#Hash tag owned

[drvct-tape]

Has anyone thought of making an SCP Gravity Falls AU... with Stanford as one of the higher-up scientists and whatnot. I just think it'd make a lot of sense... I don't know where anyone else would fit into this AU?? Maybe the entire town of Gravity Falls could be considered an "anomaly" (because it basically is, in canon), and Ford is an SCP scientist sent there to make sure containment procedures are running smoothly.

Also I thought it'd be funny because Bill Cipher would actually not be a Keter class SCP ^_^; and I think that'd grind his gears so bad.

[kalashnikovlobotomy]

i start the day lying and end with the truth, that i'm dying for the knife.

[bantersnatch]

gamer moments with the host

[ringaroundtheroses]

one of my fav scenes from Anglerfish by @mawofthemagnetar! One of my fav fics, such a fun read i recommend for any fans of horror or mystery!!

[elfdyke]

cross your heart and hope to die!

[elvenchevalier]

Fire Emblem: Engage

This was...probably a long time coming.

Fire Emblem Engage was certainly an experience. It had some of the best maps in the series, the characters were quirky and loveable (if not particularly deep), the art was appealing, and the story was what it promised it would be.

That isn’t to say it’s a perfect game, though. Especially right at the beginning, the characters chew the scenery something fierce. In particular, they tend to overemote, which lessens the dialogue’s impact as it sort of takes you out of it. Eventually the characters settle into their roles and the writing starts feeling more like Fire Emblem, but you do gotta get past those first few hurdles.

Speaking of the writing, I felt it was enjoyable, if somewhat predictable at some points. The characters often feel a little flat at first as well, with one notable trait overshadowing what else the characters may have. Chloe is obsessed with fairy tales. Louis likes to watch people and drink tea. Yunaka is definitely NOT hiding anything. Alfred is heroic, Celine is kind. You get the picture.

This is most noticeable in Alcryst, an archer who joins you early on, who, despite being probably one of the best archers in the series, CANNOT seem to stop being self-deprecating. Nearly every interaction the boy had was colored with his self-loathing. After about the third time he explicitly rejected praise, I wrote him off. He was insufferable.

It is exasperating.

It can be argued that this has been an issue with the series over the last few titles, and I think I would agree with that assessment. While I do recognize that the characters are deeper than their introductions might suggest, it is still clear that they were based on their one major defining trait.

That being said, it was quite funny to see that Alear was in fact the only sane person in the army, reacting with confusion and concern to everyone else's shenanigans.

Characters aside, the story wasn’t anything particularly special. It gave Alear an objective and the story is about completing that objective. It’s not complex, but it isn’t trying to be, either. It delivers on what it promises. The various nations weren’t anything to write home about, either. You have the peaceful Green Greens nation in Firene; the warlike Brodia; the mountainous and chill Elusia; and the desert-laden land of Solm. You really do just get what you see. But again, that’s fine; Engage is more about Alear than about its worldbuilding, and so Alear gets most of the focus.

There were some funny choices, though. The first paralogue has you rescuing some medics on an island just off of Firene, and even though the Firenese characters all have a pretty standard American Midwest accent, the people of that island—which is JUST BARELY off of Firene—are painfully British.

(I played in dub, as you can tell. I don’t know what the choices were in the Japanese voiceover.)

But enough about the writing. Let’s talk about mechanics. My favorite thing that Engage did was to completely remove weapon durability without the weird caveats Fates’ weapons had. Some of the weapons have been nerfed over the course of the series—Brave weapons are just a shadow of their former glory—but that allowed for removal of weapon durability without creating a situation where you just give everyone a Brave weapon and call it a day.

I’m on record as believing weapon durability never really added much to the series. It’s just an excuse to spend the gold you get, and while managing funds is just as much of a trait of a strategy game as any other, I feel like there are better uses for it, and Engage gives us exactly that. You can still buy and refine weapons, buy items, all that good stuff.

But on that note, this game came out in Anno Domini the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Twenty Three.

WHY on God’s terrible blue and green marble do the shopkeepers have EXACTLY ONE VOICE LINE for each type of transaction? And why do they repeat it with EVERY. SINGLE. TRANSACTION? It got bad enough that I had to mute my game whenever I needed to do shopping. It gets incredibly grating to hear “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” ad nauseum when you’re stocking up on, say, Vulneraries. It is now 2025. Shopkeepers with voice lines should ALWAYS have at MINIMUM 3 lines per transaction type, AND they should only actually trigger every 4-5 transactions, and if I find myself in a position to add voices to my own game I’m going to do exactly that.

The Somniel is the best iteration of the home base yet. My Castle in Fates was rudimentary, but served its purpose; the Monastery in Three Houses was just far too big. The Somniel is smaller and easier to find your way around, which I and my lack of sense of direction deeply appreciated.

Another feature Engage introduces that I find incredibly neat and hope the series continues with is the post-battle segments where you run around in the map you had just cleared, talking to people, picking up stuff on the ground, and adopting pets. Exploring the areas outside of battle gives them a brand new perspective and makes me appreciate the map design all the more.

I have noticed the last two games in this series also having abilities that work similarly to how skills function in Fire Emblem Heroes, where characters get stat bonuses based on who they’re standing nearby (as distinct from supports). At first I was apprehensive about it—I didn’t want the series to start being like Heroes, as much as I did enjoy the gacha—but it seems to have found a middle ground that’s comfortable and adds another layer to player positioning.

This is only helped by the incredible map design. Engage has some of the best, most interesting maps I’ve seen in quite some time, and I’m taking notes from them for my own map design.

Despite being the primary mechanic, and in fact literally part of the game’s name, I didn’t actually...engage with Engage all that much. I did mostly for particularly dire situations and usually to theatrically finish off a boss, but through most maps I didn’t see much need for it. That will likely change when I come back to play the game on a harder difficulty, though—I played on Normal, as I always do for a first run.

As a character gains skill points and bond levels with the different Emblems, they can inherit skills from those Emblems to keep permanently, even when switched to a different Emblem. This is a fantastic feature, but it’s overwhelming for people like me who get intense choice paralysis. In the end I just forewent the skill inheritance entirely just to make it easier on the brain juice.

The Emblems also offering weapon proficiencies, unlocking class changes for the unit they’re bonded with, is probably my favorite thing about the emblems.

The last thing I want to say before I dive into spoilers is that I continue to be of the belief that Fire Emblem should not have ever engaged with shipping. I understand it saved the series in Awakening, but I prefer dedicated romantic subplots over “oh man those two are cute”, even if I DO enjoy shipping. That being said, ONLY Alear gets an S-rank in this game, severely limiting the shipping opportunities and outright denying paired endings outside of Alear’s S support, which I feel is a genuine shame. There are SEVERAL pairs of characters whose romances might make for really nice romantic subplots, and Engage just isn’t interested in exploring those over the Alear self-insert shipping.

I wanted to see Yunaka and Louis together, man.

Spoilers to follow! This isn’t like Mystic Quest where the story is so simple and barebones as not to HAVE any spoilers, so this is your warning!

Where to begin, though.

I think the first thing I want to say is a criticism of the events of Chapters 10 and 11, when your Emblem Rings get taken from you by Veyle.

While narratively that part of the story is fine and dandy, the problem arises when you realize Micaiah and Celica are your *only* two options for providing Tome and Staff proficiency to units, and they are among the rings taken from you. You don’t get Micaiah back until Chapter 19 and Celica until 22. Out of 26.

So if there was a unit you wanted to make a mage or healer—like, say, Anna, who makes an incredibly strong Sage—and you didn’t provide her with Tome proficiency before Chapter 10, you’re struck until you get Micaiah back. (Or buy the DLC, as Veronica also provides tome and staff proficiency, though I don’t believe the choice was made with making the player buy the DLC in mind.)

The Fell Xenologue was an interesting what-if kind of story that effectively makes the other gender Alear canon in an alternate world, which I thought was neat. It also doesn’t let you just bring your overpowered monstrosities in; your characters’ levels, classes, and inventories are set per chapter, and scale with your progress in the main story. (Emblems synced and bond levels are not set, however, and can be brought in.)

It introduces a few new characters, including alternate forms of the Four Hounds and two unique characters, Nel and Nil, who the Xenologue center around. It explores a scenario where Alear actually died during the war with Sombron, sacrificing her life to defeat him. The people in the Xenologue are effectively mirror versions of the characters we already know; Celine is ruthless, Alcryst is abusive toward Diamant, you get the picture. In turn, the Four Hounds are on your side. At the end, of course, they all come back with you to let you play with them in the main game, which doesn’t mean a whole lot if you do the Xenologue when you only have five chapters left in the main game like SOME people.

Toward the end, it’s revealed that Emblems can’t really leave their world, that they’ll vanish if they do. Naturally we get a scene where that happens, and Alear gives us a Power of Friendship speech to bring them back, and it was a pretty neat moment! (It also isn't mentioned in the Xenologue, likely because it's a lategame revelation and you can access the Xenologue as early as chapter 6.)

Sombron was a fine villain. Proper evil dark dragon stuff. His backstory is only even touched on right at the end, during the final confrontation. It brings up something called the Zero Emblem, Sombron’s only friend from his own world (oh, by the way, he is also from an alternate world) who vanished many years ago (by virtue of the aforementioned inability to leave their world), prompting him to commit hilarious amounts of murder to reunite with his friend by returning to his own world.

How that works, exactly, isn’t really explained. The game never even tells us who the Zero Emblem is, just that it’s also known as the Emblem of Foundations. It felt like it was just a desperate last-minute attempt to give Sombron some level of sympathy so he didn’t come across as a Pure Evil villain, but you know what? He would have been better that way. There’s nothing wrong with a Pure Evil villain; they don’t ALWAYS need to have some level of sympathetic backstory. He’s the hero of his own story by virtue of being the Big Bad Evil Guy and that’s fine.

All in all, Fire Emblem Engage was a SOLID 8/10. I’m a pretty big Fire Emblem fan, and Engage felt like a beautiful celebration, even a love letter, to the franchise. I have heard the opinion that the game would be a fine place to end the franchise, and while I know that won’t be the case as it’s making far too much money to just stop, I think I might even agree. Engage would be a great sendoff.

But as a fan, I continue to look forward to the next title.

ね、ゲームあそぶ？

[smute]

(this also fits the tune of my housework poast) although ive always loved cooking and baking i've noticed recently that i am enjoying it sooo much more now, even when im not treating it like a hobby. its one thing to be good at cooking a fancy meal for a special occasion and tiring yourself out in the process, but its quite another thing to be able to cook with ease, and on a daily basis. seeing my skills and confidence develop in that way is very new to me, and it's great that i now get to apply it to something as mundane as feeding myself and my family. like, i learned how to cook a long time ago and ive always been confident in my ability to produce a good end result, but the journey feels a lot easier now. i no longer despair over missing ingredience, i manage with 2 bowls where i would've used 5 before, i sometimes even clean up as i go, and putting dinner on the table within 30 minutes no longer feels like a sprint. its the kind of methodical approach that professional chefs learn from the very beginning, and of course they get to perfect their routine by cooking for 8 hours a day, but for the rest of us it's all trial and error. so noticing a positive change in myself in that way and seeing that i'm finally acquiring a more nonchalant attitude towards cooking is really wonderful

[tagswoman]

'

[badolmen]

I think one of the hardest things for privileged leftists have to learn is that they can’t just automatically agree with the majority. They can’t just automatically agree with the opinion of the POC, the queer, the Jewish person they’re interacting with in the moment because ‘they’re the experts in their own life.’ Which is true! But there is no monolith. POC and queers and religious minorities are not some mystical pure hivemind that always agree on everything and have correct opinions all the time. People are people. What one person finds offensive another might not care about.

I feel like it’s very evident these days where you have some people of a minority saying x is bad and some people saying x is good. Which is correct? Well, you have to educate yourself and make a critical assessment of the arguments before coming to your own conclusion. But now you have leftists who are desperate to be the most agreeable person in the room with the ‘right’ opinions who waffle and fail to organize in any meaningful way because they refuse to let the subject at hand have meaning for them, personally. They’re so busy ‘listening’ to minorities they’re not actually thinking about what they’re hearing, they’re not processing the biases underprivileged people can still carry, they’re not critical of reactionary politics or propaganda so long as it’s what the people immediately around them agree on.

Grow a spine, pick a side, and actually have a framework for your political and social involvement other than ‘let’s be real niceys with everyone :)’

[recallback-art]

It took a lot of deliberating between several designs, but I finally managed a design for my wizard boy the Apprentice's teacher!

I may be primarily using them as d&d ocs, but their hearts belong to WHA so I ended up going very WHA inspired with him. He's a Brimhat forever and always babey!

[5kmoe]

the rats have developed a vocal chord

[silvertiefling]

&&. can't get over katya HIGHLY considering flashing her tits just to get to punch someone, someone please come get this violent idiot

[flowersforbucky]

starry eyed

bucky barnes x reader

word count: 3.2k

summary: reader gets a special gift from her secret santa

warnings/tags: mostly just fluff, mutual pining, friends to lovers, avenger!reader, no use of y/n, one minor injury, language, kissing and some sensuality

author's note: short little feel good christmas fic! everyone is alive and happy because i say so. i originally got the idea for this fic last winter, but i hadn't got back into writing at that time. happy that i was able to put it into words finally.

my masterlist

“So, whose name did you draw?”

You shove your hand into an oven mitt, grabbing a large dish out of the oven. Everyone had been assigned to bring a different breakfast food to the Christmas morning potluck.

Sam brought chocolate chip pancakes, Steve brought a shit ton of sausage links, and Sharon brought a giant fruit platter to name a few. You figured that the easiest, cheapest way to help feed a group of a dozen people is a couple tubes of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls.

“That kinda takes the secret out of Secret Santa.”

Bucky leans on the island in the middle of the compound’s kitchen, drinking his second cup of coffee of the morning. His breakfast dish of choice? A sack of two dozen McDonald’s hash browns.

“I was just testing you,” Bucky jokes. “You passed. Do you want to know who got your name?”

“No!” You whack his stomach with the oven mitt and he feigns injury. “I do not. Have I passed all of your tests?”

“I’m proud,” Bucky says after a big gulp of coffee. “You’re stronger than Sam, at least. He’s been asking everyone who drew his name for the last week.”

You roll your eyes. “He does that every year and no one ever tells him.”

Your friends begin filing into the kitchen, everyone grabbing plates and piling them high with all of the food scattered across the island. After making your plate, you retreat to the living room and nestle yourself between Natasha and Sharon on the couch.

Everyone is so occupied with stuffing their faces that there’s hardly any conversation. You halfway pay attention to the Hallmark Christmas rom-com playing on the television as you devour a stack of pancakes and hash browns.

Truthfully, you had hoped to draw Bucky’s name from the hat. You had a gift in mind for him already, and if you’d gotten his name then it would have presented you with the perfect opportunity to give it to him without any pressure for him to give you a gift in return.

You ended up drawing Sharon's name, but you decided to get the present for Bucky, anyway – a vintage tabletop phonograph from the forties that you’d snagged for an incredible deal on eBay. You didn’t put it under the gargantuan Christmas tree with all of the other gifts. It sits in your bedroom, waiting for you to give it to him later today when you’re not surrounded by all of your close friends.

To no one’s surprise, Sam and Peter are the first people to finish eating and immediately begin handing out all of the presents under the tree. You’re still finishing up your breakfast when Peter practically throws a small box wrapped in snowmen print paper towards you.

It's addressed to you, from your Secret Santa. Right off the bat, you’re sure that the gift didn’t come from Natasha – you know how much pride that she puts into gift wrapping. Not that this gift is wrapped poorly, but compared to Natasha’s typically extravagant bows, you’re confident that she wasn't the one who wrapped this present.

You also notice that the handwriting appears to be more on the masculine side. It looks familiar, though you can’t say with confidence who it belongs to.

“Alright, who wants to go first?” Sam says loudly enough to quiet all the chatter going on. “No one would spoil my gift for me and I’m getting impatient.”

You and Bucky share a knowing glance and eye roll at his words. He sits in a recliner directly across from you, holding the gift from his own Secret Santa.

“I’ll go first,” you offer excitedly, giving the box in your lap a small shake that gives nothing away.

You carelessly tear at the wrapping paper until it’s in pieces by your feet on the floor.

“What’d you get?” Sam asks.

You don’t respond at first, taking in the packaging of the box.

A northern lights projector.

You feel warmth spread across your cheeks and you can’t help but smile down at the gift in your hands, no longer having any doubt about who this gift came from.

One Month Ago

“These Spaghettios expired a couple weeks ago. Do you think we should risk it?”

You stand in the small kitchen of the Alaskan safe house, rifling through the limited options in the pantry. Some instant oatmeal packets, a few cans of Beanee Weenees, and the aforementioned expired Spaghettios are tonight’s dinner choices.

You can’t say you’re surprised – you’ve been doing this job for a while, and poorly stocked safe houses are pretty much the standard in this line of work. It doesn't help that this is the fifth night that you and Bucky have spent in this particular safe house, and you've eaten through all of the better options at this point.

“If you want to risk getting food poisoning in addition to that sprained ankle, then you go for it. I'll be sticking to the oatmeal.” Bucky reaches around you, grabbing a packet of maple and brown sugar oatmeal from the shelf that you stand in front of.

He's right. The oatmeal is the safest option.

One more night of this, you remind yourself. Tomorrow night, you'd be back in the comfort of your room, where you can DoorDash Chinese food.

You sigh, grabbing the remaining packet of oatmeal.

“You know, I wouldn't even mind the food situation nearly as much if I could just see the lights. Five nights here and nothing,” you grumble.

It’s your first time in Alaska, and you had high hopes for being able to see the northern lights. Each night so far, after long days of recon, you’ve stayed up past the point of exhaustion checking to see if they’re visible.

So far, the weather had been nothing but rainy and dreary, making the sky close to impossible to see at night. The clouds finally let up some today, but you've still seen no hint of an aurora. Just inky blackness, a crescent moon, and a steady downpour of snow that began a few hours ago.

“You could always get one of those projectors,” he teases with a shrug. “Northern lights, galaxies, constellations… all right there on your bedroom ceiling.”

Even though he won’t say it, you know he wants to see the northern lights as badly as you do. He's made it obvious by the way he glances out the window every so often to check.

You’ve been hoping that they’d make an appearance for him as much as for yourself. He's technically seen them before – decades ago. But never as himself. Never as Bucky.

“Those are neat,” you agree glumly. “I've just always wanted to see them in person. Kinda a bucket list thing.”

Getting to witness them with him would be the cherry on top, but you don’t add that part.

Bucky insists that you sit down on the couch and ice your ankle while he prepares the instant oatmeal for the two of you. You’re too tired to protest, so you retreat to the sofa and flip through the limited number of channels on the old TV with your foot propped up.

Fucking black ice. The last day of this mission and everything had gone swimmingly up until you slipped on a patch of clear ice earlier today, twisting your ankle.

You’re just thankful that it happened in front of Bucky, and not Sam. You can only imagine the teasing that would have ensued if it had been Sam that saw you eat shit.

The two of you eat by the warmth of the dwindling fire while watching a Seinfeld re-run.

You’re over three thousand miles from New York, but it doesn’t feel like you’re far from home at all. Bucky and you have been mission partners for quite some time now, and he has a way of making you feel like you’re at home, no matter where you’re actually at. His presence is familiar and comforting – whether you’re at the compound, or in a different country, or in Alaska – the familiarity and comfort of home is there, as long as he is.

“I’m gonna go get some more wood for the fire before bed,” Bucky says when he finishes scarfing down his food. You give him a quick nod, your mouth still crammed full of oatmeal. “You stay here and try not to sprain anything else,” he teases with a glance at your foot that’s elevated on the coffee table in front of you.

You shoot him an obscene gesture once his back is to you. “You act like my leg got cut off,” you grumble as he exits the house.

No more than ten seconds pass before you hear him call your name from beyond the front door. You look over your shoulder with wide eyes and he all but sprints back into the house with an animated expression.

“What? What is it?”

“The lights. They’re visible,” he exclaims. He walks over to the couch, taking your bowl from you and sitting it on the end table next to you before you can process what’s happening. He offers his flesh hand to you in an attempt to help you up.

“Holy shit, really? You better not be messing with me.” You push yourself up off the couch, momentarily forgetting all about your ankle.

“I’m not messing with you,” he snorts. “Come see for yourself.”

Bucky wraps his arm around your waist and you throw yours over his shoulder, helping you walk to the porch without putting too much pressure on your injured foot. You lean into him, his body heat providing a nice reprieve from the night air as you step outside.

You don’t pull away, and neither does he.

Side by side, you stare up at the seemingly endless expanse of swirling rivers of blue and green. The auroral rays seem to dance across the sky, electrifying the night with the shimmering veils of color.

“Wow,” you whisper in awe. Wow doesn’t begin to cover how ethereal the phenomenon is, but you’re at a loss for words. It’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen.

You're acutely aware of the bitter chill of the cold wind. If it weren't for the fact that Bucky feels like a personal space heater, your teeth would be chattering. But with the view before you, you find it hard to care.

“I’d give anything to be able to see this where we live,” you breathe. You glance up at him to find him already looking at you.

“Wouldn't you?” You ask him.

“I really would.”

Present Day

“Oooh,” Natasha coos beside you, snapping you out of your memory. “A northern lights projector. I wonder who that could be from.”

You can tell by her tone of voice that she knows exactly who it’s from – even if you hadn't blatantly told her about seeing the northern lights on your mission with Bucky last month, she's too smart to not be able to figure it out herself.

You playfully elbow her in the side, silencing her teasing but the smirk on her face remains.

“Thank you, Santa,” you say with a glance at Bucky. “I love it.”

The rest of your friends open their presents one by one. You try your hardest to pay attention, but all you can think about is how perfect you think the gift that Bucky picked out for you is. He could have just given you a gift card, or a generic gag gift, but what he gave you is personal, and sentimental, and thoughtful.

When all of the Christmas morning festivities have come to an end, you retreat back to your bedroom with your presents. Despite getting many great gifts from your friends, the one from your Secret Santa is by far your favorite.

You unbox the projector and set it up on your nightstand before plugging it in. As soon as you press the power button, the ceiling of your room is covered in shades of blue and green that mimic the natural hues of the northern lights that you had witnessed first hand just a month prior.

You flick your light switch off, making it easier to envision yourself standing under the Alaska sky. Of course, there’s nothing like seeing the real thing, but it’s still pretty, and the meaning behind the gift is what makes you happier than anything.

Smiling to yourself beneath the undulating ribbons of turquoise and emerald, you can’t help but replay the memory of standing under the aurora with Bucky.

How he got so excited when he went outside and realized the lights were visible, the contrast of his warm body against the cold night air as he helped you stand on your hurt foot, and the way that he was smiling at you instead of taking in the scene before him –

Your phone chimes from your back pocket, drawing you back to reality.

A projection probably doesn’t really compare to the real thing, huh?

You smile at your phone, sitting down on your bed. You think of how you should respond when you remember the present you bought for Bucky that sits in your closet.

Come and see for yourself, you respond.

With his room being just a short distance down the hallway, it’s only a few moments before you hear a soft knock against your door.

“Come in,” you say softly.

You’re suddenly overcome with a wave of nerves, and you tell yourself it’s because you’re antsy about giving him the present you'd picked out for him.

Bucky eases into the room, closing the door behind him. He takes in the display across your ceiling with his hands shoved in his pockets – a nervous habit of his that you’ve noticed many times before, though you can’t pinpoint why he’d be nervous right now.

“Pretty cool,” he admits. He takes a seat in front of you on the edge of your bed and finally meets your gaze. “Can’t say it quite compares to the real thing, but at least it’s a whole lot warmer here.”

“The food is considerably better here, too,” you joke. “But really, thank you. It’s definitely the best Secret Santa gift I’ve ever received,” you add, cringing when you remember the toilet shaped coffee mug that Sam had gotten you two years ago.

You use it regularly, of course. But you like Bucky’s gift far more.

“And I got you a present, too,” you add in a small voice before you can chicken out. “I know I wasn’t your Secret Santa, so I hope you don’t think it’s weird. It’s okay if you don’t like—”

“Can I tell you something?” He interrupts you. He’s grinning big – the kind of grin that brings out the lines around his eyes. You snap your mouth shut and answer with a quick nod.

“I wasn’t your Secret Santa originally,” he sighs. “Natasha was. But I convinced her to switch names with me.”

“But why—”

“I got your present as soon as we got back from Alaska, but then I started overthinking it… just thought it would be easier to give it to you if I had the excuse of being your Secret Santa,” he shrugs.

You’re momentarily stunned. It dawns on you – he’d been worried about the exact thing you had. You’d been so worried about him being weirded out by you getting him a gift that you waited until you were alone to give it to him, and he’d been so worried about getting you a gift that he convinced someone else to let him have your name in Secret Santa.

How silly of both of you, you think.

He sits by you on your bed, waiting for your response with a patient, albeit uncertain expression. Your eyes flicker from his eyes to his lips.

It had been a fleeting thought when you stared into his eyes under the colorful Alaskan sky – how beautiful it would be to kiss someone under such a serene and mesmerizing sky. How beautiful it would be to kiss him, here. It was a thought that you shoved down, out of fear for crossing a line and making yourself look like an idiot.

It's a thought that is once again at the forefront of your mind, sitting beside him in your bedroom under the imitation aurora.

Under the true northern lights, or under your bedroom ceiling in New York – it doesn’t matter. You think kissing him would be beautiful anywhere.

And so you do.

Or he does – you’re not actually sure who leans forward first. But you are sure that he still tastes faintly of maple syrup and coffee from breakfast, and that when he cups your face in his flesh hand and tilts it to give him a better angle to sweep his tongue along your bottom lip, your brain turns to static white noise.

You let him set the pace – it’s slow and soft, like he’s trying to memorize the map that his tongue draws inside your mouth. You place one of your hands on the back of his neck, intertwining your fingers in the short tufts of hair.

Still holding your face in his hand, he pulls away with a gentle tug of your bottom lip between his teeth and looks at you in the blue-green glow of the projector’s illumination.

“Was that my present?” he smiles, rubbing his thumb across your cheek. You laugh, reeling in the afterglow of the kiss.

You drop your hand from his neck, and hold up a singular finger to him, indicating for him to give you a moment. You walk over to your closet, retrieving the large gift bag containing the phonograph.

When you walk back over to your bed, you turn on your bedside table lamp for a bit more light before handing him the bag.

He smiles, blushing faintly as he pulls the tissue paper out of the gift bag. He eases the package out of the bag slowly, as if he’s scared the contents will break. You watch as he takes his time with the unboxing, now feeling a fresh wave of nervousness at the anticipation of him seeing the gift.

His smile only grows once he realizes what it is.

“My ma used to have one just like this,” he murmurs in awe. He grabs your hand in his and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Thank you. It's perfect.”

He turns to place it behind him on your mattress before pulling your face to his once more. It’s shorter than the kiss before, but just as tender and sweet.

“But just so you know, you could have just given me a kiss, and I would’ve been just as thrilled.”

••••••

thanks for reading!! i had fun writing this cute little piece ♡

[coherentselfscoots]

Spoonerisms make for good imagination exercises.

"Be a berm-guster. Hash your wands."

[nereidprinc3ss]

promiscuous

in which spencer reid doesn't like that flirty!reader is going on a date. he makes that known. (bandages universe)

flangst, 18+ for discussions of sex warnings/tags: gn!reader I think, mentions of going to a bar/going for drinks, very suppressed mutual pining, jealousy from Spencer, reader implied to engage in casual sex, reader calls themself a slut somewhat disparagingly but like as a joke, it all gets resolved, he is very sweet, he rambles when he's nervous a/n: oh God I love them so much they are like so in love and they literally have no idea at all because they're so dumb... but WE can tell.. turning point for them

“Penelope wanted me to confirm that you guys are coming to drinks with us tonight?”

It’s something of a standing tradition for the BAU on the last Friday of every month, and usually you’d agree, but tonight, you have other plans. 

“Raincheck for me,” you say, sliding some files into your bag which you do not plan on reviewing. “I have a thing.”

“What thing do you have on a Friday night?” Morgan asks skeptically. You don’t bother looking at him as you hide a smile. 

“A date, Morgan. You jealous?”

“You’re going on a date?”

You’d nearly forgotten Spencer was in the room until he spoke—he’s been in one of those quiet moods of his where he sort of floats around everyone else and makes himself insubstantial. As you cast him a sidelong glance, trying to figure out his tone of voice, you see he’s frowning. Nearly grimacing. His brows are drawn so tight you’re worried he’ll give himself a headache. 

“Uh, yeah. I am.” Suddenly, your parade feels a little rained on. 

“With who?”

You pause, looking back down at your desk with a new frown of your own and shaking your head as if you could clear it that way. “Just… some guy from OT.”

“Dalton?”

Ding ding ding. Somehow he got it right on the first guess, and for some reason, you wish he hadn’t. You don’t want Spencer knowing who you’re going on a date with. It feels wrong. 

“Does it matter?” You evade, shoving your things with a little more force into your bag. 

“Well Dalton is an idiot, so I guess I’m just trying to figure out why you’d go out with him.”

“And if it’s not Dalton?”

“Then I’d tell you all the guys in OT are idiots and you shouldn’t waste your time on any of them.”

“Alright—” Morgan passes between your desks, placing a friendly hand on your back as he does. “I’m gonna let you two hash this out by yourselves.” He gives you a look, eyebrows raised, unsmiling, that means, go easy on the kid. It makes you feel terribly guilty. And more than a little defensive. 

“Night,” you call halfheartedly. He only waves as the glass doors swing shut behind him, leaving you and boy genius alone in the bull pen.

Silence falls, cloistering you as you finish packing up together. It seems to magnify the buzz of the overheads. You notice him intentionally lingering, and you sling your bag over your shoulder with a sigh. 

“Okay,” you say, turning to face him with your whole body. He seems uncomfortable with that, but you’re not letting this go. “What is this? Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you,” he mumbles, refusing to meet your eyes. “I just think—”

“Yeah. You’ve made your thoughts abundantly clear. I don’t know why you’re judging me for going on a date.”

“I’m not judging you! I just think you deserve better than a guy who looks like he… snorts protein powder for every meal and has less capacity for intelligent conversation than a mealworm.”

“Okay. Do you have someone in mind?”

The words come out a little sharper than you’d meant for them to. A little louder. Spencer looks like a scolded puppy as he swallows. 

“Not specifically. Just—someone more like you.”

He just doesn’t get it. You fold your jacket over your arm. 

“Yeah, well, until someone more like me comes along and asks me out, Dalton is the best I’ve got. I know he’s not my soulmate, Reid. But he asked me to drinks, and I said yes.”

The room is mostly dark. Only a few fluorescents remain on to cast Spencer in an almost clinical glow against a dark grey background. You’ve been here before. It feels like an interrogation. An environment where you’re practically begging for the truth without saying please, but there’s only room for measured dishonesty. 

Spencer speaks under his breath, fiddling with the strap of his own bag. “He’s not good enough for you.”

“What do you want me to do?” It’s an exasperated, confrontational sigh. Your arms raise and fall heavily back to your sides. Another long grey hallway of silence that leads nowhere. When it becomes clear he doesn’t have the answer, or he’s not comfortable sharing, you straighten. “I’ll see you Monday, Reid.”

Your spirits are completely dampened as you trudge to the elevators. What once seemed like an exciting opportunity now only serves as a depressing reminder that you’re wasting your time with a man who isn’t what you want. Maybe you should just call the whole thing off. 

“Wait,” Spencer calls, half-jogging to catch the open elevator. His bag bobs with every step, pens and things jingling around inside. It’s endearing, even though you’re upset with him. Your arms remain stubbornly crossed, but he makes it anyway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your mood.”

You laugh dryly. “Yeah, well…”

“It’s just that…” he sniffs and looks down, hair falling in front of his face. He really is sweet, even when he’s kind of a dick. He’s full of so much sincerity he doesn’t know what to do with it all. “I know how you are—you’re special, and funny, and intelligent, and, and Dalton—all those qualities are wasted on him. He looks at you and he just sees a pretty face. It may sound trite, but… he doesn’t deserve you.”

You sigh again, heart squeezing. The glowing light on the panel of floor numbers flickers. “I know your heart is in the right place, alright? But it’s not about who deserves me or who doesn’t. I’m not a prize. I’m a person, and people like to feel wanted. Sometimes, it’s just—it’s about who’s there, and who likes me enough to say it to my face. Sometimes that’s all I need, and I know you didn’t mean it like this, but when you say he doesn’t deserve me, it really seems like you’re not considering what I might want at all. Maybe Dalton is what I want.”

God—this elevator ride is like, comedically long. 

“Is he what you want?”

At least he has the bravery to ask. 

You glance over at Spencer, washed out bloodless and looking like he’s prepared to flinch, like he doesn’t know if he’s ready for the answer. The doors ding and slide open, and stale air whooshes from the chrome compartment into the lobby like a held breath finally exhaled. You swallow. 

“I don’t know why it matters to you.”

“Because you’re my friend and I want to see you happy,” he insists, trailing after you as you speed walk through the lobby. Every click of your heeled boots echos. 

“Then shouldn’t you be supporting me?”

“I’m not going to support you in making the wrong choice.”

The conversation spills out into the bitter-cold parking lot. You turn around to face him. 

“Respectfully, you have no idea what’s right or wrong for me. I don’t like whatever this is,” you say, gesturing with a finger between the two of you, as if the conflict were a tangible thing—a phone line hanging between your hearts. “I don’t know if it’s, like, jealousy, or some misplaced feeling of possessiveness, or protectiveness, or—”

“It’s not like that!” He splutters. 

“Okay—so what is it like? If you want to see me happy, why don’t you support me in pursuing the things that make me happy? And if that’s meaningless sex with some guy from operational tech, so be it! You are not in a position to give your two cents on who I sleep with!”

“I wasn’t trying to—I wasn’t even thinking about—about sex! I don’t care who you sleep with!”

He’s turning increasingly pink. 

“Fine. But if you weren’t thinking about sex, if you thought I was under any illusion that Dalton was going to be my fucking Prince Charming then clearly you’re not equipped to have this conversation. I know he’s an idiot. I’m not looking for my soulmate—thank you, though, for reminding me that it’s completely fucking pointless to even pretend. I love you, Spencer, but grow up. And stay out of my business.”

And with that, you’re turning on your heel and marching toward your car. Spencer calls your name—once. Twice. The wind lashes against your bare arms and stings your eyes as you fumble with your keys. 

It’s just the wind. 

Nothing else. 

-

Maybe you’re simply not meant for love. 

It’s a narcissistic thought in the sense that everyone has it at some point in their lives—everyone falls victim to the delusion that they are so uniquely wretched, so singularly incapable of being understood by another person. It’s the universal illusion of solitude. And you’d thought yourself above it for a long time. In college, there was fling after fling. Your bed was never empty if you didn’t want it to be. In your young adult life, you have other priorities—but you rarely have to be alone. 

Now, though, as you sit on a rickety metal stool deep in the bowels of the Bureau’s records room, banished to sort through files in search of one that had been mishandled during a cold case and is now supposedly relevant again, (although you’re not sure it actually exists) you’re pondering the nature of those connections you’d been so sure your life was full of. Were they all artificial? Designed by you subconsciously to manufacture a sense of complacent satisfaction? To stave off the aching, gnawing loneliness in your gut that you’re only now becoming aware of and has been eating you away in bigger and bigger bites since Friday night?

Morgan was supposed to be just as arm-deep into a box of dusty manila folders as you are now, but he talked his way out of it, and you’re sitting in an awkward twenty-minute-long-so-far silence with Spencer. Which isn’t helping anything. 

The tension comes and goes like the moon pulling the tides. It’s like you can sense it wafting off of each other—you feel it in the prickle on the back of your neck and the buzz in your stomach when he’s about to say something, and you glance over, and he’s already looking at you with his lips parted, and then he doesn’t say anything after all, and the silence reinforces itself. 

It gets frustrating. 

Not to mention this task is equal parts mind numbing and infuriating. Maybe Hotch just hates you. 

Eventually Spencer clears his throat, and you welcome the distraction. 

“What year are you on?”

You give him a long look which he doesn’t reciprocate, because you want to say, really? But eventually you pick up the edge of the box you’re sifting through and double check. 

“Uh… June 1979 through August 1979.”

He nods matter-of-facts. “They should be making us wear gloves.”

Your incoming tangent spidey senses are tingling. It’s not exactly an opportune time, but it’s better than silence. 

Plus—you’re pretty sure this is his idea of a peace offering. 

“Why’s that?” You mutter, flicking through yellowed papers. 

“Wood pulp paper contains an alum-rosin mixture to minimize ink bleeding, but in the presence of moisture such as that introduced in trace amounts by our fingertips it generates a diluted sulfuric acid solution. They didn’t start adding alkaline buffers into paper until 1986, and the cellulose chains that comprise the structure of the paper inevitably shorten and break down over time, so we’re actively degrading these documents by touching them without gloves.”

“Did you say sulfuric acid?”

“I said a diluted sulfuric acid solution,” he clarifies, utterly missing the point of your question as he so often does in that disarmingly endearing way of his. “Sorry, by the way.”

You look up from a photo of bloodied bell-bottom jeans. He’s caught you by surprise. 

“For what?”

“For—”

He struggles with the words—you watch his lips form a few silent ones before he gives up on the nonchalant act and sets his file on his lap. He can’t seem to tear his eyes from it, but you don’t mind. 

“For everything on Friday. I… I know it was none of my business. I sometimes struggle with… keeping my thoughts to myself. Especially when it concerns someone I care about. But I wasn’t judging you, I swear. What you said about—about sex, I—” he sighs, obviously frustrated with himself, and pushes a bit of hair out of his eyes. “That’s not where my mind was at, at all. Whatever you… do, or don’t do, is none of my business. Obviously. You don’t need me to tell you that. You don’t need me to tell you anything. I just really wanted to clarify that I wasn’t shaming you or judging you for—”

“Spencer,” you say gently, cutting him off and reeling him in before he can dig any deeper. 

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He glows under the canned lighting, a soft aura of white blurring the edges of him. The stale room buzzes. It’s otherwise quiet down here. Peaceful, almost. 

From anyone else, you might consider it overstepping. 

You wouldn’t have been willing to forgive them in the first place. 

But it’s not anyone else. 

“Thank you, for apologizing. I really appreciate it.”

He glances up at you, sort of hunched—always trying to make himself smaller than whatever force created him had intended. The deep brown of his eyes is melted and swirling and sweet and nervous. He’s not naturally good at these interpersonal things, but he’s always trying. He’s always pushing himself for you.

Do you ask too much? 

Do you offer enough in return?

Struck by sudden insecurity, you look away. Go back to your files. 

Perhaps you made a mountain out of a molehill and told him to climb it. 

“I mean, I am kind of a slut. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking so,” you laugh airily. “Maybe it was a good reality check.”

A trailing silence. An air conditioner kicks on. 

“What? That’s not—that’s not at all what I was trying to say.”

“Spencer, it’s fine.”

His stool squeaks as he sits up straighter. 

“No, I really want you to understand. Even if I cared or thought about how many people you might sleep with—which I don’t—and even if I determined that you were… sexually promiscuous, I wouldn’t assign a moral value to that judgement. Sexual promiscuity is observed all the time in the animal kingdom, it’s biologically sound and justified and in less misogynistic cultures where bonds forged between humans weren’t socioeconomic arrangements dependent on women being viewed as commodities first and foremost, it’s completely unremarkable. But I haven’t made that determination. All I know is that… you’re you. And that’s all that’s ever going to matter to me.”

Silence falls. Your voice gets stuck in your throat. 

How does he so casually show you more kindness than anyone else has ever managed to show you in your life?

Spencer takes pity on you. 

“And… we’ve talked entirely too much about something that’s none of my business today.”

It’s wry and earns a chuckle from you. Even Spencer manages a chagrined smile. That same strand of hair falls loose as he looks down. Light bounces from his self-effacing smirk. 

You fiddle absentmindedly with the fraying corner of a folder, and you’re about to open your mouth, about to speak into the sparkling cloud that the easy laughter and the melted tension has left in its wake, and tell him how much you appreciate him and how kind he truly is and undoubtedly whatever you say will be made more beautiful because of it—because of the affection you have for each other—and then you stop, eyes catching on the case file between your fingers. You frown. 

“Wait—what’s the case number we’re looking for?”

“91 18 00063 7.”

You hold the file up, eyes alight. 

“I found it.”

Spencer frowns and takes it without asking. You watch as he reviews the number in tiny black typeface along the top of the document. His brow scrunches in disbelief. 

“I genuinely didn’t think we were ever going to find it,” he murmurs after leading through the photos and glances back up at you. “We had thirty years of boxes to look through and you found it in under an hour. You’re like magic.”

It’s impossible not to smile. You feel all warm and sparkly as you snatch it back from him and stand, straightening your jacket. 

“Will you tell that to Hotch?”

“I… will tell anyone who will listen,” he assures you, and you’re confident he’s following as you make your way through the maze of stacks. “Are we not gonna clean up our mess?”

“There are people who will take care of that later.”

“Yeah. Like me. During my lunch break.”

“Don’t worry. You’re going to be well rewarded for your efforts today.”

“What does that mean?” He mumbles, and you can practically hear his blush. 

You smile to yourself. 

Still got it. 

for more of these two, check out the bandages universe masterlist!

[jjjjisun]

Haerin getting facefucked and taking a load on her face/tits

Haerin, The Cat Slut

Haerin X Male Reader | 2515 words

Tags: gangbang, facefucking

—

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Book commissions here.

—

Haerin paced the length of her cramped studio apartment, her breaths echoing in the silent room. The dim glow of the streetlight poured in through the window, casting long shadows that danced with her movements. She was down to her last few thousand won, her group's legal battle draining her faster than she could replenish them, as if she had other means to get money. Her heart ached at the thought of disappointing her fans and being another K-pop idol labeled as a failure.

She paused by the window, her reflection staring back at her. Wide doe eyes, upturned nose, and full lips - the cat-like features that had once landed her in the spotlight now seemed like a cruel joke. She knew what she had to do. Desperation clawed at her, but she pushed the fear aside, steeling herself for the only option.

Mr. Jae's office was bathed in the warm glow of sunset, the expansive view of Seoul reduced to a canvas of oranges and reds. He looked up from his desk as she entered, his eyes lingering on her lean form. He was a formidable figure, his age etched in the lines around his eyes, but his gaze was sharp, appraising.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Jae?" Haerin asked, her voice steady despite the butterflies wreaking havoc in her stomach.

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. "I hear your group is in trouble, Haerin. Money trouble."

She bit her lip, nodding. "Yes, sir. We're facing some... legal issues."

He smirked, standing up and rounding his desk. "Issues that can be solved with money."

She took a deep breath, and her decision was made. "I have something to offer you, Mr. Jae. Something that might... interest you."

He raised an eyebrow, stopping in front of her. His scent enveloped her, a heady mix of expensive cologne and power. "Oh? What could you possibly have to offer me, Haerin?"

She tilted her head up, meeting his gaze. "Myself."

---

Mr. Jae's eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his face before quickly schooling his expression. He reached out, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. "You're offering to be my mistress?"

Haerin swallowed hard, the question making the reality of her situation sink in. "Yes," she whispered.

He chuckled, low and dangerous. "You're bold, I'll give you that." His hand slipped around her waist, pulling her against him. "But I'm not interested in just fucking you, Haerin. I want to own you."

Her breath hitched as his hand moved to her ass, squeezing hard. He leaned down, his breath hot on her ear. "I want to fuck that sweet little mouth of yours. I want to feel your tight pussy wrapped around my cock."

A shudder ran through her, his words painting vivid images in her mind.

"Well?" he asked, nipping at her earlobe. "Can you handle that, Haerin?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "Yes," she breathed, her voice barely audible.

He grinned, his tongue flicking out to lick her neck. "Good. Then I think we have a deal."

---

The terms were hashed out quickly, and a contract was drawn up and signed before the night was through. Mr. Jae's servants brought her a change of clothes, and she followed them to a luxurious apartment, her mind racing. She was awake, she told herself. This was her choice.

But as Mr. Jae led her to his bedroom, she couldn't shake off the nerves. He was a powerful, strange man who had just bought her like property. And now, she was expected to serve him, to give herself over to his will.

He undressed her slowly, his fingers trailing over her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps. She stood still, letting him explore her body, her heart pounding in her chest. When she was naked, he导 her to the bed, pushing her down until she was sprawled on her back.

He loomed over her, his eyes dark with lust. "Spread your legs, Haerin," he commanded, his voice rough.

She complied, her breath hitching as he looked his fill. He crawled onto the bed, settling between her thighs. His hands roamed her body, pinching her nipples, caressing her breasts, until she was writhing beneath him.

"Please," she gasped, her body aching for release.

He chuckled, his fingers trailing down her stomach, stopping just short of her pussy. "Please, what, Haerin?"

"Please touch me," she whispered, her cheeks flushing red.

He obliged, his fingers strumming her clit, slipping inside her, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. She moaned, her hips lifting off the bed, seeking more friction. He took advantage, his mouth descending on her, his tongue flicking out to lick her, to taste her.

She cried out, her orgasm hitting her hard, her body convulsing as he continued to lick her, drawing out her climax until she was a panting, quivering mess. When she finally came down, she found him watching her, his eyes filled with a hungry, possessive gleam.

"Good," he said, his voice hoarse. "That's just the beginning, Haerin. With me, you'll learn to come on command. You'll learn to crave my touch. You'll learn to obey."

She nodded, her body already humming with anticipation. She had made her choice. Now, she just had to learn to live with it.

Saturday was an oppressive cloud hanging over Haerin all week. She counted down the hours and minutes until she was to belong to Mr. Jae again. Yet, as she stood before his penthouse door, her heart pounding like a timid rabbit, she knew there was no turning back. She had made her choice.

Mr. Jae answered the door himself, his gaze sweeping over her, lingering on the black dress that hugged her curves. His lips curled into a satisfied smirk. "Right on time, Haerin. I like punctuality."

She followed him inside, her heels clicking against the marble floor. The penthouse was a symphony of luxury, but she barely noticed, focusing solely on the man leading her to the dining room. A table set for two dominated the space, the scent of expensive food wafting through the air.

They ate silently, Mr. Jae watching her every move, every mouthful. She could feel his predatory gaze, anticipating the moment they would move from the pretense of a meal to the real purpose of her visit.

When her last bite was taken, he pushed his chair back and stood. "Finished?"

She nodded, her throat suddenly dry. He held out his hand, his palm facing up. "Come, Haerin. Let's begin."

She placed her hand in his and let him tug her to her feet. His grip was firm and unyielding as he led her to the bedroom. A king-sized bed dominated the space, and the sheets were pristine and inviting—or they would have been, had she not known what was to come.

He turned to face her, his eyes dark with desire. "I've been looking forward to this all week, Haerin. I hope you have too."

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I'm ready."

A cruel smile graced his lips. "Good. Let's see how ready you are." He pushed her down onto the bed, his hands going to his belt, his pants falling to the floor. His cock sprang out, thick and hard, an intimidating eight inches.

Her eyes widened, her heart hammering in her chest. "Mr. Jae—"

"Shh," he hushed, climbing onto the bed, his knees straddling her shoulders. "You said you were ready. Prove it."

She opened her mouth, an automatic response, but he wasn't gentle. He thrust in, his cock hitting the back of her throat, making her gag. He didn't pull back, instead withdrawing just enough for her to catch her breath before thrusting in again.

Tears stung her eyes as he face-fucked her, his cock sliding in and out, choking her again and again. She could feel the saliva dripping down her chin, her face a mess of tears and drool. He took her mercilessly, ruthlessly, not caring if she choked, if she gasped for breath.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he grunted, his hips moving faster, his cock pounding into her mouth. "You're my little cat slut, aren't you, Haerin? Your only purpose is to make me come."

She wanted to deny it, to tell him she was more than just a piece of ass, but all she could do was gag, her body writhing beneath him as he used her mouth, her throat, taking what he wanted. And still, he didn't stop.

For an hour, he fucked her face, his cock a relentless intruder, his groans filling the room. She thought she would suffocate, thought she would die on his cock, but still, he didn't stop. And then, finally, when she felt she couldn't take anymore, he pulled out, his cock aimed at her face.

"Here it comes, cat slut," he growled, his voice strained. "I'm going to mark you as mine."

Warmspurts of cum hit her, landing on her cheeks, her nose, her tits. She gasped, her body convulsing with a backward orgasm, her climax catching her by surprise. He grunted, milking his cock until the last drop fell on her skin.

"There," he panted, looking down at her ravaged face with a satisfied smirk. "That's the price of pleasure, Haerin. And you're just getting started."

She lay there, cum-covered and used, her body aching, her throat sore. But as she looked up at him, she realized she wasn't just a transaction to him. He wanted her, desired her, perhaps even more than he wanted to control her.

-----

Haerin arrived at Mr. Jae's penthouse, her heart pounding steadily against her ribs. She knew what awaited her, yet the usual dread was replaced with a strange anticipation. The day before, Mr. Jae had sent a message, a simple arrangement for a special service, sending ripples of excitement and trepidation through her. She had never done anything like this, but the promise of increased payment had sealed her decision.

The door opened to Mr. Jinwoo, her former manager. His eyes rake over her in a way that makes her skin crawl. Behind him stand four of her former bodyguards, their gazes equally predatory. She stepped inside, her head held high, refusing to show the unease coiling in her stomach.

Mr. Jae was already there, his smile cold and calculating. "Ah, Haerin, punctual as always. Today, we have some guests. They're eager to... catch up with you." He gestured to the men behind him, their grins predatory.

She swallowed hard, but her voice was steady. "I'm ready."

Mr. Jae's grin widened, and he snapped his fingers. "Good. Let's begin."

They led her to the bedroom, her feet moving on autopilot. She was stripped, her clothes discarded, until she stood naked before them. Mr. Jae pushed her down onto the bed, her back against the mattress, her legs dangling over the side.

"Spread your legs, Haerin," he ordered, and she complied, her thighs shaking. He stood between them, his cock already hard, ready. "Today, you're going to be our little slut. You're going to take everything we give you, right?"

She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "Yes."

Mr. Jae's grin was feral as he fisted his cock, slapping it against her lips. "Then open up, cat slut. It's time for your face-fucking."

She opened her mouth, and he slipped inside, his groans filling the room as he thrust in and out, his hips moving in a relentless rhythm. She gagged, her tears flowing freely as he fucked her mouth, his cock hitting the back of her throat again and again.

"This is what you are, Haerin," he grunted, his voice rough. "A slut for cock. My slut."

Behind him, she could see Mr. Jinwoo. He unzipped his pants, his cock springing out, thick and veiny. He climbed onto the bed, his body pressing against her hip as he lined his cock up with her pussy.

"Look at you, taking two cocks like a good little whore," he sneered, guiding his cock into her pussy. She gasped, the sensation of being filled in two places overwhelming as he started to move, his hips slapping against her thighs.

She could feel a third body behind her, the click of a lube cap filling the room. Fingers worked into her ass, scissoring, stretching her. Then, a cock, thick and unyielding, pushing inside, filling her. She moaned, the sensation of being stretched to the limit, of being filled, almost too much to bear.

Two more bodies joined, one on each side of her, their cocks in her hands. They pumped their hips, using her hands, fucking them relentlessly as they groaned and grunted.

In the background, she could hear the muffled sounds of porn, the rhythmic slapping of skin on skin. She looked over, her eyes widening as she saw one of the bodyguards, his cock in his hand, his phone filming the scene, its light blinding in the dimly lit room.

"For hours, we're going to use you, Haerin," Mr. Jae growled, his hips moving faster, his cock pistoning in and out of her mouth. "We're going to fill you with our cum. And then, we're going to share this video with your little group members. They can see how you've become our little cum-dumpster."

She whimpered, the thought of the other members seeing her like this, of their disgust, their judgment, pushing her closer to the edge. She could feel her orgasm building, the intense pleasure of being used, of being filled, impossible to ignore.

"Fuck, she's going to come," Mr. Jinwoo grunted, his cock slamming into her pussy, picking up the pace. "She's fucking loving this."

She did. The shame, the degradation, the intense pleasure, all mixed, pushing her over the edge. She screamed around Mr. Jae's cock, her body convulsing as she came, her orgasm ripping through her like a storm.

Mr. Jae came next, his cock throbbing in her mouth, his cum filling her, spilling out the sides of her mouth. He pulled out, his cum dripping down her chin, and she automatically licked her lips, tasting him, savoring him.

One by one, the others came, filling her pussy, her ass, her hands with their cum. They pulled out, their cocks glistening, and she could feel the semen dripping from her, coating her, marking her.

She was a mess, a cum-covered slut, used, filled, and claimed. And as they all stood there, catching their breath, their laughter filled the room.

Hours later, the room was filled with moans, grunts, slapping skin, and her screams muffled by the gag. It was a symphony of lust, a ballet of debauchery. They used and filled in all her holes.

"That's our little kitty kang," Mr. Jae chuckled, his hand gentle on her face. "Always coming back for more."

She smiled, exhausted and sated. As she looked at the video being sent to her group members, she knew this was just the beginning. This was her new reality, her new life. And despite the shame and degradation, she couldn't wait for more.