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ceilidho · 6 months

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landscape with honey

summary: price/reader bear shifter fic. PART 4. (read the whole thing on ao3 here) tags: light daddy kink, breeding kink, very nsfw, she/her pronouns for reader

He starts showing up at your house at odd hours.

You’re fixing coffee in the morning, still fuzzy and warm from sleep, only to hear the sounds of hammering outside. Wrapping yourself in just a housecoat, you find John fixing the loose step on your stairs, barely sparing enough time to greet you before returning to the task at hand. When he finishes, he brushes off your attempts to pay him for the job, just loading his tools back in the car and driving off.

You sip your coffee and wonder. Odd.

The next day, you find him raking the leaves in your lawn. Two days later, he shows up at the grocers when you’re picking up produce, and helps you carry all your bags to the car. He also adds a peculiar amount of canned goods to your order and when you fret and try to tell him that you don’t need the pickles and sauerkraut and beans and all of that stuff, he just lays a hand flat on your head and drags it down your hair until you go quiet.

He pays for the whole order.

You’ve never had to wonder about a man’s actions. Men are largely inscrutable to you, ever-shifting. They say one thing and mean another. They look at you like one might look at an oil painting, entitled something like Virgin Meeting Her Lover’s Eyes From The Top Of The Staircase or Landscape With Virgin. They speak to you as though an answer were entirely antithetical to their purpose in conversing with you.

John listens to you with a focus that borders on intimidating, like he wants to hear each word enunciated exactly how you might enunciate it. It has the sharp clarity of respect, of a mutual acknowledgement of humanity. He also comes over to fix your sink without you having to ask. The world of men is still largely confusing to you.

John grows surlier as the days grow shorter though. He doesn’t snap or snarl at you the way he does sometimes with his recruits (you rarely see him interact with them, but sometimes you’ll drop him off his lunch on the days when you’re feeling particularly generous and that’s when you’ll have the rare pleasure of hearing him shout at a trembling twenty-three year old for littering on the trail like a military captain), but it’s a near thing.

The worst is when he catches you on a jog one morning on his drive to work. You see his truck with the faded red paint pass you by and you give a short wave that he returns. He passes you by about half a yard before coming to a full stop and reversing. You stare at him as the window rolls down, brows furrowed.

“Hi Jo—” you start.

“Get in the car,” John growls. You hear the doors unlock.

“…My uh…my shift’s in two hours, John, I can’t just—”

“Get in the car.”

“This is my only time to exercise!”

“If I have to get out of this car and drag you inside, honey, I will. Don’t play with me. Get in.”

You get in the car. Probably wisely. Still dripping sweat and shivering from the cold—you’re not used to jogging in the winter, or at all for that matter, but it seemed like as good a time as any to start—you glance over to stare at the side of John’s face. His jaw is set, almost as if in anger. His knuckles are white over the steering wheel as he makes a U-turn and drives back into town. The cab of his truck smells like flannel pulled out from the back of a closet, almost musty, but comforting in the way that old clothes can sometimes smell. There’s a cigarette ashed out in the dish in front of the centre console.

He takes you to the nearest bakery for coffee and a breakfast muffin and stares you down until you eat the whole thing. You feel like you have to scarf it down. Customers bustle into the bakery to order coffee to-go and fresh cookies and scones in waxy paper bags; everyone in town knows each other so you try to avoid the more curious stares when they’re turned on you.

“This is weird,” you say, staring down at the crumbs on your plate. “This is really weird.”

“This is what you get for exercising before winter,” John says, flagging down the barista for another muffin and a refill on your coffee. “Waste of calories.” The last part is said derisively, almost with a scoff.

You frown. “Lots of people exercise. Even when it snows.”

“Winter is a time for hibernating. Not…sweat,” he says with a grimace, like the very thought is anathema to him.

"Hibernating?" you repeat skeptically, scrunching up your nose. "I mean, I spend a lot of time indoors, but I wouldn't say I'm hibernating."

John stares at you until you look away, flushed. "Finish your breakfast."

The barista returns with another blueberry muffin and a fresh cup of coffee. At least John's the one paying. When he finally seems satisfied, he hustles you home and leaves you off at the door with a stern warning.

“You gonna be good for me this time?” he asks, a finger curled under your chin, tilting your head up. One of his hands curls around the doorframe and your heart jumps when you hear the wood creak under his grip. This close, you can see the faintest silver streaks at his temples and the flecks of it in his beard.

“It was just a light jog,” you mumble, looking away.

“Not a light anything,” he warns, ducking closer until you feel like shrinking back, like disappearing into your house. “Bake a cake if you have to burn off energy so bad. I’ll be over around seven, alright?”

You mumble something, the words getting lost in themselves. It’s impossible to think with John in your space like this. It’s only when he finally pulls away and ambles back to his truck that you rock back on your heels, let go of whatever spell he had you under.

The first week of December hits town like a truck.

You’re trudging home alone after your shift when you make the decision to cut through the forest because you missed the last bus and you don’t want to spend an hour walking home. The first snow of the season has caught you off guard, clad in boots too autumnal and a sweater too thin for the biting cold. The flakes fall in thick chunks that stick for a brief moment before melting into the skin.

It’s not the first time you’ve travelled through the forest alone. The town is surrounded by pockets of the forest, like it can’t help enveloping whatever space is left for it. Oftentimes it’s easier just to cut through the woods rather than travel the long way around. You wouldn’t even call this the forest proper, not like the acres of trees sprouting over the mountains just off in the distance.

A bush rustles. Your eyes flick over for a second, breath hovering in your chest before you decide that it’s just a squirrel. Nothing ever happens in a town like this. The man from the other day notwithstanding, nothing truly bad ever happens. You keep walking down the partially demarcated path, lit only by the full moon overhead. It’s so dark that the snow around you is almost blue.

The bush rustles again. You stop this time, feet staying planted in the snow long enough for your feet to grow cold. You stare at the dark shoots covered in a layer of snow; it stripes the branches like candy from a time ago, licorice twisted with white bark, and it doesn’t move when you look at it. The bushes and trees are dense, impossible to peer through. Even walking through the forest doesn’t make you feel immersed in it. You follow a barely marked path, hard to see through the recent snowfall, and stare out into the dark woods with a kind of animal sense. Not sure whether you’re alone, whether something’s there with you, and whether it’s sensed you or if you’ve sensed it first.

You start walking again when your feet go numb. Better to just get home.

It comes behind you again as a slightly louder rustle. It’s harder to shake off the fear this time, harder to say that it’s just the wind. The snow crunches under more than one set of feet, branches cracking under the weight of something larger than you.

You don’t want to turn around, but the sound of something chuffing makes your stomach drop. The first thing that emerges when you turn to face it is its massive head, a white frosted muzzle, and the visible hump on its back. The wispy smoke of its breath puffs out when it breathes. Its eyes are dark, hardly reflecting any light at all. Then the rest of it emerges, the saplings bending out of its way as it clambers out of the woods and onto the path, staring you down all the while.

You’ve never seen a bear before. Not this close. Not so close that you know it’s been stalking you, know that it didn’t come upon you by accident. You’re staring down at your own body from somewhere else, fear displacing you. Rending you from your own body. There’s no way to guess its weight at a glance, but it’s easily twice the size of you, easily more than that.

When it takes a step forward, everything goes dark.

You wake up snuggled under the warmth of a thick blanket. Sleep is creamy thick, engulfing you on all sides, only the faintest prickle of awareness letting you know that you’re awake.

It’s unpleasant to leave the cotton miasma of sleep, you think. Your nose scrunches up and you let out a tired huff, trying to will yourself back into it. The harder you try to force yourself back into it though, the farther away it floats.

Still it weighs you down. It takes an age to work up the energy to so much as twitch a finger. Even your eyelids insist on staying shut. Yet, the prickle of consciousness needles at you as if to say hello, wake up, you need to get up. You sigh and try to shimmy up onto your elbows.

A hand shoves you back down. The breath rushes out of you.

“Get…back down,” a rough voice grunts from over you and then the full weight of a man settles on top of you, pressing you deep into the mattress.

Consciousness snaps back into you, elastic sharp. The weight of him pins you to the bed, makes you sink into the plushness of—and this is gradually coalescing in your mind—an unfamiliar place. All four corners of your body are trapped under him. The voice is familiar though. Ragged, brutal. A saw taken to the trunk of an old, thick tree, too many interior rings to count. You whisper John’s name and he grunts, making you flinch from how the sound reverberates through the side of your head.

Exhaustion is thick though and it leaves you heavy, even when John slowly lifts himself to his elbows from behind you. You feel him drag his body down the length of the bed, beard scratching into your skin with every petal soft kiss dropped along your spine during his descent.

“John?” you whisper, only just able to turn your head, not even able to struggle up to your elbows. “J-John?”

He doesn’t answer you. The room is near pitch black, only a window on the other end of the room with the curtain pulled back the smallest amount enough to let the moonlight in. Even the moonlight isn’t enough. You know from the shape of the window that this isn’t your house, that it must be somewhere else. You can only surmise from John’s presence that it’s his, but that thought passes over you like a rock skipping over water.

“Wher’m’I?” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut when his lips press over the small of your back. Sensitive there.

Rough hands with callused fingertips smooth over your ass, pressing into the flesh. His fingers pry your cheeks apart, thumbs dipping into the space between and pressing over your hole, making you burn all over. You’re too far gone to worry about any hair on your legs or anything about your body other than John’s hands undulating over your ass and thighs. You flinch violently when his teeth sink into the meat on the underside of your ass, so tender that even exhausted to the bone your body lashes out.

Big hands pry your legs apart. You flinch at the sudden hot breath over your sex, a whine tickling your throat. His face hovers so close to your centre that the tip of his nose presses on the tender skin near your entrance.

“Wha’ d’you…think you’re doin’...” you ask breathlessly. Your brain tries to order your leg to kick, but it stays flat and limp on the bed.

The first touch of John’s tongue along your slit makes you melt, the flat of his tongue lapping upward and making your hips tilt up with it. It almost makes your mind go blank again, almost tips you back into the unconscious world because the synapses in your brain stop firing the second you remember that it’s John between your legs licking hungrily at your cunt. John from the grocery store, John from the ranger’s station in the mountains—the John you’ve been crushing on and coveting for months now, content to just be friends with the gruff, handsome man in the house next to yours. Now sucking one of your nether lips into his mouth and tracing his tongue up the inside, gliding it over the supple flesh.

“Yer in the den,” John mumbles into your pussy and it’s like he sears the words into your brain. “‘N I’m takin’ care of you, honey.”

“The…the den…?” It’s so hard to keep your thoughts in order. Each flick of his tongue makes you gasp, pussy growing wetter and hips grinding languidly down on his face.

He hums instead of answering.

“Why’m’I so tired?” you slur.

His tongue saws over your clit from behind. It tears a broken whimper from you. You feel every textured ridge, the way it flicks around in a circle and then up and down again.

“Winter season,” John says, sucking your clit into his mouth until you whine at the top of your lungs. “Bear’s sleep in winter.”

“Tha’s silly. M’not a bear,” you moan.

“No,” he agrees, humming into your sex. “Jus’ mated to one. Makes you sleepy too, honey.”

“Mated?” you repeat back, but it’s lost in the way you moan when he eats your pussy from the back, licking into you with renewed vigour. Hungry like a bear. Grunting like a satisfied man, slurping loud enough to make your face heat up.

Words and old memories about bears hardly matter when the handsome man from next door spreads your legs wide, almost to the point of pain, and sinks his tongue into your hole again. You never would’ve expected John to be vocal, but he’s noisy behind you, groaning into your cunt. He keeps mumbling things under his breath that you can’t catch.

“John—” you gasp, biting your lip when he sucks your clit into his mouth again. “John—John—”

He only has to give you a single finger to tip you over the edge, feeds it in nice and slow. Your cunt clenches down at the intrusion, teeth nearly breaking through the skin of your lip.

When he crawls back over you, anticipation makes you shudder. You hear something faint in the background that grows steadily louder as John rests his elbows on either side of your head, until you realize that it’s your own voice murmuring, “Put it in, put it in, put it in—”

He obliges. A thick, steady plunge that hardly manages more than a handful of inches before you’re crying, and it’s too much, too much, too much. Pleasure not a limpid pool anymore but something cavernous and deep-dwelling, pulling you in or trying to make a home inside of you for it. John’s biceps tense with the strain of holding himself back.

You balance on the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain. There’s a single thought in your head that it might burn you up from the inside; it runs a jagged hole through you.

His nose drags through your hair. “Never expected you. Thought I’d go another season alone ‘till I started smellin’ you around town.”

You hiccup. “Y’never—never paid me any attention ‘for— before, ah—”

“‘Course I paid attention to’ya, honey,” John says into your ear, grunting when he drives deeper into your pussy, still just a languid grind of his hips, so mind-numbingly slow that your thoughts sizzle out of your head. He keeps dragging his hips back and plunging in, barely pulling away from you, all skin on slick skin. “Made a home for m’self in your house. Made sure we had ‘nough to eat for the winter.”

“The winter?”

“Won’t be goin’ anywhere for a few months.” He brushes your hair out of the way to kiss down your neck, giving in to the urge to bite just a little. His body stays pressed tight to yours, hardly an inch of space between the two of you. “Wasn’ sure at first if it’d be here or in your house so… fuck, I had to get ready. Make sure you’d be safe when it hit.”

“Don’ even…know wha’ that means,” you mumble into the mattress, then squeal and fist the fists when John shoves a hand under you to grope your chest.

“Don’t worry about it,” he shushes you. “All y’have to do now is lie there ‘n take my cock, okay, honey? Can’ya do that for me? I’ll get some food in you after we’re done, then send ya back to bed.”

Only a whine comes out when you open your mouth. John’s arm by your head forces you to breathe in the scent of him, musky and rich. You stare at the hair on his knuckles and his thick fingers gripping the sheets as well, old nicks and scars decorating his hand. You can’t stop staring at his fingers and thinking that he had one of those in you before, that he’s felt you from the inside.

He never pulls away, never changes positions, just fucks you on your tummy in his bed. You’ve never been in John’s bedroom before, but this has to be his room—even the pillowcase smells like him, pine needles and cigar smoke. He keeps up a steady pounding into your cunt, rutting like a wild animal. Has to be close. Gets so close to you that you feel smothered, trapped in place. Like if you struggled, he wouldn’t let up. You want to test it, see if you could, but the heaviness is still in your limbs, keeping you docile. Convenient. A little convenient thing for him to use, like a doll to get himself off with.

“Never coulda imagined such a pretty girl f’r me,” John groans, getting a grip in your hair to twist your head, tugging you into a kiss. Your whole body sparks to life, so shocked that you can’t even kiss him back at first. You wait until he pulls back, staring into his half-lidded eyes through the mess of your hair all tangled up around you. “Gave up on thinkin’ there was anyone out there. Thank fuck I found you first, honey. Can start workin’ on all the good stuff now. Get you to give daddy a baby.”

“D-daddy?” you gasp back, almost scandalized.

He pants into your shoulder, worked up now. “Yeah, honey. Don’ I take care of you? Buy y’r food, fix y’r house? Give you someplace nice ‘n warm to sleep?”

You feel soaked with sweat, twitchy, on the verge of something dangerous. Vision all fogged up, heart beating so fast that your skin buzzes. Stretched out on a fat cock and pinned in a man’s bed, nowhere to run or hide.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter when John gets a bit rougher, his breathing getting more staggered, laboured.

“That’s right, girl,” he grunts, “I’m y’r fuckin’ daddy then, aren’t I?”

Magma bubbles up from deep inside of you. Rockslides off in the distance beat against the ground. When you cry out, it gets lost in the rubble.

You stumble into the living room maybe hours later after using the washroom across the hall. Maybe a day later. It’s hard to say how many times the sun has risen and fallen behind the mountains. The clock face stares back at you uncomprehendingly.

Come drips out of you onto the floor. Thick droplets run down your inner thighs. John is still sleeping in the bed where you left him, snoring like a chainsaw. It must’ve been what woke you up. There’s no way of knowing how long it’s been since he first brought you home, since he left a mess in your pussy, which is still puffy and sore from rough use. You walk with halting little steps to try to minimize the ache.

You stare bleary-eyed around the room. It feels somehow different than the previous times John’s had you over; there are more throws and blankets draped over the couch, candles scattered around the living room with a lighter on the mantle.

There’s a fire roaring in the fireplace, blanketing the house in a layer of warmth. It makes you sluggish, stumbling forward only a handful of steps before the shaggy rug in front of the fire drags you back down to the floor.

“What’re you doing out of bed, pretty girl?” someone rumbles from behind you.

“Had t’pee,” you say, blinking. You try to rub the sleep out of your eyes unsuccessfully. “Why’m’I still so tired? It’s been…I slept so long…”

“C’mon, honey,” John says, coming up behind you and curling his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Told you it was gonna be a long winter. Maybe just one more and then somethin’ to eat, okay?”

It’s easy to sink to the floor, so easy. Especially with the fluffy rug under your feet. Especially with the fireplace toasting you from the outside in, the tinder crackling in the hearth. Everything in the house is dark and warm, only the fire giving you any light at all. Outside the window, the moon is still heavy in the sky.

Something about the humidity of the den makes you suddenly so tired, boneless, pliable when he goes to move you, when John curves himself around you in the furs and reaches down to slide a hand between your thighs.

He grunts when he finds you wet and wanting, sinking a couple fingers in and palming your clit. He doesn’t talk much still, but he says good girl when he cants your hips and slowly stretches you out on his cock. Feeds it into you achingly slow, like molasses. Like nothing’s due for another few months, so why rush it? He’ll take his time so you’re nice and happy and sweet come spring for cubs.

You’re not sure what that means. The pace is slow and deep, like before but less intentional. Like he just wants to savour the warmth of your body.

When he finally comes deep inside you, your body goes limp, collapsing in a heap onto the rug. You expect John to pull out and turn over, maybe pull you onto his chest so you have somewhere to rest. Instead, he sighs all tired and content, and stays in you, still plugged up in your cunt, his spend only just starting to leak out into a pool beneath you.

“Are we gonna eat?” you mumble, already half-asleep.

Somewhere behind you, he laughs; it’s soft like a snowfall in winter. “Yeah, honey. After a nap, we can eat.”

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months

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Unraveled 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A curious man wanders into your dress shop with a lot of questions.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (Cavill)

Note: I hope you all enjoy this random idea.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

One hand guides the fabric as the other turns the wheel. Your work is slow but steady, every stitch perfect, every seam precise. Your fare may be modest and your product simple, but its quality cannot be contested. Your labour as yourself is honest and plain.

The noise of the machine is your only company. The one-room shop nestled behind the butcher’s rarely sees a customer through its door. Instead, the orders are sent from the factories, returned with the printed adverts you disperse outside their doors. The writs are sent along with an envelope of pence and shilling and you complete each with equal diligence before sending them back bundled in paper and twine.

The operation isn’t especially fruitful but the profit is enough to subsist. Enough to guarantee your independence; a small apartment just above and a pot of stew to last you through each week. This humble existence is preferable to any marriage you’ve witnessed.

The letters from your sisters reaffirm your spinster’s fate. You’d rather a hand wheel and a needle than a brood and broken back. A husband seems to provide several jobs at once, you’ll happily settle for one.

As your hands work from memory and your head wanders from tedium, the bell above the door gives a single sharp toll. You ease the wheel to a halt and leave the seam unfinished. You peer up above the black iron machine, reminding yourself to fix your hunch as a client enters. You can’t but wonder if he may have come to the wrong shop.

By his attire, he is a class above the factory women who require gray skirts and simple stays. His waistcoat is embroidered and his jacket is pressed and clean. He is tall, locks part tidily so his curls lay gracefully. His face is fresh-shaven, square jaw with a cleft, and shoulders broad and strong. He does not share the same sinewy gauntness as the labourers with the coal-dusted noses.

He carries a fine leather bag. Another clue to his status. His shoes, another. Polished and without creases.

You stand to greet him, “good afternoon, sir. Might I help you with something?”

His answer is not prompt. He takes in the finished dresses hung by the east wall and turns to examine the rolls of wool and cotton. At last, he returns his attention to you.

“Afternoon,” his deep timbre fills the small space, “you are the dressmaker.”

It isn’t a question, but you answer, “I am.”

He narrows his eyes as he approaches your desk, the sole fixture in the space. From without, the shop is just as bare. The blackened windows offer not insight into the business, its only suggestion the sign hung above the door, though the paint requires a fresh coat.

“And the shop owner?”

“That is me as well, sir,” you assert. The presumption is not uncommon.

“Ah,” he accepts your explanation without comment, “so, you will have sewn this.”

He puts his bag on the desk, nearly knocking your shears from the corner. You try not to flinch as they teeter near the edge and he pulls open the top of the leather bag. He pulls out a swath of grey. You recognise it and he rolls the cuff to show your initials sewn within.

“Sir,” you say precariously, “is there some issue with it? Is it your wife’s dress?”

“Wife? No, no,” he dismisses, feeling the fabric between his fingers, “rather I am in search of the dress’s owner. The initial must belong to them, yes? So you would have a name for the buyer.”

“Mm, no, those are mine,” you point at the letters, “as it is my handiwork.”

“That makes sense,” he frowns in disappointment. “So you wouldn’t know who would wear it?”

You rub your chapped lips together. You find your tongue sliding over them often when you work, turning them raw with the habit. The man’s lips are rosy and smooth, as well-kempt as the rest of him. He is no factory worker’s husband.

“I might… would you take it out?” You ask.

He obliges as you pluck up the metal cylinder from your desk and unfurl the tape measure from within. He shakes out the dress, holding it by the shoulders to reveal salt stains along the skirts and unleashing a dingy smell in the shop. You wiggle your nose at the stench but worse roils in from the butcher’s on hot days.

You take the measure of the sleeves and the waist, then to the hem. You scribble the numbers on a scrap and take that to compare with your ledger. The measurements are in now way defining but might narrow it down. He keeps the dress aloft and you return to him to check the thread along the seams. A few months ago, you changed the thickness as the factory workers complained of splits under the arms.

“Hm, it is a recent purchase,” you assure him and return to the ledge.

He lowers the dress and approaches. You snap the book closed and turn your face up to consider him once more, “why do you need to know, if it is not your wife?”

“You are very discerning,” he remarks as he folds the dress and drapes it over his bag, “I’m certain then you can surmise the woman who wore this dress did not meet a kind fate.” He tugs up the hem and shows a tear trimmed in scarlet, the colour not obvious from a distance. “Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. I’m a detective and I’m trying to identify a poor woman found not far from here. I believe it is in your own interest that I discover her assailant.”

“I cannot say for certain which she is,” you turn over the scrap and re-open the ledger. You write down three names which match the measurements and hold the paper out to him. He takes it, his thick fingertips brushing yours. “Those are the ones which align with the dress.”

“Mm,” he hums as he tucks the paper into his chest pocket, “and your name? I couldn’t make it out on the sign.”

You recite your name flatly, “it isn’t on the sign.”

“It requires new paint,” he admonishes, “I could hardly find you.”

“I am aware,” you reply. “Thank you for noting.”

He’s quiet, “being a detective, however, I did indeed put together the clues.”

Is he making a joke? You cannot tell. He folds up the dress completely and puts it back in the leather bag. The smell persists.

“What are you prices?” He asks abruptly.

“Sir, I sew dresses for factory women, sometimes a few communion pieces, but I’m afraid I don’t do much suit work.”

“My sister requires a dress,” he sniffs, “as simple as it is, I can see your work is fine.”

“I have only wools and cottons,” you counter.

“Do you always turn away business?” He challenges.

“I wasn’t, sir, I’m only clarifying what I currently do. My prices are set for those fabrics,” you explain.

“I will pay for the muslin and velvet,” he waves his hand staunchly, “you will be paid for your labour. Can you sew with more than wool and cotton?”

“I can, sir, but you could find a ready-made dress in a market boutique if the dress is required promptly.”

“I can afford the time and coin,” he insists. “You are not a talented advertiser, are you?”

You’re taken aback by his bluntness. Often, his ilk have that demeanour. It’s why you’d rather the factory workers and the fish sellers’ wives.

“I suppose not,” you agree, “I would need measurements before I begin. You may send the numbers along with the fabric, then. And I would require a style. Perhaps your sister is a purveyor of fashion magazines?”

“I will send a messenger,” he shrugs. “Thank you for your time. I shan't get in your way any longer.”

“Good day, sir.”

“Good day to you,” he takes the bag from your desk and the shears fall to the floor with a clatter.

You skirt around to grab them as he bends and swipes them up first. You recoil as he closes the blades with a snap. He examines them before placing them back on the desk.

“Apologies,” he says, “and miss,” he looks at you, “take to heart what I’ve told you today. Keep away from the allies and perhaps you may consider locking your door.”

“Thank you, sir, your concern is appreciated.”

“Rather you might just keep those close, eh,” he points to the shears and his cheek dimples.

Again, you can’t be certain of his humour. You keep a placid expression, neither smiling nor scowling. He clears his throat and runs his hand down his jacket, gripping the lapel.

“Very well then, I’ll be off.”

He turns on his heel and marches to the door. You stay by the desk as the bell rings with his departure. Once the door closes, you cross the shop. You turn the lock into place, his foreboding lingering with the stale scent of dirty water.

🪡

Despite the unusual visit, your days roll on like a hand on a clock. The thought of the woman’s tragic fate looms like a shadow but fades. You have too much stitching to do to fret over that man and his ominous words. You assume his interest in your work thereafter was wholly feigned as he does not return.

That day, you pass off six parcels to Eustace, the driver who takes them down to the stacks to hand off to the floor bosses who will parse them out to the women they’ve been cut for. You pay him his toll before he climbs back into the seat of his cart, his horse kicking impatiently.

“Excuse me, sir,” another driver clops up along the other side of the street, a narrow squeeze between the slanting buildings. “I’m in search of a dressmaker. I believe the store is tucked behind the butcher’s and…” the man’s voice drifts off as his eyes flit to the meat sellers marquee.

“Right here, good sir,” Eustace responds, “wouldn’t ya know, she’s right here.”

You lift your chin to see past the cart and spy the driver. He removes his cap as his gaze meets yours. Eustache dips his chin as he adjusts his own hat and snaps his old mare into a canter. As you're left alone with the carriage driver, a vehicle rather lofty for a block like this, you fold your hands behind you.

“Sir, you hardly look in need of a work woman’s dress,” you say.

“Miss,” he ties the reins off and jumps down from his seat, “I am sent for you, not a dress.”

“For me?” You echo.

“Mr. Holmes has sent,” he crosses the muck and nearly slips. “He said he made an appointment for a seamstress.”

“An appointment? I wasn’t informed of the time,” you rebuff. “I’ve a shop to run, orders paid for. I can’t simply leave.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes made mention of a fee,” the man feels around his striped coat, “he said a deposit would be needed.”

He takes out a brown envelope and hands it over. You take it, a small weight within. You look at the driver before you pull back the flap and peek inside. A large gold sovereign sits in the corner of the paper; a whole pound. That’s at least three days work.

You hold your breath, trying to maintain some composure. If that’s the deposit, what is he offering for the rest? You slip out the folded paper within, a page torn from a fashion journal. The dress is elegant if not extravagant. You don’t often do off-the-shoulder or ruffles like that but it isn’t beyond your skill.

You fold the flap closed again and lift your chin to face the driver, “I must lock up, you see?”

“Take your time, miss,” he says kindly. “Mr. Holmes isn’t expecting you to hurry.”

“Thank you, sir,” you bow your head and turn away.

You measure your steps along the facade of the butcher’s shop and curl around to the alleyway. You let yourself into your shop and tuck the envelope into your apron pocket. You take your sewing bag from under the desk and shake off the dust. You don’t often have reason to use it.

You open it up and pack away your shears, a measuring tape, pins with a cushion, your notebook, and a few other bits and bobs. Just in case. You grab a role of linen from against the wall. It’s heavy but you can manage.

You take the key from your desk drawer and switch off the overhead light. You lock the door and continue back out to the street. The driver puffs smoke from a pipe as he waits.

“Miss, allow me,” he snuffs out the pipe and puts it in his pocket. He nears and reaches for the roll of linen.

“It’s quite alright, sir,” you say.

“I insist, miss, can’t have a lady doing all that,” he takes it, not forcefully, and you let him.

As he goes to the carriage and opens the door, you give pause. You don’t know if you should be so easily swayed on a gold coin. Mr. Holmes hadn’t been entirely pleasant and you do prefer your simple work. Still, you can hardly turn your nose up at a pound. Not with the summer fizzling to a finale.

You lift your skirts and cross the street to the open carriage, “sir, might I have a name?”

“Gavin,” he answers, “and I have yours. Mr. Holmes made sure of it.”

“Yes, very good,” you say as you approach, another sliver of doubt trickling through. Mr. Holmes claimed to be a detective but is that really the reason he was strolling around with a dead woman’s dress? You gulp and look at Gavin then the carriage, “might I keep the window open?”

“Surely you can,” he agrees amiably. “Mr. Holmes lives quite a ways, shouldn’t mind the air. I’ll be certain to stay away from the stacks.”

“Thank you, sir,” you accept his proffered hand and he helps you up into the carriage.

You settle on the bench as the door shuts and you open the window from within. You lean back, your hand grasping the top of your bag. You unclasp it as you feel Gavin climb up on the driver’s seat. You dip your hand inside and clutch your long shears.

You don’t forget all of what Mr. Holmes said.

#sherlock holmes #enola holmes #dark sherlock holmes #dark!sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #unraveled

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sanjoongie · 1 year

Text

03:32am k.s.t ~ Outlaw Customs

My timestamp for the Operation Outlaw: Before the Boom Collab

🔧Summary: the eve before the big heist, you can't sleep and neither can Yunho. The two of you meet in the garage to fix some vehicles and perhaps fix your futures as well 🔧Pairing: Mechanic Outlaw! Yunho x Shop Owner Mechanic! Reader (f) 🔧Genre: cyberpunk au, futuristic western au, coworkers to lovers 🔧Word Count: 2,990 🔧Rating: 18+ MDNI, smut 🔧Warnings: public sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism, filming while having sex, fingering (f receiving), penetrative sex with a barrier, finger sucking, f and m orgasm 🔧Dedication: @mejuii & @downtoamagicalland my hardworking beta readers 💞 🔧Fic Vibes, Song Choice: Chase Atlantic, Slow Down

You sat up from your room above your shop, sighing as you swung your feet to the side of the bed. You had been tossing and turning since you tried to get some sleep but it just wasn’t happening. The big heist was tomorrow, and even though your role in the gang didn’t allow you to be implicitly involved in the actual heist, you were still worried.

Well, there was only one thing to do if you weren’t going to sleep, and that was work in the shop. So you threw on a jumpsuit, not bothering to wear anything underneath it because who was going to be down there at the time it was?

The joke was on you because the lights were on down in the shop and you had a sneaky suspicion you knew exactly who was working.

“Yun…ho?” You said in a tentative voice.

An echo of metal being hit and dark curses met your ears and then Yunho wheeled out from underneath the cop car that had been sitting in your shop for a while now. Yunho pursed his lips, slightly glaring at you from the under car roller he was laying on. “What are you doing here?”

You crossed your arms under your chest. “Do you forget this is my shop?”

Yunho rolled back under the cop car. “I know it’s your shop, but why are you here?”

“I can’t sleep,” You admitted. Your eyes found a familiar bike, one with a red and black paint job and cherry decals. That man really did have a thing for his childhood best friend. “Why is San’s bike out in front in the shop instead of in the back?”

“He said it was making some weird noises. I checked it out already. Should be good to go now,” Yunho informed you from under the car still.

You made your way over and started to use your mechanics eye to see if everything was indeed good to go. You walked over to the toolbox Yunho was using, grabbed a wrench and then started to tighten a few nuts.

Yunho cursed again from under the cop car and wheeled himself back out. He sat up and let out a scoff. “Are you really double checking my work?!”

“Yeah,” You confirmed under your breath, “I’m the actual licensed mechanic here, Yunho.”

“Just because I didn’t go to school doesn’t mean you know better than me,” Yunho protested. The creak of the cart indicated that he was getting up now.

“I should check your bike before you leave too,” You said absentmindedly, “These nuts need way more tightening, I think I’ll grab the auto-rachet instead--”

You did not finish your sentence, as Yunho grabbed your upper arm and yanked you upwards, your wrench clanging loudly as it fell to the floor. The stare in his eyes was cold and emotionless. “Don’t go anywhere near my bike.”

You sighed and rolled your eyes. “Yunho, don’t pull this toxic masculinity shit on me.”

Yunho laughed under his breath, smirking with one side of his lips, anger radiating off of him. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

Jongho stepped out from the office in the back, and upon seeing you and Yunho, rubbed his face tiredly. “Can you guys fuck already? I’m tired of walking through the sexual tension every time you two are in the same room together.”

You and Yunho both sent hard glares Jongho’s way. The younger outlaw threw up both of his hands in a sign of giving up. “Alright, alright, forget I said anything. I’m heading to the academy to see Raven. I’ll see you tomorrow, Yunho. G’night, Owl.”

Ever since Raven went undercover at the academy, you hadn't seen as much of her as you’d like. You knew she was a part of the heist tomorrow and you worried for her, along with the other undercover operatives.

The heavy door to the shop closed and it knocked you out of your head. Yunho was still glowering at you. “Can I help you?” You intoned.

“Yes, in fact,” Yunho said before slamming his lips down on yours.

His kiss was angry and rushed, full of teeth and tongue and you were so in shock that you did nothing but let him kiss you. It took you a few minutes of glorious kissing before you hit his chest to tell him to stop. Yunho released your lips, but his were now red and he was breathing heavily.

“Was that good enough or do you have notes on how I could improve my kissing as well?” He demanded.

You were at a loss for words. You still couldn't process what happened. Yunho… kissed you? You shook your head a little. “I’m just going to go back to fixing San’s bike if you don’t mind,” you said faintly.

Yunho growled and you found yourself pushed up against San’s bike, the bottom of your ass nudging the seat of San’s bike. “I do mind.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Yunho--”

“Do you enjoy taking me down a peg every chance I get? Did my kiss do nothing to you?” Yunho demanded.

You swallowed but found that there was no moisture in your mouth. “What are you talking about?”

Yunho rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Seriously?”

“All I care about is that San’s bike is okay for tomorrow, the same as yours. If they are making noises, that could jeopardize the heist!”

Yunho shook his head. “Are you even listening to me? Stop being so dense.”

Being called stupid was the line for you. You knocked his hands off of you. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you replied coolly.

Yunho let out a noise of frustration. “Nightowl!”

"Yunho, what do you want from me?" You cried out.

Yunho ran a hand through his hair and it was only then that you realized he had a smudge on his cheek. You smiled and that was your downfall. Yunho took that as condescending and grew cold with anger again.

"I want you to acknowledge me."

"Yunho, you do wonderful work in my shop, otherwise I wouldn't let you work here, cover or not."

"No." Yunho nudged his body between your legs, prompting all your weight to sit back on San's bike, legs spreading for the outlaw. "Let me kiss you again."

Goosebumps covered your skin and you pressed your lips together subconsciously. "Why?!"

Yunho frowned desperately. "I know I'm just an outlaw. I know I have nothing to offer you. All I can do is work on this damn cop car for you because for some reason you're fixated on it. But on the hot days when you can't pay for the aircon and you walk around here in your tank top and your jumpsuit hanging off your hips." Yunho rubbed his lips together. "You drive me wild."

You swallowed loudly. "Yunho, it's literally hours before you're about to pull off a very important heist. Isn't there some kinda unspoken rule that you don't fuck before a job?"

Yunho laughed, throwing his head back and then groaning in frustration. "Don't be cute!"

You smiled painfully. "I'm not Yunho, seriously, what is this?"

Yunho's shoulders drooped. "This is me shooting my shot. You know I can't show up at the shop when the government building blows up and we rescue those kids. This will be the first place they look for me and the second place they look for Jongho." Yunho frowned in concern, "They're going to come here and raid the place. Are you sure you'll be okay?"

You put a sugary sweet voice on full blast. "Why, Officer, I had no idea! I just fix the bikes. Are my fees all paid up?" You laughed, "I've done this before, Yunho."

Yunho pursed his lip to the side of his cheek. "Is that all you heard?"

"Yunho…"

Yunho dropped to your feet and angrily picked up the wrench you had dropped there. He made to stand back up but you moved forward without his firm body holding you up and his head ended up in between your boobs. The two of you froze, neither knowing what to do.

"Owl?" Yunho said, muffled between your chest. Moving his chin, he pressed the zipper against your skin and you gasped.

"Just--don't move!!"

Yunho fidgeted and the wrench he had in his hands rubbed against your folds through your jumpsuit and boyshorts. You whimpered and Yunho moaned at the noise.

Everything was falling apart.

You yanked Yunho's head back, hand deep in his hair. He was looking up at you with his big brown eyes like his heart was in your hands. "Please? Let me have this before I don't get to see you for months."

"My room's not far," You allowed.

Yunho stood up, wrench still in hand and pushed up your chin so that you looked solely at him. "I don't want to fuck you in your room."

"Then where…?" Your eyes shot down to San's bike. "Yunho, no!"

Yunho laughed under his breath. "Not San's bike!" You sighed in relief until he said, "On the cop car!"

"Fuck," You cursed.

That's how you found yourself without a jumpsuit, or underwear for that matter, legs spread on the hood of the old cop car that had been sitting in your shop for ages. Yunho was still in his jumpsuit, legs spread behind yours, body almost draping over yours so that he could spread your lower lips and play with your cunt. Two of his fingers worked in and out of you slowly.

When he pulled his other hand away, you were so focused on the way Yunho's fingers worked you, that you had no clue what unhinged actions Yunho was planning. "Owl, open your eyes."

You blinked owlishly through your glasses and then gasped. "Yunho!"

Yunho used the remote controlled drone that you used to get closeups of the inside of vehicles to film himself fucking you with his fingers. The projector launched the image to the back of the garage door. You had a full view of just how wrecked you were for Yunho right now. "See how good your pussy takes my fingers?" Yunho said in a low voice in your ear.

You looked away, "This is ridiculous."

Yunho dropped the remote control but the drone remained hovering and filming. He turned your head back towards the screen. He pressed two fingers into your mouth and you sucked on them with a groan. Shit. "So sweet for me," Yunho murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

You whined in embarrassment and lust. This was truly absurd and a complete role reversal.

"Your holes are stuffed with my fingers and you need more?" Yunho raised an eyebrow that you could see through the drone.

Your back arched with Yunho slid a third finger into your sopping hole. "You take me so fucking well," Yunho purred, sounding beyond satisfied with how things were turning out. "You might be ready for my cock soon."

You made a noise of distress so Yunho pulled his fingers out of your mouth so you could speak. "Might be?" You said with an incredulous cry.

Yunho chuckled. "I'm big, sweetheart. I'm just looking out for you."

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as Yunho started to move those three fingers inside of you. "Fuck, Yunho, fuck!" Your hips twitched to his rhythm, wanting more, searching for what amount of pleasure he was doling out.

"Don't hold back, tell me everything," Yunho demanded.

"Feels so good," You whimpered, "You're stretching me. Fucking fingers…Yu-yun!" You whined his name.

"You need something, sweetheart?" Yunho asked, a tiny smirk pulling at his lips again.

"Need…you…" You panted in between his fingers thrusting against your sweet spot.

Yunho jerked his head, "I dunno, you sure you're ready? Don't you think you should come first?"

You shook your head in rapid succession. "No. I'll fall asleep. It'll take me completely out."

Yunho let his head fall back again in a groan. "Stop being so cute!"

It didn't take long to switch positions. Your back was now on the hood, arms held out to brace yourself from sliding up. Yunho stood in front of the cop car, jumpsuit unzipped all the way, his chains and the zipper framing his chiseled body. Your legs were straight, pressed together, and both feet near Yunho's head on his left side. His cock was pushing its way into you, slowly but surely. He had been biting down on his lip the entire time, fighting with his own desire to be inside you in one quick thrust.

"Yu-yunho," You attempted to claw your way back to some sort of coherency. "It's okay. I like it rough. Just go. Please."

Yunho moaned. "You're so tight though. I feel like I'm going to split you in half."

You groaned in return at his words. "If only."

With one arm around your legs, and the other gripping your hip, he was full hilt in one fluid movement and you cried out at the sensation of him filling you completely. "Fuck. Yunho."

Normal words were gone once Yunho started an intense rhythm that had his pelvis muscles slapping the back of your legs. You were simply a mess of whimpers as you took everything Yunho had to give you. But Yunho wasn't fairing that better himself.

"Fu-fuck," he began to stutter, "This pussy is so fucking tight, you keep squeezing down on me and--" He groaned, "Fuck, just like that, shit, sweetheart!"

"Mmmm, Yun," You cried, "So good, you feel so good in me. So deep. Keep hitting the end of me. I can't--" You swallowed and moaned, "I wanna come," You pouted.

"I know sweetheart, I--fuck," Yunho slowed his pace and you watched his adam's apple bob. "You gotta come soon. I don't think I can last much longer."

"Yuyu," You whimpered and Yunho slammed into you sloppily, hitting the end of you as well.

"Stop. Being. So. Fucking. Cute." Yunho said between thrusts.

You fall apart for him, breasts thrusted into the air and his name on your lips. Your denied orgasm from previously only helped the intensity of this one. You felt your cunt convulse around Yunho’s length and then Yunho held himself inside of you as he released his cum into the condom. Your pussy milked him for all he was worth and then he let out a sigh of relief.

“Been wanting to do that since Hongjoong convinced you two open back up this shop,” Yunho admitted.

When you didn’t respond immediately, Yunho let your legs go down gently, pulling out. He tied the condom off and winced when he threw it and it did NOT make the garbage can. “Are you okay?”

You pulled yourself out of your thoughts. “Hmm? Oh, yeah, I’m fine.”

Yunho’s eyes remained on you as you searched for your jumpsuit to put it back on. “You don’t seem fine.”

You laughed mirthlessly. “I’m not about to trauma dump on you, Yunho, you’ve got your mind on bigger things now.”

Yunho quietly walked over to where you were hugging yourself and tugged your arms down so he could hug you to his chest. “You gonna tell me about the cop car or what?”

You stiffened in his embrace. He had hit the nail right on the head. “Yunho… are you sure?”

Yunho held your hands and walked backwards until you were both back in front of the cop car where he had just ruined you. “I’m sure.”

You sighed heavily but didn’t pull your hands out of his. “My dad was a crook. There’s a precinct close and the cops used to bring their cars to the shop to get fixed. My dad used to do anything and everything for them. They’d exchange money, words, drugs, whatever you could think, my dad used this shop as a front for that. He got caught. He died during a prison uprising. I was a straight and proper mechanic at the time. I had learned everything from my dad but didn’t want to be a crook like him. But when Hongjoong found me sometime after the prison uprising, asking me if I wouldn’t open this shop back and use it the same way my dad did…” Yunho pulled you tighter to his body, chin on top of your head, for support. “...I hated the world and the government for everything. They turn a blind eye for the most part and then suddenly they’re all ‘the law is the law’ and people’s lives get ruined. So I ultimately decided to join and help Hongjoong. The car is the last remnant of my dad. He was fixing it when the government came for him. I can’t for the life of me bring it to the junkyard, so I keep working on it, thinking we might use it in a future heist to fuck some shit up.”

Yunho pulled away, eyes scanning your face, before ultimately cupping your cheek with one hand. “I’ll mention it to Hongjoong.”

You shook your head adamantly. “It’s fine, really Yunho.”

His eyes became soft and you found that you couldn't meet them anymore. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what, sweetheart?’ Yunho murmured.

“Like you might just fall in love with me.”

Yunho smiled gently. “Too late for that.”

You smacked Yunho’s chest. “You’re about to be gone for months and that’s how you confess?!” You shouted.

A bashful grin replaced his gentle smile. “I’ll make it up to you when I’m back.”

You rolled your eyes. “How are you going to one up yourself? You already fucked me on the cop car.”

Yunho poked his cheek with his tongue. “Oh, I can think of a few ways to get your engine revved up.”

You wrinkled your nose at him. “Ew, Yunho.”

Yunho threw back his head and laughed wholeheartedly.

Tag list: @hijirikaww @starillusion13 @flurrys-creativity @kitten4sannie @a-soft-hornytiny @mingsolo

Heist Collaborators: @wooyoungmybelovedhusband @kwanisms @smallfrye @anyamaris @flowerboykun @stardragongalaxy @kpop-stories-21

#cultofdionysusnet #CoDN event #Operation Outlaw: Before the Boom #kvanity #pirateeznet #thekpopuniverse #kwritersworldnet #jeong yunho smut #ateez smut #topaz's work #ღatz

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cheolism · 1 year

Text

abandoned mall piano

✧ mingyu x reader

✧ summary: after a shift at the movie theater in the nearly-abandoned mall, you decide to play the piano that randomly appeared by the instrument store.

✧ genre: romance, first meetings, meet-cute. awkward mingyu ft his lisp.

✧ wc is approx 2.3

✧ note: warning for a piano bench that creaks a lot. this is mostly just a meet-cute between an awkward and enthusiastic mingyu and a pianist reader. if there's interest i'm def down for a sequel

Waving goodbye at Hansol and hoping he would have a better day than you, you left the movie theater. You tore off your cap and shoved it deep into your tote bag, wishing that your bag was infinite and the cap would disappear inside. Your nametag went next, because honestly why the hell did these random people who you, quite frankly, didn’t know and didn’t want to know, need to know your name?

The mall was nearly empty, as it tended to be. Even Saturday evenings couldn’t really save the mall from the desertion of its once-regular customers. Your mom would shake her head and sigh whenever she showed up at your work, handing you a box of supper. “It’s a shame. This place used to be so popular when I was a kid.”

You always held your tongue at this, wanting to remark on how your mother and the mall predated online shopping.

Even as a kid, you remembered the mall being busier. You remembered photo shops and bookstores, ice cream stands and a Hot Topic. Now the only places that remained in popularity were the movie theater and the instrument store, with other shops and chains constantly rotating stores in and out.

You walked past the fountain, which was kept turned off more than it was on. The instrument shop was on the other side of the fountain, and, peculiarly, a piano was in the normally empty space that lay between the shop and fountain.

Slowing to a stop, you glanced around. The Old Navy, which had appeared suddenly a month ago and you and Jeonghan bet would last two more months at most, had a few mothers milling about in front of it. But no one was around the piano.

You went to it, as if there was an invisible string tying you to it and tugging you forward. It wasn’t anything spectacular, made largely out of wood and painted a horrible neon green that reminded you of Post-Its. It reminded you of the piano kept in your high school choir room, the one wheeled about for concerts.

Still, you set your tote on the bench and slid into place. The bench creaked beneath you. You glanced up and down the keys. They were plastic, further testament to the cheapness of the piano, but when you placed your fingers down in position on Middle D, the sweet ting elicited, no matter how cheap, made you grin.

You shifted again; the bench creaked again.

Adjusting your fingers, you slowly began a simple melody. You weren’t so much of a master as to promptly begin playing without practice, and the plainness of the song wasn’t anything to marvel at. Still, softly, you sang along with the warm-up.

“Puff the Magic Dra-gon lived by the sea,” your voice was low, not daring to go any higher and rise above the piano. You knew your limits. “And fro-licked in the au-tumn mist in a land called Honah Lee.”

The piano was cheap, and nothing like the Petite Grand that had lived in your piano teacher’s den (“parlor,” she had corrected you with a stern look. “it’s a parlor.”). But you were satisfied nonetheless, and shifted your hands again.

You began your next song, more sure than when you had played the child’s song, your fingers going to the E in the third octave. Unable to help yourself, you sang along, head bent and blind to the mall around you.

“Why do birds suddenly appear everytime you are near?

“Just like me, they long to be close to you.

“Why do stars fall down from the sky every time you walk by?”

Though you were no Karen Carpenter, and you were a lone pianist playing in an abandoned mall, in your ears you were joined by a chorus and trumpet and strings. You were lost to it, swept away by the memories the song brought to you, somehow existing both in the mall during the age of online shopping and overnight deliver, but also existing decades back,

“What song is that you’re playing?”

Looking back, you must have jumped about a foot in the air. Your hands plopped down on the keys, a painful dang emitting from the piano. The smile that must have appeared on your face at some point during your little song, quickly disappeared as you looked up at the man standing next to you and the piano.

The grin on his face quickly dropped at your visible fright, his eyes widening and mouth gaping. He then sputtered for a moment before reaching his hands out in a placating gesture, as if he was trying to calm you. “Shit -- I’m so sorry, I wasn’t trying to scare you! I just work at the instrument store and no one except for kids has played on the piano all day so I was curious when someone played an actual song and I just wanted to see who you were and then I wanted to know what song you were playing, and you looked so cute I couldn’t help but come up to you and ask and I’m so sorry for scaring you.”

He spoke a mile a minute, spewing out words as if he were to slow down, someone would interrupt and he’d never get the chance to talk again. You wondered if he took a breath at all during his little speech, but then your mind lingered on one phrase in particular.

You looked so cute.

You wondered if you looked as flustered as you felt.

“Sorry,” he said again. He had a sheepish look on his face, and wow. You wondered how he managed to look like a kicked puppy when he was so obviously over six foot and broad-shouldered, and his uniform polo stretched across his chest and hid nothing. His dark hair was long, bangs brushing against his cheeks and making him look like a heart-throb from the 90s. He was a daydream, with his tan skin and biceps. He looked like a CEO, not a mere employee for an instrument store in an abandoned mall.

Then his sheepish look was melting into a shy smile, his canines long and looking more like fangs.

You licked your lips, diverting your eyes from the man. You cleared your throat, bringing your hands away from the keys and setting them on your lap. “It’s uh. It’s okay. You didn’t mean to.”

“I didn’t!” He agreed, eyes wide and earnest.

If he was a dog, he’d be a golden retriever, you thought.

There was a pause.

“They long to be close to you.”

His brows furrowed, the sweet look on his face being overtaken by confusion. He cocked his head a little to the side, bangs falling to obscure his eyes. “What?”

You licked your lips again. Why were they so dry all of a sudden? “The song. It’s called ‘(They Long To Be) Close To You’, with little parentheses around the first part. Like. Parenthesis, then ‘they long to be’, parenthesis, then the rest. It’s by this old duo called the Carpenters. They were popular until the 80s.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment. Then, looking at your hands, you said, “I first heard it on the Muppets. The original show. Not the new movies.”

Another moment of silence, and then the man was talking. “Oh! That’s cool. I love old songs. My friend, Jihoon -- he works at the instrument store too -- he loves all kinds of music. I’m sure he’s heard of your song before, too!”

“What’s your favorite?”

He blinked, looking taken back. “What?”

“What’s your favorite old song?” You asked, clenching your fingers in your lap. This was the part you hated about meeting new people: the initial conversation. The only reason you got along so well with Hansol was because he was just as socially awkward, and you got along with Jeonghan because he watched you trip and drop an extra-large bucket of popcorn and decided you were pitiful enough for him to “adopt”.

Despite how suave the man looked, he wasn’t unable to hide the panic your question sent him into. You felt as if you were watching him mentally go through all the filing cabinets of songs in his head, trying to find one suitable enough. “Uh. ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’?”

Your brow furrowed for a moment, before realization hit you. Then you felt your eyes widen and mouth open, and laughter erupted from you. You threw your head back from the force of your laughter, it loud and echoing around the open space.

The man was beaming, clearly happy that he managed to pass your question. “Yeah, you know. The lyrics really get me. Especially the part where he talks about communism.”

You were giggling again, thoroughly charmed. Setting your hands on the piano, you shot him a smile. “Oh, you’re talking about this?”

Like a horse at the races, you were off. The staccato beats sent your fingers dancing, and you felt wild. You felt as if there was something in your heart, as if there really was a horse running a race inside there, making your neutrons and electrons come alive as you played for this man who worked at the instrument store.

He was clearly having just as much fun. When you glanced at him he was smiling so wide, you swore you could see all of his teeth. Then he began singing, bopping his head along and wiggling his long limbs to the beat.

You picked up the pace and so did he, and the two of you worked in perfect tandem to create an absolute mess out of the song. Your fingers were stiff and beginning to ache, having not played this much and this frantically in a long while. But there was something between you and the man, and you couldn’t help but think back to all the romances that called attraction ‘electricity’ and think they were right.

Then your forefinger slipped, and you played a wrong note. You let out a groan, pushing your lips out in a pout as you gave up.

The man followed your lead. His smile was like a mad man’s, but when he reached up and smoothed his hair out of his face you were once again struck with how handsome he was.

“You never told me your name,” you said, turning towards him. The bench creaked, but you didn’t pay it any attention. “You came out of nowhere and scared the hell out of me and then came and invited yourself to my jam session. You owe me a name.”

“I didn’t come from nowhere,” he said, but his face was still lit with amusement. “I came from the instrument shop.”

“Oh, my bad,” you apologized.

He neared, extending his hand. It was large, you noticed, and just as golden as the rest of him. “I’m Mingyu.” You introduced yourself, placing your hand in his. “I work at the movie theater.”

“The movie theater? With your talent?” The man shook his head. He slid onto the bench next to you, and you moved over. It creaked under your combined weight. He smelled good. His thighs pressed against yours due to how small the bench was, and they were just as warm as his hand.

You wondered if he would let you hold his hand again.

“You should be working as a professional piano-ist,” Mingyu said, voice confident. He placed his fingers on the keys, playing no tune in particular.

“Pianist,” you corrected gently. Your hands joined his on the keys, your right thumb resting on the C in the fifth octave. You looked at his hands, and Mingyu took the cue to put his right hand on the C on his end. Then you were playing, slow enough so he could copy you.

“Hey,” he said, brow furrowing as he glanced from watching your right hand to his own, ensuring he was playing the right notes. “Isn’t this from that movie? The Sound of Music?”

It was then you noticed the lisp. Enthralled and already hooked, you smiled at him. His jawline was sharp, and you knew that if he lived during the time of the Ancient Greeks he surely would have been a model for the sculptors. Feeling rather impish, you decided to tease. “What movie was it?”

“Oh, you know, the one with Julie Andrews.”

He still wasn’t watching you and couldn’t see the mischievous look on your face. “Julie Andrews was in a lot of movies.” “It was the Sound of Music --”

Mingyu glanced at you, and upon seeing your face he let out a groan. He pouted, and you wondered how a grown man could pull off such a face and still look cute. “Are you making fun of my lisp?”

You laughed. “It’s cute, don’t worry.”

His pout melted for a moment, his dark eyes twinkling. Then Mingyu pouted again, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh, it’s cute is it?”

“It is.”

He hummed, the playful look in his eyes persisting. “Cute enough for me to ask you out on a date and succeed?”

Your eyes widened for a second, caught off-guard. You were still in your black uniform from work and you were sure you had acne on your forehead from working with the popcorn and wearing a cap. You probably smelled like popcorn.

“Please?” Mingyu asked, somehow looking unashamed of how his voice took on a whining tone. “You’re so cute and you looked so pretty playing the piano, and I want to hear more about your favorite old songs and I want to make you laugh again.”

You glanced down at your hands. You clenched your fingers for a moment, licking your lips.

Mingyu’s eyes were still on you when you chanced a look at him. You settled your hands on the keys. “Okay. Okay. Tell me the name of this song, and if you can I’ll go out on a date with you.”

And then you played.

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tennypress · 11 months

Note

Gun x Goo x reader smut

I’ll write another one !

(No smut sorry, but I might make a nsfw part to it

Street racer AU

(Inspired by fast and furious)

WARNING: love triangle, gender neutral reader

“Ooh, Mami, this a new 'Rari. Hit 150 on the dash, I bent the corner, then she bent it for me sideways, uh I might have to fuck her on the highway, yeah”

You just stepped out of your white and red 1992 Mitsubishi Galant VR 4 hugging your friend Zoe park after she ask you to drive in her place in a local street race. There you see three other cars. A yellow and black 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T and fuzzy dice hanging in the rear view mirror with a guy with blonde hair and sunglasses chilling outside chatting with others.

A green 1993 Toyota Supra Turbo with an older guy with a shaved head and wearing a tank top chilling outside while listening to music with his friends.

Then you see a car that caught your attention. It was a black 1999 Nissan Skyline GT-R R34 with a custom painted oni design on the side. You can see the owner on the side smoking a cigarette and just waved to you. Your intrigued.

But your car was amazing too. It was gifted to you by your father. It was white and red 1992 Mitsubishi Galant VR 4 with a custom paint with hello kitty in the side.

As you enter the race the other racers were snickering and making fun of your car. Saying how it looks girly and too old. However the owner of the nissan just glanced at your car before turning back to focus on the race.

You held onto your wheel as you see the flag girl raise her bandana? Or cloth and just waved it before stepping aside for you guys to race. Then you hear a speakerphone of someone you knew. Daniel park, signaling and counting down. 3, 2, 1, and go! You all step on the pedal

Your racing and your in 3rd place before you see the bridge pull up. The green car owner stopped before you see a flash of yellow also slow down. Now it’s between your Mitsubishi and the owner of the Nissan to finish this race.

Both of you speeding up you drove off the bridge and managed to land on the other side safely.

You both returned back safely and exited the car.

There you get out and a crowd comes rushing to the both of you. Including Zoe and Daniel. They just come up to you and congratulate you. Before you see the Nissan owner also coming up to shake your hand.

“That was impressive, no one has beaten me in a race before. I’m Gun. Gun park” he just greets you with a prideful smirk.

You just smile back and shaked his car before seeing the other racers come up. The green haired guy, or Taejin just comes out pissed and throws his steering wheel out on the ground while another man with tan skinned with glasses comes up to comfort Jin. While Zoe just holds onto you and Daniel looks at Gun with caution. You noticed that the two of them had tension.

“GOD DAMMIT” you see the Blonde glasses man come up with his car totaled and goes up to Gun and grabs his collar.

They were just arguing until you came up to the both of them. “Maybe I can fix your car? I own a auto shop near the city.” Goo just comes up and holds your hand into his and smiles while tears come out of his eyes and agreed. You all bid farewells and drove home. The next day you open your shop and see them both outside with their cars. You welcome them both in offering them drinks while you fix their cars.

Goo just took a coffee while Gun took a beer and you took in Goos car to fix.

Gun couldn’t stop staring at your ass. How it fitted the suit that was covered in dirt and oil. Or how your tank top perfectly outflanked your tits. And how you had that cute hat on your head.

Goo just stared at you with admiration while you fixed his car.

It took a while but you managed to repair the man’s car and took them to the register to tell them the price.

“Good thing most of the car was alright. But for the Windshield crack repair, window replacement, windshield replacement, bumper repair and replacement, scratch repair, frame damage repair, and engine replacement it’ll cost you around 3.4K. How does that sound?” You said ringing up the prices

Goo just nudges to Gun and he groans taking out his card and swiping it. You give the receipt and take out the vehicle out of your shop.

You wave goodbye as you see them leave. Closing up the shop you see a letter left on the counter. Curiosily you went to go pick it up and read it. You see tears swell up with happiness as you see the same love letter you wrote to a good friend of yours after he had left to Japan.

#lookism x reader #x reader #angst #gun park #goo kim

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spilledreality · 5 months

Text

On Joanna Newsom:

...So did they retire to Moorcrest, historied estate of Beachwood Canyon in the City of Angels, fallen from Krotona’s garden—replacing (for instance) an earlier Astor, Astor not by birth or marriage but dream and moxie, a surname war-roomed with the Paramount chief and the local whisper-weaver (not welcome, for instance, among the redwoods of Boho)...

Krotona was to be its West Coast jewel, nestled amidst the glamour and greenbacks of a not-yet-goldbricking Hollywood, a Roaring Twenties predecessor to the wedgwood blue of the Pacific Command Base at 4833 Fountain (known more casually among Operating Thetans as Big Blue). Heineman drew the first sketches, the same Arthur who, like the many touring bands that followed him, selected San Luis County for its midway sitch atween San Fran and Lotusville, thus building the world’s first motel off 101 North. The area was chosen for its temperate climate, its virgin magnetic conditions, and its ease of access; but what draws one draws many—desires being, as they are, socially learned and evolutionarily inherited from shared stock and shared situation—Thus, they found, like many Angelanos, the town’s stock reducing to something more common (“Los Demonios”) and at last departed to more pastoral surrounds: a new Shangri-La, the once-Chumash Ojai dressed in Normandy fashions as the Taormina hood.

Another singer had fantasized the house a hundred years prior, had imagined its layout in magic specificity for the “rote” builders that followed. Her memories of travel informed its hybrid of Christian, Islamic, and Hindu design: Marie Russak had spent some time in Tamil Nadu, with a view of the Adyar River’s ox-led plows and palm trees. Did she see Los Angeles in the shimmering reflections of fronds on water, rippling like the curls of her hip-length hair? Marie’d been born in the first Indian summer of the postbellum, had studied music at the Mill and specialized in Wagner before her own ceremony (in satin faille with mousseline de soie and pointe d’aiguille lace was she lambent in pearls). Then a Theosophist and devotee-assistant to HiS Majesty Olcott, was initiated into the co-ed Masons, rising to its Provisional Supreme Council of the West Hemisphere on the fall of Paris to Hitler. Helios, they called her, Lady Helios. Now her text-trace survives in Helios Drive (the event lives only in print); she slipped off her gloves as she’d donned them, at the end of an epoch-making war. She’d come to believe in the spirit’s transcendence, “the lodger within me, larger than me”—in a hierarchy of body and soul, purification from mud.

The structures she left behind, upon spirit’s ascent? “Leaded stained-glass windows, copper and marble baseboards, custom cabinetry, hand-painted frescos and elaborate mosaic tiles.” Light floods its glassy atrium, darkness its stony grotto near the old lotus pond. Was the pool once Charlie’s sea-sim piscina, Caribbean sand and water saline, before his breakaway to shortened time horizons?

Now Joanna sits under the eaves where veggie ‘phists compared a day’s keynotes—Methods for Discerning Human Aura, and After-Death Experiences of Soldiers Killed in Battle. She’s just a California girl—raised in gold-rush country NorCal sure but planted now in Sur—but her penchant for layers (does Paul’s sirened short film attest) is decidedly Eastern in orient. Raise a Peach Melba and clink your grails in toast, King Fisher, “dear Mr. Smith,” for the mill churns eternal return on the waterway, bound to the wheel, round and round, again and again—a sense of cycles from the tomb of the womb to the womb of the tomb, amidst cypress trees and sun-bleached stone and chaliced poppies flamed to red...

(source)

#joanna newsom #marie russak #mary astor

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valanthius-xiv · 6 months

Text

Consequences

[ Ambiance ]

TW: blood, violence, torture, bodily fluids

"Was that your bike Imperial triclops? Are you going to cry about it?" Laughter rang from the Ala Mhigan that leaned against the lamppost near the Coffer and Coffin. "No homeland, no comrades, and no ride. It doesn't look like your day is going well." The mischievously mirthful tone of their owner slowly changed into a combative taunt. "It is a long, long walk back to Ilsabard. Tuck your tail and return to your whore of a mother." Another round of laughter inspired others, including the Brass Blade, to join in.

The Pureblood stared at his busted bike. Traces of sugar and salt were around the ceruleum tank, the wheels were jacked and torqued out of spec, the custom paint and metalwork had been beaten and damaged with blunt force, and the masterwork leather had been shredded and charred. A subtle click of the tongue signaled his realization that hours and hours of hard work, dedication, and passion were now in ruins.

What wasn't known was that those very hours, dedication, and passion were some of the sole reasons he could keep his violent tendencies in check. Revarik gave a single glance around before locking onto the responsible party and noticing a basic compass attached to their hip, "alright. Before I leave can you tell me what direction is north?"

Again, laughter echoed outside of the building. The Mhigan reached to the side, "they don't teach you directions in the military? Rhalgr be damned, how could we lose to a bunch of incompetent pearlbrains?! Now you've hit so low to ask your conscripted for help. Sweet irony." As he unhooked the compass from his belt and offered it to Revarik the Garlean made his strike.

The augmented hand clamped down on the median nerve of the other's hand and pulled him against Revarik. The other hand of the Garlean captured the Mhigan's other and gave it a forceful snap to dislocate it at the elbow joint. The addition of slamming the end of his knee into the side of the Mhigan's own brought the man down to the ground with surprise and anger smoldering in response.

Revarik held him there and maintained his grip. "That pain you're feeling in your hand is at a one out of ten. At a four you will empty your bowels everywhere. Imagine what will happen if I take it further. You've nine seconds to decide what happens here. You owe me a bike, mate." There was no response for two seconds prior to Revarik ramping up the pain to a level three on that scale. Instantly, the unbearable pain in that grip sent shivers and shakes into the Mhigan with others watching on.

"Tell them to stand down or I take this to a seven." No hesitation came in shouting at his comrades and others to stay away. "What do you want? I don't have the gil to pay that back?!" The Mhigan frantically called as his face became red and tears presented themselves within his dark whiskey-colored eyes. "You can begin with an apology," Revarik stated plainly. A slew of sorry followed and just as it felt like the Garlean was about to release his grip on the simple terms the intensity hit another level.

Shame now coupled the Mhigan's expression as he felt his insides empty into his trousers and down around his knees. Wetness had accumulated at the front of them. "I couldn't hear you, mate. Louder," Revarik instructed. In the pained cries of the Mhigan the shouts of his apology continued and prayers to Rhalgr echoed in the desert evening. The misery inflicted had reached stage five while the calm countenance of the Garlean observed.

"You won't be a problem for anyone else, mate. You will remember this moment and should you feel the need to cause grief then know I will come for you again." Revarik's metal grip tightened to a seven before ripping the index and middle finger free of their limb entirely. The messy appendages were put into his jacket pocket while the poor man let out his screech of suffering. He was practically rolling in his own fluids and screaming bloody anguish. The Garlean seized the compass and put it in a separate pocket before looking to the others. "Any of you could have prevented this from happening and this is the reward of your complacency. Clean him up." He disengaged from the ordeal and returned inside. He needed a drink for the walk he was about to undertake.

When he did good... no one remembered. But, when he did bad... no one ever forgot.

#RsV #Consequences #Writing #FFXIV #tw: blood #tw: bodily fluids #tw: violence #tw: torture

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kozubaby · 2 years

Text

Date Night

Keishin Ukai x Reader

Also posted Here

“Wait, but don’t you have practice with the kids tonight?” You asked as Ukai pulled you along to his car.

“Eh, Takeda can handle it just this once. Come on, let me take you out. It’s been too long.”

You nodded and smiled softly at him before sliding in and putting your seatbelt on. He jogged over to the driver’s side after closing the door for you and climbed in. After turning the car on, he let the top down and pulled on a pair of sunglasses.

“Shall we, sweet thing?”

He drove you into the city where you grabbed some delicious street food and ate in the car, watching the sun go down from a prime spot in an empty parking lot. You hadn’t allowed yourself to admit it until now, but you really missed him. He spent so much time coaching those amazing kids, and they were thriving with his help, but that meant lots of evenings and weekends alone at home. It was worth it, though. You’d never seen Ukai so motivated or generally fulfilled.

“Sweet thing, you’re staring at me.” Ukai smirked, pointing it out in that gravelly tone from years of smoking you’d only recently convinced him to stop doing. Of course you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting your blatant staring, so you rolled your eyes, sucking your teeth and turned away. He could see the playful color in your gestures, though and wasn’t even remotely offended.

“You know I love a headstrong woman, sweet thing, don’t tempt me.” He leaned over and kissed your cheek, lingering close to your ear. “I can always pull the top back up, and we can handle business in the backseat.” The way you gasped and covered your mouth was damn near embarrassing, but a series of flashing lights served as a much needed distraction as cars started to pull into the parking lot. You could hear music blaring from sound systems and people whooping and hollering excitedly.

“Babe, what is this parking lot for?” You wondered aloud as more and more people parked and started climbing out of their cars.

“Ah that would be the second half of our date. Come on, let’s get in early and find a spot.” He reached into the back seat and grabbed a duffle bag before hopping out of the car. You hurriedly followed him, hearing the alarm beep behind you and merging with the rest of the forming crowd.

Once close enough, you could hear music bumping loudly from inside, mid-2000s hip hop you hadn’t heard in ages. The neon flashing lights and chaotic-patterned carpet were what really gave it away for you.

“A roller rink? Keishin, I haven’t been in a pair of skates in years.” You explained as the nostalgia of your young adult years flooded your brain.

“I know. I saw those pictures of you from a decade ago and thought I had to see you in action.” He paid and led you past the skate-rental desk to a carpeted bench just like the ones at your old rink.

“Hey, don’t we need skates?”

“Gotcha covered, sweet thing.” He dropped the dufflebag to the floor and unzipped it, pulling out two large shoe boxes and handing one to you. “Hope they’re the right size.”

You scrambled to open your box as excitement took over your senses, and inside, you found a pair of custom skates, black and hand-painted with sunflowers, just like the pair you’d worn all those years again.

“...Kei…” You didn’t know what to say as you ran for fingers over the details. Ukai only smirked at you and pulled his own skates on before bending down to help you into yours, tying the laces around the back like you used to do to stop them from catching in the wheels.

“Ready?” He stood, reaching a hand out to you.

“Wait, I haven’t skated in so long I-”

“It’s like riding a bike, baby. You never really forget. Anyways, I’ll keep you on your feet.” Ukai could be so damn smooth, and he knew what that did to you. You rolled your eyes as you took his hands, and immediately he started skating backwards, pulling you onto the polished, lacquered wood of the rink where other patrons were already speeding by.

And he didn’t let you falter once as you got reacquainted to the skates and the flow. At some point, he let go of you and skated circles around you, playful but also making sure that you were completely steady until you were completely comfortable. You turned to skate backwards, and he complimented your skills, although you were definitely more impressed with his.

When the music changed and the DJ announced adult couples only for the next few minutes, you recognized the old RnB song, even remembering the choreography the old couples at the rink used to do. Ukai approached you, taking your hand and spinning you around until your back was to his chest.

“I know you know the choreo, sweet thing, so show me whatchu got.” He spoke low and rich in your ear before swaying back and forth, signaling the start of the sequence. He matched your every move, sliding his hand along your stomach or tapping your hip as you glided around the rink so effortlessly, skates in sync and never clashing, bodies feeling the beat of the music and the heat of each other. You spun and broke apart for a footwork section and came back together toe-to-toe before the sequence started over until the DJ announced ‘free skate’ was back on.

You skated together until the last song, Keishin whispering sweet nothings in your ear and making you feel like the only ones on the rink, until finally it was time to pack up and go home. You carefully placed your skates back in the box and then in the duffle for Ukai to carry out.

“Did you have fun, sweet thing?” He asked, grabbing your swinging hand as you made it across the parking lot and to his convertible.

“Yeah, that was amazing. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.” You climbed into the passenger seat and settled in for the ride home.

“Good, because you and I have a standing date every other week at the rink. No matter what, I’m making time for us from now on.” He leaned over to kiss you lovingly before giving you a dazzling smile, starting the car.

#keishin ukai #keishin ukai x reader #ukai x reader #keishin calls you sweet thing #ukai is so smooth #of course he would take you roller skating #ignore the inconsistencies in time and place #haikyuu drabbles

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automedsolutions · 2 months

Text

Navigating Excellence: How to Find the Best Auto Body Shop in Your Area

Car enthusiasts must partner with reputable auto repair shops for excellent auto body maintenance results. Thus, choosing the best auto body shop in your area ensures that your investment is in reliable hands and delivers the best outcomes. That is why, searching for a trustworthy auto repair shop may be an extensive process, but this article aims to outline the necessary steps towards exemplary vehicle repairs.

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Like other industries, word-of-mouth marketing is vital in auto body repair. With technology, reviews, and testimonials are easily accessible online, and prospective customers can now view these remotely. However, asking family and colleagues is also an ideal option when searching for “cosmetic auto repairs near me”.

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A few things prospects should look into in this step is how the professional explains the repairs. It is essential to be discerning in this step since some professionals may take advantage and list down services you don't need. Different auto body shops have various offers regarding this step. Some offer free estimates, while others charge a professional consultation fee.

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In searching for “cosmetic auto repairs near me” it is also essential to take into account the recommendations of close friends and family. Supporting local businesses and communities are important and offer a more personalized professional service and relationship. Recommendations from family and colleagues offer a more reliable approach since these are strongly based on their experiences with the auto body shop.

Conclusion

The seven steps are only some of the essential ones prospective clients should follow when looking for the best auto body shop. However, an auto repair establishment's credentials and recommendations say a lot about their services and customer service.

If you are looking for a reputable auto repair shop, consider AutoMed Solutions where we value transparency and efficient service for our customers. Our establishment has relevant expertise in numerous car manufacturers and offers numerous exemplary services. Get a free quote today.

#auto cosmetics #cosmetic auto repair near me #best auto body shop #window tinting tysons corner #3m paint protection film #reconditioning services #window tinting near me #best auto body shop near me

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detailingdevilsindia · 2 months

Text

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