#Power Claw Extension

[autoacafiles]

New artfight, this time for @starry-tiger of their mechsona.

[followerofmercy]

Networking/Knowing A Guy: A Guide

This is the autism website. Now, as an extension of the power of love and friendship, there are few things more useful than Knowing A Guy. Knowing A Guy means you have a support network. Knowing a plumber, or a tax accountant, or just that one dude that's really fucking good at finding the information you need when you're really overwhelmed, can be the difference between being able to pay rent and having a fun party with friends to fix your shit.

How does one end up Knowing A Guy? It's a skill you can develop called Networking and it is one of the foundations of society. Unfortunately making those connections with people is fucking hard and nobody makes a tutorial for it. So, here you go:

The golden rule is you scratch my back and I scratch yours

It is necessary for survival to seek out useful people

Great news! Everyone is useful in some form or fashion - including you! When given the opportunity to learn about someone, do it! Extroversion does not come naturally to some people and that's okay. Just take whatever falls in your lap.

Types of usefulness: trade skills, connections of their own, personality you jive with, pleasant to talk to, niche interest in shared hobby, security - the list is pretty much endless. I know a guy that lives in the metro area - no job, no major hobbies, inoffensively annoying to me personally, kinda ignorant, not attractive to me, but you know what? He knows how the fuck to get around the city by foot. My rural-raised ass APPRECIATES the guide.

Remember important information: general personality, background, skillset, likes and dislikes. You can find this information by making smalltalk about their life. There is no such thing as pointless conversation. (Yes, even the annoying smalltalk)

The more people you know, the higher the likelihood that one of them will be useful in a given situation - or will know someone who is.

It is overwhelming. In a given clique/community/workspace/whatever, there is A Guy Who Knows The Other Guys. This Guy is a shortcut. Find them. They're often elderly, extroverted, a little bit annoying, a secretary or in some otherwise forward-facing position. Look for people that are gossipy/talk about other people a lot but not in negative ways. If they constantly talk shit, they'll talk shit about you too. They're still useful but be careful with the information you share

You do not have to like someone for them to be useful.

You do not have to like someone for them to be useful.*

If you have low self esteem, you're going to feel like you're using people. You're not. That's the devil talking. People like feeling valued and the connections you are making are the threads holding community together. Recognize people for their talents. It's only a problem when you're taking advantage of people

So: don't feel scummy about it. You're an animal. You have to claw out your right to survive and people will respect you more for it.

Luckily mutualism is the name of the game in the animal kingdom. Offer something back. The foundation of a Know A Guy relationship is Mutual Benefit

Sometimes that Mutual Benefit is just spreading news of the The Guy far and wide. My plumber friend is my actual friend and I love her to death, but I'm maintaining our backscratch relationship by pimping out her plumbing business to anyone that'll listen

Food is a good Mutual Benefit. People across cultures for all of human history have bonded over food. I have good success asking people for a favor and then offering to buy them lunch in return **

General compensation is also good. Offer a service in return and always do your best to offer financial compensation as appropriate. Having your plumber friend take a look at your drain: doable with a case of beer. Having your plumber friend redo the pipes in your entire house? You need to pay for that.

Being transactional is not necessarily a bad thing. I would advise against keeping an itemized list of things owed, but fish don't seek out cleaner shrimp just because they enjoy their company. Everyone gets something

Unfortunately being extroverted and generally personable is a huge benefit here, but that's the value of the Guy That Knows A Guy. There's someone out there that has consolidated All The Guys so you don't have to be the local expert. Always remember nobody can do everything and you don't need to master every skill

* This is the foundation of a functioning community. I have many acquaintances that I find incredibly annoying. They include doctors, welders, artists, social workers, lawyers, construction crew and random fuckers at the grocery store. I do not hang out with them. I do not have to in order to maintain a civil Know A Guy relationship. I can drop them useful tidbits and fuck right off so I don't have to spend any more time than necessary with them

** People may assume romantic intent. Be prepared for that. I generally denote that it's a friendly/work lunch by calling them bro at some point if they're my age. Otherwise my general demeanor is sufficient to show that I do this with everyone

Source: personal experience, mother's teachings of crime, booth vending and poverty

[monstersholygrail]

Not to Borrow but to Keep

Shadow Monster x fem!reader— possessiveness, shadow tentacles, suspension, restraints, sex in a public but empty space, sensory deprivation, multiple orgasms, and creampie

It was always hard for Shadow Monster Captain to share you. Even though it was pretty inevitable given you were the only human in the Monster Apocalypse who could actually see them. They all wanted your attention, but no one needed it like he did.

Yet somehow he was the one standing guard at the abandoned library’s entrance, watching from afar as you give all of your affections to the dark gargantuan spirit who inhabits the library and is its sole reason for its withering state. No matter that it was he who offered, no insisted, he be on guard duty.

Seeing you give the other monsters the attention he so desperately craves has something dark swirling in his gut. It weakens his hold on his powers and the library grows darker as his shadows slip and begin to creep in.

The other spirits that rest on the floor and large plush chairs all waiting for their turn begin to chitter and chirp nervously. All of them speaking over the other before hesitantly turning to meet his thundering gaze.

Though you don’t appear to notice, getting up off your chair and heading toward a nearby bookshelf. Shadow Monster Captain glares back at the spirits and they immediately scatter like cowardly rats, shrieking their displeasure even as they run out of the room. Leaving him completely alone with you.

His shadows become darker by the minute, swallowing up the entire room to the point where you’re surrounded by him. Only him. It’s still not close enough. He walks over to you, his shadows coming off of him in waves. The moment you’re in reach his arms are curling around you and he’s tugging you into his chest.

A loud gasp echos against his shadows and your hands jump to the bookshelf to help steady you. Pleasure bursts in tiny shocks as you caress his shadows, an extension of himself.

“What’re you doing?” You ask breathlessly, not wanting to admit how fucking hot his silent dominance is. The things it does to you, you’re barely hanging on by a thread.

“Mine. You’re Mine,” he snarls, nuzzling into your neck.

You can feel each sharp tooth against your flesh and it only makes you that much more hotter for him. Your back arches into him on its own, pressing your ass into his growing erection. He snarls again, snapping his jaw at you in warning of encouragement you aren’t sure. Either way you don’t listen.

“Who says I’m yours?” You ask, practically moaning it you’re so turned on. Wanting so badly to finally push him over the edge.

And it does as his last flicker of restraint snaps and a fierce roar shakes the walls of the library you can no longer see clearly. He gives you no time to catch your breath as he pushes you against the bookshelf and reaches a hand between your thighs.

It takes you a moment to register the sound of tearing fabric as he rips your jeans and panties to shreds, exposing your dripping folds to the air, and not even bothering to fully undress you. It doesn’t matter, none of it does.

All he cares about is being able to sink into your tight cunt, and god, that’s the hottest thing anyones ever done to you. Reducing you to nothing but your sweet holes. And knowing how much he truly cherishes you only makes it that much hotter, his desperation for you has you gushing and making a mess of your thighs.

His thick clawed fingers push through your folds, spreading you open for him so pretty and you mewl, angling your hips and begging for him to take you. But he never touches where you need him most, claws barely just ghosting over your clit before falling back to tease your entrance.

“I say your mine, little human. And I think she does too, eh?” He rasps in your ear.

As if to prove his point he slowly pushes two of his digits in your sopping cunt. Your stomach burns in humiliation as a loud squelch pierces through the simmering tension. You can’t believe you’re so turned on, the need to curl into yourself and disappear into his shadows claws at you. But he’s making you feel so good with every torturous pump of his fingers you can’t imagine moving right now.

But just as your eyes start to flutter, ready to get lost in the sensation, he’s pulling back. The sudden emptiness has you whining without meaning to and you buck back, craving his long fingers back inside of you.

You go to say something, to beg and plead for more, when you then feel his big throbbing tip circle around your needy entrance. Every nerve in your body goes tight and you gasp, wanting so back to rock back and slam down on his cock.

His breath hits the shell of your ear and you swear you’re about to fall apart before he even gets inside of you. As if to ground yourself your nails dig into the shadows on the bookshelf and he hisses, hips jumping forward instinctively as he starts to push into you. But he quickly stops himself, panting as heavily as you are.

“Tell me. Tell me you’re mine,” he demands, tone as dark as his shadows.

You nod frantically but already you know it won’t be enough. He growls in response, putting just the tip in and your pussy immediately clenches around him, trying to suck him in. He just won’t budge, not until you say it. So you gather all the strength you have left and finally admit it.

“I-I’m yours— Fuck— I’m yours!”

Your fierce shout fades into a vulgar scream as Shadow Monster Captain slams the rest of his massive cock inside you in one long stroke. His fierce growls vibrate against your back as he doesn’t hesitate you plunge into your tight hot pussy like a feral beast.

All you can do is hold onto the bookshelf with all you have as he fucks you within an inch of your life. The power of his thrusts force you up against the shelf with each snap of his hips. All the air is forced from your lungs, leaving only the feeling of his length filling you over and over again.

Moans spill from your lips in an endless stream as so much pleasure courses through you, you can’t even contain it. And your encouragement only seems to spur him on further, his claws sinking into your wide waist and jackhammering his cock into your perfect pussy.

He fucks you so hard your feet don’t even touch the ground anymore, his hands and his shadows suspending you in the air and allowing him to bury himself inside of you as hard as he desires.

“All mine. Finally. All mine,” he growls, his voice slipping as he forgets your language completely. Though he doesn’t stop rambling praises you don’t understand in his native demonic tongue.

His shadows tighten around your body and quiver against you, sending bolts of arousal straight to your core. Your cries grow louder with each drag of his length along your warm walls and you know you won’t be able to last much longer.

“Yes, oh my— nngh!— yes I’m yours, I swear it!” You shriek in response, vision flashing white at the intensity of your impending orgasm.

Just then you feel the tiniest tendril of a shadow rub against your clit just right and it sends you hurtling over the edge. A loud ringing fills your ears and you’re only barely aware it’s your own screams as you shake through the most mindblowing orgasm of your life.

If Shadow Monster Captain wasn’t holding you up your body would’ve given out by now. All you can do is shake, unable to move away from the overwhelming pleasure as he works you through it. Even as you clamp down around him he keeps going, unknowingly rambling about how perfect you feel around him and how gorgeous you look when you cum on his dick.

He can sense your next orgasm building so he clenches his teeth and keeps on going, already addicted to the feeling of you squeezing him. It’s only when you’re thrown into your second orgasm does he finally join you. Burying himself inside of you to the hilt, once, twice, and three more times before letting himself cum. A deep rumble builds in his chest as he pumps you full to the brim with his hot seed.

His shadows remain around your limbs possessively, unwilling to let you go. Shadow Monster Captain sags against your back, nuzzling into your neck again, and remaining as deep inside of you as he can be.

Slowly but surely his shadows recede and the light from the library windows trickle back in. But still he doesn’t let you go and you know he’s still thinking about his claim on you. You are too but his next words are what finally take you out.

“And I’m yours.”

[imaginedisish]

Liquid Smooth (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Started writing this last night...sooo happy you guys wanted a sex pollen fic! Hope it lives up to everyone's expectations! This one is (obviously) inspired by "Liquid Smooth," by Mitski. ENJOY!

Summary: A simple mission deep in a forest alone with Logan quickly gets out of hand when you just have to go and pick a flower...

Warnings: 18+ EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT MINORS DNI! Dry humping, Oral (f!receiving), Fingering, Unprotected PIV (wrap it up!), Sex Pollen (so dub!con just to be safe, but not really), Multiple orgasms, Porn Without Plot...literally, implied!age gap, cursing, friends to lovers, fem!reader/afab!reader, probably some grammatical errors, I think that's it.

Word Count: 3,797 muahaha

“I don’t need a goddamn babysitter,” you murmur as Logan thumbs through the controls of the X-Jet. “Could’ve done this by myself.” 

Logan scoffs. “I’m not your babysitter, princess.” You roll your eyes at the nickname Logan has specially reserved just for you. “Charles said we’d be safer going together. He knows you can handle yourself.”

The X-Jet cruises effortlessly through the clouds. The air is still today. Calm. You and Logan are on your way to get some sort of flower that Charles claims to have extensive healing properties. It’s an easy mission. No fighting. No violence. You’re unlikely to have to use your powers at all. And yet, you’ve been paired with Logan. 

It wouldn’t be a problem if you weren’t—admittedly—a little into him. Or rather, pining after him. There’s just something about the sarcasm that’s always thick in his voice; the way he squeezes himself into those thin beaters. How he’s always so self-assured, so thoroughly convinced he’s right. You just can’t help it. You want him. But he isn’t yours, and he probably never will be. He’s a little older—well, a lot, considering he’s been around forever. And you know it’s safer not to make attachments—not to fall in love.

Unfortunately, it’s a little too late for that. 

But having him here with you now, alone, with no buffers…it’s overwhelming. You can smell him—that mix of tobacco and pine and musk and him. He’s suddenly everywhere, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You watch as his long fingers press different buttons, his hands gripping the steering wheel, adjusting thrusters. You stare at those fingers for far too long, your thoughts drifting to what else he can do with them. You think about him curling them deep inside you, stretching you open and—

“Everything okay?” You snap your head to face Logan, swallowing harshly as his voice pulls you back to reality. 

You force a smile, nodding. “Yep!” You say, overcompensating just a bit. “All good,” you lie. You close your eyes, trying to push thoughts of Logan out of your head, denying the heat growing between your legs.

“Good, because we’re almost there,” Logan says, the X-Jet descending carefully. You look out the window to see the trees below. There’s a lake in the distance, but that’s it. No civilization, no houses—no one. It’s empty, peaceful. 

“We’re really in the middle of nowhere, huh?” You say, glancing at Logan. 

His eyes meet yours and he smiles. Warmth blooms in your heart at the sight. “My kind of place,” he says back. The X-Jet descends further as you approach a clear spread of grass to land on just ahead. 

This is, in fact, not your kind of place. The humidity creeps up your back and settles under your skin. The forest is overgrown and impossible to navigate. You let Logan slice through the plant life with his claws, swiping back and forth whenever something gets in your way.

You haven’t been walking for long, but you’re already done. Perhaps Charles was right; a partner is not the worst idea on a mission like this. 

You can see the flower just ahead—yellow petals and a long, green, viny stem. It glows brightly even under the dense forest canopy. “Semper in tenebris lux,” Charles had said; there is always light in darkness. And he was right. The flower illuminates everything in its path. Next to it, you can see a pretty, lavender-colored flower. You stop in your tracks, letting Logan wander ahead as you crouch down to stroke the purple petals. 

“Charles didn’t say anything about not taking other flowers too, right?” You call out, watching as Logan swipes carefully at the stem of the yellow flower. He holds the dainty stem in his large hands as he walks back over to you. 

“No, he didn’t. But you should be careful. It could be poisonous or—”

You ignore Logan, picking the flower anyway. You hold it up to your nose and breathe in. It’s sweet and fragrant. You twist the stem and realize the flower is sticky with sap and pollen. Your twist shakes some of the pollen up, and it lands all over your face. 

“Shit,” you mutter, wiping it away. A gust of wind sweeps through the forest, knocking the flower out of your hand and spreading more of its pollen in the air. You can feel it in your nostrils, getting caught in your throat.

Logan furrows his brows as the pollen falls to the ground. “What the fuck did you do?”

You roll your eyes. “All I did was pick a flower!” You lift your hands, feigning innocence. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” You stand up, glancing once at the yellow flower in Logan’s hands and then back at Logan. “It’s pretty.”

He parts his lips, his stare focused on you. “Yeah, it is.” There’s something else in that stare, in those words. Like maybe he isn’t only talking about the flower. You shove those thoughts down as you turn around and walk back to the jet.

Your steps are suddenly very heavy. You scratch at your shoulder. Heat blooms in your chest, your stomach, across your face. You’re irritated and overheated and itchy. Your breath grows heavier and rougher with every step. 

Logan notices immediately. He stops, grabbing your arm. You can’t control the way you lean into his touch, nor the way you’re craving more. “Hey,” he soothes, eyes searching your face. “Are you okay?” There’s a hint of panic in his voice. 

You swallow harshly, nodding. Your throat feels thick, your skin tight and oppressive. “’M’fine,” you mumble. 

“Quit lying. I can tell something’s wrong,” Logan demands. You open your mouth to persuade him otherwise, but he doesn’t give you the chance, his grip tightening around your arm. “Your skin is on fucking fire, princess. What did you do?” He cocks his head, sniffing as he furrows his brows. His voice is darker now, slower as his eyes widen. “What the fuck did you do?”

You take in a sharp breath. And that’s when you feel it, the ache between your thighs, the slick arousal soaking through your panties. The realization smacks you in the face. For a moment, you’re clear-headed, but still terrified. The pollen. That goddamn, fucking pollen. “Logan, look, I think that purple flower had some—"

He cuts you off as he yanks your arm, tugging you towards the ship. “We need to get you back to the jet, okay?”

“Oh, I am so fucked,” you cry. You know you only have a few seconds left before the effects really kick in. “L-Logan,” you stutter, almost moaning as your core burns stronger with need. “T-the pollen was everywhere. What if you got some too?” 

He ignores you, handing you the yellow flower you came here for in the first place. He sweeps one hand under your legs and keeps the other at your back as he lifts you in his arms—bridal style. You can feel his heart beating in his chest. You lean into him again, searching for relief. Wetness pools between your legs. You have never felt this needy before. Your desire hurts, burns, scorches you. You rut your hips, clenching down around nothing. 

“S-stop doing that,” Logan spits, restrained and quiet. 

“C-can’t,” you whine. “It hurts, Logan. It hurts so fucking bad. How come you aren’t like this too?”

He pulls you tighter to his chest. “I feel a little something, but that might just…”

You tilt your head up to look at him. He works his jaw, that perfect jaw. You want to bite it, to bury your face in the crook of his neck. “Might just be what?” You ask, tentatively brushing your lips against the hollow of his throat. 

“Nothing, just—fuck,” he groans as you press soft, open-mouthed kisses all around his neck now. “Don’t do that, princess. You don’t want this.”

“But I do, Logan,” you beg. The ramp to the jet lowers as you and Logan approach. “N-need you.” You bury your face into his shoulder, breathing him in. “Need y-you all the time.” The confession slips easily from your lips. 

Logan’s eyes widen as he walks up the ramp and into the ship. It lifts and seals shut behind him. “You don’t mean that, sweetheart. Let’s just get you back to the mansion as quickly as possible, yeah?”

He places you down on the seat next to him, taking the flower from your hands and putting it in the jar Charles had given you. The leather cold at your back almost feels good, almost relieving—until you realize Logan is no longer holding you, touching you. You reach out towards him, grabbing his arms, pulling him back in. “Don’t go,” you plead, nails digging into his biceps. Your body is on fire. Everything is unbearably painful. “Please,” you whimper. “Need you so fucking bad, just you.” 

“Fuck,” Logan curses. “I am not taking advantage of you. I am not doing this.” He stands, freeing himself from your grasp and walking over to the pilot’s chair. “I’m getting you back to the mansion and we’re going to fix this, okay?”

But that’s not good enough for you. You stand up and walk over to Logan. Your steps are shaky, your legs trembling. Your chest heaves, your heart beating rapidly. You climb into Logan’s lap, straddling him, one leg on either side. “Logan, I can’t fucking wait,” you cry, grinding down onto his lap. The pressure feels delicious.  He grabs your hips, stilling you, forcing you in place. And that’s when you feel it: his erection, hard underneath your core. “This isn’t you. You don’t really want this, don’t really want m—”

“It is me,” you protest, squirming against his hold. “Logan, I’ve wanted you for months. I-I was thinking about you t-touching me the whole way here.” You remember the way his fingers dexterously pushed all the right buttons. Need courses through you like a river, and as Logan’s hold on your hips softens, you grind down into his lap, against his erection. “S-so good,” you cry out. 

His hands are still on your hips, but now he’s guiding you, rocking you against his cock. “J-just this though, okay?” 

You hum, pressing your forehead to his, rolling your hips faster. The relief is like heaven. His arms wrap around your back, his fingers trailing up and down soothingly. Logan ruts into you, his erection straining against his jeans. You can feel yourself getting closer, but the pain, the need, it’s all still the same. 

“Logan, it’s not gonna be enough,” you whisper, his lips ghosting yours. “N-need more. Hurts so bad.”

He presses a chaste kiss to your lips, like he’s scared to truly touch you. But he wants to consume your pain, to take it away, to feel it for you. You can see it written across his face, in the way his cock throbs against your swollen clit, how he snaps his hips into yours. 

“I know, princess,” he coos, his hands like fire on your back. Your walls contract around nothing, begging for something to hold onto, to feel something sink deep inside. “Gonna take care of you.” He kisses you again, with more vigor this time, more passion. “I’ve got you, darlin’.”

You moan into his mouth. His composure is slipping, disintegrating with every roll, every rock of your hips against his. His cock notches against your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure up the base of your spine. He hikes your shirt up, the cold air hitting your overheated skin. “F-feels good,” you stammer. You’re almost there, almost hitting that peak. “S-so close.”

“I know, pretty girl,” he soothes. “Let go for me, know you can do it.” 

You moan his name, your orgasm crashing into you like a crescendo. You know you’re soaking through your clothes, and probably onto Logan’s too. He’s still rutting against you, giving you more. He knows it’s not going to be enough, and he’s right. Need builds back up just as quickly as you found your release. 

 “Lo…” you trail off, looking up at him under lust-filled eyes. You swallow harshly, squirming in his lap helplessly. “G-gotta have you.” 

He presses his forehead to yours. He works his jaw, parting his lips. “Y-you meant it when you said you wanted me before this?” But he already knows the answer. He knows you wouldn’t lie to him about that, not even now. 

“Yes,” you whine, pulling him closer. He tugs your shirt all the way over your head and picks you up, hands firmly gripping your ass. “Still gonna want you after this, too.”

He curses under his breath as he places you down in the pilot’s chair. He’s frenzied and frantic as he hooks his thumbs into your pants and panties, yanking them down your legs and casting them to the side. 

He spreads your legs with the palms of his hands, his thumbs brushing soft circles into your inner thighs. He’s kneeling, looking up at you. Your breath catches in your throat as his face settles between your legs. 

“Could smell you before, pretty girl,” he husks, his breath fanning over your clit. “Wanted this so fucking bad.” He doesn’t keep you waiting, licking a long stripe through your folds and up to your clit. “Knew you’d taste perfect. Pretty fucking pussy.” 

You throw your head back as his lips latch onto your clit, sucking harshly. He slips one hand across your back, keeping you close. His free hand climbs up your thigh, fingers exploring your folds as his tongue flits across your swollen bud. He spreads your arousal, prodding against your entrance before shoving two fingers deep inside you. “Logan!” You cry out, your walls clenching around him. He’s stretching you out, his fingers dragging inside you. He pulls out and plunges back in. He isn’t taking his time, isn’t teasing. He’s giving you what you need, pump after pump. 

You look down at him, his face buried in your cunt, consuming you, swallowing you whole like a starving man. He’s lost inside you, lapping at you with unwavering hunger and desire. His tongue swirls around your clit, his teeth grazing ever so slightly. You moan his name again, and he hums against you, the vibrations of his bassy voice rocking through your body. He’s wrecking you, but it feels so goddamn good. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he goads you along. He’s adding a third finger now, and you suck him in. You’d take anything he gives you, anything at all. “Doing so good for me, taking it so well.” 

He sucks roughly, your walls clenching around him at the feeling. “Yeah?” He grunts, sucking again. “You like that? Feels good?” 

“Y-yes,” you stammer, stumbling over that one simple word. “S-so fucking good.” 

“I know, beautiful,” he groans, nipping at your clit in between his rough sucks. “Gonna make that hurt go away, okay?” His voice is like honey, sugar; it’s sweet, addictive. “You just gotta come for me again, can you do that?” His tongue strokes your clit, his fingers pumping faster now. 

You nod your head emphatically, pleasure surging as you near your peak. “Yeah, I-I can,” you huff. 

Logan smiles against your cunt between rough laps. “I know you can, sweetheart.” His fingers scissor inside you, deeper than before. He takes your clit between his lips again, sucking hard. 

And that’s all it takes—you’re screaming his name, coming undone, unraveling underneath him. The release is even better than the first, more full, more complete. Logan thrusts in and out a few more times before slowly pulling his fingers from your cunt. He licks one more long stripe through your folds and looks up into your eyes. 

For a moment, the fire inside has been quenched. You feel clear, levelheaded. But it doesn’t last long. “Fuck,” you moan, your head hitting against the headrest of the chair. The fire is back, spreading across your stomach, your chest. “Logan,” you whimper. “I n-need more.”

“It’s okay, pretty girl,” he coos, taking you back up into his arms. He hoists you out of the seat, his hands finding your ass, squeezing softly. You wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you across the jet, setting you down on a storage container. 

You bring your hands up to his biceps. “Need you this time, Lo,” you choke, stroking up and down his arms as the heat builds painfully between your thighs. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, eyes searching yours. 

“Always wanted you, always sure,” you whisper, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Wanted you too,” he husks. “But I wanted it to be different, to—” You cut him off. “Just want you. It’s okay like this. I promise.” You grind against him, his erection still straining inside the denim of his jeans. 

He takes the hint, and quickly unbuckles his belt, casting the leather to the metal floor with a clunk. He’s unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans, shoving them down his legs, and lining himself up with your entrance. You push your hips forward, giving him better access. His other hand pushes your bra above your breasts, exposing you completely to him. 

With one hand on his cock and one squeezing your tits gently, he thrusts himself into you. He’s so deep—down to the hilt—stretching you out and working you open. He groans, flicking your nipple with his thumb, his lips at the shell of your ear. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, sending a chill down your spine, quenching that fire inside. “So warm, so tight.” He pulls out and plunges back in again, filling you up. 

“Lo,” you whine. “More.”

“I know,” he growls, his hips snapping into yours, bottoming out with every thrust. “Gonna take care of you, pretty girl.” He squeezes your tits once more before sliding his hand down your body and slipping between where the two of you connect. His fingers find your clit, drawing rough circles around the bud. “That feel good, beautiful?” 

“Y-yes, Logan, so fucking good,” you cry out as he rocks into you. His other hand grips your hip tightly, holding you in place. You hope there’s a bruise there later—proof that he touched you, proof that he fucked into you like the world was ending. 

His cock rubs against your walls, your muscles contracting around him, sucking him in deeper. “Squeezing me so good, sweetheart,” he praises, his lips crashing down onto yours, swallowing your moans. He’s taking all of you, hard and fast. You can feel him twitching inside you, throbbing with the same need you feel pulsing through your veins. 

Logan kisses your jaw, and then just underneath, biting down on your pulse point. You arch your back, your chest meeting his. The contact is delicious, the friction a necessity. He thrusts into you faster now, doing his all to satiate your every need. He’s getting you there, pump after pump, hitting that sweet spot inside you every time. 

It’s working. You can feel yourself slipping again, melting. “Logan,” you hum, too fucked out to say anything other than his name. That beautiful name, like a song in the air, a gentle prayer, a holy ghost. He’s all you need—all you’ve ever needed. 

Your walls contract, squeezing him tightly. “Fuck,” he mutters. You know he’s close too. He strokes your clit, circling roughly. “Come on, pretty girl. You can do it, let me get you there again.” 

“Lo,” you cry, your eyes fluttering open and shut as he fucks into you, rutting his hips, plunging deeper still. It’s all too much. You can feel the pleasure drumming inside you, coming to a head. 

Logan loosens his grip on your hip and slides his hand behind your back, pulling you into his chest. You rest your forehead against his. “Come on my cock, princess, let go.” And you do. You’d do anything for him. You moan as your orgasm tears through you. It’s all blinding white heat, liquid smooth, pleasure wracking your body. 

Logan curses under his breath, close behind. He pulses inside you once, and then he’s coming undone. Your arms wrap around his back, keeping him close, letting him know it’s okay to finish inside. He fills you up, whispering praises in your ear as you both come down from your high. Such a good fucking girl. Did so good for me. So fucking good. Perfect little pussy.

He’s still inside you, pumping slowly as you ride out your orgasm. His fingers let go of your clit, his hands running up your back and tugging you closer to him. He slowly pulls out, keeping you tight against his chest. 

“Are you okay?” He whispers against the shell of your ear. You take a deep breath, waiting for the heat to build again, waiting for that need to surge every cell of your being. But there’s nothing. Your nerves are suddenly quiet—silent. 

“I-I think it’s over,” you stutter, still nervous that maybe it’s not. He keeps you there, holding you tightly, ready to start again if necessary. 

After a few minutes, you let yourself relax. It’s not coming back. It’s over. 

Logan presses a chaste kiss to the side of your head. “I’ve still got you. Not going anywhere.” Your heart rate has finally slowed down. The heat is gone. You feel comfortable in your skin again. You take a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper into Logan’s chest. 

“Nothing to be sorry for, princess,” Logan reassures, his voice gentle and soft. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You nod against him, but you still feel a sting in your heart. You need to make him know that you meant what you said—need him to know exactly how you feel. You swallow nervously, ready to bite the bullet. 

“Logan,” you breathe. “I-I meant everything I said. It wasn’t just the pollen.” You pull yourself from his chest, looking up at him. “I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted you…” you trail off. “S-still need you now. Nothing’s changed.” 

He smiles down at you, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I know, darlin’,” he husks. “I wanted you before, and I still do, too.” 

“I know you wanted it to be different. I know it wasn’t—” But he cuts you off, his lips capturing yours, quieting your anxious rambles. “We’ll have other chances. Other times to do it the way I want.” He smirks, running his hands up and down your back. 

Other chances. Other times. More. More. More. “Yeah?” You ask. 

“Yeah, princess.”

tags: @wolviesgirl @dojacatswink @dilf420 @spiderset @pleasantlycrazyworld @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky @y-ns-things

[annievrse]

i'll crawl home to you

trafalgar law x fem!reader —ᡣ𐭩 blurb c/w: it's hozier so religious themes, reader is referred to as an 'angel' and a 'goddess'.

I've done terrible things in the past...

It was always an excuse, a justification, a way for Trafalgar Law to convince himself he deserved all the terrible things that happened to him. He was a man of solitude, preferring his own company to that of others, and if others wanted to stay beside him, it was their funeral.

It was the first thing he told you, in the back alley of a marketplace, his blank hands grasping bags of meat. He was young, in his late teens when he asked you to join his crew. You seemed like a critical addition to the Heart Pirates, your expertise and skills in an area he hadn't considered essential.

It was a whim, something he hadn't discussed with Bepo, Shachi, or Penguin, but Law wanted to make this call without their commentary. It felt right to ask you, like the strings of fate were pulling the air from his lungs and puppetting his lips.

It was briefly surprising when you agreed to join, despite his initial warning, and he felt his heart flip in a way it hadn't before. You never questioned him like you should have, but, when you're young and eager to leave your small island, any out is enticing.

All I care about is who you are in the present...

Trafalgar Law didn't know it at the time, but you'd nestled yourself beside his heart and vowed to remain there for eternity.

—

When the Navy had come looking for Trafalgar Law, famed pirate of the Worst Generation, there was no way he'd go down without a fight.

The Polar Tang is alive with chaos, the air thick with clouds of apprehension and charged by panic. The storm raging inside the submarine is nothing compared to the one occurring outside.

Law stands on the deck, his hand outstretched and the sea shrouded with his power. Three Navy ships surround his beloved Tang, but none had come close enough to harm it, and by extension, you.

Against his wishes, you loom in the doorway, the darkness of the entrance a veil. It doesn't take much for Law to notice your presence, and when his chest tightens and aches, he knows you're watching.

It used to alarm him that his blood-soaked hands didn't scare you, and now you watch with pride. His mind was a whirlwind of crippling anxiety and debilitating despair at the thought that his sins could imprison him, forbid him from worshipping you the way you deserve. But even if they did, he'd claw his way from hell to be beside you again.

"You're not meant to be here," He says lowly, gaze calculating. "Go back inside."

"You need help, more ships are coming from the south."

Law scoffs, his anger toward the Navy growing tenfold. The pulsing blue dome retracts and the floating Marine vessels fall into the sea, the men aboard flailing into the water. "Submerge."

You step aside as Law approaches, his footsteps are heavy against the metal. The Tang shutters once he pushes the door closed, and the familiar sensation of your stomach rising has your hands latching onto Law's forearm.

"You okay?" You whisper, voice soft. If Law didn't know any better he'd think you were an angel.

His piercing eyes assess you for injuries he knows you don't have and then he sighs. Law leans down, his lips a ghost over your own.

"Better now that you are."

You smile and press your mouth against his. Law swears he could get a toothache from kissing you.

"C'mon," You say, walking backwards and tugging him along with you. "Let me check you over."

Law used to struggle to grasp your need to ensure he wasn't hurt after he wounded so many. Good and evil weren't two opposites that he would have contemplated in the past, considering his upbringing, but when he laid his eyes on you, he questioned whether the two thrived separately or could co-exist.

Can good live with evil when good knows all that evil has done? When evil is everything that good opposes? Law thought himself as inherently evil, but with good like you love him like he was not, he wasn't sure he knew the meanings or cared anymore.

Nothing matters but you.

"You seem to be fine," You mumble, pulling the thermometer out from under his tongue. "No fever."

"I am fine. No symptoms of illness or any injuries."

"Just making sure. You never know what could happen out there. What if I lost you—"

"Baby, not even death could separate us. I'd crawl out of the cold, dark earth to be with you. No need to worry."

The corners of your lips tilt up, and Law rests his palms on your cheeks. His touch is firm, and the look in your eye absolves him of any crimes—both a judge and a goddess.

Your hands press over his, and the added pressure of his skin on yours does little to satiate your need for his touch. He's not going anywhere without you.

He says your name like a prayer, his voice low and raw. "I love you."

You kiss his palm, gaze locked on his. "Don't think I wouldn't do the same."

Law sighs, his heart clenching. "You're not going in the ground on your own."

You don't think too much about his admission for your own sanity. "I love you."

Now, it wasn't an excuse. The things Law did in the past, and still do to ensure the safety of you and his crew, are something you admire. There's never good without evil, and as much as Law believes he is the latter, he is half your soul, and it is nothing but good.

[glossoholicc]

Gotta regret em' all!

(read bellow for more insight/comments about these!!)

Ouuggghh my GOD the universe did not want me to create these. I started Folly darkrai, then got sick with a nasty cold that I am still recovering from. THEN I get the most painful ear infection ever. The last image was made while I was in physical agony. I cried real tears.

Regardlessss... I really love Pokemon and Regretevator. My brain has been hardwired since the ripe ol' age of 4 to be obsessed with Pokemon. Every fandom I touch I think about trainer AUs or what Pokemon characters would be. So... this was inevitable. Everything I touch becomes Pokemon.

For those only following me for Regretevator, Roblox fandoms yanked me out of my Pokemon branding for everything. Which was good, i think. I used to represent myself with my fave mon, Maractus. Now I am my Roblox avatar. Ripe ol' age of 20 and all I do is roblock. amen.

I wanted to also write an extensive explanation for why EVERY character here is the Pokemon they are. Mostly because I know there will be people disagreeing with me (which is fine), but the goblin in my brain says "nooo people need to understand you 100% all the time". Sooo, here is a horrendously long essay about why I am objectively correct and you should trust me with all Pokemon related content ever (slash silly?). Does a lil' jigggggg.

(Basic Pokemon knowledge may be required to understand these things btw)

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

Folly Darkrai

- Obvious reason Folly would be a darkrai is that darkrai represents nightmares. It can cause those its near to have terrible dreams, and its signature move is Dark Void which puts enemies to sleep. Pair this with its ability, Bad Dreams, any opponent on the field that is asleep will take continuous damage.

- Darkrai is also illusive, and feared. It holds a similar energy to Folly. That energy being big bad scary oooo ahh scary.

- Literally the exact same color scheme as Folly. Similar shape language as well (big claws, jagged black bits, big evil eyeball, and a collar)

- Darkrai are interpreted as evil by characters within Pokemon media, but it is canon that they cannot control the nightmare giving aura they have. They can give others nightmares unintentionally, and aren't blood thirsting or villainous by nature. I feel this is a good nod towards Folly being in a similar boat. She can't help the situation she is in, and wasn't born evil.

Design Notes:

- I LOOOVE DARKRAI AND I LOOOVE FOLLY. she needed to be a pokemon I adore.

- The sweater was awkward to add onto her... because darkrai's body is already supposed to be like. a scary cloth. and they are so bulky. but I think I did okay?

- The hat looks awkward but I didn't include it that would have been messed up.

- nothing cool to say about dreamer she is just cutesy and rounder shapes.

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

Great One Xerneas

- Xerneas is a legendary Pokemon which represents life. It creates forests with its powers, and it can go into a "dormant" form where it is literally a white tree. Xerneas, and its counterpart, Yveltal, are not represented as inherently "good" or "evil". The whole deal with them is that life and death are a delicate balance that should be respected. I feel this was fitting because Great One is also a god, gave life to Folly, and became corrupt from jealously. Yeah I think that would disturb the natural balance of shit if the god of life got messed up.

- It is literally a big tree deer idk man.

Design Notes:

- I am sooo proud of this design... I think I cooked! Not much to say besides my friend said it looked like a old pokemon creepypasta and that is true.

- Xerneas is so fun to draw but antlers. suck. ewie.

- The drawing on the far right is inspired by that one screenshot.

- Hard to see but on the far right drawing I included the stomach wound. Didn't do it on the other fullbodies though because I forgot oops.

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

MR Minior

- Minior is a meteor pokemon which has two forms. In its ability "Shields Down", where it has a rocky, outer shell that protects it until it's HP gets too low. Once it is weakened, it will change into its "Core Form". Which is basically a cute little guy. But MR Minior is trapped in its "Meteor Form". Meteors relate to MR because of the Happy Home Party floor where MR summons meteors yay.

- Minior are very pathetic pokemon, they fall from the stratosphere only to die on earth. I feel this is similar to MR in the way like. MR is dead and pathetic in its currently state. Compared to what it previously was anyways.

- Minior literally descends from the heavens. Something something word play MR dead god blagh blah.

Design Notes:

- Minior already had eye holes on its design, but I used the cracks throughout its body to make the forehead hole and mouth. I think it was done decently well!

- If MR did go into "Core Form" I imagine it would just be whatever Regretevator devs intend MR's living form to be.

- Minior is so cute and round. I think MR is kinda cute in a round plushie squishmallow kind of way.

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

Pest Lokix

- Okay this one is purely based off of aesthetic but HEAR ME OUT.

- Lokix is a locust/grasshopper pokemon inspired by Kamen Rider, a japanese superhero franchise. Multiple characters in Kamen Rider have grasshopper/bug motifs. Pest is Japanese and also a bug. Ive connected the dots so good.

- Lokix is the first ever bug/dark type, and Pest would definitely being this typo combo.

- Idk guys just trust me okay

Design Notes:

- LOOOOK I KNOWWW. Pest is a beetle. Heracross is right there. BUT Heracross doesn't give PEST. Heracross is a round little blue guy and Pest is a weird little freak. Heracross doesn't hold the same intimidating aura as Lokix. And the other beetle pokemon, Rellor and Rabsca, are even further off the mark.

- I thought I was so clever having the antennae form mandible shapes.

- I love Lokix so much. Pest gets to be one of my faves as a treat.

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

Poob Pikachu

- Pikachu is the mascot for Pokemon, and Poob is the mascot for Regretevator! In a way, Poob is in a lot of promotional regretevator material.

- Very similar color pallet and vibes. The vibes being "little guy".

- Something could be said for pikachu being an electric type. In the pokemon franchise, electric types are typically associated with being "wild" and "fun". Poob is electric! Personality wise. And Poob would totally hook themselves up to shit they shouldn't.

- Social butterfly, Poob gets their energy from parties. Just like how Pikachu is shown to be able to absorb electricity and shit.

- Just cute. Thats it. Cute marketable guy.

Design Notes:

- I really like what I did with the ears on this. I like them being droopy... because of the hat.

- Poob's goofy little face looks natural on a Pikachus face, I think. Awesome sauce.

- I made the tail tip a half star shape because A: Poob genderless B: Party hat has stars. For those who dont know, pikachu have different tail tip shapes based on gender. Poobs gender is party!

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

Pilby Caterpie

- Guys do I need to explain this one.

- Caterpie is a caterpillar. A green one! Pilby is also a green caterpillar.

- Pilby and caterpie have eyes meant to cry. That one clip from the anime where caterpie has watery wet eyes is Pilby.

- Caterpie is a small little thing and Pilby is also a small little thang.

Design Notes:

- I made the little horn in the front the color of their hair because I didn't want to add even more clutter to the face.

- Headcanon that happy Pilby sways/wags their tail when happy. So caterpie pilby gets to wiggle their tail in happiness too.

- hungry hungry caterpillar.

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

Mach Tinkaton

- Tinktaton is a pokemon that wields a massive hammer, and beats others to death with it. Its hammer weighs over 200 lbs in canon, and Mach would totally be able to lift that weight. If not more.

- Tinkaton is also an exclusively female pokemon. Mach is a woman. Shrugs.

- Not much to say!!!! Big woman big hammer.

Design Notes:

- I think I made her look UGLY. I don't know what I like about my design. I guess the pose on the fullbody is sick af.

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

Infected Cubchoo

- I quite literally only did this for the aesthetic of the snot droplet. Thats it.

Design Notes:

- For some reason the regretevator wiki doesn't have a close up of the left side of Infecteds hat, only the right side. This made it difficult for me to draw the blue bunny.

- I contemplated adding hair at all. I decided to do so because Infected is one of the rare few haired characters. You can keep your hair. For now.

- I was contemplating Grafaiai as well, but I decided going the snot droplet route was better. But Grafaiai still works really well for Infected IMO.

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

Bive Absol

- Absols can uhmm.. ughh. Predict future events such as Natural disasters with their powers. So I think she would do this but her future predicting shit sucks. And she is paranoid from Absol related intuition.

- That's basically the only reason I thought of, but Bive is a simple character in concept so thats okay.

Design Notes:

- Freak woman Bive I love you.

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

That's all ty for reading I'm so tired goodnight

[baldursgate3tempobsessed]

Astarion Jealousy Part 2

The graphic extension to this but a lil less serious and definitely not sfw.

CW: Jealous spawn astarion who is still a sweetheart, but the drow twins get under his skin. graphic sex scenes, oral, relatively tame honestly. The sex part will be under the cut btw which is m/f. Also vampire man drinks blood. mentionable incorrect language for sex workers

~

It was odd, being home in Baldur’s Gate without the threat of Cazador always looming. Odd, but equally as wonderful. It had been so thoughtful, if not a little idiotic for Cazador to end up being your first stop in the city. The fight itself had been a blur, a barrage of intense emotions and bloody violence. Astarion had come so close to losing himself back there, losing everything that made him better than the man who almost ruined him. But then… you stopped him. You saw something more in him, a chance for a better life. A more meaningful life, away from the shackles of vampiric power obsessions. 

He was officially free. Now he could exist without any fear of his disgusting master’s retribution. He could just… be. Well… not including his darling’s own myriad of enemies that seemed to follow them about everywhere. And there was still the matter of defeating the elder brain, and lord knows if any of you made it through that alive. But at least his personal demons were slain and out of the picture.

Every little step counted after all. Perhaps some of your delusional hopefulness had finally started to rub off on him, but Astarion was actually starting to look forward to his future. Your future, together. All he had to do was get through a few more perilous adventures and then he’d really have you all to himself. 

All that said, Astarion could really go without the frequent visits to the local brothel. Was it the best place in the city for gathering information? Yes. It seemed that every walk of life in Baldur’s Gate found their way into Shar’s Caress and if you were going to find alternative passage to the underworld, this would be the best place to find it. But that didn’t mean he had to like it. For one there were the unwelcome advances to his own person, the concept of grace and personal space apparently left at the door. He was so very close to breaking the hand of the next person who thought it was appropriate to grab his ass. And if they could afford to get kicked out he would have by now. Your verbal, angry tirades in his defense could only scare off so many. 

But as terrible as his own discomfort was, it was nothing in the face of how often you were being fawned over. What was it about you that seemed to drive everyone mad? Yes you were objectively attractive, but this was frankly getting out of hand. First there was the green skinned druid doing something sensual to your mind, then there were the general stares and whispers as you walked by, and now a pair of gorgeous drow twins trying and failing to proposition you. 

It was getting tiresome. There were only so many times a man could take his lover being offered “free” services before he snapped. 

On one hand, he could respect the dedication they had to the craft. He could be considered something of a hired whore himself in his time, the old, “the first one’s free” was a tried and true trick. And he also knew, vaguely, that no one was actually trying to steal you from him. But on the other, he couldn’t help the fact that he wanted to claw their eyes out for looking at you so brazenly.

He hadn’t expected the eyes of the woman to wander over to him, like she was just noticing the possessive arm he had wrapped around your waist, “Is that your partner with you? How would you both feel about having a little fun?”

Absolutely fucking not. Maybe the old Astarion would have smiled and nodded, ready to do whatever was asked of him. But the man from that wretched era had died, or at the very least was dying. And he would be damned if he let you lay with another, never less participate in it. 

Astarion interrupted your overly-polite attempts stuttering of a refusal. He glared at them both, a sneer painted on his face, “We’ll be passing on that. You’d think the first no would have sufficed, but I suppose it’s not fair to expect everyone to have basic language comprehension. Now as illuminating as this conversation has been, we have places to be. Excuse us.”

Then he was pulling you away, happy to ignore the offended huffs of indignation he had left in his wake. 

“We’re supposed to be investigating, remember?” You said with a giggle, not even questioning him as he dragged you to the second floor, “Being rude is not the way we’ll find travel to the hells.”

“I highly doubt they would have been of use,” Astarion said as he pushed you into the first empty room he could find. He felt off, maybe even a little crazed as he turned to you, “Tell me darling, what is it about you that makes you so irresistible, hm?”

He crowded you against the closed door, ducking his head into the crook of your neck to breath you in. You smelled heavenly, you always did. He could trace the barest whiff of your blood from beneath your skin, always calling to him. You were the sweetest thing he ever tasted. Delicious even, for more reasons than one. 

“T-They just wanted my coin,” You gasped when he started to suck bruises into your skin, “That’s all.”

“I think they wanted a bit more than that,” Astarion bit out as he shoved his thigh between your legs, “What will it take for others to realize you’re mine.”

His hands were wandering, resting low to grip your hips. He was using them to move you, forcing you to grind against his thigh. You grasped at his shoulders, trying to bite back a moan as you stared at him with wide eyes, “You want to do it here? Does that door even lock?”

It looked like it didn’t, not that Astarion cared. Maybe walking in on him ravishing you would finally start getting the point across of who you belonged to. Astarion shrugged, "There are less appropriate venues than literal whore houses."

“But-”

“But I can tell you want it,” Astarion interrupted with a smirk, his hands barely working to move your body anymore. But that wasn’t stopping you from rubbing yourself all over him, “Just look at you darling. Desperate little thing. But if you really don’t want to…”

Astarion made a lazy attempt to step back, laughing out loud when your desperately pulled him back, your desire finally winning out over your common sense. But you were glaring at him, obviously annoyed that he was so good at riling you up. He had seen that look before, the one that just screamed that you were scheming something. 

He just hadn’t expected you to drop to your knees in front of him, huffing as you started to undo the fastenings to his pants, “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit of a shit?”

“Maybe,” Astarion said with a strained laugh, his breath catching when you pulled his half-hard cock out, “But it seems to keep getting me the things I want.”

You rolled your eyes before licking a wide strip up his cock, like you weren’t directly proving his point. You looked amazing own there, you’re half-hearted glare morphing into a blissful haze. 

Gods, how were you real? Astarion wasn’t quite sure why you were such a fan of getting him down your throat, but he knew that he was a lucky bastard for it. 

“Sweet girl,” Astarion sighed, letting a hand drift down to tangle in your hair, “Sweet girl with a perfect mouth. And you’re all mine, aren’t you?”

You made a small, affirmative noise around his cock, taking him in deeper as you clutched at his thighs. You were so good at this, so well-trained after months of being together. He loved the soft, wet sounds that would escape your lips as you swallowed him down, the pretty way your eyes would water as you encouraged him to fuck your throat, how you would squirm in place on your knees, no doubt ruining your panties with how wet you were getting. 

And no one else would ever know. No one would get to see you like this again, feel you like this. Needy, desperate, and his. Oddly enough, that thought was what sent him over the edge. He came down your throat, groaning as you eagerly swallowed around him. 

You pulled off of him slowly, panting while you smiled up at him. There was the smallest string of spit mixed with his come, connecting from the head of his cock to your lips. You licked it up, still clinging to his thighs as you hazily stared up at him. Sweet enough to make his heart skip a beat, and his dick give a valiant twitch.

He pulled you to your feet, not wasting any time in smashing your lips together. He spun you around, pushing you towards what he prayed was a clean bed. 

He pushed you back onto the sheets, making quick work of tearing your pants down your legs as he grinned down at you, “Your turn.”

He kneeled in front of you; spreading his hands over your splayed thighs to peel off your underwear. The core of you was already glistening, slick enough to make Astarion’s mouth water. He licked his lips as he spread your legs further apart, shameless as he feasted on you with his eyes. 

You were shaking in his hold, biting your bottom lip when you whined, “Stop staring already…”

“But you’re so pretty here my sweet,” Astarion cooed, tracing a single finger over the seam of your cunt, “And you’re dripping. Poor thing, have I kept you waiting too long?”

You nodded excitedly above him, your hips bucking when he let his fingers dip in further between your pussy lips. He lightly traced your clit, softly laughing at the way the simple touch made you whine.

It was his own fault that you were so needy, a fact that brought a smirk to his lips. You always got so wet after you had him down your throat, soaked and gorgeous. 

Astarion dove right in, loudly moaning as he licked into your folds. He dragged his lips upward to suckle on your clit, basking in all the cries and whimpers escaping you.

He licked back down, teasing your hole with his tongue as your legs quivered around his head. He let the sharpness of his fangs scrape against you as he started to fuck you with his tongue, threatening your most intimate places.

He knew you liked that; little minx that you were. The slight risk of pain that was always looming. It made him want to sink his fangs in you for real, a hunger that he'd sate after he had you gushing into his mouth.

You were already close, he could tell from the way your cunt was tightening around his tongue; too worked up from the thrill of being in public and the taste of him still lingering on your tongue. Astarion trailed talented fingers up to rub against your clit, his tongue still curling inside of you as you cried out. Finally falling over the edge. But that wasn't stopping him from continuing to play with you.

You had to tug on Astarion’s hair for him to finally pull away, too over sensitive to handle his talented tongue. You were still trembling by the time he leaned back, licking his lips. He rested his head on your thigh, obviously pleased with himself as he grinned up at you. He could feel your heart racing against his cheek, the sound of your blood pumping singing through your veins. It had his mouth watering for a completely different reason. 

He let his fangs drag against the delicate skin of your inner thigh, looking up at you through his lashes, "Can I?"

A superfluous question. Not when he already knew the answer before it escaped your lips.

“Y-yeah," You mumbled, lovingly gazing down at him. He would never tire of seeing that look on your face, "But be gentle? Please?” 

"Of course my love," Astarion murmured, before promptly sinking his fangs into your flesh. He had to hold you down from the way you were still trembling, your quivering only getting worse at the pleasure mixed with pain. He didn’t let himself go rabid, just enough to get a taste. He was pulling back too soon, smiling to himself at the little whine you let out. He gently licked over the wound before standing, not yet swallowing the last drops on his tongue.

Instead he leaned forward to kiss you, more than happy to share the sweet taste of your blood as he slipped his tongue into your mouth.

“Thank you my dear,” Astarion sighed as he pulled away, “That was exactly what I needed. Now I think that’s enough investigating for one day.” 

You sighed, taking the time to card your fingers through his hair, “Agreed. Though you might have to carry me out of here now.”

Wasn’t that a wonderful idea?

Astarion hummed as he pulled your clothing back on, “I think I like the sound of that," He didn't give you time to respond, too busy sweeping you up in his arms with a grin, "I'll be taking you up on that."

You squeaked when he hefted you up, bridal style, “I wasn’t being serious!”

But it was too late, Astarion was already kicking the door open. He shrugged at you, completely shameless as he winked at a few onlookers, "Then you shouldn't have suggested it."

You groaned, hiding your face in his shirt as he happily took you outside, “I’m going to get you back for this. I hope you know that.”

Astarion laughed as he kissed the top of your head, “I’m sure you will.”

It was a childish stunt, borderline on par with a jealous tantrum, but gods, did it feel good. Good enough to sate Astarion's obsessive tendencies for an impressive amount of time. Under normal circumstances. 

But what about your lives were normal?

[infinitelystrangemachinex]

massages forehead So Ambessa hid Mel away because she was a weapon in the literal sense, a mage. But Ambessa came to Piltover for Hextech? And Ambessa had nothing to say to Mel about her powers having visibly awakened? Even when Mel offered to go with Ambessa, giving her the ultimate opportunity to make Mel a weapon for real? And Ambessa made no attempt to find or retrieve Mel - not just her daughter and the remnants of the family Ambessa professes to love, but also her ultimate weapon - when she disappeared? And Ambessa trusted Singed and Viktor on their home turf - neither of them hiding how insane and self-serving they are with every reason to take over Ambessa's soldiers or just blatantly turn on her as soon as it benefits them - more than she trusted Mel? While Caitlyn (and by extension Piltover) was visibly and clearly falling away from Ambessa's teachings before Ambessa's eyes? (as if getting rid of certain people allows piltover to get rid of fascism but we won't get into All That)

Not only do I struggle to be hyped for Mel's powers beyond how amazing and beautiful she looks, but I can't help but feel like Mel is somehow less powerful in season 2 than she was in season 1, and not in an interesting way. As if Mel's ability to bend all of Piltover politics and economics to her will in season 1 now means nothing in season 2? You can argue that Jinx's attack led directly to Mel losing ground in Piltover - because I expected Mel to have to claw back that power without being able to rely on people who are too easily seduced by Ambessa and authoritarianism, and she would have to get creative to go toe to toe with her mother. I expected pushback to her mage identity that she would have to navigate. But instead this went either unwritten, or was ignored or discarded. Instead Mel is removed from the main plot, cutting her off from what made her the most interesting - only for all of Mel's very real talents, her very real powers and abilities, to be not only translated but REPLACED with magical powers she doesn't know how to control, and by the finale, those magic powers are the only powers that are considered real. Mel takes a backseat to Piltover's governing and decisions, a backseat to Jayce of all people who was not only new to politics mere months ago but made poor governing, strategic, and diplomatic decisions when he had that power. In season 1 Mel stayed off the "throne" but she did pull its strings one way or the other, and she makes no attempt at this in season 2

In my least generous suspicions, Mel was gentled and quieted to capitulate to an agenda for other characters who had to be correct and heroic - or wrong and villainous - no matter what the leadup narrative said, given her powers to help sell the game and set up future shows, and was effectively ejected from the Arcane story with faceless soldiers and a role she doesn't want because she was inconvenient there

[riskylittleturtle]

Tendencies - Dragon Sylus

Dragons sleep on their treasures, it's a way of guarding it, keeping it safe from other's and being sure no one can get to it without waking them up. Sylus is that way too, has a little box of his favourite gems and such tucked away under his bed. His greatest treasure though, is you. He sleeps best with his head in your lap or pinning you under his weight as he lays over you. His favourite place to nap is on you, head on your stomach and arms wrapped around your back, your laptop settled on his back as you type up reports. Will stay there all day if you'd let him.

Dragons rarely share their hoards and treasures, in fact they're known to be very protective and territorial over them. When a dragon allows someone access to their hoard it can be seen as a sign of respect and acceptance, but it is most often a sign of courtship. Sylus gives you his black card and tells you to go crazy. With bank systems it's strange to have cash and change on hand, gems and jewelry aside, and so giving you his black card is his way of sharing his hoard with you.

Dragons view having territory and hoards as a sign of power. The more treasures a dragon has, the more territory that belongs to them, the stronger and more respect worthy the dragon is. Sylus is filthy rich. He's the leader of Onychinus and by extension he rules the N109 zone. On top of the Onychinus base he has safe houses all around, places that belong just to him (and now to you). When he tells you to go crazy with his black card it is not only his start to court you through offering you his hoard, it is his way of showing you that he has plenty and that he'd be a good mate for you.

Dragons present gifts and offerings to please their mates. Sylus pampers you. He offers you new weapons almost constantly. If you've ever played the claw machines with him you know if he fails to get a plushie he refuses to switch with you until he's gotten you one. When you return from showering after working out he's replaced your clothes with newly bought of the same thing. He has his chef prepare a full course meal for you, and buys you breakfast. The list goes on.

Dragons take promises very seriously, the idea of breaking a promise to them is worse than almost any crime. Words are an extension of their existence. Sylus also takes promises really seriously. You say "I'll be done in five, promise." and he stares at you like you've just sold off all of his gems and thrown his black card back in his face when it takes you six. Promises don't have to include the word, you tell him "I'll text you tonight." and he's spending the entire night waiting for his phone to ring with that silly little ringtone you picked out.

To a dragon, falling for lies is one of the worst things that can happen to them. Sylus doesn't realise you're lying to him once, as you tell him you aren't injured after a mission - you really aren't, the only evidence of your pursuit a single tiny scratch on your arm that barely even draw blood - but as he see's the cut later, fingers ghosting over the scratch and expression absolutely wrecked because you were injured and he didn't know, because you lied that you weren't and he couldn't tell you were lying to him.

Dragons have very different morals than humans. They're more focused on instinct and self interest. Their morals are very important to them, though dragons have been known to change their morals to better fit those of their mates. Sylus has no problem killing when he needs to, and he doesn't believe too much in the ideas of redemption or people changing. You however, as a hunter, have at least some belief that people can change - you also know that this doesn't apply to everyone, that multiple things have to be taken into account if someone is trying to redeem themselves. You also believe that some people are better dead, but that for some murder is too easy of a way out of things. Sylus doesn't change outright, he still firmly believes most people aren't worthy of second changes. But he starts considering which of his business partners to kill and which to give other punishments to, starts to leave people he might have killed to prevent future problems be as long as they don't intervene with his own plans.

Dragons are (violently) protective of their hoards, mates, and young. They will do anything to protect what is theirs. Sylus originally only had his gems and money (hoards), but then he took in Luke and Kieran (young), and finally he had you (mate). Any slight against what's his is absolutely unacceptable to him. Someone makes a comment about Luke and Kieran's masks? They're never seen again. A thief breaks in to try and steal his jewels? No one who enters the Onychinus base with bad intentions makes it out. A hunter from a different team made a bad comment about you during a mission? They apologize profusely the next day and aren't part of any future mission collaborations with your team.

Dragons view their scales very highly, for a dragon to give someone it's scale means they trust them wholeheartedly. It's a sign of respect, that they are acknowledging you as worthy. A dragon giving you it's scale can be a sign that they view you as an equal, or even that they view you as one of theirs and that they will protect you and answer their call. Sylus doesn't have scales now, but he's given MC both a brooch (from the main storyline) and a feather (the gift interaction).

[littlemoonglow]

Warning: Long post?

—

Jason did not expect his ghost form to feel…like this.

(Oh, dealing with his body randomly phasing through the ground and smacking his face onto hard concrete was not fun, but Jason dealt with that just like with every other hurdle in his life. By being more stubborn than the problem itself.)

It felt like something… settled into place. That was the best way he could describe it.

He felt as if spite and anger were finally not the only things keeping him awake and running. 

He felt calm, almost. Stable, at least. Whatever pent up energy that was stuck in his chest cavity now flowed freely throughout his body, redistributed, instinctually easier to manage.

It's almost like he could breathe a little bit easier.

(After much… ranting that Jason decided to ignore for his own sanity, Danny said that his case ectoplasmic corruption was probably due to the fact that Death, as a concept, doesn’t let go of things easily, time shenanigans notwithstanding.)

(Becoming a half-ghost was seemingly the only working compromise.)

—

Danny once told him that broad strokes of a ghost’s personality could be guessed by looking at their physical appearance. 

Despite the cool powers, this was a slight downside. Jason dealing with the filth of the Earth meant that being to hide his emotions and who he is was kind of important. Life saving, even.

He realized later on that his ghost form was way too easy to read.

—

He looked at his arms covered in bandages, and got reminded of the amount of times he had to patch himself up in the last month.

His jacket was ripped in place he knew that would have been sewn together when he was a living breathing human (well, as much as he could be).

He always looked slightly on fire?

(Danny told him it's probably related to his... core?)

(He know he died in an explosion but really?)

And then, there was his… veil? Shroud? Cloak?

It looked really nice.

But on the other hand…

It drooped when he felt under the weather. It flicked and thrashed around when he’s either irritated or barely holding back his urge to headshot someone.

And—

(No Danny, my cloak was not fucking wagging when you brought me fresh ectoplasm last week, you’ll have to get your goddamn eyes checked—)

He'll deny it until the day he dies (a second time).

And then his cloak could sometimes just…grow bigger. He figured that it acted as an extension of his own body, and had a nice add-on of allowing him to sense things he couldn't see. Hell, he could even make a hand out of it (wacking Danny with it - gently - never gets old). Jason had to also admit it looked cool, with the wispy bits and with one of its sides becoming a bright yellow.

(It reminded him a bit of his time as Robin.)

—

Being a ghost had a lotta perks.

Dealing with targets was so much easier when no one could see you. Inflitration was so much simpler when walls became optional. Cameras will glitch out when he's around, he left no traces visible to the naked eye and, combined with his training, to say that it was useful would be an understatement.

But, sometimes, he feels like he’s changing as well the more he transforms. Not drastically, but enough for him to look back and notice.

He usually was someone who prided on being efficient and straight to the point.

But now he’s starting to… have fun.

He started using his claws whenever he could. Don't het him wrong, he still uses his guns plenty, but there was just something deeply satisfying about vaulting over things, scaling a wall or crawling on the ceiling with bare hands. 

(Punching people is still the most satisfying by far, though.)

That one time hunting down the Joker wannabes was fun too.

(Danny said he’d get along great with Skulker? Did Jason want to find out? No.)

Fading in and out of invisibility, he picked them off one by one, watching as panic and dread slowly but surely creeped up on the remaining ones.

(After all, he has no respect for those trying to emulate the dead clown.)

—

(Yeah, the Joker was dead.)

(Surprisingly, that has not been a good day.)

—

One of the favorite things he liked to do was rooftop parkour. The… bendability of gravity is… fun, not gonna lie.

(Not flying though. Jason is used to having feet in regular contact with solid ground, thank you very much. No offense, Danny.)

But he gets why ghosts love to fly. When he’s jumping from rooftop to rooftop in Gotham in the at night, watching the city light fly by, cloak spread behind him, it’s as if nothing else matters. 

(No Joker, no petty criminals to beat up, no avoiding the Bats so they don’t find out about his existence—)

He can just enjoy, even just for a little bit.

—

(Somehow the Demon Brat and Orphan could sense him. Will keep and eyes on those two, and also the more reasons to avoid them.)

(The real problem was the new Bat in town. Bruce, what the fuck, another one? Again?)

(The yellow one, Signal. No time to check his profile yet, but probably a meta or something.)

(First night out and the guy almost managed to actually fucking see him —looked at him straight in the eyes and all, then did a double take. Jason never phased into the pavement so fast in his entire fucking life.)

(And so far no Bats on his cloak tails yet.)

(He did help the guy incognito, just a couple of times.) 

(And he also did steal his escrima sticks for fun, and once the guy went out looking for them, he’d put them right back where they were.)

(Turns out, he discovered later, that being a little shit runs in the ghost community.)

—

(Sometimes he also wonders what happened to Danny before they met.)

(He wasn't a Gothamite, that was obvious. He doesn’t pry, but it doesn’t take a lot to piece two and two together.)

(He just wonders who he has to kill this time.)

—

(Jason could not believe he forgot and underestimated just how fucking persistent every single one of the Bats could be. Of course it had to run in the family.)

He gazed down, thought the agony, at the gaping wound under his right armpit.

(The Bats have been chasing him relentlessly for a while now. He got more injuries than he can count, especially from Bruce.)

(They know. Oh, they know.)

(It didn’t go well.)

(He knows the others are there surrounding him to prevent him from escaping, he knows that Dick is right behind him, but at the moment he couldn’t care less.)

It has been a long time since the last time he got shot.

(It felt like someone set his right side on fire.) 

What was flowing out in abundance was a neon, toxic green.

(The Pit Waters, ectoplasm, he didn’t even know that he could fucking bleed in ghost form—)

(Danny—)

He looked back up at Batman, holding a (frankly) ugly gun, white casing and highlights in the same shade of toxic green. 

(A gun that Danny warned him about. And everything behind it.)

Jason felt something in him... snap.

(Why did it have to be you, Bruce.) 

His mouth opened—

(waitsincewhenhecoulddothatthroughtthe mask—) 

(Jason could see the billows of neon green smoke—)

(He couldn’t see Bruce’s expression.)

(Every. Single. Goddamn. Time.)

— and wailed.

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

I am genuinely delighted that my last post got that much attention! Thank you so much, to all who liked, rebblogged and commented, it really does mean the most. 💕

This AU may be continued? No guarantees, tho.

For those interested: Part 01

@fandomnerd103 @phoenixdemonqueen @satisfactionbroughtmeback @ascetic-orange @apointlessbox @bathildaburp @fisticuffsatapplebees @aisforanonymity @phandomhyperfixationblog @help-i-need-a-cool-username @hashtagdrivebywrites @did-i-miss-anyone-tagging-is-a-monk's-job-first-time-doing-this-aaaaaaaaaaaaaa

[aceof-stars]

One thing I love about Miles Edgeworth is how realistic and practical he is, more than he is moralistic. As much as Miles cares about justice and doing what he thinks is right, he’s not fueled by belief the same way, for example, Phoenix is. And this is one of the things I feel like gets ignored or brushed aside when Miles's character is softened too much.

Both pre and post redemption, Miles puts a lot of emphasis on reality and the bottom line of what people can do in a situation.

In Turnabout Goodbyes, the first thing Edgeworth says in response to Phoenix asking him why he became a prosecutor instead of a defense attorney is: "… I couldn't let myself deny reality like you."

He also doesn't truly believe that every defendant he prosecutes is guilty, contrary to popular belief. In Turnabout Sisters, he says this: ""Innocent"…? How can we know that? The guilty will always lie, to avoid being found out. There's no way to tell who is guilty and who is innocent! All that I can hope to do is get every defendant declared "guilty"! So I make that my policy." Miles is disillusioned with finding the truth and trusting people that he settles for doing all he can hope to do.

And when you think about it, his motivation of finding the truth is an extension of his realism. After all, the truth is quite literally the most objective, realistic thing ever. In 1-3, after helping Phoenix convict Dee Vasquez, he says: "Will Powers was innocent. That he should be found so is only natural… not a miracle." The truth as a motivation is probably a grounding force for him.

When Miles comes back in Farewell My Turnabout, he calls out Phoenix's flawed motivations for becoming a defense attorney by offering realism: "We aren't some sort of heroes. We're only human, you and I. You want to "save someone"? That's something easier said than done, wouldn't you say? You are a defense lawyer. You can't run away from that. You can only fight. That's all you can do." Miles isn't saying Phoenix can't "save someone". Miles is saying that Phoenix shouldn't be so focused on saving someone that he forgets that his job as a defense attorney is only to fight for them.

Side note, I love the way Miles comforts people, he isn't exactly "nice" but he's incredibly kind. His blunt honesty digs at the heart of the matter, and he gives them an extra push because he respects them enough.

And then there's, possibly, my favorite Miles Edgeworth line: "It doesn't matter how many underhanded tricks a person uses… The truth will always find a way to make itself known. The only thing we can do is to fight with the knowledge we hold and everything we have. Erasing the paradoxes one by one… It's never easy… We claw and scratch for every inch. But we will always eventually reach that one single truth. This I promise you." This directly parallels the line he says in 1-2, and it makes me emotional every time I think about it.

The fact that Miles Edgeworth never lost his unwavering realism, in both quotes he acknowledges how untrustworthy people can be, but gained a new purpose.

[ohbother2]

OKAY SO-

Alastor lost his cool and flipped his shit immensely when Lucifer showed up - why would that be? and why wedge himself between Lucifer and Charlie? Why would he react so viscerally when his literal main-competitor for retaining his rank and respect is Vox, and Vox openly antagonises him first, trying to drag Alastor's reputation through the mud in his broadcasts

Alastor remains cool, calm, collected, and in doing so completely surpasses Vox's attempts

in many ways, Alastor is unflappable. Always smiling, always a step ahead, always the most powerful and domineering in a room

and then- Lucifer shows up. This short statured, rosy-cheeked, rather pathetic excuse of a man

he waltzes in to the hotel, a fumbling over-excited mess, the least threatening a person could possibly look in hell, barely reaching Alastor's waist

and yet, he outranks Alastor, he could over-power him easily, he is the predator

and Alastor simply cannot handle that

Alastor may be furious that such a week-minded, emotionally unguarded man ranks so far above him with no way for Alastor to even attempt to gain the same status

so what does Lucifer lack? what is the one thing Alastor can have that he can't?

a relationship with Charlie

his anger is calculated, he finds what hurts Lucifer, he finds his weakness, he grips onto it with both claws, and he drags it in front of him, mocking the fact that, yeah, sure Lucifer may outrank him, but in his daughters mind? one of the few things Lucifer can't control? Alastor has the power, has the lead - in all manners of 'power' and 'influence' that Lucifer cannot control, Alastor makes sure he knows he is on top - he is Charlie's favourite, he succeeds where Lucifer has failed her

regardless of his motives, he has been there for Charlie, and Lucifer hasn't, and that's all that matters

but why does he have this deep-rooted need to prove himself? why can he not accept that he is still the second most powerful in that hotel?

his need for power, for dominance, for control is shown again when Husk confronts him in the hallway

'big talk for someone who's also on a leash'

this time, Alastor doesn't even bother targeting Husker's, insecurities, his weaknesses

he drags him down the hallway chained at his neck, teeth gnashing and positively enraged

there's no typical Alastor intelligence or cunning behind this action - it is pure unadulterated rage, it's a: I can kill you, and I will

killing husk would be useless - Alastor obviously has a purpose for him, that's why he's been kept alive and the other overlords haven't, killing him would get rid of any leverage Alastor had, it would get rid of Husk full stop

Alastor has been gone for 7 years, and now he's back, supporting a cause he doesn't believe, forced to wander around the hotel halls and haunting its residents instead of freely roaming Hell

Lilith has also been gone 7 years - and she isn't yet back

Alastor just so happens to appear at the hotel mere moments after Charlie tries to talk to Lilith, marching into the foyer and wedging himself into the project with a showman's flair

he is chained, he is chained to that infernal hotel where he doesn't belong - he cannot be redeemed, he doesn't want to be redeemed

he is chained to Lilith, and by extension he is chained to Charlie

and in his eyes, he is powerless, so utterly and infuriatingly at the mercy of those above him, and that simply won't do

so what can he do? what can a man, whose greatest desire is power, who's biggest insecurity is the power and status he wields over others, do to reclaim some semblance of that power? how can he usurp Lilith? how can be make this soul-bond beneficial to him?

he can win Charlie over - he can replace her father in the process, he can mould her as he sees fit, he can play on her need to view the best in everyone, in the need to create friendships and her insatiable ability to care for those around her

he cannot get to Lilith, he cannot match Lucifer, but he can have Charlie

and he's nearly got her

and when he does? who's to say her naivety, her trust, the relationship he's intentionally crafted with her, leads her to strike a deal with him in a moment of need? when the angels attack, when the hotel begins to crumble, when heaven commands her to stop her efforts? why wouldn't she strike a deal, in her mind, he's as caring as a father figure, and a man who's been there since day one unlike either of her parents

she shakes his hand

he has her soul

he has Charlie, and he has Lilith, and he has Lucifer

there's nothing they can do, and isn't that really what power is? not raw-strength, not magic, not status, but the ability to control those who others may believe to be above your own station?

he's forced to the hotel, he's chained down and unable to grab for more power - if Lilith is preventing him from earning it himself, well, he can always just force her to give it to him

all it takes is one hand shake.

the cherry on top? he get's to show Lilith it's her own desire for him to be at the hotel that has allowed him to ensnare them all

[meadowfics]

stop signs

jeon jae-jun x f!mother!reader

your worst fears came to life at the stop sign outside of your daughter's school

warnings: mature content below. mentions of abuse, stockholm syndrome, and heavy manipulation.

part one to my series linked here

standing at the edge of your past, your breath is steady but your heart is unsteady. as an older teenager just before high school graduation, your world was a haze of manipulation, a cruel game orchestrated by someone you’ve thought you admired… jeon jae-jun. 

he was magnetic, that charm was a weapon. that stupid smile was a trap. the rich guy’s friends or extensions of his will, made your life a gauntlet of torment. you were their prey, caught in their laughter, their taunts, their power. 

all of that happened for an entire year before graduation came like a lifeline, and you clawed your way out, leaving their cruelty behind. 

you thought you were free but freedom came with a price. 

after a full month of throwing up repeatedly, you forced yourself to take that test. 

yup, you were pregnant. 

the realization hit like a blow, your body betraying you with a truth you couldn’t escape. horror gripped you, your mind spiraling with thoughts of ending it, of erasing this remnant of jae-jun’s hold over you. 

time was not your ally. the stress, the fear, the weight of it all pushed you past the legal limit for abortion since you were 16 weeks pregnant when you found out. you were trapped again, not by jae-jun’s hands but by the life growing inside you. 

you named her seo-yeon after she was born, a name that felt like a promise to be better, to be selfless, to give her the world you never had.

fourteen years passed like a dream you fought to keep. 

you built a life from the ashes of your past. college came and went, your determination carving a path to a career as a dentist. you thrived, your practice gleaming with success, your daughter enrolled in one of korea’s finest schools. 

seo-yeon was your light that saved your life, her laughter a balm to the scars you carried. people whispered about her fatherless life, but their words were background noise. 

you were enough and your success silenced their judgment, or so you thought.

the past, though, has a way of creeping back. 

so many familiar figures began to haunt the edges of your world, shadows from a time you’d buried. you felt them before you saw them, a prickle on your skin, a tightening in your chest. 

one day, she unfortunately walked into your office. 

choi hye-jeong, one of the faces from your nightmares, her sneaky smirk still the same as before. 

she didn’t know it was you at first, didn’t recognize the woman you’d become. the flight attendant’s old dentist had moved to america and fate, cruel as ever, had led her to you.

you sat behind your desk, your white coat crisp, your hands steady as you prepared for her appointment. the air was thick with the hum of your equipment, the faint scent of antiseptic. 

hye-jeong entered, her heels clicking against the floor, her designer bag slung over her shoulder. she looked older, but the arrogance in her eyes hadn’t faded. you swallowed the bile rising in your throat and forced a professional smile.

“good afternoon,” you said, your voice calm, betraying nothing. 

“please, have a seat.”

hye-jeong glanced around, her lips curling slightly. 

“nice place. ha– i didn’t expect to end up somewhere so… upscale.” she settled into the dental chair, her posture relaxed, oblivious to the storm brewing inside you.

you adjusted the light above her with your movements precise, “let’s get started. if you don’t mind, i am going to inspect for any lesions or any possible abnormalities. open wide, please.”

she complied, and you worked in silence at first, your tools scraping gently against her teeth. the routine grounded you, kept the memories at bay. 

hye-jeong was never one for silence, even with her month full of dentistry equipment. she tilted her head slightly, her eyes flickering with curiosity.

“you look familiar through that mask of yours,” she said, her voice muffled by the tools in her mouth, “have we met before?”

your grip tightened on the scaler, but you didn’t falter. 

“i don’t think so,” you lied, your tone neutral. 

“i’ve been here for years. maybe you’ve seen me around.”

she hummed, unconvinced, but let it drop. you continued the cleaning, your mind racing. every second in her presence was a test, a reminder of the girl you used to be, the one they broke. however you weren’t her anymore. at least you’ve tried to convince yourself that. you were stronger, untouchable. or so you told yourself.

when the cleaning was done you stepped back and removed your gloves, “all done. no cavities. your teeth are in great shape and there will be no need for any fill ins.”

hye-jeong sat up while smoothing her hair that was pressed down from the seat, “well, that’s a relief. you’re good at this. better than my last dentist.” 

the woman's eyes wandered around the room, landing on a framed photo on the wall. it was you and seo-yeon, taken last summer at the beach, her smile wide and bright. 

hye-jeong’s brow furrowed, and you felt a chill.

“cute kid,” she said, nodding toward the photo. 

“your little sister?”

your jaw clenched, but you kept your voice steady, “my daughter.”

hye-jeong’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise breaking through her polished facade, “your daughter? she looks… what, thirteen or fourteen?”

“yes,” you said, your tone clipped. 

“she’s fourteen.”

hye-jeong leaned back, her gaze sharpening as she studied you. you could see the gears turning, the calculations forming behind her eyes. 

“fourteen,” she repeated almost to herself, “that’s… interesting. didn’t know you had a kid that old.”

“excuse me?” you swallowed.

“come on y/n!! i figured out it was you as i had to stare into your eyes that whole appointment. i’ll never forget those eyes from high school.” hye-jeong fixes her posture, almost trying to ‘up one you’ in a way. 

you forced a smile, your heart pounding. 

“well, i’m flattered that you remember. i have another patient in a few minutes and your appointment is over, ms. choi. you can schedule your next one in about six months with the receptionist.”

she didn’t move right away, her eyes lingering on the photo, then back to you. 

“you’ve done well for yourself,” she said, her voice laced with something you couldn’t quite place… envy, perhaps, or suspicion? 

“i mean, a dentist, a fancy office, a daughter who looks presentable and clean… you’ve come a long way.”

“thank you,” you said, your voice cold. 

“if you’ll excuse me, i have other patients.”

hye-jeong stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder, but her gaze didn’t waver. 

“you know, it’s funny,” she said, her tone too casual. 

“fourteen years ago… that was right around when we were all still in school, wasn’t it? you were… what, with jae-jun at the same time as yeon-jin back then?”

the two names hit you like a slap, but you didn’t flinch. 

you couldn’t. 

“you’re mistaken,” you said sharply, “i wasn’t with anyone. now, please, i have work to do.”

hye-jeong raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. 

“right. my mistake.” she turned to leave, but paused at the door, glancing back. 

“cute kid, though. she looks a bit like someone we know.”

the door closed behind her, and you stood frozen, your hands trembling. the room felt smaller, the air heavier. hye-jeong’s words echoed in your mind, each one a crack in the life you’d built. she knew or at least she suspected. 

either way, you figured that this was the pastclawing its way back, and you weren’t sure how long you could keep it at bay.

you sank into your chair, your eyes drifting to the photo of seo-yeon. she was your strength, but she was also your vulnerability. hye-jeong’s curiosity wasn’t idle. she was a predator, always had been, and you knew she’d dig until she found something to sink her teeth into. 

jae-jun’s name hung in the air, a ghost you’d spent fourteen years running from. 

five days after hye-jeong’s appointment, the air outside of your daughter’s private school feels clean, like it’s slicing through your lungs as you stand at the stop sign.

your expensive black coat flaps lightly in the late afternoon breeze. thursdays are sacred, a ritual you and seo-yeon have carved out over the years. kimchi runs, just the two of you, laughing over the spicy tang and her insistence on sneaking extra into the cart. 

today, though, the world tilts. 

your daughter isn’t here yet, her school just a block away.

across the street, leaning against an expensive black car, is jeon jae-jun. 

your lungs and everything inside of your body seems to stop once you’ve registered the familiar face in your mind. the businessman’s smirk is a blade, cutting through fifteen years of distance, and your stomach churns so violently you think you might retch.

he hasn’t changed, not really. jaejun has the same sharp jawline, the same predatory glint in his eyes, though time has etched faint lines around them. the man’s hair is slicked back, his expensive coat unbuttoned just enough to scream careless wealth. 

you haven’t seen him since graduation, since you broke free of his suffocating and predatory grip, but here he is, a ghost made flesh, standing between you and the life you’ve built. 

your pulse hammers, your mind screaming one question.

why is he here?

you know why. 

hye-jeong. 

you did not forget about her smirk in your office five days ago, her probing questions about seo-yeon, her too-casual mention of jae-jun’s name… it wasn’t idle. you knew that his friend group were still strong since high school. 

the flight attendant probably ran to him, probably laughing as she spilled her suspicions. you can almost hear her voice, dripping with venom. 

she’d called you and jae-jun sluts in her mind, no doubt, reveling in the chaos she could stir. 

she’d mentioned ya-sol, jae-jun’s four-year-old daughter with yeon-jin and how he has two daughters that he didn’t know about. 

hye-jeong’s cruelty is surgical and now jae-jun is here, investigating her cryptic hints, his curiosity a ticking bomb.

the light turns green, and you force your legs to move, crossing the street toward the spot where seo-yeon will meet you. your black booted heels click against the pavement, each step a battle against the urge to run. 

you’ve always crossed this street for your daughter, especially since she opened up about her colorblindness. you’ve adjusted… brighter clothes, clearer and easier signals, thursdays at this exact spot so she knows where to find you. 

now, jae-jun’s presence taints it, a stain spreading across your carefully ordered world.

he doesn’t move as you approach, just watches, his smirk widening. 

you stop a few feet away, your hands clenched in your coat pockets, your voice low but steady. 

“what are you doing here, jae-jun?”

he tilts his head, his eyes raking over you, lingering too long. 

“well, well,” he drawls, his voice smooth as poison. 

“no hello or how are you? its been fourteen years. i’ll forgive you because i mean– look at you. all grown up, playing mom of the year.”

your skin crawls but you don’t flinch, “answer the question.”

he chuckles, pushing off the car, taking a step closer. you hold your ground, though every instinct screams to bolt. 

“i heard a funny rumor,” he says, his tone light but his eyes dark. 

“hye-jeong’s got a big mouth, you know. she said she got you as her dentsist and you’ve got a kid. a teenager. got me thinking… math isn't that hard, is it?”

your heart lurches but you keep your face blank, “you don’t know what you’re talking about. leave.”

he ignores you, his gaze flicking to the school behind you, where seo-yeon will appear any minute. 

“fourteen years old,” he muses, almost to himself. 

“that’s about right, isn’t it? back when you were so… devoted to me.”

the word twists like a knife, his manipulation from all those years ago flooding back…the way he’d made you feel small, trapped, like you owed him everything. you were a teenager then, vulnerable, but you’re not that girl anymore. 

you’re a mother, a dentist, a woman who’s fought for every inch of her life. 

still, the fear is there because seo-yeon is your world, and jae-jun is a storm that could destroy it.

“you’re wrong,” you say, your voice like ice. 

“i don’t owe you anything, and neither does my daughter. walk away, jae-jun. now.”

he raises an eyebrow, amused, like this is a game. 

“your daughter,” he repeats, tasting the words. 

“what’s her name? seo-yeon, right? heard she’s a smart kid. fancy school, good grades. wonder where she gets that from.”

your blood runs cold. he’s been digging, or hye-jeong has, feeding him details like scraps to a dog. you take a step forward, your voice dropping to a hiss. 

“don’t you dare say her name. you don’t get to come near her. you don’t get to ruin this.”

his smirk falters for a split second, but he recovers, leaning closer, his voice low. 

“ruin? me? come on, y/n. we had something back then. maybe i just want to… reconnect. meet the kid. see if she’s got my eyes.”

you want to scream and to erase him from existence but you can’t with seo-yeon so close. you glance over your shoulder, praying she’s not coming yet, and when you look back, jae-jun’s watching you like a hawk, savoring your fear.

“you’re nothing to her,” you say, each word deliberate. 

“you never were. you think you can just show up after fifteen years and think you can play dad to a girl you don't know? you’re delusional.”

he laughs, but there’s an edge to it, a crack in his confidence. 

“delusional? maybe i am… but hye-jeong’s got me curious, and i’m not the type to let things go. you know that.”

you do. 

you know it too well. jae-jun’s obsession and his need to control is what trapped you back then, and it’s what scares you now. he’s not here for seo-yeon, not really. 

“stay away from us,” you say, your voice trembling with rage, “i’ve built a life without you, and i’ll do whatever it takes to protect it. test me, jae-jun. there is not a power imbalance like there was a long time ago. i am one of you now, believe it or not. test me, i dare you..”

he studies you, his smirk fading into something colder, more calculating. 

“big words,” he says softly. 

“but we’ll see, won’t we?”

before you can respond, you hear seo-yeon’s voice, bright and oblivious, calling your name from down the street. your heart seizes, and you turn, forcing a smile as she approaches, her schoolbag bouncing against her back. 

she was chatting with a friend, her laughter cutting through the tension like a blade. 

you glance back at jae-jun, and he’s watching her, his expression unreadable.

“mom!” seo-yeon calls, waving, her friend peeling off toward another direction. 

she hasn’t seen jae-jun yet, and you need to keep it that way.

“go,” you hiss at him, your voice barely audible. 

“now.”

he doesn’t move right away, his eyes locked on seo-yeon for a moment too long. however to your surprise, he steps back, raising his hands in mock surrender. 

“i will see you both around,” he says, his voice dripping with promise. 

he slides into his car, the engine purring to life, and drives off just as seo-yeon reaches you.

“who was that?” she asks, her brow furrowing as she glances at the retreating car.

“nobody,” you say, too quickly, smoothing her hair. 

“just… someone lost. come on, let’s get that kimchi.”

she grins, oblivious, and starts talking about her day. as you walk, your heart pounds, jae-jun’s smirk burned into your mind. 

he knows.

two weeks after that encounter, your fancy kitchen smells of garlic and sesame oil, the sizzle of bulgogi filling the air as you prep seo-yeon’s fifteenth birthday dinner. your hands move on autopilot, slicing vegetables, stirring sauces, your mind half on the meal and half on the joy of your daughter’s milestone. 

fifteen years old. 

you’ve carried her through every one of them. the table is set with her favorite dishes, a cake waiting in the fridge, its frosting dotted with tiny sugar flowers. everything is perfect and your daughter had plans for some of her friends to come over. 

however, a scream pierces the air when your daughter steps outside her front door. the scream is loud and ecstatic, from just outside the front door.

you freeze, the knife slipping from your hand and clattering against the counter. seo-yeon’s voice, brimming with delight, pulls you out of your trance. 

“mom! mom, come quick!” she shrieks, and your heart lurches but not with joy. it is an inexplicable dread. 

you drop everything, wiping your hands on a towel as you rush to the door, your pulse racing.

outside, the late afternoon sun glints off a sleek black car parked in your driveway, a massive red bow tied across its hood. it’s expensive…too expensive even for you as one of the highest paid dentists in the region.

this is the kind of car that belongs in a showroom, not your modest front yard. seo-yeon is practically bouncing, her eyes wide with disbelief, her hands pressed to her cheeks. 

“mom, is this for me? did you do this?” she squeals, turning to you with a grin that breaks your heart.

you stare at the car, your stomach twisting into knots. 

you didn’t buy this. 

you’d planned to get her a car next year, something practical, something within your means that might've been $30,000 less than this one. this car is a statement, a violation, a hand reaching from the past to choke you. 

your mind flashes to jae-jun, to his rich smirk two weeks ago.

he’s done this. 

you know it in your bones.

seo-yeon throws her arms around you, squeezing tight, her excitement infectious but misplaced. 

“thank you, thank you, thank you!” she chants, and you force a smile, your arms stiff as you hug her back. 

your eyes scan the car, searching for proof and for a sign of the trap you’re certain this is.

“sweetie,” you say, your voice strained, “this… this isn’t from me.”

she pulls back, her brow furrowing, confusion clouding her joy. 

“what? then… who?”

you don’t answer right away, your gaze darting to the car. 

you need to find something, anything, before she does. 

“stay here,” you say, too sharply, and jog toward the car, your heart pounding.

seo-yeon follows, her curiosity unstoppable, but you’re faster. your fingers brush the windshield, and there it is…a small envelope tucked beneath the wiper.

you snatch it, your hands trembling as you tear it open, praying seo-yeon doesn’t see.

the note is handwritten, the script bold and deliberate: 

happy birthday, sweet seo-yeon – the owner of CC Golf Resorts.

your vision blurs, rage and fear colliding in your chest. jae-jun is the fucking owner of CC Golf Resorts, a name you’ve seen in passing, a detail you buried because it meant nothing until now. 

he’s not just taunting you; he’s claiming her, marking her as his with this obscene gift. 

you want to scream, to tear the note to shreds, to set the car on fire and erase his presence from your life. 

seo-yeon’s voice pulls you back.

“mom, what does it say?” she asks, stepping closer, her eyes bright with curiosity. she’s still smiling, still caught in the thrill of the moment, but you can see the questions forming. 

“do you know who sent it?”

you clutch the note, crumpling it in your fist, and turn to her, your mind racing. you can’t lie…not to her. she’s fifteen now, too smart to be fooled, too perceptive to miss the cracks in your composure. how do you tell her the truth? all she knows is the story you’ve given her: her father left, didn’t want to be a dad, end of story. it was enough when she was younger, a shield to protect her from the ugliness of jae-jun’s manipulation, his cruelty.

now, with this car, with his name creeping closer, that shield is crumbling.

“mom?” she prompts, her voice softer, sensing your distress.

you swallow, forcing your voice to steady. 

“yes,” you say, the word bitter on your tongue. 

“i know the owner.”

seo-ah’s eyes widen, a mix of excitement and confusion. 

“really? who is it? why would they give me a car for my birthday?”

you glance at the car, its glossy surface mocking you, then back at seo-yeon. your daughter’s happiness is a knife in your chest, because you know this gift isn’t love…it’s control, jae-jun’s way of worming into her life without facing the consequences of his absence. 

somehow you wanted to tell her everything, to rip the bandage off and expose him for what he is. however, seo-yeon is beaming and her fifteenth birthday is glowing. you can’t ruin this moment.

“it’s… complicated,” you say, hating how weak it sounds. 

“let’s go inside, okay? we’ll figure this out after dinner.”

she frowns, her excitement dimming. 

“but… the car’s mine, right? i mean, it’s got my name on it.”

you hesitate, the note burning in your hand. 

“we’ll talk about it,” you say, your voice firmer. 

“come on, the food’s getting cold.”

she follows, reluctant, casting one last longing glance at the car. you usher her inside, your mind a storm of panic and calculation. jae-jun’s connections have clearly been at work…someone, maybe hye-jeong, maybe his network of lackeys, has fed him details about seo-yeon’s life, her birthday, her school. 

he’s not guessing anymore; he’s certain, or close to it, and this car is his opening move. i

as seo-yeon chatters about the car, speculating wildly about who would have sent it, you realize you’re on borrowed time. she’s happy now, but her questions won’t stop. she’ll want to know why you’re so shaken, why you’re dodging her, why a stranger would give her something so extravagant. 

worse, jae-jun won’t stop either. 

he’s circling by testing your defenses and if you don’t act he’ll find a way to reach her directly.

you set the note on the counter, out of her sight, and force a smile as you serve the bulgogi. 

“happy birthday, sweetheart,” you say, your voice tight. she grins, oblivious to the war raging inside you. 

as you watch her eat, laughing about her friends and her plans for the weekend, one thought consumes you: you have to tell her about jae-jun. 

not today since it is her birthday, but soon before he does it for you.

the car sits in your driveway like a taunt, its red bow long gone but its presence a constant reminder of jae-jun’s intrusion. 

for days, it festers in your mind, a splinter you can’t pull out. y

our blood runs hot every time seo-yeon mentions it with that hopeful glint in her eyes. you can’t take it anymore. you call in a week off work, citing a family emergency…and you’re not lying. this is an emergency, a threat to the life you’ve built, to the safety you’ve fought for. 

jae-jun has crossed a line, and you’re done running.

you track him down to his luxury store, a gleaming shrine to his wealth and ego, all polished glass and designer displays. the irony isn’t lost on you since this is where he thrives, surrounded by things he owns, things he controls. 

you step inside, your brown coat swishing against your legs, your boots echoing on the marble floor. 

he’s there, alone, thank god, lounging behind the counter like a king on a throne. the man’s eyes light up when he sees you, that infuriating smirk curling his lips, but you don’t give him a chance to speak.

“you’ve gone too far,” you snap, your voice cutting through the air like a whip. 

“a car? for my daughter? you don’t get to waltz into her life like this, jae-jun. you don’t get to play daddy after fifteen years of nothing.”

he leans back, unfazed, his gaze raking over you. 

“your daughter?” he says, his tone mocking. 

“last i checked, it takes two to make a kid and you never told me, y/n.. i had to hear it from hye-jeong, of all fucking people i could’ve been told by.”

your fists clench, nails biting into your palms. 

“don’t you dare turn this on me. you were a monster back then! you are a monster!!! i protected her from you.”

he steps closer, his smirk fading into something colder, more dangerous. 

“protected her? or kept her from her father? i could drag you to court, y/n. right now. i’d get half custody, maybe more, considering how you hid her from me. the law’s funny like that.”

you lose it, your voice rising to a scream. 

“how fucking dare you? you think you can threaten me? after everything you did? you abused me, jae-jun! you manipulated me, you hurt me, you made my life hell!”

he doesn’t flinch, just watches you, his eyes dark and unreadable. slowly, he steps even closer, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. 

“and yet, here you are. there is still fire in you. i always liked that.” he pauses, his gaze softening in a way that feels like a trap. 

“i thought about you, you know. all these years. wondered where you went, what you were doing. suddenly hye-jeong tells me about seo-yeon, and it all clicks. you and me, we were always meant to be together… or have something that matters.”

you blink, thrown by the shift, by the twisted sincerity in his voice. 

“what are you talking about? there was nothing real between us. you used me.”

he shakes his head, closing the distance until he’s too close, his hands reaching for your coat, gripping the lapels. 

“no,” he says almost tender, “there was something. there’s still something. we could be a family, y/n. you, me, seo-yeon. our daughter, and my other daughter...”

the word family hits like a slap, and you shove at his chest, but he holds firm, his grip tightening. 

“what the fuck is wrong with you! let go of me,” you hiss, but he doesn’t. 

instead, he leans in, his lips crashing against yours, very forceful and unyielding. you push harder, your hands clawing at him. unfortunately, it takes thirty seconds until your body betrays you, a flicker of old weakness into the girl you used to be, softening under his touch. 

for a moment, you falter, caught in the kiss, in the weight of his presence.

you wrench yourself free, gasping, your face burning with shame and fury. 

“don’t touch me,” you spit, wiping your mouth like you can erase him.

he doesn’t back off, his smirk returning, sharper now. 

“tell me something,” he says with his voice low while probing, “have you had any other men around my daughter?”

the possessiveness in his tone makes your skin crawl, but you meet his gaze, defiant. 

“no,” you admit with the truth slipping out before you can stop it, “i haven’t dated since she was born.”

jae-jun’s smirk widens, triumphant. 

“good,” he says, like it’s a victory, like you’ve just handed him a piece of yourself. 

he steps back, finally, but his eyes never leave you. 

“think about it, y/n. a family. us. seo-yeon deserves to know her father, doesn’t she? this isn’t over. she will know about me.”

he turns, casual as ever, like he didn’t just upend your world again. 

you stand there, your coat askew, your heart pounding, the echo of his kiss a stain you can’t scrub out. 

he’s playing the long game and you can’t keep seo-yeon in the dark forever, not when jae-jun’s already closing in.

part two linked here

[spirit-of-a-kiger]

Reading through @pukefactory's stuff gave me inspiration to write about someone from our world getting stuck in ENA’s world and partnering with her.

First, they’re terrified. They certainly want to get help, but 1) they’re too scared to ask any of these weird entities, and 2) when they do muster up the courage to ask, only maybe 15% of this world’s population speak English, and the main character doesn’t have the innate multilingualism that this world’s native inhabitants seem to. So, they sorta just wander around for a bit, freaking out as quietly as they can, until ENA takes an interest in them.

She offers to help them, and as MC explains their situation in more detail, she offers to basically take them in as her assistant. Of course, ENA comes across as a shifty conman, and MC’s alarm bells definitely go off (well, more than they already were), but like… what choice do they have? So, they take a deep breath and accept.

Now they actually have a key to their survival, and that key is ENA. Whether this makes them more or less comfortable than they were when they were alone is up for debate. Sure, now they have a clear path to surviving in this strange world, but that path is working very closely under a person they don’t trust in the slightest.

So, for a while, they keep their head down and do as they’re told. They’re afraid of what she might do if she isn’t completely pleased at all times. Even if she doesn’t hurt them directly (which she still very much could, make no mistake!), she could just abandon them, and then where would they be?

Imagine the first time they see her Meanie side. Imagine if that first time is her yelling at them. How terrifying would that be, having the person who holds your life in their crystalline claws be furious with you? I’m not sure how she reacts to them cowering in terror, whether it would irritate her more or if she softens up. Maybe she doesn’t go back to her salesperson side (she is still pissed at them, after all), but she does take a breath and lower her voice.

In any case, while MC does do their best to be a good worker, they do still gradually get genuinely closer with ENA. Slowly, ENA’s demeanor towards them grows from just being a friendly salesman/boss to actually wanting to get to know them and maybe even outright kindness. She’s never had a relationship before, so it’ll be messy, and of course there’s still the power imbalance that they would need to have a real discussion about as soon as the two are ready, but the relationship grows slowly but surely.

Meanwhile, as ENA’s becoming more and more of a friend to MC, they also start to relax a bit. Trust takes a long, long time to build, but they grow to genuinely enjoy her company. They talk to her about the world they come from, and the two ask questions about each other’s worlds and the lives they led before. She’s there when they get too worked up, stepping in for them if it’s a social situation or cheering them up with a joke.

They help calm her down, too. When she wakes from a nightmare or when her meanie side has been in control for too long, they’re there to bring her back down to earth. After all, these are things that someone from our world can understand.

Speaking of which, I think the way to get the relationship started would be for MC to see ENA’s more human aspects. At first, they see her almost as like an extension of this world: incomprehensible, unpredictable, strange and new and terrifying and something they’re stuck with. ENA takes some time to open up, too. While she isn’t afraid in the same way as MC, she isn’t really used to being close with anyone. She probably hides her true feelings behind the silly faux-eloquence of her salesperson side and the yelling and insults of her meanie side. But whether she slips up in her facades or opens up deliberately, MC sees bit by bit who she is deep down, and she’s shockingly human.

[luckyroll3]

Thank You, Daddy Chapter 4

Masterlist and Summary

Previous Chapter

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, sex work, power dynamics, daddy kink, possessive behavior, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Additional warnings: Talk about domestic violence and physical abuse.

Word Count: 8,003

Days melt into one another in Christopher's mansion, each falling into a pattern that grows more comfortable than you'd like to admit. Within the first two weeks, mornings find you in his bed more often than your own, though you sometimes retreat to your wing when you need space to remember who you are outside of his orbit. The mansion staff move around you with practiced invisibility, and you find yourself settling into the rhythm of this temporary life, this borrowed luxury that fits like someone else's expensive coat; it’s beautiful, but not quite yours.

It's during a quiet dinner on the terrace, the Los Angeles skyline twinkling below like earthbound stars, that the first real crack appears in the formal wall between you. Christopher has been less tense today, his usual sharp edges softened by good news from Taiwan and a rare afternoon free from meetings. The wine is excellent, as always, and you've grown to appreciate the chef's impeccable taste. Tonight's sea bass is buttery perfection and the pairing is exquisite.

"Tell me about your family," Christopher says suddenly, setting down his wine glass with deliberate care.

The question catches you off guard. Clients don't usually ask about your background; they prefer the fantasy, the blank canvas onto which they can project their desires.

"What do you want to know?" you counter, buying time to decide how much truth to offer.

Christopher's eyes, dark and observant, study your face. "Whatever you're willing to share."

You consider fabricating something palatable, like a middle-class upbringing, parents who are conveniently deceased… the standard escort backstory that invites no further questions. But something about the genuine interest in his gaze makes you offer a piece of truth instead.

"Working class," you say, watching for his reaction. "Only child with a single mom who worked three jobs. Dad wasn't in the picture."

Christopher nods, no judgment in his expression. "Which jobs?"

"Diner waitress mornings, hospital custodian evenings, weekend shifts as a cashier at a 24-hour drugstore." You take a sip of wine. "She was always tired, but the rent and utilities got paid."

"Sounds familiar," Christopher says, surprising you. "My mother cleaned office buildings overnight. Came home smelling like industrial disinfectant every morning."

You tilt your head, reassessing the man across from you. "I thought you came from money. The mansion, the clothes, the art collection..."

A dry smile touches his lips. "All earned, not inherited. I grew up in a two-room apartment in Queens. Father worked construction until his back gave out, then drank himself to an early grave." He says this without self-pity, just stating facts. "Mother raised three of us on minimum wage and stubbornness. I’m the oldest; I helped where I could."

The revelation shifts something in your perception of him. Not the ruthless titan born to privilege, but someone who clawed his way up from circumstances not unlike your own. You find yourself offering another piece of truth, unprompted, in exchange.

"We moved a lot. Rent increases, evictions, following my mom's jobs. I went to six different schools before high school."

Christopher nods, understanding in his eyes. "Must have been hard to maintain friendships."

"I stopped trying eventually," you admit. "Easier that way."

"Smart," he says, and there's respect in his tone. "Self-protection is an underrated skill."

The conversation flows more easily after that, each of you trading small truths that build a bridge between your worlds. You learn that Christopher earned a full scholarship to Dalton, an exclusive prep school in Manhattan, at fourteen; it was his ticket out of poverty.

"The first day was a nightmare," he tells you, refilling your wine glass. "Designer clothes everywhere, kids talking about summer homes in the Hamptons, the French countryside, and St. Barts while ordering take out. I showed up in Walmart's finest, a bagged lunch that I made mysefl, and an accent that screamed outer borough."

The image of a young Christopher, proudly defiant amid wealth he couldn't comprehend, tugs at something in your chest. "I get it. I had a similar experience."

His eyebrows rise in question.

"Brentwood in LA," you explain. "Full academic scholarship my sophomore through senior years. The girls had handbags that cost more than my mom's three month salary."

Christopher's expression brightens with recognition. "You too, huh? How did you handle it?"

You smile, remembering. "Studied their accents, their mannerisms. Thrift stores for designer castoffs. Learned to fake it until they couldn't tell I didn't belong."

"Chameleon survival," Christopher nods. "I did the same. Though I was less into blending in and more about proving I was better than them despite my background."

"Chip on your shoulder?" you tease gently.

"A fucking mountain," he corrects with unexpected humor, leading you to chuckle. "Still there, just better disguised now."

As dinner concludes and you both move to the lounge, the revelations continue. You discover you both majored in business; you at USC Marshall, him at Columbia. Both first-generation college students. Both driven by a hunger born of early deprivation.

"So how did finance win out?" you ask, curled in an armchair across from him, shoes discarded, feet tucked beneath you in a posture more relaxed than you'd normally allow yourself with a client.

Christopher's fingers tap thoughtfully against his wine glass. "Money equals security. I watched my mother count pennies, literally, at the grocery store while people watched annoyed because she was holding up the line; decide between electricity and heat in winter; patch our clothes instead of buying new ones. I never wanted to make those choices again." His gaze grows distant. "And I was good at it… understanding markets, predicting movements, taking calculated risks."

"With Hyunjin?" you prompt, recalling their easy rapport despite their different styles.

A genuine smile crosses Christopher's face. "Hyunjin was my first ally at Dalton. Really my first friend there. Old money, but never made me feel like the ‘scholarship kid’. He understood the game but never took it too seriously. And he taught it to me." Christopher shakes his head. "We immediately became inseparable; best friends. His friendship and status offered me a bit of protection, I guess. We have complete opposite approaches to life, but somehow it works. He smooths my edges."

"I've noticed," you say wryly, thinking of Hyunjin's casual invasion of Christopher's space, the way he teases Christopher and also seems to delight in drawing his best friend out of his well-manicured shell. "He gets away with things no one else would."

Christopher acknowledges this with a cute giggle that makes you smile. "Jin tends to do that." He pauses, his eyes more probing now. "What about you?" he asks, his voice slipping into a different register, one loaded with curiosity. "How did you decide to start escorting?"

The question shouldn’t surprise you given what you’ve both been sharing about your lives, but it does. It's one clients rarely ask, a subject that usually remains as untouched as the emotions you're not supposed to have. You tap your nails against the wine glass as you weigh your response, momentarily tempted to give him the standard story: college loans, a suggestion from a friend, a temporary gig that turned lucrative. But you sense Christopher won't be satisfied with clichés. "It seemed like a better option than unpaid internships, minimum wage jobs, and ramen noodles for dinner every night," you say, letting a hint of humor show. "And I was good at it. Still am, according to some sources." You wink at him.

Your comment makes Chris grin. “So you started in college?”

“Officially, yes. But really it was high school,” you reply. You watch as Christopher's eyebrow raises at the confession. You know he’s silently urging you to elaborate, and you decide to give him more than the usual guarded truth.

“Started when I was seventeen,” you tell him as his expression shifts to one of disbelief mingled with intrigue. “I had already been sexually active for a few years and really enjoyed sex. But sex with other people my age was just not great. Teen guys think they’re amazing at fucking because they watch porn all the time.” You roll your eyes. “So I eventually started dating older men. One of my first boyfriend’s, and I use that term lightly because we never really ‘dated’, was older. Much older.” You pause, letting that sink in. “He liked taking care of me, buying me things. And I let him.”

You notice Christopher forming a response, but before he can interrupt with a question, you continue.

“He introduced me to other older men who liked giving me expensive gifts in return for my time. And it was easy because most never really wanted sex. They wanted to talk, to be held, to have someone young and cute on their arm to impress their buddies. But when they did want sex, I made it worth my time physically and financially.” You can see the understanding beginning to dawn in Christopher's eyes, the pieces clicking into place. "No one called it escorting, but that's exactly what it was. I wasn't forced into anything or taken advantage of; I was just having fun and getting off at the same time."

You sip your wine, recalling the thrill of power and independence that came with those first encounters.

“I sold most of the things they gave me and used the money to help my mom pay bills, while also building my savings. The best was when I’d have the same purse or clothing item as one of the popular mean girls; they’d wonder how I was able to afford it not knowing that it was their dad who gifted it to me and probably bought it at the same time as theirs.” You chuckle to yourself. “By the time I got to college, I knew exactly how to play the game.” You hold his gaze, unapologetic. “And I knew I was good at it.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "But why stay in it? You have the degree, the skills. Why not go corporate?”

You take another sip of wine. "Because it’s not as different as you might think. Invest some time upfront identifying your target audience and crafting the brand, create a marketing plan to sell the product, build a loyal client base, and the returns are higher than most entry-level jobs. And," you add, giving him a pointed look, "I don’t have to answer to anyone but myself."

Christopher considers this, his expression shifting from inquisitive to something closer to admiration. "Using your degree after all," he says. It’s not a question.

"From day one," you confirm. "Business school really taught me how to operationalize what I was already doing organically. And I was able to use my ‘hypothetical’ business plan as my honor’s senior thesis; I won the top award and even had a couple of the judges approach me to inquire about investment opportunities to get my company off the ground, not knowing that I was already three years in. I always knew what I was getting into, and I set the terms. No risk of a glass ceiling in my line of work."

There's a moment of silence as he absorbs your words, and you wonder if you've revealed too much or just enough. You feel exposed, but not uncomfortable. It’s strange, this impulse to tell him more than you should.

Christopher's eyes refocus on you, something warm and assessing in his gaze. "You're not what I expected," he says finally. “At all.”

"What did you expect?"

"Someone more... calculated. Less genuine." His admission surprises both of you. "The women I've had arrangements with before were skilled at telling me what they thought I wanted to hear."

"Hmm… Maybe you weren't listening properly," you suggest, not unkindly.

He considers this, head tilted slightly. "Maybe I wasn't interested in hearing. From them anyway."

The moment stretches between you, laden with implications neither of you are ready to examine too closely. Finally, you break it with a yawn that's only partially performative. "It's getting late."

Christopher rises, offering his hand to help you up, a gentlemanly gesture at odds with the dominant force who took you on one of the pool chairs two nights ago. "Eastern wing or mine tonight?" he asks, giving you the choice.

"Yours," you answer, the decision made before you fully consider it.

His smile, small but genuine, warms something deep in your chest that you promptly try to freeze again.

This is business, you remind yourself. 

Just business.

The next morning, you encounter Hyunjin in the kitchen, helping himself to breakfast pastries as if he owns the place. Christopher has already left for an early meeting, leaving you to navigate his friend alone.

"Morning, sunshine," Hyunjin greets you, sliding a cup of coffee from a local cafe across the counter. "Christopher mentioned you take it with a splash of creamer."

You accept the coffee with murmured thanks, suddenly aware you're wearing only Christopher's discarded dress shirt from yesterday. Hyunjin’s eyes are observant but not leering.

"You look comfortable," he says instead, leaning against the counter with feline grace. "That's new."

"What is? This shirt?"

"No. Christopher allowing someone to look comfortable in his space. Usually he prefers everything and everyone as tightly coiled as he is."

You sip your coffee, considering how to respond. "We have an arrangement. It's professional."

Hyunjin's laugh is soft and knowing. "Sure it is. That's why he cancelled our standing Thursday dinner for the first time in six years last week. Because it's 'professional,'" he says sarcastically, his fingers curling in air quotes.

The information catches you off guard. "He did?"

"Said he wanted a quiet evening at home." Hyunjin's gaze is too perceptive. "In the eighteen years I've known him, Christopher Bahng has never once prioritized 'quiet evenings' over work or obligation."

You maintain a neutral expression, though something flutters in your stomach. "People change."

"They do," Hyunjin agrees, studying you over his coffee cup. "But not usually this quickly." He pushes off from the counter, moving toward the door. "Just an observation. Do with it what you will."

Before he leaves, he turns back.

"Oh, and he actually smiled during yesterday's board meeting. Nearly gave old Jenkins a fucking heart attack." His expression grows more serious. "Whatever you're doing, it's working. Just... be careful with him, okay? He doesn't do casual very well."

After Hyunjin departs, you stand in the kitchen, coffee cooling in your hands, his words echoing in your mind. The warning, be careful with him, strikes you as backwards. Shouldn't he be warning Christopher to be careful with you? You're the escort, the temporary arrangement, the one who will walk away back to your non-billionaire life when the contract ends.

Yet as you move through the mansion that's becoming familiar territory, as you shower in a bathroom where your products now sit beside Christopher's, as you slip into clothes from a closet that holds both his gifts and your own possessions, you recognize the danger. The lines, professional and personal, business and pleasure, are blurring.

You retreat to your wing, needing space to think. Sitting on the edge of your barely-used bed, you run through mental exercises you developed years ago when you first started escorting. Reminders of what this is and isn't. Boundaries that must be maintained. The danger of mistaking transaction for connection.

But your usual mantras ring hollow against the memory of Christopher's face when he spoke of his mother, the unexpected humor in his eyes when he admitted to his chip-on-shoulder past, the gentleness of his hands caressing your skin when he thought you were sleeping.

You're good at your job, at giving clients what they need all while protecting your core self. It's what's made you successful, sought-after, well-compensated. But as you sit in your beautiful room in Christopher's mansion, you face an uncomfortable truth: the wall you've carefully constructed between your professional and authentic selves is developing hairline fractures.

And Christopher Bahng, with his unexpected vulnerability and careful attention, is finding every single one.

****

“You look good.”

Eva’s voice greets you the second you step into your penthouse. Her greeting, blunt as ever, is paired with a glass of wine and a knowing smirk. You abandon your small bag by the door and take both.

"Good to see you too. You still have my key, huh?" you reply, sinking into your plush sofa next to her. It's strange how it doesn't feel as much like home as it used to. "And thanks for that."

Her eyes narrow, appraising as you bring the glass to your lips. "You've got that 'man' glow. The one that says you're getting fucked regularly but not thinking clearly."

You laugh, a real one, because only Eva could frame it like that. "Is there any other kind of glow?"

"Not for us." She leans forward, curiosity naked and unapologetic on her face. "So? How's the arrangement going?"

You knew this was coming. "More intense than I expected," you admit, swirling the wine before taking a sip.

"After a month? Ooh, do tell."

"He's... different." You're surprised by how much you mean it. "Not quite as straightforward as I thought."

Eva arches a brow, her interest piqued. "Different how? Kinky? Controlling? Batshit crazy?"

"Yes to all three," you say, and she laughs again, demanding details with a tilt of her head. You give in, recounting the first night at his mansion, the unexpected chemistry that's only grown since.

"And he's opening up to you?" Eva asks, her voice edged with disbelief.

"More than I expected," you confess. "He's told me some pretty personal things."

"Like?"

You hesitate but know there's no point holding back; Eva will get it out of you eventually. "About his family, like his alcoholic dad. And about his past, his childhood."

"The poor little rich boy routine?" she probes shrewdly.

"No," you say quickly, more defensive than you mean to be. "It's real. Our upbringings are actually pretty similar. Single moms working multiple jobs, scholarships to private schools, etcetera etcetera."

She studies you closely before speaking again. "What else?"

“He cancelled dinner plans with his best friend to spend an evening with me,” you say, watching her reaction closely.

Eva whistles low. "That’s serious. Sounds very personal."

You shrug off the accusation even though something in your chest tightens at the truth behind it. “It’s not supposed to be serious,” you insist, even as doubt creeps in. "It's still business."

“And yet…” She lets the words hang, unspoken implications weaving through the air between you.

You let out a breath and shift topics before the conversation gets too close to places you're not ready to go. “Enough about me. How was Miami?”

Eva takes the hint with a knowing smile. “Profitable and exhausting,” she says, leaning back with practiced grace. “The usual wolves in designer clothing. No one worth remembering.”

“Didn’t meet any potential benefactors?”

“No one who could compete with a billionaire who actually listens,” Eva retorts.

You try to mask how much that statement hits home by draining your glass and pouring another. "It's not all roses," you say lightly. "He's demanding as hell."

"Bet he is." Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "In bed too?"

Your answering grin is wicked and unguarded. "Especially in bed."

She laughs, rich and full-throated.

The rest of the evening passes in a familiar blur of laughter and too much wine, Eva sharing more stories of her own clients and their absurd expectations until you're both doubled over in hysterics.

When Eva finally leaves with a hug and a warning to keep your head on straight ("or bent over if that's what he prefers"), you're left alone in the silence of your penthouse. It feels emptier than usual without her kinetic presence or Christopher's steady intensity filling the space.

You wander from room to room, picking up your phone more than once before putting it down again with a frustrated sigh. It's ridiculous how much you want to call him, hear his voice, even though you've only been away from him for a few hours.

****

The weeks unspool in a blur of luxury and unexpected intimacy. Your life with Christopher settles into rhythms both planned and spontaneous with formal events where you play the role of the exquisite companion on his arm and quiet moments of startling connection that weren't outlined in any contract. Time becomes marked not by dates on a calendar but by the gradual shift in temperature between you and the slow dissolution of the carefully constructed boundaries. You tell yourself it's just excellent acting, just the professional adaptation to a long-term client. The lie tastes bitter even as you repeat it nightly, like swallowing medicine that doesn't quite work.

The first charity event arrives five weeks into your arrangement. Christopher delivers a garment bag to your room personally, watching with undisguised anticipation as you unzip it to reveal a gown that catches light like trapped lightning. It’s silver and midnight blue, cut to accentuate every curve while maintaining an elegance that whispers old money rather than shouting new wealth.

"Tom Ford," Christopher says, fingers trailing over the fabric. "Couture."

The implication isn't lost on you; he had this made specifically for you, which means he'd been planning your public debut long before you'd agreed to the arrangement. The presumption should annoy you. Instead, something warm unfurls in your chest at the thought of him imagining you in this dress, directing designers to capture your essence in fabric and thread. You also wonder how in the hell he somehow managed to get his hands on your exact measurements.

That night, you stand before the mirror as Christopher fastens a diamond necklace around your throat, his reflection watching you with that particular intensity that makes your skin prickle.

"Perfect," he murmurs, hands lingering at the nape of your neck. "You'll be the most beautiful woman there."

"That's what you're paying for," you remind him, the words automatic, a defense mechanism.

His eyes meet yours in the mirror, something flashing in their depths. "No. That's just who you are." You feel heat rising in your cheeks and hope you’re not blushing.

The event passes in a whirl of champagne flutes and calculated small talk. You play your role flawlessly. You’re charming, intelligent; the perfect accessory to Christopher's power. But you notice how his hand never leaves the small of your back, how his eyes track you even across crowded rooms, how he introduces you as his date with a possessive inflection that makes his claim clear without words.

Later that night, he fucks you against the balcony door of his bedroom, your face and tits pressed against the glass, the city lights spread beneath you like a carpet of stars, his grip bruising on your hips as he whispers "mine" against your skin with each thrust. You cum with his name on your lips, and the line between performance and truth blurs a little more.

You fall asleep against his pecs, lulled by the warmth of his skin and the steady rhythm of his breathing. His arms are tight and possessive around you, clutching you like you might disappear at any moment. You find the comfort unsettling but addictive, leaving you unable to pull away despite knowing you should. The house is quiet, the only sound is the gentle rustle of the sheets as he shifts closer in his sleep, murmuring your real name with a tenderness that makes your heart squeeze in your chest.

You wake to him tossing, turning, his forehead creased with lines of tension. He's still holding you, but his grip changes; it’s less conscious, more frantic. 

He's having a nightmare.

His body jerks, and his breathing turns ragged against your neck. You cradle his face, whisper his name softly until his eyes blink open, haunted and disoriented.

"Hey, you’re okay," you say gently, brushing damp hair from his forehead, feeling a strange twist of emotion when he calms at the sight of you.

He doesn't pull away or try to downplay his vulnerability. He just presses his face into your shoulder with a low, relieved breath.

You’ve never seen him anything less than in control, and the unguarded moment overwhelms you, makes you do something stupid like care. You rub his back soothingly until his muscles relax, until his hold on you becomes less desperate, until he falls back into a deeper, more peaceful sleep.

And somehow, despite knowing better, you do too.

The pattern repeats. Another week. Another occasion. Another dress tailored and delivered. Another event blurring the line between business and indulgence.

This time, it’s a dinner with investors where Christopher positions you beside him rather than at the opposite end of the long table, a calculated placement designed to show everyone present exactly where you fit into his life, how he views your relationship.

The attention from the other investors flickers over you with interest, but Christopher's gaze is relentless, claiming. As dinner is served, his hand finds yours beneath the tablecloth, a subtle intimacy breaking through the polished, professional veneer. His thumb strokes your palm, and the deliberate intervals at which he reaches for you make your pulse escalate, make you hyper-aware of each touch and the promise it holds. Each course arrives with more intensity, more heat building between you, the food a secondary indulgence to the simmering electricity.

Christopher leans in to murmur something that sounds like an offhand comment about the market, but all you register is his breath on your ear, something far more intimate. His hand slides from yours, and you nearly gasp when it finds your thigh. He's talking to the table about the latest economic forecast, but it feels like he's speaking only to you, each word causing his fingers to inch higher, under your dress, teasing the edge of your panties while you struggle to keep your expression neutral. The investors around you are mostly oblivious, absorbed in their own conversations and the high-end wagyu steak dinner, but you're sure that everyone can hear the erratic beating of your heart. Your breath catches, and Christopher pauses, as if waiting for you to protest or stop him. When you do neither, he resumes his exploration, his fingers slipping beneath the lace of your underwear, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound. His eyes meet yours, dark and knowing, as two fingers sink deep, curling in exactly the right way to make you clamp around him.

You try to focus on the discussion about projections for the next quarter, on maintaining some semblance of decorum, but Christopher is ruthless, relentless, moving inside you with rhythmic precision. Your nails dig into his forearm, a silent plea that only makes him go deeper, more insistent. You’re on the brink, legs trembling, your free hand clutching the table for stability. The world around you fades, the conversation becoming white noise as Christopher crooks his fingers and presses his thumb to your clit.

After you cum quietly around his fingers, he sucks your juices off of them while one of the investors tells a joke, then leans over to press a soft kiss to your bottom lip. .

At a gallery opening a week later, he watches your reaction to the art more intently than the pieces themselves. A few days after, you return to the mansion after pilates to find one of the paintings you’d lingered at mounted on a wall in your east wing bedroom.

Then there’s a weekend brunch with Hyunjin and one of the many women he keeps in rotation, where the conversation and inside jokes flow so naturally you almost forget this is a temporary arrangement.

A work event at Christopher's firm reveals new dimensions to his possessiveness. You wear a conservative but striking maroon dress, appropriately elegant for a corporate function. Christopher's expression when he sees you is approving, but there's a tightness around his jaw you've learned to recognize: desire held in check, control exerted.

Martha greets you with an enthusiastic hug, her warm energy wrapping around you just as tightly as her arms. She is one of the few people in Christopher's company who talks to you like a real person rather than a precious artifact he's decided to display. There's genuine affection in her voice as she compliments your dress, her eyes sparkling with something akin to approval. “You’re simply adorable, dear,” she gushes. You beam, as you can’t remember the last time someone called you ‘adorable’.

Martha is charming in her efficiency, seamlessly transitioning between small talk and event logistics when someone interrupts with a question without missing a beat. You laugh when she mentions that Christopher will likely have a coronary if even one tray goes unsampled. "I don't want to be the one to resuscitate him," she jokes, glancing over your shoulder with a wink.

You follow her gaze and see Christopher watching you from across the room, a small smile playing at his lips. The look is possessive, approving, and entirely too satisfied, as if he knew you'd charm everyone effortlessly and he's proud of the show. He nods when he catches your eye, a silent signal that he's pleased, and you feel a ripple of satisfaction… or maybe that's just the champagne.

You're surprised when he doesn't immediately stake his claim, instead allowing you to navigate through the room with freedom. It feels like a test, like he's seeing how far you'll go and how long you'll last without him by your side. Then you realize with a smirk that he's just as likely pacing himself, saving his appetite for dessert.

The evening progresses smoothly until you find yourself in conversation with one of Christopher's colleagues, a silver-haired man with sharp eyes and sharper wit. He's entertaining, making you laugh in a way that feels genuine rather than practiced. You're mid-anecdote when you feel Christopher's presence behind you, his hand sliding around your waist in a gesture that appears casual but conveys unmistakable ownership.

"Lee," Christopher acknowledges the man by his last name, voice cool. "I see you've met my partner, Noelle."

The word choice, partner, not date or companion, raises eyebrows, including yours, though you maintain your composure.

"Indeed I have," Lee replies, eyes shrewd as they move between the two of you. "She was just telling me about her thoughts on the Miyazaki acquisition. Sharp mind, this one."

"Yes," Christopher agrees, fingers pressing slightly firmer against your side. "One of many reasons I’m attracted to her."

The possessiveness should feel stifling. Perhaps with another man it would. But you recognize something beneath Christopher's territorial display, not just ownership but pride. He wants everyone to know you're his, yes, but also that he recognizes your value beyond the physical. It's a distinction that matters more than it should.

Later that night, when you ask about his choice of words, Christopher pauses in the act of removing his tie, expression unreadable.

"Lee has a reputation," he says finally. "I wanted to be clear about your status."

"As your possession?" you challenge, testing boundaries that have grown increasingly flexible.

Christopher approaches slowly, stopping just short of touching you. "As someone who matters to me." His admission hangs in the air between you, more intimate somehow than the countless ways he's had your body. "Does that bother you?"

The truth, that it doesn't, that it warms something cold and protected inside you, feels too dangerous to acknowledge. "Just clarifying the parameters," you say instead.

His smile is knowing, seeing through your deflection. "The parameters are evolving. Isn't that what happens in any relationship?"

But this isn't a relationship, you want to say. This is a contract, a transaction, a temporary arrangement beneficial to both parties, designed to fulfill both of your needs. You should counter his words, remind him of what he’s paying for, but the way he watches you makes you hesitate.

The words stick in your throat, dense and unspoken, as he spins you around and bends you over the dresser, holding your face down against the smooth polished wood, hips pressed against your ass before you can push back.

You smile when you hear him undo his zipper with his other hand before he flips up your dress and plunges into you roughly from behind.

“Ugghhh!” you groan.

His hands pin your wrists in place on top of the dresser as he thrusts into you.

The motion is hard, immediate, a declaration without the need for language. He fills you completely. His hips crash into you, each hard plunge rattling the dresser and driving you to the edge of something you can’t quite define. He’s relentless, pounding so deep, over and over, like he needs to remind you in every way how he owns you, like he knows exactly how you’re starting to question everything. There's nothing soft or careful about the motion. It's blistering, primal, tearing down the walls you've built, making your vision spark white and your thoughts scatter, and you wonder if you're the one who's been wrong all along.

You’re gasping, breathless, the impact shredding through your carefully constructed defenses and unmooring the truths you’ve clung to, until all that’s left is Christopher pushing you to the very brink.

You moan loudly in absolute pleasure when you cum.

****

Saturday mornings become sacred somehow, an unspoken ritual neither of you planned. Christopher, usually awake before dawn even on weekends, lingers in bed, his usual precision softened by morning light and the absence of anywhere he needs to be.

You discover he reads poetry; Neruda and Angelou and contemporary voices you don't recognize. Sometimes he reads aloud, his voice roughened by sleep, words flowing over you like warm honey.

One such morning, as Christopher sits with his back against the headboard and you lie next to him, you find yourself tracing the scar on his ribs, the question you've wondered about for weeks finally finding voice.

"How did you get this?"

Christopher's hand covers yours, pressing your palm flat against the mark. "Street fight when I was sixteen. Three of my classmates decided the scholarship kid needed a lesson in hierarchy. So they found a way to distract Hyunjin after his swim practice and jumped me from behind as I walked towards the subway station." His tone is matter-of-fact, not seeking sympathy. "They learned a different lesson instead. Rich kids never realize they can’t fight until they actually fight someone who’s not from their neighborhood. And when Jin realized what was happening, he ran from where he was and his scrawny ass leaped onto the back of one of them. I think he broke that fucker’s nose for me." He smiled as he thought of the memory.

You can picture it, young Christopher, outnumbered but refusing to yield, that same intensity in his eyes that you see when he negotiates deals or fucks you. The image stirs something protective in you that has no place in this professional arrangement.

"And this one?" Your fingers drift northward to the scar on his shoulder.

His expression shifts, something vulnerable flashing before it's tucked away. "My father. Broken bottle. I got between him and my mother when I was ten and paid the price."

The simple statement reveals volumes about his childhood, about the origins of his need for control, about the boy who became this carefully constructed man.

You press your lips to the scar, a gesture of comfort decades too late but offered nonetheless. You feel his story in the warmth of his skin, the way his muscles initially tense when your lips touch the raised tissue. Christopher's fingers tangle in your hair, holding you close against his chest, a silent plea for closeness that he doesn’t need to vocalize, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

"I think you're the first person I've told," he says quietly, “other than Jinnie,” and the admission feels like being handed something fragile and irreplaceable, a token of trust so unexpected that it makes your chest constrict with a mix of emotions you’re not sure you can name. In that moment, the lines blur beyond recognition: personal and professional, fake and real.

You lift your head to kiss him on the lips, intending comfort but finding something deeper, a connection that scares you as much as it draws you in. You straddle him without breaking the kiss, your need to be closer to him a magnetic force that pulls you out of yourself and into this moment.

Beneath you, you feel his cock start to harden, and your hips respond automatically, sliding back and forth against him like it's the only thing they know how to do. When he’s fully erect, you reach down and position the tip of his dick at your entrance before sliding down on it fully, taking him with a smoothness that feels like inevitability.

Christopher groans into your mouth, a sound so raw and needy that it sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, amplifying your desire, making you wetter, hungrier. "Fuck," he breathes as you set the pace, riding him with long, deep strokes that leave no room for pretense or defense mechanisms. Just skin on skin, all boundaries obliterated.

You sink your teeth into his shoulder, the sex too good, your need too great to contain quietly. The bite makes him thrust upwards, hitting you at an angle that makes your vision blur and your breath catch. You dig your nails into his chest, marking him, claiming him in the only way you know how. As you drop onto him again and again, you see the earlier hurt in his eyes replaced by something intense and adoring. 

The vulnerability of his confession shifts into possession. His hands grab your hips, taking control, guiding you up and pulling you down with a ferocity that shatters your last defenses. "Baby Girl," he rasps. "I'm not going to last." The words should be a warning, but they push you closer to the edge. You want him to lose it. You want him to know he's the only one who can make you like this, trembling, incoherent.

As his thrusts become desperate, frantic, you slip a hand between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, circling, pressing, needing that final spark to send you over. You clench around him, and Christopher’s growl is primal, possessive, as if claiming every part of you. This time, he cums first, burying himself so deep inside you that you can’t tell where you end and he begins. But he continues thrusting upwards until your orgasm hits, violent and consuming, his name tearing from your lips.

You collapse against his chest, your head resting on his shoulder as he leans his back against the headboard, both of you trying to catch your breath, the room ringing with the aftermath of what just happened. Words feel inadequate, too small for the enormity of what lies between you. Christopher strokes your back, a gentle counterpoint to the way you’ve just fucked him, and you let your eyes close, savoring the unexpected tenderness amid the wreckage of your carefully constructed barriers after only a month and half. You’re not sure how you’ll ever keep your distance, how you’ll ever keep it strictly business. But maybe, you think as you curl up beside him, maybe... you don’t want to.

****

The Tokyo business trip comes as a surprise: not the trip itself, which Christopher had mentioned weeks ago, but his insistence that you accompany him.

"I'll be in meetings most days," he explains as you pack. "But the evenings will be ours. There are restaurants I want to show you, places I think you'll appreciate."

The thought he's put into imagining your preferences, into planning experiences you might enjoy, catches you off guard. This goes beyond the parameters of your arrangement, beyond what you're being paid for. You tell yourself he's just maximizing his investment, ensuring his exclusive companion remains available even during travel.

The lie grows thinner each time you repeat it.

Tokyo unfolds around you like a revelation with neon and tradition interwoven together and energy humming beneath meticulous order. Christopher keeps his word about the meetings, disappearing each morning with Hyunjin in tow, returning each evening with the day's tension melting as soon as he sees you waiting.

He takes you to tiny restaurants hidden in back alleys that require passwords or personal connections to enter. He guides you through temple gardens at dawn, before the tourists arrive, his knowledge of Japanese culture surprising and extensive. He buys you small, thoughtful gifts: a silk scarf from a fifth-generation artisan, a rare edition of your favorite poet found in a dusty bookshop, a pair of earrings that he says catches the light ‘exactly as your eyes do when you laugh’. That last one makes you roll your eyes playfully, which he smirks at until you kiss it off his face.

None of these gestures were stipulated in your contract. None fall under the obligations you agreed to. Each feels like a stone added to a scale that's increasingly tipping away from the transactional and toward something you're afraid to name.

In bed at the hotel, with Tokyo sparkling beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, Christopher maps your body with the dedication of someone memorizing territory they never want to forget. His usual domination is tempered by something that feels dangerously like reverence.

"Tell me what you need," he murmurs against your inner thigh, each word a breath on your skin.. He’s asked this before, his voice typically a low growl, an insistence. But not this time. There’s a difference in his tone now, a softness. This time it’s a request, not a demand, leaving the power squarely in your hands. It’s a change that thrills you more than you expected. You guide his head between your legs, your fingers threading through his hair, and he gives in to your silent response, his mouth on you with worshipful precision. Each flick of his tongue pushes you closer to the edge, unraveling you, turning your request into a litany of whispered “please” and “right there, daddy” and “more.” And when he's made you so wet and desperate that you're no longer sure if you’re begging him to stop or never stop, he pulls away. 

He’s inside you in one hard thrust, his body covering yours, his skin burning against you, his lips seeking yours with a yearning that matches your own. His moves are careful but determined, like he wants to consume you whole but is savoring each moment before he does. You hook your legs around his waist, forcing his thrusts deeper, faster, feeling the full possession of him. You bite his bottom lip, too close to stay silent, too close to hold back. Each drive forward is a question. An answer. A promise. A plea.

Tonight, when you come apart beneath his mouth, his hands, his body joined with yours, the name you cry isn't ‘Christopher’ or ‘Daddy’ but ‘Chris’, the forbidden diminutive only Hyunjin is allowed to use.

Instead of the correction you expect, his rhythm falters, his control slipping as he nuzzles the tip of his nose to yours and follows you into release with a hoarseness in his voice that sounds like surrender when he calls your real name.

Neither of you mention it afterward. Some revelations are too raw to acknowledge in words.

Back in Los Angeles, the pattern of your days continues to evolve. Christopher starts adjusting his schedule to maximize time with you. He’s leaving the office earlier, bringing work home to complete after you've fallen asleep beside him, scheduling his most demanding meetings early so his evenings remain uncompromised.

"You have a five o'clock with the Singapore team," you remind him one afternoon, having overheard his conversation with Hyunjin earlier that day.

"Rescheduled for tomorrow morning," Christopher replies, sliding his laptop closed. "I thought we could drive up the coast for dinner. There's a place in Malibu I think you'd enjoy with a fantastic view of the sunset. You interested?"

The casual reprioritization of his time, Christopher Bahng, who built his reputation on ruthless efficiency and availability to clients, speaks volumes. Even more telling is how he no longer phrases these changes as demands, assuming your consent, but rather as invitations for shared plans, assuming your desire to be with him.

The most unsettling part is how rarely you want to refuse.

Hyunjin notices, of course. His perceptive eyes miss nothing, especially where Christopher is concerned. You find him in the kitchen one morning, contemplating the coffee maker with theatrical confusion.

"This thing gets more complicated every time I visit," he complains, though his smile suggests the helplessness is at least partially an act.

You take pity, preparing his coffee along with your own. "Christopher's already left for his soccer game," you inform him, assuming that's who he's looking for.

"I know." Hyunjin accepts the mug with a nod of thanks. "I came to see you, actually."

The admission surprises you. "Me? Why?"

Hyunjin leans against the counter, studying you with that gaze of his. "Because Christopher's different with you. Calmer. More present." He sips his coffee. "Less like he's waging war against the world and more like he's found something worth protecting in it."

You don't know how to respond, so you focus on adding cream to your coffee, stirring longer than necessary.

"He's never brought anyone to the Tokyo restaurants," Hyunjin continues, his voice gentler now. "Those were places we discovered together years ago. Our private sanctuaries in a city that never stops moving."

The revelation sits heavy in your chest. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I care about him. And because I think, despite your best professional intentions, you're starting to care too." Hyunjin's directness is kind but uncompromising. "The question is what happens when your contract ends."

The question follows you through the day, through the week, through moments when Christopher's hand finds yours without conscious thought, when his eyes seek you out across rooms as if confirming you're still there, still his. The evidence accumulates like the formation of snowflakes—small, individual moments that together create something that shouldn’t exist, something substantial and something impossible to ignore:

The way he's memorized how you take your coffee.

The book of poetry he left on your nightstand, passages marked that made him think of you.

How he calls you by your real name in private, never Noelle.

The protective way he positions himself between you and crowds.

The genuine interest when he asks about your day, your thoughts, your dreams.

At night, in the darkness of what has become undeniably "our" bed rather than "his," you face the truth you've been avoiding. Your professional detachment, your carefully maintained boundaries, your emotional self-protection, all compromised by this man who approached your arrangement like a business transaction but somehow transformed it into something else entirely.

You suspect Christopher Bahng is falling for you, in his own controlled, measured way. Worse, you might be falling for him too. Most dangerous of all, you're no longer certain you want the contract to end in four months' time.

The realization terrifies you. You've built your career, your independence, your entire adult life on maintaining control, emotional and financial. On keeping transactions clean, boundaries clear. On never needing anyone enough that losing them would matter.

Christopher shifts beside you in sleep, his arm instinctively tightening around your waist, pulling you closer against him. Even unconscious, he seeks you out, claims you. In the sanctuary of darkness, you allow yourself to sink into his embrace, to acknowledge the warmth that spreads through you at his touch.

Your guarded heart, the one you've protected so carefully for so long, is quietly, treacherously surrendering. And despite every professional instinct screaming caution, you find yourself letting it happen, one moment, one touch, one shared breath at a time.

A/N: This was probably my favorite chapter to write. Hope you enjoyed it.

[mammoth-clangen]

Behold! Big Kitties!

I wanted to make one of these for fun mostly, also because I wanted to slightly update how I draw the Fleets to fit the Homotherium mummy; mostly in the lack of carpal pads and that brown is the wildtype colour uvu

Notes that didn't fit:

- Eye colours can be anything natural-looking except in Ice Fangs, which are always blue (that's actually where their name comes from)

- None of the colour variants are sexually dimorphic (though some may be sex linked)

- All species can be fluffier than shown here (especially in winter), I just shaved them here to show the varied anatomy

- All the cats probably have a melanistic and albino variant but there aren't any in Kindred so I didn't include them

- I'm never gonna draw the characters in Kindred with detailed patterns as shown here, that would take 554637 hours per page cx

Don't @ me about paleo inaccuracies bc there's a lot of intentional exaggerations e.g. how variable they can be, for the sake of making characters actually fun to work with + the Tuft Tails are basically just lions because their skeletal anatomy is sooooo similar but bigger (and lions are pretty)

Image ID

"Kindred of the Mammoth- Pleistocene big cats"

Fleet Fang- Homotherium serum.

Tireless hunters of the steppe.

Male: Tom

Female: Molly

Nonbinary: Motte

Young: Cub

Grouping: Kindred

A drawing in a slightly more realistic style than Kindred of a brown Fleet Fang with green eyes and extensive barring running down her sides. There is a headshot of a tom with shaggy grey and white fur, who has his mouth open in a slight pant to show dental anatomy.

Notes read:

"Inverted neck hackle

Patterns run laterally.

Tufted ears

Heart-shaped nose.

All teeth are serrated

No carpal pad

Claws don't retract fully

Skin usually dull pink

Paler under-tail

No sexual dimorphism

Huge incisors, tiny lower canines

Tundra morphs shaggy and pale grey"

There are a few natural variants shown as well: dilute few spots, joined-barring (lateral stripes instead of broken spots), Open-saddle ginger, melanistic with paler grey markings.

Ice Fang- Smilodon fatalis ssp.

Powerful hunters of the north.

Male: Boar

Female: Sow

Nonbinary: Urs

Young: Cub

Grouping: Sounder

A drawing in a slightly more realistic style than Kindred of a white, grey striped Ice Fang with blue eyes . There is a headshot of a boar with pale golden fur and a darker beard under his neck. He has his mouth open in a slight pant to show dental anatomy.

Notes read:

False eyes on small ears

Powerful neck/shoulders

Vertical stripes

Very short tail

Bear-like lower lip

Only sabers are serrated

Very large dewclaws

Skin usually dull pink/brown

Boars have a goat-like 'beard'.

Wide nose, sideways nostrils.

Huge incisors, tiny lower canines.

There are a few natural variants shown as well: Faded stripes with a pale warm grey coat, Few stripes only on the shoulders and rump, Tawny morph with broken stripes (they form vertical bars), Abundism- heavy stripes that are interlocking and covering the whole body.

Tuft Tail- Panthera leo atrox

Coordinated hunters of the plains.

Male: Lion

Female: Lioness

Nonbinary: Leo

Young: Cub

Grouping: Pride

A drawing in a slightly more realistic style than Kindred of a golden tawny Tuft tail (lioness) with amber eyes. There is a headshot of a lion with greyish fur and a tawny underbelly. He also has a darker mane around his neck. He has his mouth open in a slight pant to show dental anatomy.

Notes read:

Larger ears

Long, flexible spine

Nose darkens with age

Robust non-serrated teeth

Dark pawpads

Patternless or faintly spotted

Long, tufted tail

Lions have a mane (but less full than African Lions)

Lions much heavier than lionesses.

There are a few natural variants shown as well: Completely spottless warm grey with a tawny underbelly, orxy type dark markings that outline the paler underbelly, retained juvenile spots and a reddish tint, fully grey morph that is entirely desaturated.

A note at the bottom reads: Kindred of the Mammoth, art, and these speculative depictions belong to PencilPavlova [END ID]