#(not pictured. just. uh. relevant)

[aardvaark]

objectively the funniest thing you could say before having a whole season (redemption s2) focus on something you did so terribly wrong that it still has serious repercussions decades later.

[rotspecialist]

[reiderwriter]

Isn't She Pretty, Daddy?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Teacher f!Reader

Summary: You're a little bit worried about one of your brightest students recently, so you call her Dad to come in for a meeting. Her absolutely adorable - and single - Dad.

Warnings: the birds and the bees as explained by a kindergardener. Some angst about being a single parent.

A/N: Here's another entry for @imagining-in-the-margins Kid Fic Challenge! Dad Spencer has my heart, and I've been in a really fluff forward mood this weekend, evidently! I think I have one more Kid Fic left to go before the end of the challenge, but we'll see what the will of the fanfiction gods is...

Masterlist

If you were to be asked what the hardest part of being a teacher was, you would, without question or even a second to think, have an answer. Parents. The worst part of teaching is talking to parents. 

Little kids were easy to talk to. They asked questions if they didn't understand things clearly, and they didn't typically say things they didn't mean. Adults were the opposite, and it just so happened that all of your kids' parents were adults. 

Including your most recent problem  child. 

You were used to the kids in your class having some behavior issues - for one, they were kids, it was to be expected that their little bodies couldn't quite handle all of the emotions they were feeling at once. But you were doubly struck by your school area being close to Quantico, meaning half the kids in your care had families with law enforcement backgrounds. 

Absent parents plus growing bodies plus normal kid stress equalled attachment issues, and your problem child Harper Reid was one of your more worrying cases. 

You really hoped everything was okay in the Reid household, so you'd called the little girls parents. She was lovely - honest to god - one of the sweetest little kids you'd ever met. 

Every day she came to school with some older kids and their mom, carpooling on the way in, so you had yet to meet her parents, but you thought that anyone who could produce something that sweet and cute and brilliant couldn't possibly be a bad person. 

You didn't know what to expect, so when her little pigtails peaked around the corner and she came running in, you were momentarily filled with anxiety. 

“MOMMY!” The little girl yelled, launching herself into your arms as soon as she spotted you behind your desk. 

“Hi, Harper! Hi, you must be, Mr. Reid-”

“Doctor, actually, um, but that doesn't really matter. I'm so sorry about this, Harper doesn't usually tackle people.” 

The 3ft tall ball of energy had managed to crawl into your lap and wrap her arms around your neck, so you had to pick her up when you stood to greet her dad. 

“Will your wife be joining us for the meeting today?” You asked, already used to Harper's hugs and general closeness. 

“Oh, no. No, she's not coming. She, uh, doesn't exist. Single father.” 

“Oh my god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to assume, it's just not on my files-” 

“It's okay, it's a …bit complicated.” 

You took your seat at the desk and gestured to the man to do the same. Finally, looking at him for the first time now that some of your anxiety had died down, you couldn't help but think that Doctor Reid was incredibly attractive. It wasn't one part of his face that stuck out to you as being particularly pretty, just the entire ensemble of it together that took your breath away. Either that of Harper was gripping you so tight she was restricting your ability to breathe, and considering a five year old is not a boa constrictor, this was all dad's fault. 

“So, you said on the phone Harper's been having some problems at school?” 

You snapped your attention back to the issue at hand, searching for the relevant files and pictures you wanted to show the man. Harper turned herself around in your lap and looped her arms around your arm, pulling it in close to use as a pillow. 

“Isn't Miss Y/N so pretty, Daddy?” You froze and flushed in an instant, suddenly so aware of the man's eyes on you. You weren't sure if you were thankful or even more embarrassed that Harper's dad seemed to be even more flushed than you. 

“Daddy? Isn't she pretty?” Harper insisted, and you realized that you both weren't going to get out of this without him answering. 

“Yes, angel. Miss Y/N is very pretty.” The little girl smiled in triumph and nuzzled into your arm even more, happily curled up into your lap like a cat. 

“Hey, Harper. We got a new puzzle delivered yesterday. It's got My Melody and Cinnamaroll on it. They're your favorites, right?” 

The little girl nodded in glee, eyes shining as she hung on your every word. 

“How about you go over to the play area and get it started, and then me and your daddy will come over and help you finish it?” 

In a flash, she'd hopped up out of your lap and wriggled away, shouting a quick “You promised, right?” behind her as she went. 

“I'm so sorry about that, I don't know what's gotten into her, she's usually very shy and-”

“Doctor Reid, it's fine. That's just why I called you in today. Teachers and parents are a team, right, we work together to make sure the kids grow up well, you don't need to apologize to me for that.” 

The man seemed to take a deep breath and nod, to regain his wits about him for a second. 

“Is she… this attached in her regular classes?” 

“Well honestly, she was a bit like that at the beginning of the semester, but she grew out of it after a while. In the last week or so, she fell back into it, and now she's calling me ‘Mommy,’ too. I was wondering if anything happened recently at home that could've led her in this direction, or…”

The man looked a little bashful, but there was a twinge of sadness in his expression that you recognised all too well. 

“Harper, uh, doesn't have a Mom. I adopted her, and it's a long story, but... She's been asking me to get her one recently, because she doesn't really understand all that well? I'm sorry, I didn't know she'd do something like this. I should've done a better job at home-” 

“Doctor Reid, raising a child is hard. It's so hard that humans usually do it in communities, or at least in couples. You're doing it alone, and Harper is already one of the smartest and most empathetic little girls I know. You're doing your job as Dad just fine.” 

The man smiled at you and looked down, quickly wiping away a tear as you gave him a moment of privacy. 

“So. If nothing at home set Harper off, we should probably go and ask her why she's calling me mommy, right?” 

You stood, and he stood with you, leaving his satchel next to his chair and unbuttoning his jacket. 

“Great. Sure, let's go see.”

Walking to the back of the room, you both smiled quietly, looking at the small girl. The 100 piece puzzle you'd guided her to was neatly arranged on the desk, pieces split into edges and centre pieces as she slowly looked at each one with a quietly focused face. Each time she found the piece she was looking for, her smile was bright as she connected it to the small part she was working on. 

“Mommy! Daddy! I can't find the melody's face, can you help me?” 

“Sure, Harper, we'll help you.” You moved to sit beside her at the tiny desks, giggling when the older Reid on Harper's other side struggled to fit himself in the toddler sized chairs. 

Harper assigned you roles, and you all started quietly doing your jobs, waiting for Harper to focus again so you could ask her questions without agitating her. 

“Harper, can you tell your Daddy why you call me Mommy?” 

“Sure! You're Mommy because I want you to marry with Daddy.” 

If you weren't already still flushed from her earlier comments, you certainly were lightheaded with embarrassment now. 

“Harper, that's not how it works-” 

“Yes, it is, Daddy! Henry said so. He said his mommy and daddy were sad one day, but then they were together again and they had a big party called a wedding and now they're happy, and that's why we have Michael.” You didn't quite follow from all the names and the story events, but it was evident that Reid did, so you waited quietly for his explanation. 

“My friend. Her son was at her wedding a few years back. They have another son who is a couple years older than Harper, they come to school together?” 

Your mouth made a small ‘o’ as you slowly filled in the blanks. 

“Harper, you want daddy to have a wedding so he isn't sad anymore?” 

The little girl gave a big nod and a smile, like she was so happy that she was finally being understood. 

“Miss Y/N should marry daddy because he thinks she's pretty. Henry said that was important for a wedding, your mommy has to look beautiful.” You made eye contact with Doctor Reid awkwardly as she spoke, both of you looking away for fear of seeing the embarrassment on each others faces. 

“And Miss Y/N wants a baby. So I will be Miss Y/N's baby, so everyone can be happy!” Harper's kid logic was a little hard to find fault with, but you still had to push back a little. 

“Harper, why do you think I want a baby?” 

“Angie asked you, and you said," the girl pouted, almost frustrated woth habing to answer all these silly questions.

"She asked you why you don't have a baby, and you said that you can only have a baby if you're married and that you wanted to have a baby when you were married. So marry my dad, and I'll be your baby!” 

Harper's smile was so happy and content that you really didn't want to spoil her dream just yet. You continued putting the puzzle together for a few minutes in silence, the full picture nearly being complete now. Harper seemed to fidget a little in her seat next to you, pushing closer and closer to you before tugging on your sleeve. 

You leaned down and she whispered in your ear - though you didn't doubt that her dad heard every word. 

“If you really want, I'm sure we can get another baby like Henry got Michael. I'll ask my dad, but I think it's allowed.” 

The poor man on the other side of the desk had to cover his face with his hands to stop the blush from showing, devolving to just straight up resting his head on the desk when his daughter kept going. 

“A boy is okay, but my dad doesn't really know about boy stuff. Uncle Derek says that my daddy is just a pretty boy with a book brain. We should get another girl, so daddy can be not worry.” 

The more you listened to Harper's adorable family plan, the more you just wanted to squeeze her tight and say yes and give her everything she wanted. 

“Miss Y/N, once again, I'm so sorry for everything, I'll talk with Harper at home about this.” 

“It's okay, I actually find it all very sweet,” you laughed a little and smiled back at him. 

“No, I'm sure your boyfriend would be so uncomfortable if he knew that she was trying to marry you off-” 

“Doctor Reid, are you trying to ask me if I'm single?” 

The small grin that quirked his lips up was nothing if not unfair. He really was a very pretty boy. 

“It was that obvious?” 

“Yep.” You made sure the ‘p’ popped a lot as you both shared a small laugh. Harper looked up between you and smiled, too. 

“So, can you get married now? Henry said you can do it really quickly, like in Grandpa Rossi's garden, and then you can go and do the secret part at home while Auntie Penny looks after me.” 

“Secret part?” 

“To make the other baby, silly!” 

[tinyfantasminha]

I don't want to keep clogging my blog with vent posts but uh... I guess this is a more general concern/observation

But it's getting real hard to stay motivated in fandom spaces when there's little compensation, and annoying occurrences are more frequent than good ones.

Mainly there's been less engagement/people showing interest in creators and their art (such as sending asks, making comments and reblogging with tags) and MORE parasocial interactions. This goes for both artists and writers.

Over this year I've noticed a vast disinterest within my public in general. Asks about ocs, my art, or just nice simple comments of ''I love your art'' has been getting more and more scarce. My follower number is bigger than 2-3 years ago sure and I get more likes on my posts but they are feeling more like just numbers and statistics than actual people who supposedly like my stuff.

And while people being parasocial with creators has always been a thing, I feel like it's gotten way worse... in general? People sending personal pictures out of the blue in hopes of being validated, unwanted psychological advice or assumptions about the creator without any established connection first ( <- these happened to me in the same week.) ventdump, just insensitive/lacking of common sense comments in general, unreasonable demands (mostly with writers)... I wondered at first if it was just me, but a handful of mutuals/acquaintances who are artists and writers seems to be going through it as well.

It's annoying. It's tough. It's getting exhausting. Creators pour so much of themselves into their work—countless hours, effort, and passion, all to share something meaningful or entertaining with others (and for FREE) The LEAST anyone can do is show respect, even if opinions differ. When a writer posts a fanfic, don't just say ''omg post next chapter!'', when an artist posts a drawing of their favorite character, don't just say ''omg draw (character) next!'' as if they're faceless content machines that are expected to churn out more '''content''' for you without acknowledgment, encouragement, or appreciation.

''I want to support creators but I don't know what to say and I feel intimidated by their talent so I just lurk silently :((('' I swear to you, no creator (at least not the majority) is making up an intimidating persona to discourage you from interacting with them. They WANT your comments. A single ''I love your art/writing/videos'' or even something as silly as ''I want to eat your art'' is enough to keep a creator sighing dreamily for WEEKS. It doesn't have to be deep! It's heartfelt and that's what it matters!! (Just remember to keep it relevant and thoughtful... It takes just a bit of common sense NOT to comment things like ''this looks like (another character)'' or ''this but with (another unrelated ship/character/show)''. No one wants to hear comparisons or unrelated ideas when they’ve poured their soul into something.)

In fact, the ''I like your art but I think you're intimidating'' feels more hurtful than flattering. It makes me feel like I'm doing something wrong, acting wrong. 💀

If you love that fanfic that changed your brain psyche forever and want to gush about it, go tell the writer. If you loved so much a piece of art that you saved it a million times in your phone and can't stop thinking about it, go tell the artist. Push away the ''they probably won't care about my comment/it won't make a difference'' thoughts. DO IT NOW. You won't know when they might go inactive forever or deactivate. You can't know if that is the last piece they will ever post. Make sure you show appreciation to creators NOW, while they are still here. While they're still not being replaced by AI.

[candypot]

Illumi Zoldyck - Situationship Headcanons

♱⋅── Autor notes: uh…I wanted to write something cute, but I couldn’t picture Illumi out of his narcissistic and sociopath tendencies.

♱⋅── Disclaimer: Toxic relationship and gaslighting. Please if you’re going trough something similar to this, seek help because you’re being manipulated.

• Sometimes he’s totally aversive about contact, which surely leads him to ghost you or treat you with indifference.

• He wasn’t trying to play mind games with you when he simply disappeared last month, he just grew tired of all the closeness stuff! Come on, from time to time he needs to focus solely on what matters the most, which is his family future. You need to be cooperative and understand you’re not that relevant.

• On the opposite hand, there were times when he felt the urge to touch you and be with you almost all the time. It was almost a maniac episode, the unsettling urge to have you wrapped around him was more than he could handle, so you better be prepared to get phone calls and text messages requesting your location 24/7. Make sure to be always available or at least try to give good excuses if you don’t want him coming over without any warnings. As a person who always had his puppets available, the least Illumi could do is inquisitively request you to be where he wants, when he wants.

• Sometimes he feels the urge to fuck you raw, secretly fantasying how it’ll would be if you were good enough to bear his child. The thought of seeing it leak out of you made his heart flutter, his prudence and ego slowly fading as the idea of having you as the mother of his children start to entertain his lonely and twisted mind.

• if he ever got weak on his prejudiced values and end up breeding you like he always wished to, he would make sure to push you into birth control immediately. After all, having a child with someone as weak and irrelevant as you wasn’t the ideal, even less a possibility.

• Still, if the situationship lasts too long, his small play of husband wife would get a bit more intense and, of course, he wouldn’t admit it. He wasn’t obsessive, he was just giving you a bit more of attention than you deserved and you should be grateful for that. How could you mistake his interest on your safety with stalking and harassment? He was just trying to protect you! Show some gratitude!

• The probability of him truly developing feelings for you is very low (and even if he develops it he won’t recognize it). I mean, it’s a bit obvious how pitiful you were compared to him, specially considering how poor and defenseless you were.

• if he got in a serious relationship with you it would probably be because of acidental pregnancy, which is very unlikely to happen.

• In this case he was probably feeling too compassionate to not oblige you to get rid of the baby, maybe he felt inspired enough by his father’s crazy love for his mother and decided to try it out himself… or maybe he just wanted to fill that horrible void, that way at least one thing would be constant in his life, even if it was his useless wife and weak baby

• But the good news is that despise all those crazy stuff, you can rest assured because not even a fly is coming near you. What is his, it’s his, even if it’s a small toy. End of story. You can live in peace in your meaningless little world.

• It’s not like you would be useful even if he tried to train you, so it would be better to just protect your peace, maybe that way you could keep him company in your free time and find as much pleasure in his presence as he finds on yours.

[creativesaturn]

Could you write something fun about Reid dating a Master/PhD student and everyone is like “how could you???” making jokes about how he is the weird teacher that goes out with his students.

She is not his student, she doesn’t even go to the same college he teaches.

Summary: Spencer's new girlfriend happens to be a student, raising questions and laughs from the team members.

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Warnings: None but lmk!

Word count: 645

a/n: I hope this is okay!🫶 also, if you're wondering why I only include three members.. I'd be lying if I said I was only on season 10 of criminal minds and I don't know any of the characteristics of anyone else.....

"I'm not sure, this guy's got a real temper." JJ commented as she read through the case file, her eyes darting from words to the pictures.

Spencer looked up for a split second to look at JJ, but when he did he got a glimpse of a familiar face through the blinds. You were looking around, confusion written on your face as you looked for, what he safely assumed, was himself. His eyebrows furrowed and suddenly everyone's words were going in one ear, and out the other.

"Uh, give me five minutes." He announced to the table, everyone staring at him in confusion as he got up and walked out the door.

"What are you doing here?" He asked as he approached you. You had your hands in front of you that held onto a brown paper bag, a smile on your face.

"You forgot your lunch!" You quickly frowned, holding the bag up in front of you.

"You're supposed to be studying." He stated, bringing a hand up to rub your forearm.

You groaned in response, "I need a break, Spence! I've been studying all day." You whined, throwing your head back.

He moved his hand to the back of your head to bring your face back to his.

"Exams are coming up, y/n." He sighed, "I'm sure you'll do great, but you really need to study." He added, grabbing onto the bag with his other hand.

You rolled your eyes, moving your head to the side only to catch eye contact with every member staring at the both of you. You laughed, amused, but not surprised everyone was being nosey.

He followed your eyes to everyone staring, as he looked back he brought his hand down from your head with a tight lipped smile.

"Fine, I'll go study." You sighed in defeat, placing a hand on his shoulder. He subconsciously aimed his head down, giving you access to his forehead to place a soft kiss.

"Bye, Spence." You smiled, turning around and making your way out the bullpen.

"Study." He called out, causing you to laugh as you walked out the glass doors.

He placed the paper bag on his desk on his way to the round table. The moment he stepped foot inside, everyone watched his with wide eyes.

He hadn't taken in account that when he left, he left the door open as well. Meaning they could've easily heard the conversation without needing to get up and move closer.

"Study? Is she some sort of student? She looked pretty young." JJ asked, being the first to raise suspicion.

When she spoke, everyone else looked at her and nodded in agreement.

"Uhm, sorta. I mean yeah, she's a student.." He answered, sort of mumbled as he took his seat.

"Wow, Spence. I didn't take you for the student, teacher type of guy." Emily teased, amused laced in her tone.

"What are you--?" Spencer attempted to ask, considering you weren't his student, he didn't think it mattered. But his words were cut short from Rossi butting in.

"How could you, Spencer Reid, be comfortable with that?" Rossi asked, genuinely curious, Spencer could tell by the way he narrowed his eyes and leaned closer.

"It's not that weird?" His brows furrowed, and it wasn't. It wasn't weird at all, you met how anyone would meet Spencer. He didn't see how you, being a student was relevant.

"So, you're just the teacher that goes out with his students now?" JJ went on, raising a brow at Spencer, and a look on her face that said, 'Did you think about that?' without words.

"She's not even--" But before Spencer could defend himself, Emily finally decided that they were getting too off track and needed to focus. Which annoyed Spencer, he's being accused of something that wasn't true and now, had no time to defend himself.

reposts and comments are appreciated <3

[torturedtypewritersdept]

proclivity - pt. seven - kyoto

✯ pairing:

ex!bff!rafe cameron x diabetic!kook!fem!reader

✯ summary:

at one point in time rafe was your best friend. can summer romance erase all the damage he's done?

✯ [7k]warnings:

mature themes, mentions of anxiety, nostalgia, heartbreak, diabetes lingo, injury, ghosting, fluff and fear, domestic violence (not rafe), mean!ex!jj etc.

✯ a/n:

nothing!! please don't engage if you have a hard time with any of these topics <3 this was originally posted on my old blog @/illicitfixations, @/lovelornanonymity and i have rewritten + reshared it here :) trying out a new format with this post, hope you like it!

Midsummer’s was the event of the season and everyone in the Outer Banks knew it - even the Pogues, who weren’t even socially relevant. The preparations for the pretentious party started exactly one year ahead, booking venues, and caterers, and getting together the oh-so-important list of people that needed to attend to continue to make it relevant. You often joked that this party derived from the origins of your favorite play did a disservice to the work of Shakespeare. You weren’t sure that when he wrote A Midsummer Night’s Dream exactly what he was thinking but you were sure it didn’t include an ostentatious party with false pleasantries and too much alcohol. Yet, this year the overarching theme of love that can be found in many of his works, infiltrated your entire being. This year was just like any other, except this year you’d be attending with Rafe. This year you weren’t annoyed by the presence of the event in your life and instead, you actually welcomed it. You were excited to wear your dress and had planned every detail of how you’d wear your hair and what makeup products you’d use. This year you were excited to be in a public setting with the boy you loved and you were patiently waiting for him to ask you specially but wondered if he was even planning to after having lunch with Topper at the club. 

Once every week, you had lunch with Topper. It was a tradition he had started with you two years ago and had somehow managed to keep up with. The first one was right after your diagnosis and he wanted to make you feel loved so he instructed you to wear your best dress and accompany him to lunch. This is why you were now wearing a white form-fitting dress, with lace that went right to your mid-thigh with brown wedges. Your hair was curled, sitting just passed your shoulders and your skin was glowing in the sun as you conversed back and forth with Topper over a ridiculously expensive egg salad sandwich. Luckily, Top was buying. 

“So, are you excited for Midsummers? What color are you and Rafe wearing?” 

He asked cheerily, excited for the event, excited for you, knowing what it meant for you. 

“I, uh, actually don’t know. He hasn’t mentioned it to me. I’m not sure if he’s going to ask at all.” 

You spoke awkwardly, fidgeting with your hands.

“Wait what? He hasn’t mentioned anything about it?” 

Top looked at you in confusion. 

“He said he was going to wear a navy suit, but that’s it.” 

You tried to hide the sadness, but your tongue betrayed you. 

“Well, do you know what color you want to wear?” 

“I already bought my dress like six months ago, you know how my mom is over Midsummers. It’s a champagne color.” 

You pulled out your phone to show Topper the pictures from when you tried it on. Turning the screen around and placing it in his hands, you chuckled as his face lit up at the sight of you. The gold-tinted satin curved effortlessly around your body and you loved the way it made you feel.

“Y/n, Rafe’s gonna have a heart attack. You look so beautiful!” 

Topper almost shouted through the restaurant. 

“I don’t know, I really don’t think he’s gonna ask, Top.” 

You spoke in a defeated tone, not sure if he even really needed to. You were his girlfriend now, maybe that meant he just assumed you were going together. 

“Why wouldn’t he? You’re his girlfriend.” 

“I don’t know, it’s just a feeling I guess and it’s still new, maybe he doesn’t want people to know or maybe he doesn’t think he needs to ask since we’re together now.”

You shrugged your shoulders, but Topper knew this was important to you. Not only was this your first time going to Midsummers with Rafe, but this was also your first time going with anyone who wasn’t of the female sex. You went with JJ last year, but you didn’t count that since he hadn’t asked you and he was only able to come because of your status on the eight. This was a big deal. You’d seen your friends one by one get asked to Midsummer's in various special ways, similar to promposals and you wondered when it would be your turn. When you’d have a handsome boy sweep you off of your feet with the kindness of the question and it seemed like now you had that, but your mind was plagued with the notion that he wouldn’t ask. Mostly because every year you waited for him to and he never did. 

“You have to know that isn’t true.” 

Topper said, breaking you from your thoughts and bringing you back to the conversation at hand. 

“I don’t know, I guess I’ve just been waiting on the other shoe to drop.” 

You shrugged your shoulders again. 

“Come on, you’re talking about the same guy who beat someone half to death for you. Trust me, I know Rafe, he’s going to ask. He probably has something special planned and you’re going to be embarrassed when I have to say I told you so.” 

“Whatever you say, Top. What happened with JJ by the way? Is Rafe gonna get into trouble?” 

Your brows furrowed in worry.

“No worries, sweet girl. Rafe isn’t in trouble. JJ’s fine, he spent a day or two in the hospital and had a severe concussion and whiplash from what I heard. His face is gonna scar. He got what he deserved.” 

Topper’s tone was smug and you let out a small smile at what Topper said. It wasn’t that you wished ill will on JJ or wanted him hurt, because frankly, you didn’t. But it felt damn good that he got what he deserved, after what he had done to you, and it felt even better that it was at the hands of your boyfriend. 

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom Top, I’ll be right back.” 

You smiled in his direction and he was already pulling out his phone to text the boys a 911 message by the time you had turned around. 

    Kook Kingz 

Top: 911, meeting at the club in 15 

Rafe: cool

Kelceo: be there soon, but I'll be late 

Rafe: Wow what a surprise

When you returned to the table, Topper made a shitty excuse about needing to meet Kelce and after exchanging a hug and a kiss on the cheek, you made your way to your car, leaving the club to meet your mom downtown for a shopping day. Topper sat at the table the two of you had previously occupied and waited for Rafe. Fifteen minutes later, he strolled through the club, black dress pants, loafers, and a white, quarter-length button-down shirt covering his body. His hair was messy, he kept little gel in it these days per your request. He sat across from Topper and placed his hands on a menu with no real intentions of ordering anything. He looked up, meeting the eyes of his friend. 

“So, what’s this about Thornton?” 

Rafe asked with a hint of annoyance in his voice. Having just walked out on his dad because of the supposed emergency, he didn’t want to be here any longer than he had to. 

“Your girl.” 

Rafe’s ears burned at the mention of you. ‘Is something wrong?’ He thought. He almost spiraled at the notion, wondering where you were, what your blood sugar levels were if you had eaten enough, and how you were feeling today, though he had talked to you just a little ago. 

“And I’m listening…”

Rafe muttered. Kelce was still nowhere to be seen, he was always running behind schedule. Rafe and Topper often joked he’d be late to his own funeral. 

“You’ve got her all stressed about Midsummer’s: “will he ask me? Won’t he? Does he want me to go with him? Does he want to keep us a secret? Does he think I assume we’re going together because we’re dating? Oh Topper, please help me!” Dude, you’ve got to talk to her.” 

Topper pleaded with Rafe to clear up the confusion, but not before a pretty spot-on impression of you left his lips, minus the improv and over-emphasis he threw in to get his point across. 

“What’d I miss?” 

The third musketeer chimed in, arriving ten minutes later than his predecessors. 

“Kelceo, nice of you to finally join us.” 

Rafe quipped, a sarcastic smile plastered on his lips. Topper tipped his drink at Kelce, giving him a warm island boy welcome. 

“Didn’t miss much, just y/n freaking out because Rafe hasn’t asked her to Midsummer’s.” 

“Yet!”

Rafe exclaimed. 

“You are going to ask her right? Don’t make me beat your ass.” 

Kelce said flatly. 

“Of course, I’m going to, okay? I didn’t mean to make her freak out, I’ve just been having a hard time figuring out how to do it. She’s so perfect. It has to be perfect. But, I have a plan.” 

“Well, let’s hear it then! I’m not about to let you ruin this for her.” 

Topper stated with a hint of attitude. 

“What do you mean ruin this for her?” 

Rafe was genuinely confused, it was a just stupid party. He wondered why you cared so much. You never had before.  

“She’s never been asked before. This is a big deal for her and she’s wanted you to ask her for like fifteen years. So, the thought of you thinking you didn’t have to or that you didn’t want to go with her, it hurt her feelings, Rafe.” 

Rafe swallowed thickly, thinking back to all the years that he wanted to ask you but was too much of a pussy to, not knowing he was hurting you every time he took someone else instead. He remembered the sad look in your eye when you were there with JJ last year. He now knew why, he now knew your eyes weren’t just sad, they were pleading, begging him for help. Help he didn’t offer because you were better off without him, right? 

“Earth to Cameron! What’s this supposed plan?” 

Kelce interjected and Rafe let out a sigh, parting his lips and proceeding to spill his guts.

-

Rafe walked up your brown cobblestone driveway, planting one foot in front of the other, just itching to see your beautiful face. He made his way to the coral-colored front door and knocked three times. It had been two days since you’d gone back home to be with your parents after they returned from Thailand and man, did he miss having you in his bed every night. He was nervous because he was planning to ask you to Midsummer’s today. He knew you wouldn’t be expecting it which was good for him, he wanted it to be a surprise. But, he also felt guilty that you had been agonizing over it for so long, for so many years now and he had yet to deliver. Today that was going to change. Today he was going to show you how different he was. 

He stood in front of your home, hands in the pockets of his khaki pants as he looked down at the gray Vans that covered his feet. His shirt was a gray quarter length button down and he wore a baseball cap that sat backward on his head. He got lost in his thoughts of how he was going to ask you, what he’d say, and the what if’s of how you’d react when the door opened. He lifted his eyes from the ground to meet yours at the sound of the door handle twisting and that Rafe Cameron smile took over his features. That smile made your chest tight and suddenly, it didn’t matter if he asked or didn’t because you knew his heart belonged to you. 

“Hi, baby.” 

He spoke sweetly and you smiled. 

“Hi, sweet boy.” 

“Come out to the truck, I have a surprise for you.” 

You smiled at him and brought your bottom lip in between your teeth, curious at what he could be surprising you with on a Monday afternoon. He took your hand and led you down the steps to where his truck, a deep navy blue, was parked. He led you around to the back driver’s side door and pulled out a bouquet of pale pink tulips, your favorite. 

“Rafael!” 

You squealed in excitement and he let out a soft chuckle, fully expecting this school girl reaction from you over your favorite flowers. You loved the small things in life and he loved that about you. He knew he’d be willing to go into a store every day and purchase pink flowers until he took his last breath, at that moment, if it meant he’d get to see you this joyous forever. 

“Thank you, sweet boy! I love them.” 

You gave him the best doe eyes you could muster up, thankful that he remembered they were your favorite and that he brought them to you today.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. That’s not the surprise though, follow me.” 

He stated, taking your hand in his once again and leading you around the back of the truck to his tailgate. You wondered what he could be hiding inside of it and before you could ask any questions, he pulled it down by the latch, revealing your favorite bottle of wine and a blanket with two rattan pillows. 

“Are you recreating our first date, already?” 

You teased him and he grabbed your other hand, lacing his fingers through yours, now holding both of them at thigh level. 

“No, it’s better than that.” 

He gave you a smug smile and picked you up by your hips, placing you on the edge of the tailgate before reaching behind one of the pillows and grabbing a lime green gift bag with confetti-colored tissue paper. 

“This is for you, angel. I’m sorry it took so long.” 

You were confused. What was he talking about? You thought, but instead of asking him, you dove into the gift, throwing the tissue paper behind you on the blanket. When you made it past the threshold of the tissue paper, you gave a simple smile to Rafe, as you read the name of your favorite sugar-free dessert shop that you showed Rafe when you went window shopping downtown on your first date. While it was only a week ago, it still felt so special that he remembered such a tiny detail about you. As you took the box out of the bag, Rafe stilled your hands before you could open it completely and reveal whatever dessert he had gotten for you. 

“Before you open it, I have something I’d like to say.” 

You swallowed thickly, wondering why in the world he was being so weird right now. It’s just a dessert, you thought. Rafe took your hands in his and sat beside you on the tailgate, turning his body to look you in the eyes. 

“I know I haven’t delivered in years prior and that you’ve wanted me to say what I’m about to say for a long time. So, here goes nothing. I love you, sweet girl and I just wanted to tell you that I have never felt this way about someone before. I’m sorry that it took me so long to tell you that and one day when I figure out how to, I’ll explain why it all happened - why I disappeared. You are so special to me and I want to show you how much, so you can open the box now.” 

At the sound of the last word leaving his lips, you followed his instructions, carefully removing the bow that tied the box of treats together and prying the cardboard open. What sat inside made your heart leap out of your chest, it was your favorite sugar-free cupcake, red velvet with cream cheese icing, and in pale pink writing it read “Midsummers?” 

You pulled the cupcake out of the box, dipped your finger into the icing, and wiped it across the tip of Rafe’s nose. 

“It’s about damn time, Cameron.” 

You whispered before leaning and placing a sweet kiss on his nose and licking the icing off. 

“So, is that a yes or?” 

He asked playfully. 

“Yes, it’s a yes. It’s always been a yes.” 

You gave him a sweet smile and he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours as he parted his lips and planted a passionate kiss on your lips. You thought about a lot of things at that moment, but your mind settled on wanting to remain here, with this man, forever. 

-

If there’s one thing you could say for certain about Rafael Cameron, it’s that he was a gentleman. That was what you were thinking about, as he waited for you to descend down the staircase of your parent’s home and accompany him to Midsummer’s. You had told him he didn’t have to pick you up, that you could meet at the venue and just walk in together. But, he protested a good amount until you gave in, wanting to escort you there, himself. A gentleman, you thought. You were anxious, sure. You’d only been on a couple of laid-back dates with Rafe and it felt like this was your coming-out party. After this, everyone would know you were his girl. You relished in that, happy that you had caught the uncatchable eye of him. Unaware that you had always had it and that he was uncatchable because he had always belonged to you. Rafe stood talking business with your father with his back to the stairs and at hearing the click of your heels hit the hardwood, he turned his body toward them, again, waiting on your descent. You kept your eyes on your feet, afraid to fall. As clumsy as you were, you weren’t sure why your mother deemed it appropriate to put you in six-inch heels and you knew you’d fall or be in a great amount of physical pain by the end of the night. Your hand gripped the railing of the staircase and you held on for dear life. Please don’t let me fall in front of him, you thought. Rafe’s radar for you must have been going off because he made his way up to you as you met the halfway mark of the stairs and he grabbed your hand ushering you the rest of the way down. Your cheeks suddenly became hot as you took in his tall, muscular form covered in a navy blue suit, a white dress shirt peeking out from the jacket with no tie. He had cut his hair off the week prior, tired of the North Carolina heat and the buzzcut was doing wonders for his jawline, especially in this outfit. You felt your core grow warm and cursed yourself internally for being so attracted to this man. 

As you made it to the end of the staircase, Rafe stepped back so he could take every inch of you in. It was almost like he was taking a mental polaroid so he could save this view for later. The champagne-colored silk of your dress cascaded like a waterfall over your curves. You took note of the overwhelming admiration in his eyes and it made your chest grow tight. You hoped he’d look at you like that for the rest of your days. Your mother and father interrupted your gaze and posed the two of you for pictures. 

“You look like heaven, sweetheart.” 

Rafe leaned down, whispering in your ear as your mother continued to capture photos of the two of you. Blush laid on the surface of your cheeks at his words. 

“Thank you. You look handsome, baby.” 

You smiled at him and placed a kiss on his cheek. 

“Okay, big smiles, you two!” 

Rafe laced his hand around your back and held on to your waist tightly. The two of you smiled big as you leaned into him. You loved the way his broad shoulders and toned biceps held you there close to him. 

“Okay, let’s get a kiss for the camera!” 

You rolled your eyes at your mother’s antics. She was excited that the boy you had been in love with for so long, a boy she had loved alongside you, was officially yours and she wanted to document it. Rafe turned towards you and placed his hands on your freshly flushed cheeks and he dove in like a hungry animal, kissing you, just soft enough to make you groan into his mouth. 

“Rafael. Not in front of my parents.” 

You sneered and he let out a light chuckle. He secretly loved how your body responded to him. 

“Okay, mom, that’s enough. We’re going to be late. Love you.” 

You spoke softly, but you had enough and were ready to go. 

“Love you, angel. Be careful with my baby, Rafe.” 

She retorted with a sweet smile. 

“Always am, she’s precious cargo.” 

He spoke before opening the passenger side door and helping you in, buckling your seatbelt for you, like he always did. He quickly made his way to the driver’s side door, opening it and placing his body in the seat, starting the truck up, and buckling himself in. He placed his hand in yours and brought it up to his mouth, placing a kiss on it, as he pulled out of the driveway and headed to the venue. 

When you and Rafe arrived, he got out of the truck and made his way to your side of the vehicle, opening your door and helping you step down onto the concrete and making your way outside of the club. You stood there for a moment, waiting for the rest of his family. You were expected for pictures with the rest of the Cameron crew before you all walked in together. Rafe deplored the idea of waiting outside for them, but he was happy to have more photos with you, so he didn’t complain as Rose demanded pose after pose. Once you made your way inside, you spotted Topper and Kelce from across the grass standing at the bar, already pretty close to drunk as they swung back more Mai Tai's. You shook your head at them and you and Rafe shared a giggle. Rafe led you to the bar where they stood with his hand placed at the small of your back.

“Well hello, beautiful!” 

Kelce whistled as you and Rafe made your way over to the drunk pair. Rafe rolled his eyes at his antics. 

“Hi, Kelce.” 

You smiled in his direction and gave your pleasantries to Topper, who sent back a slurred “hey pretty girl” before continuing his conversation with the blonde in front of him. 

“Do you want something to drink, baby?” 

Rafe questioned, his arm never leaving your waist. 

“I’m okay, I don’t think they’ll have anything I can drink anyways.” 

“They might not, but I do.” 

He said with a smirk and pulled out a flask from his inside jacket pocket. 

“Rafael! What is that?” 

“It’s your favorite non-alcoholic beverage.” 

He smiled cheekily and you giggled.

“How did I get lucky enough to have a grown man fill a flask with chocolate milk?” 

You chuckled and took it from his hands, taking a swig. You handed it back to him and laced your hands around his middle clutching to him for dear life. He laid his chin on top of your head for a moment before pulling you back from him and kissing you sweetly. 

“Oh my fucking, God!” 

Topper borderline screamed. 

“What, Top?” 

You both questioned in unison, confused at his outburst. 

“You fucked didn’t you?!” 

Your face flushed. The drunk version of Topper was always unpredictable but you never expected this kind of outburst from him at Midsummers of all places. You felt all eyes on you and you were embarrassed. Your first time at seventeen and now all of figure-eight was aware of it. 

“Topper, cool it.” 

Rafe growled at him, aggressively, feeling your body stiffen around his hand. He knew you were embarrassed and uncomfortable and he knew he needed to fix it. 

“So you fucked him, huh?”

The eerily familiar voice of JJ Maybank bellowed down your spine and made your ears hot. You turned around to meet his accusatory blue eyes, unsure of where his voice had come from. 

“JJ-”

You whispered. He cut you off in the middle of your sentence, you should've known he’d never let you speak. 

“You slept with a fucking drug addict, but you wouldn’t sleep with me?!” 

You felt confused at his words. Rafe wasn’t a drug addict, he was far from it. 

“A drug addict?! Are you high, JJ? You are a drug addict! I’m sorry I didn’t lose my virginity to the boy who beat the shit out of me every day for a year! What are you even talking about?” 

You shouted, anger now controlling your body, as it coursed through your veins.

“I don’t know, why don’t you ask your perfect boyfriend, princess.” 

Rafe’s face fell as his eyes met yours and that was the moment you knew he had lied to you. You couldn’t believe it. For once, JJ Maybank was telling at least some version of the truth. Rafe had lied to you. 

“Rafael, what the hell is he talking about?” 

You whispered out, tears rimming your eyes, thinking this had to be some sick cruel joke. 

“I-I can explain, angel.” 

Rafe stuttered out. 

“Cut the nickname shit, Rafael.” 

You seethed in anger. 

“Let’s go somewhere and talk.” 

He spoke softly as he felt you slipping through his fingers. 

“Yeah, let’s. You’ve got some explaining to do.” 

Rafe swallowed thickly, too scared to reach out to touch you. Too scared that once you knew the truth, once you knew who he was, you’d look at him like you were looking at him right now like he wasn’t human like he wasn’t worth anything after all. 

taglist:

as always, if you'd like to be added to or removed from the taglist, please send me an ask or comment on this post so i can keep track!!

@maybankslover @inthelibrarybtw @luvrcndy @silkylovey @yagirlwrites @obxbabygirl @rafeecameronsbitch @klutzy-kay24 @roseczbalt @allsmilesreally7 @akobx @pogueprincesa

[oh-allie]

and then i go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like...

dr ratio x fem!reader

(sorry if hes ooc i didnt know how to bring out his assholeyness on a first date withour having the reader standing up and leaving his ass)

pt. 2 of then afterwards we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two

four days before the date.

you made veritas feel icky. his sweaty palms disgusted him, his jumbled thoughts made him feel like hiding in his study and never leaving, and the way even thinking of you made his heart race made him feel like a fool.

so he did what he does best, and he studied. he worked his ass off. researched breathing exercises and studied the human mind. the feelings he'd read about before, ones he swore he'd never stoop so low to feeling, were now what he seeked to bottle up. not completely, for he is still a man. just enough to not feel like such an idiot.

for the next four days before you two planned to meet, he practiced. in front of mirrors, lying in bed thinking of you; he worked day and night to get back to his normal self. he even suppressed his giddiness and raging thoughts about you enough to get two good days of work in.

7 hours before the date.

ratio is a methodical man. he plans and he executes.

he did not plan to wake up at 3 in the morning the day of your date. and he can’t get back to sleep. he's done his calming breathing exercises, he’s focused his muscle groups, hes counted sheep. he is NOT getting any more rest.

so now hes sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands like that one picture of shinji. a plethora of thoughts are racing through his head,

“what if i look like shit later today?

...i’ll need to wear concealer with my eyeliner today…

...i’m so fucking tired.”

but it's mainly you. what if he messes up, what if he's too rude or snarky? what if you don't really like who he is, like everyone else?

3 hours before the date.

you know how in films the dorky loser main character practices in front of the mirror before talking to their crush? veritas seemed to take it to heart, as he's standing here, leaning on his sink counter, staring at his own reflection (which he spent the last four hours on) and practicing what he’ll do.

his mind is organized and going over what he’ll do (although he's heavily suppressing the jumbled nervous thoughts that are running rampant in the back of his head) but it’s okay! ‘cause this doctor has a plan..!

talk about her outfit

ask her why she was interested in you

… the weather ?

surely the conversation will flourish from there. yeah. he’s totally prepared.

30 minutes before the date.

of course he’s 30 minutes early. if you’re early, you’re on time. if you're on time, you're late. and if you’re late? don’t bother showing up. that's his philosophy. although he's kinda hoping you don’t show up early too. his deep breathing exercises will take at least another 20 minut-

29 minutes before the date.

shit.

he watches as you enter the cafe, nodding to the barista and looking for a table. he notices you noticing him. your eyes light up and you sent a quick wave as you hurry over. but- wait, just a second- he’s not ready! he hasn't even started his affirmatio-

“hey! i guess we had the same idea, huh?” you chuckle, situating yourself and your bag onto your chair.

uh-oh, he’s just staring at you again. well, that's actually completely and totally 100% your fault! he was in the middle of DEEP-BREATHING. don’t interrupt a guy when he's breathing deeply.

“yes. we did. my philosophy on punctuality is that if you’re early, you’re on time. if you're on time, you're late. and if you’re late? don’t bother showing up.” he manages to get out. did that sound too snobbish?

“exactly! if you’re going somewhere, go with a purpose. even if that purpose is to get out as soon as possible, y’know?” you rest your head on your hand and make some relevant motion with the other one.

that's good! that's really good. he just had a conversation with you, just like he wanted. okay, okay. what now? what were his points?... outfit, interest, weather. outfit, interest, weather. outfit…

“are you going to order, veritas?” the sound of his own name from your tongue draws him back to reality. he’d like to hear that again.

“pardon me. yes, i’ll just take a black coffee.” he’s curt and in the back of his mind he's still deciding which point to bring up.

“sooo…. you look lovely. although i almost didn't recognize you without your alabaster head. i like it though.” you say, making small talk. he didn't mind it with you.

‘FUCK she beat me to it’ is what he’s thinking.

“thank you. you look beautiful, as always.” oooo he got you blushing and kicking your feet.

you let out a curt giggle at that, “so, why do you wear that? the alabaster head.” you cock your head to the side a little. you cutie patootie.

“i can’t bear to see idiots. of course, they wouldn't want to see me either.” he replies, matter of factly.

“they’re surely an idiot if they don't want to see you.”

haaah. veritas’ collar feels tighter and his head's getting hot. how's he supposed to react to that? do you have no shame?

and then he implodes because of your overwhelming beauty

okay guys i gotta be honest i have no idea how to conclude rhis ....so idk and then you guys bone or whatever you want ☺️

a/n - i'm so sorry about rhe ending gang but i quite literally could not think of any way to end this and ive been putting it off for weeks so i knew it wasnt getting finished.... whoops! 🤗

dedicated to 🌸 anon <3

(sorry for making you wait so long ml....... 😞)

[apomaro-mellow]

Every Baby Needs a Daddy 5

Part 4

to tboyeddie and kas-eddie-munson: yall are on the right track ;)

to a-blog-of-negotiable-affections: i hope this part makes your brain just as goopy as the last.

Steve closed the door to the hotel bedroom. He thought about how he'd already been fucked in this bed. Then he wondered how much longer Eddie would be in town and what sort of bed he'd be taken in next. He went to the bathroom first, checking himself over. Eddie hadn't marked him up yet. But from the way he used his teeth, Steve could tell he wanted to.

He decided to give Eddie a few more minutes to get wherever he was going. In the meantime, he undressed, got comfortable on the bed and checked his socials before getting started.

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

Leaving Steve behind was probably the most difficult thing he had to do. But there was no getting out of it when his manager called a meeting like this. But he literally had a hot and ready omega waiting for him. So he was going to be diligent and knock this out so he could get back.

"Alright, I'm here", he announced, using both hands to thrust open the doors of the conference room. "You can all calm down now."

"About time." His manager had her arms crossed. Chrissy looked small and cute but Eddie only let that fool him once. She'd taken their band out of dive bars and brought them into relevance. The rest of his band was there as well, sitting around a table.

From how urgent it sounded, Eddie had a hunch this was about a future venture. Now whether it was a tour or a new album or something like that, Eddie was all for, and glad that they wanted him present for the strategy meeting. But Steve...

His phone buzzed with a text notification and he opened it, eyes bulging and closing it, looking around to see if anyone saw. Gareth was too his left, but with enough distance that he'd have to crane his neck to see his phone. Cautiously, Eddie opened it up again and swallowed.

Steve: Daddy left me all alone guess I have to play with myself Steve: image.jpeg

The picture was of Steve's mouth, his lips shiny with two fingers dipped down to the first knuckle. Eddie could tell from the framing that Steve was in bed, and at the very least shirtless. He put his phone face down but the image was burned in his head. Steve was naked in the hotel room, pleasuring himself, hopefully to the thought of Eddie.

"Got something on your mind, Eds?", Jeff asked when he noticed his strange look.

"Uh, just thinking about covers, you know, covers could be cool it's been a minute since we performed covers."

Gareth perked up. "What if we did a metal cover of a non-metal song? Those are always a hit."

Eddie smiled. They'd only done that live a couple of times but they did it a lot more before they got discovered. Between the four of them, they had varied music tastes and it was always a great creative exercise to change them to fit the new genre.

Then his phone buzzed again.

Eddie bit his lip and peeked at the new picture. This time it was of Steve playing with his chest, nipple pinched between two fingers. The last time they were together, he'd only gotten a taste of him. Eddie wanted more time to explore everything Steve had to offer. He needed more time.

The next picture came more quickly. This time it was of Steve's lower half. It started from his belly button to the very top of his crotch, those dark curls tempting before disappearing under the covers.

Eddie: Tease Eddie: I thought you said you were gonna be good Steve: I never said that

The next picture was of Steve's hand dipping under the blanket. Eddie turned his phone face down on the table again as he let his imaginations run wild. He tamped it down when Chrissy gave him a worried look. He really didn't need his pheromones stinking up the joint. If the boys knew he was mooning over the same omega as before, he'd never hear the end of it. They'd probably meet Steve soon enough anyway.

Steve: You're the one who said to keep it warm

The next image popped up but Eddie put his phone down before it could fully load, sure that it would be the end of him. Grant and Jeff were having a friendly debate on their outfits for the next show and Eddie couldn't hold back anymore. He opened up the image and was blessed with Steve's glorious, sopping cunt, spread out on white sheets.

Eddie bit so deep into his knuckle he would've tasted blood had Gareth not slammed his hands down onto the table. Eddie was glad that his friends were always so passionate about whatever adventure they were on. At times like these, it freed him from having to be an active participant.

Eddie: Behave

He tried paying attention after that. It was bad form to pop a boner and he'd get to sink into that sweet heat soon enough. He was going to knot Steve this time. He deserved it, his pussy was desperate for him and Eddie wasn't so unkind to deny him.

Now Chrissy was asking them about venues and Eddie was attentive and alert and had his head in the game and-

buzz

It was a video. Sent from Steve. Eddie sucked in a breath and quickly excused himself to go to the bathroom. Taking no chances, he plugged his headphones into the jack and locked the door to the stall. He saw thick, hairy legs that he was already familiar with but wanted to get to know even better. Steve sighed straight into his ears as he straddled one of the hotel's pillows.

"Wish it was you, alpha." He let out a small whine as he started to grind, no doubt getting the pillow wet.

Eddie palmed himself as he watched, wishing the same with all his might. Steve moaned, unbidden as he got himself off on the softness between his legs. Eddie pulled out his cock and it wasn't hard to imagine Steve sliding his pussy on it like he'd been trying to do to his leg earlier. He could tell by the panting that Steve was getting close and his hips moved quicker.

He moaned Eddie's name and collapsed, face still out of frame while his hips stuttered. Fuck, that pillow must be soaked. Eddie pumped his cock, just the thought of getting it wet with Steve's juices enough to push him over the edge.

After cleaning himself up, he locked the video. It was for his eyes only. He returned to the meeting, secret safe except it wasn't.

"Dude, you reek", Jeff said the moment he walked in.

"Yeah, does planning really get you that hard?", Grant teased.

"You know it does, Grant-master Flash", Eddie beamed. He shot off a quick message to Steve.

Eddie: Baby likes to put on a show hope you're ready for an encore later

Steve: 🩷

About an hour later, the meeting ended and Eddie was able to get back to Steve. He called out his name when he got to the hotel room and when he didn't get an answer, he went to the bedroom. There was his latest obsession, sleeping like an angel. Eddie walked over quietly, his nose catching the scent of the pillow Steve had used, lying next to him. Eddie buried his face in it, his tongue coming out to lick whatever was left.

Then he turned his attention to Steve. He was lying on his side, blanket only covering him from the hips down. It must have been very purposeful, because Eddie was able to see something peeking out. He pulled the cover down a bit to see a little sticky note attached to his pelvis. There was a little message, with an arrow pointing downwards.

Play with me until I wake up

Eddie could have thrown his hands up in praise. But instead, he would partake in the communion Steve was giving him.

Steve woke up from his nap to someone kissing his neck and kneading his chest. He let out a soft sigh when one of his nipples was pinched. The spicy musk of aroused alpha filled his senses.

"Eddie~", he breathed out as a hand trailed down his torso.

"I see you kept it warm for me", Eddie murmured, letting his fingers slip between his folds.

Steve was still half asleep and it made everything move like syrup in his mind. It was like an amazing dream that he didn't want to wake from. He spread himself as best as he could on his side and that gave Eddie room to start slipping his fingers inside.

"Daddy....Daddy..."

"I've gotchu, baby." Eddie started nibbling at his shoulder. "Think you can take my knot like this?"

"Yes", Steve answered right away, the remnants of sleep knocked from him at the thought of being filled like that. "Yes", he repeated, hoping it would spur Eddie on.

It got the desired result because he felt the tip of his cock rubbing up against him. Steve pushed back and Eddie pulled his fingers out, quickly replacing it with something better. Eddie meant to go slow, let them take their time because they had time. But Steve rocked back and Eddie pressed his forehead to his shoulder as he slid inside.

"Mmmmfuck, feel so good baby. So perfect for me."

"Only the best-ah-for my alpha."

Eddie couldn't let him get away. Not when he drove him wild like this. Even when he was done with this town and onto the next, he had to take Steve with him.

"Need you with me, need your sweetness. You'll want for nothing, baby, I'll give you anything."

For a split second, Steve wondered if his pussy was really that good to make Eddie babble things like that but the next moment he was certain that Eddie's dick was really that good. As it thrust into him, making wet noises in the room, Steve wanted to follow it around the world. If Eddie wanted to take him to the Arctic, Steve would be there, ready to sit on his face.

It was just as good as before, then Steve felt that knot pop in and he saw stars. Eddie bit into his shoulder as he felt Steve milking his cock. All that was missing was the feeling of actually cumming inside of him. Eddie always wrapped it up, obsessed with Steve or not. Until such a time that Steve confessed that he wanted Eddie's seed coating his insides then-

"Hey, you remember how you said we're exclusive?", Steve asked through pants.

"Yeah?"

"I'm thinking..." He craned his neck to meet Eddie's gaze from behind him. "I'm thinking maybe that means you can go without the condom."

Eddie's dick twitched from inside Steve. This man would be the death of him.

Too spent to go out, Eddie ordered them room service and Steve spent the night there again. Back at home, Steve contemplated looking up Eddie's band and learning more about them. He debated simply because he didn't know how much of it would come up. Eddie was taking him to a party. Would he be expected to know their hits? Or how respected they were in the business? Or their rivals were if they had any?

Steve couldn't help but compare this to the life he'd left behind. Being told to smile prettily while the alphas talked business. Eddie probably wasn't expecting him to know much about anything. He'd bought him a nice suit and would have something pretty to show off for the evening. That was Steve's job.

He let out a sigh and opened up his laptop. He searched up 'corroded coffin' and strapped in for the evening.

Part 6

I realized that while i've been tagging the a/b/o stuff, I never really put up a warning for the daddy kink stuff but like...yall read the title LOL

Tag Team

@awkotaco24 @lingeringmirth @littlewildflowerkitten @estrellami-1 @tartarusknight @velocitytimes2 @mrsjellymunson @trashcanniballecter @marklee-blackmore @dragonmama76 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @a-little-unsteddie @sllooney @starman-jpg @oxidantdreamboat @xxbottlecapx @chaosgremlinmunson @newtstabber @tiny-enthusiast @desidrarry-wolfstarshipper @y4r3luv @hello-fellow-nerds @anonymousbandgirl @alyelf @potato-of-the-lord @beckkthewreck @greatwerewolfbeliever @croatoan-like-its-hot @pluto-pepsi @abstractnaturaldisaster @ellietheasexylibrarian

[chokchokk]

𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢 | park seonghwa x fem!reader x choi san

part one of gangster!mafia!series "𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞-𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞"

“Brother, can’t you see I’m doing this for you? Enjoy yourself.”

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 : Picking your own poison, if poison was given to you in form of bankrolls by venomous men with high demands.

In which Park Seonghwa had a plan and Choi San has ideas.

“Sounds like you’re enjoying her more than anything."

𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 : noir, smut, angst | korean mafia/geondal!au | ceo/jaebeol!au

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 : 18.2k

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 : entitled rich people, workplace harassment, alcoholism, softdom ceo!seonghwa (headman park), half-drunk satoori-using dom mafiaboss!san (mr. choi), both are called by their names at some point, sub-leaning bratty switch servant!femreader, use of (pet-)names (missy, baby, princess), groping, thigh-riding, light choking, light hair-pulling, non-penetrative sex, voyeur!seonghwa, sex in the elevator, counts as mirror sex right, biting kink, manhandling!san, edging, breeding, cum-eating (m), cunnilingus; reader hates the rich except for when they are sexy, implied but not severe age gap, writer does not have daddy kink but mafiaboss!san does, gunshots and death, use of korean proverbs

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 : this with the next part will be the origin story for reader, specifically the series synopsis’ first half :) originally, this has been a request, so please read this, if you desire to have a bit more insight to what the series actually is + translations of certain terms (mostly character dynamics) in this chapter !!

tl;dr: since it's all based around korean mafia/gangster/etc, there will be korean culture scattered between the lines. it is all translated, hopefully in an understandable way!!! (please hmu if there are difficulties) i let out honorifics/romanisation, except for "chaebol" since it's an actual word :) that being said, reader's ethnicity is not specified and won't be relevant to the series in any way !! 

smut comes after the second border, and uh,,, i had to shorten that shit (pls dont ask me where) but uh. you’re getting 8k words of smut so buckle up LMAO !!! i hope you enjoy as much as i did writing it !!! thank you for likes, reblogs and feedback xoxo (also this is NOT beta-read so pls dont hesitate to tell me about... like.... errors, tags and shit)

[ now playing : money ▸ pink floyd | listen to the playlist ]

It's getting repetitive. They are drinking their ninth bottle of expensive whiskey, smoking their third or fourth disgustingly pricey cigar— what the fuck, is this seriously what the upper men of your nation are doing at some stupid chairman’s dinner party?

“Missy!”

“Me, sir?”

No wonder the economy's fucking shit.

“Yeah, you, missy, give that gent over there one of our divine Denmarks!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give him a kiss too, while you’re at it! What do you think? He’s still got it, no?”

Said ‘gent’, some old, scummy clown— winks at you, his gray eyelashes fluttering towards your direction.

“Yes, sir."

God, how bad you wish you had snuck your phone in to take a picture of these red, drunken, senseless faces, but you're a dutiful servant, abiding by the rules at all times, however difficult it may be. You’re holding in your puke professionally, not even doing something as to grit your teeth, just softly letting your jaw play along to your friendly smile.

“Does your willy even still work that way, old friend?", a cranky, yet humorous voice pitches in.

Agreeing to your supervisor’s offer to earn “big money” may have been a bad idea, but a good choice. Jongho said he’d seen you at your work, took special note of you— even though you weren’t sure where exactly he had observed you, since it’s only been a month of actually working as a servant in the lower tiers of the building— and wanted to give you a chance to swim with the big sharks. “I think you’re best suited for the job,” is what he said to make you giggle and think about your initial rejection of his proposition, “you have a talent for serving.”

Something you didn’t know you had, something you didn’t know someone would see in you ever in your life, “talent.” Sure, maybe you let yourself be persuaded a bit too fast, but it felt very touching that somebody saw you and saw potential, for whatever occasion it may be for. You don’t necessarily want to screw the rules of the hierarchical pyramid or what it was that kept you from being in the proximity of the chairman, but you really need the extra cash right now.

"What does a girl from the mountains look for in being a servant in the city?", had been the question you were asked by Lady Kim who gave you the leftovers of her restaurant at the end of the day, when you had just started with the training– poor, barely standing on your own feet. 

You remember how you explained to her that the buddhist monks who raised and send you here surrounded themselves with wells to remind everyone that water always returned, and you assumed it would work the same with wealth. You also remember how hard she tried to stay kind to you, showing you her sincerest sympathy by telling you that "the chaebol are no joke!" (at least not a joke, an innocent girl like you could laugh about, she later explained) and giving you an extra portion of her home-made dumplings to suit you up.

Her sharp, yet compassionate voice rings in your ears, as you reapply your red lipstick on the way to your target guest. Oh, Lady Kim, what a graceful woman– she put her all into her work for her restaurant to succeed, but had always made a place to share what she had for those who needed it. Such a lovable woman, she must have been well-liked by all around her.

You get it now, the way you had been so naive back then. Floating on the philosophical happy-go-lucky psyche of the city’s promise of prosperity, trying to live the Korean dream strangely enough as someone who was so sarcastically out of touch with it. If you had been in her position, you wouldn’t have been able to be as nice, no, would have warned yourself with a finger pointed upwards as if you were teaching a little kid about strangers, or how your monks said, ‘tigers in the woods’.

“After that cigar, his dick will turn to dust!”

Maybe things would have looked different, if you hadn’t taken that fund from the school’s superintendent, who slid you that card on your table with a smirk on his face. Oh dear, do you remember how excited you had been? You ran through the streets in your worn-out shoes with that plastic sheet in your hand, on your way to tell that the money on it was such a ridiculously high number that you could split— but Lady Kim had got to know it first, the ridiculousness of the rich, with the demolition of her restaurant-building.

“He’s got no cum in his nutsacks ‘no more anyway!”

No warning, no compensation, just everything crushed to pieces to make place for the big corporations; the fancy neon-signs she'd invested in, the ambition of her enthusiastic dreams, your only source of tender charity, shattered to a wreck. You have never seen her since, and can only laugh about how the fancy food of the chaebol—and you definitely know who they are now, those tasteless men gawking at you in the moment—doesn’t even look half as good as her low-cost black bean noodles you could more than afford now. 

The present day-you is less dreamy, but just as lost, forced to work off a debt you hadn’t been informed about when you lived off the favorable “fund”-money. No, Lady Kim, this is all a joke, you would tell her today. A really fucking bad one.

So, making room for another ha-ha in your life, you pulled your eyes up innocently, returning Jongho’s specious smiles. “Is it illegal to collect pocket-money from the rich?” It’s not like you had any doubts at that point, but 'they'll buy you out of prison if you’re good enough' was all you needed anyway to put your uniform on tightly at home.

"Can't even shoot his cum in missy to save his blood!"

Your more experienced co-workers are watching you work with a condescending frown, feeling both jealous you're getting all the men's attention, but also maliciously delighted you're being challenged as the new-coming servant who's obviously of erotic interest to these richlings. They want you to get a "taste of life" for you may be the most goody-goody fawning bitch they have ever seen; just a young birdbrain who has nothing to bring to the table except her body. Young thing won’t hold up, doesn't know who she's working with— though they are quite right about that part, you must admit, you frankly didn’t look up whose money you’re taking right now— she doesn’t know who the fuck she is.

"What? Did his son leave the company, too?"

It’s flattering to know that the other pretty servants look at you and only see some candy-coated muppet, but fairly, your ever-frozen smile on your face doesn’t give them much to work with. You’re simply an annoyance to their routine, and if you could, you would like to comfort them by saying none of the money you’re getting will stay in your hands– they’d be so happy to hear that you’re really worth nothing– but you must stay focused.

“Idiot, he’s only got a daughter!”

So yes, that being said, you’re glad nobody ever asks you about you. Everyone just assumes, judges from what they see, and if what they see is an opportunistic bimbo-girl chasing money, then so be it, right?

"You know, the one he married off to the governor?”

Right. Because you too have not a single second to think nor talk about your past. The present is scarce and the future is fragile, you know it the best. And you owe it to your old men to make the best out of their efforts, don't you? The air in this room may not be the one you inhaled in the mountains, but you still have to use it, breathe, be alive, despite how moldy and spoiled it simmers in your throat.

"Real mad! Anything to avoid that fee, huh, missy? Got no semen and no glory! You really want to give him that cigar?”

So, that taste of life? Fucking bitter, just like how that name 'missy' seeps and sweats on your tongue. You can’t loathe your co-workers for this reason, they're basically in the same wooden, shaky boat as you, but these asswipes here are floating on a fucking yacht. Of course they don't follow some type of code of human decency for you, they don't give two shits about the lowlifes, the poor. They watch them like a spectacle, and because they don't regard you as a human-being but rather a toy, they play with you on strings that are, on the other hand, binding together a big, fat bankroll.

Ka-Ching.

Eyes on the price, Y/N, eyes on the price. You may not own a lot, that's been more than established, but if there is something you have, it's dutifulness, commitment, and proficiency. It will remain difficult to keep inner peace and honor with a job of which "duty" it is to be a deferential, subservient doll, but at least you're alive and well, soon to leave this floor with more money to your name that these fuckers don't know anyway, right? Never let that smile drop, smart girl. You have a talent, just like your supervisor said. Just keep on serving.

“No children-makin' is better for the cheatin'— ha!”, the barren, that fruitless man who’s been made fun of whoops in to stand up for himself, and awaits his tobacco that's being driven to him by your cart.

You open up the wooden chest in which the cheroots, so unnecessarily gold-plated, sit and ridicule you with their rare existence. There are just thousands of dollars sitting in your hand right now, and as you fetch the thick roll with wary fingers, you think, fucking hell, this could feed so many people, and they're just smoking it away like it's nothing, assholes.

The other servants frown at you spitefully during the time you bow down. You're sensually placing the brown cylindrical object into his mouth, a match lighting held to his face to light it up. In addition to the experience, you hold one long stare with his washy eyes, because you assume it will ignite him.

And, oh, how excited he gets.

"Thank you, sir," you chuckle and flutter with your eyelashes, pursing up your lips like you’re an innocent little girl getting a piece of candy behind her parents’ back.

“Just mad! Missy's young enough to be your grandchild, fella!”

You’re aware of exactly what your dear co-workers are thinking, but being ordered to light their cigs and then ogled at is not "baby-treatment” or whatever they’re muttering under their breath, it's your subtle strategy to have that bankroll be slid between your thighs.

"Hey now, I still can get it on! Don't you think so too, missy?"

Dumb Y/N, only has money on her mind. Allows herself to be called "missy", like a dumb fucking slut. 

Hm, kind of has a ring to it, don't you think?

"Yes, sir."

Let them all think you're a dummy. Let them believe, believe each other's words in whatever they fucking want. You're almost too certain it's the secret reason Jongho offered you a place here anyway; "suited for the job", because he deems you dense enough to not understand any of the nonsense these twelve men are babbling, "big money", because he knows you will do anything for it. 

You’ll still take the talent, but if he really thinks the rest, then oh, sucks to be him.

Yes, you haven’t looked up the names of who the men here are for the same reasons they're not using yours, but the second you’re out of this whiny, weak testosterone-drowned room, you're going to write the most thorough blackmail, because you can not listen to their cheating, money-laundering, corrupted bullshit anymore. Getting involved with the handshakers is the last thing you should do if you want to live a silent, carefree life, and you know this too well, but they're not going to believe it was you anyway. They wouldn’t dream of their missy to do such a competent, smart thing. You even know what you're going to write under the letter so they have something to think about in their cells: 'birds listen to the words of day, mice to the words at night'— walls have ears, too.

Ah, the soft, sometimes very cryptic voice of your favorite old monk. Always there to teach you new things, remind you of how to live your life cheerfully. You still believe he would have rather kept you in the mountains and not drop you on a wild voyage into the unknown urban life, but your old man had his reincarnation coming. You should visit his grave again, it's been a while, hasn't it? Wouldn't he be so proud to see you? To see how much his little Y/N has grown and learnt, using his proverbs to restore justice? Well, for what you still can collect of your late mentor, he would probably make big eyes and use his whole body to keep your monetary gift away from him. "Teacher," you would ask, "don't you at least want to save?", and his answer would remain the same;

"Peace comes free."

You feel warm at the distant memory of the bald-headed man warming himself in his orange gown, teaching you about love, harmony and kindness, but that sweet veil of untainted innocence has long dropped from your eyes.

In front of you, you see tycoons continuing having a blast being their shitty selves, and as golden teeth blend your sight, they are entertaining each other by staring at your legs that are covered by your sheer black stockings, whispering their insight of how you'd look like under it, but the mini-skirt only leaves so much for imagination.

"Sweet missy!"

How could you not want to spit into their face? They have bought the war. They have bought the chaos. And why? Just because they can. It doesn't cost you anything to restore some peace, maybe that’s the thing your old man got right.

"Yes, sir?”

“Do you have any Cubans left, sweet missy?”

“A Cuban, coming right up, sir.”

“Hopefully someone’s gonna come after the party tonight!”

Are you humiliated? As someone who lived among the wisest, clearest heads, and was considered just as smart by them to be wished a ‘more fortunate life’ — No.

You couldn’t care less about their perversions. Especially now, when they seemingly don’t care enough to know your name you've introduced yourself with. You are here for one reason, and it's not to prove your worth to the world, it's to secure your place in it, get that parasitic debt off your shoulders.

And if anything, as long you are staying truthful to yourself, there’s nothing that could take away your spirit. That’s what you want to believe, at least. When you’re out of debt and continue with this job, you could spend every day downtown like the other servants, but for you, it's all going to the savings for the family you're going to feed with not one worry in life on the clear land in the mountains, not under a sky that's polluted by light even when the sun has set.

The clock has announced night long time ago. Outside the windows, there shines and roams a loud, restless city under a starless, foggy black blanket, inhabited by people like you who live day by day to make their living, like small flies forgathered in a hive of exhausting labor, buzzing their life away.

It’s what you think every time you peek down the glass room: Seoul has never looked so small. Across and around the ever-flowing Han-River, the metropole is the home of millions who are looking up with their heads far back their necks to the point right here, where you stand, at the center or peak of all the wealth gathered together, inside the highest building standing tall amidst of the tumult, on the 114th floor, towering over the world in a luxurious dining room decorated by exotic animals, marbled statues and most importantly the filthy glimmer of something they call ‘class’.

“Missy,” the chairman calls out for you, raising his hand, right after he’s made another infidelity joke and showed his luxurious wedding ring to the audience.

“Yes, sir?”, you call out, wearing your pristine servant-smile with your hands folded nicely in front of your stomach, voice not tainted by your disgust as to even one note, despite the other servants looking at you with hateful expressions. They wish you the worst; the worst treatment, the worst performance, anything to get you out of this place. 

Maybe they're driven by the same instincts and avarice that makes you hate the rich,  with them just thinking you're taking away their money, but it's free territory here with these predators; you just make for great prey.

It’s a challenge to all of the people involved and the contestants can only win. Will it be another pick-up line? You're going to pick on that with ease. Another joke about your age? That one is never going to get old. There, bring it on, you think, and feel proud of your confident spirit, ready to run with whatever they throw and stash it into your wallet.

“You see those youngsters back there? Get 'em some more ice."

“Yes, sir.”

“Chaps don't know how to drink the good stuff yet, what a waste! Next time, buy 'em the cheap soju from the mart! The ones for 5,000 Won, missy, you know those?”

“Yes, sir.” Your whole face flashes a smile, bowing to accept the task of refilling some ice, dragging your cart across the room, as male laughter rings in your ears. It's as if they don't realize they also drink cheap liquor, but you suppose that's forgettable when they are flushing the fanciest of meats down with it.

"Be careful, missy!"

Are you being too mild by saying you want to ram the green glass-bottles into their heads?

"They bite!”

Maybe choke them with their own money bills?

Yes, “Yes, sir.”

It's a fun exercise to fantasize about how to hurt them, so you thought you would be busy enough to ignore the chairman's warning, but as you are on your long way to the end of the even longer glass table to push your cart towards the men he is referring to, there's a growing feeling inside your guts that oh, the chairman may be ... 

Huh, right for the first time. The quizzical lump expands warmly as much as it is cold, with goosebumps running down your spine, your hands feeling hotter than ever over the metal cart. Your whole body is trying to signal you that something is off on the other side of the table, but you don’t know whether to ignore it or run.

The annoying, empty-minded, impertinent elders, who have been belly-laughing at the chairman's joke a second ago stop with their chatting and only exhale huffs, and prolong them nervously, that’s off. The servants gulping, loosening their crossed arms– that’s off, too. 

“So, uhh… Where was the, uh– food from?”

“Oh, lad, good topic, yes– the delicious food…”

It seems that everyone in the room is trying to fill in the silence with the fakest of laughter, so the chairman can move on from the topic, but you're well over your way there, uninformed to what you're going to be hit with once you halt.

Tycoons like them usually don't need back-checking. You know how to deal with ill-willed imbeciles that only use their estate as a weapon. Their bodies and brains have passed prime an eternity ago. Left behind are only their numbed minds that seek shelter in lust, ecstasy and aphrodisia because nothing else excites them anymore. They’re what you probably would have been if you hadn’t spent your teens brewing tea and listening to the leaves rustle, not experiencing all euphoria and more at a too early age– they’re washed out, just swimming in money they haven't worked a day for, are lazy, weary sloths.

However, opposed to the cloudiness in their class that's only getting more foggier through the many years of monopoly, these two men that are waiting in front of you, and you understand why your lungs are pinging now, they are potent.

Money is power, but twist it around and there is them, with that; a certain force that the rich ooze out by just acting and looking a certain way, and oh, Y/N, how they are, how they are looking at you right now, best believe you have to hold onto your strength like it's a small purse.

'Youngsters', he said— 'they bite', he said.

They have been rarely reacting to the chairman’s words, notwithstanding being the ones to be the most respectful in this meeting for their young age, just looking at each other with unamused eyes. Even the director who is older than the chairman lets out his best holler every time, but these two have not laughed once at his jokes, not the slightest chuckle has left their mouths to flatter or satisfy the chairman.

Interesting.

Both black-haired, the one you get to first has his mane gelled back, a cigarette hanging out his scarred mouth, as you approach his seat with your cart walking carefully practiced steps. His white shirt is opened up to where chains, most importantly a silver cross, hang from his collarbones to his chest that’s covered with scars and scratches you can’t quite identify how they got there. This man looks gigantic, muscular, dangerous. Shoulders terrifyingly broad popping out his black vest, he sits on his seat with widened legs, thighs flattened in his also black pants, fastened by a leather belt, and with his white sleeves pulled back to his elbows, his slightly tanned forearms only appear more huge after the rather average-looking wristwatch catches your eye, just when you stop with your cart in front of him.

“That old geezer just can’t keep his mouth shut, can he?”, he chuckles, the Gyeongsang-provincial dialect rolling so naturally off his tongue. Everyone else in the room has been faking their speech to cosplay a charm they didn’t possess, but even the slight lisp and lull from the drunkenness are not hiding how deeply masculine and sincere this man’s voice sounds. It’s a mixture of the sarcasm you've gotten used to by now, but also a brashness that the older men lack, and you’re a bit embarrassed to say it’s working you up a bit. "Empty carts rattle loudest, I say."

A wintry breeze goes through your breast and you feel your eyebrows flinch. You haven't heard that grandmotherly expression in so long, that it does feel somehow refreshing to reconcile with it, but maybe the whisk you sense shouldn’t feel as comforting given the way the man is looking up to you brazenly with a bit of atrocity in his appearance. He is far away from the serene sketch you drew to save the vision as you left the village, he is what you felt when you took your first train, asphyxiated by the big masses of people who you would never see again— an unhomely, yet intimate feeling of... adventure.

He glances through you smoking his cigarette with no hands attached, and it moves at the corner of his lip as he talks. Wait, cigarette? Missy, did you forget to bring him a cigar?

"Let's see when he runs out of words."

“It’s alright, sir,” you answer, suppressing a slight chuckle because yes, you too have been wishing the chairman would finally shut the fuck up, but haven't expected anyone to say it out loud that boldly. You watch the male in front of you take out the slim roll from his mouth with his thick fingers that are covered with silver rings that all look different and not matching each other, blowing out the smoke whilst maintaining eye contact with you. “If you require, I can bring you a cigar, sir," you say, but he waves his hand to brush off your offer.

“Ah, they give me bad breath.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please," the man progresses instantaneously, scratching over the vertical scar at his lip-corner with his thumb, his ciggy continues to burn, "Do be so kind and give brother his ice," then smiles, "he needs to preserve his cold head.”

“You are one to talk about keeping mouths shut,” the ‘brother’ answers, voice velvety and adequate despite dissing the man that’s sunken unmannerly into his seat, while he, on the other hand, is sitting up straight, his black suit buttoned up, tie set cleanly under his ironed pearl-white collars, elegantly decorated by a golden pin. A Greek "π" is chiseled into it, and you recognize it so well for you’ve seen it written all over the tall buildings you drove by on your way here. His hair is combed evenly to the sides and the more you look at him, he’s just— wow, flawless, prestigious, expensive. Everything about him is crystal clear; his rich voice, his unblemished skin, his eyes, oh god, you just noticed those eyes, how does such a shameful man have such pure eyes?

Orbs— and they're not innocent as much as you can't say they're not guilty— are looking at you with a defiance that is suffocating, as if you ought to do everything perfectly, not miss a single twitch of his eyebrows to understand whether he's enjoying or disapproving of the situation.

Well, is he enjoying you or disapproving of the way you're listening to his partner's order to refill his ice?

Huh. No fucking idea. He probably doesn't, but you must do it still— must still serve.

It feels irrationally sheep-headed, but hey, being a sheep is your job, is it not? Being in this herd is keeping you alive, and even in this situation, where you are following the orders of the blackest of sheep, no, wolves that can't be covered by any fluffy wool— you must mow your best.

"Ohh, brother, it's been a while since I heard you talk! Feels lonely droppin' all the good sayings by myself."

You’re serving Choi San and CEO of PARA-conglomerate, headman Park Seonghwa.

Sat right across the chairman, the percentage this couple holds of his company-share is more than most of the attending seniors combined, which makes them stand at the top of the guest-list. You couldn’t have missed their names, even if you’ve made the attempt to, and the other information you’re getting is just your co-workers whispering hurried words to each other, and it seems to you that you may be more in need of them than ever.

You already eavesdropped on them a little, and to be honest, you didn’t need any real confirmation that everyone in this room was unlawful and corrupt, but it is good to know you really don’t have to feel guilty stashing those bankrolls into your purse.

The man that is licking the tail of his scar at his lip, rolling his neck, clicking with his mouth and tapping his fingers onto the table, he is rumored to be the boss of the Choi-Clan, the infamous ‘Mad Dog of Namhae’, whose face had been unknown. The chairman has made a drunken joke about allegedly trying to sell him off to the government— “everybody act like you don’t know, okay?”— and nobody had taken him seriously, but once the supposed mafiaboss had entered the room, an hour later than everyone else, and sat down comfortably like nothing was strange about his heavy breath and slightly purple knuckles, nobody dared to say something else.

If you’d heard beforehand that you would be meeting a CEO and a mafiaboss today, you don’t know if you would have acted any differently. Thinking, here comes the chairman, his jesters, the mafia-guy, the chaebol; ah, all the motherfuckers aligned, let’s get to work, shall we? 

But this does challenge you a bit, indeed. If they just weren’t so young and intimidatingly good-looking, fuck, you could have treated them in the same cookie-cutter way you’d been at perfectly.

Maybe a bit of change-up won’t hurt, you were starting to get a bit too irritated anyway.

"Control yourself."

“You wanna see him dead too, brother,” the smoking male sneers— you’ll call him ‘Mr. Choi’ for now— pointing at his companion to accuse him of being a yawner, his cigarette stuck between his fingers.

Headman Park smirks with a short twitch of his lips that makes you think you just imagined it, but none of his extremities has moved since you came here: Every single action he takes seems so... calculated, thought through, measured, planned out. He is the only one to have brought a briefcase to the dinner, and looks a little bit out of place with his sober expressions which seem to you as if he was observing the whole room in its possible entirety, not leaving out a corner in his sight uncovered.

"Want," he parrots, face dropped to a neutral visage, highlighting the only word that seems to be bothering the CEO regarding his vis-à-vis' statement, eyes darting down  to Mr. Choi having his fingertips pointed towards him.

"Don't you become pushy with the words now, brother," the mafiaboss teases him, and tugs his sleeves up to his elbows again, eyeing you up and down while you're passing him with your cart. You discern his interest in the pockets of your skirt, or what is there underneath, instantly, but before you can think that the man may be just the same as the others, he cracks his knuckles. “Old geezer might die on his own at this point, look at how he's smoking his raisin-lungs away."

"Poetic."

So much for hearing government and company secrets, here are these two joking about the chairman’s death. You need the chairman a little bit longer if you want to earn money, but the idea of him dying soon isn’t too bothersome.

"You gotta get used to my Korean way of speaking, brother! Then we can communicate correctly!”

With your ears sharpened, but your face presenting unconcerned, you devote yourself to headman Park to refill his bucket, ice cubes jangling down the iron jar, whilst Mr. Choi stretches his arms behind his head, raising an eyebrow towards his elder who isn't hearing him out.

“Thank you,” headman Park says, very briefly and precisely. The tong you put in the bucket for him to use almost tips, and you don’t know whether he does it on purpose for he’s been frozen still all during the dinner, but with his reflexes, he prevents it from falling before you can, but if that wasn't surprising enough, he grazes your skin while returning.

Soft, uncalloused; not a single ounce of labor roughed up these hands, it seems. They tickled you featherly, and right now, you are looking for some type of confirmation in those black spheres of his to know that you're allowed to exhale and react to his touch, because you gasped slightly and have held your breath ever since.

Nothing. You are the first one to look— no, shy away from his stare, getting your hands in front of your abdomen again, your fingers searching for each other, fiddling around by themselves without your knowledge. 

Mr. Choi lets his wrist-watched hand fall between his lap, neck tilted slightly to the back, licking over his canine tooth with a grin, and it appears to you that he's either noticed his associate's small gesture or how headman Park is still staring at you. “You wanna do something, don’t you, brother?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

Mr. Choi shakes his head to irritate headman Park and make him explain himself.

“This is not business.”

Headman Park glances down his whiskey, droplets of water have formed around the brim of the cold glass. It is untouched. 

"I see you aren’t enjoying the whiskey, would you like something else to drink, sir?", you ask, trying to finish your job and get away from here before you get ideas that don’t include money between your thighs.

"The Fillico, please," the male answers, not having glanced away from your eyes once to inspect your cart, where the black, long bottle, donning a crown and wings adorned with Swarovski-crystals, awaits you to be grabbed.

"A glass of cold Fillico Black King!", you exclaim, your surprise of the particularity that anyone would drink water at the chairman's dinner can’t be hidden, and then hum, "Coming right up, sir."

“You’re really something, brother,” Mr. Choi wheezes, taking the last pull of his cigarette, watching you fill up a new glass for his unrelated brother with the finest mineral that can be bought to-date, pricing around 6 Billion Won, or 4500 US Dollars per bottle. “Wouldn’t you say it’s difficult to not be smokin’ or drinkin’ in this business, Y/N?”

Sure, whatever ‘business’ a man like him is talking about. “Yes, sir." Wait, hold on, did Mr. Choi just say your name? 

“You don’t look too impressed,” the male grins, seeing how you’ve narrowed your eyes in confusion.

"Pardon me, I was just– how do you know my name, sir?”

Mr. Choi shrugs as if to say ‘I dunno’ and presses his cigarette out on the table. It sizzles out, like your head is also slowly deteriorating. He throws the bud into the CEO's ice-bucket— headman Park is not even minorly irritated by it— and then, with his ringed fingers, goes through his hair, setting it loose behind his head. He’s picking on you, and you surely feel picked out, that's all you can think. It's so unusual to be hearing your name, not because it hasn't been said during the dinner, but because—

"Y/N Y/L/N, a pretty name for a pretty servant like you, huh?"

Your heart somehow flutters. A stalwart man like him taking your name into his mouth is nothing you hear on the daily. Deep, manly. It's not flattering, no, it sounds wrong, feels so dangerous for a guy like him to be taking something so personal and turning it into his possession, like you're slowly going to lose yourself in the words he speaks in a lax manner. Your name is precious to you, and it just drops off his tongue like it's candy. Where on earth does a man like him get your full name from?

"Sir," you insist, dipping your fingertip under your fingernail, fidgeting.

“Oh, don’t tell me ya prefer that stupid name ‘missy’,” Mr. Choi chuckles and fetches headman Park’s full glass of whiskey, his dialect draping out his mouth.

“Or do you secretly enjoy it," he grins, and with his eyebrows raised, Mr. Choi drinks up his acquaintance's booze in one big gulp, letting the glass fall down on the table with a thump, breathing out, "missy?”

People drink whiskey neatly, you know that. The guests have been doing it all evening, but that's for two ounces. Headman Park had a glass full of the oak-colored sherry liquid with an uncommonly high alcohol percentage placed in front of him. A taunt from the chairman maybe, to subtly scorn them about their apparent boyhoodish inexperience, but Mr. Choi makes it look so adept: The strong alcohol flows down his throat smooth and speedy, even though he did misplace the rim by an inch.

There's whiskey dripping down his chin as he glances over to his side, smirking at his neighbor who's blinking frozen, as well as the other guests, who are seemingly just as irritated that the mafiaboss got you as flustered as you look like.

You’re left with your mouth slightly open, shotting down a glass of whiskey shouldn't have looked as barbarous as Mr. Choi made it appear. Like a striking attack, baring his claws, he growls out the herby aftertaste. "'Scuse me, 'got really thirsty there."

The mafiaboss goes over his lips with his tongue, watching your hand play with the seam of your skirt, where he knows a handkerchief is buried in your pocket.

“Aw, shit, I got wet,” he wails over-dramatically, looking down on himself and then again locking his eyes into yours.

“Wanna clean me up, baby?”

“Pardon?”

Much to your continued bafflement, Mr. Choi smiles, and as he sees you taking a second to confirm what he said, he continues talking to you like you’re a hooker.

“Don't like that one, Y/N?” Again, with the name! Where does he get the name?!

“Sir, how—“

“You have introduced yourself to us,” headman Park finally reveals in the high Seoul tongue, perchance by pity, and you inhale, a bit embarrassed that you didn’t come to think of it earlier. What is happening to you? Is it because you’re finally away from those sleazes, that you’re being so light-headed? Lack of training? Sexual attraction? God, that’s a rookie’s mistake, Y/N, think about them as targets, not objectives. The objective is to not end up in a bed with them, remember? That’s like, rule number one. Even though nobody told you about the Mafia while you were at training, that’s a valid argument.

Don't let your guard down, you’re in a room with the men of men, no maybe the men. The most influential men you could be meeting in Seoul right now, aside from how little is known about them.

Whether he's a real chaebol or not, PARA-CEO Park Seonghwa is definitely the nephew of good ol’ chairman over there, just leeching off his money even if today is the first time the man is visiting his distant uncle who is definitely a bit sour about the fact he took so long to connect with him. Money has its sources and sometimes, most of the time, it’s nepotism. There you go, the explanation of his wealth and why the male is so well-mannered sitting on his seat. He’s woven into the conglomerate-family, been made CEO to keep him that way and all in all, you could care less about him, if he just wasn’t the only person that was kind of nice to you. Just thinking about his eyes makes you a bit dizzy, but you can get that fixed by turning your eyes to the mafiaboss.

Mafia and chaebol don't usually associate, for reasons that are rather obvious. Mafia’s rule the underworld with the overworld’s laws, and the chaebol rule over what laws the overworld decides on, digging their hands into the government like it’s soot, planting and pulling crops wherever they can profit from it. Money.

It’s sickening every time you think about it. How many people in this room could pay for your whole life? No, how many can’t pay for your whole life and beyond? You can count them with one hand and they’re all wearing the same clothes as you. 

Money knows where it belongs; that’s a phrase you made up the day you were told about the crippling debt by the letter and the bank declining your card. It sounds similar to your monks' sayings of water's ever-flowing life, but if water returns, money drifts. It wanders across the citizens, but follows a direction it's always bound to end up. Just like today, with you getting bankrolls to graze the inner space of your legs, only to know it’s going to end up in the same fingers that gave it to you.

So, where do headman Park and Mr. Choi get a say in this? Do they get a say in this?

“I did introduce myself, how could I forget? I’m sorry, sir,” you admit and let out a laugh that is half intended to sound as nervous as it did, and half regrettably filled with authentic uneasiness.

Old chairman, what does he know? Have those teeth really ever sunk into flesh? You can’t play with your fate here, but by hook or crook they intrigue you so much. You haven’t expected guests that aren't ass-kissers of the chairman, and apparently your talent only goes so far. You have no idea what to do with them to satisfy them except letting out your real thoughts and you can’t do that, definitely not in front of the man.

But you feel so connected to them. The caution everyone has, it confuses you just as much you're amazed by it, and you want that, you want that kind of safety. Every guest here has money, but not every guest has their authority.

“It’s alright, everybody makes mistakes, baby,” Mr. Choi smirks and musters you again, rubbing the liquid away from the corner of his lip with his thumb and kissing the remaining alcohol away, savoring every droplet of whiskey, but also savoring you by keeping his thumb leaned into his opened mouth, eyes looking sultrily at you, you might as well just—

“Mistakes, San. Beware of them,” headman Park falls in and his companion finally sways his eyes away from you, hand backing down. “Talkative drunkard.“

“Brother,” Mr. Choi sighs and grabs the glass from his neighbor that's filled with ice cubes to murmur, “I’m not that drunk," swinging it around with concise flicks of his wrist to enunciate his words.

With the couple bantering, you think you can calm down. Maybe you were overreacting. Bootlicking some birdbrains is a way easier life than to follow these two.

"Hey, baby?”, but there's another call of the bird of prey.

“Yes, sir?”, you answer, fingers letting go of your skirt that has thrashed your skin by how you abused it. You don’t even know when you started to react to the name 'baby', but truth be told it’s better than ‘missy’ by miles. Being over here is better than being over there by miles, that is unchangeable.

“Could you get me clean? This is kinda sticky."

With two fingers, he grabs the collar of his shirt and flails it softly, ice clinking in his glass, as he shows you his indeed quite syrupy breast.

"Yes, sir."

You nod towards the crevice that is the space where his muscles meet, and before your eyes can get lost in the plump thews, you collect yourself so you can do what you were asked for; getting your hands on his body.

“Please.”

“Ahh, I liked you more when you were quiet, brother! I don’t wanna call you a party-pooper, but c'mon! It’s your plan, and I’m just— doin’ my part.”

Mr. Choi twists his upper body a bit so he’s still able to hold the empty glass behind your back, though it feels more caging in than it should, when you lean forwards to softly tap his skin with your handkerchief. His arm hovers next to your hip and his upper body is extended wide around you.

“What do you say, baby?”, the male asks, and you harrumph to take your mind elsewhere from how rock-hard the mafiaboss feels under your hand, how his cologne smells so rich and inviting, and how— “Wanna be bitten?”

“Pardon?”, you ask, not understanding the context of Mr. Choi’s question, but without fail grasping the intentions of it.

The male grins, and you’re unsure as to how he got his hand on the bottle of whiskey from your tray as quickly as he did, but it’s there, in the hand that’s across your hip, and from then on, everything you do seems risky. His bicep is curled around your thigh so he can fill himself another glass, and if you take a step back, your ass will be pushed against his arm, but if you step forward, you’ll land on top of him; a straining dilemma that only inflames your guts the more you think about it.

“San,” headman Park grumbles quietly, seeing you struggle to stand on your feet.

“Agh, come on, brother, 's all going well! Live a little for me, will ya? Watch me and follow,” Mr. Choi nags with a juvenile pout and takes a disgruntled sip from his drink, making your imaginations reality by pushing you with his forearm with no forewarning. You trip closer to him and his arms raise, as you have to find safety on his shoulders to not fall into his crotch.

“Oops, ‘scuse me, baby,” he grins, feline eyes glancing up to you, your bust in his view. The other men are grumbling, fussy, yammering— if they knew, they would have done that with you a long time ago!— and in your head, you don't know whether you should be doing this at the chairman's dinner and not somewhere in a stripclub or just, god, anywhere else.

“It’s okay, sir,” is what you answer, and the short silence would be the perfect opportunity to scuffle back to your original stance, but you saw his ever-growing, throbbing bulge in his black suit-pants and it is staring you down.

Everything about him is so big…

“Really, baby?”, Mr. Choi asks, eyebrows pushed together, lips formed into a pout, feigning an expression of worry.

“Yes, sir,” you say, the big question of 'what is the goal here?' unnerving you, but with the quick, harsh movement of his leg against the back of your knee, you're—

“Sir!”

Sat on his thigh, your butt is bouncing on the hard flesh, fingers dug into his shoulders deeper due to the shock, ribcage moving up and down as you’re breathing fast and anxiously. At this point, you’ve gathered the attention of many who are seemingly more excited about the situation than you are, silencing all around, while the chairman continues to crack drunk jokes on the other side.

Mr. Choi chuckles at your nervousness and puts his glass down. “Aww, look at you, baby,” he coos, his rough, calloused fingers trailing between the inner space of your thighs that’s pushed into his leg. “Need a little break?”

As you sit there— securing yourself on the table, feeling his hand sit between your legs, you become lighter with each passing second, tingles being sent down your abdomen. Could Mr. Choi please stop smirking like that? It’s going to make you lose your mind, lose every thought of what you were trying to achieve at this table tonight.

“The chairman doesn’t allow breaks, sir,” you murmur, trying to cling onto the last sense of service you have, “I have to stay here.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper for the CEO in front of you to become curious, but loud enough for the mafiaboss to scoff and massage his hand deeper into your flesh.

“Sir, I really—“, you try to protest, but Mr. Choi uses his other finger to signal you to come closer to his face. You do as you’re told, his warm breath hitting your ear after you lean backwards.

“Baby,” he cackles, and his lips touch your earlobe, the smell of the smoke fading out his mouth.

“I practically own that wimp,” and Mr. Choi lets out a chuckle before his voice lowers an octave, “Let me own you, too.”

His tongue grazes over your sensitive skin as if he was a snake trying to convince you of eating the strange fruit, and you shudder forwards in surprise, his growl still vibrating in your ears.

You should get yourself together— yeah, that sounds like a good idea, if it just wasn't for the fact that this is exactly how you've been presenting yourself the whole evening. You're cornered, and not only by him, but your actions and it's, oh, old man, it's something. It's something that broadens the playground that was set out in front of you, something that gives you more to play, no, more to be played with.

The other guests are gawking already, forgetting about their prejudices when it comes to the 'youngsters', just happy to be seeing their missy in action.

The mafiaboss sighs, breaking his whispering and speaking louder than before. “But if you cherish so much about that old geezer, he’ll be taken care of, no? Maybe even better than before, or am I wrong here, brother?”

He clicks with his mouth— is it a habit?— and looks at headman Park, who rolls his eyes, as if they’re sharing some secret you’re not a part of. But before you can fall into further confusion, your legs tighten around Mr. Choi’s wristwatch, as his thumb strokes the surface under your skirt one time, right across your cunt which has been heating up since the first time you saw the reflection of yourself in his silver cross. A pant leaves your mouth and you have to grind your ass over so you can somehow clench your legs together.

“You like that?”, Mr. Choi sneers, chuckling into your ear, as he continues to move his thick finger against your clit. "Of course you do. Let me hear more of those cute sounds, baby.”

You grab his bicep, heat crawling up your abdomen against his forearm, your crotch feeling more and more buzzed as the male works his fingertip into you. Nobody says anything, just murmuring insignificant sentences to keep up the chatty mood.

Headman Park in the meanwhile, crosses his arms, catching the attention of the mafiaboss.

“Brother, can’t you see I’m doing this for you? Enjoy yourself.”

Mr. Choi flashes an eye-smile and keeps groping your cunt, you melting more and more into his lap and under the heated gazes of the crowd. Your servant-colleagues don’t know what to do, or no, maybe they knew exactly that this would happen and think you deserve all of this shame, just in general not helping you escape the touch of the mafiaboss.

“Sounds like you’re enjoying her more than anything,” headman Park says, looking indifferent, but his words don’t cross out the possibility that inside his pants, his cock isn’t growing too, how his arms are crossed, clenched around each other.

“Come on, baby,” Mr. Choi growls into your ear, “give that fucking bore a show, won’t you?”

You’re split open. He’s strong, oh gosh, so strong, taking not more than one push to grab you by your thigh and spread your legs, make you slip on his crotch, as he closes his knees together to support you from down under.

“San,” headman Park warns, but his mouth stays slightly open, tongue pressed against the surface of his upper teeth, suppressing a grin.

You flatten your back against Mr. Choi’s torso as an attempt to hide your face behind his neck, and breathe heavily against his freckled skin, the cold exterior of his pearly accessory grazes your chin.

“What?”, the male asks, taking his glass, his arm slithering under your armpit and his chin resting on your shoulder as he sips from it, not to forget the hand that is still pushed into the now moist fabric between your legs, moving in circular motion.

Headman Park doesn’t answer and folds his hands together, placing his elbows on the table, fingers touching his lower lip.

“Geez, brother, you should feel this cunt right now,” the mafiaboss wheezes, almost hiccuping from his excitement, “so fucking hot, you won’t believe.”

“Make her louder.”

Even Mr. Choi was surprised to hear that come out of the reserved CEO's mouth, and as he chuckles and takes the last sip from his whiskey, he puts down his glass once in for all to accept headman Park’s order.

With a slight lean forward, his free hand wraps around your neck and you gasp for air. Mr. Choi’s legs are spread so when you have to tuck in your pelvis, you can feel his bulge under your cunt. At this point, you don’t care for the piercing gazes anymore, and the chairman might as well give you a nice tip for the sight of you grinding your wet pussy into his biggest investor’s clothed cock. You’re such a master profiteer, Y/N, Jongho was right.

“Fuck, missy,” Mr. Choi grunts and he’s so frustrated he can’t take off more of your clothes, but it doesn’t prevent him from following the order when headman Park mutters, “grab her breasts.”

It is one shameless show.

You becoming needy and whiny on Choi San’s lap, the mafiaboss grinning, as CEO Park Seonghwa’s eyes are unmoving from your sullen, aroused expressions— it has persuaded the audience to want their own slice of fun, but even with hands wrapped around their no-use cocks, everybody in the room has their eyes sealed on the young servant whose only job was to refill some ice.

Mr. Choi can feel it; what a slut you are on top of him, how eagerly you’re grinding your cunt over his bulge, and how jealous the others are watching— and this includes all the blokes that are watching with cigars in their mouths, but also the servants that would have gladly taken your seat and not rub their hands over old, moist, wrinkly skin.

“Sir,” you whimper, as Mr. Choi knobs your breasts, his tough hands cupping each tit, just like headman Park commanded him.

Fuck, how he wishes to be able to see your face as well as well as headman Park does, but the sobby whines might as well do.

“So noisy on my cock,” Mr. Choi snarls, “you’re practically begging for attention, missy.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” you hiss and the mafiaboss inhales sharply, gasping, his cock jumping, very turned on by your sudden spunky tone. Bingo.

“Did you hear that, brother?”, he whales, tempting the headman to interact with him more as the main viewer of his performance, but the man to his friend is only raising an eyebrow. “Baby's got some zest in her. You like that, don’t you?”

Mr. Choi continues to coo headman Park into defeat, “You like ‘em feisty, brother. I know you, chief execution officer, sir. You wanna ram your cock into this little missy's pretty mouth, just admit it.”

Little missy's pretty mouth. "Say that again, shitbag," you hiss, but Mr. Choi grins and pries into your bust, working folds into your freshly-ironed shirt. "Listen, brother," he breathes, "It gets your cock fucking going, doesn't it?"

The mafiaboss chuckles and adds, so only you can hear it, "Definitely gets my cock going, baby."

Headman Park scans the room, and you can see how he shakes his head, and looks at Mr. Choi with a slight distaste. “You may leave soon.” 

“Really?”, Mr. Choi grins, beaming, grabbing your hips forcefully in the joy of it, and while the CEO’s words leave you misled, you sigh into the pressure of being pressed down deep into his muscled thigh, your cunt pulsating through his flesh.

“Change of plans.”

“Alright," he murmurs, just as offended as you are by his lack of reactions, but quickly catching up on his lust to hear, see, feel you more. "But not before I make this baby come."

“Punster,” headman Park jeers and it does occur to you that you’re hearing more of his soft voice than before, but when he looks at his wristwatch, you suppose you’re not doing well enough for him. Look at me, you rich-ass prude, you think and whine, being moved across Mr. Choi’s thigh by his own hands. Your clit feels hot, like it is seriously going to burn and fall off, but you, fuck, feel so good; the sounds just keep leaving your mouth, your high approaching very soon.

“How long were you thinking, brother?”, Mr. Choi asks and is nibbling at your neck, as he rams you over his thigh, fighting with the pace you're breathing wispy and digging your nails more and more into the glass-table until your fingertips turn white.

"Five.”

“Five? Make it ten.”

“You only last ten?”

“You can be such a bully, brother,” Mr. Choi fleers, and you have no fucking idea what they’re talking about, since you are feeling your orgasm coming in less than a minute, stars appearing in front of your eyes. “Make it ten.”

The male takes note of how you're bucking in your pelvis and uses his canine teeth to make your neck flame on, his hand placed roughly around your throat, as you become more sensitive to every move. "Sir," you whisper, a knot forming in your stomach.

Your clit is begging you for mercy at this point, demanding you to get the clothes off your legs so your slick has some way to escape, but you're drenching Mr. Choi's suit-pants in your wetness with stuttered heaving, ready to moan loudly in any second now if you could just find that one fucking spot—

"Are you gonna cum, baby? Right in front of everyone?", he murmurs against your neck and you nod repeatedly, raving your clothed clit on his thick, pillowy muscle, desperately chasing your high. "Come on," he snickers, "Show them what kind of slut missy is, huh? Such a good fucking slut for us, aren't you?"

"Yesyesyes," you whine, not caring for anything than your release, and Mr. Choi is being so kind as to continue breathing heavily into your ear to make you melt into bliss, but nothing gets you on more than the gentle smile that headman Park is sending your way, head slightly tilted to the back— is he nodding? Is he finally approving? Oh, fuck, you think, and you're doing the best job darting your hips non-stop to continue feeling your cunt be stroked by Mr. Choi's flesh, pursuing the CEO's praising acknowledgment. "Good fucking slut on my lap," the mafiaboss cackles, "come for daddy."

"You fucking weirdo," you falter, not wanting to call him "I'm never gonna call you—

Mmmuh!" Mr. Choi grabs you by your hair and tugs it harshly, making your back arch and your head rotate to his side. In the open mouth, his tongue plunges into your throat, the taste of woody herbs and bitter alcohol are flooding your tastebuds. Smearing all of your lipstick, his mouth is pressed against yours like he's sealing yours shut. You convulse your lower body in surprise of the sudden act and holy shit, get that one spot over your clit that's also stroking your gaping entrance, your body releasing all of its heat into one blaring, roaring zap, with your eyes rolling back your head, your stirred voice screaming, "FUCK!"

There is a gasp heard through the dining hall and you're not sure whether it was the chairman, a servant, or headman Park in front of you, but as you are spasming on Mr. Choi's thigh and your back arches to his chest, you feel like the world is expanding on you, peeping, intrusive onlookers cramming out their money to thank you for the show they got, white trickling through the linen of their underwear. 

Coming down from your high, weakened and all the while more aroused by the mafiaboss whispering the words "good girl" into your ear, you try to open your eyelids to catch headman Park putting on some black leather-gloves he got from his briefcase, muttering something under his breath to the mafiaboss.

“Go."

What the fuck?

Mr. Choi hooks his arm under your legs while he re-applies his lips to yours, and lifts you up like the pretty princess you are to most of the gawkers that don't stop watching, when he stands up.

Everybody has their eyes on the kiss the mafiaboss and servant missy are sharing, but headman Park doesn’t even look at you, when his partner starts carrying you to the elevator that's waiting for you at the wall about in the middle of the dining table, and just retrieves his open briefcase from the floor. Has he had enough of you already?

“Where are we—“, you breathe, but Mr. Choi kisses you silent, tongue forcing its entry, preventing you from figuring out what's happening, after the mafiaboss puts you down in front of the door and pushes you against the frame roughly. Cheering and hooting encourages him to continue rubbing his thumb over your skin as the other ringed fingers are holding your thigh, and you're pressed against his leg, virtually fenced in by Mr. Choi while he pushes the button for the lift to come.

His eyes are squinting to the side while he works his lips against you, in a way confirming that all of the guests (except the CEO) are begrudgingly anticipating the next actions of the mafiaboss, not caring how the headman is slowly pushing his seat away from the table to get more leg-space, which you seem to be the only person noticing it.

The golden door opens with a bell dinging the elevator’s arrival, and Mr. Choi grabs you by your ass, leading the way inside it. You can't see it correctly with your eyes closed, can only feel his big arms push into your frame, but he even makes for a show-like exit, burlesquely saluting the audience with two fingers, clicking with his mouth. It must really be a habit, you think, and giggle into the kiss.

The men attempt to throw bankrolls into your space and some succeed, some don't, but while you're glad your plan worked out, you aren't too sure what you've just done with, or for the mafiaboss.

Your heated kiss continues and because you want to feel him, you unbutton his shirt that doesn’t need that much working, three buttons being pushed open by your jellylike hands. Before you can unclothe him though, Mr. Choi pushes his arm against the mirror next to your head, stopping you to take a look at his wristwatch. He strokes his hair to the back with the other hand, revealing some of his meaty abs, and once he’s reached the backside of his head, he slides his fingers down his neck and around his Adam's apple to scratch it, announcing, “Ten minutes on the clock. Shit, brother's dick must be fucking exploding in his pants right now."

“Sir?”, you ask, overwhelmed by the words that are not making sense in your head, but also distracted by his hand that’s around your tie.

“Given he really could've finished in five but,” he yanks you towards his face. “I wanted to have you a bit more for myself, missy.”

He smiles, very arrogantly like the patronizing fuck he is, like he knows how strong he is, what a dominating aura he possesses, but at this point, in between the mirrors and on this black, marbled floor, you are not at the chairman’s dinner anymore, aren’t a servant anymore– you aren’t bound to any authority, are you?

“If you fucking call me ‘missy’ again, I’ll bite your fucking dick off.”

Except for the moment that you’re talking to him, a mafiaboss, whose breast is marked by— and you can see it very clearly now for it fits perfectly into yours— hands that have shared the same, if not a similar experience with you.

“How’d you know I was into biting, baby?”

And holy fuck, his back looks even crazier.

“God, sir,” you breathe out in awe and a little bit of fear. You can count the lines of red scratches on his back and as you finally let his shirt fall from his shoulders, the reflection of his muscles, how they relax under your touch. You become starstruck. Everything about him is so scarring, but fuck, how it attracts you, the wildness, the savagery— there’s something so free about him.

"What, baby? You like what you're seeing? How naughty..."

Ten minutes aren’t a lot, but Mr. Choi makes his best attempt to hurry over the trivial parts of fucking you. He steps closer, your ass hitting the handrail, legs crossing together, and your buttons pop in one rip, as his two hands rupture your blouse open. He lets his shirt drop to the floor, all the while his lips clash against the nook of your neck, making you sigh under the luminous lights of the elevator and grab his neck. You’re getting hazy, horny; damn, it’s been so long you’ve had a good fuck. Satisfactory sex is another luxury you were postponing for later.

With his lips sewn on your shoulder, kissing and forcing his tongue against a spot he deems especially tasty, the half-naked male unzips your skirt to finally reveal the black pantyhose that looks soaked in your slick. After he chuckles at the sight of it, Mr. Choi licks over his lips and cups your jaw with his hand, drawing a trail of insatiable kisses across your skin.

“Still wanna bite my dick off?”, he asks with a sly smirk, breathy, having caught your aroused look locked on his silver chains, his jacked upper body inviting you to get your mouth in there until it’s molded around your teeth.

“Come on, baby,” the male provokes you, “You think I’m gonna fuck you just like this? Think I’m gonna ram myself inside your cute fucking cunt ‘cause I’m such a big scary fucking man?”

You inhale sharply. “N- no, I…”, you breathe out, letting your tongue run over your teeth.

“Aw, baby, am I making you shy?”, Mr. Choi hoots, “I didn’t think you were a shy one. You were pretty noisy on my thigh for your cunt, weren’t you? Getting all the sounds out for brother to hear them… You really served a show there, baby.”

Your mouth only lets out stammered gibberish– you have never learnt how to talk dirty, but Mr. Choi uses your opened lips to ram his tongue into it again anyway, and you're almost proud to say you've gotten used to it.

He breathes rashly through his nose, and he tastes less of bourbon but more of dulcet desire, mixed in with the red of your lipstick sitting on his lip. Your knee strokes his erection while he gets his hands behind your back to get your bra off, lips clashing and raving against each other. “Letting your body talk for you?”, Mr. Choi husks, panting at having his overstrained cock touched. He relieves you from the pressure around the bust and continues to ramble. "I knew I could have a lot of fun with you the second I laid my eyes on you.” You pant and reunite your lips with his. "Little missy, such a whore for the rich."

He’s overconfident he’s seeing right through you, it infuriates you. Mr. Choi massages his hands into your breasts, the cold rings grazing sharply into your warm flesh, and as your knee is still between his crotch, you huff. You can be a whore for the rich when you’re earning money, but right now, you’re doing things for your own pleasure.

“Are you going to have a lot of fun with me?”, you sing-song in a high-pitched female voice to the mafiaboss that’s immediately taken aback, and you know the word 'missy' is on top of his tongue again, when you interrupt him with a quick jab of your knee into his groin. "Shit-eating fat-cat."

Mr. Choi grunts, head tilting down. His feline eyes meet your foxy ones, and while you weren't preparing for a staredown, the mafiaboss smirks and bites his lip. 

He has a lot to say, you can see it. There’s something glimmering under the lust-drunken layer behind his eyes, and it’s deep, goes deeper, but for some reason, the mafiaboss, who just so despicably couldn’t hold his mouth, doesn’t let out the words that’s crossing his mind.

“Sir–” 

Wrong deduction.

Mr. Choi scowls in laughter, and you guess he meant to joke with you, but he means to play with you much more, when he, once again, lifts you up, by your waist this time, and balances you on the handrail.

Resting his forearm on your thighs to stabilize you, Mr. Choi digs in his pocket to fetch his cigarette box, looking at himself through the mirror and shaking some strands out of his face. "Shit-eating fat-cat," he repeats with a lisp, pulling out one of the slim rolls with the corner of his mouth, and he continues to chuckle, as he glances at you through his eyelashes, "you should've said that to the old geezer when you had the chance to, baby."

"The chairman?"

No answer. Mr. Choi lights his cigarette with a zippo, and keeps it lit in his mouth, as he, with no forewarning, tears open your pantyhose from your crotch with both of his hands, spreading your legs wide. You have to get your hands around his head to be able to keep yourself on the handrail.

“Why do you look so scared? Think I’m gonna fuck you?”, he lisps. “I’m just taking a good look, baby. What a pretty cunt you got there, baby.”

You gulp. Mr. Choi slides his index finger across your heated folds through the fabric and your cunt clenches together, wanting to be filled up. “Sir,” you sigh, and the mafiaboss pulls in smoke from his cig, raising an eyebrow.

“What, baby? ‘You need something?”, he asks, “You’re not a fucking servant anymore, or do you need to be ordered around, missy?”

You try to look angry, but Mr. Choi only pouts and presses his finger through your panties, soaking them in your slick that’s gathered at your entrance. “Desperate to please the money-man? So wet for him…”

“Fuck you,” you mewl, but Mr. Choi knows what he’s doing when he thumbs your clit and exhales smoke into your face, hiding his face for a short second which gives you confidence. “I need you… to fuck me.”

“What did you say, baby? I couldn’t hear.”

“Please, sir, just… fuck me, please…”

“Louder.”

“God! Just fuck me! Didn’t you say we have ten minutes? Make them fucking count!”

“There we go, baby. My slutty little missy. Oh, baby, you’re growing on me, brother’s gonna hate that.” 

You huff and Mr. Choi slides your panties off your legs, taking a short glimpse at his wristwatch. “Damn, ten’s really a short time.”

How many minutes have passed? Ten already? You know you said it, but you mentioned it only because it made sense, if you’re honest, you have no clue what the time is worth for. Aren't these the men who have time for gold?

The biting smell of tobacco enters your nose, making you cough out loud. Is smoking even allowed in the elevator? Wait, wait, wait, no, maybe you should worry about other things, for example what you're going to do when those ten minutes are over, when all of this is over. They clearly have some type of plan and thing they are carrying out right now, but you don’t know how much you’re invited in there. 

Mr. Choi finishes his quick break, inhaling one last puff and keeping his cig between his lips again, and his hands unbuckle his belt in silence, while you contemplate.

Clanking, ruttling, and steps begin to thump behind the door— have any of you two even pressed a button? The mafiaboss looks concentrated, fixed on your cunt, taking out his throbbing, panging cock out his underwear, stroking it a few times to god, fuck, finally get to touch it after having been dry-humped hot.

Squelching, huffing, and voices echo through the floor— is that the chairman you hear? You can only yelp, when Mr. Choi drags off your panties and slathering his thick fingers across your folds in one, then penetrating with another forceful movement.

"Fuck!", you hiss out, grabbing the handrail next to your hips, trying to balance yourself on it still. The mafiaboss snickers into your ear, and tours through your cunt, all the while it appears that all hell is breaking loose outside.

BANG!

"Sir, what—!"

"Shhh, baby," Mr. Choi hushes you, and takes out his cig with the fingers that are now glistening with your wetness, placing it on top of his lips vertically to the scar that is accompanying his smug smirk.

BANG!

"You got nothin' to worry 'bout, baby," he lulls, "we're just eatin' the pheasant and the egg here," and exhales smoke into your face out his mouth-hole, which distracts you from the third, fourth—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Another proverb, pheasant and the egg— 'two birds with one stone'. Mr. Choi unfolds his hand as if he was counting the minutes, or the shots— wait, yes, shots! Fuck, those are gun-shots, right? You've never heard something so loud ever in your life, where does someone get guns from in South Korea? What even would they need guns for? Why would they use them? What the fuck is happening outside?!

"Oh, fuck!", you moan out, before fear and realization can crawl up your scalp and take away your lusting for the male, Mr. Choi has jerked his hip up, his cock gliding into you smoothly as if your cunt was made for him, the length and girth perfectly curling inside. Your back arches, at least as far as you can arch it, and he grins bemusedly at your jolted reaction.

BANG!

With every blast that follows, Mr. Choi is thrusting into you, first slowly, but then adding more speed and vigor as he goes, or as the blasting goes, making you shakily watch yourself be wrecked by the broad man through the reflection on the other side, your legs dangling with his rough movement.

You don't know how he's fucking you through your tightness, because with each ducking of his hips it feels like your inner walls are expanding more and ungodly more, as if he was piercing you in half.

Small puffs of smoke leave Mr. Choi's mouth each time he pants out raspy "oh baby"s and loud claps of him slapping your ass overtone the screaming, scrambling noises outside, as you two work your lower bodies against and into each other, growing more passionate, throbbing feverishly.

"Fuck, baby," Mr. Choi hisses, cigarette tilting in his mouth, as his face frowns together. "So fucking good for daddy, aren't you? So fucking tight and wet, such a good fucking girl—"

The screams outside are dying down, but the mafiaboss and you are getting louder, breathier, lustier; with your head falling backwards, hitting the mirror, the twisting feeling of fear and the ecstasy to be bouncing on Mr. Choi's big cock mix up like one hellish drink, boiling and churning inside of you.

Smashing both his hands on each of you ass-cheeks to dig his fingers into them and get more stability to ram into you so fast, and oh boy, it's so fucking fast, you're going to spiral— Mr. Choi sputters, "Are you gonna come? Are you going to come for daddy, baby? Greedy baby gonna take daddy's huge fucking load?"

The male is unraveling, his once low, stable voice turning into a whiny, hoarse, cracked mess just like you, practically urging, begging you to finally take the name ‘daddy’ into your mouth.

"Come on baby, say it for me, huh? Feels good to be my slut?", he disentangles, "Be a good slut for daddy, baby."

"I'm not gonna call you— that, fuckhead!", you moan, though your insides are curdling together to finally be released, the knot tightening with each drop of sweat that is forming on your boiling face.

"Really? Think you can afford to misbehave, baby?", Mr. Choi snickers and spits his cig on the floor, your ass being handled at an insane speed, his cock slipping in and out of you with rough ease. He takes it upon himself to dig his teeth into the nook of your neck, biting you heftily, your pulse knocking against your throat, as you feel his cock run in and out of your cunt. Your head goes light and dazed, but before you can gasp out your high from being fucked, bitten, sent to bliss, the male sinks you deep into his cock fully, it does not give you the last thrust you would need to—

"Fuckfuckfuck, I'm gonna cum," you whimper, needing to tremble, but unable to move because his hands are restricting you from any movement, and you continue to bring out a string of weak "pleasepleaseplease" that bounces back from the mafiaboss, who is raising an eyebrow, waiting for the magic word to be spoken out of your wet lips. Tears have formed at the corner of your eye and he thumbs it away, grinning coyly.

"Fuck you, I'mnotgonna fucking, ugh—!", you sob, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

"Aww, you wanna hate daddy so bad, don’t you?”

“Fuuuck you!” Whines leave your mouth, wanting to cum, wanting to move, wanting for Mr. Choi to continue fucking into you and not wipe away your tears.

“Just say you love me, baby,” he heaves and returns his hand to your hip.

Thrusting into you once with a clap against your groin, to make your cunt clench around him, and then twice with the last blood-curdling BANG! from outside, his cock is deep inside you. He feels you tighten, pulsate, craving to be released, but Mr. Choi will not move again to your liking until you finally let go of yourself, which riles you up with no hope.

"F— Fuuuck, okay!", you scream out, annoyed, angry, wanting to fucking cum; "Daddy!", you sob and Mr. Choi smirks, instantly getting to work to toast the adieu of your pride. Thumb on your clit, he circles around your sensitive bud to double the tension you feel through all of your body, while you gutter, "fuck me, daddy, please, make me cum, please, daddy, please—"

He laughs, no, howls— elated, animated, drunk, and then, with his strong, buff fucking arms, pounds you into his cock like a punching bag, your ass hitting his pelvis so many times until you have to use his gelled hair as a last resort to hold yourself up and not push yourself from the handrail with your head against the mirror, but he holds you, holds you steadily in his grip.

"Good god, good fucking missy, such a good fucking slut for me, cum all over my cock–   all over my fucking cock, baby," Mr. Choi grunts, and the string that was keeping you balanced snaps, your orgasm hitting you like that makes your insides tighten around the mafiaboss and his throbbing girth, your whole body being flushed by an overwhelming wave of pleasure which you drink up whole. His cockhead rubs against your sweetspot, you riding out the high while seeing nothing but bliss.

"Holy fuck," you breathe, and your fingers grip into the thick skin of his back, and with Mr. Choi's hips not stopping to hit your pelvis, there are additional, injuring, deep red marks on there with every thrust. You’re scratching him like a beast wanting to tear up its prey, but the beast is fucking into you like there’s no tomorrow. His cock does not stop grazing against your deepest spot, tears rolling down your heated cheek, and your mouth is unable to get out the words you want it to when you get the feeling that he's going to cum soon.

"O- out," you warn him, but the mafiaboss makes a disappointed face, “I– I really can’t afford a child, p-please pull out–!”

He draws his eyebrows in, scoffs and looks you deep in the eyes, his muscular body tucked in, murmuring, rambling out his whiskey-painted throat, “Is that really your only problem, baby? That you don’t have enough money?” His forehead leans against yours and your eyelids flutter open– you are being a mitt around his dick– and he pouts in pity, his iron cross hanging from his chest, as he talks to you.

Mr. Choi gets his hand flat on your lower belly and presses down on it, feeling himself bulge inside you. He moves his hips slowly, his cockhead dragging across your sweetspot, while he gutters, “you’d look so sexy as a mother, don’t you think, baby? With the tummy and all.”

“S- sir, please I–”

"Come on, do you think I don’t have enough money to pay for a fucking kid? God, how fucking annoying– I’m not that kind of man, baby,” Mr Choi growls, his voice vibrating against your cheek, as he charges his forehead deeper against yours, “I still got some honor.”

You shake your head, unsure whether there are pills for after in the pharmacies, or whether the mafiaboss will really be there to be with you as he promises, but Mr. Choi continues to beg in his low breathy, guttery voice. “Baby,” he rumbles, pressing even harder on your abdomen, your ass being pushed into the handrail that you’re sure it’s going to leave one red straight mark, and his cock is almost exploding from the edge, “Let me, no, let daddy cum into your tight cunt, baby, please.”

God, he wants you. He wants you so bad, doesn’t he?

"Y- you should see yourself," you chuckle, stroking over Mr. Choi's gelled hair, and his head tilts up a little bit as your fingers get tangled in his black locks, the white of his eyes making him look like a wild dog waiting for its treat. "F-fucking do it, you fucking slut."

"Fuck, baby," he laughs, out of breath, "You’re really a price."

Mr. Choi hammers his hips into you, until the stars in front of you all look like wishes falling from the sky. Both of you feel it, how his cock just feels so right, fits in like your cunt is a fucking glove which is full and getting even fuller.

"God, fuck," Mr. Choi grunts from the bottom of his throat, his hot cum lading into you, and it's like your lower body is melting with it, becoming heavier with every drop he's unloading inside.

"Take all of my fucking cum," he husks and your faces clash together for one finishing wild kiss. Mr. Choi sucks on your lower lip, as he fucks his ejaculation deeper and deeper into your hole with slow thrusts, until he bucks up his pelvis the last time and moans out a raspy, “perfect fucking missy with a perfect fucking cunt..."

Ding!

For a man that uses his mouth so sparingly, his tongue surely works wonders.

"Sir, are you—"

Headman Park has entered the elevator without a word, pulling off his leather gloves, and with Mr. Choi stepping away, he has all the place he requires to get on his knees and throw your leg over his shoulder, his wet and warm muscle delving into your throbbing cunt. You've been bereaved of the time to inspect what was behind or around him when the door closed, but maybe that's irrelevant anyways. What is relevant, is how impatient, but also how careful the CEO remains, and how he still tries his best to slowly sift his tongue into your folds, feeling every inch of your wetness. He’s been dying to do this.

"Fuck, sir!"

"Please," the CEO chuckles, hastily pulling the black leathery from his hands to put it back in his briefcase that he's been carrying, but he doesn't miss your cunt once, purling over your clit and glancing at you. "Call me Seonghwa, princess."

You could cum right here and there, just at the sight of this pretty man looking up to you, who has laid out his first name and put it into yours, scream it out loud until everyone hears what a princess you've been made of.

Princess. You knew his eyes were different, but you didn’t know they saw the world differently too. Oh, how you wish you could see more of his world.

"Aww, what? That's why you're still a foreigner in our country, brother! 'Can't be dropping our titles," Mr. Choi huffs and lights himself a second cigarette, filling the elevator with smoke and tobacco. How his breath really doesn't smell is questionable to you.

Just like you, the CEO, or how you're allowed to call him now— Seonghwa, ignores his partner's words, laps over your clit with his tongue, gently easing into your cunt with his clean fingers, and your soft sighs are like a reward for him, for whatever he's done outside.

"Respect, brother, 's all about respect..."

You tighten your thighs around Seonghwa's neck. The charcoal-haired has closed his eyes, sighing into the taste of you, and you are flawlessly overlooking the loud mafiaboss, just completely concentrating on the commitment the CEO is eating you out with. His head fits magically between your legs, he works his fingers so flawlessly into you, this must be fate— and if it's not, you're going to make it your future in any which way possible. You're falling. No, flying; never coming down.

"Seonghwa," you whine, and your hand glides over the hooked male's forehead, his hair feeling smooth under your touch as he presses his tongue slowly— in circular motion— against your clit to keep you on the high, but not in a way that would make you trip over.

"Mmf," the mafiaboss in front of you huffs, clearly attracted, enticed by the way you've exhaled the other male’s first name, scratching his temple with the fingers that are holding his cigarette.

"Whether you wanna call me San or 'daddy', baby," the scarred male, no, San, the fucker grins, "I'm gonna be hearing both either way."

"Fuck—", you moan out, having to take a breath because of how Seonghwa has curled his fingers into you with his tongue ready to shovel anything into his mouth that comes out, "you, fuckhead!"

The CEO is giggling a bit, finding your tone very amusing— and he tries to tell you this by looking up and slanting his eyes a friendly way, no, a way that you've never even conjured up the fantasy to perceive him, the cold-faced Park Seonghwa who hasn't drunk a drop of alcohol tonight. What pureness in a man...

"I liked 'fat-cat' better,” San snickers and goes through his hair that definitely needs combing, turning around and looking at himself through the mirror, though his eyes squint towards Seonghwa's reflection on the other side, now again lost in your cunt, taking off his jacket and folding it in half behind his back.

"Brother, you're eating my cum, by the way," the mafiaboss jabs, puffing out smoke while he's decidedly getting hard again in his trousers. San really can't hide his emotions on his face, can he? His lips are pursed, eyebrows slightly pulled in— how obvious. The man is jealous and doesn't want to admit it, you're sure of it.

"Shut up," you hiss, having become a bit comfortable with teasing the frustrated, outwitted mafiaboss. Ten minutes were definitely too little for him, but you've already rid his thigh, let him cum inside, and Seonghwa is simply too good with his tongue right now.

"Fuuuck," you whisper, and feel every drowsy twirl of his finger inside you, but it's slow, so slow, Seonghwa is swerving around every sponginess inside you, savoring the contraction of your inner space, and how your muscles tighten, when he licks over your clit, he enjoys this; enjoys you.

And so it continues, Park Seonghwa exploring every detail of your cunt as if he's a sommelier tasting the rarest of fluids, appreciating every drop that lands on his tongue, his fingers making sure that they don't go to waste.

"Shit," San comments, "I should've eaten her out, too."

The CEO is not cocky about it, about the way you are grabbing into his hair and squirming, how he has to slightly lift you up so you don't fall from your position. And then, when Seonghwa thinks your taste has perfectly coated his palate, speeds up.

"Fuck, sir," and the title slips out of you, like a habit you can't change for good when you feel so small. The CEO between your legs doesn't mind it though, at least doesn't say anything on it and just lets his fingers hit your sweet spot until there is a distinctive "Seonghwa" leaving sighed out your lips.

"I'm going to—", you announce, but the male has been long aware of it, preparing himself more access by bending his upper body to angle himself across your cunt, giving his partner a better view on how you glisten in arousal.

San in front of you is standing frozen, with his cigarette slowly burning out in his mouth, and you recompense the lack of his cock in your cunt by moaning louder, so your voice can vibrate around his erection. He grins and gets a tongue to his canine tooth, naked upper body still glowing in sweat, muscles shining, cock twitching every time he hears you breathe, and breathe more intensely, "make me cum, Seonghwa, please!"

"I knew you would taste delicious," Seonghwa murmurs, silently, rather for himself, and this must be how he sounds when he's drunk, because he is so high on your taste, "but this is ambrosial, princess."

You curl up your pelvis, and Seonghwa holds you by your hips, as his tongue picks up in speed, drawing out every word he hasn't spoken tonight on your labia, stamping them into your clit, all the while his fingers row in more and every last drop.

"C- coming~", you purr, and your eyes close down, your hands deep in Seonghwa's scalp, exhaling the weight of your worries, that flushes down into the man who seems to have none in his life, and he breathes into your hot cunt through his nose, not letting go of it until he's made sure that your hips tremble around his head. "P- please, f- fuck, fuck, feels so good—"

Pumping the remaining come into you, Seonghwa licks up your cunt and kisses your clit until you go completely flaccid, your arms giving in, but Seonghwa catches you by your hand, kissing your thigh with his swollen pink lips.

With your body relaxed, your ass feels a bite sore, having been prodded into the iron rail for so long. You grab into Seonghwa's hand and try to push yourself up, but ultimately fail at getting yourself into a more comfortable position.

"San, hold her."

"Huh?", he asks, "'Need something more snuggly, baby? Or what did you call her again, brother?"

"Princess," the CEO answers immediately and you have to suppress a girly giggle, as Seonghwa turns his head around, lips still pressed against your thigh. He presumably sends San an admonitory look to hurry up, and gets up from his knees.

The mafiaboss shrugs, not offended by being ordered around. He puts out the cigarette against the mirror and cracks his neck by rolling his head around, his thick neck dousing into your sight as he does so. He's so intimidating, you think, but he's on his way to coast those monster-arms behind your back, hands down to each of your hamstrings to, "up you go," pick you up like real royalty. The giggle escapes your mouth but you don't feel the slightest embarrassed nor do you have a reason to be. You are sunken deep into San’s cushiony arms— his muscles make for a great seat, and hovering, air hitting your hot cunt, as your legs spread for the CEO in front of you when you fall into the elbows. You yelp, but the giggles just keep coming, making San in the mirror in front of you wink at you, cackling, "you like that, princess?"

Seonghwa smiles, satisfied by your enjoyment of this position and approaches you once more. "I have yet to kiss you, Y/N," he says with his sweet voice, and his gentle hands find your chin and waist, your eyes blossoming open for him to stare into.

Even San shuts up now, and you suppose he is too taking part in the beauty that is the embrace of you and Seonghwa; two sets of lips, crazing each other, meeting for one flowery affair, breathing out small vapors of life. You can taste yourself, which means that Seonghwa is fully consumed by your aroma.

God, you think again, your cunt tingling at how Seonghwa tugs at his tie, pulling it side to side as he kisses you— the golden 'π'-pin clanks shrill to the floor— everything about Seonghwa is so...

Clean?

You are inhaling the mellow smell of his satiny skin, and the CEO unbuttons his shirt with proficient, skilfull flicks of his fingers. He is so handsome, handsomely pretty, and even when it’s drenched in your fluids, his skin shines on its own, like Seonghwa has a light shining within. Once you can see his bare chest and get lost on the smooth surface, your eyes dive down, admiring his slim, yet very muscular physique.

Seonghwa gets his tie and drags off his shirt by tugging at one sleeve with his hand, the white fabric revealing the rest of body with one clean pull that matches one of the curtains.

"W-", and you have to jump back with your head to get the full spectacle that's presented in front of you, exhaling in awe— "Wow.."

"Not so blank, our brother, is he?", San chuckles from behind of you and lowers his head to press his chin against your temple, surveying the same sight.

Two colossal, monstrous dragons, red and black, are colliding, looped, entangled all around Seonghwa's right arm, fighting for dominance on his skin. The raven hydra has its jaw wide open where Seonghwa looks to his shoulder with a rather shy smile once he sees your reaction, baring its teeth towards his heart, while the crimson dragon ends at the CEO's wrist, sitting on top of his pulse.

"Would you believe me it was brother's idea, baby?"

"As if," Seonghwa murmurs, folding his shirt into a square.

San chuckles again, re-shuffling himself and pressing your back close to his stomach, granting the back of your head to rest at his collarbone. "I asked her if she would believe, brother."

You watch the delicate lines, the elegant strokes of tint meeting on his skin, but while your first impression made you believe they carried a certain viciousness with their svelte bodies, the second sight presents you a different image of two forces maneuvering into each other as a reminder that they both co-exist as supreme. It's not one another they're reviling against, it's the bearer of the both who is threatened by their fangs. Their existence is a warning reminder, but also a sign of pride.

"I believe it's... beautiful."

“Aw, you’re so sweet, baby.”

You haven't seen many tattoos in your life, none in the mountains, and even in the city the only observable tattoos were those of the sleazy guys in alleys that wait when you're done with your job to gape at your uniform. They got tigers and other animals roaring on their bodies to hide the fact they don't have the fighting skills to keep up, but for Seonghwa, a CEO, to have this amount of ink under his skin is a commitment and to imagine he’s hiding that under his ironed shirt and black jacket, no, that you are seeing it right now, it’s… You’re overwrought, steamed up, aflame.

"Wanna touch it, baby?", San asks, and you nod eagerly. Seonghwa chuckles, “Go for it.”

You let your fingertip ghost over the dragons' scales, tailing their curvature. Goosebumps form on Seonghwa's arm and his hand finds its way to your head, stroking your cheek, as you meet the red beast's eyes.

The mafiaboss whispers, almost sentimentally, "No blood or tears."

Another expression, which proves to you that the tattoo was undoubtedly his idea, but you see it, the romance that is spoken from the male's skin, regardless of the little insight you have on both of them. Loyalty, reverence, creed, a belief and a duty, and before you know it, you want Seonghwa to enwrap you with his arms and never let you go, which he does.

His slender hand cloaks the left side of your head, and he pulls himself into a kiss, while he unbuckles his belt with his other hand.

You don't know how much you understand of this situation, no, you don't know how much you want to understand of this situation.

You've been on your own. That's all you ever had after you left home: Your body and soul, the windstorms of the mountains pushing you from the back to keep going, and you've lived your best life living for yourself that way, in bliss, in ignorance— in peace, but what is peace in a place where you can't move by yourself? In a world that’s maimed by the rich, and sure, it may be that you’ve chosen your path, but you were never walking a road that was yours, always trailing behind something.

Nameless, that’s what you thought you would need to be.

Your monks wanted to be called their title like everyone else, it would have been disrespectful to ask Lady Kim for hers which you now regret, and not even as a secret did your old man tell you his name, but you— you, Y/N, you have a name and you want to scream it, live it as loud as you can, hear it echo back with a volume that feels stronger when it rings back.

You could have settled on being acknowledged by your supervisor to earn some good money, but this is what you’re here for, aren’t you? Why you trusted your gut to stick to the scary men? Why you walked to them with confident steps, even when a nervous knot was forming together inside you? Did you go as what, an act of defiance? One of independence? To prove yourself that you were still standing on your own feet?

"Speaking of, brother..."

Yes, with no shame.

"You really enjoyed yourself back there, didn’t you?”, San asks. “Didn’t expect that from you.”

Seonghwa is kissing you down your breast, observing closely how you breathlessly react to his tongue twirling around your nipple.

"You left me no other chance," the older male hums, coating your circular buds with his saliva, bringing out your heavenly sighs every chance he gets, stroking himself to the sounds of your pleasure.

"Well, I would have made sure you still fucked her, brother."

“Sure,” Seonghwa lisps and positions his cockhead at your entrance. 

You try to grab San's shoulder behind you, as the male pushes himself inside, and your torso rotates to the side with your eyebrows pulling together, your cunt being spread apart.  “F-fuck,” you exhale, and Seonghwa kisses the corner of your lip to soothe you. Your cunt squelches around his cock and your hips roll by themselves, wanting to take more of his length.

"Shit, look at her go," the mafiaboss woos, "Fuck yourself out, brother."

"Think you’ll miss this?", Seonghwa snickers and it must be the first question he has asked today. “Y- yeah, you will!”, you snap, feeling eager to be acknowledged for how good your cunt wraps around his throbbing heat. 

“Oh, princess,” the CEO laughs, and your stomach drops because of how pretty his laughter sounds, and he caresses your cheek, only making your confusion and desire to finally uncover what the two men have obviously been keeping from you grow bigger. You don’t want to say it abruptly, but you three are naked, in a confined space, skins pressed against each other, so you believe you’re worth some type of explanation– or are you not?

“C- can you tell me what’s going to happen?”, you whine, and Seonghwa moves his hips, grabbing you by your waist to get his whole length. “Are you, fuck, going to leave me?”

“I dunno, brother, you call it,” San mutters. “It was your plan.”

“D- don’t!”

“It’s barely my plan anymore,” Seonghwa breathes, bucking his pelvis in, his cockhead being sucked in by your sensitive cunt.

“Don’t leave me!”

“You needed a distraction, brother, I got you one.”

“No,” Seonghwa chuckles, but in his heat, he kisses you and glances up at San while his tongue brushes against your lip. “But I’ll admit she saved us some jail-time, San.”

They continue talking over your pleas, and though you would have loved to ask a second time how the night was going to end, your brain has started to give into the pleasure once San folds your legs together, holding you by your hamstrings, giving Seonghwa an easier angle to fuck you senseless. 

“F- fu-huuck,” you breathe out, and your eyes are disappearing behind your molten, droopy eyelids, with Seonghwa cumming for the second time on your abdomen and cleaning it up with his handkerchief, and you don’t even know when it was, that San crammed out his cock   again, but you can definitely feel the difference of his girth, when he re-enters your used cunt, your legs shakily landing on the floor. They feel wobbly, your thighs having gone loose, and the mafiaboss has to hold you by your arms behind your back to support you.

“Can’t take it anymore, baby?”, San whispers into your ear, and his voice is low, very low, you don’t know how much time has passed since you could make out any of his words, but it feels like you’re back here, in the elevator, and Seonghwa is putting on his belt again.

“I c- can!”, you manage to whine out, not wanting the night to end, not wanting to return to your small apartment, not wanting these two to be gone from your life. “I can!”, you repeat yourself, when San lets out a mockful cackle. “You’re not going to fucking leave me here, San!”

“Who said anything about leaving you here, baby?”, he asks you, and he does mean his confusion, but the sarcastic undertone makes you desperate grow desperate. San frowns. “What did I tell you, baby?”

“You aren’t telling me shit, San!”, you sob, and his cock running through you prevents you from finding a braver voice, his two hands find your wrists to bind them together in his grip. “Aren’t you such a smartie,” he growls into your ear, hot air hitting your dissolving ear.

“Brother,” San calls out, and the addressed man is busy opening up his briefcase, getting on his knee. “I’m still waiting on you, y’know.”

“If you had stuck to the plan, th–” Seonghwa murmurs, but the mafiaboss falls into his word. “Then we would have fuckin’ send the bitch to prison and someone else would have him killed him, but there! You know I didn’t come with the fucking patience for that, brother! Geezer was getting on my fucking nerves.”

Killed?

“And don’t you talk back now,” San warns, “It was you who killed all of ‘em, so you figure out how you’re going to carry that one out.”

Killed?

“You already know how I’m going to carry this out.” Seonghwa smirks. “But you’re stopping me, San.”

“Augh, brother, you’re too sober for your own sake!” San’s cock is too deep in your cunt and your body is too much in his control for you to stop moaning like a bitch, but in your head, you’re puzzling together tonight’s happenings.

Expensive whiskey. Ice cubes. Ten minutes, gunshots, black leather gloves– “killed.”

Oh, Y/N.

“What did you do with the chairman, Seonghwa?”, you moan out, feeling how the mafiaboss is ramming himself into you at a sloppy, greedy pace, prolonging how much he can be inside you before he comes again, and you don’t know whether his heavy breathing can cover up the silence that it takes for the CEO to react to your question.

Seonghwa is still kneeled on the floor, when he rotates his head, smiling, his eyebrows pushed up. “What do you think I did?” His second question of the day.

“I- I,” you stutter, but San shakes his head, and interrupts you with his voice still loose from the alcohol, “you really don’t know how to keep up a good mood, brother!”, grabbing you by your chin and yanking your head up. “Lemme make my baby cum first!”

You can’t see Seonghwa anymore. You can barely see anything anymore, you’re counting your fifth or sixth orgasm of the night, cunt growing hotter with each time San thrusts into it, and with your breath being cut off, you slowly feel your arms lose their responsibility, tingling up from where your wrists are crossed behind your back. His cockhead is flaying against your g-spot and your thighs tremble at how used you’re being, eyes falling in, throat feeling tied up.

“S- San,” you manage to cough out, back arching for your final cry of pleasure, and San grins, letting go of your wrists, which makes you immediately fall to the front, finding safety against the mirror with both of your hands. He smacks his hands against your ass and lunges into you until your whole breast is pushed against the cold wall. 

“Come on, baby, come for me,” San roars, and you wail, tired, exhausted, feeling the orgasm drown you like another wave in the ocean of bliss you’ve been swimming in, whining out, “coming, coming for you, San!”

The mafiaboss presses himself against your back, his silver cross being imprinted into your neck, as he unloads himself, his last drops of hot cum overflowing out of you. “Fucking slut… So fucking good…”

He kisses your jaw repeatedly and looks at how tiredly closed your eyes are in the mirror, cooing “aww, baby.” San strokes away a strand of hair and gets himself off your body, pulling out. “You look like you need some sleep, baby.”

You are trying to catch your breath, grabbing the handrail to hold yourself up, as it sounds like San is putting on his shirt again. They’re gonna fucking leave you here, aren’t they? Leave you here in the elevator with the– with the fucking bankrolls on the floor of the fucking men you fucking– Oh god… Keep breathing, Y/N. Keep on breathing.

“I mean all I’m saying… you know… lobsters and crabs are friends, pal.”

What the fuck is he on again…

“You’re making this hard on yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything, just sayin’ that she just grew on me, that’s all.”

Your legs tremble, as you try straightening them to stand up and see what the two are scheming again, but as you turn your body around, ass against the handrail again, you hear a very unfamiliar clicking in front of your forehead area which is not coming out of San’s mouth.

“You’ve grown soft. That’s what you did.”

“Ahhh, fuck you, brother.”

“Pathetic.”

You see a hole, and it also doesn’t take you long to see Seonghwa ready to pull the trigger, the mafiaboss leaning into the corner of the elevator, arms crossed, looking at you with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, pressing the button that leads to the lobby.

The night is over.

“A- are you going to– oh my g-god, are you going to kill me…?”

“Yes, princess.”

Your heart is going to burst, you could puke out so many words right now, but you don’t know what to do. You don’t want to die, not when you felt so fucking alive– you– fuck, you should feel sorry that your coworkers that they didn’t deserve to go the same way as the asswipes did, because you’ve long realised that the bangs were their skulls being crushed by the bullets, but at the same time you couldn’t care any fucking less about them right now. You just have to survive, that was the only thing that mattered since the very beginning. This is about your life. Your precious fucking life.

“Ah…”

Your body is too weak to hyperventilate, but your brain is working overtime. Do you run? Attack them? No…

Seonghwa hasn’t moved an inch away from your face, and you take it upon yourself to raise your hand and slowly push the cold, black gun to the side, so you can look him in his eyes, but he forces it back there.

“Please don’t kill me… I can do so much for you! I– I,” you stutter, trying to gather all the knowledge your monks have taught you. “I– I’ll do anything! You– you saw me, didn’t you? I have– I’ve been told I have a talent for serving! I– I can do anything, please, I beg you, just…”

You fall to your knees, and they burn on the glassy floor, your hands folded in front of your abdomen. 

“Just please, let me live…”

You’re not greedy. You’ve only taken what you were given, and tonight, you’ve been given so much. Too much? No, it couldn’t be…

“Brother.”

There are tears flowing down your eyes, and you feel so sorry for yourself. You miss your old monk, and hope that you may be reincarnated to a butterfly that he can admire, just so that he can look at you with his adoring eyes again. So someone can want the best for you once in your life–

“Brother?”

So anyone can finally love you for once in your life.

next part coming soon... series masterlist | main masterlist

[gargoyleofgotham]

Little doll

The opposite of a neglected reader fic where the Batfam are consistently trying to get to know you (after “accidentally” doing some kidnapping. It’s started by a miscommunication because they’re all simultaneously geniuses and stupid, and then the reader goes along with it because they’re silly) and you keep trying to shove them off and leave after getting bored. -no gender mentioned for reader, no use of y/n

-Tw: brief mentions of creeps, reader feels like they’re being watched

You probably should have thought a bit more before going anywhere with Asher. He was stupid and impulsive (at least you two had that in common,) and with his memory problems, probably wouldn’t even remember to pick you up. For all you knew, he might not remember dropping you off at the library anyways, and it could be a few hours until someone else managed to come find you. You clutch your doll closer and steel your gaze on your book, even if your gaze flickers up every time someone walked by. 

After an hour or so, you’re sick of it. Normally, you could stay in a library for plenty of time, reading books or looking at pictures depending on your mood, but right now you’re a bit too preoccupied for that. So you decide to at least preoccupy yourself with something useful. If you walk around enough, you should be able to find a store your father has some hold in and find someone with his number who you can get to call him.

As you walk down the streets, you start to get a feeling you’re being watched. You don’t like that in general, but feeling that that in the streets of a city like this? That’s even worse.

As the prickling up your spine gets deeper, you go with your first idea and try to assimilate yourself into the group of people standing in front of the next shop. You slide in to stand next to two boys with dark hair and act like they’re relevant to you until the feeling eventually subsides. You were so focused on the creeping dread that you didn’t even notice the gaggle of people had noticed you come into their little group until one of them spoke. “Hello?”

You wave politely and mumble under your breath about just trying to hide from creeps, and go to leave, before one puts a hand on your shoulder. Your heart stops a beat.

“Yea? Do you need help finding your parents?” The oldest one in the group- you assume they’re all a family, and based on age, this is probably the father- asks. He seems well-meaning, but you don’t know if that’s enough right now.

Technically, you do need help finding your parents, but you don’t think you want random strangers helping with that. Maybe it’s just because it’s reliable, but you feel like you have a better chance finding a store your father owns. “Uh… no thanks.”

A few of the people look between each other; they don’t even try to hide it. Two or three of them speak at once, blurting out questions like “are you an orphan?” and “why, are they bad to you?”

Technically, you are also an orphan. You can’t really see what that has to do with anything, so you hesitantly reply “yes? To the… orphan question.”

Most of the group look at each other and nod. Ominous. “Well, you’re getting adopted now. No question about it.” One tuts, while another rolls their eyes. Someone sighs while another mumbles about letting people know, and a few other people say things you can’t hear over everyone else.

This is moving pretty fast, and you could stop it all with a few words, but you, for now, decide to keep your mouth shut about how just because you’re an orphan doesn’t mean you don’t have caretakers. This is getting interesting, and even if not biologically, you’re your father’s child; you can’t help but want to cause a little mischief and see what happens.

Please feel free to comment, I really like when people interact with me, I promise I don’t bite

Also, this is my first fanfic, and I’m aware I have a very robotic writing style sometimes (probably due to all of the essays I have to write) so if you feel like anything could be said better, please let me know, as well as any tips you may have

[2knightt]

↳my rhymes, my pen, my pad.₊˚✧

──IN WHICH, miles falls head over heels inlove!。✦

||✰ — 1610!miles morales x gn!reader.

you weren’t new to this school, you’ve been going for so long now. it got boring, nothing interesting ever happens there.

same preppy people walk in and out, always on time, always talking about the same stuff.

your teacher brought out a projector and put on some video.

you weren’t the slightest bit interested. you were drawing on the sides of your work sheet, drawing nonsense.

you heard the classroom door swing open and some kid, with papers and books flying all over the places stumbled in.

“you’re late, morales.”

morales, that’s new. you think to yourself as he stands in front of the projector, looking scared.

you stare at him longer, trying to see if you recognize him, but you don’t.

miles was scanning the classroom while trying to figure out what to say next, when his eyes met yours.

miles was—stunned to say the least.

you were gorgeous, even if you looked a little bit intimidating.

your hair framed your face just right, your lips looked soft, everything about you was just, breathtaking.

miles realized all eyes were on him and started to open his mouth without thinking.

“Einstein said time was relevant. maybe i’m not late, maybe you’re just early.”

he said, with a shrug and an awkward smile.

you smiled, you have to admit it.

what a dork, you thought to yourself as you heard a chuckle from the other side of the room.

you could tell he was embarrassed, he looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

to which, he did.

miles looked for any sort of reaction in you, but all he got was a smile.

that smile was all he could think about as he sat next to this blond haired girl.

was it a good smile? or was it a bad smile?

were you making fun of him? did you think he was funny?

you had filled his thoughts, without even knowing.

before miles knew it, he was walking to his uncles house.

he had pulled out his phone, took a picture of his uncle, and sent it to him.

aaron laughed, opening the window as miles pushed his face against it.

his uncle welcomed him in, seating miles next to him on the couch.

“whatchu want? is it romantic troubles?”

“h-how’d you know?! what’re you, a wizard?”

aaron chuckled at his nephew, and started to push him for more questions.

“well, what’re they like? do you know ‘em? what’s their name?”

miles just stared at his uncle.

he didn’t know.

he didn’t know your name, how you act, or anything.

he only knows your smile, and that alone was enough to make him like you.

god that’s so embarrassing.

“i uh, dunno.”

“whatchu mean you don’t know?”

aaron asks, laughing immediately after.

he thought it was so funny that miles didn’t know shit about you!

“well—it was a uh, love at first sight typa thing. you get it, right? right?!”

miles started to play with his fingers, he didn’t know why he was so nervous to talk about you.

“how do i start a conversation with them?”

aaron looks down and shakes his head, like miles just asked the stupidest question ever.

“you just gotta do the ol’ shoulder touch, man.”

“what’s that?”

miles asked, tilting his head slightly to the side.

his uncle chuckles, looking down before gently placing a hand on his shoulder.

he looks up and with the most smug voice miles has ever heard says,

“hey.”

miles started to laugh, like he wasn’t allowed to laugh anywhere else.

“so like, hey.”

he said, mocking his uncle.

the two of them started laughing like there was no tomorrow.

but unfortunately for miles, there was.

he saw you in the halls, so he took the opportunity to run up to you.

“h-hey, wait!”

you heard the shouting come from behind you.

you looked behind you and you couldn’t recognize the guy off the bat but nonetheless, you listened.

he stopped right in front of you, crouching down with his hands on his knees like he had just run a marathon.

he finally stood up after what seemed like hours.

he looked at you dead in your eyes, and you have to be honest, you kinda got uncomfortable with his stare.

he looked nervous just staring at you. jeez, you weren’t that scary, were you?

he slowly placed a hand on your shoulder, and looked like he was trying to, i don’t know, look cool?

“hey.”

you giggled at his poor attempt to start a conversation with you.

you didn’t mean to, it was just—hard not to!

“hey. do i, know you or something?”

miles started to panic, he didn’t think it’d go this far!

“i-uh-yeah! we have science together! i’m miles morales.”

“oh! lovely to finally meet you morales. i’m y/n.”

you said, sticking your hand out for him to shake.

he looked at it for a second and took your hand.

y/n, what a cute name. miles thought to himself as the bell rung.

“ugh, it’s so loud for no reason.”

you complained, letting go of his hand.

“yeah, i know right.”

“well—i’ll see you ‘round, miles.”

you said, walking away while waving.

miles just nodded and waved back. he could tell he looked like a loser, he could feel his muscles all tense as he waved back.

when you were out of sight, he finally relaxed.

he finally talked to you, and he got your name!

miles has got to tell uncle aaron about this later!

thank u guys for 200 followers i might cry

[ell-does-stuff]

MAKING A BIG OL POST OF EVERYTHING I GOTTA SAY ABOUT THE NEW SPOOKY MONTH BECAUSE HOLY SHITTTT THERES A LOT

‼️‼️SPOILERS OBVIOUSLY‼️‼️

THE THIEVES ARE BACK WOOOOOOOO!! IVE MISSED THEM SM

also eepy lila

while gathering images for this ive noticed that the "pile of dexter" as im calling it is staring at the thieves the whole time they're in the attic (specifically fat thief)

is he somehow still alive???? just possessing a pile of dead doll????????

so cool to see the big ass spider get some actual relevance!! def gonna be important next episode for sure

ROSS'S DAD!!!!!!!!

also jaune is so pretty with her hair down like omggg... love to see her being such a supportive friend to lila as well

"are you throwing away dad's stuff mom?" WAAAAAA MY POOR BABYYY IM GONNA CRYYY

HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN HI KEVIN

theyre so me

DEXTERRRRJRJRJRHSHSHDBBDBSB!!+!!!!!(!!

"this cat looks sick im taking it to the vet" BULLSHIT i know what you are. 👁️👁️

DEXTER'S MOM!?!?????!?!?!?!?!!!??? i had no idea she would ever show up like wow i did not expect to see her at all

poor little babies and their lack of parents

ok sorry ik im joking here but MAN this scene made me feel bad 😭😭😭

THE FUCK.

pretty sure this dude is the same guy as the "costume bob" in the last episode??? i felt bad for him last time but here he seems like kind of a pathetic and weird ass man ngl lol

RADFORRRRRRDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!!!!!(!!(;+;!;(;;(;??;(;;!!(+!!++!(++!

HES SUCH A GOD DAMN SILLY NERD MAN LIKEEEEE "he even sounds like he does in the movies!!!!!!" BROOOO I LOVE HIMMMMMMMMMM DJJDGWHDHSHFH

he is EXACTLY how i pictured he would be!! my brain is not gonna shut up about him for the next few days i just know it HAHAHAH

also my caramelpopcorn (thats their ship name right?? or was it candycorn??? i forgor lol) heart is completely full, i loved actually seeing him and kevin canonically interact, they are perfect <3

HES IN THE CANDY CLUB OUTFIRTBD RJSHNF EBDJFBSBDJC EJDUFBEBW DKXN SCUEBFNFBRJSJCJCHDB!!!!(!!!!!;+;(;!!(+!!

"im... uh... like an uncle!!" "i just wanna help the children..." BROO??? feeling kinda bad for frank rn, these are like the only kids he genuinely cares about and hes being turned away from em

ik hes a shady guy but STILL

GREGOR LOOKS SO GOOFY DOING THE DANCE JDBDHSHFHD LIKE WHY DOES HE LOOK LIKE THATTTTT

also i made this gif myself yall better like it

aaaaaaaaaand dexter's mom is dead.

like son like mother i guess 💀

love how ignacio's door has small little boards on it from when they bashed it with a hammer HAHAHHA

also, looking at the inside of ignacio's house, is that john's family on the little table there???

one of the images in the arg gives a better look at this, but i had no idea it was in IGNACIO'S HOUSE of all places. why does he have that??? and right by the gun too.... what is this silly cult man planning......

(the arg image in question if yall were wondering)

"we understand you" "we're here for you dude" "thank you guys, i just wish things weren't so..." HATZGANG FRIENDSHIP WAAAAA!!!!!

also ROY HAS BEEN THROUGH SHIT MY POOR GUYYYY i wanna hug him mannnn 🥺

IMAGE LIMIT IS KILLING ME SO IM GONNA REBLOG THIS WITH MORE SHIT TO SAY BECAUSE I AM NOT DONE MANNN‼️‼️‼️‼️

[midnight1nk]

So, this week's episode...

[Spoilers below cut]

*GASP*

....chat. wha?

(the following is my live reaction:)

Ad time? ad time.

SMG4: "You just had to call them [the girls] yucky." *wheeze* 3 really?

*helicopter explosion* ← I did tell yall I have a terrible sense of humor. ofc I would laugh at that

now we can start :)

oh Karen, what's wrong? Uh oh, don't tell me...

GODAMMIT

I knew that second teaser had to do something with Mario going after Karen and/or her kids

YEAH FUCK THE POLICE, IT'S TIME FOR A MOM TO TAKE MATTERS INTO HER OWN HANDS

PFFT the profile pic I least expected to pop up (srs, last episode she had bootleg plush 4 as pfp) when was this pic even taken???

he really is a clown 🤡 *clown horn sounds*

...huh. 3 would do that, wouldn't he?

really? "Mario waits for the bus"? you didn't even get past that starting screen

:O

WOAH WOAH ok, everyone chill out.

3, you probably could've worded that better. did you really have to go that far?

and Karen, I was wondering: where were you before this happened? Genuinely, I'm blaming you for the situation but you're usually near your kids so maybe it was just a quick errand? WHAT HAPPENED BETWEEN THE LAST EPISODE AND THIS ONE?

BEEG4?! LET'S GOOOOO WE'RE SO BACK

dude, I seriously cheered. I mean, hey any chance to have the SMG4 kids for an episode is a win in my book

that's his boy!!!

🥹 he's so sweet oh my god

it's like he gave me hot chocolate and wrapped me up in a blanket, and this wasn't even directed at me

somehow my subcategory of fave characters fully has a "caring and supporting talk while getting a ride home from the airport" vibe

how can you hate 4? no, like seriously, how can you hate him? i don't get it

we gotta move on or else I'm gonna start chasing haters around with a bat

YES KAREN & 4 TEAM UP IS BACK (now with beeg4)

amazon? don't tell me the monopoly man is involved

they call him Uncle Mario? noooo don't do that to me

and the parenting episode came back for this *head in hands*

😦 we finally got a voice

Mario did it so Karen could relax from the stress? Hmm, while it would be something Mario would do, it still feels off. idk I just have a bad feeling something was done to Mario

yeah, it's not helpful, but aw 💙

GOTTA GO FAST GOTTA GO— *gets run over by a bus* OH C'MON

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! THAT TOY WAS RELEVANT?! *facepalm* omg I should've known

LET'S GO? OK TEAM UP

finally, welcome back "We Must Kill Mario"

HOLY SHIT THAT WAS TOTALLY WICKED

...ngl he kinda gives me Niles vibes

Mr. WPNZ, huh? 🤔 hmmmmmm

still don't trust any of this (probably insane)

😦 IT'S THE ORGANIZATION, IT'S THEM AND YOU CAN'T TELL ME OTHERWISE

(not that I'm Mr WPNZ is the boss, just that he's part of it)

ZACK NO

CORY NOT YOU TOO

NONONONONONONNONONO

*head in hands* I was afraid this would happen

listen, I remember clips of this shitty movie (idk how long ago), that basically these child soldiers were given VR headsets by this secret organization, being told that it's just videogame for training. The twist was that the children were actually killing real people. it's basically that here

it's going to be "oh, you thought that this was fun? wait until you do the real thing" *head in hands* Karen please get there on time

oh boy

Karen Karen, ik you're desperate and trying to find your kids but there's no need to interrogate Luigi like this

save that energy for the real deal

oh. well that was a quick scene

>:(

*sigh* It's the father. Like, I was thinking about it in the back of my mind palace and didn't want to say anything until now

Still polishing the analysis but I did suspect that the father was going to come into the picture again, in three ways to be exact: The Sacrifice, The Protector, or The Lost Cause. And it's unfortunately, that last one

it makes sense why the father would be here taking the kids. The secret organization already knows about the kids and Karen not taking any of their orders. So, they would have to take drastic measures to get Karen to do what they want, and why not send out the person related to the family? After all, they can't send out the boss with the scary voice to talk with the kids. Have a friendly and charming face, one that the kids could relate to and trust

But clearly, he's the absent father

NONONO WHERE DID HE TAKE THEM?

WHAT DID I SAY? I knew they must've had advanced technology based on the walkie-talkie alone, or at least what they picked for inspiration from informants (could be the government-level or something similar???)

Now, this is going to be me full-on hating on this dude, and totally believing that this is the actual father, so if you want to skip ahead, you can. I just need to get it out of my system: Oh right, listen here you piece of shit. You better not play yourself the victim here just bc "oh the organization brainwashed me", bc guess what? you did all that willingly. You chose to stay behind instead of running away with Karen or having the guts to go against the organization. You chose to accept the mission handed to you to go after your own kids and recruit them through manipulation. You chose to see you kids only when it's convenient to you and your boss. You chose to bash Karen when never once have you been an actual father in their lives. Oh, and what's more? You're clearly insecure and jealous bc Karen was the best agent the organization had, they went for her on that hit for Marty instead of you. Count your days, you and the organization have nothing against the wrath of a mother.

*flips desk*

ok, now i'm done. let's continue

Mario, it's best if you start talking or Karen's going to get the wrong idea

OH, the walkie-talkie! it should still be here, right? near the boxes? Karen did see Mario with it on the security footage, maybe she can connect the dots!

...WHAT? the end credits?! you can't end it there! AND no end theme music either?! TEAM YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO US

Let's see, Gianni Matragrano as Mr. WPNZ? Well, that confirms several of my suspicions. Though, I'm not familiar with the VA

Huh, apparently he's a VA for Glitch's Gaslight District series. Yeah, that makes sense. Still not that familiar to me tho, I'm sure other people will recognize him.

Congrats to The_StUpid_VeLL for your art being featured at the end credits! 🎉

.・-: ✧ :--: ✧ :-・.

Ok, first off, can I say the thumbnail did not need to go this hard? Ben, you REALLY cooked.

Ben: "Drawing blood on smg4 characters is my passion :3"

Yeah, I could tell, now more so in your new AU. but I also don't like the implications we're going to get from this and no, I'll try not to bring 4's left eye into discussion.

This was a pretty cool episode, love how the Team brought back elements from the "We Must Kill Mario" and "Mario Teaches Parenting" episodes. Pacing on a few (very few) parts could've been better, like the Luigi interrogation scene felt too quick idk. But overall, pretty good! There were definitely funny parts, some were sweet. One was 3 going after Karen's neck like sheesh, that was harsh. And I know we're trying to guess who Mr. WPNZ is and how the plot's going to go, but man. The Crew cannot catch a break.

It's sad to think about Karen trying so hard to forget her past as her way to move on but that organization keeps bothering her, and now involving the kids in this. And the thing is the kids don't even know about her past, naturally they wouldn't know how bad this is going to get. Then, there's the father. From the way he's been, I'm 95% sure it's really him. I'll talk about this more in my analysis but I could tell from the captions alone. It simply makes sense. oops, all trauma!

I think the plot could lead up to the kids being used as leverage against Karen. The ultimate deal would be: the kids becoming future assassins or Karen giving herself up and returning to the organization. Them or her. Both options are bad bc either way, the organization would have the kids in their custody. Not sure how the Team's going to go with this, but I hope Karen doesn't forgive the father of her kids. Just let Karen kick their asses 😌↕️ It's all I ask.

And if I tell you this show's about all types of love, including familial?

Like I said, I'll be talking about it more in my analysis, and I'm still thinking about Marty and Karen needing a job, but this is what I have to offer for now! I'll see you all next time and remember: numbers go first!

.

.

.

.

.

.

hey Team, don't think I haven't seen that door. ever since we brought it up, it's come to haunt me every chance it gets.

fine fine, I'll work on the ref sheets. not now but soon.

[theladyofshalott1989]

Mum’s the Word 🤫 // Modern AU (No Magic) Sebastian Sallow x Male MC Short Story

Chapter 2: "This [story], I like it. Another!"**

[ Chapter One ]

️‍🌈 HAPPY PRIDE MONTH! 🌈

Synopsis: Sebastian and Damien have been together for a few weeks, so the time has (finally) come. Sex with a man for the first time. Sebastian's got this! He's got this, right? ... RIGHT?

Relevant Tags: POV Sebastian Sallow, Modern AU, Bisexual Sebastian Sallow, Crack Treated Seriously, Gay Panic, Smut, First Time, Humor, Banter, Pining, Sebastian Sallow Is Bad at Feelings, Chris Hemsworth Appreciation, Chris Evans Slander

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x Male MC (Damien Evans)

Note: This chapter is EXPLICIT‼️

[ AO3 Link ]

Author's Note: Alexa, play "Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy" by Queen.

"So, you and your mum. You're close, hm?" Sebastian said. Whether this question was the right choice at this particular place and time didn't even cross his mind. He was too flustered to think straight. He just needed to stall. To get his bearings. Yes, yes, his bearings. 

Damien stopped rummaging through one of his drawers. He swiveled around to face Sebastian, one eyebrow raised. "You really want to have this conversation right now?"

Okay, that was fair. Sebastian could at the very least admit to himself that he was nervous. Sex with a man for the first time. How novel.

"I was just curious," he replied. Obviously he wouldn't tell Damien he was having second thoughts. Second thoughts? No, that wasn't quite right. He definitely wanted this. He just wasn't quite sure how to begin. 

"Yes, I suppose I am?" Damien said. "Close with her, that is." He dove back into his search with determined focus. "Aha!" he exclaimed, brandishing a container of lube up in the air like it was the Holy Grail. His golden-brown eyes sparkled, and a dazzling smile lit up his face, his single dimple making an appearance. God, Damien really was handsome, wasn't he? It was beyond words. 

Sebastian shook his head and averted his gaze, hoping to conceal the flush creeping across his cheeks. "So, uh, how do you want to go about this?" he asked, noting that Damien had set the lube on his nightstand, uncapped, awaiting the moment it would be needed. 

"What do you mean?" Damien took a step toward him. He was practically vibrating with excitement. Sebastian wasn't sure what to think. Sebastian wasn't sure what to feel. Dammit, he should have been more honest with Damien. Or, at the very least, have done some research! 

Sebastian had always prided himself on being prepared for everything. And yet, in the past few weeks, he'd been floundering like the writers on The Walking Dead trying to conjure up a decent storyline. It wasn't Halloween anymore, but it wasn't quite Christmas either, so his horror film marathon had devolved into shitty television. His new life, in which he was apparently "winging it," had all started with Anne "inviting" him to her Zumba class on their shared birthday: his twin sister's dastardly ploy to introduce Sebastian to the instructor, Damien. It had only spiraled from there.  

Even Sebastian's usual preternatural ability to read a room hadn't come in handy when Damien entered the picture. Despite seeing each other for a few weeks, Damien still remained a frustrating mystery. It wasn't ideal, especially since Sebastian didn't even know how to flirt with a man, let alone a man of Damien's caliber. He was still wrapping his head around the astonishing revelation that he apparently had a certain fondness for men as well as women. Thirty-years-old and still learning new things about himself. Who would have thought?

Now, did Sebastian inform Damien about any of this? Of course not! That would be too embarrassing. So, for all Sebastian knew, Damien thought Sebastian was old hat at this, erm, man-wooing business. Sebastian clearly hadn't thought that through. 

Dammit, this experience was bound to be a disaster, and more than likely a huge disappointment for Damien. Sebastian should have prepared him. Well, too late now.

Sebastian startled back to awareness, realizing he was tracing the intricate pattern of Damien's dark blue duvet, which was laid across his massive four-poster bed in his even more massive house. Which he owned. Because Damien was obnoxiously wealthy.

"Sebastian? Anyone home?" 

"I'm not sure," he said, unknowingly answering both of Damien's questions. He honest-to-God didn't know how two men began lovemaking. He supposed it was probably similar to how a man made love to a woman, but, uh, a woman's parts were decidedly different, and although he very much wanted to lick Damien's rather large nipples, he wasn't sure if that was the best way to start. It wasn't the best way to start, right? No, it probably wasn't. 

Bloody hell, this was going to be a complete and total disaster. God, he was so lame. Damien was going to realize he wasn't worth it and punt Sebastian out of his perfect, pristine life. 

When Damien had texted him last week to invite him over, Sebastian certainly hadn't expected Damien to own his own home, and in Mayfair no less! It made sense after the fact though: when Damien reluctantly admitted he was a solicitor. Zumba instructor by night, solicitor by day. No wonder Sebastian couldn't get a read on Damien. He was as confusing as Chris Pratt switching from Andy Dwyer to Star-Lord overnight. 

Damien laughed. "Been awhile?" Sebastian didn't have a chance to reply before Damien added, "Me too." 

Sebastian wished that gave him a semblance of relief, but it only made his heart race faster. 

"How about we start slowly?" Damien tried, his voice lowering and his tone becoming more honeyed. He leaned forward and lifted Sebastian up from the bed. He brought his hands to Sebastian's head, massaging with his long, nimble fingers. Meanwhile, his lips made contact with Sebastian's. He pecked them, his touch soft and light. Sebastian's shoulders relaxed. "How's that?" Damien asked. "Better?" 

"Mhm," Sebastian said, mirroring Damien by bringing his hands to his towhead and kissing him back. 

Damien ran hot, not just from an aesthetic point of view, but also a literal one. His hands radiated warmth, reminiscent of a mitt after pulling a fresh, steaming loaf of bread from the oven—a sensation Sebastian knew quite well, given his fondness for baking, a pastime he considered one of his more "domestic" hobbies. He hadn't mentioned it to Damien yet, but if they were still together by the end of this… encounter… Sebastian resolved it would be a good start to opening up, and perhaps, remedying what was sure to be a terrible performance. 

"I bake stuff," he'd say, like it was no big deal. "I like to bake. I'll bake you something sometime." Smooth, Sebastian. Yes, yes. Damien would find him irresistible. Who could turn someone down after that revelation? Baked goods could fix absolutely anything. Yes, that would absolutely work. Good thinking, mate. Well done. 

"What are you thinking?" Damien cut in. 

Sebastian froze. "Uh." He blinked. "Erm, nothing." 

Damien's hands navigated to Sebastian's waist. Sebastian's breath hitched. Damien tugged. Sebastian's trousers loosened and fell to the floor. "How about now?"

Fucking. Hell. Sebastian shifted on his feet, the mounting pressure in his pants leaving him at a complete loss for words. The telltale dampness at the tip of his cock only made his stumbling reply more awkward. "Erm, uh, well…"

Damien chuckled and resumed divesting Sebastian of his trousers, followed by his pants. Task complete—Sebastian assisting by lifting his feet up one by one in a daze— Damien tossed everything to the side of the room, lowered Sebastian into a seated position on the edge of his bed, and dropped down.

"Ah!" Sebastian exclaimed as Damien's mouth greeted his cock, which twitched against his will. 

Damien's head popped back up. "No?" he asked, his eyes wide.

"Erm, no. I mean, yes! God, yes!" Damien remained stock still. "Just give me a moment?" Sebastian continued in a rush of words.

"Of course." Ever the gentleman, Damien leaned back, resting on his haunches in a crouched position. It gave Sebastian a stunning view of the upper half of his body, still clothed, but the angle strained his white button-down shirt, highlighting every curve. Damien was a bear of a man, rather more muscular than was the norm for a dance instructor—at least Sebastian assumed. He wasn't lean at all. He even had a decent-sized belly, which was spilling out of the gaps in his shirt. Surprising himself entirely, Sebastian found it breathtaking. Quite literally. 

After catching his breath and forcing his overactive brain to shut the fuck up, Sebastian said, "Alright, carry on."

Damien shot him a lopsided grin, the kind that sent a jolt straight to Sebastian's core. His cock somehow hardened further. 

Then, Damien sank back down, his tongue a perfect balance of pressure and precision, moving with a rhythm that unraveled Sebastian inch by agonizing inch.

Up and down, down and up. 

Stop overthinking, Sebastian , he screamed at himself internally. Enjoy this, for God's sake! 

Heat coiled through Sebastian's body, every nerve humming as though Damien's touch had set him ablaze.

As Damien's mouth baptized Sebastian's most precious body part—baptized? What the ever-loving fuck was going on? Did Sebastian really just make a religious metaphor? Something was seriously wrong with him—Damien's capable hands wandered, kneading the backs of Sebastian's thighs.   

"You're so tense," Damien murmured, pulling back just enough to make Sebastian's head spin.

Sebastian stayed silent, partly because he didn't trust himself to form a coherent sentence and partly because all his focus was on not losing complete and utter control right then and there.

"Care to tell me why?" Damien pressed, his tone equal parts teasing and curious.

Damn it.

"I, uh, ah…" Sebastian said, trying and failing to speak. What should he say? He couldn't admit to being new at this. No, absolutely not. 

"You don't have to," Damien said, leaning back once more. "I was just curious." He winked. 

Sebastian had to shut Damien up. Immediately. He leaped from his position on the bed and launched himself forward. Damien let loose a shocked gasp, followed by a deep rumbling laugh as Sebastian grappled at his outfit, tearing his shirt off his body in a frenzy. A button popped loose. Sebastian didn't apologize.

"That's more like it," Damien said as he shimmied out of his trousers. Deed done, he grabbed Sebastian by the shoulders and shoved him onto the bed. 

Damien was naked. Sebastian was naked. They were lying side by side on the bed. Well then. What next? 

Damien answered for him. He crawled over Sebastian, his broad frame sinking down, the weight of him pinning Sebastian to the duvet, making his head spin with desire.

Before Sebastian could process it, their lips met again, but this time Damien was all hunger and urgency. Had he been holding back?

Damien's teeth sank into Sebastian's bottom lip, sharp and possessive.

Oh yes, he'd definitely been holding back. Sebastian found himself grinning. Oh yes, he was enjoying this.

Sebastian snaked his arms around Damien and, mustering all his strength, flipped their positions. 

"Fancy seeing you down here," he teased, deciding it was finally time to do what he had wanted to do from the start. He planted his mouth on Damien's right nipple and attended to it, mercilessly. 

Now it was Damien's turn to cry out. His cock, which Sebastian had earlier noted was perhaps a bit smaller than Sebastian's—not that Sebastian minded, having never pleasured or been pleasured by a man before—pressed against Sebastian's leg, wet and insistent.

"Fuck," he groaned. "Fuck me."

"Gladly," Sebastian replied. 

Wait. He froze. He probably shouldn't have said that.

Damien was, luckily, distracted. He had freed his arms from Sebastian's grip and was reaching for the lube on his nightstand. 

Oh no. Fuck me, indeed. Sebastian was in deep, deep trouble. 

"Do go on," Damien said, holding out the open container in his left palm. 

"Erm, sure." 

Damien's brow furrowed. Sebastian swallowed nervously.

"Did I misinterpret something?" Damien said. 

"Nope, no misinterpretations here!" Sebastian grabbed the lube from Damien's hand. Only for it to slip out of his sweaty hands and plop face down on the bed. 

Bloody perfect. 

Damien scrambled forward, trying to remedy the situation. Alas, it was too far gone. The lube was done for, having splatted out onto the duvet.

Sebastian was struggling to decide how to begin his apology, perhaps even see himself out, proverbial tail tucked between his legs, when Damien surprised him. He brought his hand to Sebastian's mouth, which was hanging open slightly, and silenced him with a casual, "You're rather clumsy, aren't you?" 

There was nothing Sebastian could do but shrug, right hand lifting to rub away at the back of his neck. 

Damien dropped his own hand. "I suppose we don't have to do it that way," he said. "You're new at this, after all."

Sebastian froze. Again. He was doing a lot of that today. "What?" he managed to stammer out. 

"You've never done this before, right? With a man, I mean."

Sebastian's jaw nearly hit the floor. "How did you know?"

"Sebastian… come on."

"No, really. I thought—"

"You thought you were channeling your inner Hollywood heartthrob, didn't you?" Damien's sly smile made Sebastian break out into a cold sweat. He didn't think it was that obvious. Was it really that obvious?

"Uh, no?" 

Damien chuckled. "I'd love to say you're a great actor, but sorry to burst your bubble—you're no Chris Evans."

"Chris Evans can't act!" Sebastian shot back. Oops, that was louder than he intended. 

Damien burst out laughing. "Wow, looks like I really hit a nerve there. You're not a fan, I take it?" 

"He's the worst celebrity Chris."

"I'll be sure to pass that along." 

Sebastian blanched. "Wait… what?"

"He's my cousin."

Sebastian stared at him, incredulous. "You've got to be kidding me."

"I swear on my collection of Captain America comics."

No. Absolutely not. Sebastian opened his mouth to speak, but no words flowed forth. 

"Is this not going to work out?" Damien asked, still laughing.

"You can't just casually say something like that! While we're mid-coitus!"

"Mid-coitus?" Damien said as he gasped for air amid guffaws. "What a word!" 

"You're the solicitor! You use big words all the time!" 

"Not during sex!" 

Oh, right, they had been attempting to have sex. Well, that was clearly off the table now. Sebastian's body had already gone into shutdown mode. His cock was soft and unresponsive. 

"You know, I may be related to Chris Evans, but I've been told I look a bit like the actor who plays Thor. He's a celebrity Chris. Yes, Chris...erm...Hemsworth! That's it!"

Sebastian's mind short-circuited. Just like that, his cock was very much back in business. It had been, well, resurrected. Today was apparently a religious metaphor sort of day. 

"Still with me then?" Damien asked. 

"I am Groot," Sebastian muttered, still processing.

Damien laughed so hard he almost fell off the bed. Well, at least Sebastian was funny, right? Right?

"Wait, no," Sebastian quickly corrected, his face turning red. "I meant… yes, I'm still with you. And you're right. You do. You do look like Chris Hemsworth." If he squinted very hard and imagined Damien with a beard, yes, he could almost see it. 

"Is that… a good thing?"

Sebastian leaned back, running a hand through his wavy hair, trying to steady himself. "Well, he plays a god," he said, "so yeah, I'd say that's a very good thing."

Damien tossed him another stunning smile. There was that marvelous dimple again. "I'm glad." 

"Now prove it to me, with that hammer of yours," Sebastian said, smirking. "You know, the one that's between your legs," he added, just in case. 

"I got the gist. Solicitor, remember?" 

"Right." 

Damien's eyes widened. "I just remembered I have another container of lube in my coat pocket!"

"What? Why there?" 

"You never know when you'll need it."

Did wonders never cease? 

And once the lube situation was sorted, Sebastian and Damien had a very good night. A very good night, indeed.

One could even say it was Mjolnir-level impactful. But maybe Sebastian would keep that joke to himself.  

[cleolinda]

Weekend links, March 2, 2025

Silent Hill 2 update: If you sneak over to my Patreon, you can watch the first commentary video already (I'll be replacing it with an updated version). I’m still working on the timestamp writeup (links, sources, etc.) and, uh, that updated version with some corrections at the end. I’ve also been formatting the writeup for Tumblr and, uhhh.... it’s like four posts. It’s honestly just embarrassing. But I know what the carving on the church door you might not even notice says, I know why all the oscillating fans are turquoise blue, I’ve found a thematically relevant Goya painting hidden in a shop you don’t even have to enter, and now we all have to suffer for it. 

The second video’s been recorded but isn’t uploaded anywhere, and I’ve finished taking notes for the writeup. I’m taking so long that I might honestly just clip out a few excerpts and put them on my YouTube channel (I have a YouTube channel) (in theory).

(Yes, watching other people play video games IS a valid way to enjoy them, and it’s how I got into playing in the first place.)

Meanwhile: I just wanted to address the idea that medication obscures your real personality, and I ended up writing a memoir.

Reblogs of interest

It was a bad week for celebrity deaths: Roberta Flack ("Killing Me Softly"), after two years diagnosed with ALS; Michelle Trachtenberg (Buffy, Gossip Girl), after a prior liver transplant; and then, under circumstances that still haven’t been explained, Gene Hackman and his wife Betsy Arakawa.

Now, it’s important to know about the political protests happening in the U.S. (and I hope people run HARD with “Impeach President Musk” for maximum in-fighting), but it was “Vermont insults” that gave me the most joy.

"NASA released the clearest pictures yet of our neighbours in the solar system"

What Queen Nefertiti may have looked like in real life, improved

Microsoft is shutting down Skype

Joann Fabrics is going out of business (+ online alternatives)

“YOU FREAKS CRASHED THE DASHCON SITE AND THEN SOLD OUT THE TICKETS IN UNDER 30 MINUTES” (“I need you all to understand this is a post from February 22, 2025”)

“Help your local library; get books out even if you know you can’t read them all!”

Ursula K. LeGuin: “As you read a book word by word and page by page, you participate in its creation”

This full-series retrospective of Animorphs, however brief, is so unhinged that I went and legally downloaded the entire set of books. 

“Good night to only the team names at the Seattle women’s hockey club” (personal favorite: Rink Pony Club)

Sometimes I wonder what the Victorians would think of “naked” dresses. Anyway, I really like Elie Saab

All they know is charleston, shake cocktail, eat hot chip & lie

“stop what you’re doing right now and look at archaic period terracotta fox scratching its head”

“The bath house duck spirits from Spirited Away, taking a dip in this lava lamp”

Tumblr: Where “Pelican Childcare” is inherently funny

Crow Time: Business bird

Gorgeous Dominique Ramsey art with a Langston Hughes quote

Grocery cats (“but then you scroll down and it’s like oh, there’s a team of cats ringing up that lady’s tea and jam”)

Look this bunny in the eyes and you will understand why I tagged this “become ungovernable”

“where is that cat with the kind and reassuring face”

Paint me like one of your French bears

Hi. 1 quastion

Video

LOTR film fandom has been going strong for 20+ years and we’re not gonna stop now (re: Pippin’s song in Return of the King)

Zelenogorsk is sand bathing

The sacred texts

Periodic reblog: this massive catalogue of parody lyric tweets

“The neurodivergent urge to do this,” or: the origin of a very popular reaction pic

Personal tags of the week

Wet Beast Wednesday is worth a look, plus the newest Beneficent Chain Post (happiness will come to you. “When You Least Expect It. Probably Late March”).