Flower Garden

#( leo // fc )#( we need trivia anout glasses books his ribbon and those perfect platinum blonds slithering on the broad shoulders )

Good morning sinners!

Who we want the dirty laundry for today? 🤭

Also, I have two muses that I’m thinking of bringing back. Let’s go voting!

Nsfw for who??

Shinichi

Leonardo & Flinn

Remaining time: 17 hours 50 minutes

#( more nsfw hc? )

The Gentle Giant & Unintentional Intensity

Overwhelming Proximity: At 1.87cm tall (6'1"), he doesn't realize how easily he can corner someone. When he leans over you in a quiet moment—his long, blond hair spilling past his shoulders and shadowing your face—the sheer difference in size creates an instant, breathless heat.

Flustered Repercussions: Because he gets flustered so easily, pushing his buttons has high rewards. When he tries to stay soft or polite while thoroughly aroused, his voice loses its gentle teacher tone, dropping into a low, strained whisper against your ear as he tries to keep his composure.

The Hair Ribbon: Having his hair tied up in that signature blue ribbon makes him a prime target. Unravelling that knot and letting his long, silky blond hair fall loose around his shoulders is like stripping away his reserved teacher facade, exposing a much rawer, uninhibited side.

The Sneaky & Whispered Nature

Stolen Moments: Being a single dad means privacy is a rare, high-stakes luxury. When Finn is finally fast asleep, the sudden shift in atmospheric tension is electric. Every touch, kiss, and muffled gasp has to be kept desperately quiet—pinning you against a locked bedroom door or kitchen counter with breathless urgency.

Large, Warm Hands: He has broad, warm hands that could easily span your entire waist or hold both your wrists in one palm. Even when he's being exceptionally gentle, the contrast of his large frame wrapping around you makes you feel completely overwhelmed in the best way possible.

Post-Intimacy & Doting Warmth

The "Accidental" Dominance: He isn't inherently aggressive, but once he loses his timid edge in the moment, he gets deeply, intensely focused on his partner's pleasure. He won't let you pull away until he's completely satisfied that you've been taken care of.

Sleepy, Protective Cuddles: Afterward, he melts back into a soft, protective blanket of a man—wrapping his long arms and legs around you, resting his chin on top of your head, and murmuring low, sweet praises right until he drifts off.

#( leo // hc )#( leo // ae )#( tw: suggestive )#( hi hey single massive soft giant dad appeared in the vicinity)

The Canvas & The Grip

Gripping the Hips: With his long, slender fingers and background as an artist, his grip is deceptively firm. When he pulls a partner in close, his cold hands clamp down on their hips or waist with an unyielding pressure—tracing the bone structure like he’s judging proportions before pulling them flush against him.

Whispers Against the Collarbone: He’s fascinated by collarbones (fitting, given the mole on his own). He loves trailing slow, hot kisses right along the ridge, letting his heavy breath pool against the skin until his partner’s pulse is visibly hammering against his lips.

Unfiltered Murmurs: While he normally suppresses his tenderness, the heat of the moment completely breaks his filter. He’ll start lazily murmuring unfiltered, hushed praise right into your skin in that low, rasping voice—telling you exactly how gorgeous, distracting, or addicting you are to him.

Atelier Indulgence

The Messy Sofa Surrender: His atelier's worn leather sofa has seen more action than his actual bed. He loves the raw spontaneity of stopping mid-sketch, tossing his charcoal or brushes aside, and pinning a partner back against the cushions without even bothering to clear the workspace first.

Stealing Clothes: After a long session, he has a habit of lazily dressing his partner in one of his oversized, unbuttoned fancy shirts or cardigans. Seeing someone he loves swaddled in his clothes—smelling like his mix of coffee, clove, and paint—gives him a quiet, possessive satisfaction.

Tangled Hair: His silky black hair (which reaches the upper quarter of his back) always gets completely undone. Having a partner grab onto his long hair or wrap it around their fingers while he's leaning over them turns his cool, nonchalant composure into absolute, breathless surrender.

#( shin // hc )#( …. ur fault— u asked for it and i delivered// bombed the dash 🤭 he is so aesthetic 🫠✨ )#( tw: suggestive )

The Studio & Model Dynamic

Fixated Gaze: When he's in "artist mode," his dark blue eyes take in a partner with an intense, unblinking focus that blurs the line between artistic appreciation and raw desire. Having his full, heavy attention locked on you feels almost overwhelming.

Paint-Stained Hands: He rarely cleans up completely before getting close. The slight rough texture of dry paint on his slender fingers against bare, soft skin creates an addictive, lingering contrast.

The Drape of His Clothes: Because he wears unbuttoned shirts and black turtlenecks, he has a habit of letting his clothes slip casually off one shoulder or unbuttoning just low enough to show the mole near his collarbone, knowing exactly how distracting it is.

Sensory Tension & Habits

Cigarettes & Kisses: He’ll take a slow drag off a cigarette, exhale the gray smoke off to the side, and pull a partner in for a kiss while the faint, hot taste of tobacco and clove is still lingering on his lips.

Cold Fingertips on Sensitive Skin: His circulation means his long fingers are almost always cool to the touch. He loves deliberately tracing them down a warm spine, nape, or inner thigh just to catch that sudden, involuntary shiver.

Low Baritone Whispers: When he's exhausted or thoroughly disarmed, his voice drops into a quiet, raspy hum right against the shell of your ear—whining softly about needing attention or lazily demanding that you stay put.

Lazy Dominance & Devotion

Desk & Canvas Distractions: If a partner wanders into his atelier while he’s trying to paint, his focus snaps completely. He’ll set his brushes down, clear a spot on the edge of his workstation, and pull them up into his lap without missing a beat.

Quiet Possession: He isn't aggressive, but he has a very natural, grounded weight to him. He likes trapping a partner beneath him on his messy sofa or bed, using his tall frame (1.86cm) to completely enclose them in his space.

Sensory Overload: Because he spends his whole life suppressing his intense emotions, when he finally surrenders to physical intimacy, it’s remarkably passionate—leaving him completely drained, clinging to his partner, and falling fast asleep right beside them.

#( shin // hc )#( ffff guys u should know that i will #relapse once i come in contact with his muse again 😱😱🤣❤️ )#( tw: suggestive )

Good morning sinners!

Who we want the dirty laundry for today? 🤭

Also, I have two muses that I’m thinking of bringing back. Let’s go voting!

Nsfw for who??

Shinichi

Leonardo & Flinn

Remaining time: 17 hours 50 minutes

#( mun )#( ooc )#( interaction call )

The low, steady hum of the rain beating against the high office windows was the only sound breaking the heavy quiet of the late hour. The overhead lights were turned off, leaving the spacious room bathed in the amber glow of the desk lamp and the flickering shadows cast by the city skyline outside.

Akio sat back in his leather chair, the dark fabric of his dress shirt unbuttoned just enough at the collar to reveal the sharp line of his throat. A faint, lazy curl of gray smoke rose from the cigar resting between his knuckles, filling the warm air with the rich, intoxicating scent of tobacco and cedarwood.

His steel-grey eyes, calm and unblinking, tracked every movement as the figure stepped further into the room. He didn't say a word at first. He simply took a slow, deliberate drag, the cherry ember glowing brightly in the dim light before he exhaled a thin stream of smoke off to the side.

Setting the cigar down into the glass ashtray with a soft click, Akio leaned forward, resting his broad forearms against the dark wood of his desk. His gaze dropped to take them in—tracing the line of their shoulders down to their hands—before rising back to lock onto theirs with an unyielding, heavy weight.

"You're late," Akio murmured, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated through the quiet space between them. He didn't sound angry; instead, there was a dangerous, quiet warmth underlying his words—an unspoken invitation that commanded the entire room.

He slowly patted the open space on the edge of his desk right beside him, his calloused fingers tapping against the polished wood in a slow, rhythmic cadence.

"Come here."

lured-into-wonderland

“It was a terribly boring meeting... But I couldn't find any reasonable excuse to leave early. They talked, and talked, and talked about things I was sure had already been decided...” – her bright silhouette stood in sharp contrast to the dimly lit office. Nunnally wore a light blue dress beneath an elegant cream-colored coat, which she was slipping off as she spoke.

“And then it started to rain, and the traffic became unbelievable. The driver said—”

Was Nunnally unaware that she was late, or was this stream of cheerful chatter her way of steering the conversation away from something as awkward, and as trivial, as her tardiness? Akio didn't let her, though.

You're late; he said. There was no real anger in his voice, but guilt washed over Nunnally all the same. She was certain her cheeks had turned pink, but hopefully, the office was dark enough that he couldn't tell.

“I... I'm sorry. I should have called, at least.” – she wasn't even sure why she hadn't – “I kept thinking it wouldn't take that much longer...” – she made a vague gesture with one hand, suddenly uncertain whether she ought to put her coat back on and leave – “I suppose it's too late...” – for our dinner; Nunnally wanted to say...

But before she could finish, Akio patted the open space at the edge of his desk, clearly inviting her to sit. Nunnally gave him a questioning look, but obedience had long since become second nature. She walked over and leaned against the edge instead, convinced there was no graceful way to perch there in a dress that clung as closely as hers did.

“I don't want to disturb your papers” – she murmured, fully aware of how absurd the excuse sounded. Whatever else she had intended to say died on her lips. Nunnally was close to Akio now, and lately that had begun to affect her in strange, unsettling ways. Almost without thinking, she reached out. Her fingers slipped into his hair, gently coaxing him to lean towards her.

“I am sorry for making you wait.” – she whispered – “But I'm glad you did.”

#lured into wonderland #( aki // ic )#( so happy to be back and even happier to see you active!!! 🥹❤️✨ )

Akio doesn't pull back when her soft fingers slip into his hair. Instead, he yields to her gentle coaxing, leaning forward just enough to let the space between them collapse, though his steel-gray eyes remain fixed on hers with an unblinking, heavy focus.

Her gentle touch is a stark contrast to his rough, unyielding world—a quiet luxury he finds himself increasingly reluctant to dismiss.

A low, nearly imperceptible exhale slips past his lips, carrying the faint scent of cedarwood and tobacco smoke as he tilts his head slightly into her hand. His own hand moves, broad and warm, coming up to rest firmly against her waist—not enough to pull her off balance, but anchoring her gently against the polished edge of his desk.

"You worry too much about my papers, Nunnally," Akio murmurs, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp against the quiet hum of the rain outside.

He lets his thumb stroke slowly across the fabric of her dress at her hip, feeling the subtle tension in her body as she stands so close to him in the dim amber light.

"And as for dinner..." He pauses, his gaze dropping briefly to her flushed lips before rising back to meet her eyes. "It is never too late when you are here. I told them to hold the reservation."

Slowly, deliberately, he turns his head just enough to press a firm, slow kiss against the inside of her wrist—where her pulse flutters beneath her soft skin—before looking back up at her, his expression softening just a fraction.

"Next time, call," he adds quietly, his tone carrying no harshness, only a heavy, steady warmth. "Not because I am angry... but because I would rather not spend my evening wondering where you are."

Arisu catches the flat tone in his voice, but instead of deflating, a small, triumphant laugh escapes her lips. She knows him well enough by now to know when he’s just throwing up his hands to avoid a full-blown debate—and watching him quietly give in is half the fun.

"Oh, don't look so resigned," she says lightly, bumping her shoulder gently against his as they step out into the crisp evening air together. "You agreed to come out, which means you're officially at the mercy of my terrible taste."

She pulls her coat tighter against the night breeze, her eyes gleaming with playful secrecy as they walk side-by-side down the street, steering them away from the crowded city center and toward the darker, quieter stretch leading down to the shore.

"And I'm not telling you until we get there," she adds, casting him a sideways glance with a wicked little smirk. "If I tell you now, you'll spend the entire walk giving me a psychological breakdown on why staring into the dark ocean is a metaphor for the futility of human ambition."

As the distant, low rumble of the waves hitting the sand begins to echo in the quiet night, the salty air catching in the breeze, she looks over at him with a soft, genuinely bright expression.

"We're going to the sea," she reveals softly, her smile turning warm. "No noise, no heavy theater scripts, no existential dread. Just somewhere wide open where you can't overthink everything... and maybe a quiet walk on the shore."

Nezumi likes scripts. And he doesn't think the ocean has a lack of noise, rather it is a pleasant, lulling and relaxing kind of sound. And thinking too deeply doesn't make him spiral into existential crisis; it is how he likes to pass time.

"Now, hold on a minute," Nezumi looks to the side, raises his brows. "You don't get to decide these things for me, you know. That's quite annoying, actually." He playfully nudges her shoulder to let her know he is irked, but not seriously so.

"Thinking and overthinking are two very different things, and I'd appreciate it if you dropped the fantasies you put into your head about who I am and what I might do before I do it. It's unbecoming and incorrect. And makes me sound fucking shallow."

There is spring in his step, and he starts walking faster, making it harder for Arisu to keep up.

"Such a juvenile way to get the upper hand," Nezumi scoffs. "Come on now. You ought to be better judge of character than that. Surely? So far, the only terrible thing about you is how terribly you've misread my character — like I'm some brooding guy from a fantasy novel." He makes a sound of disgust. "I wasn't written by ugh, what's the woman who wrote the — the vampire thing, Something—Meyer?" He waves his hand in the air as if trying to conjure the name. "Yes, anyway, that one. I'm not that and you better remember it."

Arisu has to quicken her stride to match the sudden spring in his step, but instead of being defensive, a genuine, helpless laugh breaks through her quiet demeanor at his indignant outburst.

"Stephenie Meyer? Really?" she echoes, her eyes crinkling with amusement as she side-glances him while keeping pace down the sidewalk. "I certainly wasn't casting you as a brooding, sparkling vampire, Nezumi. Though now that you've brought it up, the mental image is kind of hilarious."

She lets out a soft, breathy laugh, letting the cool sea breeze brush the loose hairs away from her face as they draw closer to the shore. The playful shoulder nudge he gave her sticks with her—a subtle reminder that he doesn't want to be analyzed, romanticized, or categorized. He just wants to be known as he is.

She slows her steps slightly as the sound of the lulling, rhythmic waves grows louder, taking a quiet breath of the salty air before looking over at him with a softer, far more genuine expression.

"Alright, message received," she admits, her voice dropping into something warm and unforced. "I'll drop the armchair psychology and stop trying to script you before you even speak. You're right—it's not fair to project some dramatic persona onto you."

She matches his pace again, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with him down toward the water, letting the silence stretch for a moment without feeling the need to fill it with witty retorts.

"So... no tropes, no expectations," Arisu says quietly, casting him an open, curious glance. "Consider the slate clean. Who are you when you're not dealing with my misreadings?"

The sudden emptiness in her hand where his sleeve used to be feels colder than the tears on her cheeks.

Arisu watches him take those steps backward, the distance growing between them as his cautious words hang in the air.

Isn't that what mirrors are for?

She stops dead in her tracks, respecting the boundary he drew. She doesn't reach for him again—because for the first time since the accident, someone isn't handling her like fragile glass. Ever since her ballet career was shattered, her mother, drowned in guilt for having pushed her so hard in training, had stripped all pressure away. Her family wanted her to "take things slowly," to rest, to heal.

But Arisu doesn't know how to go slowly. She was built on relentless discipline, hard work, and the thrilling, intoxicating dopamine of success. Without it, she’s been suffocating in a slow-motion withdrawal—aimless, empty, and desperate for a spark. Tonight, when Nezumi pushed her to act, when he demanded something real from her, that long-dead fire surged back to life. He gave her back the thrill of trying.

Wiping the wetness from her face with the back of her hand, she lets out a shuddering breath, her tear-stained face lifting to meet his gaze with a fierce, profound clarity.

"You really don't get it, do you?" she whispers, her voice fragile but steady in the quiet room.

She takes one slow step forward, keeping a respectful distance, but refusing to let him retreat into his self-doubt.

"Ever since the accident, my mother treats me like I'll break if she breathes on me too hard. She wants me to 'take it easy.' She stopped pushing me entirely," Arisu says, her eyes searching his dark, conflicted gaze. "I've been dying in that stillness, Nezumi. I don't know how to live without a challenge, without working for something real."

A bittersweet, genuine smile touches her lips despite the tears lingering on her lashes.

"Tonight... when you pushed me into that scene, when you challenged me to act... you gave me the first real breath of air I’ve had in months," she murmurs softly. "I'm not asking you to be my savior or tell me who I am. I'm asking you to keep pushing me. To be the one person who doesn't treat me like a tragic little ghost. Is that really so hard to believe?"

His eyes narrow. His chin lifts slightly in expectation. He has told her no, and he is aware how precarious the situation is. People don't always take perceived rejection well, so what he is expecting isn't nice or pleasant, and he is bracing himself for that — but it doesn't happen. Arisu dries her own tears and steps closer with renewed determination and explains herself in a way that Nezumi finally understands.

Slowly, he nods. A subtle gesture that becomes more firm when he does it a second time. A challenge. That he can get behind. To challenge someone and push them to becoming the best version of themselves doesn't sound as daunting as showing them a secure path. If Arisu is prepared to clash against him, rather than follow in his footsteps, then he is more than happy to provide.

"Alright," Nezumi says and nods again. He picks up the sword he has left lying aside and gestures towards hers. "You aren't fragile. That much is true, but I'm also not the person to whom you need to prove these things, am I?"

The sword flies and strikes against her shoulder, not hard enough to do serious damage, but hard enough to bruise her.

"What will you tell her mother when she sees that you're black and blue from the rehearsal, then? How will you explain that I've given you scratches and made you sweat through your shirt? I want no angry harpy at my doorstep if I treat her daughter unkindly."

His wrist flicks, and he pushes the tip of the sword into her stomach with the same ruthlessness as if she truly were his opponent and he was delivering a warning blow, except the sword he did it with was dull and wooden.

The blunt wooden edge strikes her shoulder with enough force to send a jolt of dull pain racing down her arm. Arisu winces, a sharp intake of breath escaping through her teeth as her body instinctively wants to recoil—but she forces her feet to stay rooted to the floor.

When the tip of his wooden blade presses firm against her stomach, holding her in place, her posture tightens, her jaw setting with a sudden, fierce intensity. The pain stings, but underneath the ache in her shoulder, a thrill of pure adrenaline surges through her veins. This is real. This is what it feels like to be pushed again.

Instead of shrinking back or complaining, she lets out a breath, her pale eyes locking onto Nezumi's with unflinching resolve.

"I'll tell her I fell down the stairs," Arisu says, her voice tight from the pressure against her abdomen, though a faint, defiant smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. "Or that stage combat is a lot less glamorous than she thinks. She won't come after you, Nezumi. I won't let her."

Without breaking eye contact, she reaches down, her fingers gripping the hilt of her own dull wooden sword lying nearby. With a swift, practiced motion—drawing on years of ballet discipline and bodily control—she brings her blade up, knocking his sword away from her stomach with a sharp wooden clack.

Adjusting her stance, ignoring the throbbing ache in her shoulder, she raises her weapon to meet him, her breathing steady and focused.

"And you don't need to worry about being unkind," she murmurs, her gaze burning with quiet fire. "I didn't ask for a gentle teacher. Now... show me what else you've got."

Arisu’s dramatic pout melted away the moment he turned toward the coat rack, replaced by a quiet, lingering smile.

"Look at you, delivering an entire lecture on literary analysis just to avoid admitting you liked the romantic tension," she teases. Setting A Young Doctor's Notebook down on the coffee table with a soft thud, she steps up to him, her eyes bright with fond skepticism.

"Fearful, vulnerable, petty, brave... exhausting," she echoes softly, mimicking his serious tone before chuckling. "Honestly, Nezumi, you just described yourself. No wonder you relate to the poor doctor so much."

Before he can reach for the handle, she steps directly into his path, closing the distance until the air between them turns electrically tight. Her fingers hook lightly into the strap of his jacket, pulling him just close enough to feel his warmth.

"And for the record, my definition of fun is top-tier," she murmurs, her voice dropping as her smirk softens into something far more intoxicating. "Which is why I'm choosing where we're going. Leaving plans to you sounds like a one-way ticket to an existential crisis."

Her gaze lingers on his for a heartbeat longer than necessary before she finally turns to open the door, letting the cool night air sweep in.

Stepping out, she looks back over her shoulder, her eyes holding his in the moonlight.

"So leave the heavy analysis at the door, doctor," she says softly. "Follow me. It's time to show you what real fun looks like."

"Huh?" Is all Nezumi manages to say before Arisu sweeps his words aside like they are something he is trying to hide behind, and he knows that he does that sometimes — hiding behind words. But he knows now is not one of those times.

There is no romance in the book, which is why Nezumi finds it so refreshing, actually. It is the absence of the theatrics of romance and courtship and the pure, human existence that relaxes him. He doesn't feel connected to the doctor because he sees himself in him; he feels connected because he emphasises with him as he could with an actual living human. A connection without requirements or expectations.

Arisu — doesn't seem to understand, and so he leaves her to her dances, looks at her when she's pulling herself close to him, brushing her soft, tantalising perfumed locks against his cheek and breathing into his face, and doesn't try to correct her, because she sounds like someone who has made up their mind, and he doesn't care to play the role of a lecturer.

"Hm. Sure. That's me," he just agrees and then lets her choose the destination, because he doesn't really care where they would go, as long as it gets them out of where they are now.

"Will you at least tell me where we're going?" Nezumi asks, pushing arms into his jacket one by one as they walk down the hallway, side by side. It is easy to let himself get swept somewhere, especially when Arisu feels so confident and determined to show him a good time. He is curious, too, he wants to know what she considers fun, since deep thoughts and analysis cause her to spiral into existential crisis.

As the distant, low rumble of the waves hitting the sand begins to echo in the quiet night, the salty air catching in the breeze, she looks over at him with a soft, genuinely bright expression.

The quiet that follows his words hangs thick in the air between them, heavy with the weight of everything Nezumi has laid bare. For a long moment, Arisu stays completely still, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths as the tears she held back spill over her long eyelashes, tracing warm, glittering paths down her pale cheeks.

She doesn't wipe them away. She doesn't hide behind her sleeve this time.

Instead, she takes one slow, deliberate step forward, closing the distance between them until she is standing directly in front of him on the old, worn theatre floorboards. Her sea-green eyes look up to meet his, clear and unblinking, devoid of the childish hesitation that usually clouds her gaze.

"I know you are not a god, Nezumi," her voice breaks the quiet, soft and trembling, yet carrying a quiet, unshakeable certainty. She reaches out, her slender fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently brushing against the fabric of his sleeve—a light, delicate touch, like a feather alighting on silk. "I know you don't have all the answers to the world. I don't expect you to save me from life, or fix everything that broke inside me when my legs gave out on that snowy street."

She takes a shallow breath, her fingers tightening slightly against his sleeve as her heart hammers against her ribs.

"It isn't a fleeting infatuation," she continues, her gaze burning into his with raw, unfiltered vulnerability. "Infatuation demands perfection. It wants an ideal. I don't want an ideal... I want you. I want the man who stands on these planks, who sees right through my silly masks and forces me to stand on my own two feet. Even if your words bruise me, even if learning from you tears down every safe wall I built around myself... I trust you with the pieces."

A faint, trembling smile tugs at the corners of her peachy lips through her tears—a mixture of fear, relief, and profound resolve.

"So let it be too late to go back," Arisu whispers, her voice dropping to a gentle murmur. "Teach me, Nezumi. I'm ready."

Would it be so bad to teach someone who walks to run and then have them run as far away from him as possible? Would it be selfish to hope that once Arisu has the means, the knowledge, the independence, she uses it to free herself from reliance on someone who, really, in his own mind, can barely stumble through the world? What is there that Nezumi can teach her that she doesn't already know? He wonders and glances at the hand that is reaching out for him, timid, soft touch that tugs at his sleeve.

Arisu's gesture and her expression are in dissonance. She looks at him with determination of someone who has already jumped off a cliff and is falling, expecting to hit the ground any moment, but she holds onto him like she is still afraid to grasp what she so proudly declares to want.

Nezumi scoffs. "Well I sure hope so. Were I a God, we'd all be pretty fucked." He shakes his head subtly and glances to the side, away from Arisu's tears and the demands her eyes place on him. It still makes him queasy in the stomach. He doesn't want to have this kind of power over her. It doesn't feel fair.

"I'm not sure that I want to be the person who teaches you about yourself, isn't that what mirrors are for?" Nezumi suggests, gently, for he doesn't want to push her away — he does, but not harshly so. He wants to keep their friendship, but as equals.

He moves his hand away, out of her grasp. "That's for you to do. To learn who you want to be. I can't do that for you."

One step away, then another, he adds: "Because I'm not sure that I believe your resolve. This can't be what you want; it makes no sense."

The sudden emptiness in her hand where his sleeve used to be feels colder than the tears on her cheeks.

Arisu watches him take those steps backward, the distance growing between them as his cautious words hang in the air.

Isn't that what mirrors are for?

Wiping the wetness from her face with the back of her hand, she lets out a shuddering breath, her tear-stained face lifting to meet his gaze with a fierce, profound clarity.

"You really don't get it, do you?" she whispers, her voice fragile but steady in the quiet room.

She takes one slow step forward, keeping a respectful distance, but refusing to let him retreat into his self-doubt.

A bittersweet, genuine smile touches her lips despite the tears lingering on her lashes.

A soft, genuine smile spreads across Eri’s face as she watches Vivian dig into the food with such enthusiastic delight. The quiet knot of anxiety in her chest instantly loosens at the sight of Vivian’s expression of pure bliss over the tamagoyaki—there really was no better feeling than knowing someone truly enjoyed her cooking.

“I’m so glad it turned out well!” Eri offers, her voice sweet and warm, a faint blush dusting her cheeks behind her round glasses. She reaches out with both hands to carefully pull the mug of matcha latte Vivian poured for her a little closer, cradling the warm ceramic in her palms. She takes a small, deliberate sip, letting the earthy sweetness warm her up before setting it back down on the counter. “And… thank you for sharing your drink with me, Vivian. It’s delicious.”

Her eyes crinkle fondly at Vivian’s playful, energetic chatter—even if words like ‘kokoro’ make her hide a quiet, bashful chuckle behind her hand. It was impossible not to feel completely comfortable around such bright, lively energy.

“Please, eat as much as you’d like,” Eri adds softly, gesturing toward the rest of the lunchbox with a happy, gentle nod. “I always make a bit extra just in case, so don’t hesitate at all. Good company really does make everything taste so much better.”

unladielike

“Gosh, this is so good! Seriously, my compliments to the chef,” Vivian finally pipes up and without missing yet another beat, lifts more bites of grilled chicken and rice between her parted lips while one hand clasped the lunch box. Honestly, by the time she registered Erato’s next words, she’ll turn to beam at her.

“Oh, it’s no problem! You know what they say… ‘sharing is caring’; besides, I owe you one for not only giving me free food, but teaching me the ropes around here!” she insists before reaching a hand for her own plastic cup. Why, considering she only had experience working at a library, Erato helping her transition into working at a bookstore was something she would be eternally grateful for.

“Is it actually good? This was my first time ordering a matcha latte near our workplace,” Vivian admits and mere moments later, she chances a sip from the brim. Though, to her delight, Erato wasn’t lying, for it truly was delicious; in fact, she proceeded to take yet another swig. This time around, however, she made sure to savour the flavour for much longer than last time.

“Huh…either the barista was on their A game today or I ended up finding a hidden gem of a coffee shop,” Vivian remarks once she finally sets her cup down and upon receiving permission from Erato to continue eating, she’ll then happily nod.

“Okey-dokes! I’ll eat until I’m stuffed…hehe, since you have a habit of always making extra, maybe I’ll just be your personal compost bin from now on!” Vivian subsequently jokes as she picks up her chopsticks once more. “That way, I won’t need to constantly bring my own lunch to work.”

#( noo it’s perfect!!! now she can work at Eris family bookshop which will make them get so much closer 😭😭😭 )#( i love your initiative ❤️❤️❤️✨✨✨ )#( eri // ic )#unladielike

Erato couldn't help the soft, bubbling laugh that escaped her at Vivian’s declaration, watching with genuine delight as she happily dug back into the grilled chicken and rice. There was something deeply satisfying about watching someone truly enjoy a meal you made, especially someone as sweet and appreciative as Vivian.

"Your personal compost bin?" Erato echoed, her dark eyes sparkling with affectionate amusement as she shook her head. "Deal. But only if you promise to keep giving me your honest reviews on the local coffee spots. I'd say finding a good matcha latte around here is more than enough payment for a homemade lunch."

She took a small, relaxed sip from her own drink, leaning back slightly in her seat as she watched Vivian work with her chopsticks.

"Besides, you don't need to keep thanking me for helping out around the shop. Coming from a library to a bookstore isn't that big of a leap, but you've picked everything up so fast anyway," Erato said, offering her a warm, reassuring smile. "It's nice having someone here who actually cares about the books—and who can appreciate a good lunch break."

Gazing down at Vivian's half-eaten lunch box with a playful tilt of her head, Erato teased, "So, 'personal compost bin,' do you think you'll actually finish all of that, or should I be worried I packed too much today?"

Arisu lets out a dramatic, exaggerated pout, rubbing the top of her head where the paperback made contact before landing on the couch beside her.

"Is that your new study method, critic? Trying to physically force Russian literature into my head by osmosis?" she asks, though her lips curl into a playful smirk that completely betrays her faux offense.

She hasn't forgotten that sharp, dangerous smirk he flashed right before his whole performance, nor the wink he threw her way at the end—he knew exactly what he was doing, setting a little trap to show off his literary mind and tease her. Resting her elbows on her knees, she leans right into his space, matching his look with a clever glint in her eyes.

"Syphilis?!" she echoes, letting out a breathless laugh. "Nezumi, you went from telling me how interesting this book is to analyzing historical Russian subtext, STD and repressed desires in five seconds flat."

She tilts her head, watching him closely as she picks apart his analysis.

"'An outline of a naked body under a thin bedsheet'—listen to you, getting all poetic," she teases, her voice dropping as her fingers trail over the book's cover. "So what you're really saying is that the doctor isn't just afraid of getting sick—he's hesitant because touching another man's bare chest stirs up a hidden desire he's too terrified to admit to himself. The hesitation is the internal struggle."

Her smirk deepens as she leans just a fraction closer.

"Though I have to ask... isn't it interesting that that's where you find all the fun? In the hidden, suppressed desires of a conflicted doctor?"

Flipping the paperback open to the page he was reading from, she looks up at him from under her pale, blond lashes with a challenging little smile.

"Fine. You win, theater nerd. I'll read it—if only so I can finally understand your twisted definition of 'fun.'"

"Perhaps," Nezumi cannot help but laugh, Arisu keeps pouting at him like her life depends on it, but every time he sees those down-turned lips, he thinks of a child at a candy store, repeatedly being told that they cannot have that caramel coated apple. "Is it working?" he jokes, and then shakes his head.

"It's hardly analysis. A stream of thoughts, at best. And it's a mere fragment of a much larger whole. I chose the part because it came to mind, but it was arbitrary. The book isn't about a doctor's hidden, repressed desires. It isn't romance — doesn't have an ounce of such sentimentality in it. There is no romantic desire in it, either. Just tension. It's very human. Fearful. Vulnerable. Insecure. Petty. Brave. Exhausting. The only desire the character feels is the desire to help people — and homesickness, at times."

"What I found substantial and therefore enjoyable was the doctor who takes us on his journey; the world through his eyes. The fear. The — heh — sometimes pathetic self-pity and sometimes miraculous strength. His desire to help people. He is a fully fleshed out human being. Reading this, I can feel him. I understand him. And then there's more. I don't think a book can ever truly be analysed with such few words, in order to analyse a text, you must write an equally long, if not longer text, explaining events and behaviours, and connecting dots. I could hardly do it."

Nezumi shrugs. "If that's what you find twisted, then so be it. Don't think that your definition of fun is all that appealing, either." He stands up from the sofa, smirking over his shoulder as he goes for the coat rack.

"Come on. Enough sitting around. Let's go out."

Arisu’s dramatic pout melted away the moment he turned toward the coat rack, replaced by a quiet, lingering smile.

Her gaze lingers on his for a heartbeat longer than necessary before she finally turns to open the door, letting the cool night air sweep in.

Stepping out, she looks back over her shoulder, her eyes holding his in the moonlight.

"So leave the heavy analysis at the door, doctor," she says softly. "Follow me. It's time to show you what real fun looks like."

The quiet, unmanly noise Kisumi lets out under the sudden weight of his grip only fuels the low, simmering heat in Akio’s chest. For all of Kisumi's sharp retorts, endless scheming, and defensive bravado, he melts the second Akio actually takes control. He talks a big game, Akio thinks, feeling the sharp thrill of total dominance, but underneath all that pride, he was practically begging for this.

He keeps his hand firmly tangled in Kisumi’s hair, holding him right where he wants him, pinned down on the desk under his full weight. To Akio, most people are just chess pieces to be moved or discarded, but Kisumi is different—a complex, intoxicating puzzle he takes immense pleasure in breaking down piece by piece. The room smells heavily of spiced, earthy notes, and the usual sharp, calculated edge in Akio's demeanor gives way to a dark, absolute possessiveness as the kiss deepens.

He feels the exact moment Kisumi stops fighting, feeling the shift as Kisumi's hands finally move, wandering up to hold onto the broad expanse of his back. There it is. Kisumi might fear he's just a temporary distraction, but Akio doesn't waste his time on worthless things. Seeing Kisumi yield so completely, clinging to him like a lifeline, proves that Kisumi belongs right here under his thumb.

Akio lets out a low, rough hum against Kisumi's lips—a sound of pure, quiet victory.

Slowly breaking the kiss just an inch, Akio doesn't pull away. His gray eyes open, dark and heavy as he stares down into Kisumi's flushed face from mere millimeters away, watching the dizzy overload in his expression.

"Look at you," Akio murmurs, his voice a low, raspy velvet in the quiet office, his hand tightening just a fraction in Kisumi's hair to keep his head tilted up so he can't hide. "All that talk... and this is all it takes to make you submit?"

He trails his free hand down from Kisumi's waist, gripping his hip firmly to anchor him against the desk, marking his territory in every touch.

"Don't think this means you get to stop thinking, Kisumi," he whispers against his jaw, pressing a slow, heavy kiss right beneath his ear. "I'm not done with you yet."

kisumitenderly

He didn’t need to get a good look at himself to know the debauchery type pose he was in. Clear on his face so he closed his eyes to avoid seeing his reflection in any of the shiny surfaces near by. Akio had his shit polished and gleaming so it wouldn’t be surprising if that were the case. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t put in the effort to get this far. Hell Kisumi thought he worked pretty damn hard to get Akio’s attention on him, out of all of his array of sexual encounters Akio was up there on tough to get.

He didn’t want to be sold short but he wouldn’t argue to mess with whatever sort of fantasy that Akio was working out. They both a reason to want to be there and Kisumi wasn’t naive enough to believe they held the same. “If you wanted to shut me up you got to put the work in to get me to stop thinking too.” He couldn’t let that one slide however.

That was a bonus to ensure a good performance.

Kisumi had been right to hon in on Akio. He knew what he was doing and relished in holding power. Usually these CEO types typically liked to relinquish power. They needed it as a release from their daily life. Not Akio. He loved the aspect of the power play and the more Kisumi pulled at the reigns the more he seemed to enjoy the challenge. Like breaking in a stallion. Not that he would typically see himself as one but a good analogy.

It wasn’t as if they could take their sweet time at the office and Kisumi was glad for it because the amount of mental foreplay that went into this he was ready to do about anything to cum. Climax hit him like a bullet train. Right on time, speeding right to the end, all on board exited it single file. Flushed skin, still partially clothed, Kisumi was panting unable to even form a coherent sentence let alone a full thought. It was as if his mind experienced what his dick had and that was just a different level than what he was used to. Certainly not going to inflate Akio’s ego more than it already was.

By the time he opened his eyes fully it seemed as if Akio met his end as well. Kisumi took in the sight of his brow furrowed, mouth hanging ajar. The sound of his voice, the low toned moan. Ugh, if he hadn’t just came himself he might have done so again.

“That, that was insanely hot.” Kisumi admitted with laughter adorning his voice. He placed his hands on either side of Akio’s face as his thumbs swiped across his cheeks with affection.

#kisumitenderly #( aki // ic )#( tw: suggestive )

Akio’s chest heaves slowly as he catches his breath, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead—a rare break in his usually pristine composure. He stays anchored over Kisumi for a long, heavy moment, the low rumble in his throat gradually settling as the aftershocks fade.

When Kisumi's hands reach up to cup his face, thumbs brushing affectionately across his cheeks, Akio doesn't pull away. Instead, he tilts his head just enough to press a firm, heavy kiss into the palm of Kisumi's right hand before letting his gray eyes open to lock onto Kisumi’s flushed face.

A slow, faint smirk—dangerous, smug, and completely satisfied—tugs at the corner of Akio's lips as he listens to Kisumi’s breathless laugh.

"Insanely hot, was it?" Akio echoes softly, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp against the quiet room. "And here I thought you said I had to put in the work to make you stop thinking."

He leans down, dragging his lips slowly along Kisumi's jawline to the sensitive skin right under his ear, giving a small, possessive bite before pulling back just enough to look at him again. His large hand remains grounded on Kisumi's hip, keeping him right where he wants him on the desk.

"Seems like your mind went entirely blank to me," he murmurs, his thumb stroking along the curve of Kisumi's hipbone. "Though I'll admit... breaking through that stubborn head of yours is easily the most entertaining thing I've done all week."

#( tek some tol blue eyed candy for your needs. throw us your girls! i know we need more female interactions for sure! give us the chance to #GLORY THEM! )

HEADCANON

Have been thinking about Moon-su’s eyes lately and decided to change them to a piercing steel blue. The sharp contrast against his raven black hair makes his glare feel way too intense—like he’s dissecting your thoughts in real-time.

Standing at 1,92 cm with a broad build, Moon-su lives a complete double life. On paper, he’s a brilliant 25-year-old dentist and private detective. To his corrupt family (the Parks), he acts like the dutiful second son keeping his head down. In reality, he’s a mole collecting every piece of intel needed to burn their entire syndicate to the ground.

He drives a motorbike, which makes it way easier for him to slip through traffic quietly for tailing targets or making quick, discreet exits after collecting evidence.

He’s a complete fatalist about it too. He knows taking down his own family is a suicide mission, and he fully expects to go down with them—whether by a bullet or prison—as long as justice gets served first.

His dental background actually gives him a huge edge in detective work. He has terrifyingly steady hands, access to medical tools/sedatives without raising suspicion, and notices tiny physical details that normal investigators completely miss.

Despite his cold, clinical upfront, he has a huge soft spot for innocent people caught in his family’s crossfire. If he sees someone being squeezed by the syndicate, he will quietly step in to shield them, no matter the risk.

Also he constantly smells like faint mint, sterile clinic, and rain.

Good morning!

I want to set a clear boundary regarding my account. I’m here to have fun, refine my writing, and plot with people—both old friends and new. I am not here to chase anyone for interactions.

I post tagged interaction calls for a reason. If you don't engage with those or react to my OC content, please don't expect me to initiate DMs with you. I’m very approachable, but I value mutual effort. If you have no intention of writing with me, I have to wonder why you follow me—especially if you're just using my page to source ideas for your own muses.

I’ve dealt with this before, so moving forward, I’ll simply be blocking inactive or copycat accounts to keep my writing space enjoyable.

If you move to new blogs without following me back, I’m going to assume you no longer want to write together. I won't be chasing people down or keeping track of blog moves and promo posts. Communication goes both ways—if you want to interact, show interest. I'm done playing games.