on the soft fibrils of your wants. 

John doesn't know what he'd do if you changed your mind. 

(Or, rather, he does but that's another madness to unravel with his personal therapist.)

It's with this—the slight brandishing of his uncertainty in your certainty—that he gives up the idea, pocketing it for a later date, and drives home, back to you. 

He doesn't toss the bag on the counter, but sets it up perfectly, placing it as close to the edge where the bin sits under it. All it would take is a breath of wind for it to fall into the trash. 

That doesn't happen, though. You stare at the white, crinkled package for a moment as he sips on his tea, quietly contemplative. With your expression hidden from him, he has no idea what might be going through that pretty head of yours. Disappointment, he can only hope. And then you're reaching for it, fingers gripping the bag tightly in your fist. He hears the paper crumble. It sparks something inside his chest. A bloom of hope that you might just throw it out. Toss it in the bin—

You turn to him instead, knuckles white. 

“Thanks,” you say, and the matter is dropped. 

He goes to tuck that want back where it escaped, leaving slick trails of putrefying rot behind, but—

John peeks in the vanity later that evening, but where he expects to see the little rectangular package sitting in its usual spot between his aftershave and the mouthwash, he finds nothing. Just an empty spot on the ledge, spotlit by the lack of dust. A clean square of white paint, undisturbed. 

His jaw twinges. He wonders if you're hiding it from him, keeping it safe from his machinations, but then he finds it shoved in the drawer with his shaving kit, and the box of condoms he bought when you'd first started dating (for show, naturally—John had no intentions of using them and learned persuasion was your Achilles heel; that and you tended to get a little glossy-eyed whenever he growled filth in your ear, the smell of your cunt heavy on his breath). 

The package is crinkled like you squeezed it tight in your little fist before you tossed it in. 

You're always meticulous in the way you put things in their places. Even the junk drawer is organised, all neat. 

This speaks volumes, but he's not quite sure what it says. They are still here, though. Accessible. One is missing from the pack. It dampens his mood. 

He picks up his toothbrush, and runs through those calculations again to see how he can convince you to skip the one you're meant to take tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, and the next—

He stays awake as you sleep beside him, looking into how many days you can miss before your brand of birth control stops being effective. 

Seven pills in a row. 

He files it away, lost in thought. 

The next morning, he leaves his phone open on the bedside table with the article pulled up. He kisses you awake before he leaves to shower, humming something soft under his breath. 

When he returns, he finds you sitting up in bed with your knees drawn to your chest. There's something pensive about the look on your face. Paper soft, as though it would all blow away at a mere whisper. 

You regard him almost cooly but something raw, fractured splits over the ravine. A waterfall of midnight black sludge rains down. 

(He wonders if it tastes of the same rot, the same madness, as the basin of the untouched recesses of his head—)

“I'm working late tonight,” you murmur after a measured beat, and he can't place your tone. “Maybe we can watch a movie when I get home.” 

John nods, and your eyes drop, scaling down his bare, broad chest as he breathes in the flint staining the air. Your gaze is white-hot when it bludgeons into him, feverish. 

It doesn't take much beckoning at all to have him crawling toward you, towel ripped from his hips and thrown somewhere in the aether. 

As he steals the madness from your tongue, his eyes flicker to the phone still sitting on the table. It looks perfectly untouched. The screen is off. 

That, too, he files away. 

John comes to the succinct conclusion that the only means he has in his arsenal to get what he wants—legally, and somewhat morally, anyway—is persuasion. 

There's no recourse if he can water that burgeoning plant inside of you, make it seem like this is something you want, too. A family. With him. 

(Only him.)

He knows that you see things quite similarly to him. Wherein love is desire. Desire is hunger. And there's nothing more profound to you than to eat the person you love alive. Consumption of every part—the good, the beautiful, the bad, the ugly, and the rotted: skin, fat, muscles, blood, and bones. All of it. 

So, even if somewhere down the road you think you hate him for this, it'll be fine. He'll just consume that, too. 

John Price is a tenacious man. Stubborn. 

(Bullish, he hears around the barracks. Fuckin’ stubborn prick, too.)

It helps that this line of work is perfectly suited for such a peremptory drive to the finish line, no matter the cost. Utilitarian to a fault, despite his rather recalcitrant disposition. It's how he gets his way more often than not. Brutish dominance. Loutish suppression. 

But a near reckless, suicidal loyalty that attracts the sort of beasts this line of work needs. 

But that's work, not this. Not trying to convince you, his sugar-sweet (and viciously diabolical) lover, to bear the burden of giving him a family because society says it's uncouth (and illegal, morally reprehensible, villainous) for him to chain you to his bed to keep the darker parts of himself that want to rip into anyone who had the pleasure—pleasure that no longer belongs to them—of looking at you. 

That's all for him. 

(Nasty old bastard.) 

And, of course, because he's ready. Everything clicks. Locks into place. There's no one else out there for him. 

Really, though—it's your fault for prodding that beast in the first place. For letting inside your house, your bed. For thinking it could be tamed. And so. You should accept responsibility for it. 

(Nasty, nasty—)

But just as much as you know him, he knows you. You'll give him a litany of reasons why this shouldn't happen, and none of them will be because this isn't what you want. It'll be filled with reasons why you think he doesn't. 

And that simply won't do. 

So, he plots. Plans. 

The thing is. No one ever taught him how to hold things in his hands without crushing it. 

He doesn't think he can be delicate. Gentle. There's no way to gently nudge you into this. No. 

He'll convince you to yield the same way a tsunami convinces a house to move out of the way. 

Buried to the hilt in your cunt, he growls gospels into your ear about this beautiful Shangri-la, this sprawling castle he has in Spain until you're clenching down around him tight, conditioning your body to come at the thought of swelling with his child. About letting his seed take root, letting him knock you up. 

It's a crass image that he spits into your head—fuck you until it takes, love; breed this pretty cunt every day until you're fat and swollen—serves as the positive reinforcement to his classical conditioning. He'll turn you into one of Pavlov's mutts, salivating at the sound of him groaning into your ear as he fills your pussy up to the brim. He'll reshape you, change your wants until you only come around his cock when he's spitting his release against the plug of your womb. 

And when you make to get up, letting all his spend slip from your sloppy cunt to take your pill, he pulls you closer under the guise of wanting to feel your body on his, murmuring diabolical compromises he has no intention of letting you see through. 

“Later,” he rasps, pulling you closer. His mouth slots across your temple. “Just take it later, sweetheart. Later.”

“But—”

“It’ll be fine.” 

And, as if you'd been waiting for that reassurance, you melt into his hands, wet putty. 

(you take the bloody pill later, and he adds that to his mental calendar, adjusting the maths. He supposes he’ll just have to try harder next time.)

John's desire for you is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he schemes around his wandering hands, bullying into your messy cunt only moments before your alarm is meant to go off, reminding you to take your pill, reinforcing that irritating little wall that keeps his come from reaching your womb. 

It goes off, but he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears, the sweet, sweet litany of moans that slip out, staining the pillow with your pleasure. He just keeps fucking you through it, growling mindlessly into your ears about how badly he wants to come inside of you. His warnings, threats, about how close he is intertwining with your desperate begging for him to come, come inside me, John is the most beautiful harmonisation he'd ever heard, and it sews itself into his marrow, polluting the ugliness inside with a new, fresh hell for him to torture himself with. That delicious pleasure-pain that drives him mad—

He fills you up, palm pressed taut to your lower belly as he spits his virile release deep into your cunt. He can feel the heavy outline of his cock against your skin, stuffed full of him, and it's this—the way he moulds your body around him, cock visible through your flesh—that makes his eyes roll back into his head. Makes the urge to fuck, to breed, to claim bludgeon into him, shattering reason, logic. He wants to change you, irrevocably. Forever. To mar you with his touch, his essence. 

“Mine,” he chokes out, ugly and raw. It's a mangled mess in his throat. A threat. “All fucking mine, aren't you, love? All mine—”

His words seem to throw you into another climax, cunt clenching greedily down around him as he softens inside of you, plugging you up. You liked that, he notes, purs. The notion brands itself across his resolve, reshaping it into something that would make anyone else recoil in fear, disgust. 

But you preen at this creature that bares its fangs at you, snaps wicked teeth against your jugular. Fingers threading through its hair, shushing it, soothing it, as you pull it back into your embrace, head tucked against your chest. You lull it into complacency with the heavy thud of your heart, your sweet, earthy scent. 

What a pair, he thinks, and clamps his hands around your wrist when you murmur something about taking your pill now. Need to take it before it gets too late, John—

He makes his move, distracts you with his mouth, his tongue. 

“Just take it after,” he murmurs into your pussy, thighs bracketing around his head. His hands pull your waist down, pressing you harder against his mouth. “Later, love. It'll be fine—”

“But, John—”

The protest dies, turns to ash, when he grunts, sealing his lips around your clit, bullying it with the rasping press of tongue until you're arching your back, riding his face. Thoughts of your silly pill are gone, swallowed by him as you gush, drenching his mouth in your slick. 

And after, when you make to get up again, he pulls you close instead, voice curling around you like smoke when he tells you to take it after. 

“No, love. Stay in bed with me,” he peppers kisses to your cheek, your jaw, chin, sweetening his words, and folds you into the tight embrace of his arms. “Take it in the morning. It'll be fine to miss a day.”

You level him with something that shadows the ravines in your gaze with pure, unadulterated scepticism, but as he scouts the canyons, the valleys, the pretty craters that make up the composite of your eyes, he finds no discernible trace of wariness, uncertainty. The terse line in his shoulders ease. 

But while fossicking around he unearths something else. Something a bit more enigmatic, calculative, than doubt. Equivocal, slippery, it runs from him when he tries to give chase, tucking itself back into the harsh tenebrous that shades the landscape. 

He hums, wanting to ask, but you sigh in quasi-acquiescence, and burrow deeper into his embrace. 

“Fine,” you huff, but he tastes a purring sense of satisfaction in the air. “I'll take it tomorrow instead.” 

“Good girl.” The praise slips out, low and gritty, perfumed with his heavy greed. 

You shiver against him. The hitch in your throat is quiet in the bedroom, but to him, it sounds like a gunshot. 

John keeps meticulous track of the empty pill slots, and notes with a sticky, resinous sense of glee that the numbers are becoming muddled, skewed. Later becomes tomorrow, and your soft acquiesce has days skipped. Missed. 

You can't double up, you huff to him, mournfully slinking into the bed. It's nearly one in the morning. Technically, a brand new day. I absolutely have to take it tomorrow, John. Make sure you remind me—

There's something pointed in your tone. Something oil-slick. He nods, bites back a grin. 

“Sure,” he pulls you close, breathes in the sweet, loamy scent of you—sweat and sex and the lingering remnants of your perfume, your soap—and lets it stain his lungs. “I can do that.” 

You say nothing at all when he doesn't bring it up until well past midnight the next day, offering little more than an exasperated groan, and a huffy roll of your eyes, as if this was just a missed dinner with friends and not a life-changing misstep. 

(The beast purrs. He places his hand over his chest, and feels the rumble under his skin.)

“Need to be more responsible than this, John,” you say, squirming in his hold to try and rush to the washroom to take that pesky little pill. 

“Sorry, love,” he offers, and means none of it. Clings tighter to you. “Got a bit carried away today, is all.” 

“It's not your fault—” something curls out from a dark crevasse when you look at him. “I've been so—off lately, you know? Must be the new batch. Maybe I should call my doctor.” 

He stills. Body tensing, coiling. John tries to speak, but the words are ash on his tongue. He clears his throat. 

“Could stop taking it.” 

It crackles in the air. Hangs heavy like a stormcloud. 

You blink, stunned. But it's artificial, hollow. Pulled from a wicker basket where you keep all your different skins. 

“You mean—what? Stop it all together—?”

You flit in the space once more, but it's less of an injured bird searching for an escape, he realises suddenly, and more of—

A boomslang. 

One rearing up, searching for the perfect place to strike. 

Wishful thinking, though, because you're flustered and skittish once more, a small prey animal he isn't sure what he wants to do the most—sink his teeth into you, tear you into pieces, and devour you whole, or hide you away from the world. 

“I can look for something else in the meantime,” you sound shy, hesitant, and it prickles across his skin. “But we'd need to be careful, you know. Otherwise you might actually get me pregnant.”

He tries to swallow his groan. Chokes on it instead. 

“Sure, sure—” he hacks into his palm. “Of course, love. We'll be safe. I'll pull out—”

Naturally, he doesn't. Makes no effort to even try despite promising you he is. 

“Not my fault your pussy won't let go of me, love,” he grumbles, hand cupping your weeping sex in his palm. The heat of you is searing. Blistering. He thinks he could happily melt inside of it for the rest of his life, and leans down to whisper his devotion into your come-slicked folds, the bitter tang of you, of him, admixing on his tongue. An elixir he could drown in. 

You huff at him after, all glossy-eyed and sex-drunk, and tell him to please try harder, John, I'll have to get plan b tomorrow—

You don't, but the threat of it, the possibility, lingers in the back of his mind, souring his thoughts. 

Next time, and I'll have to, John, you say, featherlight, lips pressed against the head of his cock. A warning, a goddamn tease—

His voice is strained, pinched. “Of course, love,” and he guides your mouth back to his cock, letting the matter fall into pieces when you suck on the sensitive head, tongue licking, coy and kittenish, over his frenulum. 

It's only later, when watches you swallow down his come, that the beast slinks out of the shadows, pocketing the fragments. 

You're off birth control—barely any scheming words of whispered concern needed—but the idea of you taking a little pill to wipe away his efforts has him pulling back. Recalibrating his plans. 

He decides on a different route to the same end. 

Damnation at your own hand. 

John, for his credit, does begin to pull out after that—albeit, with a great deal of agonised reluctance—and instead comes all over your pretty face. 

With thick ropes of his pearlescent spend dripping down the apples of your heated cheeks, he doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful than this. 

And one with more opportunity.

Slowly, he swipes at it with his thumb and then promptly brings it down, hard, on your clit. You flinch, mewling at the overstimulation, and the threat he brings so close to your raw, unprotected sex. It's dangerous. This thin line he dances along could snap at any moment. Could rain hellfire and fury over his broad shoulders, unmake all the progress he'd steadily built up. 

He walks the precipice, anyway. He pulls his hand away, and brings two fingers up to curve over your cheeks. His thumb, stained with your slick and his come, slides across your bottom lip. 

The pout you give him—all wet-eyed lachrymose—has his spent cock twitching against his sticky thigh. “Fuck, love. Gonna send me to an early grave if you keep starin’ at me like that.” 

“You're cracked,” you slur around his thumb. In retaliation, he digs it into your tongue, and preens—full of nasty, gnarled satisfaction—when your eyes flutter, rolling into the back of your head at the taste. 

With this brief distraction, he drops his come-stained fingers to your mound, and rubs along the swollen rim of your hole. Just touching, pressing. A tease, a whisper. 

You tense. “John—” it's muffled around his thumb, and he isn't sure if it's a warning or a plea. 

He pushes the tips in, barely to the first knuckle, and just pets around your rim. 

It's a battle of wills, now. “No more than this,” he promises, and the undercurrent of his threat rents the air. Makes you bristle. 

You always loved a challenge—especially coming from him. 

“Just the tip?” You tease, spittle running down your chin. Your eyes are dark—midnight skies, ink black—and he's struck by the afterimage of himself in those pools. Made in the same image. 

He grunts, slides into the first knuckle, and scissors them apart. 

“John—” it's breathless. Your teeth spear his thumb, tight around his bone. He wants nothing more than to have you bite down hard, scar his bones with the gnawed meteors of your desire. Your desperation. “Fuck—please—”

You give in so prettily, and he barely has a moment to think about how quick it's been when you angle your hips, hand falling to grip his wrist tight as you slide down his fingers, all the way to the last knuckle. 

You clench around him like a vice. A pretty bow. He fucks you with his fingers, meeting your shallow thrusts with ones of his own, slamming viciously into your pussy as he coos adorations into your ear. 

With his other hand, he reaches down and fists himself over your bare mound, pressing the tip against your clit where it weeps prespend over your flesh. His thumb sweeps across what spills out, dragging it back down to your sopping hole, pushing it inside. 

It's probably not enough to reach your womb, to get you pregnant, but he clings to that tantalising fantasy as he drills his fingers into you until you come, breathlessly begging him to fuck you harder, to fill you up—

He isn't even fucking you with his cock, and you still beg him for it. 

John pushes the tip into your slit, fingers still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy, and groans with the force of his release. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous with it, filling his head with nothing but the sweet, wounded sound of your moans filling the room, and the wet squelch of his fingers pulling out of you. 

When he catches the threads of cognisance in his fingers once more, he leans back on his haunches, chest heaving, and brands the messy sight of your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing, as his spend drips down your slit, over your hole, and pools in the sheets below. 

He's not sure if heaven exists, but he knows the sight of you, breathless and whimpering on his bed, is the closest a man like him will ever come to seeing it. 

The push-pull of this little game stretches on. 

Price likes to see just how far he toe the line before you're whimpering into the sheets, telling him don't, John, don't come inside me, I'm not anything, John—and he's ripping himself away from the tight clutch of your wet, hot cunt, and coming all over you.

The illicit tease of barely pulling out in time, and then scooping up the mess he makes on your face, your breasts, your belly, your ass, lower back, thighs, and spooning it into your pussy until it's a fixture in your bedroom ritual. 

And maybe it's the threat of it all, of playing such a dangerous game, seems to cudgel under his skin the most, ripping apart the thin veneer of that man he once pretended to be—righteous and good—shedding it off with each hiccupped gasp you make when he presses his come-slicked fingers inside of you, murmuring guttural words of affection in the shape of impish mockery (want it bad, don't you, sweet thing; so fuckin’ greedy for it, love—). 

He likes it the most when he can fuck you stupid on his fingers. Cockdrunk, and come-starved (because you are, of course; he hasn't come inside of your cunt in weeks, and doesn't miss the mournfully pitiful whines you give when he pulls out, depriving you of the pleasure of feeling him come inside you), you're too blissed out, swimming in pleasure, to think about what he's doing. 

In fact, he doesn't really give you much of a chance to think at all. 

The next few weeks are filled with him fucking you each night brutally, viciously, snarling low in your ear about how bad he wants to come in you, stuff you full, and then keep you plugged up all night with his cock that it takes, and then pulling out right before, committing the sight of your betrayed expression to memory where it'll sit like a trophy when you finally break. 

You make an appointment with your gynaecologist, and circle the date on his calendar. 

John notes it down. Tucks it away. 

And then he amps up the pressure.

John's fingers root behind your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them. His gaze drills into your bare cunt, slick and wet, and so ready for him. Eager for it. 

He'd counted the days, and knows that if there's ever the absolute worst time to have unprotected sex, to come inside of you, is now. 

Which, of course, means he has to. The clause in that is ironclad. Apodictic. 

“Bit dangerous,” he rasps, and lifts your leg up, resting your ankle on his shoulder. You fluster beneath him, panting and pretty, and fuck—he’s not pulling out of your pussy tonight at all. “Should I pull out?” 

It's a tease. A test. 

He reaches down as he says the words, gripping his cock and bringing it down against your wet heat. The bare, blunt head of his cocks slaps against your clit, and you arch, keening. Nails bite into the thick muscles of his biceps, and he leans into the sharp sting. Letting it ground him. Centre him. 

This will be your cacoëthes. 

He's been depriving you for weeks, and John knows that you're wanting for it. Desperate. The little twitches your hips give, as if begging him to fill you up, are proof enough of how much you want this. 

This. The dream he dripped into your ears, hot oil congealing over your frontal lobe; infectious and thick. You can try to chisel it off, but the pollution is already damning. Ruining. 

You want this. He wears the axiom like armour. 

And you beg for it—eyes shaded in gut wrenchingly beautiful lachrymose—and John snuffles closer, inching the weeping head of his cock into your tight, warm heat. 

The sight of splitting you open is something he never grows tired of. Something that, without fail, makes his balls ache. His chest thrum. Blood turns to ichor. To wine. He's drunk on the contrast made between you—a garish chiaroscuro of your pretty pussy, soft and sickly sweet—almost nauseatingly so—swallowing down the fat, girthy length of his cock. The thick streams of veins running along the flushed, heavy shaft against your puffy, soft folds is almost hideous. Sinful. He can't equate it to anything else except corruption. The horrific beast sullying the princess. 

And fuck—

The thought alone makes him throb. 

He's sullied you plenty, he reckons, and yet you always look so sweet. Especially now, when your rim is stretched taut around the thick of him, pussy squeezing, clenching around him in a vice, as if you weren't sure to push him out or pull him deeper. 

John decides for you. Opting instead to push your knees down to your chest, nearly brushing your ears, and follows with the bulk of his body until he feels your breath rush out of your lungs. You struggle for a moment, gasping wetly into his ear as his weight—every bearish pound of it—rests on you in the perfect mating press. Your bite into his biceps, keening prettily into his ear as he bullies the full length of his cock into you. Spears you open. Splits you apart. 

He can feel you gush around him, drenching his groin and thighs with your slick. 

Like this—chest to chest, forced to breathe in the same air, the same madness—he likes to just stare at you, taking in the heat simmering under your skin, the sweat beading along your temple, the pinch in your brow as you struggle to adjust to the sheer width of him cudgelling you open. A battering ram you're forced to make room for. 

He takes it all in, each flicker of emotion, each heaving gasp. Burns it into his memory. Lets it soften the iron around his heart. Keeps it there, nestled in the cradle of his limited love, held aloft by indelicate, bearish hands. This sweet thing. 

He can't wait to ruin it. 

If these weeks leading up to this were lovemaking, fucking, then this, this, is mating. Animalistic. Primal. He pushes in as deep as he can, until the tip kisses the ripened seal of your womb, and grinds his hips cruelly into the cradle of your thighs. 

Your nails leave bloodied indents in his flesh. A scar he'll proudly bear the mark of. A tattoo of the time when he turned you into something new. 

His balls are soaked. The sheets, too. He mocks you for it, a rasping growl lodged deep in his throat, taunting you about how fucking wet you are for him. How badly you need it. 

“Gotta plug you up, hm?” He grunts, and sets a pace that serves only to accentuate the sloppy, messy squelch of your cunt. 

His cock pistoning into you, alternating between deep, full thrusts that knock the air from your lungs, and heavy, slow plunges meant to badger the blunt head of his cock against your walls. 

You seem to like it best when he shifts his weight between each thigh, content to just grind into you. Make you feel every inch of him. You cling to him, yowling in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love this, love his cock—

The thick bed of wry, umber curls on his chest, stomach, and groin grow slick with sweat from the intensity of it all, from the shared heat. Pressed tight against you, he feels every quiver. Every flinch. Each moan is made known in a slight reverberation across his skin before he hears it. 

Drenched in sweat, glued to you as he fucks you into the mattress, John feels very much like the beast making a house out of a twisted whim in his head. Feverish, sick, he drives into you with the single minded goal of filling that home up with three. Then four. Five—

As many as you'll let him.

And he almost loses himself to that thought alone. Dancing sugar plums that make his balls tighten. He stems the flood by pulling out of you, letting his heavy cock slap against your sticky, soaked cunt as he heaves into your hairline, sucking in the heady loam, the humus, of your scent. 

The whimper you make when he pulls out of you sounds like a wounded animal, and the noise tickles across his hindbrain. His jaw aches. He bites down on a snarl as you thrash against him, mindless with the need to have him inside of you. It brings a nasty, vicious curl to the ends of his mouth, and he doesn't even bother trying to tamper it down. John lifts his head and lets you see his foaming muzzle, drooling with thick globes of saliva. 

“Stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous. It's as much of a warning as it is a command, and the way you react, tensing, coiling tight—the flash of unease. Shock. And then the need. Achy, heavy. He feels it against his jugular when you shiver, moaning his name into the space between you where it reeks of desperation. 

To soften the submissive tremble in your jaw—and maybe to temper down the challenging talons sharpening in your gaze—he nuzzles his cheek against yours, peppers wet kisses to your skin. He licks across your jaw, bites down on your flesh. 

He tastes salt and sin on your skin. 

(His eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks he might get lost.)

“Gonna cum on your pretty cunt if you don't stop squirming, love.” 

And John loves you most for your waspish intelligence—the ire smouldering in your throat. The way you bite back just as hard, never afraid to bear teeth when he snarls. He doesn't think he could ever love someone too soft—not without tearing them to pieces. To shreds. 

But you wear plush, tender conchoidal skin over jagged, rough obsidian. He'll ruin himself if he ever tries to rip you apart. 

Like this, though—you melt. 

All that keen, vicious intelligence snuffed out. His scheming Cleopatra tamed on his cock. 

Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him closer to your sex. “Come on, John, just fuck me, fuck me already—”

(Tamed, though, perhaps being a misnomer.)

He huffs into your neck. “Impatient little quean.”

It gets him a sharp bite to the tip of his ear, and the floor roars so loudly in his veins, he gets dizzy from it. 

“Fuck—”

He's pressing back into you again, into your warm, tight heat, and it's nirvana kissing his nerves. Liquifying his spine. He rolls into you with a weighted groan, buried to the hilt once more. 

But even with the respite, he knows he won't last. 

John needs you fucked stupid, docile and soft just for him, and sets out to do just that. Pounding into you with a spiteful twist of his hips that he knows will leave you a little sore, and tender tomorrow. But the idea of spreading your puffy, achy folds apart and soothing the slight hurt with his tongue for hours until you're sobbing into the cushions quells any hesitation that rears, begging him to slow down. 

Go easy on your pretty cunt.

(As if.)

John batters into you until your eyes glaze over, and your chin, cheeks, smear with drool. Until the challenge in midnight black melts into submission. Docile, and malleable. Perfect for him to mould. Shape. 

Reshape.

He glues to you, touch starved and tactile, and basks in the liquid heat that blooms from deep within you. 

“Gonna cum soon,” he snarls, broken by the heave in his chest as he fucks into you, starved. “Gotta pull out, love—”

You're gripping him tighter, anchoring him to your body. You haven't come yet. Something he dangles in front of you like a threat. 

He watches the slow crawl of realisation crest over your messy face, and thinks he falls just a little bit more in love with you at the sight of your little pout. 

Loves, even more, the way it breaks apart when he pounds into you harder, viciously, watching drool dribble off your chin, and reason leak from your ears—

“Please, John—” the sound of your whimpering has him grunting, head dizzy with the saccharine sweet taste of it on his tongue. “Please, please—come inside me. I–I want you to–to fill me up—”

“Yeah?” He taunts, mean and breathless. “Want me to come inside your sloppy cunt? Dangerous, ain't it? Jus’ might take, sweet thing. Is that what you want?”

You're howling a litany of sin into his ear, desperation drenches each clamour of his name, each orison uttered, begging him to come, to fill you up, and then—

“Fuck—I want it so bad—” his head is filled with static. Whitenoise. “Want it to take, John—”

He comes inside of you, cock pulsing so hard it feels like a sob. Filling you up. Wishing on all the stars that it takes—

As a reward for your good behaviour, he spreads you out over the sheets, and growls his approval into your sopping pussy, drenching himself with the taste, the smell, of you, promising to wear it like a perfume so everyone knows how good you are for him. Him, alone. 

(His, his, his—)

When you come, you nearly smother him, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of nirvana in baby soft yellow before he's pulled back by your shaking hands brushing the hair off his sweat-slicked forehead. 

“Are you okay, John—”

He rolls you under him, fucking into your drenched pussy like a man starved. That tantalising vision glues itself to his hindbrain, so close he can scent the fresh dew of fresh milk, and warm bread in his nose. Feel the bump of your stomach. 

He's almost angry about it, about being ripped away from that dream, and takes his aggression out on your sloppy, leaking cunt. The way his come trickles out, staining the mattress below and the back of your thighs has him growling darkly into your nape. 

“Keep it in,” he snarls, words sharpened on the whetstone of his need. “Keep it all inside, love.” 

“Ah, John, John—” something falls from your split-slicked lips, and his fingers bite into your hips. Punishment for the slurred backtalk. 

“I'll spank your ass if any of it leaks out—”

It does. Of course it does. 

He bends you over his knee, and slaps his broad, rough palm over each cheek ten times before deliriously shoving two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt, stuffing his come back inside your tender, swollen hole, rough and mean, as you howl, squirming in his lap about how you promise you'll be good next time, John, please—I'll keep it all in, I swear, I—

“You fuckin’ better, love.” He groans, and thinks about cumming on your messy face, all slick with sweat, and drool, but decides against it. A waste, he thinks, and leans over you to shove the thick, twisting length of his angry cock inside you to the hilt just spit his release against your seal once more. 

“That was…” You're still panting against his chest, eyes dazed, and body laxed. Melted wax over his chest. “Intense,” you settle on after a beat. 

There's a hiccup in your breath when he hums, chest rumbling with the sound. 

“Mm, but you liked it, didn't you?”

Of course you did. Of course. The evidence of it is drying, tacky and slick, on his groin, his thighs. 

You burrow into his side, peeking at him from over the thick bed of wry curls that clot over his chest. “You're fucking me like you haven't in years, John. Makes me wonder if you have an agenda.”

He considers your words. The weight of them. Wonders just how much you've clued into, but huffs when he catches the same look in your eyes as the one reflected in his own.

Cheeky little—

“Can't I just want to fuck you? Not everything has to be about schemes, love.” 

The oil of his lies, the sticky resin of his evasion makes you huff into his skin.

In all his meticulous planning, he'd picked up several books on this particular topic, and scoured every available, reputable, site he could find. John knows what to look out for by now, and keeps a keen eye on you—one that very quickly dips into obsessiveness, but you're kind enough to call it overbearing. 

Jesus Christ, John, why are you asking me how many times I pissed today? 

He just needs to wait things out. 

But rather irritatingly, he's called away overseas for the next week. 

Ah, well. He'll have to try harder next time. 

He arrives in Heathrow mid-morning, and follows Laswell into the office. There's a mountain of reports to fill out—things that, rather irritatingly, require his signature—and resolves to spend the rest of the day hunched over at his desk, even though there's an itch in the back of his skull demanding he go home. 

It is always like this, though—both the post-mission ritual of banal paperwork that seems almost comical considering what he'd just done, and the undeniable urge to flee back into the sanctuary of your shared home. 

His bones ache for it. 

Laswell huffs when he lingers by the exit, and he swallows a groan. 

While he was away, you'd been silent. Moreso than usual. 

Where he'd have expected an update on what was going on—the mundanity of your life that he clings to when the beast in his head whets its talons a little too sharp, digs into a little too deep—you’ve gone silent. Not radio. Not completely. But the information you give is sparse. Cagey.

You don't tell him about the visit to the gynaecologist, offering nothing but a quiet hum into the receiver, all blase and nonchalant, and a simple, equivocal: “good.” 

He tucks it away, lets the matter drop. 

If he timed things correctly—barring your impish prevarication aside—then something will begin to show soon. You would have mentioned something. Some nominal change to your physical well-being, but when pried, pressed, you huff. 

“I'm good, John. When are you coming home, anyway?”

He raps his knuckles on his desk, still smarting from the punches he'd thrown recklessly this past week, too keyed up to let his anger simmer instead of boil, and thinks. About you. About this. 

A week isn't a lot of time—he’s been called away for months in the past—but this feels like it's lingering. Time stretched and distorted. Elongated. And a part of him feels chipped, fractured after touchdown. 

It wasn't as if this particular assignment was any more, or less, dangerous than the ones he went on before. If anything, it was comparatively mild. Muted. He honed into his training, and did his goddamn job. And yet—

Yet. 

You lived in the spaces he occupied. The air he breathed. The water he drank. 

He brought you with him, something he's never, ever, done before. Perched pretty on his shoulder, he heard your voice in his head with every step he took, every radio call. 

But it was hallucinatory. Chimerical. You weren't there, you were here, but the problem lies in the lack of a divide that usually bifurcates the world into two fractions: his job and you.

It eats at him. 

He brought you where he's never taken anyone before. Never let them in. 

His thoughts were asunder. Pulled in all directions, but the centre was always you. His compass pointing north. He wants you. Needs you. His whole being has been recalibrated with the needle aimed toward you. 

An alert on his phone shakes him from his reverie. 

He reaches for it, slides his hand across the lockbar. The notification pops up. A message from his bank. 

His card—the one he gave you, the one you've used all of once to buy a chocolate bar when he gruffly, surely, complained about you not spending his money—has been used. 

Curious now, he opens his app, eyes scanning the threadbare purchases—all mostly interest fees and service charges, bar one. It was recently used at a drugstore for under twenty dollars. 

He doesn't know what this means, what you're playing at. He makes to text you, but he gets an email next. 

Thank you for your purchase; here is your e-receipt. 

His heart does something strange in his chest. Turns in on itself. Goes all askew. 

Not only are you using his card, you're using his account, too. He clicks it, eyes scanning through the purchases (only two), and blinks. 

A card, and—

His want takes the shape of a hand, presses against his jugular. 

—a pregnancy test. 

He knew when he started this game that this was, of course, the inevitable outcome, but having it here, right in front of him—in that sneaky, noncommittal way you always do things; behind his back, and in the dark, like you enjoy watching him try and sniff out the truth—has his belly knotting up. Churning. 

A pregnancy test. 

Fuck—

(and out of all the ways to tell him, you cheeky little—)

He's up out of his chair before he's even aware that he's standing. 

“Laswell,” he gets out, and can't be sure how his voice is so measured when his head is being shredded into pieces. “I'm out for the rest of the day. This whole bloody week, too—”

“Something bad happen?” 

His hands shake when he pulls his jacket on, slips his car keys into his hands. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm going to be a father. A bloody dad—”

It's on that sentiment when his voice breaks. Shatters. He clears his throat, blinks furiously. Fuck. Fuck. It's happening—

Shangri-la sits in his fist, taking the shape of an e-mailed receipt. 

In his periphery, he sees Simon's head come up. Watching him. Measured. 

Laswell, too, eyes him with a degree of wariness. He supposes to them this means the end of everything. 

She breathes in. “Tuscany would be my choice.”

“Oh?” He tears his eyes away from the screen, gracing her with a steady, unflinching look. “Was thinking something a bit more local. Liverpool.”

It gets a scoff, one full of disgust. “She'll divorce you within the year.” 

“I'm having a baby, Laswell. Not getting married.”

“Oh, no?” It's a challenge. “I seem to recall something about someone being a proper gentleman, or was that just the lie you told your unofficial missus?”

“We'll get married. That's not up for debate—” an intern makes an alarmed face, like perhaps it ought to be. Had he not been holding nirvana in his hand, he might be a bit more cautious with his madness. Too bloody bad. “Wherever she wants—Tuscany, Udaipur, fucking Siberia. I don't care. What I’m a bit more concerned with is my expectant wife.” 

“Soon-to-be,” she volleys, just because she knows it's the sort of thing that will itch under his skin. 

“Already is, Laswell.” He gripes, flat. “Or damn near close to it.” 

“If she knows what's good for her, she'll say no.”

“Lucky me, then, that she doesn't.” 

Lucky him, indeed. 

On his way out, Ghost utters a heated congratulations to him, and John can see his gaze is absent. Turned inward, mind whirring. Reeling. He can hear the gears grind from where he stands, and if the ink-black madness in his lieutenant’s drifting, pensive eyes means much of anything, then John sends a silent hail mary to whatever unlucky person was misfortune enough to unleash the muzzle on that particular dog. 

Well. It's not really his problem. Until it is. Until it becomes one. But since it's not something that'll impact him in the next five minutes, he tucks it away. “Thanks.” 

He doesn't linger. Doesn't, really, even remember the ride home, head buzzing with thoughts that keep twisting around themselves, driving him mental. Things like, is it real? what if you were joking. what you weren't? 

Oh, fuck—

You better not be. 

But you wouldn't. You're conniving and wily, but you're not cruel. 

This is happening, then. 

You've been playing house with matches inside of a tinderbox. He shouldn't be surprised when it all goes up in flames, in smoke, but as he walks through the door, and glimpses the pregnancy test perched innocently on the counter beside a card—congrats, daddy (and the caricature of a man in a pinstripe suit nearly makes him gag)—he feels all the maligned pieces inside of crack. 

It shifts—

You walk out, hand cupped protectively over your lower belly. Eyes gleaming like a wild cat crouched low in the tussocks surrounding the savannah, watching him an eager sense of anticipation, excitement, and just the slightest edge of what he can only imagine the unfortunate mate of a black widow sees before it's consumed. Spare parts. 

It thrums inside of him. Ignites this wicker basket he calls a heart until it's cinder. Ash. Soot. He breathes it in. Tastes you on his tongue. 

John doesn't have the words. Can't think beyond the steady brag of his burning heart. 

His. His.

—and then it all falls into place. 

Yours.

He dotes on you with an almost unhinged devotion, murmuring stilted, gruff words of muted affection into the shallow bump on your belly. Ones that you, politely, pretend not to hear. 

A new bedtime ritual, one he adheres to with an almost obsessive need. 

Until it becomes too much. 

“Go and get my prenatal vitamins from the washroom, please. I just need five minutes without you smothering me, you stupid bear of a man.”

“You love it,” he grumbles, but acquiesces, giving your small, barely there bump a pat. “I'll be back soon.”

“Oh, no… please take your time.” 

Despite the prickle in your tongue, your eyes are soft. Warm. Melting him just a little more. 

John pulls away, and doesn't even pretend the reluctance to be apart is feigned. 

“It's in the drawer,” you call, voice stretched. Echoing. “Next to your shaving cream.” 

He pulls the drawer open, scanning the contents briefly, before finding the purple bottle in the back. Why you chose here of all places to put the bloody things—

His knuckles knock against the old box of condoms, tipping it over. There's a strange rattle as it falls, and his brows furrow at the noise. 

Curiously, he reaches for it. Shakes it as he picks it up. The same sounds spill out. He pops the flap of the box open, peering inside, and—

A gruff chuckle crackles in his throat. 

Inside the old box of condoms—the ones he never bothered to throw out, or use—is an accumulation of all the pills you'd meant to take. 

His jowls ache. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, and feels the skittish patter of his heart thudding out of his skin. Madness in his veins. 

John closes the drawer with his knee, and then tosses the box of condoms in the bin, leaving it for you to find later when you're inevitably wracked by another wave of morning sickness. A little shred of vindication for this little game you made him play. 

Though he supposes turn-about is fair play, and the number of pills in the box is less than the months he spent scheming for this vision of his.  

In the back of his head, the beast purrs.

“Do we need to play these games again for the next one,” he rasps. “Or can I just fuck you until it takes.” 

You blink at him, wide and owlish. Full of faux innocence as you coax the beast out of hiding. “I don't know what you're talking about, John.” 

More games, then. He thinks he might crack open your ribcage and rest his weary head on the frantic beat of your heart. 

“Mm, don't know what I'd do without you,” he says, guns aching. He reaches for the pack of gum (no smoking around the baby or you'd toss him off the balcony), and pops a spearmint into his mouth. “Might live longer, I reckon, but—”

Your elbow digs into his side. “You sure about that?”

He just kisses your crown in response, and places his heavy, scarred hand over the curve of your belly. The beast inside purrs, content for now. Satiated. 

When he looks into your midnight eyes, he finds your own beast slumbering away. 

A match made in a tinderbox, he guesses, and kisses you until you're dizzy. His very own Shangri-la sitting pretty inside his bed, nestled in the castle in Spain you helped him build.

Will help him fill. 

[awrkive]

[DRABBLE] COLD NIGHTS & BLURRED LINES (m) — JJK.

you were used to jungkook making the first move every single time but this particular night, you couldn't help but change things up a little bit.

PAIRING jungkook x (fem) reader

GENRE r18+ (minors dni pls)

WORD COUNT 4.1k (this is def not a drabble anymore but its like 70% smut anyway saur 🤷🏼‍♀️)

WARNINGS/MISC jk in grey tracksuit 😢 oc is not a procrastinator everybody booed. kinda domestic vibes everyone wants to have what they have including ms delusional me !! this is my literally me fic kinda (this is literally just oc thirsting over jungkook OEBDIDHSJEB) also imagine 3D jungkook guys.... 🙏🏼 smut warnings: oral s*x (m&f receiving, 69 position), penetrative s*x, multiple positions, overst*mulation, creampies, unprotected s*x (dont fls 🙏🏼)

NOTES heyyy so i reread cnbl last night and scrolled thru unanswered messages on my inbox and found these 2 (amongst many IEBDIDHSHD) drabble reqs for cnbl and decided to write it bcs i love and miss them!! unfortunately i lost my ao3 password and i have nowhere to post this so whatever im gonna start posting here again LMFAOOOO. anyway, i hope u guys enjoy this 💗 this is most esp dedicated to the second anon i hate college as well i hope this drabble brings you joy ☺️

‼️CN&BL FULL FIC CAN BE READ HERE

You missed who you were thirty minutes ago.

Before Jungkook arrived, you were extremely focused on the essay you've been stalling to get done since last week.

You were set on finishing the paper tonight, determined to submit it a day prior to the deadline – which is two days from now. You've never been a procrastinator and you wouldn't dare start now. But ever since Jungkook called, arriving a little over five minutes after your conversation on the phone and entering your dorm room, you have never been the same. Gone was your will to finish your essay; it yeeted out the window the moment he came in.

It wasn't that he was doing anything wrong, per se. He wasn't pestering you or doing anything to distract you from doing whatever it was you were doing. During the phone call, Jungkook told you he just wanted to hang around and you were in on it. "As long as I finish this essay without you doing anything funny" – that, was what you said. Joking, a little pointed, when he came barging in your door, socks on and hair still slightly wet from the shower he most probably had at his own apartment.

When you said those words, the goof just wiggled his brows, smirking with a look of mischief written all over his face, and then kissed you in such an unnecessarily passionate way that had you internally keening when he broke away. That gave you an initial idea that he would, indeed, do some funny business. If you were honest to yourself, you wouldn't have really minded that at all.

That was thirty minutes ago. Jungkook surprisingly hasn't tried to touch you at all for the past thirty minutes. In the present, he is just sprawled on your bed watching something on your stupid iPad, airpods plugged in both ears, letting you work in peace on your laptop.

Thirty minutes ago, that would've been fine. Because ultimately, you could focus on your essay and finish it then pass it way before the deadline but no, your problem right this moment does not lie on phonology, it lies on why does Jungkook have to lean his back on the headboard, thick eyebrows meeting each other every now and then as he watched his movies, and put that white t-shirt and grey sweatpants on himself?

You've been having an internal battle with yourself trying to fight the urge to look over your shoulders for him every three damn minutes, groaning quietly as you thought about how Jungkook looked so ridiculously hot doing the bare minimum. Literally nothing. He was doing absolutely nothing. And he was making you feel weird in your belly!

Wait. Is it your period? It ended two weeks ago, though, so that is definitely not that. Maybe you are ovulating? You'd have to check your flow app.

Absent-mindedly, you let out the begrudging moan you've been trying to hide.

"God."

As if alarmed, Jungkook suddenly shoots up and speaks after what felt like centuries.

"You okay? Am I bothering you here?" He said, voice dripping with honey and face full of concern. You got even hornier.

Oh my god. You wanted to cry.

You send him a tight-lipped smile. "I'm fine. And uh, no. You're good."

Jungkook doesn't pry further and goes back to his binge. Meanwhile, you force yourself to think of something.

Another long five minutes later, and you are still halfway done with your essay. The unfinished document only seems to taunt you. So, you let out another sigh, quite quiet this time so you don't make Jungkook think he was being an inconvenience. You made up your mind and just decided to give in to your urges.

You shut your laptop down instead of pressing sleep as you are sure there is no way you can do any more work tonight.

Standing up from your seat, you approach Jungkook on your bed.

He looks up at you the moment you hovered over him, taking his eyes off the iPad. When the mattress dips from your weight, Jungkook's lips stretch into a cute smile.

Your horniness dissipates a little over his adorable face.

"Done?" He asks, lifting a hand over your face to tuck a strand of hair away that you didn't even notice. You shake your head. Jungkook leans down to kiss your cheek. "So, tired?"

You scrunch your nose. "Kinda."

He kisses your mouth when a pout forms there.

"Eaten anything yet?" Jungkook scoots over to the side to make room on the bed for you. You fit yourself in the space, albeit tight (this was a dorm room, alright), and Jungkook is quick to slide his arm under your neck while he still holds the iPad on the other.

"Just reheated some leftover pasta from last night." You cringe over your last meal. It didn't taste good at all but you were way too hungry and delivery took forever to your dorm.

Jungkook seems to know that that pasta was shit, but he doesn't comment on that. Just hums and kisses the side of your head.

Ugh.

"Wanna order something in? Thai?" He suggests, looking at you.

But right now, eating Thai or whatever is the last thing on your mind. Though you would like to eat something else.

You tell him so. Except the last part, of course. Please. You have decorum.

"Uhm, no. I think I'll pass on that. Unless you haven't eaten." you say, playfully pointing a finger to his chest.

"Nah, Taehyung cooked dinner. I'm pretty full." Jungkook says, chuckling.

You had a smart remark on your tongue, something along the lines of, "Then why'd you offer to eat if you already have, weirdo" but to be honest with yourself, you already knew why. Jungkook liked seeing you eat. Dude practically buys most of your meals, now that you think about it.

But your still horny-adled brain went to go and tell your hand to search for his bare stomach under his shirt. And so it did. Forget about having decorum, shame is out the door when you press your palm to the flat surface of his stomach.

"Doesn't feel full at all." You commented, feeling the hard ridges of his abs. You hate them right now. But you would also really, really, like to see them.

Jungkook only chuckles at that. Before he can say anything, you ask him, "Hey, quick question."

"Hm?"

"Can I suck your dick?"

"Huh?" Jungkook, ever the man he is, put the iPad away for the first time since he's been here. Confused, but still, you could not have mistaken the look of pure interest in his face the moment you asked him that.

"I want to suck your dick, if you let me." You say, clearing yourself up. You are putting on a brave face, but internally, you are screaming.

So what if this thing between you has been happening for like… ten months now, almost a year? Jungkook was usually the one to always initiate sex and blowjobs were almost a rare occurrence in your sex life because you told him it hurt your knees but the real reason was because you didn't think you were very good at it. Jungkook never asks for it either, and sometimes you feel bad for only reciprocating handjobs during oral sex quickies but! He never says anything about it so maybe that was fine? Anyway, it's not like this is gonna be your first time sucking him. It's just the first time you initiated with your own words.

"Oh, you're serious?" Jungkook scoots over to his side and lays sideways to prop himself up. "Really?" He has an excited smile on, and you know that because of the way his eyes crinkle.

"Don't make me repeat it." You say pointedly, pushing him a little bit. Jungkook doesn't even budge at the slight attack, only holds your hands in his.

"No, I just… I thought you said no fooling around tonight." He says.

You shrug. "Yeah, well."

You don't expect him to tug you closer to him using his hold on you, and you were thankful you managed to suppress a loud squeal when he laid on his back and caught your whole body on top of his.

"I guess you can't resist my charm, after all." Jungkook says, grabbing a handful of your ass.

"Jungkook, please, you're scaring my lady boner off." You roll your eyes as you adjust yourself on top of him to get more comfortable.

"Take care of my gentleman boner then, baby." He counters and just because of that you avoid the kiss he was about to give you.

"Don't ever say gentleman boner ever again." You pinch his nipple and he let out a laugh at your petty retort. You knew he was sensitive there. But even then, you were starting to feel the growing need concealed under his sweats, and you were set on giving him the blowjob of his life tonight for some reason.

"I have a suggestion to make," Jungkook says suddenly, stopping you from crawling down to his body. You arch your brow at him, he continues, "I don't think we've ever tried sixty-nine, yet, haven't we? Because I also really want to eat you out right now."

"Oh, well, yeah…" you nod. You find yourself heating up at the way he casually tells you the last part.

"So…?"

You haven't really tried that either, and not just with him, but also with your other sex partners that only really summed up to less than four people, and that's including Jungkook. Anyway, the sixty-nine position sounded interesting.

"Okay, sure." You shrug.

"Fuck, you're the best."

This time, you give in to the kiss he gives you and pretty much after that it turns into a heavy make-out session with Jungkook fondling your boobs underneath your overused highschool PE shirt while you ground down against his erection that only kept growing harder as seconds passed.

You are panting when you break away, a string of saliva in between your lips, breathing for some air. Jungkook kisses his way down your neck, suckling on your skin and soothing it with his tongue.

"Take your shirt off," you say, already impatiently tugging at the hem of his clothing.

Without a word, Jungkook frees himself from the fabric. "You too, and your panties. Please."

You chuckle at the "please" but nonetheless straddle him to take your shirt off. Jungkook looks up at you with hooded eyes, massaging the bare skin of your waist as you wriggle your hair out of the neckline. He grips your waist as you lift your bum off his stomach, pulling your panties and shorts down in one go one leg to another.

"Shit," Jungkook hissed at the sight of your glistening pussy that has gotten wet overtime, hands roaming all over your body like he doesn't really know where to touch. Always fascinated and in awe with what you show him, always so eager, so touchy. And you always love his undivided attention. Makes you feel like a princess for some reason. Doesn't help that he calls you that sometimes, too.

"Oh, fuuck," he groaned when you sat on his stomach. You couldn't help but let out a quiet moan, too, feeling his hot skin and your cold pussy touching together. "Angel, fuck, come here, let me kiss you."

You lean down to kiss him and he quickly reciprocates, his tongue entering your parted mouth, swirling and licking inside, taking your breath away. You could feel yourself smearing your wet mess on his abs but you couldn't really care less, not when Jungkook looked like he couldn't, too, squeezing every inch of you he could get his hands on. And they were everywhere, alright. Your breasts, your waist, hips, ass, his thumb on the inside of your thighs, all the while kissing you like he was hungry for it.

Jungkook jostles you a little when he lifts himself up a little to slide down the grey sweatpants you have a love and hate relationship with, his dick shooting up his abdomen and touching your ass as a result.

He stops kissing you.

"Alright, one more minute of you grinding against me will make me nut. Sit on my face now, baby."

Blood shoots up your cheeks, making you feel hot. A little funny, given what you are doing right now. But he can't just be so casual about it! He was asking you to sit on his face like he was telling you the grass is green. Regardless, you kiss him one last time.

"Don't suffocate." You warned him, already reversing your position as easily as you can so that your back is facing him.

You hear Jungkook chuckling from behind. "Please, I'll die happily suffocating in this pussy."

"Please don't talk about dying." You deflect, already feeling so shy about the whole thing. Indeed it was your first time to try this position, and you quite didn't know how to act. You wonder if he's done this already in the past, but found yourself irritated at the thought of him doing this with anybody else. You'd have to assess what that feeling of irritation means later.

"Hmm," Jungkook hums, grabbing the globes of your ass and fondling them before you could even properly place your knees on both sides of his head. With his hold on the flesh, he pulls you closer to him until you feel his breath on your core. "Ah, shit, will never get tired of this pussy, baby. Fuck, you're so wet."

You try to focus your attention on his hard dick against his stomach, veiny and rigid, red at the tip and shining with pre-cum. Wrapping your fingers around the base, you lean down a little more so that you can begin teasing him.

But Jungkook beats you down to it as he licks a long stripe across your pussy. It has you keening and stumbling a little over, feeling so good at the contact of his tongue against your sex. You hear him hiss before he says, "Come on, pretty, sit on my face, don't hover."

You hesitate before giving in, and Jungkook is quick to continue the ministrations of his tongue on your pussy. The position was so new to you but you couldn't help but think it was so good, feeling him this way, albeit still a little conscious about cutting off his air supply. But as Jungkook starts licking and sucking, you remember his cock in your hand and it prompts you to stroke him up and down; slow, because your mind is cloudy from the way you could hear the slick of your pussy from Jungkook's licking.

Leaning down, you kiss the head of his cock, licking his pre-cum off the top. There was Jungkook's groan again, and you thought that was a good sign, then continued to suck his tip a little just to see it getting even redder.

Jungkook suddenly gets more aggressive in the ministrations of his tongue, from his slow yet precise strokes, he starts increasing speed, fingers getting tighter on your asscheeks, the tip of his tongue prodding at your entrance giving you a taste of being full.

It prompted you to whimper, Jungkook only humming, seemingly pleased with himself. Letting out a shaky breath, you resume stroking his cock, twisting your fingers around the base. Soon, you lean even closer so that you can wrap your lips around the head.

Jungkook's groan was a pure sinful sound of pleasure as you did so. Nevermind that he was having his own feast on your pussy, you were determined to make him cum. And to do that was to suck on the tip gently at first, swirling your tongue on the cum that's building up on it. You joined the motion of it with your hand stroking the shaft up and down, cheeks hollowed and sucking the air in your mouth to create a suction that has Jungkook slightly jolting in his position.

"Oh, fuck yeah, baby, that's it, you're so good at this… shit," He says behind you, moving his mouth off your pussy and replacing it with two fingers. Jungkook slides them in easily, the squelching sound so apparent it cannot be mistaken for anything else if there was anybody but you two in the room. "You like this, baby? Hm? You're taking my fingers and my cock so well."

You moaned around his cock, heat starting to spread all over your body as Jungkook began to join his digits with his own mouth, devouring your pussy like he always does when he goes down. You start losing your rhythm on his cock, choking on it a third time now as you haven't really managed to fit it all in your mouth. You've always tried to, but he's always been a little too big for you. If it was a skill issue, you didn't care, Jungkook enjoys it just as much as you do.

When Jungkook rubs your clit, that's when you start shaking on your knees, threatening to crumble down.

As if he knew what was coming, Jungkook suddenly says, "Don't come yet, baby, not now." and you swear you would have actually cried.

What you didn't expect is Jungkook suddenly sitting up, his hands gripping your hips so that you don't jostle on top of him. You let go of his dick as he slides you off his body, and you let him manhandle you into sitting on his cock that slides in too easily like your pussy was fine silk. You now sit on top of him in what seems to be like a reverse cowgirl position, except that you aren't the one in control of your own movements.

"Oh, K-kook – Jungkook!" you yelped as he bounced you on his rigid dick, your body melting against his.

"Shh, take my cock, angel. You can do that for me, right? You're so pretty right now, I wish you could see yourself." Jungkook whispers against your hair, and you pathetically nod, craning your neck up at him to seek for his mouth. He smiles at you, the gentle nature of it so contrasting to the way he was controlling your hips, bouncing you in and out of his cock. "My pretty little angel."

He kisses you passionately, and as seconds passed his hands began to travel upwards to cup your breast, fondling it in his hand and pinching your nipple. You also started to initiate your pwn movements, meeting Jungkook's thrusts from below you, all the whole moaning in his mouth at the pleasure of his cock touching every crevice of your pussy.

The feeling of this never gets old even if you've done it exclusively and quite constantly with each other for the past ten months. Sex with Jungkook is always just so intense it always keeps you on your toes.

"K-kook, I'm cumming," you gasped in his mouth, feeling that build up in your belly

"Hm," Jungkook leaves your boob in favor of your pussy. Kissing you one last time on the mouth, he leans against your shoulder to watch as he spreads your nether lips. You look down to his hand there, fingers spreading the lips apart witnessing your own hole getting split open by his engorged cock. The sight was so lewd and obscene you couldn't help your moan. Then, Jungkook begins rubbing your clit again, fast and with a purpose, this time to make you finish. And he finally gives you the green light to do so. "You can cum now, baby."

And as if prompted by his simple words, you came, feeling a gush of wetness coming out of your pussy. You watch the way Jungkook kept his fingers in there, massaging your hole and kissing your neck.

"Jungkook…" you bury your face into the crook of his neck as you come down from your high, pussy throbbing and spasming from the intense feeling of cumming. He did edge you from when he ate you out.

"Good girl."

And again, Jungkook changes your position. From sitting up, you are now laid against the bed again, with him switching your positions so now he's the one hovering and you underneath him. He grabs your hips up and enters your pussy once again, sliding his cock in and out to chase his own orgasm. Your moans only encourage him to go faster, his grunts filling the room.

"Oh, that's it, Kook, you come for me too." You say, reaching for his stomach with one hand and fondling your own boob with other for his own consumption. Jungkook always liked seeing you play with them.

"Yeah, you're so sexy like that," he says, even picking up his speed higher.

Soon, he was cumming with a pained groan, and you didn't expect to cum a second time the same time he did.

Another gush of slickness slides down your pussy while Jungkook pulled out completely. But he was putting it in again a second later, rubbing his dick against your core. You sigh, partly at the sensitivity but also how pleasurable it all still felt even though you've come twice now in the span of almost what? – thirty minutes? Maybe an hour?

"Pretty fucking pussy you've got here, baby," Jungkook says before pushing his cum back into you, making you cry out. "Never gonna get enough of this. Of you."

You whimpered, clinging to his forearms as he continued his actions.

"Cum for me one more time?" He asks, staring deeply into your eyes.

And you couldn't possibly do that. Coming twice was not at all what you envisioned your night to be, thrice was a heart attack. But at the same time, you couldn't really resist his pleading eyes and his deep voice and his still hard cock pushing his creampie deeper into you.

So you nod your head, and Jungkook leans down to swipe the strand of hairs that sprouted all over your face overtime, wet on the hairline from your sweat, just before he slides his cock all the way in again, repeating that in and out routine, the slamming and the bottoming out, the quickening oh his pace and your toes curling once again that impeded your orgasm for the third time that night.

When you finished, exhausted and spent the fuck out, Jungkook laid on your boobs and kissed all over, playing with one of your nipples in his other hand. You were flat on the bed, dead weight, looking up at the ceiling and closing your eyes to cool yourself from what had just happened.

"Okay, that's enough, Kook, we gotta clean up." You say, massaging the soft curls on the top of his head.

He only let out a non-committal hum.

"Jungkook."

"Yes, baby?"

"Enough sex. I'm fried." You say, pulling his hair slightly to make him look up at you. But that was a bad decision of course 'cause he only seemed to enjoy the teasing.

"Just saying hello to these amazing boobs of yours." You rolled your eyes at his retort, nonetheless accepting it.

"Thanks, I guess."

Eventually, Jungkook stopped being clingy and finally found the will to fetch a wet rag from the bathroom. He cleaned you up and and you didn't bother dressing up except the panties you asked him to get for you. Soon after that, you cuddle together in bed.

"Hey," Jungkook suddenly whispers behind you, fingers massaging your hip, mouth press to your head. You hum. "I think we should do that more."

You try to look over your shoulder. "What? The sex?" you say, chuckling.

Jungkook pinches your hip. "Yeah, I told you we should have sex everyday. But that's not the point, I meant the sixty-nine."

"Well, first of all, having sex everyday is physically not possible," you roll your eyes though he couldn't see. "Second, I enjoyed that position, too. A little bit distracting, but definitely really enjoyable."

Jungkook agrees. "I think you just gave me the best blowjob of my life, if you wanna know."

"Really?" you confirmed, smiling up at him.

"Almost nutted when you sucked my head."

You chuckle, slapping his chest and roll your eyes again for how many times now?

"No but seriously…" Jungkook suddenly turns, indeed, serious. But he's still smiling, though, just a little less playful with his tone. "What was with you tonight? Did you finish that essay?"

Oh god, your essay. Right.

You feel your cheeks heat up a little remembering how you were basically thirsting over him him a while ago. And for no reason too.

Despite cringing internally, you shrug. "No, not really, but submission's two days from now and I just wanted to kiss you, I guess."

That made Jungkook's smile even bigger. He doesn't say anything more but only scoots even closer to your neck, kissing your hair.

"Hm, I always wanna kiss you too, and I do. But I love it when you ask for it."

You think you'll start doing it more, too.

all rights reserved © AWRKIVE , 2023

[heartsforvin]

Hi, could you please do an imagine where reader colors vinnie’s tattoos, please

COLOR IN THE LINES

this is ADORABLE thank you for the request !!

pairing; vinnie hacker x fem!reader

warnings; cussing, use of pet names (baby, princess, etc), otherwise just fluff

summary; you love to color in vinnie’s tattoos

one of your favorite things to do when you and vinnie have a day together is to lay in his bed, legs entangled with each other, while you lay on his chest and color in his tattoos.

you bought washable markers that won’t damage skin specifically for this. vinnie realized early on in your relationship that this was one of the many things that made you calmer.

walking into vinnie’s room, you greet him with a smile before quickly heading to his bathroom.

“hello to you too, princess.” vinnie says under his breath as he watches you sprint to his bathroom.

you walk out a few minutes later with a smile. vinnie watches as you walk around to the other side of his bed and pull open the nightstand drawer.

he smiles when he realizes what you’re grabbing. he quickly removes his sweatshirt so he’s only in sweatpants now.

you hop up on the bed and vinnie widens his legs for you to kneel in between him.

you start to shade in his most recent tattoo, it has healed so it was perfectly okay to color it in by now.

you hold onto his arm while you shade in the tattoo right below the one you just finished.

once done, you kiss his arm, making vinnie smile. “what’s that for?” he asks you.

you shrug with a tight lipped smile. “i love you, that’s what it was for.”

vinnie watches you in pure awe as you do the one thing you love most. he pushes some hair behind your ear and kisses your temple softly.

“have i ever told you that you’re the most beautiful girl in the world?” the compliment makes you stop abruptly.

he in fact has told you that you’re the most beautiful girl in the world. he tells you everyday.

a slight blush creeps up on your cheeks, you’re grinning ear to ear at the boy in front of you. your boy.

“i had a really bad day, v,” you breathe out, almost wanting to cry at the thought. “that means a lot, no matter how much you tell me.”

vinnie takes the washable marker out of your hand and caps it before putting it on his bed. he takes your hands in his and looks at you.

“what happened?” he asked you with pure sincerity.

you sighed, hoping that no tears rush out of your eyes as you explain to vinnie about your day. he grabs you and places you in his lap, hugging you tightly as he leaves kisses all around your face.

“people at work, mainly customers. they’re all fuckin’ idiots.” you rant.

vinnie lets out a laugh, he grabs your arms and rubs his hands down them gently. “shh,” he tries to calm you.

grabbing the marker off vinnie’s bed, you pop the cap off and begin to color in vinnie’s ‘break my heart’ tattoo on his chest.

he knows this calms you most so he doesn’t ask why you ignored him. he moves his hands so they’re around your waist now, holding you gently.

“gotta get you a coloring book, sweet girl.” vinnie says softly as he watches you move down to the tattoos on his lower stomach.

you giggle as you shade in the tattoo on his right side. “i like using you as my personal coloring book, though.”

as much as you’d love a coloring book, you’ve been using vinnie’s ink as one for awhile now, and don’t think switching to paper would help calm you as much as this does.

vinnie doesn’t mind, though. as much as it hurts him to see you upset or stressed, he loves the way coloring in his tattoos helps you so much.

“i know you do baby, and i love it too. but i wouldn’t mind getting you your own book for it.” he tells you.

your eyes immediately shoot up to his, he watches your demeanor change and soon rubs your back and places a soft kiss to your cheek.

“i’m sorry, princess,” he apologizes once he realizes that’s not what you want at all. “didn’t mean to upset you.”

you smile slightly at your boyfriend before moving to his arm, shading in more ink on his skin.

you’re quiet for the rest of the time until you finally finish all the tattoos on the front side of his body.

capping the marker, you put it back in the box before putting the box back in the nightstand drawer.

“how’d i do?” you ask with a smile, standing next to vinnie with your hands on your hips.

he stands and pulls you to his bathroom so he can take a full look. once he sees your art, he smiles.

“you did amazing, sweetheart,” he kisses you. “my little artist.”

you smile and hug vinnie from the side, gripping his waist and soon turning so your body’s pressed against him. chest to chest, you smile at your boyfriend while he looks down at you.

“thank you for understanding and letting me do that.” you tell him, standing on your tip toes to kiss him.

vinnie wraps his arms around you tightly in a hug. “i’m here for you, my love,” he says. “always.”

you and vinnie stay like that for awhile before heading back into vinnie’s room for the night. vinnie picks up his hoodie but you quickly swatted his hand.

he chuckles as he faces towards you. “like me without a shirt that much, huh?” he teases.

you hit his chest and climb into his bed. “get over here dork,” you tell him. “yes i do, but i like looking at my coloring more. first time i actually colored in the lines.”

vinnie laughs as he gets in beside you. he lays down and scoots you closer to him, wrapping his arms around you as you snuggle into him.

the rest of the day you spend snuggled up to vinnie as the two of you watch movies.

you run your hand along vinnie’s chest and stomach, admiring your coloring work, being grateful you have the most understanding boyfriend.

hiii finally back to posting !!! i hope you all loved this as much as i loved writing it !! and i hope the anon who requested this did as well !!

like i said in my most recent post, work for me has been busy since i got back - and although i don’t post while im at work, i am still a bit active w my moots. i’m trying my best to stay active but my personal & physical wellbeing come first so if im inactive w uploads, just gimme time 🥹

I LOVE YOU ALL THOUGH !! thank you for all the continuation of the support / feedback on my posts <333

tags; @cosmicanakin , @lyndys , @slvthrs , @forevergirlposts , @bernelflo , @leqonsluv3r , @kriissy4gov , @lovingsturniolo , @louloulemons-blog , @hallecarey1 , @st4rswrld , @violet0182 , @visualbutterflysworld , @laylasbunbunny , @kayleiggh , @supabhad

[mccromy]

I've seen sometimes people arguing that Shen Yuan as Shen Qingqiu is constantly performing, faking his personality, and therefore Luo Binghe fell for someone who doesn't actually exist.

And fortunately that is wrong.

Shen Qingqiu has to act like an aloof immortal to keep his image, but he hasn't acted anything remotely like og!Shen Qingqiu since the skinner incident. And even with the OOC locks on, he kept losing points for acting OOC.

So, he's not acting as Shen Jiu, he behaves in a way he thinks an immortal cultivator should, which is basically himself but more calm, with Shen Jiu's muscle memory helping him to keep a blank face.

The thing is, that's how most people act. If you're as thin faced as he is, as easily embarrassed you tend to avoid embarrassing situations, refrain yourself from saying embarrassing things, constantly trying to pretend you aren't embarrassed at all.

His internal monologue is different to what he shows, but that's how it works for most people. Put yourself in a situation in which a friend asks you about something you absolutely don't care about, you think inside your head something along the lines of: " I don't caaaare" "I don't give a shit" "THIS AGAIN. WHY. I DON'T CARE I DON'T CARE." etc, and depending on your personality you might answer differently. If you're blunt you'd say something like "Couldn't care less", if you're cruel you'd say "Nobody gives a shit" if you're kind you'd consider what they asked and answer even though you don't care, if you're assertive you'd answer and also say something like "please don't ask about it again" and that's without taking into consideration how much you care about said friend, how you behave with this person in particular.

Shen Qingqiu, would say to Shang Qinghua. "I don't give a shit," he feels comfortable enough to be crass and doesn't care much about his opinion of him, to Liu Qingge he'd say something like "Liu-shidi really focuses on the strangest things" doesn't want to hurt his feelings, but feels comfortable enough to hint that he doesn't care about it. To Ning YingYing he'd answer and then change subjects, cares enough to not hurt her but doesn't feel comfortable enough to show he doesn't care about whatever she said. To Luo Binghe, he'd take the time to answer and then add something like "This master really doesn't care about such things" because he doesn't want to hurt Binghe, but he is comfortable enough to confess how he really feels about it, he answers and then kindly informs him about his feelings on the subject.

That's not faking, that's something everybody does.

Shen Qingqiu doesn't lie more than the average person (who has a nightmare AI clinging to their soul) to others, but does constantly lie to himself (even though when you read you can tell he's aware of the truth, but actively convinces himself that it can't be, that that's what a less informed person would think, but not him who knows PIDW like the palm of his hand and therefore knows better etc, etc.) If he obfuscates his real thoughts or feelings, it's not in an attempt to deceive others, but a result of his constant inner gaslighting and paper thin face.

"But he didn't act like that as Peerless Cucumber!" If you behave the same way irl as you do online you need to spend less time online.

Logically, it's impossible to keep a facade 24/7, so it can be argued that Luo Binghe saw him in a more relaxed state, consolidated his love for him when he got to know him while sharing a home for two years. I don't believe that Shen Qingqiu kept his Qingqiusona on at all times, but I do believe he would've been more reserved in front of his disciple. And, as I said before, you behave differently depending on who you're with, and of course never say out loud all the things running inside your head.

I believe that if Shen Yuan transmigrated into some random NPC and not Shen Qingqiu, he would have behaved pretty much the same, but would've been far more easier to read and less formal, although formal enough as according to whatever station he belonged in such a case.

It can also be argued that, after acting for almost a decade as how he believed an immortal should act, it became an actual part of his personality, being aloof and reserved, keeping quiet when in doubt instead of spouting a cutting remark (as I picture he would pre-transmigration).

People do change, they can become louder or quieter, kinder or crueler, less or more confident. Such changes happen according to your choices, choices that become easier and easier to make as time passes, until the choice to be loud or quiet, kind or cruel, becomes your instinctive response.

So no, Shen Qingqiu hasn't put on an act beyond what's normal (trying to appear calm when you aren't, trying to seem unbothered when ashamed) since the skinner arc.

So, does he keep acting like a cold master after he and Luo Binghe got together? No. He doesn't. He's never been cold to Luo Binghe, unless forced by the System or when he was scared out of his mind with fear in Jinlan City. In fact, after they got together Bingqiu acts very much like any other couple would (... When the couple is bingqiu.)

For example, we can see them being playful in the extras, like in the Honeymoon Chronicle:

Shen Qingqiu feels comfortable enough to fool around with Luo Binghe, as long as It's the two of them alone.

Shen Qingqiu is not putting on an act, and hasn't done so since the first year after he transmigrated. This is his real personality. Would he have behaved differently had he not transmigrated? Yes, of course. And had he transmigrated as someone else? Yes, obviously. Our experiences shape us. He would've been different but not unrecognizable. To become drastically different, he'd have to also live through some drastic experiences. But, in the same way you can recognize yourself in the person you were 10, 20, 30 years ago, despite all the glaring differences, despite all the ways you've changed, Shen Qingqiu would've remained the same at his core.

[brigdh]

I want to talk about Izzy's rant to Ed in episode 10, the one that brings out the Kraken. I've seen a lot of different descriptions of what is going on in this scene – death threat, homophobic slurs, etc – and I don't think either of those are what's actually what's happening.

Let's look at it closely, line by line, and the way Ed reacts, from the very beginning of the scene.

Ed: Well, feels nice to tidy up a little. Can't believe I was living like this. Can you, Iz? Izzy? Izzy: I'm going to speak plainly. Ed: Wonderful. You know we share our thoughts on this ship.

Izzy, cont: This, whatever it is that you've become... is a fate worse than death.

Okay. So there we've got what some have interpreted as a death threat. But does Ed seem threatened? He's startled, certainly, put on his back foot – literally – but he doesn't look afraid or alarmed to me. He draws in a slow breath, assessing the situation, but overall seems more confused than frightened.

In fact he laughs it off with his next line:

Izzy then escalates the level of aggression in the conversation:

But Ed, again, looks more confused than anything. Check out that furrowed brow, that head tilt! This is a man going "what is your deal?", not a man thinking "uh-oh, you might kill me!".

Extremely noticeably, even when Izzy storms right up into his face, Ed holds steady. He doesn't run, doesn't lean back, doesn't hunch his shoulders or drop eye contact – there is no vulnerability or defensiveness in Ed's body language at all. Ed is in supreme control of this confrontation – look at the slow way he deigns to turn back to the paper Izzy's holding! As though he's making the point that he chooses when to turn, not Izzy:

Then we have the "homophobic slur". But watch closely:

Ed does not react to "namby-pamby", "silk gown", or "pining" at all. He doesn't even blink. He barely seems like he's hearing Izzy. His entire attention is on the picture.

Ed's body language and behavior changes at one word and one word only, and that is "boyfriend". As soon as Izzy says it, Ed's furious:

(It's even easier to notice when you actually watch the scene instead of using gifs, because Izzy really draws out 'piiiiiiining', putting a lot of time between the first half of the sentence and 'boyfriend'.)

Why is the use of the word 'boyfriend' so important?

Well, what has Ed been doing all episode? He's been crying in a blanket fort and singing sad songs, yes, but he's been keeping a careful level of mystique about why he's doing it. Ed often uses distanced circumlocutions instead of directly acknowledging his emotions, but he's doing it in this episode even more so than usual:

Here are the lyrics to his song:

(Version one, with Lucius) Hanging on By a thread Hanging on Shouldn't let go If I let go, all will fall Fingers bleeding down to the bone now Can't let go Nothing makes sense Hold on Hold on Hold... on

(Version two, performed for the whole crew) Just let go Make yourself let go Make it go away Away, away today Life's a hard sad death And then you're Deaaad

Notice something? There is no mention of Stede, or love, or break-ups, or abandonments, or relationships in general. All Ed discusses is a vague life-sucks attitude, which could apply to basically anyone under any circumstances. He seems pretty okay with people knowing that Blackbeard is having some sort of weird emotional breakdown as long as he convinces himself that no one knows it's specifically from having his heart broken

This is true of everything Ed says and does for this entire episode. He never once even mentions Stede's name, unless "Farewell, Bonnet's playthings" at the very end counts. The only thing Ed openly admits to feeling bad about is a fictional character who's having a hard time "holding on" (holding on to what? he never says). There are no allusions to heartbreak or romance anywhere in his dialogue.

Now, Ed's not stupid. I'm sure he knows Izzy and Lucius and the rest of the crew can connect the dots and realize that something bad happened with Stede, even if Ed doesn't fill them in on the details. But Ed is also traumatized, and has a whole host of coping mechanisms set up to help him avoiding thinking about things that he doesn't want to think about. If he's not a murderer because "technically the fire killed those guys", then no one knows he's heartbroken because technically he hasn't acknowledged it.

Until Izzy says the word 'boyfriend'. Suddenly the secret is out, and Ed can't handle it. Izzy knows his weakness. That's why this word effects Ed more than anything else Izzy says in the whole scene.

At the end of the confrontation, he hears the crew calling for another song. Look at Ed here. He looks as haunted, as disturbed, in this moment as he does at any point in Izzy's rant.

This is an important part of the scene, not just a closing note. Because if Izzy (the Caribbean's most emotionally constipated man) can see through him, obviously the whole crew can too.

Obviously Lucius – who advised Ed on his and Stede's relationship, who played along with Ed's 'fictional character' claim, who wrote down Ed's lyrics – can do so most of all.

There's a direct emotional logic to Ed killing Lucius because he had a fight with Izzy, and it doesn't involve Ed having been threatened or hate crime'd at all. Ed doesn't deal well with his own feelings (from Stede), so he chooses to become Blackbeard/the Kraken and gets rid of all the witnesses who saw otherwise.

[kurosstuff]

RED STRING OF FATE WITH LUTE PLS LOVELY-

🙏🙏🙏

Jk- you don’t gotta if you aren’t able to do it

omf YES- omf twist(like we talked abour-)

making it a bit short since- idk what else to add I hope you like it-!!

Lute x demon!reader: soul mate au

Warning(s): adam- so he talks about his dick(implied?), Don't think really any other then that

You couldn't help but curse Charlie for making you send this letter to these pesky angels. APPARENTLY you have to find some annoying(Charlie's words surprisingly) Man. Adam, the first man. Grumbling, you froze, glancing at the once dimmed red string spring to live a soft sting entering the rope interlocking with your ring finger.

A crude reminder of the dream you wished when alive. Finding a soul mate. Your soul mate but. Never once has it actually been this bright. This beaming light. Snorting at the sick joke. Of course, hell would be playing a sick joke like that. Walking to the tower, you glanced at the paper, the name written exactly who to give this to - entering something odd happened.

The string burned. Yanking you to the room.

Singaling your soul mate is near. Your forever mate. Is near. A dry laugh escaped your throat. What a joke. Entering the room There's no way in hell your soul mate is here-

Your tail flickered in thought before an annoyance flush crept up your face. Staring at the exorcist before your finger burned, looking down at your hand, you watched as the rope burned, going into a straight line to her instead of limp like usual. As if yelling that your mate is her.

Guess this explains why your string never acted up until now. Your soul mates an angel

Oh how cruel the irony is.

-

The more Adam talked, the more drained you got. Does this first man ever talk about anything else other than being the original dick haver? Apparently not. Grumbling, you glanced at the woman beside him- where your string was connected to her - humming in thought

How cruel of am irony that you. A demons soul mate is an angel. And any type of angel, either. An executioner. Who? Treat demons like animals to slaughter - not much different from some demons you knew of- humming you crossed your arms glancing over her mask how to changed depending on how she *felt* what she said- God. Her voice

Blinking, you barely even noticed how Charlie entered the room - just so focused on the masked woman you're bound to. Not even as the meeting began. You just stared in deep thought, humming softly. Before? Your face heated up as she took her mask off-

Hearing her name for the first time from that crude angels lips. How did he manage to get into heaven anyways-? Your thoughts of the matter went away when you locked eyes with her- that cold almost uninterested look but - you could have sworn? Is that a hint of curiosity in her eyes?

Staring at Lute as she spoke- your heart beat faster. Feeling warm all over as if her speaking(which was so fucking hot?) Seemed to relax you- put you in some odd sense of warmth and security. You hummed softly- the red string glowing even more brightly filling your whole hand as if to convey your true feelings for one another-

Before that, Adam guy started to sing - you internally groaned. Is Hell and Heaven just some musical? Blocking him out until she began to sing- humming, you didn't even care of the crude words she spoke of your kind - never mattered in the slightest to you anyways given your a demon-

But damn. Her voice? Was the single most gorgeous thing you've ever heard- staring at her. You ignored how Charlie grabbed your arm on instinct as the executioners came close - Lute came so close to your face - it took everything in you to not lean in as well

"-All vile sinners Like yourself should be slaughtered- can't wait to kill you" she snarled in your face- but that did nothing to change your views. Your heart beat faster as you came to a single conclusion

Your fucked.

[sweetercalypso]

Can you write something really angsty about pre-outbreak!Joel being in love with reader, but she’s dating Tommy?

if you listen closely, you can hear my heart breaking over this request <;/3

word count: 0.6k

The knocking on your door is a nuisance sound. Polite tapping quickly turns to frantic pounding fists as you inch towards the foyer, not ready to face the problem waiting on your porch.

When you finally open the door, Tommy stands there with a worried brow and a deep frown pulling at his features. You can hear his apology playing in your head before he even opens his mouth.

I’m sorry.

“I’m sorry-”

I’m an idiot.

“I’m such an idiot, baby.”

You hum in acknowledgement, waiting for him to continue.

In his hands, there’s a heavy bouquet of white and pink flowers – a peace offering for his behavior earlier that day. Lined with butcher’s paper and embellished with a ribbon, the arrangement is actually a nice touch.

Usually, he’s empty handed.

“I know I can do better. I will- I will do better next time, I promise. You know how much you mean to me, don’t you?”

You can see the quiver in his bottom lip when he speaks. Overwrought with emotions, there’s no question of how sincere his apology is, even if you’ve heard it a thousand times before. He’s sorry for treating you badly, but it doesn’t mean he’ll change.

He finishes his speech and shifts restlessly from one foot to the other, waiting for you to show any indication of forgiveness. Finally, you break and offer him a crooked smile.

Tommy’s face lights up and he pulls you into his arms, glad to be back in your good graces. He presses kisses up the curve of your jaw and over your cheeks, still wet with tears from the state he’d left you in earlier.

You pull away giggling and put your hands on his chest to untangle yourself from him momentarily. “You’re not out of the doghouse yet, y’know.”

He grins eagerly and loosens his grip, letting you step back just enough to breathe. “M’gonna make it up to you, baby. Promise.”

Over Tommy’s shoulder, you spot his brother’s pick-up truck still idling in the driveway, and your face warms at the thought of having an audience to Tommy’s display.  

“Yeah,” you say, directing your attention back to the man in front of you. “Why don’t you start making it up to me by putting these flowers in some water?”

He nods dutifully and moves around you, treading inside in search of a vase.

Once he’s out of sight, you head towards the truck with a knowing smile on your face. Joel sits in the driver’s seat with the window rolled down, his eyes watching you carefully as he realizes he’s been caught.

You check over your shoulder to make sure Tommy’s still inside the house before leaning your upper body against the truck, your crossed arms resting on the lip of the windowsill. Joel waits for you to speak first, not trusting his voice to come out evenly.

“Thank you.”

He pulls his brows together in confusion and rubs a nervous hand over the steering wheel. “For what?”

“For the flowers,” you reply levelly, daring him to deny his handiwork. “And for making Tommy apologize. It means a lot to me.”

He thinks about lying and saying that he was only dropping Tommy off, that it was all Tommy’s idea, but he knew you wouldn’t buy it.

Joel will never get the chance to have you the way he wants to, but speaking through his brother, making sure Tommy does right by you – it’s enough to keep him going. If this is all he gets, he’ll take it in stride.  

“How’d you know?”

You pull your lip between your teeth in thought, not sure how to explain the depths of how you feel towards Joel. He’s Tommy’s older brother, and that’s all he should be in your eyes. But when you think of the flowers sitting in your kitchen, your thoughts become too muddled to sort out.

You settle for a smile and an unspoken acknowledgement, translated through the way your eyes reflect his.

“Sometimes, you just know.”

[angelbaby-fics]

i just saw requests are open so sorry if it’s too late to ask!!!

could i request something along the lines of Daddy!Stucky with a little who loves coloring/drawing/crafts and Steve usually does them with the reader cause he’s artsy but he’s not home so she asks Bucky to do it with her, but he’s not artsy so he’s hesitant but he obviously still does it cause that’s his baby. And it turns out he’s really good at it and has tons of fun

(sorry i just kinda word dumped i hope that made sense)

🩰

Masterpiece

Word Count: 1k

A/N: Okay, first of all can we just appreciate this gif??? he looks so pretty & squishy & i just wanna kiss him all over hehehe 💕 anyways i really really love this idea!!! and i had a lot of fun writing it! :D so i hope you have a good time reading it 💕

When it came to artistry, your daddy was your idol. Steve had been drawing since he was very young, very long ago, and so he was rather good at it. You loved to color alongside him, each drawing the same subject and comparing your masterpieces when you were finished. You were so mesmerized by the way he intuitively connected one line with another, visualizing the whole picture in his head as he brought it to life on the paper. Steve always told you that yours was better, and even though you knew he had to say that because he was your daddy, the compliment still made you beam. 

You’d recently gotten a brand new sketchbook, and you were hopping with excitement to fill it up with art. When you woke up that morning, the first thing you did as you tumbled out of bed was grab your bucket of markers in one hand, sketchbook in the other as you sprinted out to the living room. You scanned the room for Steve, drinking his morning coffee on the couch like he usually was. But he wasn’t there today. Instead, Bucky was on the couch, and he looked up from his book as you burst into the room.

“Good morning, pumpkin,” he said with a loving smile. “Where dada?” You asked, your artistic tunnel vision making you ignore your Baba completely. “Well hello to you too,” Bucky said with a cheeky grin. “Daddy’s gotta work today, so you’re stuck with me, muffin!”

“Oh, okay.” You said, putting down your art supplies and joining Bucky on the couch. You tried to hide your disappointment - you loved spending time with Bucky after all - but you’d been so looking forward to drawing with Steve that day. “What’s wrong, doll, don’t you like me?” Bucky joked.

“Of course! But… wanted to draw.” You replied, whispering the last part. It was no secret that Steve was the one you always drew with, and Bucky played the role of a high end art dealer or a museum curator when you were ready to display your work. You’d never drawn with him, and you weren’t opposed to it, but it just wasn’t something you were used to. “Well I could try to draw with you if you’ll let me, sugar.” Bucky suggested, hoping to still salvage your perfect day. 

“Really?” You asked.

“Sure! In fact, why don’t you teach me how, since you’re the one who’s good at all this art stuff.”

That about changed everything. You were more than eager to teach your Baba a new skill, feeling quite proud of yourself being the highest authority on art in the family now that Steve was away. You tore a page out of your sketchbook and placed it on the coffee table in front of Bucky. Then, grinning mischievously, you dumped your bucket of markers out onto the table. Bucky’s eyes widened at the mess, knowing it would more than likely be him cleaning it up when you were finished, but this was simply part of your artistic process.

“It's good to have all the colors in front of you so you know which one to use next!” You explained.

Bucky didn’t see why you couldn’t have all the markers in front of you in the bucket, but he decided it was best not to argue with an expert. You picked up your first color, dark green, and motioned for your Baba to do the same. You’d easily decided on a simple topic for his first picture, something simple. A scene in the park. It had all the components of a classic coloring picture: trees, grass, birds, butterflies, and anything else your heart desired. 

Once you explained the concept to Bucky, the two of you got to work. Your face down, you were laser focussed on your own artwork. You never once popped your little head up to check on Bucky’s progress. The same couldn’t be said for him, however. Your Baba glanced over every few minutes, smiling to himself at your concentrated face, tongue poking slightly out of your lips as you determinedly colored in each blade of grass and tree leaf. If only he could get you to focus this hard on cleaning your room. Only when you’d finally completed your work did you break your concentration, setting down your final marker with a flourish as you looked up expectantly at Bucky, waiting for the praises to start.

But something caught your eye.

Bucky’s sheet of paper, sitting just in front of him on the table, was an explosion of colors. Abstract shapes swirled into the familiar forms of trees and flowers, but only when you squinted. The sky was purple, the grass was red, the trees burst with fiery orange leaves. Your brow furrowed; this art was gorgeous, but it made no sense. 

“You drawed that?” You whispered in awe.

“Yeah, you like it, babydoll?” Bucky asked proudly.

“It's so pretty and crazy!” You said, looking up at him with wide eyes.

Bucky chuckled. “Is that a good thing?”

You nodded eagerly, not wanting him to think you were insulting his talent. 

“How did you even think of that, Baba?” You asked, shocked at his unconventional approach. It had never occurred to you to portray things in a way other than what you considered normal. Bucky had opened a whole new world for you. 

“I don’t really know, it just came to me.” He replied modestly. “Do you wanna try?”

Bucky offered up a clean sheet of paper to you.

When Steve came home a few hours later, he wasn’t greeted at the door as usual with a kiss from Bucky and you jumping into his arms. Normally your absence would make his heart race, but it only took him a minute to turn the corner and see the two of you, his husband and his precious baby, working hard together over a piece of paper. A rainbow rendition of Steve’s famous shield, the star in the center made up of tiny swirls and dots. He already knew he’d treasure this masterpiece forever.

[thecuriousquest]

Aizawa with a bratty reader?

he gives her multiple chances and although patient she just seems to get more hostile, almost like a rabid dog. After all her shenanigans (attempting escape, refusing food, throwing food on the floor, tantrums, yelling, the list goes on and on) he finally snaps and has to bend her over his knee or a separate punishment of your choice 👌

Bratty Girl

Tag List: @issamomma @repostingmyfavs @chickennugnugnug @palesweetscherryblossom

Warnings: Yandere themes, SFW, bare bottom spanking, non consensual spanking, implied kidnapping, unwilling reader

Master List

____________________________________________

Aizawa sighs as he has to clean another plate of food off of the floor now. He should really just put your meals on paper plates at this point with how often you throw them. He extends his patience further and further every day for you...and it's absolutely draining.

The final straw is watching you inch closer and closer towards the door as he crouches down, sweeping the shattered glass and scattered food into the dustpan.

"Not another step, young lady," he orders. He doesn't even look up at you, keeping his attention focused on the task before him.

You look at him with a lip tucked between your teeth before turning and bolting for the door. Shouta counts this as your ninth escape attempt. No, he can't let this go on any longer.

He releases his capture weapon from around his neck, allowing it to swallow your torso, reeling you towards him like a fish. He traps you on the couch, forcing you to sit there until he's done cleaning up the mess.

"You throw your food, break my dishes, run away from me. I'm telling you right now that I'm done with your foul behavior." He flicks the last of the contents into the pan before setting it aside to throw away later. Standing up, he regards you with dry eyes. "Do you understand me?"

Sneering at him with sharp teeth, you defiantly inquire, "Yeah? What the fuck are you gonna do about it? If you hate my behavior so much, then maybe you should just fucking let me go!"

"That's not how this works. No, we're going to get you to behave the old-fashioned way."

He walks over to you, tugging the scarf wrapped around your arms and torso until it's a little tighter, hugging your body snuggly. He yanks you over his knee as he sits down on the couch next to you.

Landing with your face shoved into the pillow, you blanch upon feeling your shorts and underwear pulled down only for him to land a ringing smack on the center of your bottom. You look at him over your shoulder, horrified. He raises his arm, paddling your backside with the palm of his hand.

Yipping at the sting, you squirm your hips. Aizawa watches the plush of your ass jiggle with the waves you're causing. He has to stifle a dark chuckle, but he does nothing to hide the smug smirk on his face.

“Fuck, stop it! You can’t do this to me. What you’re doing…I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work! You hear me? It won’t work! I won’t let it!”

"Settle down," is all he says as he gives you a particularly sharp spank to your thigh before returning to the swell of your rear.

His hand is rough and worn from all of his work as a hero. The palm bites into you with calloused nips and a burning pain behind it. You dig your nails into your thighs, half moons littering your flesh as you hiss from the strikes on the sensitive swell of your bottom.

“I expect more from you, I expect better. From now on, things are going to change. If you so much as step out of line, I’ll be right there to put you back in your place. Do you understand me?”

He brings his hand down hard on the tenderness of your thigh, harder than he has before.

You growl in response, shaking your head. You try to squirm off of his lap, but he has you effectively captured with his scarf wrapped tightly around you. There’s nowhere for you to go, nowhere you can run off to anyway. Not with Shouta being your keeper.

These antics, which further demonstrate to the older man how much you are in need of firm discipline, only land you in deeper water. He repositions you so that your upper body is no longer resting on the couch. Now, your face is merely inches from the floor. Aizawa raises his knee slightly, pushing your hips up in a way where he can fully target your sit spots, the wickedly sensitive part of your flesh that can’t stand the attacks.

Again, he asks you with the same level of calmness, “Do you understand?”

Sniffling, you nod your head, but that’s just not good enough for the raven haired teacher. With a heavy sigh, you feel him light another inferno into your backside with the pace he’s going at now.

“Fuck, I get it! I get it!”

“That’s not the response I’m looking for, young lady.”

Young lady…as if you’re one of his students and not twenty years old.

“Okay, okay, I understand.”

He pauses for only a second before shifting. You feel something flat and smooth on the curve of your raw flesh. He taps you with it a few times, trying to pull the answer out of you before he has to administer the implement.

When you don’t answer, you feel the first heavy, searing smack from whatever he just hit you with. Looking over your shoulder for a second time, you watch the insomniac wielding the remote to the tv.

“Please, no! I don’t know what you want me to say!”

But you do have an inclination as to what the correct response is, and you really don’t want to say it.

Aizawa never ceases his ministrations in paddling you with the remote control. “I want you to answer me correctly with ‘sir’. Be a good girl and say it.”

Throwing your head back down towards the floor, you wail and whine as you kick your feet slightly.

“Fine! I understand, sir!” You spit out vehemently.

However, he doesn’t appreciate that attitude. He would have stopped had you just been respectful, but you only have yourself to blame for drawing out this punishment.

The spanking has you wailing with tears, hiccuping and choking out promises of being good for him.

“You will, huh? You’ll be good now?”

Nodding, you fervently agree with him. “Yes, sir! Promise!”

Shouta whacks your thighs twice more and then throws the black rectangle onto the coffee table. He looks at down at you, rubbing the sting into your freshly spanked bottom, making it feel even worse instead of better.

“Do we have an understanding now?”

Biting your lip and hanging your head, you nod. “Yes, sir.”

He pats your rear twice before helping you up. He sits you on his lap, letting you loose from the scarf, hugging you closely. You strain yourself in his hold, not wanting to relax. He feels the tensing of your muscles, but he knows you’ll tire yourself out soon enough.

“I hope you know you’re still eating dinner tonight.”

You grumble a soft “okay” into his chest, snuffling and rubbing at your blotchy cheeks to erase the evidence of your tears.

For now, Shouta just holds you closely, cuddling you like you’re a little cat. After a long while, you can’t tense up your muscles anymore, and you find yourself relaxing against him. Your soft eyelashes close, and the last thing you see is the fearsome remote control on the table.

You’ll never look at it the same way ever again.

[sashiavi]

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𝚂𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝙰𝚟𝚒'𝚜 𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙺𝚃𝙾𝙱𝙴𝚁

#17•𝙿𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚔•#17

𝙳𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚌 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 ʷᵒʳᵈ ᶜᵒᵘⁿᵗ ¹.⁸ᵏ

Working at the Dawn Winery was a dream. The grounds were absolutely beautiful, the staff were nice and extremely helpful. The estate was stunning, the interior decadently fitted with dark woods and ornate decorations. The Lord of the House - Archons, you couldn't even think of his name without your tummy turning. Diluc Ragnvindr, eldest son to the estate, ruler of the wine tycoon, Nobleman, swordsman, bartender and the man that had captured your heart.

It was a wonder you even landed a job like this. You were well versed in the world of the Ragnvindr's - so to speak. You were once a maid for the Knights of Favonius, seen pittering around the halls of the establishment, cleaning products in hand. You were often assigned to Captain Kaeya's office, not that he kept it messy, just there to prevent dust and grime from sneaking its way into the room. That man was the bane of your existence, always a tease, a flirt, a drunk - a pain in the ass. He somehow knew of this little crush you had on his brother, the bantering was endless. But credit to him, he put in a good word for you and one thing led to another. Here you stand at the door, uniform on, tea in hand and ready to go.

You rap your knuckles on the wooden door, knocking a short tune and entering when you hear a curt 'Come in.' Behind it reveals a study, cluttered in books, papers, a sofa to the wall and a large mahogany desk right in the middle of the room. There sits the man of the hour, Diluc. Your body works overtime to keep the silver tray in your hands steady - pull it together, he's your boss.

"The tea you requested, Sir." You struggle to make eye contact, how can a man be so pretty?

"Thank you, [Name]" He smiles politely, turning towards you and nodding a small gesture of appreciation. He knows your name. Your heart trembles, fluttering in your chest. You bow, quick to continue your maidly duties, swiftly dusting off the heavy, hardcover books that lined his study.

"Ah.. [Name]" You hear him call. Oh Archons, you did something wrong. One day in and you've ruined it. You take a big breath before turning to face him. You were a big girl. It was going to be okay.

"This tea is really lovely.. You did a good job." He toasts the air with his cup before taking a sip, returning to the mountain of paperwork sprawled over his desk. Your chest swells with pride, bubbling with all sorts of fizzley feelings. You excuse yourself from the office, off to continue your duties, not before the Young Master waves you off with a soft smile. You shut the heavy door and lean against it for a moment, nearly squealing into your feather duster, promptly coaxing a loud sneeze out of you. You hoped no one heard that.

It continues on - Your interactions with Diluc. He sends you the sweetest smiles when you bring him treats during the day, praising your baking skills when you reveal that you made them yourself.

"I ought to commission you to bake for the Tavern.. You're a great cook," He gives a side smile before biting into the sweet treat. Diluc makes a happy sound, eyes closed and head tilted as he chews. Your heart does that thing again - It makes your chest feel light, throat feel tight and your legs all wobbly.

And again - You had changed out of your working uniform, no longer clad in the pretty frilly apron provided to you. Dressed up, ready for a night on the town with your friends. Nothing too crazy, maybe a visit to the Cat's Tail to have a snuggle with some Kittens. You're halfway out of the estate when you realize you had forgotten a crucial item - Your coin purse. The way in which your eyes widen and the not-so-elegant spin you make towards the Winery would have been comical - If anyone had been watching. You hastily make your way through the Winery doors, making a beeline for where your personal belongings were stashed during the day. You find what you were looking for and make a swift exit. But not before nearly barging into your poor boss.

"Ah- [Name], oh.. You look really lovely, heading into the city?" He smiles, arms crossed against his chest. You nod and briefly tell him of your plans before excusing yourself. You were sure your face was the colour of a sunsettia. You were sure you were going to faint if this kept up.

"You look so pretty like this," Diluc muses gently, carding his fingers through your hair while you swallow around his length. Archons there it is again, that fluttery shiver in your tummy. You hear the scratch of pen upon paper above you, Diluc works through the last of his paperwork you always saw plastered over his desk. You couldn't recall how you got here, but you couldn't care. He caresses your face softly, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. He touches you so tenderly, purposely, with care and ease as if you had been lovers for an eternity already. You sigh blissfully on his thick cock, taking him sweetly down your throat, swallowing around his plushy soft tip. Your nose nestles into his pelvis, lips kissing at the base of his length.

"Gods… You're perfect.." He nearly groans, his fingers dig sweetly into the back of your neck, massaging into your hairline. You keen into him, moaning airily on his cock, swirling your tongue around his length as you take him in. His sweet praise makes your tummy swirl, you nearly beam at him, heart full and proud that you were pleasing him.

You pull back on him, suckling sweetly at the soft pink head of his cock, swirling your tongue around his velvety tip. You hear his pen clutter on to the desk above, accompanied with a short profanity. Both of his hands are on you now, holding your face and neck, cradling your head in his palm.

"Such a sweetheart.. Treating me so well.. doing such a good job." Diluc breathes. His words go to your head, they toy with your heart and make you ditzy on his cock. You pop off of his length with a soft squeeze of your lips, earning a little whine from the man above. You kiss at his cock, leaving spitty wet kisses on his velvety tip. Your eyes make contact with his, deep pools of hot lava melt into your pretty gaze. He drags his thumb across your spit swollen lips, thumbing into the corner of your mouth, pressing it sweetly against your tongue. His fingers caress your face lovingly, curling behind your ear in a soft drag. Your tummy flips and aches, dripping sweet arousal into your panties. Diluc openly sighs, a hint of his voice trickles through his throat.

"How can you be so gorgeous?" He breathes, slipping his thumb from your lips, not before you press a kiss to his finger tip. He couldn't help but lick your sweet spit off of his thumb, humming a soft groan as he wraps his lips around the wet tip of his finger. You give a sweet whimper at the sight of him, heart nearly busting out of your chest with a flutter. You kiss your lips around his flushed head, sinking back down on his aching cock. You bob your head up and down his thick length, taking him in with an earnest feeling, a strong desire to give back the sweet kindness he had shown to you.

"Gods.. Making me feel so good.. My good girl.. My [Name]" Diluc babbles, petting your hair, his praise is soft, full and swelling with adoration. His hands find their way back into your hair, threading through the strands, massaging your scalp. He humps short little thrusts into your throat, relishing in the soft vibrations of your keening moans around his length.

"Never want you to stop.. all I need is you-" His voice strains deliciously. It all goes to your head, his sweet syrupy words set your body on fire. A shiver runs down your spine, flashing and fizzing like water on hot coals, earning Diluc a sweet and pliant darling in his lap. The aforementioned man groans softly, eyes never leaving yours as you swirl your tongue up and down his thick cock.

"Getting.. getting close Darling, 'gonna… Your pretty mouth is 'gonna… Send me over the edge..!" His face burns red at his own words, ears tipped pink and lips bitten raw. You're eager to swallow him down, take him deep and prove that you are what his sweet words say. You feel his fingers tighten slightly on your hair, balling your hair into a gentle fist. His hips stutter sloppily, fucking back into your awaiting mouth with careful, soft thrusts. He babbles sweet praises as he reaches his peak, cradling your cheek, telling you just how good of a job you were doing.

"Cumming-! M'comming~!... so pretty for me.. Treating me so sweetly- ought to treat you- for your good work~" He luls his head side to side, prattling on and on in a pretty whimpery voice. His hips still, his hand pushes your head down. Diluc groans out, thumbing at your cheek as he shoots his thick, milky cum down your eager throat. He babbles again, nearly deluded from just your lips alone, spouting sweet nonsense into the air of the room.

Carefully, you come off of his cock with a sweet wet pop. He beckons you up, patting his thighs with his strong palms. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his lap, faces nearly touching, breath huffed and hot. He urges your arms to wrap around his neck, just as his arms cradle your waist. He kisses against your lips, capturing them in a searing, tender lock. His warm tongue licks into your mouth and he keens a soft moan, his voice vibrating on your lips. You tug at his hair and squeeze his lap with your thighs, your arousal was surely staining the front of his pants. Diluc pulls away with a heaving breath, thumbing at the soft swell of your bottom lip.

"Darling.. Pretty lips taste so sweet on my tongue… Can only imagine the rest of you.."

Your tummy flutters and spins as he pulls you back into his lips, warm and wet with spit. Working at the Dawn Winery really was a dream.

Confident Diluc thay knows what he desErves >>>> 😤

Im sorry if he's occ idc idccccc he's just <3 also I wrote this in public I am so sorry if it isn't my best work-

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Thank You For Reading! Comments Are Always Appreciated! I'll Give You A... A Kiss Mua

♡KinkTober Taglist♡

@heath-sama @yejiswifex @hunnibunnix @bleh09 @madsw9 @py-schi @wizzardcatwithastick @shiningpaint-marbleheart @cherrytomato2 @i-am-silver @your-tears-taste-sweeter @kqzutcra @themusingsofmany @kaijubxnny @tericula @omletteattack @maryeehawe @pomeiu @the-massive-simp @himenoakuma @medieval-raccoon @succub-suki

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[temis-de-leon]

Solomon x gn!reader in trad goth attire

Characters: Solomon, reader

Masterlist

Anon request: Hey again! ☆ can i request Solomon reacting to !gn reader dressing in traditional goth wardrobe for the first time?

Prompt can be changed to you liking and whether it's in the form of a fic, headcanons or shitpost is up to you ♡☆

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A/N: I based MC's clothes and makeup on 80's trad goth fashion. MC is a lil' black sheep and Solomon (and me) are simping for them. This is set at the start of season 2 in the OG game. Hope you enjoy it!

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Solomon didn’t really think about the way you looked. He’d seen Asmo make infinite assumptions about your appearance and he had to admit he put some input from time to time, but he didn’t really mind. He was content talking to and seeing your adorable miniature bovine body, black wool and all.

And it was that, the wool, what they should’ve taken into consideration when wondering about the real version of you.

There he stood, mere feet away from you, gawking as you talked on the phone; one of the brothers, perhaps? Your figure seemed impossibly tall, clashing against the crowd on your black attire: long leather coat almost touching the floor, a concoction of lace and velvet on your upper body and fishnets making your legs even lengthier.

He couldn’t stop staring; not even when the people around him looked at him in reprimand, surely taking him as a creep.

Then you blocked the phone and his plans of reinserting himself into your life as his usual mysterious self were forgotten. Rushing towards you, still transfixed by what he was seeing, Solomon called your name.

“Over here, MC!”

“Solomon?!”

He relished in your dumbfounded expression, giving himself the freedom to study you from up-close. Your face was as white as a sheet of paper and your eyes were framed by a complicated design of thick black lines. The hair on your head vaguely reminded him of the wool you had as a sheep, wild with no sense of direction, and he couldn’t help but smile at the comparison.

“You’re staring an awful lot and saying little to nothing”

Solomon chuckled, not embarrassed at all, and you smiled. The colour of your lips matched the makeup surrounding your gaze.

“I’m merely admiring you, MC. I never expected you to have this fashion style”

“And? Does my fashion style live to your expectations?”

He checked your lips again and didn’t bother to hide his interest when you bit your bottom one. Its contrast against the white of your teeth and the rest of your face didn’t let him stop staring.

Obsessing.

“I’d say it does more than that”

There was silence for a few seconds, other humans around you going through their lives without knowing what was happening between you two. Did you even know?

You finally laughed and lightly punched his arm, breaking the trance and leaving a certain tension behind. Solomon smiled in return and chose to leave the topic, at least for the time being.

“What are you doing here? It’s been so long!”

He sighed in a dramatic flair.

“Well, you know me… I’ve been occupied”

“And you show up now because…?”

You raised your eyebrows, making him laugh. He couldn’t distract you even if he tried, probably because he himself was distracted.

Your lips were so black.

“I was thinking…”

“You think too much”

“I was thinking. How do you feel about a brief visit to the Devildom?”

He enjoyed your immediate interest, back straightening as you got close to him in delight.

“What do you mean?”

“Surely you miss the brothers, right? And of course they miss you too, so, wouldn’t a quick trip be worth our while?

The mistrust in your eyes was quickly overpowered by your eagerness, the crosses in your earrings and your necklaces calling for his attention when they clanged like a wind chime.

“Perhaps you want to take those off”

“Oh, yeah”

Fingernails were black too, but your jewellery was entirely made of silver and stones, big and small, carefully placed in all your digits, your wrists and everything that allowed to wear something.

It became hypnotizing and he couldn’t avoid blushing in embarrassment when you finally snapped your fingers in his face while laughing in amusement.

Solomon couldn’t help but redirect his vision to your lips one last time.

How would he look with black lipstick?

Care to stick with him a little longer, MC?

.

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[tmzrkstan]

the idol!reader stuff eats so bad but barely anybody does it

I am particularly passionate about this type of reading. And taking advantage of the moment, I leave here an old idea that I never gave a chance to. ;)

nct dream (hyung line) working with ex idol!s/o.

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genre: idol!reader, ex to lovers (?), smutty, adult language.

•----------••----------••----------••----------••-------•

✭MARK:

Looking from a professional point of view, it was such a great opportunity. You could finally get to do another kind of concept, show other side of yours. Besides, you knew very well how much of a talented idol Mark was. Your team almost beg you for you to do it, them just freaking out with the attention y'all would get.

Even when you accepted there wasn't really a lot of meeting with your ex. Untill the MV shooting day at least. There you were, watching Lee from far while finishing your make up. He was receiving instructions from the director.

"Hey..." your voice sounded quietly.

"Hi!" his eyes turned out similiar from a lost puppy. "You look nice... I mean, it´s nice seeing you." he just got a short smile from you. "Your part it´s really great"

"Of course, you must think so since you composed it" he stammered a bit before correcting himself "No, I meant you made it a lot better."

Before any more chances to say anything the director made you two start the work there. Both of you acting the way you were supposed to. Inside, you were annoyed and still feeling a litle hurt, on the Mark´s side, he was feeling awful. He knew it was his fault that the break up happened. You were the most understanding girlfriend ever, since you knew what beeing an idol means. But you also got tired of waiting for your turn, to get attention. He lost weeks not even calling you while on tour, but you didn´t. Always texted and videocalled him.

After a lot of fighting you gave up and clean the way for him to focus just on that. Lee really tried to see as the best thing for you both but he was suffering every day since. His members made him notice who the jerk was. He smiled like a child on Christmans morning whwn you agreed to collab with him. It was the last chance and it would be worth.

Hours passed out, your ex complimented and took care of you all day long. Those who didn´t knew about your relantionship were surprised by how a gentleman he was with you, who just tried your best not to fall for his sweetness again. Especially when you found a letter on your bag during a pause.

It was his hand writting and his true feelings. Apologies all over it, confessions like that he writted the love lyrics of the song for you and that he never stoped loving you. Admitted he was wrong and childshid and was ready for trying again if you do too.

''Oh boy'' you thought as seeing how good he was with words while they were on paper.

The last ''Cut!'' was heard and you carefully whisper at him "We can have dinner, that´s all." you bet he was happy. "Better not wase my time."

"I would never dare to do it again."

✭Renjun:

Beeing in a relantionship with him was sweet, comfortable and lovely. But unfortunally this only was like this when you still a trainee. When you had a chance to debut it all changed. Schedueles, dates, you lost time together and all the fighting started. You just didn´t talked with each other anymore since the end. Until you worked together in a survival reality as judges.

Everybody noticed how you were always on opposite sides and skewered each other for your different opinions. There were even compilations of yours fights, that carried a lot of chemistry and tension, on the internet every week and the audience loved this intrigue.

Eventually, they ended up having to help the same team, which made them put their fights aside and gather even behind the cameras looking for a solution to help the poor trainees.

"I can't understand your point" you rolled your eyes laughing "Of course you never did." he huffed "It's not all about you, though you may think so..." you were discussing what would be the best direction for a choreography.

"You're so childish! It's obvious that this step is better! You take it, however, you lose your balance at a certain point and end up almost falling, if it weren't for him catching himself abruptly. Eye contact was present and you felt your mouth go dry and your hands sweat.

"You should be more careful!" he puts you back on your feet, still holding tight to your waist. "If not what?" he looked down at you "What?" you then repeated "If not what will happen?"

"I'm going to have to teach you a few things…how to respect your elders." "How?" He sighed, smiling with some anger. Took you to the wall attacking your lips aggressively as he squeezes your waist again and you lose your fingers in his hair.

✭Jeno:

Starting to date with your co-worker wasn´t a really a good idea, especially if him was another MC from the TV show you worked on. But who could blame you for not resisting to Jeno? I mean, look at him right?

You should´ve said "no'' the first time he asked you out, but was too late now. After a few months you two had a big fight because of diferences on toughts and were obligated to work together for at least five weeks more. You runaway for as long as you could but after a quick tour on Asian you had to get back. But it was clear that he wasn´t going to make this easy.

A lot of smiles and flirting talks run free during the meeting for planning the week and when you were on make up session.

"Just shut your mouth up!" you yelled as soon as the stylists leaved the room.

"Why? Need it shut for you to kissed?"

"I´m gonna punch just on the midle of your face."

"The face you love." he smiled all playfull.

"I simply hate your attitude and confidence, you´re not that all." you roll your eyes as you listen to him laugh. "What?"

"It´s fun... the way we were making out on that sofa a few days earlier and now you are saying this stupid thing..."

"You are stupid." he got up, walking to behind your chair and facing you through the mirror. "Really, darling? Only because we had a silly fight you think that?"

"You know it wasn´t silly" you sigh. "For me it was, anything that keeps me away of these beautyful lips it´s silly..." he pus both hands around your shoulders, caressing exactly the way you like it.

"Don´t...don´t touch me." you hesitate before spinning your chair to his front. "I´m not going to fall for your charm again."

"So I do have a charm." his high was cut in half by his knees touching the carpet. "You fall once, sweetheart." he blinked slowly before biting his lower lip. "Let´s not promise things we can´t deal with later, ok?"

The door was open after three knocks, reveling the hairstylist team. He came back to his chair, with a cheeky smile. Oh, he was so sure you would be his again, just in a matter of time...

✭Haechan:

You really didn´t wanted to finished things with Donghyuck, but unfortunately beeing famous demanded a lot. When you noticed your, just recent, relantionship with him was making Haechan a lot distracted from his work you felt guilty. With wich power could you make him risk everything if you got into his life few days ago? So hard, but you did it. Lied and end it all because of "mental confusions".

But here you were, getting ready to practice a dance stage with him for an award concert. The fans picked you two for it, based on your aparently "friendship", and you get bad to your side if you recused.

Very diferent from what you expect, he was normal around, at least for his general behavior. He joked around with the dance instructor and tried to make you laugh, he wasn´t awkard at all. However, you felt very strange inside.

Luckly, you guys were quick with it and finished the day earlier. You grab your things nd almost run to grab the elevator, the same he stops putting one hand between the doors.

"Oh, isn´t such a coincidence?" he pressed the bottom on the metalic wall.

"I guess..." you smiled weakly.

"I didn´t get why you so weird around me..." he sigh slowly. "I should be the one to be like this, since you broke my heart few days ago, right?" even though his words looked painfull he was smiling yet. "You really didn´t had pitty for me, y/n..."

"Haechan, I..." your felt like falling as the elevator lurched and its lights were replaced by a darker, apparently the emergency one. "What´s this?" you grabed your bag stronger.

"Don´t worry, this one always do something like it, just wait a few minutes." he put his back at one wall.

"What? Why didn´t you told me before?" he looked down "I ask the same to you..."

"Come on, it´s not the same thing!" you frowned at him. "All we can do it´s wait, i swear it happended before."

"Fine... but I won´t be listening to you atacking me or my motives during this time!"

"I wouldn´t do it." he shrugged. "Even hurted, I know you didn´t mean anything that you said." "What?" the man came closer "It may look like not enough time, but I nkow you well by now. You were concerned."

"About?" he looked up "Me giving all of me in this...what did you called it? Hookup time."

"You can´t be sure of that." you tried to get back but he grabbed you wrist "But I am, as much as I decide to forgive you for this." he put one hand on your cheek "Also sure that you missed me how I missed you..." And everything happened quickly, the touch of lips, the lights and the elevator coming back and the doors opening in Jaemin and Jisung's faces who watched everything with a shocked face.

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[explosionkatsu]

"Age doesn't matter" 4

Dad!Bakugou x F!Babysitter!Teacher!Reader

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

After his shift, Eijirou headed towards his office and changed into his casual attire. It's an uneventful shift which Eijirou was glad about since it meant no one got hurt. But he couldn't stop thinking about Katsuki and his well-being.

Being a hero means helping as much as you can even if it costs you to offer up your life. So if it takes him eternally to find the person who caused this misery to his friend, he will.

Thinking about this made Eijirou's blood boil. It makes him think back to the day Katsuki introduced her to them. At first, he thought she was a fine woman who doesn't care about Katsuki's status, and wealth. But as the day goes by, he started noticing the changes in his friend. It even got to the point that Katsuki had to miss work just for him to buy her desires. Materialistic desires.

How dare she manipulate his best friend.

How dare she steal his wealth.

How dare she fool around while Katsuki's working his ass off.

How dare she leave him and their child behind.

Thinking about this made Eijirou desperate and arrest her right away. But that isn't logical thinking. He knew he needed to know her side first. He needed to know why she does that.

After Eijirou wrapped up, he put his suit where the agency will cleanse it. He bid everyone goodbye with a smile before departing the building. His smile suddenly slips as he fishes his phone from his pocket. Grasping it firmly, he doubled taps the screen seeing his phone lit up. His finger dances on the screen as he dials a familiar number before placing the phone near his ear and waiting for the other line to answer.

"Hello?"

"Ah hey! How are you doing?" Eijirou smiled as he began walking.

"Kirishima. I didn't expect you to call.”

"Haha, yeah. Today's uneventful so my shift ended quite early." Eijirou said scratching his head.

"So, what's up?"

Eijirou's smile disappears again, "I'll get frankly to the topic." He said with a serious voice, "I hope you have useful news."

The person at the other line raised an eyebrow before smiling. "Ah. Yes actually. You'll be shocked."

"What is it?" Eijirou asked making him stop walking.

"She's actually still in the city."

..

"Okay, class. It’s already 4 pm. That's all for today. You may only leave when your parents showed up to pick you up." Ms. Y/n smiled as she started assembling her items.

One by one, the parents show up greeting her before they took their child and leave. The only one left is Kazui who's busily sketching random stuff on a piece of paper.

The fact that Kazui knew someone would pick him up but probably late made Ms. Y/n feel sad. He’s too young to experience this kind of thing. That is also why she mentioned to Mr. Bakugou that she used to be a babysitter so that she can officially take care of Kazui.

Taking a huge breath, Ms. Y/n made her way to Kazui who hasn't noticed her yet. Once she reached his side, she knelt down and tap him on his shoulder trying to get his attention which worked.

“Ms. Y/n?” Kazuo looked at her curiously as he stopped doodling.

“Will anyone pick you up?” Ms. Y/n asked. She ought to know if someone will pick him up so that she’ll know if they had to wait or she’ll take him with her.

Kazuo looked down at his paper sadly. “Papa didn't mention he’ll pick me up, not grandma.” He mumbled.

His tone of voice causes Ms. Y/n’s heart to ache. So without further ado, she gathers her things, as well as Kazui’s, and motioned him to follow her.

“Ms. Y/n, where are we going?” Kazui asked as he watches his teacher locking their classroom door.

“I’ll take you to my apartment again. But I need to message your grandparents first, or your papa to let them know you’re with me.” Ms. Y/n smiled down at Kazui who smiled at her excitedly.

“Really!? Do I get to watch you cook again?!” Kazui beamed and followed Ms. Y/n way to the teacher’s office where she has her things.

“Of course.” Ms. Y/n giggled seeing Kazui's eyes sparkling.

Once Ms. Y/n finished packing the things she needed to work on her home and messaging Kazui’s guardian, she wave to her co-teachers, telling them she’ll take her leave.

Ms. Y/n felt Kazui’s hand grasp her skirt making her look down. This must be how Kazui is to Mr. Bakugou. So she took his hand and held it giving Kazui a gentle smile.

“What do you want for dinner, dear?” Ms. Y/n asked as they both headed to the exit door.

Kazui released a humming sound as if thinking, making Ms. Y/n chuckle as she watches him.

“Can we have Hamburger Steak?” Kazui looked up at her showing his beautiful velvet eyes as he waited for her to answer.

“Mhhmm.” Ms. Y/n pretended to think, placing her pointer finger on her pouting lips. “Alright.” She smiled.

“Yay!!”

..

It was now 6 pm in the evening and Katsuki just finished his shift. He's glad and pissed at the same time that today was slow. No villain attacks or what so ever.

As he made his way to his agency, Katsuki took this chance to check his phone. Seeing a lot of notifications from his old mentor, his parents, and Kazui’s school. Of course, he clicked the one concerning his child.

When the message showed on his screen, he reads it carefully. Although, the content of the message made him facepalm. He forgot to inform Kazui’s teacher he’ll pick him up late. Boy, he was glad Kazui’s teacher is considerate enough to look after Kazui while he was on duty.

She’s been taking care of his child for a while now since they both got closer and she even bring his child to her apartment, waiting for someone to pick him up. He was glad someone was giving him a helping hand.

When Katsuki reached his office, he kept reminding himself to bring a gift as a thank you to Ms. Y/n for taking care of his child.

..

After they both went to the supermarket to get the ingredients needed for their dinner, Ms. Y/n went to the beverage area and added a small bottle of sparkling grape juice for herself and a pair of orange juice boxes for Kazui. She paid everything to the cashier and walk their way to her apartment which isn't that far from the school.

When they entered her apartment, Kazui took the bags from Ms. Y/n, helping her to place them on the counter which he could barely reach.

Ms. Y/n giggled at this and thanked Kazui before going to her bedroom and changing into comfortable clothes. After changing, she made her way to her kitchen and started preparing.

“Ms. Y/n?” Kazuo called out while he sat on the counter top where he could watch Ms. Y/n cook. But of course, away from the stove.

“Yes, sweetie?” Ms. Y/n answered while she focuses on mixing the contents needed for the burger steak.

“Are you single?”

Ms. Y/n halt her movement, blinking confusedly before turning her head to look at Kazui. “Where did this come from?”

“Well, I don't see any other pictures in here. Only your picture and a family picture right there.” Kazui said raising his hand to point where he saw the picture.

Observant. The word that came up in Ms. Y/n's mind. She knew Kazui’s smart. She witnessed how he can effortlessly solve any problem written on the blackboard. Especially when it's a situational problem. No, she didn't teach these kinds of problems to her students. But when she saw Kazui’s ability, she decided to test it out. That's where she found out about Kazui’s sharp thinking. Maybe it was because he was the child of the number 2 hero? Was he teaching his child these things? She’ll never know.

“Haha. I am single. And why are you asking this, huh?” Ms. Y/n eyes Kazui suspiciously and is playful at the same time. “Are you going to ask me out?”

Kazui’s face turns red and seeing this reaction made Ms. Y/n laugh.

“I’m kidding.” Ms. Y/n said giggling and continue preparing their dinner.

“C-can I ask you a question?” Kazui was looking at his feet when he said this.

“Go ahead, sweetie.” Ms. Y/n spoke out gently as she started shaping the burger steak.

“Can you be my mama?”

[max1461]

I have a lot of thoughts about epistemology and the nature of procedural knowledge. Studying linguistics really impresses upon you just the sheer amount of human knowledge that is procedural and implicit. Languages are these huge, ridiculously complex systems, and even when it comes to the most thoroughly documented language in human history (English), you can still make an entire career documenting as-yet-unknown minutiae of some corner of a corner of the system. It's very difficult to impress upon non-linguists just how big and ill-understood languages are.

There is no book which explains the whole of English grammar. No one on earth knows the complete rule-set of English grammar. Not even for one dialect, not even for one single speaker. No one on earth could write a comprehensive treatise on English pronunciation. We do not know how English works. We do not know how any language works.

And yet, these systems are, in their entirety, already stored in the mind of every native speaker.

When it comes to synchronic information, I literally already know everything there is to know about my dialect of English. I know the timing of every articulation, the exact rules for verb and auxiliary and quantifier placement, the phonology, semantics, syntax, the lexical variation, the registers, all of it. I can deploy it effortlessly while I am thinking about something else. I can form reams of perfectly grammatical English sentences without a second thought. I can deploy the most arcane rules of wh-movement and quantifier raising and whatever else. With no effort at all.

Tens of thousands of people having been making careers trying to document these things, not for my exact dialect but for varieties essentially the same as mine, for 60 years in earnest. And they aren't close to done. And I already know it all. And so do they! They already know it too! The hard part is accessing it, putting it down on paper. That requires experimentation, systematic empirical investigation—science.

So what this has really impressed on me is how much of human knowledge is procedural. How much of it is known only in the doing. I'd wager that's the significant majority of what we know.

This is related to two thoughts that I have.

The first is about the value of unbroken lines of cultural inheritance. With language, the difference between native speakers and second language learners is stark. I think it's safe to say, per current research, that someone who learns a language in adulthood will simply never have the same command of it as someone who learned it in childhood. There are a variety of tests which consistently distinguish native from non-native speakers. You can get very good at a language as an adult learner, good enough for basically all practical needs (except being a spy), but there's a bar your brain just cannot meet.

The unfortunate fact about language is this: if the line of native-speaker-to-child transmission is ever broken, that language is lost. You can try to revive... something, if you want. Like was done with Hebrew in Israel. But it will not be the same language. And not just in the sense that, by the passing of time, all languages inherently change. In a much stronger sense than that. No matter how big a text corpus you have, no matter how well documented the language is, there is an immense body of implicit, undocumented, procedural knowledge that dies when the last native speaker does. And you cannot ever get it back.

I think, often, about the fact that so much human knowledge is procedural, is used and understood and passed on in illegible, difficult to codify ways. I think about the effect that a rapidly changing world has on this body of knowledge. Is it going to be essential for human prosperity? Probably not. But that doesn't mean that losing it will harmless. Certainly I expect much of it to be missed.

The second thought is about an epistemic distinction that I've had in my head for a long time, a distinction I'd like to refer to as that between a science and an art.

An art is any endeavor for which there is an established methodology, an established set of procedures and rules. These rules can be explicit and codified, like the rules of a game, or implicit, like the grammar of a language. They can be absolute or they can be mere guidelines. But in essence, an art is anything you can get good at. Math is quintessentially an art. Football is an art. Ballet is an art. Painting is an art. An art is any endeavor in which procedural knowledge is acquired and channeled and refined and passed on.

Art contrasts with science. A science is any endeavor in which one is shooting blind. Science is the domain of guesswork and trial-and-error. Sciences are those domains that do not lend themself to practice, because... what would you practice at? You cannot get better at science, because science is not about skill. Science is about exploration. It necessarily involves forging your own path, working with odd and faulty tools and odd and faulty ideas, trying to get them to work. Science only exists at the frontiers; when a path is well-tread enough that a body of procedure becomes known and practiced, that path is now art and no longer science.

This distinction is not a taxonomy. Everything we do involves a little bit of art and a little bit of science. Everything involves both a refinement of known skills and an exploration of new avenues. Of course there's a little bit of science in painting, there's quite a lot of science in painting. Every modern and contemporary art museum is full of it! And there's science in math, every once in a while. And there's art in biology and chemistry. Art and science are two modes of engagement, and different endeavors demand them of you in different ways.

Perhaps science is like a glider (you know, from Conway's game of life?), traveling ever outward, and with enough passes over the same area leaving art in its wake. And I think in some sense that all real human knowledge exists as art, that all endeavors capable of producing true insight are either arts or sciences buttressed by a great many supporting arts. Although maybe I'm wrong about this.

I think history is mostly science, and in large part history as a field seems to be on quite solid epistemic footing. So I don't want to convey the idea that science is inherently dubious; clearly from the above description that can't be my position. Nor is art inherently trustworthy—for instance I think jurisprudence is primarily an art, including religious jurisprudence, which of course I don't place any stock in. But I do think I'm getting at something with the idea that there are a range of epistemic benefits to working within an art that one lacks access to in a totally unconstrained science. This is also closely related to my ideas about abstraction and concretization schemes.

Language is an art, one of the oldest arts, but modern linguistics is more or less a science. Like any good science, linguistics has certain arts unique to itself—fieldwork and the comparative method come to mind—but the most vibrant parts of the field at present are science through-and-through. It's a science whose objects of study are arts, and I think maybe that's part of why I've become so aware of this distinction. Or, language is the ur-example of an art, the art from which (if I were to conjecture wildly) I think the cognitive machinery for very many other arts has been borrowed. But I don't really know.

Anyway, those are my thoughts.

[floralcyanide]

ʜɪꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱᴏʀ!ᴊᴏʜɴ “ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ” ᴇɢᴀɴ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ ɪɪ

Your job at the museum teaches you more than you think when it’s opening night for a WWII exhibit.

pairing: professor!john "bucky" egan / fem!reader

warnings: none!

author’s note: I'm thinking the next part to this will be an actual fanfic but we'll see (:

masterlist | divider credit: @cafekitsune

this fic has been cross posted to ao3.

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

✦ You work hard on your first paper based on your thesis. Dr. Egan gives you pointers here and there. Sometimes, you go to his office just to chat when you aren’t doing research. 

✦ He doesn’t go into detail about his personal life, but you do know he’s divorced and has a kid who’s a teenager. He talks about his son a lot, and it brings a smile to your face. Dr. Egan says he hopes his son is just as smart as you when he gets to college. 

✦ He mentions a trip to DC for the Master’s program. You jump at the idea, much to Dr. Evan’s delight. You ask if he’s going, and he says no. You wonder why but don’t bother to ask. There’s a lot that Dr. Egan doesn’t seem like he wishes to tell you. And you wonder if it’s simply because he’s your superior or if it’s something else. Either way, you’re curious. But you don’t want to cross a line. 

✦ You talk a lot about your grandfather to Professor Egan; he always listens patiently and even gives you a moment to gather yourself when you become emotional. You also talk about your father a good bit. Dr. Egan asks what he does, and you explain that he used to be a pilot in the last war. Dr. Egan makes a peculiar face but brushes it off quickly.

✦ He asks what squadron your father was in. “My father was in the Hundredth. He talks about his experience a lot.” Dr. Egan suddenly checks his watch and excuses himself, saying he had to be somewhere and that you were welcome to return to his office tomorrow.

✦ You leave confused about what caused the sudden change in Professor Egan's demeanor but shake it off. You do come again the following day and bring coffee, apologizing for anything you may have bothered him with.

✦ “It wasn’t anything you said, don’t worry,” Dr. Egan says, “I just lost track of time. I tend to do that with you a lot.” You try not to get flustered at his comment when he gives you a soft smile with it. 

✦ Whenever you aren’t researching or hanging with Dr. Egan, you work at the local World War II museum, creating exhibits and giving guests tours. It’s the opening of the new exhibit of the airmen of the war tonight, and you’re dressed your best. You’re happy to explain to guests the timeline of the war and show them photographs and artifacts. 

✦ A familiar figure catches your eye. You notice a tall, graying man with his hands shoved in his pockets, eyeing photos of the squadron your father was in that he donated to the exhibit. You approach the man, “Have any questions?” he turns around, and sure enough, it’s Dr. Egan.

✦ “Professor Egan! I didn’t expect you to be here!” you smile as he looks at you knowingly, with a bit of defeat. “I knew you’d be here, actually,” he says. You give him a confused look.

✦ Dr. Egan points at the group photo of the remaining airmen from the 100th who live to V Day to a specific man with a dashing grin. “See this guy here? Does he look familiar to you?” You squint, leaning close to the photograph you’ve seen many times. Then you realize that dashing smile only belongs to one person.

✦ You carefully look over to Dr. Egan, unsure of what to say. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” you ask. “Didn’t want people, especially students, to see me differently.” “How would they see you in any way other than a hero?” you ask, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not really the ideal profession,” Dr. Egan swallows, unable to look you in the eye. You sigh, “It was war, Professor. You did what needed to be done, unfortunately. And it’s over now.”

✦ “I just felt you needed to know about my past,” Dr. Egan admits, “Especially since we’ve grown so close professionally and your father was in the same squadron as me. It was only time before you found out.”

✦ “I’d love to know everything you’re willing to tell me. Especially since it’ll help with my research. Not to mention there’s probably stuff my father never mentioned,” you chuckle. There’s a mischievous glint in Dr. Egan’s eye at that statement. “Lunch tomorrow?”