#Customer Favourite Brand

[dollarcarrentaluae]

Customer Favourite Brand 2024

We’re thrilled to announce that Dollar Car Rental has been awarded the prestigious ‘Customer Favorite 2024’ accolade from rentalcars.com! This honor reaffirms our commitment to providing exceptional service and value to our loyal customers. At Dollar, we prioritize your satisfaction above all else, and this recognition reflects the dedication of our entire team in exceeding your expectations.

[baekuras]

shoutout to todays customer who returned his sunglasses because they gave him headaches and when i asked if he wanted me to check to find the cause of it he refused ONLY to 5minutes after the return ask why they could cause him to have headaches when his daily clear ones don’t

fun fact 1: he was supposed to come in at 4pm because he wanted his money back in cash and we didn’t have that much in the morning, but he came during noon and i had to scrape some together fun fact 2: he asked my male coworker why they would cause issues when i was the one who took on his request for...some....reason....could it be....sexism.....no it can’t be (:

another shoutout to the woman insisting we give her mother who has diabetis, sees double AND can’t speak german and eye exam and tell them why she can’t see well even after me explaining to her that we can’t measure her prescription as well (or at all) like an actual doctor can due to both machinery AND lack of medical knowledge....surprise: it didn’t work out and the result were wonky and she may need prisms but maybe not who knows not fucking me because we skipped like 2dpt between slides at some points and none of the prescriptions i offered and adjusted cleared her seeing double (: yes hi hello i can actually do my job and know what is possible and what isn’t (:

[moondirti]

ANGEL OF SMALL DEATH [ john price x f! reader ]

: he sees you when his vices take hold. little love, invented. chimeric, he assumed - until you're not.

mdni. noncon; addiction (nicotine and alcohol); SSRIs; intoxication; breeding kink; daddy kink; hallucinations; kidnapping; drugging; objectification; slut-shaming; sexual harassment; violence; bondage; vomiting; guns; suicide, murder, pregnancy, spanking and branding mentions. 7k.

a/n: have yall seen ruby sparks? yeah imagine that but worse

John's always had his fixes.

He remembers the hysterics. Five and wet behind the ears, lungs scoured raw of anguish when his mum hadn't let him sup the vanilla extract. It's not what you'd expect, hun. But the child-sized idée fixe, destructive in its naivety, turned its head at the implication. He stuck his nose to the bottle's cap, got a whiff of it unfiltered, and revolted; how could it taste like anything but the ambrosia it promised?

Or, who was she to deny he try?

(His resistance to authority can be spoored there. A miasmic trail back to youth, stinking something foul. It had been a Sisyphean effort, pyrrhic, when he enlisted. Burnishing odour only to find, without it, there was nothing left for them to make use of.)

So – red-faced, tousled pyjamas at 2200, balanced atop a chair as his parents snored soundly on the couch – he snuck a teaspoon for himself.

It was foul, of course. A calcine irritation that clawed on its way down his throat, baring raw tissue in its wake. He hid his coughs behind his sleeves, vision cloudy with tears as he put everything back where it belonged – not disappointed so much as he was committed, he thinks. Because the very next night, he came back to try it again.

And again, and again.

Like clockwork, he tipped the small vial up onto his tongue and hoped it would pass into something different. Obsessive. Ruinous monomania. His dreams sprung into caliginous visions that detailed nothing but the phantom touch of it to his tongue; this taste, syrupy sweet like nothing he would find in comfits and puddings and pies.

(In hindsight, all it did was teach him how to embrace the burn.)

It only stopped when his mum woke to him voiding his guts in an old popcorn bowl. Poison control, buoyant levity clipped over the rotary phone, told her that it happens all the time. Kids go looking for a midnight snack and think vanilla will hit the spot. Our suggestion is to settle for alternatives until he's old enough to know better. Hydrate in the meanwhile.

– know better.

It's hard to say he does.

His wants still have wants, have asinine wants, that which keep him so late into the night that it's dawn before he falls comatose. Sunk into a leather wingback, the space of his parlour more smoke than it is air, contemplating keeping a warm body in these hinterlands. Helplessly soft, pretty. Fixated on that faceless something, burrowed beneath his sweet tooth again.

But on the wrong side of forty, he's honed prudence like a well-oiled firearm. Custom so things run smoothly, though not one he finds necessary if it weren't for convention. He knows his job would cut in on the upkeep, month long absences like a disease to whoever he manages to snare. It'll kill them, slowly, holed up in this home alone.

(When his parents did away with the extract, he tore the curtains and scribbled on their walls. A boy's green version of withdrawal, deprived of his favourite vice. He's never considered sobriety for that very reason – he's bad even with a maduro in hand.

And the thing about people, they're never so easy to replenish.)

Age besets everything. Counters them, grown as he is. Pragmatic.

Still. To say he knows better is... faulty, flawed. Not when he fists his cock to those fantasies and stirs on all the ways he can bring them to light. Early retirement (a prompt no; he's just as dependant on the field), or multiple little loves to keep each other company, his house turned an Arcadia of nymphs (though he tires to think of wrangling more than one, and the idea diffuses like sugar steeped in tea.)

It's on his fourth- fifth iteration that John starts to see it for what it really is. That this – a darling wife to curl between his legs – is like the imagined taste of vanilla extract. Too good to ever be made true. At least for a man of his ilk, whose bloody hands slip around nirvana. Unearned. Chained to purgatory so long as he weighs sins against the greater good. He wasn't meant for the finer things in life.

So he sticks to what he has. Old familiars. Noxious inhibitors, palmed for upwards of ten pounds, crafted for old dodgers like himself. Tobacco, dry whiskey. Nicotine to spout fire to his hindbrain. Cheap, easy accesses that sate the itch behind his eyes, so long as he lights another.

Ouroboros. It feeds itself and lasts.

(Until you come off the tail end that is, and sever the loop with your own, clever little hands.)

You pose a different kind of problem.

It starts after Serbia. Hounding across the Carpathian mountains for the better part of a winter has detrimental effects, see. And though he eventually locates the bunker Laswell's informants alerted them to, he comes out of it changed – head fixed the wrong way around, skin flaking over off a mulish swell of anger. Going back home is an ordeal when his body acclimatised to find warmth in the frost, talking to Stygian shadows like comrades. Necessitated madness revoked.

Because all of a sudden, everything is too comfortable. Vibrant. Nothing hurts enough to match the stress still ricocheting within him, and the imbalance threatens to capsize. The doctors prescribe SSRIs, tell him to keep it separate, Captain, when their eyes skim that part of his file that notes him as a habitual drinker – so he switches from bourbon to Canadian whiskey, like the ABV will make a difference.

(That inveterate defiance, rearing its ugly head once more.)

And really, he doesn't get what all the fuss is about.

The static in his head flatlines, white noise taking its slot. It's the greatest peace he's found since his bunkmate at boarding school stuck a joint between his teeth and told him to suck. Like fog wearing over a hill, his thoughts grow muddied, loose and abandoned once he can't tell which way is up or where the sky ends.

And the wants, the very same he's long since buried, come back with a vengeance. Unchanged, for the most part (he doubts they were ever dead in the first place) yet manifested differently, like they're privy to the scepticism that killed them last.

(Reveries no longer disembodied, shuddering old film onto the backs of his eyes, but projected into the dark corners of his house, instead.)

He hears your laugh, first. It is early March and easter endorsements already shade the telly in garish joie de vivre, corporations fighting for a foot in your spring celebrations! Buy an egg-dying kit and get one free, hurry before it's too late! John doesn't remember turning it on, can hardly feel the remote in his hands, but that acedia ebbs once the sound of it meets his ears. The sound of you–

Jingle-bell mischievous, he knows it has no place amidst the foolish ditties of spring. He turns the T.V. off, sitting upright in his chair, ears piqued in every direction as he waits for it again.

From the kitchen: another breathless titter, tapped from a chest too delicate to be mistaken for the howling winds outside. When he rises to inspect the source, he swipes the spare gun he uses to foot a broken table, trigger finger dangling bonelessly by the grip. Good to have it there, just in case, though he's confident he won't need to resort to such measures to neutralise you – not if you equal the Zephyr-like quality of your voice.

(Paranoia, it seems, is another effect of downing his meds with Crown Royal. Had he been less inebriated, he would have remembered that his doors are double bolted, and that there's no one out for miles.)

But what he expects to find, luminous between the birch cupboard rows, is not there. His kitchen is as empty as it's always been.

So, they might have warned him about it. He might have avoided this whole thing had he listened. But things snowball when he grasps what's happening. Calamitous uptake; it invades his dreams again, and his dreams invade reality.

(If he cannot have what he wants within the provident constrictions of life, then what's the harm in indulging himself, if only a little.)

Soon enough, he sees glimpses of you wherever he looks.

Sylphic figure come to haunt him. Light bounces through you, your flesh gossamer-like. Diaphanous. He thinks you cannot be crafted that way if not to accent the dark, wet rims of your eyes. The lightning-branched veins etched to all four extremities. Nipples like petals, touched alluringly to your breasts. He thinks you cannot be fictitious – he's never been an inventive man, and the impish flick of your lips reads as familiar, somehow. Dancing on the tip of his tongue, or a song he's heard once and never again. Like he's taken to it before–

His memory swishes like watered nectar in this state. It's impossible to place.

Still–

So long as you continue to appear as fine mist does, chasing the throttles of his high, John's a happy man. He need not tell you anything; you already know his name, what it is he likes. You sway to imagined tunes (later, he couples it to the erratic drumming of his heart) and jump nimbly around his legs, winding and tangling and falling right through them when he wishes to see you stumble.

You don't talk much, either. He has yet to whet the finer points of your being, work out what makes you tick or how you'd enunciate your words. It's an eggshell process. Fragile. Some nights, he'll imagine you with a cadence that doesn't quite fit, and you'll stutter like a faulty motor before shattering from view. To avoid disillusionment, he has to be careful. Extend a platter of properties for you to choose from, picky thing, and watch as you notch them on your tongue, testing.

You'll get this look on your face as you do. Contemplative, lips pursed for a moment before you shrug and slide down to decorate his feet, arms stretched across his ottoman like willow branches over a creek. It would put him off if it were anyone else, but he's eternally endeared to you.

The first time you speak, it's to call him out on that.

'Naturally.' You giggle, twirling your phantom fingers in the tufts of his leg hair. 'You have to like something in order for me to present it. Or is that not how it works?'

He doesn't think so.

"You tell me, little one. If that were the case, why disappear when I try something you aren't keen on, hm?" His words are slurred, strung together hastily, like his tongue hasn't the strength to articulate each in full. You understand him anyway, of course, scrunching your nose.

'I don't know.'

"Think, then."

You shuffle straighter on your knees.

'Maybe I want to be just right for you, daddy. Not all your ideas are great.'

John jerks his leg admonishingly, the joint of it passing right through you. It causes you to blink out of existence for a second, and his throat twists uncomfortably around the new darkness. Loneliness hurts more, harrows deeper, now that he's unused to it.

But you come back, straddling his hips this time. You always do

(So long as he keeps sipping, the glass in his hand sweating cool condensation into his skin. His cigar slowly smoulders away in a nearby ashtray, waiting for the uptake.)

"Mm, thought I lost ya." And if you were there – really there, he thinks – he'd wrap your hair in a fat fist and angle your head roughly down onto his. His arms lay flat to his sides, however. Restless.

'No.' You don't exhibit the same discretion. You smooth down his bare chest, ironing his scars until he feels brand new again. Whole as a kid. 'Haven't you heard? I have a tongue now, and all I wanna do is talk.'

"Is that right?" He hums, half-lidded eyes watch the space between your knees widen. Like Artemis in her waters, cursing Actaeon to the jowls of his dogs – you love teasing him when you know he cannot do anything about it, destined to be torn apart by his inborn desire.

'Well, what else is there?'

And if not for that one thing, John would be content to live like this forever.

(Two, if you count his prescription quickly running out.)

Routine lasts about a fortnight, if his taking of time is to be trusted.

Staged courting, you call it. A production of how typical romances go. When the sky bruises, opening up like the ripe flesh of a plum, he'll knock back two tablets using the last dregs of his afternoon whiskey and wait for you to come home to him. You look stunning when you arrive; naked, your body soft and creased and effulgent. And while it depends on how his day's been, more often than not, you'll imitate rubbing his feet as he tells you about everything – paperwork and the taskforce and state secrets (does confidentiality count towards figments of his high?) – before he's settled enough to cut to the chase.

Yet he runs out of patience for it as time hauls on. Avidity amasses, tumorigenic need cramping his chest. One day, he stops you from kneeling at all. 

"No need for that, sweet thing." He orders with a stiff grunt. There's no justification as to why, though it's clear you sense it already. The fraying strings of his sanity, that which you bat at like a playful kitten, have started to unravel dangerously close to what is holding it all together. "Just do what you do best, hm?"

(The best you can do–)

'Yes, daddy.'

Ever-dutiful, despite the monotony. There are no arguments with you, no taming and fights unless he's in a particularly aggressive mood. The only indication of your disappointment (not yours so much as it is his in himself) is the wet flutter of your lashes, the poking harlequin pout.

Both disappear from view when you turn your back to him and bend at the hip, small hands stretching to dig into your behind. His cock is out in no time – was practically tearing at his pant's seams, really – thrumming painfully hard, leaking onto his stomach when you pull apart either cheek like dough.

Your pussy spreads, glimmering under a matting of wiry hair. Arousal (feigned, imagined, projected–) webs your thighs together, swollen clit budding at the end of your mons. Apple of Eden; his jerks are awkward, uncoordinated, in comparison. Human. There's a twinge in his wrist from working himself almost daily.

His teeth taste like tobacco and spice, sleep clinging to the roof of his mouth. Would you eclipse it with your sweet-sour tang? He pictures taking you; stuffing his nose right below the tight rim of your ass so his tongue can lave over your slit. Working you open with his tongue. You'd soak the hair around his lips, and he'd press harder in response.

John spoils you rotten in his dreams. You know it, too, toes wiggling where you stand a few feet away. How cruel that he shouldn't get the chance to, then – that he has to consume his fixes to stop them from taunting him, and you're God's way of saying that he can't always get what he wants.

Carrot on a fucking stick. He's made an arse of. And worse yet–

He can't cum, no matter how enticingly you stand there. His palms are too calloused, nerves grown bored of their rough drag. Every jerk is a barely-there sensation. Surface level. Shallow. Like a rock skipping across a lake that never manages to sink.

(It never did amount to what you do to him in his head. But it seems as though his body has finally caught on to what the rest of him already knew.

That this – this tragic, autogenous slaking of carnal desire – can not continue on forever.)

He groans, paralysis needling painfully up his neck. It echoes like anger and holds none of the punch.

Breaking position, you twist to assess the newborn tension.

'Shhhh,' You coo. There's no judgement in your glassy eyes, none that can perceive (or wants to see). Rather, it's all pure love, a whisper of distress, and devotion. His little love, so perfect besides this one thing. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'

"Not your fault." Hoarse. Broken.

(Who has he become?)

'I'd help you if I could. Let you take whatever you wanted from me, you wouldn't even have to ask.'

He'd been the one to initiate it, but the prospect of his orgasm is long abandoned when you perch on the armrest, laying your head near his. He has nowhere else to put his hands, so he keeps them cupped between his thighs – and if he suspends utilitarianism for long enough, can almost believe that they're yours, instead.

"That's nice, little one."

He imagines your warmth, the soft comfort of your bosom, as sleep encroaches on his periphery. You'd cup the tired weight of his head and lay it on your lap, there to stay until he awakes to birdsong. There in the morning light.

Thus the minutes tick by in quiet melancholy. He's halfway layered in the pelts of hypnagogia before you speak again.

'You should visit town tomorrow. Mail something home for Mother's Day maybe, and stop by the grocer's for eggs. You're all out.'

He hasn't seen greater society for almost a month.

A wicked hangover splits his skull, worming its claws into the soft matter of his brain. John had initially set out to do as you bid him – find a nice present for his mum and stock up for the next few weeks' hibernation – but the throngs of people crowding home goods and the jewellers make his condition worse, so he resolves to call her on the day and heads straight to the market instead.

Eggs, you said. He needs a lot more than that. Water and red meat and perhaps something that leaks grease when fried. Cucumbers, yoghourt, granola, too. Milk or juice, never both because he can't commit to finishing them before their best-by date. Fruit. Cookies.

The list grows exponentially as he surveys the colourful aisles, under eyes tender to the touch. If it weren't for the cart carrying most of his weight, he would have toppled over already, his chest dipped over the handle, wheels barreling forward. The store's empty enough that he doesn't worry about clipping someone's ankles. For now, it's just him.

Always that. Just him, and–

"Ah!"

Fuck.

"Are you alright?" He defaults, lurching to pluck the rolling oranges off the floor. It necessitates far more exertion than he can handle at the moment. The woman he ran into catches what bowls from his reach.

"Oh, yes! So sorry, that one's on me." She laughs, nervous. The nature of it – gentle, shaky like the beat of a butterfly's wing – rouses a near Pavlovian response in him, pleasantries crystallising between his teeth, hard as pearls. He coasts a suspicious look up, but her head stays bowed as she piles everything into her basket, arched baseball cap obscuring her features. "I insist on carrying everything, see, then it gets too much for me and the baskets are the nearest thing, and you know how heavy those can get if you do some serious shopping, don't you?. Honestly, I never learn. How silly."

The wonder shatters. He cringes, eyelids pruning shut to gather his sore thoughts in the sudden clammer. Talks too much, too loud. He finds it hard to tolerate anything but singsong whispers these days.

(On him, he knows.)

Unceremonious, they both stand. John extends the final orange, appraising the products she tucks it between rather than look back up at her. Sugar, butter, eggs, flour. And a hefty heap of citrus, of course. Odd.

She seems to think the same, breaking the awkward lull first.

"Big family?" The question is clearly well-intentioned – posed to the stacked contents of his cart. No well-adjusted man would hoard as many perishables for himself, not with the grocer's as accessible as it is. But John is not well-adjusted in any sense of the word, especially in the past few months. All her prying does, then, is inflame the irritation dusting his throat, kneading salt into the wound.

How incredibly unfortunate timing.

"Gingivitis?" He clips back. His hangover makes regret a hard thing to reach, though given she doesn't take offence to his snipe.

"Ouch, okay." She laughs, more lighthearted than before. It reminds him of you (you, is anything its own thing anymore?) and John feels a fire light his heels. Agitation to get back home. "No, I'm making orange shortbread for the old folks at the nursing home. Needed to replenish a few things. I haven't baked in a while."

"How nice."

"'Tis the season! Erm– I mean. Y'know, with Mother's Day."

(Later, when he's staring at his fingers, sozzled like a cat on cream, he replays this conversation over in his head like he'll be able to change its outcome. Had he been alert, he'd have picked up on it by now. Christmas platitudes in spring – who else did he know with such transgressive peculiarities?

Captain Price wouldn't have missed it. Unfortunately for him, he left that intensity between powdered ice and silver firs.)

"Anyway." She coughs. He didn't realise he was expected to respond, stare lingering on the exit some distance away, keen to see this end. In his periphery, her cap tips down, supply list clutched in fidgety hands as she reads down the line of ingredients. He forces his attention back to the moment, training his eyes on the curve of her skull. "Just one thing left. Um, should be down hereeeee–"

Her head tilts up again, searching for the aisle markers overhead.

And it's–

Painful. Like the rip release of every organ seizes simultaneously, domino discharge down his spine. Ribs flush suddenly into the flaring muscle of his heart, which thrashes wildly against the corral, desperate to see itself out. To reach across this empty space and leech on to the delicate features that come into view. His brain – startled out of its judiciousness – blares I told you so's to the hot rush of blood behind his ears. Marrow melts to oil his joints, unmooring their structural integrity, and his breakfast threatens to disgorge and make for a foul first impression.

(John always thought revelations came kindly, that they blossomed in the neglected forks of life. Like a summer boscage, or the gentle, prying hands of a monarch escaping its cocoon. How can divulgence be anything but soft, and refined? How would the world grapple with them if otherwise?

He sees it now for what it is.

The world would have no choice.)

"Vanilla extract." You shake your list, smiling at him – a vivid, honest smile – before you brush right out of view.

He tells himself this doesn't change things. No matter how you like to argue the opposite.

'I don't see why not, daddy. Don't you want me, too?'

More than he'd like anything else in the world. But it's back again, that reaper of dreams poison control once foretold. Know better. He does, at least to the extent that bringing you here – tying you to his bed posts like he so desperately wants to do – is not the best idea. His age, his job, his incessant fucking wants, all pave their own desire paths; some more practical than others but less tempting as a result.

He knows how loneliness kills. At least he's built for it, but you?

"Work complicates things, little one."

John finds it all unfurling before him, the coffin housing his fears unhinged.

(You, dead by your own hands or worse, made vulnerable to the brutes he works against. Not a possibility when you're linked to him like this, hallucinatory, unreal, but you – the you he saw earlier today – aren't any of those things.)

'You don't really believe that, do you?'

You're never so argumentative. He sucks his teeth, waving a hand through your hips. And it must snub you so, for you disappear like smoke beneath a cloudburst of rain.

No matter. He doesn't need the temptation finding him.

(That is, until an answer finds him first.)

He phones home for Mother's Day, and she asks for updates for any lucky miss he would call his.

In the borders of his vision, you're hunched over the persian rug that was a gift from an associate for a job well done. Your feet cross over each other, fingers working idly at pretending to braid the fringed edge. The sight gets the better of him, adorable, and he briefly considers switching his answer from the usual – wish you'd stop fretting, it's not doing your health any favours – until sense catches on. He wouldn't know how to deal with the questions.

"No."

"What a shame. I know you're busy with that job and all, John," Because his mother never addresses the big risk to her son's life by name. "but you really should work on making me some grandbabies, before I pass on to the earth."

"Please, mum. Don't start with that nonsense–"

"No! It's any day now, you know it as well as I do." She tuts. He remembers her hands – tracing cool patterns onto his scalp that night, back when he was five and only concerned with the best taste his mouth could fathom. He remembers, and thinks of the wrinkled stretch of them now. "Take this as my last word of wisdom! Family will be the one thing you have when those milking tosser's decide to do away with you. Family, John!"

He chokes back a sigh.

"Yeah. So you've said."

Family. So bloody simple, isn't it?

Iron-wrought key, right under his nose this whole time.

His last two pills frown at him from behind their orange confines, two-toned and unassuming. He could get more if he so pleased, but the hope is that they won't be necessary after tonight.

Carried by the bourbon that blazes down his gullet, they go down smoothly. Soon enough, you appear, summoned, as he laces his boots.

"Does it hurt you, sweet thing?" He finally asks, punching an arm through his windbreaker's sleeve. April showers carry bracingly after dusk, weatherproof attire a functional choice. 

That is to say, the towel in his pocket isn’t for him. 

You gain that elvish look to your face, of the same variety he fell in love with when you first appeared to him. He often forgets how otherworldly you can be; radiant, inhuman vision. Your mirror isn't so... remarkable. Frizzy hair, fleshly, bleeding behind round cheeks. Perhaps that's the appeal.

'F'course not. It is me, after all.'

"Is it?" The front door clicks behind him, new-washed breeze pushing it into place. It feels final, like casting his decision in stone.

'Hmm,' You pretend to think for a long, long while, prancing a solid two paces behind no matter what speed he sets. A new moon blights the fields around his home, sparse raindrops reflecting only your glowing figure. It lights the way until he reaches the skirts of town, when street lamps bleed gold down onto him. Only then do you speak again. 'I should think so, yes. Take a left here.'

John does as you say.

'Though she won't be as receptive to it all. Right.'

He turns right.

'You’ll have to decide how to deal with that.'

"I'd appreciate a few pointers."

'What do you think I'm doing, daddy?' You murmur, materialising before him as he comes up on an avenue known for its nightlife. 'Take a right here and keep going.'

"And you?" He asks, though he already knows the answer.

'I'll be there.' 

You are. Though you’re not alone. 

Two cretins crowd you into a brick wall, lanky arms anchored by your head to form a flimsy aviary. John hears their badgering a block away; crowing voices, placatory promises they wouldn’t be able to uphold even if they knocked back a viagra each. The wind carries it, works their whispers into fine dust. Powder. Negligible. He’s seen this dance before – this dreadful caper, a little bit of force behind what is otherwise an insipid show – but he’s usually above such drama. The men he keeps know not to ask for what they want. Not when it hazards a bird flapping out of reach. 

You’ve got to clip their wings, first.

Though you look like you’d be indebted to any sort of hero. The hem of your dress rides up your thigh, snapping away from restive hands. Shortening what is already… He resolves to admonish you about it later, traipsing closer to the scene. Given your ornament, he can’t blame these men beyond covetous reason, but he won’t topple it onto you either. 

Everything flays out before him. Of the bunch, you demand the slyest hand.

“C’mon, love. It isn’t that far of a walk.”

“Yeah. You’re pissed out of yer mind a’ready. Can’t go home now, huh?” 

“Would be so cute between us both.” 

“The best. Look at those wide eyes.” 

“Busy checkin’ out the arse on her, but I’ll get to her eyes in a minute.” 

Your face crumbles in on itself. He’s closer now. Can make out the mascara painting black tracks down your cheeks, lips smeared by the rain – or, the alternative, pecking vultures having claimed them already. Either way, a green-eyed serpent seethes in the curls of his gut, blood imbued venom coursing. He feels it wind, poising for attack, strength compressed into a tight ball of anger. 

Then, when one of them – ginger, juvenile – snakes a hand between your legs, it strikes. 

He rips his gun from the inner lining of his coat. The other kid is shorter, more on edge, so John doesn’t worry about the force it’d take to daunt him. When the cold press of his muzzle fixes to his companion’s temple, he dashes away with a pathetic screech, tripping over the loose ends of his shoelaces. Par for the course. Weasel.

The ginger isn’t so lucky. 

“You get off on scaring defenceless girls, lad?” He barks into his ear, one hand gripping both floundering wrists. The boy cringes, fear rattling his throat. Any response he tries to shape turns out a nasally wheeze. 

“P-Please-”

“Shut your fucking trap. You’d have a better shot at mercy carving your little cock off.” 

“I w-wo– we were just-t having fun. No harm… harm done, right?” The pleas recourse to you. In his periphery, John registers your frown. Half-hearted. Scared still – of both the unfamiliar, violent men. He peels the commotion two steps back to show he means no harm. 

(To his narrow definitions, of course. His plans for you constitute harm in anyone else’s book. He’s sure that, if you were wise to them, you’d slip in the other direction.)

“She doesn’t seem to think so.”

“No! No, p-please, p–” He silences the boy with a pistol-whip, blunt end of the gun breaking skin off his jaw. The message couldn’t have been clearer – twice now, he’s demanded silence – but no one seems to listen. His cries peak, out-of-tune in the pitter-patter shower. Tortured, like a mangled cat.

“Here’s what you’re going to do, yeah?” The air flutters around you. He’s trained to tread carefully, like you’ll disappear at any moment. Better make this quick, then. “You’re going to go home, lock your windows, and try to sleep with an eye open tonight. The young lady’s welfare matters more than your fate, but I don’t forget. There will be a time where I come to break every finger off your hand. Enjoy them in the meanwhile.”

Perfunctory, he shoves him to the muddy floor. Blood joins the streams sluicing to the sewers, inky swirls of gore a welcome sight. He hasn’t felt this alive since–

Well, since Serbia.

And the boy must see the predatory gleam in his eyes. The dead, inbred callousness. Shark out of the water. Knows what’s good for him as the fin breaks the surface, rows of teeth just underneath, because he runs off before they can snap around his clumsy legs. 

(You, on the other hand, don’t have that instinct. Instead, you blubber, seal on a floating icecap. 

And dive headfirst into his jowls.)

“T-Thank you, I can’t thank you enough. I- My friends left me and I didn’t have a ride home and no one was picking up my calls so I thought it would be safe to ask them, but I couldn’t have predicted how nasty they’d be. Really, they seemed like nice guys–” 

John censures you with a stare. 

“You should know better than to be out at this time.” 

He’s gotten good at imagining your responses. He needn’t hear what you have to say next. Before you can even open your mouth, the chloroform-doused towel in his pocket is out and pasted to your pretty face. 

There’s a brief pause where he expects you to fall through to the floor. But your body slumps, ragdoll boneless, right into his arms.

That’s what brings him here. 

Here: cotton rope hitching your elbows together behind your back, a column of square-knots parallel to both arms. It was what he managed while you were unconscious. Could have managed more – so much more, tick off the beginnings on a cosmic index of all the things he wants to fucking do with you – if it weren’t for patchy effort. He went a little rabid, see. Clipped off the leash, chain to the doghouse broken. Saw the time better spent fondling your supple curves, your body lax beneath his. 

Weakened or willing, it doesn’t matter so much as you’re corporeal. That he can.

(A book he bought as a much younger man details seven different ways to harness a chest. If he had a grip, he would have seen to it – your breasts purpling, ensnared in a lattice of his own construction. It’s this new, foul fascination. How many ways can a body bend before it breaks? He’s never been mindful of the line before, on the field, but he’s got one to do with as he pleases, now.) 

Little one. New toy, fix. His wife.

You process it all in your own time, sleepy eyes peeling open to find that you’re no longer in some dingy alleyway. Though your hair has yet to dry, he’s made good work of paring the damp dress off your form, the steady warmth of a fireplace making for a gentle come-to. John takes it as encouragement when a tired yawn splits your mouth, lips quirking up. Smiling. 

“Look at you.” He hums, thumb working quicker over your clit. With legs notched apart, your cunt’s been made vulnerable, bared to every ministration he couldn’t wait to inflict until after you woke. Thus you’re already weeping a steady stream of slick, folds lacquered in arousal. Leaking down the line of your ass, too. Desperate thing. He scrutinises the sloppy mess of it, doughy and swollen and wet, shoulders flexing over the possessive swell in his throat.

It’s comical, the turnaround. Reality overruns your face, peaky infestation from his carcass to yours. Your eyes well with teary distress as you take him in. What a monster he must make; frothy longing turned savagery, held too long under the blighted mass of his tongue. Festered. Ugly. He sees it himself in the contrast of his skin and yours. Where you’re satin, all incandescent sweat-slicked stretch, he’s 60 grit sandpaper. Sun-hardened leather and crooked scars.

“Hnmphh!” 

But he can ignore that. Doesn’t have to concern himself with rejection, not when the bit gag between your teeth renders you mute. Simple knot sandwiched by your molars. Subtle. He doesn’t want it to hurt today – not any more than necessary, at least – but conversation has gotten old. There’s a reason he brought you home. Why thick fingers work your hole, breaking it to house something bigger. He isn’t interested in soft-soaping anymore.

(The two of you have had your honeymoon already.)

No. Purpose, he thinks. His mum laid it all out for him. A family to bear you company during those long weeks he isn’t home. Family, linchpin to making this all work. To crowd this house with not just one, or two, but multiple sweet things that’ll extinguish the lonely flame at its hearth. He celebrates it already – boisterous corners, crowded kitchens, the cable he pays for finally being put to use. 

And you–

“Promise I’ll suck that pretty pussy like I promised, little one. Just– fuck- daddy just has to do something first, yeah? You gonna be good for me?” John huffs, shucking his trousers to fish himself out of his pants. 

Your muffled protests launch into something else entirely, feral defiance compelling your limbs like electric shock. It’s fusillade, violent devastation. Your legs flail, unhinged, compensating for the lost mobility in your arms. He manages to slip his fingers out of your clutch and tuck a hand under either knee, but not before your heel connects to his jaw. As is true on the field, adrenaline primes a strong kick. Metallic warmth swathes the inside of his cheek, strength waning for a second.

And through it all, you have the audacity to cry. 

When he regains his bearings, anger has supplanted care. He hoists your thighs up onto your chest, calves upright in the air, and pushes a knee forcefully into the space exposed. It flattens your cunt with the pressure, clit crushing in on itself. Agony bulges fine lines at your temples, veins bloating as a miserable scream tears from your throat.  

“I’ll cane your ass raw if you keep up with this. Strike your hole until all you’ll feel for weeks is your punishment. That what you want, mm? Want the memory of our child’s conception to be filled with pain?” 

His nose fits to yours, beard tickling the canyon of your upper lip. It's intense, the proximity. Heat flush between you, sustained fire you can’t pull away from. John watches the hesitancy flit over your eyes, the reluctance of a burn, breaths erratic and shallow. You didn’t breathe, before. Didn’t need to. But he finds that he likes the new rhythm of it. Like watching the life drain from a quarry, game bleeding out into Serbian snow. He never thought he’d miss hunting for survival – not until he had you pressed to his side, lured from those other predators into something much worse. 

(And perhaps that’s what’s been absent, all along. You used to come too easy, allowed him to grow permissive and lazy. But this– 

His skin fits the moniker again. Captain, revitalised in his bones.)

You shake your head no, just as he rubs his cock along your entrance. 

The feeding is effortless. You practically draw him in, needy for it, walls conforming to the fat intrusion until his head nestles against a hard spot. Steel-wool pubes tangles in your own, scratching the sensitive hood of your clit as he adjusts to the balmy suffocation. Tight. So fucking tight, more so than he could have imagined, your struggle working against you as it contracts the muscles around the area. 

His teeth knock into yours, borderline bruising kiss closing the gap. Should he give it a moment’s breath, his lips would swell blue. But he keeps you to him, your reluctant mouth slow against his own – impeded by the gag and your own stubbornness, snivels sucked into his gluttonous abyss. It tastes like seawater and vanilla, the wires crossing in his brain. 

This, he thinks, is the taste he’s been searching for all his life.

This petty space separating you, a carpet of chest hair laid over our thighs. Breathing one another in, memorising the scars behind your cheeks. Pistoning into your cunt, making room for himself in the years and years to come. He’ll never get enough of you. You’ll never get enough of it – once you learn to embrace the pleasure wrought out of you. 

In due time.

He batters parallel to your cervix, plunging deep as he can go. You’re slippery with the effort, wet where you thrum fierce, depravity stringing the oscillating gap of your mons and his pelvis. Binds you to him like gauze on a day-old wound, sticky and raw, and you must be a masochist if the stiffening of your joints is anything to go by. Your pupils roll, stupid, to regard the back of your head. Fucked dumb. Nerves snapping, limbic system miswiring. 

“Can’t wait to see my seed take, have you grow round and glowing.” He growls, speaking into your cheek. The faint hints of your cologne, long faded under rain and sweat, cram temptingly into his synapses. It’s all he can do not to take a whole bite of you, now that he can. Wants to see the evidence of his ownership mark your skin; violent, a little bloody. Physical. Carnal. Imperfect presence honing in the fact that it is better than none at all. 

“Mmmmff,”  

“Yeah? Want me to keep you pumped full of my cum? Think that would be nice. Plugging you shut. Maybe suspending you upside down so it’s a sure process. How does that sound, sweet thing? Y’like it?” 

Your feet thump weakly on his back.

“Then cum. Go on, be a good girl f’me.” 

And with the orchestration of it all; your already tense pelvic floor, the rippling liquid of your eyes, the stifled voicing of your plight– 

John can’t tell whether or not you do. 

You tire yourself out, eventually. 

It’s much later; the rise of a new morning flooding his home in sheer blues, illuminating last night’s mess. Without the orange glow of firelight, it looks a lot less romantic. Torn clothes, cotton fibres. Body fluids matting the pelts he uses to break up the floors. He would have it in him to blanch at the forfeiture of his self-control, cringe a little for appearance sake. He’s grown, now. Should know better.

But there’s no one around. No one. Just him, christening a loveseat instead of his wingback, and– 

You, knocked out on his lap, rope burns raw up your arms.

(When you wake again, he’ll make it official. A passing of the torch, so to speak, from one fix to the next. He hasn’t a band, or really any certification to make it legal. But–

The lit end of his cigar should do. Touched, fittingly, to the proximal length of your ring finger.) 

John’s always had his fixes. 

He finds he’s finally had his fill when you cradle his child close to your breast, and reach out a hand for him, too.

i do not have a taglist. to be alerted when i post / update, please follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs.

[neuvistar]

HI MARYSE thinkin' about tattoo!artist blade who thinks of ur whole body as a brand new delicate canvas for him, pretty tattoos going from ur breasts to your womb, and of course it's never without his " watermark " ( it's his name in mandarin ) on ur thigh<3 thinking about the way he's so proud of his works that he can't keep his hands to himself when he's (finger)fucking you

❝ HIS PRIZED POSSESSION. ❞ signed. blade . wc. 809 .

— featuring ┊tattoo artist!blade x fem!reader

— warnings / content warnings ┊all consensual! not proofread. TATTOO ARTIST BLADIE TATTOO ARTIST BLADIE!!!!, established relationships, v4ginal fingering, cunilingus, use of nicknames, feminine terms used, jus a TAAAAD bit of pussydrunk!bladie ♡ | 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒? @yngxing

— a/n ┊ANON U ARE SOOOOAURRE SMART. i loved this ask a little TEWWWW much that i decided 2 make a small fic out of it >:) THANK U 4 SENDING ME THIS… YUMMERS. (also… it’s been so long so i’m sorry 4 the VERY late response this is insane)

it’s no doubt that you were blade’s favourite customer, of course! you were his girlfriend! but yet, it shows in his works and the way he treats you. he can’t help it, really.. who wouldn’t be fond of someone as pretty as you? your body was delicate—it was worth worshipping in his eyes, it’s safe to say that it’s hard for him not to lose control. your perfect body was a sight to behold, blessing his eyes with newfound lust and pride. as he leaned in, his hands released your thighs as he dropped to his knees before you, his dark gaze burning with desire as he yanked your sundress up, baring you completely. blade admired his past work, absorbing the beauty of the tattoo on your breast, his initials over your womb, and his name over your thigh. “hmph. take those panties off and lift your skirt up more. i can't be doing this with your clothes on.” blade instructed, his brows furrowed as he pulled you towards his face. “don’t be shy now. it’ll be better to mark you as mine this way.” he bowed his head forward, his tongue flicking against your clit, the sensation sending shockwaves through your body.

"bladie!” you cried out in pleasure, hands fisting in his long dark hair. your boyfriend lapped at your drenched cunt, sparing no mercy as he drove you to the edge.. your back arching off the chair. the scent of his dominance and need fills the air, the heat between you both was thick and palpable. blade’s hand drifts to the side of your thigh, his thumb brushing over your skin through your dress. he growled against your pussy, the sound low and demanding. your face scrunched at the sounds of slurping and sucking from below; your hips arching to meet his tongue. “good.. so good.” blade suckled on your swollen folds like a starved man, feeling it pulse beneath his lips. he could sense the heat radiating from your core, making his own desire grow even stronger. his wet muscle flicked and circled, your moans growing louder and more desperate with each stroke.. it would be unfortunate if another customer walked in on this.

“pretty." he whispered, a wicked expression spreading across his face. and with that, he dove back in, his tongue plunging deep within you. his thumb toyed with your bud, the sensitive nub pulsing in response to his touch. letting out a rough guttural moan, his hands released your thigh to caress the tattoo on your womb, admiring his work once more as the ache in his groin grew more intense with each passing second. “mine.. mine.” sweat glistened on your bodies as you moved together, the room filled with the sounds of your sounds of pleasure. blade was determined to make you feel every ounce of ecstasy and pride he had in his body. he wanted this, he wanted to claim you.. show just how—proud he is of his work.

“.. can you take my fingers?” he asked you suddenly, his voice muffled against your cunt. “these fingers that have worked tirelessly to show everyone you belong to me.” his words are a mix of semi-praise and tease, his fingers spreading your lips open, watching as the slickness coats his digits. he’s enjoying this, the control he has over your body, the way you respond to his touch. “these tattoos.. are staying here forever.” his finger slid inside, stretching you completely wide. he loved this part, making you helplessly needy for his touch. blade knew he could take your body to the edge and back, control you completely.. a slow, sensual invasion meant to calm your nerves and ground you in the here and now. his eyes locked on your face, gauging your reactions and facial expressions. fuck, he knew you hated this combination. you hated that stupid combination of his fingers and his tongue, knowing it’ll make you cum quicker than usual.

blade couldn't get enough of you. no matter how many times he’d touch you, draw tattoos on you, kissed you, it was never enough for him. he wanted more, and he demanded for more. he could cover your entire body up with tattoos for all he cares! his talented tongue delved deeper, flicking and teasing your heat mercilessly. blade absolutely delighted in making you squirm, taking pleasure in your moans and whimpers… you were overwhelmed with everything, especially when blade’s fingers slipped in and out so easily like this. it was almost impressive. he hummed appreciatively at your wetness, a testament to how much you craved his touch.

“so wet.” blade muttered against your pussy, his voice thick with lust. "every touch, every kiss, every orgasm, it all belongs to me. no one else gets to enjoy your sweet body like this.”

…

“especially with my name signed on your womb.”

[thatsonemorbidcorvid]

““The girls are unable to say anything because they are always being policed. You can’t ask questions, you won’t get the evidence on a silver platter. But when you are going around, you hear things and see things,” Singh explains, sitting in a nondescript office, piles of cardboard files all over the floor, documenting the thousands of girls they have rescued over the years, approximately 4,000 at last count. 

“Most of the time the girls are locked up and they are only allowed out when a customer comes in. To ensure they are not interacting with the customers, the brothel keepers are always banging on the door and take away the mobiles of the customers.”

As a result of an 11-month long operation, conducted before the pandemic, Guria India were able to rescue 136 underage victims of traffickers, resulting in 61 brothels being shut down.”

In the narrow alleyways of Meerganj, the notorious red light district in the city of Allahbad, a man dressed in a brown kurta with a rucksack walks past the dilapidated brothels shouting ‘lipsticks for sale, good prices.’ 

He barely warrants a glance, one of dozens of street sellers who stroll down the alley daily, hawking their wares, a common sight in the hustle and bustle of cities in India.

Word has got around that he’s selling good quality products like Max Factor and other brands the brothel girls recognise from billboards featuring their favourite Bollywood actresses. He’s cheaper than the other sellers and lets them pay in instalments. 

A group of young girls flock to him, picking up bright lipsticks and face powders, to make them look older than they are, or perhaps not, depending on the client’s preferences.

But this is no ordinary seller. He is from Guria India, an organisation which rescues and rehabilitates women and underage girls trapped in the sex trade. 

He has been working undercover, disguised as a cosmetics seller, gathering evidence of victims of traffickers who have been forced into sex work, many of whom are underage and often thousands of miles away from home.

“You are working on a razor’s edge. There are no second chances. One wrong move and you could be killed. It’s not like a movie where you get a retake,” says Ajeet Singh, Director of Guria India.  

The nature of trafficking is changing and so activists are having to find new and innovative  means to take them on. 

Singh said he came up with the idea of posing as a make-up seller after he found that the brothel owners were always one step ahead of him. 

“It was always very difficult to rescue the girls because someone would leak the information and the brothel keepers would move the girls. The girls were not a priority for the system, so the police were not helpful. We had to be proactive in getting the evidence.”

Using rudimentary equipment he bought from Delhi, including spy cams concealed in a pen and button, he began scouring the streets of the red light district for almost a year. 

“Make-up is something very enticing for girls. If you go to India, you’ll see street sellers in every city so I knew I would blend in,” he said.

“The girls are unable to say anything because they are always being policed. You can’t ask questions, you won’t get the evidence on a silver platter. But when you are going around, you hear things and see things,” Singh explains, sitting in a nondescript office, piles of cardboard files all over the floor, documenting the thousands of girls they have rescued over the years, approximately 4,000 at last count. 

“Most of the time the girls are locked up and they are only allowed out when a customer comes in. To ensure they are not interacting with the customers, the brothel keepers are always banging on the door and take away the mobiles of the customers.”

As a result of an 11-month long operation, conducted before the pandemic, Guria India were able to rescue 136 underage victims of traffickers, resulting in 61 brothels being shut down. 

Social media ‘weapon of choice’ for traffickers

The sting, which was signed off by local people, used undercover filming to collect evidence against offenders. When enough had been gathered, ten members of the Guria India team joined police as they carried out dawn raids, using iron cutters to access properties where the victims were being held.

There are an estimated 1.2 million children under 18 working in brothels in India, many of whom have been victims of sex traffickers. Approximately 75 per cent of the cases Guria India dealt with involved under age victims ranging from just six months to 17.

The majority of these trafficked children are from lower castes and more than half of them are from families living below the poverty line.  

While many of the girls sold to brothels are trafficked by relatives or family friends, in recent years, social media, with its low-risk and high rewards, has become the weapon of choice of traffickers, luring victims in with lucrative job offers or promises of marriage. 

“The internet and exploitative romantic relationships are key factors for trafficking in recent times,” said children’s rights activist Bharti Ali.

“Often, the police don’t start their search in cases of adolescent girls immediately as they believe it to be a case of elopement. Many cases end up in girls being sold further by the boy/person they trusted or who promised them false marriage.

“When girls go missing, parents often try to search within their own community, her friends and relatives. This is when they lose critical time. When they suspect that she may have eloped, they may tend to not report at all to protect family honour … The girls too are unable to report as the traffickers keep a close watch on them.”

For victims of traffickers, their introduction into the world of prostitution is a brutal and violent one, in which they face beatings, gang rape and starvation. Some victims also reported having chilli powder placed on their genitalia and being subjected to electric shocks. 

Among the girls they have rescued is Sarita, who was just 12-years-old when she was sold to a sex trafficker by her older brother and was transported 700 km away to work in a brothel. 

“My mum was working in Mumbai and I lived with my sister. My brother was a drug addict. He told me he was taking me to see my mum but instead he sold me to a trafficker. I was locked in a room and beaten and raped by several men. I managed to find a phone and called my mum,” she said.

Sarita’s mother, along with the police and Guria India activists, were able to rescue her and relocate the family. However, the majority of victims are not so lucky. India remains a socially conservative society and victims of trafficking will often be ostracised by their families and community. 

Rescuing victims of trafficking is only half the battle, while keeping them out of the hands of traffickers presents another challenge. 

Rehabilitating victims back into a society which was already hostile to them in the first place is difficult and often the girls will end up falling back into the hands of traffickers. 

In one case, 57 girls who were rescued by Guria were sent to a shelter home in Agra for rehabilitation, but were re-trafficked by the superintendent of the centre. Just this week, the superintendent was acquitted by the Supreme Court and Guria India is currently fighting the decision. 

Despite the setbacks, Singh remains hopeful. “Although I don’t think we can eradicate child prostitution in my lifetime, I’m hopeful we can set the foundations to make the change,” he said.

And sometimes all it takes is a rucksack and a Max Factor lipstick. 

[ellatoone7]

❄︎ Retirement ready ❄︎

Alexia's favourite girls series

Alexia is more than ready to spend all her time with her girls

You were incredibly surprised at how well Alexia had been taking her retirement. Of all the ways you imagined this moment it was always more dramatic, but your wife seemed to be at peace as she walked out of the tunnel for the last time. 

The crowd absolutely erupted as she lined up as Captain for the last time. Isabella was standing on her chair with her Putellas jersey proudly displayed on her back. Emilia watched with wide eyes as the place chanted her Mami’s name. “Mami sad?” Emilia asked with tears in her eyes, “No sweetheart, mamí is happy.” The younger blonde doesn’t seem so sure, “You know what this means? Mami is going to have so much more time to play with you and bring you to school.” Emilia lit up at the thought of more mamí time. 

Alba was sitting next to you, not having too much care for football but she loved her sister dearly, so she put up with it. “You think she’s sad Alb’s? Do you think this is right thing for her to do? I don’t want her to resent anything.” Alba scoffed amusedly as she gently patted you swollen stomach, “Have you seen the way she acts when she’s with her daughters? I mean there could be a Champions league final that she’s supposed to play but if one of those little girls asked her to stay at home, she wouldn’t be able to even spell football.” 

You looked back at the pitch as Alexia’s eyes roamed the stadium in search of something. You smiled curiously until you saw her eyes absolutely light up when she catches sight of her family. Isabella nearly falls of her chair as she blows Alexia a kiss for it to be reciprocated immediately. Emilia reached out her arms for her and you see the longing in your wife’s eyes as she subtly reached out too. 

Then her eyes fell onto you as she stared up at you with so much adoration. With a soft ‘Te amo’ and a kiss to her ring she disappeared down the tunnel for halftime. Alba stared at you with a cocky smile as you gently shouldered with a giggle. 

“Abuela! Look at my jersey!” Emilia shouted over the noise as she showed Eli her brand-new custom-made jersey that she had showed just about everyone with eyes. Eli cooed as she kissed both of her cheeks and offered to take both girls to get ice cream. 

Alexia was on cloud nine as she entered the dressing room. She was beyond excited to hang up her boots and throw herself into her family. “Ay amiga, No parezcas muy feliz.” Mapí threw her arm around her shoulder with a giggle as she pressed a kiss to her best friend’s cheek. Ingrid had retired a few weeks ago as they too had a little boy and girl. Mapí was going to stay for another month before she joins them. Irene had retired the season before and was sitting by her family. 

“No puedo evitarlo. Mi Familia…” Mapí just hugged her tighter as she nodded softly. “No puedo creer que nos abandones.” A voice from behind the two friends had Alexia grinning as she slightly shoved her ‘adopted’ daughters, “Como si vosotros dos no vinierais al menos tres veces a la semana.” Pina giggled while agreeing while Jana hugged her Captain. 

“Vamos a ganar este partido para la reina!” A victorious chant was let out as the girls made their way down the tunnel. “Vamos amiga!” Mapí grinned as she took her hand and led her down to the field. The second half flashed by with Alexia scoring her last ever goal and immediately dedicating it to her daughters and her wife. 

“Mama! We met Auntie Leah and Less. They came to see Mami’s game!” Emilia squealed as she waved at her English ‘aunts’. Emilia had gotten lost when she was just two years old when Alexia had turned her back for two seconds. It was at the Emirates, and it just so happened that Alexia wanted to bring her family on a holiday straight after. Luckily Leah had been roaming around to check the field one more time before tomorrow when she spotted the little girl. 

She recognised her straight away from Kiera and Lucy’s constant rambling at how cute their Captains’ daughters were. Leah told the two-year-old that she knew her mamí and could bring her to her which Emilia immediately agreed too. Alexia was losing her absolute mind as she had the whole team frantically searching for Emilia. Leah had finally found the Spanish Captain and they were fast friends after that. 

Alexia and Leah’s friendship was teasingly competitive yet very entertaining to everybody, but Alexia was eternally grateful to Leah for that day and Emilia had imprinted on her. You gave Leah a wave and she sent you a playful wink before focusing on the game at hand. 

The final whistle blew, and you were waiting for your wife to break down but the smile that nearly split her face was extremely welcome too. Alexia immediately ran to the barriers as you slowly made your way down, Alba had taken Emilia and Isabella ahead of you, so you didn’t trip and fall with their excitement. “Mi bébé’s!” Emilia reached her arm down but pouted and whines as she couldn’t reach her mamí. 

Alexia and Alba shared amused looks as the girl tried to reach again. Alba with the help of Irene had lifted Isabella over the barrier and into Alexia’s awaiting arms. “Hola Is! Did you enjoy the game!” Isabella hugged her tightly, “Sí, Mami your goal was incredible.” Alexia kissed her cheek before setting her down to catch her other daughter. Jana and Pina had already kidnapped Isabella as they chased her around. 

After Emilia was safely in Alexia’s arms did, she smile again. She gave her mamí a kiss as she snuggled into her neck, “Mama said you will have mucho time to play now!” Alexia giggled as she threw the blonde into the air, “You will be sick of me mi princesa!” Emilia looked horrified at the thought of being sick of her Mami and just decided to give her another kiss too. 

“Mateo?” Emilia asked with wide eyes as she stared up at Irene wanting to know where her best friend had gone. Alexia reassured Irene that it was fine as she reached up to bring the little boy down with a kiss to the cheek. Emilia squealed as they were reunited, and Alexia threw Irene a knowing glance as they watched them gallivant around with their hands joined. 

“Right, who’s lifting me down?” You joked as you made your appearance. The girls’ eyes widened as you shouldered Irene teasingly, “Hola amor.” Alexia stared up at you, hoping to convey how much she loved you with her eyes. “How do I get down again?” Alexia smiled at your urgency to see her as she nodded at Alba who helped you down to the tunnel.

Irene had managed to climb down as she wanted to keep an eye on the partners in crime. She hugged Alexia tightly as they shared a moment while watching their kids. “¿No te recuerdan a otras dos personas?” Irene smiled slightly bumping her hip into her Captains. Alexia chuckled as the inside joke that was circling ever since Mateo confessed his love for his best friend and Emilia had immeditaley accepted. Alexia smiled as she thought of you, and she swivelled her head keeping her eye on Isabella and Emilia. 

Alexia ran when she saw you, wanting nothing more than to finish her final lap with you by her side. The final piece of the puzzle as you had watched her very first match and had barely missed one since. She pulled you into her tightly as you kissed her neck softly, “I’m so proud of you.” Alexia teared up slightly as she kissed you lovingly wanting to sear this moment into her brain forever. 

Her hands were pressed to your stomach as she kissed you once again. “How’s my other princesa huh?” Alexia asked as she bowed her head to press a kiss to your stomach. “Still convinced it’s a girl?” Alexia and Alba, both threw you a knowing look, “Putellas’s only know how to make girls cariño.” The proof was in the pudding as both of your daughters came rushing over to get a family picture. Mateo took Emilia’s coat as she kissed his cheek in thanks before joining the pictures. Irene had to hold her son up as she nearly collapses at the sign of affection. 

Alexia picks her four-year-old up when she makes grabby hands and Isabella stands proudly in front of the three of you as you pose for a picture. Alexia’s arm is around your waist as her eyes stray to you not noticing the picture being taken as she takes in her little family. You get a few more with Alba and Eli and even one with Mateo at the insistence of the blonde. 

Alexia does get emotional as she does her lap of the field but because of how happy and content she is with her little family. “Are you sure you are okay with this?” You ask when you see her get teary eyed, but she just kisses you soundly, “Amor, I want to spend every second with my girls. I want to do this, I wished I had sooner.” She pressed her lips to your temple, “I don’t want to miss any more moments, I want it all, vale.” You wipe away a tear as she chuckled softly, holding you tightly as she pulled you closer again. 

You watch as her eyes light up as you follow her line of sight, Isabella is sending rockets at Cata while she out skills Mapí, even though they are going a bit easy on her. The smile on her freckled face is nearly a mirror image of her mother’s when she was her age and now it all made sense to why Alexia was so calm. You kiss her cheek affectionately as she places her large hand on your belly.

“Besides, my legacy will live on.”

[borathae]

“You and your friends celebrate girl’s night at the penthouse. This however, isn’t an excuse for Jungkook not to receive his welcome home kisses. You won’t complain, he’s your cutie after all.”

Pairing: CEO!Jungkook x f.Reader

Genre: married life!AU, Slice of Life Fluff, casual BDSM

Warnings: just girlies being best friends <3, they talk very freely about kink, she shows off her playroom, mentions of sex work & BDSM events, mommy kink, Kookie being her cute Bunnybaby <3

Wordcount: 2.5k

a/n: i reread the caravan chapter of aaol and in it, Koo mentions that she can bring her girl friends over for girl's night whenever she wants to. so i wrote something about that feat. Koo being a cutie. have fun besties 🤎

You had your girls over tonight. It has been ages since you last saw them and it couldn’t be any more exciting to have them stay at your place. You call it your Paradis Girls’ Sleepover. Hyejin brings the snacks, Byulyi the drinks, Yongsun is responsible for the face masks and Wheein brings candles. You offer them your guestrooms to sleep in, comfy pajamas to wear and fluffy socks to show off. 

The sleepover started at four. Hyejin and Wheein were the first to arrive. Like always. Yongsun was next and Byulyi came last. You all greeted each other with happy squeals and tight hugs, falling into excited conversation instantly. Your voices overlapped, everyone had something to tell and unsurprisingly, nobody was heard. You giggled about it and then agreed on taking turns telling your stories. 

Yongsun and her now-fiancé are currently trying for a baby and are moving apartments. She stopped working at Paradis four months ago. You knew of the last fact of course because you and the others were her emotional support cheerleader in the group chat during the process. She doesn’t miss the work and says that sex with her partner feels so much better all of a sudden. 

“That’s what I’m always saying. Sex hits so good when you’re only doing it with your love”, you say, snacking on some salted pretzels.

“Yeah I agree, it hits hard. You’re especially lucky though. Kook’s kinky as fuck”, Yongsun says as she sips on her makgeolli.

“Is Shiwon vanilla?” Wheein asks, “that’s news to me.”

“Oh hell no, not vanilla. Just not as kinky as Kook. You guys have a playroom. That’s so hot.”

“Oh, yes right!” you exclaim, clapping into your hands, “Yongsun, do you still wanna tell us more? Because I just remembered that we redid the toy shelves and you didn’t even see them yet.”

“Okay slay. Please show us”, Hyejin says, “unless you still want to talk, Yongsun. We don’t wanna cut your time short.”

“No, I can still talk during the house tour. I need to see the new shelves.” 

“Slay. Let’s do that”, Hyejin says and gets up from the couch.

You and the other girls follow. 

“Did you realise that you’ve started saying slay all the time?” Byulyi asks.

“Yes god so annoying”, Hyejin groans, “I’m watching this streamer and she keeps saying slay all the time. I can’t stop doing it because of her. Last night, I literally told one of my customers slay after we finished”, she whines, making your little group chuckle. 

“Did he say something?”

“Yeah, he asked me what it meant and I had to explain to him. He said that he didn’t get it and then left. Weirdo, it’s not like he wanted to lick cheese sauce outta my belly button before that.”

Wheein cracks up, you and the others laugh as well. You can clearly imagine how weird that customer was. You had so many of those during your time at Paradis.

You chat about the streamer on the way to the playroom. Hyejin tells you that she really likes her streams and that she always watches them in the evening during dinner and her night routine. She then proceeded to gush about this new rice water moisturiser she is trying, which in return made Byulyi think of how she got a new favourite brand of rice. Conversation shifted to Byulyi and her favourite brand of rice and how she thought of so many recipes already. Wheein asked for them and Byulyi gladly shared them. 

You keep the door to the playroom open, turning on the lights.

Your girls gasp and coo in unison, looking around the playroom with sparkling eyes.

“This won’t ever lose its spark”, Yongsun gushes, “it’s so hot. Seriously I’m getting all wet just being here.”

“Totally understand you”, Wheein agrees. 

“Wait till you see the upgraded toy drawers. That’ll make your clits throb”, you tell them, leading them to the drawers with a happy skip in your steps. 

The ladies follow you happily, looking left and right to really take in everything.

“Is that swing new?”Hyejin asks.

“Mhm? That?” you look at the black leather sex swing, “I think you girls haven’t seen it yet, but we’ve had it for like seven months.”

“Slay. Did you use it already?”

“What do you think?” you say and grin mischievously.

“Huge slay.”

Byulyi laughs because of Hyejin, patting her back sisterly. 

“It’s sturdy. Also it gives me a good grip on Kook. I can really go to town on him when he’s in there”, you say.

“I can imagine”, Yongsun says, “pegging in a swing just hits so much harder”

“Yeah definitely”, Wheein agrees.

You nod your head and turn to the drawers, “now look at those drawers.”

You and your girls gather in front of them as you open them and reveal your vibrator collection to them. 

“Woow so cool”, they gasp. 

“Right? Right? Check out the lighting in there. Helloo? We have drawer lights”, you gush, waving your hands around in the drawer.

“That’s genuinely so fucking cool. And the pillowing too. It makes the toys look so expensive”, Byulyi gushes, poking her finger into the velvety pillowing.

“And now check this out”, you say, pushing the drawer closed. It slides closed carefully, slowing down on the last few inches before closing silently, “they have a fucking automatic break in them. Remember the stupid ass drawers in Room 14?”

“They are still getting stuck each time you close them. Trust me, I’m still struggling”, Wheein says.

“I know right. God”, you groan and open the drawer again just to show off its closing mechanism to them, “look at how smooth that is.”

“This is so cool, seriously. Now stop closing the damn drawers I wanna see the collection”, Byulyi says, making you laugh.

“Okay, okay fine. A girl can’t do anything here”, you joke.

Byulyi chuckles deeply, looking into the drawer with a lopsided smirk on her lips.

And so you show them your new toys and give them a few details about how it is to play with them. You show them your pegging dildo collection and Wheein asks about Jungkook’s progress, which you proudly show them. They react in coos and honest praise and you felt so proud of your husband. There is no better feeling in the world than being able to show off with him.

And there are also no better people to do it to than your friends. You share everything about your sex lives. No topic, kink or fetish is taboo. Conversations about them are normal to you and them and part of the bond you share. You honestly think that if you suddenly stopped being so open with each other, the friendship would feel weird. Sex was what brought you five together, it is what you first bonded over as you had to talk shit about weird customers and even now, when two of your little group stopped working at the club, sex will still be a topic keeping you together. After all, there are many kink events where the five of you and your partners go to together. The shared love for kink and fetish is just part of your identities and a big reason why you loved to be friends.

It is obvious how normal kink conversations are in your friendship, when in the middle of you showing off the sturdiness of your flogging post, Byulyi begins talking about her rice again and you all exchange recipes. 

By the time the clock showed eight, Jungkook comes home from work. You and your girls were back in the living room again, but still haven’t started the movie you actually wanted to watch. Conversation was just too good to interrupt it with movies.

Jungkook is a welcome interruption however. You look at the elevator until its doors open and reveal Jungkook in his business attire.

“Hey there!”

“Yuhuu!”

“Welcome home, Kook!” 

“Helloo!”

Your girls greet your husband happily, giving him enthusiastic waves.

His eyes light up instantly.

“Hey there, girls”, he greets them, stepping out of the elevator, “hey, my love”. he tells you.

“Hey, Bunny. How was work?”

“Okay. I’ll just quickly take off my outside clothes and then I’ll be with you, okay?”

“Okay.”

Jungkook disappears in the dressing room for a moment. 

“He worked later today, didn’t he?”

“No, he went for dinner with a friend. I told him to take his time. I’m surprised he’s home already.”

Jungkook reappears again, making his way to you. He looks so handsome in his grey suit that you can’t stop making heart eyes at him.

“___ says that you went for dinner with a friend?” Wheein asks him.

“Yeah, Tae. We had pork ribs. It was so yummy and I ate way too much. My pants are uncomfy now”, he says, tugging on the hem of them to give his tummy a well-deserved break, “I had to drive home with my pants undone”, he says and makes you laugh.

“I understand you so well”, Wheein says, “it’s kinda nice too though. I like being so full with food ‘cause it means that the food was yummy.”

“Yeah definitely.”

“So why are you home already?” Hyejin asks. 

“Actually, funny story. Tae had to hurry home because his daughter suddenly got explosive diarrhea and his wife begged him to help her with it.”

“Eew really?”

“Yeah”, Jungkook laughs, “apparently it went all over the walls?”

“Eeew that’s so nasty eeww”, Hyejin says jokingly, “you sure you wanna get knocked up, unnie?” she teases Yongsun. 

“Haha, very funny.”

“You and Shiwon are trying for a baby?” Jungkook asks.

“Yup, at least we’re trying for one. I can’t say that I’m hating the process.” 

Jungkook laughs, “I can imagine.”

He finally reaches the couch, scanning his eyes over the snacks and drinks.

“Don’t look at the drinks”, Byulyi says, covering the glasses of makgeolli with her hands. 

Jungkook chuckles, “it’s fine. I don’t mind looking at alcohol. You girls enjoy”, he says and closes in on you.

He gets on your lap and hugs you, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. You hug him back instantly, smiling dreamily.

“Hey, Mommy”, he says. 

“Hey there, Bunny.”

“How was your day?” 

“Good. And yours?”

“Okay. I had too many meetings”, he huffs out air, “so annoying.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry Bunnybaby. But you did it, I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, Mommy”, he giggles happily, “I thought of you during the meetings.”

“You did?”

He nods his head and lifts it so he gazes into your eyes.

“I also have to fly to Shanghai for two nights. I gotta meet with a few business partners”, he says and pouts.

“When are you leaving?”

“Wednesday. I should be home by Friday night again”, he sacks his shoulders, “I’m sorry. I know this is really last-minute, but I only learned about it today.”

“It’s okay, you didn’t know”, you assure him and squeeze his dainty waist, “gosh Bunny, I’ll miss you so much. Like damn.”

“I know. Me too, Mommy”, he whines and hugs you tightly, “we gotta call each night.”

“Of course we gotta”, you say, making him giggle and lift his head so he could look at you again.

He caresses the sides of your neck, scrunching his nose cutely.

“You’re so pretty, Mommy."

“Mhm, Bunny you’re so cute. Come closer and let Mommy have her kisses.”

Jungkook leans in gladly, kissing you deeply and with his hips squirming on your lap unapologetically. You and he only act this way in front of your girls. No one else in your lives, not even family, knows this side of you. There would simply be too many awkward follow up questions and quite frankly, it was more comfortable to keep this part of your relationship private. But not in front of your girls. They know you for who you truly are. Jungkook was shy about it at first, because he never experienced sharing his kinks with people before. But once he realised that he won’t find judgment with your friends – and he visited enough kink events with you and your friends to know they are just as kinky as you – he began opening up more and more. These days, he is not ashamed of acting like Mommy’s best Bunny in front of them and he is most definitely not ashamed to show how much he likes your kisses. Everyone should know that he is Mommy’s happy Bunny when he gets your kisses.

You break the kiss because you didn’t want it to deepen too much. Jungkook will get horny again and you can’t be with him for at least a few more hours. 

He smiles at you, licking his lips afterwards. You retort the smile, squeezing his hips.

“That was nice”, he says.

“Yeah, it was so nice.”

“I think I’ll go to my room then. I bet you girls have so much to talk about”, he says, looking at the others.

“It’s okay. We don’t mind the distraction”, Byulyi assures him.

“We saw the size you can take these days. That’s impressive”, Wheein adds.

Jungkook’s face is beet red in an instant. He gawks at you with big eyes.

“You showed them?”

“Of course I did. I gotta show off with my Bunny.”

Jungkook blushes even harder, hiding his face in his own hands as cute giggles leave him.

“Mommy, you’re so mean. Don’t show off with that”, he whines, making you and your girls chuckle fondly.

“Mhm no. I’ll keep showing off with my Bunny.”

“God”, he falls against you, hugging you tightly as he giggles, “this is so embarrassing. You’re so mean, Mommy.”

“Sorry Bunny. You know that I’m proud of you, yeah?” you say, patting his butt gently.

“Yeah, I guess. Hmpf so mean”, he says and straightens up. You give him a little smooch on his cheek and then it is already time for Jungkook to get up from your lap. 

He looks at the snacks.

“Mhm snackies. Don’t mind me stealing some”, he says and grabs a handful of salted pretzels. He snacks on them as he leaves the living room, chewing happily, “will you girls stay the night?”

“Yup, we wanna watch a movie later.”

“Uuh movie. Which one?”

“Hereditary.”

“Isn’t that the movie with the car scene?”

“Yeah.”

Jungkook cringes, “well good luck to you girls. ___ showed me the scene and I’m still traumatized”, he says, making your little group laugh.

“Thanks Kook.” 

“I’ll be in the gym if you need me. I gotta work off the calories I ate. Mhm those are good pretzels. Damn”, he says and officially disappears out of sight. 

You release a dreamy sigh.

“He’s so perfect, you guys. I’m so lucky”, you gush. 

“Wah she’s so in love”, Hyejin teases lovingly, making you chuckle.

“I am. It’s getting stronger each day”, you say proudly, sighing adoringly.

[perfectsensetv]

AU swapping Springy and Mephone (AI Swap)

AI Swap is an Inanimate Insanity Invitational AU in which Mephone and Springy are swapped. Springy is the one hosting the show, while Mephone is the villain.

More under cut

Springy The first and most major change to Springy is the fact that he now has a bowtie!! In all seriousness, Springy in this AU has mostly the same personality traits as in III, but they are now not evil nor acting with bad intention. Rather, its usually temporary anger or annoyance that cause Springy to act badly. Other than that, they are still very silly and goofy :) Although, Springy is known for getting a bit anxious on occasion. Springy's favourite food is cereal in place of Mephone liking cookies.

Mephone4 Imagine a friendly AI who seems to be constantly putting on a customer-service-like voice. Who struggles to express any emotion other than happiness or content. Imagine Dr Coomer hlvrai- Mephone4 is known as the mascot of Meeple and the brand of cookies they own. He was redesigned to be more appealing, now having striped limbs and a light blue phone case! Instead of calling the contestants his "Toys", he calls them his "Targets" or "Target Audience". Mephone may be more than a bit unstable, but I'm sure it's fine! Meeple is an accommodating workplace, after all.

[marigold-hills]

July 5: burnt | @jegulus-microfic | word count: 1048

It’s July now, but it’s been happening for at least three months.

Every evening at half past seven an ice cream van comes hurtling down the street, blearing out its tune. It stops on the corner. No one ever comes out to it. After five minutes of silence, it starts up again, the sound somehow even louder for the reprieve.

James Potter is sick and tired of it - because every evening at seven, five-month-old Harry falls asleep only to be woken up by the noise.

It’s been a bad week. Teething. Crying. James hadn’t had longer than forty minutes of sleep at a stretch in days and it’s starting to get to him. Every single smile Harry gives him makes it worth it, every kicked off sock makes him laugh and every little cuddle leaves him in awe – but.

(He hates the but. Hates adding it. There shouldn’t be one, he thinks, he should be endlessly grateful for every moment, take it all in stride. Because Harry – because his son - isn’t a but. Isn’t a burden.)

But.

Harry falls asleep, little arms stretched out to the sides. James puts him in the crib and the little thing turns himself onto his belly (a brand-new trick, that). Deep breathing, sleepy little sighs.

James is burning and burnt out. Eyes filled with sand. Back half numb from carrying a heavier-by-the-day infant for days with little break.

I’ll have a cup of tea, he thinks, and drink it while it’s still hot. Then sleep.

The kettle boils. James picks out his favourite tea, adds in the sugar. Just finishes pouring in the water when the music starts.

A precarious moment between sleep and waking but Harry tips into consciousness, little face scrunched up with dissatisfaction and cries mounting, building, louder by the second.

James Potter is a patient man, a kind man. But he’s had enough.

He picks up Harry, shushes him. It’s a quick thing, for him to stop crying once he’s in his daddy’s arms, but his brilliant eyes are wide open now, sleep all but forgotten.

It’s the thought of his nice hot cup of tea that does it. He’s barefoot, when he leaves the house, Harry hoisted up on one hip. Babbling happily now because it’s a great adventure, every time they leave the house.

The music stops and there it is, the thrice-blasted ice cream van. James stomps up to it in a manner certainly not dignified. There is no one at the open window.

“Excuse me?” James shouts into the interior.

A head pops up from below the counter and James thinks oh, fuck me, because:

1.        He’s ready and rearing to have a go, furious and fuelled by exhaustion, but the man is the most beautiful creature James had ever had the misfortune of seeing, and

2.        Literally just fuck me, but

3.        He has Harry on his arm and pieces of mashed up carrot in his hair, some unknown substance on his shirt, and the man is stunning, and

4.        James is just so, so tired.

“Yes?” The beautiful man asks, looking a bit confused and that’s fair enough actually because James is the first customer on that spot in the last three months.

“Err…,” he stutters, “a flake, please?”

“I don’t sell ice cream,” says the beautiful, stunned man driving an ice cream van.

James takes a look at the menu on the back wall, and on the decal on the side of the van that says a .99 flake is £2.50.

“No?”

“No,” and somehow the beautiful man is the one who sounds confused, and he won’t stop staring between James and Harry, big round eyes striking underneath black curls, “I sell drugs.”

“Huh. Like… pharmaceuticals?”

“No. Like weed.”

“Huh.”

Harry takes that as a queue to start babbling at a new person he’s never seen before and the man in the van visibly melts. “Hi there little one,” he says, and James knows he should be walking off right this fucking moment, because a self-confessed drug dealer is speaking to his son and that’s just, categorically, not on…

 But.

“Can I get some of that?” He blurts out because it’s been so long since he got high and he’s so so tired, and maybe tomorrow he’ll take his mum up on the offer to babysit, sit in his garden and just smoke.

“Absolutely the fuck not,” the beautiful man says like it’s the biggest affront and isn’t he the one selling?

”But… why?”it sounds weak and petulant even to his own ears.

Harry makes a few giggling sounds and stuffs his little fist into his mouth. James switches him onto the other hip. The man points to the baby, like it answers the question, and actually, fair enough, it does.

(His hand is also rather slender and fragile looking, and there are pretty silver rings on his fingers and James’ sleep deprived brain says bite.)

“I wasn’t… I wouldn’t…” James tries to explain himself, but it all comes out wrong and awkward. “Anyway, no,” he gathers himself and remembers he had a reason to storm out of his house and just because the man was pretty it wouldn’t change that, “you wake him up every day.”

Somehow, he manages to sound stern and he’s pretty proud of himself for that, actually.

The man’s face falls. Just… collapses. Like it’s the worst news he’s ever heard.

“I do?”

“Yeah. You come by just after his bedtime and the music is really loud, don’t know if you noticed. And it’s been months.”

It’s something akin to pure devastation that spreads through the man’s features like a sun burn. “I’m very sorry, little one,” he tells Harry, seriously. “I won’t play it anymore.”

There, job done, James thinks, and finds he doesn’t actually like that, not at all. Still, “thank you,” he tells the man because that’s what polite people do when their requests are granted, and his mum raised a polite man.

They stare at each other, him and the man, and James knows that this is when he should turn around go home, put Harry back down and then maybe have a shower, but…

“Can I have your number?”

And the most surprising thing? It’s not James who asks.

PART 2

[soap-ify]

hold on i got this idea randomly and its like past midnight so yeah... bear with me.

thinking about reader who works at a local cafe, and might be just a little crazy about price who's new to the area, slowly becoming a regular customer of this cafe.

it wasn't as if you weren’t freakily obsessed with him or anything. you were just too infatuated with him, having memorised his order by heart, memorised the way his eyes would crinkle in delight whenever he’d find out that you already had his tea all prepared, nice and warm — just the way he likes it. wait, how did you know he was going to come at this exact same time?

you couldn’t help it. he was a walking distraction — always sitting at the far edge table in the cafe, absorbed in some paperwork or just simply staring out of the window, looking so unreal. you needed to read him, learn everything about him, learn all of his schedule and stuff.

you’d accidentally forget to add a thing or two in his orders sometimes. he ordered a cookie? oops, you forgot it. but it’s okay, you wanted him to approach you and start a conversation, even if it's over some missed cookie.

sometimes he’d have a woman next to him, discussing some stuff very quietly, making it quite obvious that it was over whatever their job was given how he always handed her those papers.

you had to be rational, you had to. but how could you when he was always smiling so brightly at her? especially when she herself was so pretty. were you really getting insecure during your shift? yeah.

you couldn’t start a ruckus here by doing something impulsive, but you’d be lying if you said that you weren’t tempted to.

you were too nervous to start a conversation on your own too. not even a proper “how’s your day going?”

your obsession stuck with you staring at him throughout your work shift as long as he was there, carefully looking at the watch on his wrist and the case of his phone, figuring out all the brands in your head.

you had even figured out what perfume he wore during one encounter when you caught a whiff of his cologne — not strong and quite masculine. it suited him so much. you remember spending an hour in the male perfume section in a local store that day.

and oh, price knew all of it. he wasn’t stupid. he was too smart in fact, always feeling your scrutinising and curious gaze on him, filled with an odd longing. he had noticed the way your hands would accidentally brush against his sometimes when giving him his order, the way you would shyly hand him some extra stuff for free sometimes.

heck, he even noticed the way you gave him one of your napkins once, saying that he might need it. what were you even trying to do, claim him? yeah, that was your little way of leaving something of yours to him.

you’d feel sick sometimes, all head over heels over just a regular customer, writing letters and letters over him, simply rambling about how nice his voice was and how warm he seemed, just wanting those strong hairy arms of his to cradle you against him. sometimes you’d also just write about all the interactions you had with him. your favourite memory was when he first told you his name, resulting in you squealing into your pillow the whole night happily. john.

of course, you were never going to send these letters to him.

unbeknownst to you, price was always staring at you too whenever you were distracted by some other customers, his fingers lightly rubbing against his beard. who knew a sweet thing like you could be so... eager? you were like some desperate starved puppy to needy for something, anything.

and maybe he needed to do something about it. he might even dig some information of you through some people, who knows? maybe keep you all to himself.

[beefrobeefcal]

Tommy Miller's Stall feat. Marcus Pike & f!Reader

Prompt: Marcus Pike + BBQ + "It's a Surprise. Close your eyes."

a @pedgito challenge fic | Rated: 18+ | word count: 2,852 warnings: swearing, talk of drinking beer, eating, bathroom stalls becoming shrines, Barbequed meats (consumed), broken AC, lack of air circulation, sweating, oral (m receiving), pork steeple in ham wallet (unprotected), bathroom shenanigans, pre-term ejaculation, cumming undone too soon, grey t-shirts

A/N: I know I am a day late with this and I know bc of that, it's probably not going to be included in the challenge, but I needed to release this! Apologies to @pedgito for my tardiness. This is not the previously met Marcus - he's a Marcus all of his own.

Thank you to @strang3lov3, @noxturnalpascal & @bitchesuntitled for their love and support.

Traveling for work meant Marcus got to know all the random hole-in-the-wall eateries and Miller Bro’s Boy Howdy BBQ in Austin was one of his favourites. He loved the laid-back atmosphere and the story of why Joel & his brother Tommy bought the place from the previous owner – Tommy lost his virginity in the bathroom to a line cook named Rhonda and begged his brother to help him buy this drive of a restaurant and save it from demolition. There was even a plaque in the stall where Tommy ‘became a man in Summer ’89’.

Over the years, he’d gotten to know the menu and the Miller brothers. Joel was more aloof, preferring to stay in the kitchen or at the BBQ pit out back, while Tommy was happy to sit out with the customers like they were old friends, playing cards or sharing a few stories and laughs with them. The few times that Marcus had interacted with Joel were mainly to compliment him on the menu and tell him how much he liked the place; Joel would grunt and nod in thanks and head back into the kitchen.

There was another reason he liked coming to this place – you. From the first time he laid eyes on you as he darkened this place’s doorway six years ago, he knew he was hooked. You’d flashed your smile at him, flipped your hair and told him to, “Take any available seat, handsome. I’ll be right wit’cha!”

He’d learned that your nickname was ‘Peaches’ on account of your penchant to recommend the peach and bourbon barbeque sauce that was house made. He also learned that Joel kept an eye on him when you were around - he would catch Joel narrowing his eyes at him through the kitchen service window when you were at his table taking his order. It used to make Marcus nervous, thinking he might get something extra hidden in his food, but he decided that it was too delicious to care.

He'd taken a temporary position in the Austin office and for the last six months, he’d eaten at Miller’s every night and it was apparent. Marcus had assumed you were being kind when you called him handsome, especially now that he was barely fitting into the oversized summer attire he’d packed in late December before he’d come out to Austin and discovered that eating large portions of charbroiled meats at least once a day would alter your waistline so drastically.

His middle had filled out enough that the suits he wore throughout the day had to be tailored repeatedly before being fully replaced to accommodate his new weight. And the summer clothing he was wearing, formally loose-fitting for the heat, were anything but. So, when you winked at him when he entered today and said that you’d be with him in a minute, he internally reminded himself that you were just doing your job.

Marcus sat heavily down and slid into the booth, then waited for you to come over to his table. As he sat, he noticed how warm the dining area’s temperature was and took in the slight sweat ring and patches that were forming on your grey Miller Bro’s Boy Howdy BBQ branded shirt. He also realized he didn’t hear the tell-tale whirling and churning sounds of the too-old AC unit that normally filled the vacant spaces between conversations. He looked up to the vent in the corner, and the streamers that normally danced in the airflow hung limp, and he wiped the back of his hand over his damp forehead. He was getting hot.

“Hey handsome.”, you smiled, a slight weariness in your eyes but your smile shone bright. “Usual or you wanna see the menu?”

Marcus smiled back, and not wanting to make you work any harder, nodded and responded, “The usual please, Peaches.”

His eyes trailed down your body, landing on your butt as you walked back to the service window, then smiled to himself. He looked up, then made direct eye contact with Joel who only offered a scowl followed by a judgemental head shake before he disappeared back into the depths of the kitchen.

*****

Marcus was sweating. After finishing his meal, Tommy had come around and sat with him, ordering more barbequed goodness and beers, telling him the beer was ‘on the house, ‘cause the fuckin’ AC shit the bed.’ This exclamation was followed by you reminding Tommy that the AC was broken because he spent the repair funds on a ridiculous crystal duck as a gift to impress a woman – a woman who happened to be the AC repair tech’s wife.

Even with the cool beer, Marcus felt overly hot. A belly stuffed to the brim with smoked and charbroiled meats while sitting in a hot, stuffy room with still air was getting to him. As Tommy stood, slightly wavering on his feet from all the beer he was consuming to match the beer he was giving away to customers, he heavily patted Marcus on the shoulder and muttered, “Take it easy, big guy… I’ll be back ‘round soon.”

*****

You were hovering around Marcus’ table, checking in on him and Tommy, and every time you moved towards the kitchen with another order, Joel would shake his head at you, much like he would at Marcus.

“One of y’all better make a move soon… fuckin’ pathetic.”

You huffed in response, cheeks heating up. “Shove it, Joel. Mind your business.”

“Jesus, Peaches! It’s my fuckin’ business if I’m payin’ you by the hour and have’ta watch this horse shit pussy footin’ between you and fat boy over there. Just go sit on his lap an’ get it over with.”

You gave him a warning glare and a smug grin tugged at one side of Joel’s mouth. He nodded to you, signaling to look and you saw Tommy leaving Marcus’ table.

“Gonna close early on account of the heat and the fact that I’m fuckin’ done roastin’ myself in this kitchen.” You heard Joel chuckle behind you. “Get’er done, Peaches.”

*****

Marcus stood and stretched after he finished his beer, feeling the weight he'd consumed in his stomach, and looking down, he could see the bulk of it, too. You watched him stand and stretch, exposing a sliver of his rounded-out middle between his shirt and shorts.

Tommy tsk’d, startling you. Turning around, you were met by his slightly drunk, glazed eyes, and a dopey smile. “Joel’s right, Peaches. Just bite the bullet and take that man for a ride in my stall.”

“Oh my god, Tommy!”, you exclaimed with a frown a little too loudly, shoving him back.

Tommy laughed and handed you a shot of bourbon. You rolled your eyes and slammed it alongside him. He then grabbed your shoulders, turned you to face Marcus’ direction and said in your ear quietly. “No harm, no foul in helpin’ him take in the sights Austin has to offer, Peaches.”, then shoved you towards his table.

You caught yourself from stumbling and cleared your throat as you approached him. Marcus turned and looked at you; a small smile spread on his face before a pink blush crept up his cheeks as he tugged his shirt down, closing the slight gap his stretch had caused.

You could feel the energy, electrifying and crackling like a late July thunderstorm, raging in the space between your bodies, pulling you together with a gravitational field that would rival the one caused by Jupiter’s giant spot. Marcus opened his mouth to speak but any words he was going to say were lost in his throat as you moved forward and kissed him. The soft exhale that came after his surprised gasp tasted like beer and barbeque sauce on your tongue that pushed against the seam of his lips. His hands, sticky and smoky, were tethered up in your hair, holding your face against his as he deepened the kiss, granting your tongue entrance in your tongue’s long anticipated dance.

You barely heard Tommy spit his beer out and sputter out choked coughs as Joel grunted then nodded in approval at what you and Marcus were up to. After depriving yourselves of full breaths for long enough, you parted, panting, staring at one another. Marcus’ shoulders and chest were heaving and his lips, parted and pouted, were wet from your combined saliva.  His face was flushed, glistening in the low glow of all the tacky neon lighting adorning the walls, one side of his face pink from flamingos with sunglasses on, the other side flickering orange and yellow from the broken Corona promotional neon sign. He was beautiful.

At that moment, you didn’t think what you looked like, completely enraptured by the huffing and panting man sweating in front of you.

“Peaches…”, Marcus murmured, eyes wide and pleading. “I wanna do this right. I-”

You couldn’t let him finish, not if his next words could dampen the fire that had erupted in your core, making your hole twitch hard enough that you felt it in behind your belly button. You shook your head and shushed him, pressing your index finger against his lips. You grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the men’s washroom, directly into Tommy’s stall.

Thinking back, you would wonder how differently things would have gone if you’d pulled Marcus into a private area that wasn’t designed for single occupancy. The stalls in this restaurant were small, given that the original design of the washrooms did not include stalls at all, and Marcus was no longer a small man. But good god, the feeling of your body pushed up against his as he was backed against the stall door, mashing your mouths together.

You were still taking the lead in this dance, setting the pace and motions, while Marcus finally allowed his hands to touch more than anywhere above your collarbone. He gripped your waist with one hand and the other pushed its way between your bodies to clumsily try and shove it down the front of your pants. You both awkwardly tried to undress one another as you kept your lips and tongues attached, panting and grunting. If someone walked into the bathroom, they might assume there were two dogs quietly fighting over a piece of beef in the stall.

Once your jean shorts were open, Marcus wasted no time in shoving them down enough to shove his barbeque-tinged fingers into them. He eventually found what he was looking for when the tip of his finger grazed your sensitive and twitching nub, eliciting a gasping moan from you as you involuntarily bucked your hips. It was what tipped you over the edge, prompting you to swing him around and fumble with his button fly. He pulled back and his hands gently held yours, halting your mission to get his pants off.

“Marcus…”, you panted against his mouth.

“I haven’t… it’s been a while since…”, he stumbled through his words.

It seemed like time was slowing and you smiled softly at him. “Close your eyes.”

He hesitated, sucking in a breath nervously. “Why?”

“It’s a surprise. Close your eyes.”

His brows twitched and did as he was told and you sank to your knees, sliding your hands down his torso and thighs, and he let out a soft whimper once he realized where you were headed. Once on your knees, you pushed up his shirt and pressed a kiss right below his belly button and steadied yourself with your forehead against his full and rounded out stomach, your hands now free to get his shorts opened and down. His cock was pushing an impressive bulge in his grey boxer briefs, and you could see where the tip was pressing, a dark, damp patch at its peak.

Pulling down his underwear, his cock popped out and slapped up against his heavy underbelly, and without any hesitation, you grabbed it and sucked the tip into your mouth.

Marcus moaned out a surprised gasp and his hand gently rested on the crown of your head.

“I-oh fuck! I won’t… I wont last long. Peaches, please, honey.”, he whined, his fingers curling into your hair ever so gently.

He wasn’t kidding when he said he wouldn’t last long. His balls had just started to lift and tighten as you pulled off, and you looked up at him, marveling at the sight above you. Marcus was leaning back against the stall door, and you could only see his tented brows above his closed eyes before his belly obstructed the view.

Standing up, you smoothed your hands over his middle and leaned in to kiss him. He smiled against your mouth, and took a chance in moving away from the door and his arms wrapped around your body, pulling you into him. He maneuvered the both of you, now facing the stall door, ready to push you against it, to get on his knees for you, and pulled your shorts and underwear off completely.

But you stopped him, shoving his shorts and boxer briefs down his thighs, and pushed him back to sit on the toilet.

He fell back on to the lowered seat with a grunt, and you straddled his lap.

“Marcus,”, you breathe out as you start to seat yourself upon his cock. “I’ve wanted this for -oh god! for so long…”

He nodded frantically, and his fingers dug into your hips once your hips were finally flush with his.

“Oh…oh fudge…”, he moaned, clenching his eyes closed.

His breathing was quick and staggered, and his hips twitched and bucked under you. All you had done was allow your pussy to swallow his cock whole. He wasn’t kidding when he said that he wouldn’t last long, and the strain that reddened his face and the sounds leaving his mouth as you began to rock your hips slowly, trying to give him some time to adjust, but you needed to move.

“P-Peaches -”

You shushed him, and gripped his shoulder, starting to pick up the pace. His cock felt amazing - not too big or thick, but absolutely a perfect fit for you - just like him.

“Peaches - please, baby!”

Marcus tried to slow you down, tried to hold you down, tried to gain leverage by grabbing anything he could, tried shifting underneath you, but you were determined. You hushed him again, reveling in the harsh way he finally gripped your waist and hip with his large hands, and the rhythm you’d found bouncing on his cock. It was hitting just the right spot at just the right angle, and you could feel the early stirring of your climax.

But the sound of the toilet flushing from him sitting forward enough to set the sensors off and the loud, long groan that Marcus let out, followed by the feeling of warm cum shooting into you made you still in his lap.

He gripped you tighter, panting ‘Peaches!’ over and over, and pushed his face into your t-shirt covered chest, and his belly contracted and relaxed at an alarming pace. 

“Oh god… oh no. I’m-I’m so sorry!”, he whined and whimpered into your cleavage, still unloading spurt after spurt into your pussy. “Oooooh! oh my go-I’m sorry…”

He panted out grunts and groans, and his face twisted against the front of your t-shirt in blissful agony with his brows furrowed and his mouth open. Wet, hot breaths and saliva heated up your chest, and his hips bucked a few times, the final drops of cum finally spitting out.

“P-Peaches - I’m sorry.”, he murmured, weak and breathless. “I-I couldn’t - it’s been a-a while… for me.”

You sat silently, feeling his cum leaking out of you. You’d never had a man cum that quickly before. Sure, you’d had guys finish first, but this was a record, and yet, you weren’t mad. You couldn’t be.

“Marcus – “

“Just too pretty... I-I tried… I-“

“Marcus – “

“I didn’t mean to… just so pretty and I-“

“Marcus!”

He finally pulled back and looked up at you, his big brown eyes pleading for mercy. “I really like you and I wanted to do this right; ask you out properly, and - “

“Take me home and finish me, Marcus.”

“I just - wait, what? You want me to-”

“Take me back to your place. Make me cum.”

His eyes widened in disbelief, and his mouth moved slightly, but no words came out, only small, confused breaths.

“I like you, too, and-”

“I want to take you for dinner first.”

You smiled and huffed out a laugh. “You just ate!”

He nodded, raising his brows and offered a small shrug. “Well, yeah, but you- uh, well you got me working up an appetite. And I -”, he looked a little bashful as he continued. “I want to - uh - perform well and I can do that after we get some food in and the beer out of my system.”

You pressed a sweet kiss onto his lips and both of you couldn’t help the giggles that started. 

The door to the bathroom opened and slammed against the wall; Tommy’s slurred voice boomed out, “You two done? I wanna piss’n my stall.”

no more taglist! to get fic notification, follow @beefnotes

[mrs-starkgaryen]

Meet me at the Corner (Shop) teaser

Modern! Aegon Targaryen x Reader

Teaser 2, Teaser 3

✍️ (My other writings) ✍️

You keep meeting a certain silver-haired man at the local corner shop and whilst you only came in for a snack, you leave with a whole lot more.

Warnings: Will post more with the whole ones-shot later, but for now- Rude Aegon, British corner shop life, missing punctuation and grammar, probably

A/N: This is my first fanfic. I don't know why I wrote this, I just wanted to get me started. THERE IS MORE TO COME TO THIS ONE-SHOT IF PEOPLE LIKE IT (or even if they don't)!

I just love my man, Aegon, and you know what they say- if there isn't a fanfic you want, write it yourself so tada!

Please like, reblog and leave constructive comments (or any) :D

The bell dinged when I pushed open the heavy door, announcing my entrance to the shop’s inhabitants. I hated the thing. I’d rather slink in, grab what I want and leave, like a snake slithering in the long blades of grass, pouncing on its prey and disappearing. But now, I had to endure walking around the shop as the only cashier available had his eyes fixed on my movements.

He was an older man, probably mid-fifties, greying hair and even though he was always behind the till, he had a noticeable belly, like a balloon shoved underneath his shirt. There is nothing outwardly wrong with him but he always makes me feel uncomfortable, from how he would watch me wonder or judge me for what I buy. The latter probably wasn’t true and the former… well the former was probably him watching for shoplifters- which I don’t blame him for. Corner shops were prime targets for theft.

As the embarrassment of the bell’s acknowledgment evaporated, I make myself look up begrudgingly to him, to acknowledge my arrival with a nod or a smile. But upon looking at the man behind the till, instead of the sides of my mouth lifting upwards, they went down. For in the place of the typical man, was a much younger one. He had scruffy hair in the shade of ice dripping down his head and sported snow-sprinkled stubble which he was scratching absent-mindedly as he scrolled on his phone.

He was leaning over the counter as I made my way past the magazine section next to the door but he must have been too engrossed in whatever was on his screen for he didn’t once look up at me. I was grateful for it but it was odd, coming into a corner shop and not being watched. With this new revelation in mind, I made my way around the aisles, looking for the items that I came in for: cookies, a Cadbury bar, a bag of Doritos, a can of Monster and a milkshake. I was planning on watching the new season of my favourite TV series in its entirety tonight and I was planning on having a good time. I navigated the thin aisles, trying not to bump into the products that hung off the shelves, adding the necessary items to the growing pile in my arms.

Trying to balance the unknown brand of cookies on top, I position myself to hold the items better with this new addition. However, the packet falls to the floor with a crunch and I wince at the sound interrupting the silence of the shop. Heat blooms in my cheeks as I peer over the pile of food to the cookies on the ground before tentatively turning my eyes to the man behind the till to see if he noticed. Oh man, oh man. He is going to think I’m a pig who can’t resist all these snacks

Fortunately, the man was still flicking through his phone and not paying attention to the happenings of the shop that he oversaw. A brief idea of me just walking out with the items flashed through my mind but I banished it away, heading my way towards the cashier. I stood in front of him, waiting for him to notice that he had a customer.

But the white-haired man seemed intent on pretending he was not here, and that was something we had in common. I started to wish the creepy older man was back. At least he was aware of the people in the shop. My arms were beginning to ache, so I had to break the silence we both were unwillingly in; I let out a small cough.

His eyes flick up from the screen and land on me. He rolls his eyes and slowly puts his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. He wasn’t wearing uniform, but instead a short-sleeved checkered shirt that was open to reveal a t-shirt with a quote on, underneath. I tried to get a glimpse but after reading the top three words, ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he moved to cross his arms, blocking the rest of the words. He waited for me to put my items on the till.

Noticing his disgruntled face, I smile shyly as I empty my arms. “Hi. Just these please.”

He grabs the items and starts to scan. Beep, beep, beep. I stand there, swaying on the soles of my feet as I waited. He places the stuff in a blue-lined bag and places it in front of me. Then we go back to the silence, staring at each other. Why is he staring at me? My eyes start to look around, trying to avoid his intense gaze, especially as his eyes are a weird colour, like an amethyst cracked open, gems being disrupted from their rocky slumber.

Nervously, I flicker back to his shirt. ‘Sorry I’m late- my alarm didn’t go off. Because I didn’t turn it on. Because I didn’t want to be here.’ A puff of unwanted laughter escapes my mouth; the shirt is appropriate for the man in front of me. Who was still staring at me.

Maybe he was waiting for me to say something. I open my mouth, “So how- “

“Do you want the cookies or not?”

“Huh?”

He nods towards the pack that I dropped on the floor earlier, the ones that I forgot to pick up. “Oh,” I rush back to grab them and plonk them on the till, smiling, “Yes please, wouldn’t be a movie night without them.”

The man doesn’t say anything to attest if that was true but scanned the biscuits and shoved them into the bag with the rest. Not talkative, I see.

“£5.48.”

I nod, pulling out my purse, searching for the change. 25p, 32p, 46p. Oh for the love of- the one time you need to be drowning in copper coins-

Realising that I am delaying this man returning to his favourite pastime, I start to panic. “Sorry” I say.

Oh, he isn’t going to like me. I need 2p, where is it? I finally find one stuck in the crevices of my purse, I pull it out. Huzzah! I happily extend my clenched fist over his, “I knew I had it.”

I drop the money and wait for him to count it. He nods and hands the bag over to me, before pulling his phone back out. I take it business was done.

I shuffle on my feet, eager to patch up the bad taste I must have left in his mouth, “Thank you!”

He doesn’t respond, I fidget with the plastic straps, “Sorry about the wait,” I realise he still hasn’t moved from watching his phone. Well, okay then… I head for the door, tugging it open with my free hand. Before I exit into the cold night, I look back but he’s still not looking, I stretch out one more olive branch, “Have a good night.”

He was as stoic as ever. I huff and let the door close between us. As I trudge home, I ponder about the weird man and for once, I start to hope that I’ll see the old one the next time I go into The Hightower corner shop.

More to come (only a few thousand words left)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

To a Tea 3

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

Part of the Sweet and Spicy AU 

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

18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you. 

Summary:  A demanding customer grows increasingly needy.

Character:  Raymond Smith

The title is a pun, don’t @ me.

Please comment and reblog if it’s not too much. I always love getting to chat about these stories and hearing all your ideas! You all are wonderful and loved. 

Six days in a row and you’re ready to keel over. Amid your busy schedule, you hadn’t a chance to fill your quickly dwindling cupboards and fridge. So, after a ten-hour shift on your feet, running all around the tables and between tea rooms, you expend the last of your strength on a quick trip to the shop. 

It isn’t too far out of your way. It’s just a half-block away from your stop. You could wait until tomorrow, your day off, but you’re dying for a strawberry shortcake mochi before you tuck into bed. The rest of your night isn’t too unusual; you’ll be happy to fall asleep to an episode of the same old sitcom that you know by rote. 

You yawn over the bask hooked over your elbow. You have your mochi and a few other staples to get you through; eggs, oat milk, and your favourite brand of granola. You rub your forehead as a stitch threatens to imprint itself permanently. Tomorrow you’ll do a proper shop. 

You stop just before the cashier and peruse the discount shelf. Those chocolate-covered gummy worms are deadly. You shouldn’t. 

You reach for the package, eyeing it up, blinking away another yawn. Those will only have you waking up with a sore tummy. 

“You’d be better off with the dark chocolate, or even the peanuts,” someone says. The timbre is dulcet but firm, and strangely familiar. 

You look over at the figure standing around the side of the shelves. You fear you might be hallucinating as you stare at Raymond. He has a square of protein chocolate in hand but sets it back where he got it, making certain it and every other bar is straight. 

“Oh, hi?” You stammer.  

The tea shop is busy and you’re certain you’ve probably crossed paths with at least one customer outside store hours, but never like this. If anything, you both look the other way and carry on. Instead, he’s intent on you, shifting to face you fully as he sets his shoulders, clutching his hands before him. 

“Though I do suppose you’ve already got the ice cream, it hardly matters what else you add to your lot,” he muses. 

You look in your basket then at him. Is he judging you? Mr. Black Tea, plain. You hang the bag back on the hook. As you do, he steps forward and you shuffle back on your heels. He pulls the bag in line with others, rescinding his hand with a flutter of fingers. 

“If you’re in the mind for something sweet, there’s a place near here, it has a sticky toffee pudding more worth the expense,” he suggests. 

You don’t know what to say. You haven’t seen him since he muttered about your apron strings. In the two weeks after, you assumed he might not come back. As particular as he is, you thought you’d gone egregiously over the line. And yet, you’d forgotten about him for all the other bodies passing through the door. 

“Thanks, I’ll look into that,” you say. 

“Mm,” he hums and his eyes flit up and down behind his lenses, “you sound different.” 

“Do I?” You reach to scratch your neck. 

“You look different too.” 

You tilt your head and give a confused grimace, “well, I...” you glance down, “suppose I'm not wearing my apron.” 

“Must be it,” he agrees, “you sound tired.” 

“I guess... yeah,” you take a breath and let it out slowly.  

It’s strange. He’s not a customer here, there is no need to please and yet you feel you must. You poke the tip of your tongue out then hide it behind your lips. 

“Not in a bad way,” he assures you.  

“Right, thanks,” you say in a fracture, “that’s nice, but uh, I... I’m just on my way home.” 

“I know,” he says. 

“...so then I’ll just be--” you point towards the checkout and falter, “what did you say?” 

“Yes, down Trafalgar. I know. It’s late,” he peers over towards the transparent walls along the front of the shop, “these parts aren’t too safe this time of day.” 

“Trafal--“ you begin but can’t finish, “Raymond.” 

He blinks, his expression scarily placid. 

“Details,” he says evenly, “it is best to keep note of them. It is dangerous not to mind them.” He raises a finger, “one might not notice the shadow that walks behind theirs or the window they left open in the kitchen.” 

Your lip trembles as your heart sinks, “have you... have you been following me?” 

“Following... that sounds sinister,” he gives a crooked expression, “no, no, I would consider it... I keep you safe.” 

“Safe. From what, exactly?” 

He narrows his eyes and his lips straighten thoughtfully.  

“Well, from men like me.” 

His words turn your blood to ice. Men like him. What does he mean? 

“I...” you take a step back and he moves with you. You put your hand up to stop him as you still, “Raymond, do not come any closer.” 

“You don’t understand, I wouldn’t hurt you,” he says, “that’s what makes me different. Not like those other men.” 

“I mean it,” you warn him. “If you come any closer, I will make a scene.” 

Your adrenaline courses through you. You’re awake now. The yawns have dissipated and your eyes are wide. 

“Ah, and that’s where I am like the other men,” he shrugs, “it doesn’t matter if I come closer to you right now. Hardly matters. Because I can wait. I have waited. And when I...” he steps towards you and you put the basket between you, his stomach pressing against it, “come closer, you will not even see me coming.” 

You stare at him, horrified. His blue eyes gleam and he reaches to straighten his glasses. He smirks and his brows draw up coyly. He leans in and you lean away. Then suddenly, he backs off and tugs his cuffs straight, then fixes his tie. 

“Don’t forget to close your window,” he says as he spins on his heel, “wouldn’t want some nocturnal creature creeping in.” 

You gape after him as he saunters off. You can’t quiet move as disbelief has you stuck to the spot. It’s all so sudden. So unexpected. How could you ever predict something like this? The uptight man from the tea shop, a stranger really, a face who disappeared for a whole fortnight, and he’s just shaken your entire world into disarray. 

Men like him? You don’t even know who he is. Only his name and how he likes his tea. 

[nctsworld]

at your earliest convenience

✩‌ haechan x reader | fluff | 1.3k

SUMMARY | in which haechan is always your one (and annoying) late-night customer at the 24/7 convenience store you work at and one evening, he forgets his wallet. in lieu of payment, he asks if he can take you out on a date instead. // part of the connection series

WARNINGS | slightly insecure reader, none really!

RATING | teen+

AUTHOR'S NOTE | please check out (and maybe send in some prompt requests) @nctpromptmeme!

You ring him up, like clockwork. 

The scanner picks up a bag of the Korean brand onion rings, two Red Bulls, and an instant noodle cup.  

He’s the only consistent man in your life, ignoring the fact that the sole reason why he’s in your life is because he always comes into the 24/7 convenience store you work at during late, sometimes ungodly, hours. Tonight, it’s not that bad: 1:53am. 

Rarely, no one else strolls in during your shift (and you’re grateful it’s a safe neighbourhood). 

However, this young man lives to make your shift a painful one. 

Usually with ruffled hair, transparent-framed glasses, and a simple t-shirt and sweatpants, he saunters in as if he owns the store, often swinging his keys or obnoxiously whistling along to the song playing in the background. From the moment he steps into the store, his existence alone irks you. 

Unsurprisingly, he then takes a solid ten minutes on average (yes, you’ve timed it) to buy his items. Whistling evolves into screeches or emphatic oohs and aahs. Sometimes, he even narrates the entire process, as if he's the main character in a show. And yet, despite it all, he ends up buying the same rotation of his favourite items. 

If not the onion rings, the shrimp crackers. If not the Red Bulls, the bottles of Monster instead. He may be grabbing one cup of noodles tonight, but other times it’s three. Potentially even a completely different brand, if he’s feeling adventurous.   

On that note, predictability is in his nature. You plead internally for him to live a little, to maybe even spice up his night with a little change, for crying out loud. Heck, maybe even change the grey or black t-shirt he always wears to a shade that’s not a neutral tone or to put on a jacket for once. 

And the cherry on top is the constant annoying smirk he flashes when you tell him his total. 

You want to punch it off his face, smear it across the shiny floors with the dirty mop water you use at the beginning and end of shift.  

“How are you doing tonight, gorgeous?” he asks. Sometimes gorgeous is replaced with beautiful or cutie. It only adds to his annoyance of regularity and you have an itch he does this all the time with others, making you not take his typical endearing terms seriously.  

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “I’m not gorgeous, but, as always, thank you for the compliment.” 

His smirk melts, and you catch yourself feeling a tinge of something as his features soften. 

“You are, though,” your regular says. You quickly glance up, wondering if that pout and look in his eyes are genuine. “You know that I call you gorgeous because I mean it, right?” 

You’re unsure how to react, so you give a small nod and repeat the total, softly this time.

There’s a beat when the man gets lost in thought, but the moment quickly fades. He reaches into his sweatpants. However, he stops abruptly, before he reaches in again and pats the outside of his other pockets. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. You realize two things: one, you’ve never heard him curse; and two, he doesn’t have his wallet.

Well, that surely is different than usual.

Instinctively, you pull the snacks toward you. 

“Don’t you dare think I’m letting you walk away with everything for free,” you say, half-jokingly. Even though you’re 80% certain you can trust him, you still don’t know what he’s like.  

He smiles sweetly, quite differently than his smirks, forcing you to admit he’s handsome (just a little). “How could you expect me to stoop that low?” he whine-asks, clutching his chest in pain. 

After a moment of staring up at the ceiling in thought with his tongue running against his lower teeth, a Cheshire grin spreads over his face and he raises an eyebrow.

You don’t like it one bit and regret the moment earlier, mentally punching yourself for finding him a tiny bit attractive. 

“How about…”—he pauses as he rhythmically taps his fingers onto the counter—“...you let me take you out on a date in exchange for these items?” 

A scoff releases into the air. “Are you really telling me I’m only worth $11.87?” 

“What—no! Of course not,” he flicks a wrist upward in annoyance, then gestures to himself. “A date with me is worth way more in value, so you’ll be getting a better bargain.” 

You could not believe this guy. “Is a date with you really going to be worth it?” 

“Look,” he leans in over the counter and you catch a whiff of a light, woody scent. You fight off the desire to deeply inhale it. “No matter where we go or what happens, I’ll make sure you’ll be happy by the end of it. Isn’t that worth taking the risk of losing $11.87?” 

Squinting your eyes at him, while still clutching the goods he wants, you start to warm-up to the idea since you don’t have anything to lose (but maybe that’s due to the influence of his slightly intoxicating aura). 

“Will you choose the date location?” you ask, guarded.

He shakes his head. “Everything will be up to you and I’ll try to accommodate my schedule as best as I can.” 

You raise an eyebrow, challenging him. “And what if I want to go to the most expensive restaurant in town?”

Without hesitation, he nods. “Then we’ll go to the most expensive restaurant in town.” 

“If I wanted to order the $130 steak?” 

“$130 steak it is.” 

“If I—” 

The cute (you can’t deny it at this point) stranger cuts you off with a raise of his hand. God, you hate how cocky he is. 

Suddenly, he holds out a hand, sticking his pinky finger up. He waggles it, and you realize he’s waiting for you to do the same. You curl a pinky around his.

“There. I promise you—cross my heart and swear on my mother’s life—that I’ll uphold and adhere to whatever date conditions you ask of me.” He straightens, stepping away from the counter. “Now, can I please have my snacks and drinks?” 

The events of tonight took quite a turn. Never in a million years would you think Mr. Predictability would ask you out on a date, let alone be pretty sweet about it.  

Perhaps there’s more to him than you thought. 

You hand him your phone, and he does the same. 

When he gives it back, you shake your head at the text he sent and the name he gave himself.

“Hyuck?” you ask, unfamiliar with the name.  

“Short for Donghyuck, but yes, beautiful?”

You turn your phone towards him in disbelief. “What’s with the heart next to your name?” 

He shrugs, flashing you another smug smile. “What about it?”  

Glancing down at his phone, he beams. You wonder if it’s because you wrote the following in brackets after your name: You Owe Me a Date Worth More than $11.87. 

“And your name is just as beautiful as you are.” 

Again, another eye roll. You wonder if the date will be filled with more of it. You shove the stuff towards him. 

“I have to know: do those lines really work?”

“Well, I have a date lined up with you, so you tell me.” 

Before you have a chance to retort, he grabs something out from his pocket.

A wallet.

His motherfucking wallet, and he has the audacity to toss a $20 bill onto the counter with the same grin that you still want to wipe the floor with. Your jaw hangs. 

“Keep the change,” he says, along with your name and grants you a wink as he grabs his items. 

“I’ll be seeing you on our date soon, gorgeous.” 

AUTHOR'S ENDING NOTE

thank you for reading! i've been getting so much love for this - y'all are amazing. if you would like to read an informal continuation, see here!

[moodymisty]

How does a space marine mark their favourite serf?

We already know that Night Lords have their blood ink tattoos and Space Wolves simply pee on their favourite, but what about the other legions? How would Astartes go about specifically marking their favourite serfs as theirs? So it got me thinking about the other 20 original legions and what their answer to this conundrum would be.

Salamanders handcraft specific pieces of jewelry and give them to their serf, each has a signature style and that style acts as an identifying mark. Another for the GPS club.

Blood Angels leave behind bite marks from repeated feedings. The bite marks and where the bite marks are placed identify the Astartes based on feeding preferences.

Ultramarines have filed out specific paperwork form A5 - 69 that now has you listed as their support serf/support wife. You have the paperwork and everything on you at all times to flash at anyone trying to hit on you.

The Raven Guard gives you a nice simple permanent anklet with different inscribing denoting a particular Astarte. You may or may not be GPS-chipped now.

If you are lucky then your Iron Warriors master will simply fashion you a nice iron collar with their information hanging from a tab. If you’re not, then the Iron Warriors will simply brand you with a customized burning iron, it’s quite painful.

Dark Angel will just stoically rub their face against you, trying to impart as much of their scent onto you as they can. Your goddam terrified and confused out of your mind as this occurs.

Iron Hands will augment you with specific pieces of valuable tech denoting you as being more valuable than other flesh bags, your permission is not asked for this procedure.

In the World Eaters, no one marks their serf as belonging to them, because of the simple fact that Angron would outright murder any Astartes he caught doing so, seeing too many connections between that and slavery.

For Luna Wolves they thankfully won’t impart their scent by peeing on you, they will however keep you in an all-night breeding session, arguing there is no greater way to claim a person than by getting them pregnant with their child. Truly their father’s sons.

For Word Bearers I don’t have any concrete ideas, but whatever it is it’s weird and it’s religious. Possibly a chastity belt, one that only they have the key for.

When an Alpha Legion astartes marks you there is no smell, mark or any other signifier. However any kind of marking ends up being somewhat moot. As when you are an Alpha Legionnaire, you are still obligated to share your serf with the rest of your Astartes brothers.

So apparently the White Scars ritually scar themselves with a long scar called an honour scar when they join the chapter. So any particular favoured serf is going to be ritually scarred in a specific manner similar to or resembling their master’s to showcase which white scar they belong to.

When it comes to the Death Guard I honestly have no idea for these guys and I don’t think I want to even consider it.

If an Emperor Children picks you as their serf then they’ll pick out very good and beautiful outfits to showcase that fact, there are a few specific pieces of high-quality clothing commonly used to denote a serf belonging to an Emperor Children. However, things get interesting in that regard when we get to post heresy…

To show ownership Imperial Fists will scrimshaw you a piece using some sturdy Xenos bone, with their scrimshaw style acting as identification.

If a Thousand Sons marks you as theirs, then expect warp magic shenanigans. How they mark you are going to be different with each Thousand Sons, though you’ll bet your bottom dollar that sorcery is always involved.

The Ultramarine one made me laugh out loud XD Some of these are definitely what I imagine what a SM of each chapter would do, within reason.

[purerae]

teehee first ask thing :3c

i work at a movie theater and it sucks, literally the only thing that keeps me going is pretending someone going to see movies just to interact with me. tbh whenever i scan someone ticket and they’re cute, i’ll try to be at their theater whenever the movie end just to tell them “have a nice day!”

do what you'll want with this, i just wanna share my delusions ^^

hihi omg this is so cute, i wrote a little something about it !!

(i wrote this at like four am on a googles doc and didn’t proof read — pls forgive me for the kinda lame writing ;;;)

You’re tired. Extremely tired. If you got a coin for how many times somebody had asked you a stupid question — you’d be able to quit your job by now.

The smell of popcorn and off brand candy lingers in the air; you feel sick to your stomach as you look at the clock. 3 more hours of your shift left, god, you close your eyes for a solid minute — imagining yourself in your nice warm bed away from all the noise, smell and buzzing food machines.

Fortunately, it seems as the flurry amount of people had dispersed after the screenings of the new trending movie had stopped at a certain time. You hum a sigh under your breath, the theater was almost empty, You prayed to whatever was listening to you that a group of teenagers wouldn’t just burst in and charge towards your counter.

You decide to pass off some time by restocking the candy shelves by your desk, grimacing at the overpriced labels when you suddenly hear a small cough.

Looking up, you notice a very familiar customer beaming at you with a big smile. Their eyes light up, and you can't help but change your tired expression to one that matches theirs.

“Hey! How’s your shift going Y/N?” The man smiles, fidgeting with his hands as he eagerly looks at you.

“Good as a shift can get Matteo, how’s your day going? This is the third time you came this week — Must’ really like movies.. new world record huh?”

You respond back, with no malice in your tone, exchanging banter with your favourite customer. He comes so often to the theatre, that you guys are already on first name basis.

Honestly, the only reason he was your favourite customer was because of how how nice and pleasant he was to chat too.

Matteo would arrive with a warm smile, always making a beeline for whichever counter you were working at. You guys would chat about the latest releases, obscure indie films, and laugh over the messiness of children running around.

You’d remember the first time he came into the movies with his friends, his eyes would linger on you every now and again whilst ordering — you never really paid any mind to it.

Matteo raises his eyebrows as you question him. “…Really like movies?” A pause between the two of you as you nod awkwardly, before his eyes widen in realisation.

“Oh yeah— yeah! I love movies hahaha…! Movies are great.. awesome, spectacular, so fun!!” He says laughing, wiping his eyebrow and grinning extremely wide.

Rapidly changing the subject, Matteo places one of his arms on the counter. “The movie you recommended to me two days ago was so funny! I loved it, anything new for me today?”

To be frank, you could not recall what movie you told him to watch, and you doubt you even watched it yourself! However, seeing the gleam in his face — you didn’t have the heart to tell him so.

You shift your head slightly to see behind Matteos head, the small list of movies that were going to play soon. Selecting the most cool sounding one, you look back at him.

“There’s a movie called ‘Argan Gate’ that came out recently in theatre 3?”

His smile becomes even more radiant (which you didn’t know could be possible) as he looks through his bag, “Sounds perfect! I’ll take a ticket!”

Matteo hands you his money, your fingers brushed slightly, The man freezes as he just stares at your hands for a solid few seconds before zoning back in with flushed cheeks.

“…I’ll tell you how the movie was after, see you at your next shift?” He says with a flustered look. You mutter a small okay with a wave as he walks to the movie screening.

You wonder for a second on how he’d know when your next shift is, and why he watches every single thing you recommend him. Pausing as you stare at his back with a narrowed gaze before you shrug your shoulders, going back to restocking the shelves

‘He must just really really love movies.’