#she’s been objectified her whole life

[fluffydice]

One big difference between Aiura and Teruhashi is that I think Aiura could be comfortable either sitting on someone’s lap or having someone sit on her lap, but Teruhashi deep down would only feel 100% at ease if someone was sitting in hers, not the other way around

[holytrickster]

also I really want to make haunting ground fan dragons now (except really only of fiona and daniella tbh because as creepy as the other stalkers are in the game i just don't like them enough to bother) except idk how I would put purple hair on an fr dragon lol

[ssahotchnerr]

okay so, I really don't like angst so I'll go with jealous!Hotch 🤭

Something like when Reader is at Jack's soccer game and Idk, a dad flirts with her? But when Jack sees that she's talking with someone who isn't Hotch, he calls her "mom" in front of the dad who's flirting with her, (bc he's jealous too 🤭) but Hotch hears him and he's kind of moved, but someone is flirting with his girl so he gets all jealous and starts like kissing her or something in front of the man? And the night they end up at his home, with Hotch showing her that she belongs to him 🤭

(feel free to change anything, don't worry, also, sorry for my bad english, it's not my first language 😭)

keeping score

🤭 minors dni cw; fem!reader, jack calls reader mom, unwanted advances, suggestiveness, allusions to sex, small praise, dominant!jealous!possessive aaron 🦋 wc; 1.5k

early saturday mornings - grass still slightly wet from the dew, the sun slowly rising higher into the sky (threatening a hot day), sat alongside a soccer field - you couldn't imagine another place you'd rather be.

as aaron was the coach, you spent majority of jack's game sitting alone. it was a small price to pay; you were more than happy to cheer on jack from the sidelines, and to check aaron out as much as you wanted.

but most importantly, attending his games made you feel like you were a part of the family. the hotchners were closed off and let very few people in, and so your attendance here only solidified your role in both their lives. that aaron planned on keeping you around, and that jack trusted you. your role in his life wasn't to someday replace his mom, but rather you were just another person who simply loved him. you loved him like he was your own, and he knew it.

"mornin'," a voice pulled you from your thoughts; a familiar face amongst the other parents on the team, but you didn't know him by name.

you offered a quick, friendly smile, "good morning."

he set up camp near you, setting his foldable chair down and getting settled a few feet away. you paid him no mind, resuming your attention to something more worthy of your focus, such as how attractive aaron looked in the jeans he was wearing. and the game, obviously.

however, you could feel him peering at you from time to time, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

ten minutes or so passed before he spoke again, "so, big soccer fan?"

your eyes followed jack, who was dribbling the soccer ball down the field. your heart swelled with pride as he successfully kicked it to a teammate, "not until recently."

"me too." he offered you a look that he probably thought was slick, while you kept your gaze straight forward. "i'm always looking to score, if you know what i mean."

his words instantly caused your cheeks to burn, along with your whole body. it was clear he was objectifying you, with no good intentions in mind.

you didn't bother replying. hopefully, that would be a clear indicator for him to leave, or to leave you alone.

but he still chose to linger. and while he wasn't speaking, in your peripheral you kept noticing his head turn, gazing in your direction. his eyes were nearly burning a hole into you.

"shit." he swore as he suddenly stood up, picking up and moving his chair even closer to yours, "the grass is eating away at my chair. must've been that damn rain last night."

it hadn't rained last night.

the unsettling feeling he was causing you only grew, but again you didn't dare to say anything. the uncomfortableness only eased when the whistle finally blew, signaling halftime. this meant a water break and a small snack for the kids, and it meant aaron and jack would soon be joining you for a moment.

as expected, jack hurried towards you as soon as one of the other moms distributed him his snack, but paused abruptly as he reached you, his eyes scanning between you and the man. a confused expression filled his face, his bottom lip sticking out into a pout. it was the same one he produced whenever aaron gave him the fifteen minute warning for bedtime.

"mom," jack inserted himself in between the two of you, a small package of fruit snacks in hand, "can you open these for me?"

you froze for a spilt second, touched and surprised. you've been a constant in both aaron and jack's lives for almost a year now. but that title, was a first.

"of course sweet pea," you coughed a bit to clear your throat, and to stop the tears from surfacing, opening it for him.

"you did good out there kiddo," the dad spoke again, flashing a smile.

your fists clenched at that one - you knew he was trying to impress you, and you hated how he had decided to use interacting with jack to his advantage.

just wait until you find how he's the coach's son.

while you were furious, jack ever so slightly rolled his eyes, such an annoyed expression almost humorous for a child his age, choosing to focus on his snack and leaning comfortably against your shoulder.

and a minute or two later, aaron joined.

as aaron approached, his face nearly pulled into the same expression as his son's as he analyzed the visual in front of him. only his was accompanied with a more hardened, possessive aggressiveness.

"hi sweetheart," aaron greeted you, leaning in to kiss you once you were on your feet. it wasn't a chaste peck either, but rather more showy. his fingers grasped onto the waistline of your pants, pulling you flush to him. "enjoying the game?"

you nodded, still recovering from the unexpected heated kiss, looking down at jack who also was glued to your side, offering protection of his very own. you gave him a smile, ruffling his hair gently, "i think we've got a soccer star on our hands."

"speaking of," aaron started, straightening his torso and squaring his shoulders, making him appear taller. "jack, why don't you join the others. they're taking turns aiming at the goal before the game resumes."

with a nod, and after handing you the empty wrapper, jack ran off to his teammates. aaron was still holding his menacing glare, but dropped the entire expression suddenly.

"how are you feeling?"

"feeling...?" your eyebrows quirked in confusion.

"you're not too sore today, aren't you?" his eyes darted behind you, a rather confident, fiery glint within them. "i wasn't holding back last night, was i?"

oh.

"and now that i'm thinking about it, i don't think you've ever been that loud either."

aaron had always been a stickler for pda; any displays were kept to quick kisses, hand holding, and any suggestive comments were kept to a murmur, meant for you and you only. even when you tagged along with him to bau outings, such as a bar on a saturday night, he held back. anything more was private, and aaron preferred it that way - him being the only one to witness you in such a vulnerable state, was something he took gratification in, and only added to his overall pleasure.

so this, was something else. he wasn't speaking loud enough for all to hear, just enough for the man in question. your back was towards him, so you had no idea how he was reacting to aaron's words.

"i'm fine." you managed, your body also reacting immediately.

aaron's lips found home behind your ear, again conscience of his volume - just loud enough. "good, because i'm not done with you yet."

aaron's hand slid up to the small of your back, but not without stopping on the curve of your ass first - again he wasn't subtle about it, making sure it was noticeable.

and it had to be working, for the man hadn't uttered a single word.

"and actually, sweetheart." another glare pointed behind you. "would you mind helping me at the bench for the rest of the game? i could use an extra set of hands."

"of course." you blurted out, complying without a second thought.

"good girl," he was heavy on the emphasis, patting your hip affectionately. "c'mon."

you were visually flustered as you leaned down to gather your belongings, especially when aaron's hand rested on the small of your back as you did so. your eyes lifted to the man, who was avoiding all eye contact, staring off into the field with a flushed face.

once you straightened up aaron took your hand, leading you away.

"thank you." you mumbled as your hand slid up his arm, giving his bicep a squeeze.

aaron's jaw clenched. "i fucking hated the way he was looking at you."

"you wouldn't like what he was saying either." you mumbled, causing aaron's nostrils to flare in anger. but to calm him, you changed the subject, heat filling your cheeks again, "and you."

a pleased, closed lip smile graced his face. "what about me?"

"what was all that?" you teased, stomach fluttering. you already knew the answer, but it was something you wanted to hear from him again. "i've never heard you, so..."

he chuckled softly, an almost embarrassing undertone to his words. "vocal?"

"yeah." you blurted out, blinking. "it was hot."

aaron shrugged, satisfied but still agitated. "he was devouring you, practically undressing you with his eyes."

"well, i don't think he'll be trying anything again."

"i know he won't," aaron's eyes darkened as his overly confident demeanor resurfaced, his lips pulling into a smirk as one of his fingers tapped your neck, "especially when he sees you next week. because you won't be covering up those marks."

[joannechocolat]

Two Boxers Walk Into the Ring...

No-one can have missed the absolute scenes on social media, both before and after the boxing match between Imane Khelife and Angela Carini, from which Carini withdrew after just 46 seconds, having received a blow to the face.

Social media had already been abuzz with unfounded claims that Khelife was a man, largely based on her athletic (and to Westerners, “masculine”) body type. (The same rumours had also been spread about Taiwanese boxer Lin Yu-Ting; also a woman, assigned female at birth, who got into boxing to protect her mother from domestic violence.) From this explosion of misinformation came increasingly wild claims from all the usual suspects: that she was trans (in spite of coming from a Muslim country where transitioning isn’t allowed); that she had “self-identified” as a woman in order to win (again, not possible in Algeria) plus some quite ghoulish speculation about her sex organs, her medical history and the type of puberty she might have undergone.

But here’s the thing.

Khelife is not trans. There is one trans boxer at the Olympics, a trans man called Hergie Bacyadan, who for some reason has gone almost unnoticed in this desperate attempt to prove a conspiracy that just isn’t happening. Imane Khelife was assigned female at birth, has a passport confirming it, and has spent her life as a woman, fighting against her country’s patriarchal ideas of what women are supposed to do. Not only this, but she is an ambassador for women and girls, who originally took up boxing to protect herself from those who disapproved of her interest in sports.

She was disqualified from the 2023 women’s world championships because (according to a Russian source that becomes less and less trustworthy the more you look into it) tests apparently showed some kind of unspecified anomaly, which may have been either elevated testosterone (quite possible in a woman) or the presence of XY chromosomes, once more altogether possible for a cis woman.

Nor does her condition (if she even has one) mean she is automatically likely to win against her opponents. In 2020, she made it to the quarter-finals of the Olympics, where she was defeated by Kellie Harrington, and she has been boxing on the international circuit for years without any of her wins or defeats gaining much attention.

Until now.

But her fight against Angela Carini on Thursday made her a magnet for some truly disgusting hate, largely, it seems, from the kind of men who enjoy threatening women, whatever the reason or excuse. In fact, there were distinct parallels with this and the recent anti-Muslim riots in Southport after the murderer of three little girls was falsely rumoured by agents of the far-right to be a Muslim immigrant.

Let’s be clear. Even if the attacker had been a Muslim immigrant, this violence would have been completely unacceptable. But the mob just wanted the opportunity to scapegoat and attack a community, in exactly the same way that the people attacking, threatening and objectifying Imane Khelife wanted the chance to attack a woman for not conforming to their idea of what a woman should be like.

In this context, it’s hard to see the rage and violence levelled against her for this victory as anything other than misogynistic - and racist.

It’s also hard to understand why in a sport like boxing – where the whole point is to hit your opponent – a person should be criticized for following the rules of the sport. It’s almost as if excellence is allowed in men’s sports, but in women’s sports, it’s automatically viewed as suspicious. And Imane Khelife isn’t the only athlete of colour accused of “being a man” because she defeated a white woman. Serena Williams has spent her career fending off accusations that she “was born a man” both because of her muscular physique and her excellence in her field. Caster Semenya, who has naturally elevated levels of testosterone, has been likewise demonized. It’s almost as if the people driving this toxic narrative believe that only men can excel in sport.   

And as for the argument that claims that elevated natural testosterone levels in a woman is “an unfair advantage,” don’t all elite athletes have some kind of physical advantage? Do we dismiss basketball players for being unusually tall, or weight-lifters for being unusually muscular, or runners for being lean and light? Why do we celebrate Michael Phelps for his genetic advantage, but penalize Caster Semenya for hers? Women have fought so very hard for the chance to participate in sports that were once seen as the sole province of men. Now, when they dare to excel in them, they are accused of secretly being men, or of not being “proper women.”

This isn’t any kind of feminism I recognize. The feminism I believe in is about breaking down barriers, not setting them. I personally dislike boxing (both for men and for women), but I respect any individual’s choice to compete. And attacking a woman boxer for winning a boxing match is as misogynistic as claiming to “defend” her opponent by painting her as a victim. Both athletes chose to compete. Both accepted the risks. Both have had their Olympic moment ruined by people who don’t care about sports, or the facts, or even women. This isn’t feminism. This is the worst and most patronizing kind of prejudice, and it actively hurts women – all women, but especially women of colour and those who do not conform to traditional ideas of what a woman should look like, what sports she should enjoy, or how she should behave.

Women fought for years for the right to make their own choices, to have their own identities outside of the stereotypes set by the patriarchy. Questioning those choices - those identities - isn’t progress.

 Supporting women doesn’t mean protecting them from themselves.

It means not setting limits on who a woman wants to be.

[xiihyunn]

Vampire (18+)

G!P Jenna Ortega x fem!reader

warning: vampire Jenna g!p, murder, blood, you being objectified, blowjob, choking, crying, gagging, teasing, unprotected sex, overstimulation, biting/marking, feeding, more blood, creampie, and semi-exhibition.

ⓘ Please do practice safe/protected sex in real life.

summary: — a vampire au, wherein shits get a little steamy after a long day of Jenna working, but what happens when just fucking you doesn't satisfy her hunger?

word count: 3.3k

> masterlist

a/n: i'll be writing drabbles for melissa, and mikey very soon. until then, enjoy this one x.

3rd person POV

You were a mortal, and your fiancé was not. Instead of yearning for the warmth of your significant other, you found yourself yearning for her cold body instead, and it was something that you never thought you'd crave for.

Jenna Ortega, it was a name that was forever carved into your head. You had met her years prior when you were camping, it was your dad's land so clearly no one was residing there, right?

Wrong.

Despite the woman being 5'1 she appeared much taller, much intimidating, much powerful than you. You were familiar with her kind, blood-suckers, ruthless, psychotic, and deadly.

But rather than being scared for your own life, she comes into sight with long wavy raven-like hair, crimson eyes, and snow white fair skin. She looked absolutely perfect, no flaw visible, just her, only her and her utmost real beauty.

One thing led to another and you found yourself wrapped around her fingers, not that you were complaining though, you wanted her to do that to you for your sick reasons.

"Oh fuck—" You gasps for air, as her mouth sucked your pulse point, both wrist pinned against a tree, with a beautiful figure ravishing your neck.

You hear her hiss before darting her red eyes to you, a blood curling smirk makes its way to her lips, as her eyes look at your lips hungrily.

"Pretty girl.."

Your breath hitches by hearing her voice for the first time, strong and desperate. The woman kissed you, with hunger but also with passion. Her lips were soft, working you up so well.

She pushes your wrist even tighter making you wince at the pain, but as the sound comes out of your throat, the woman uses this opportunity to slip her tongue inside your mouth.

Your back arches as an embarrassing amount of heat rolls to your center. You tried to suppress your small moans and groans, feeling too turned on by what this woman is doing to you.

She bit your bottom lip harshly, drawing blood from your flesh. You felt her sucking your lips, lapping up the blood desperately, and a loud moan escaped your lips.

She breaks the kiss with saliva trailing you both, as she raises one of her eyebrows at you along with a sly grin. Her eyes filled with both lust and hunger.

"Oh?"

Your face flushed from being caught red-handed by the woman. Pushing her body into yours, you tried to avoid her piercing gaze, only for her hand to grab your chin and force it to look at her.

She lets go of both of your wrists and grips your waist, pulling your hot body towards her. Your cunt convulsing around nothing, as your breath became unstable.

"Does my pretty girl want to get fucked?"

—

You POV

It was late in the morning, almost 12am, but I had no intentions to stop revising my work. Being in a busy and strict office environment forced everyone to be 10x hardworking, but then again, I could just get up and leave this place.

Jenna was planning to work late today since something happened with the company's stocks, causing it to fall down by 2% and Jenna has been really pissed about it.

We haven't been interacting with each other the whole day since both of us were busy, and whenever I would look inside her massive personal office, my fiancé looked so stressed and it pained me.

The dark bags under her eyes were noticeable, and her complexion was starting to deteriorate. Her eyebrows always furrowed with anger and confusion when looking at her paper works, and her bad mood was radiating all over the building.

I sighed deeply, closing my eyes, as I thought about Jenna again. I haven't seen her since our lunch break, and I was starting to get worried sick.

"What the fuck did you just say?"

God the stress is getting into me.

"Ms. Ortega— !"

A loud thud was heard in Jenna's office. My eyes shot open realizing I wasn't hearing things, as I snapped my head to her door, and looked around wondering if I was the only one who heard that, but only to see my co-workers gone. Fuck, I remember it was way pass working hours.

Before I could even stand up, a piercing scream ringed in my ears, and choking sounds were followed,

"See you in the last layer of hell, you mortal."

An eerie slashing sound was followed after, then silence.

God the silence was making my skin form goosebumps all around me.

I walked to her door and turned the knob, opening and closing the door behind me. My heart drops to see a man in his own pool of blood, throat slit open, but eyes still open lifeless, laying on the cold floor murdered.

Quickly catching my breath as I saw Jenna facing her window, looking at the city lights outside with a wine glass wrapped around her fingers.

She took a small sip still facing her back to me, I noticed her breathing too fast as she placed down her wine.

"Jenna, you can't just murder your workers in your office. We've talked about this."

Jenna looked back at me hissing, her eyes were red again and she was clearly still pissed. I saw her bloody jaw clenched, as she walked over to me. She simply steps over his dead body, not caring if her heels were soaked in his blood.

"Baby, he stole 10 million dollars from the company. He's the reason why our stocks declined." I sighed and wiped the blood off of her pretty face. "I'll call our men to clean this up." The smell of human remains was starting to get stronger.

Jenna looked at me still angry, and stiffly nodded her head. I took out my phone and dialed a number, it ringed in my ears, as I continued to wipe some blood off of Jenna.

"Jenna's office. I want it gone by tomorrow." And I hung up the call, as I was getting my handkerchief out of my pocket.

"Come here," I whispered. Jenna closed her eyes and sighed really loud. She stepped closer to me and I gently brushed the cloth on her face, and she was still beautiful as ever.

"We could've just sued him for embezzlement, J." I look into her still red eyes glowing from the dim light of her office, she simply rolls her eyes and crosses her arms.

"Not when that man-thing was gawking at my wife."

"What do you say Ms. Ortega, your wife exchanged for the 10 million dollars. It's a good deal, don't you think so?"

"What the fuck did you just say?"

Butterflies erupted in my stomach, I gave her a quick grin. "10 million wasn't even enough for him, and now he wants you too?" Jenna scoffs, "Pathetic."

I softly smiled at Jenna and gave her a quick peck on the lips. "Let's go home yeah? They'll take care of this." I walked past Jenna and went over to her office desk, cleaning her table and preparing her bag for us to leave.

I walked towards Jenna again, and her eyes were never leaving me. "Let's go," I whisper, as I hold her hands in mine to interlock them together.

"God your ass looks juicy."

Jenna harshly pulled me back to her, chest to chest as I felt her cold breath on my face. Jenna licks her lips as she stares at mine, arms around me and her hands slowly touching my bottom.

I softly groan at her hand placement, "That tight mini skirt looks sexy on you, darling." Jenna slowly presses wet kisses on my neck, and down to my collarbones. My face was feeling hot from the compliment and I hummed at the feeling of Jenna's lips on my skin.

Jenna's hands were starting to get rough and direct. Playing with my ass, she gropes, squeezes, and parts them ever so often for the cold air to hit my panties.

A pool of wetness was starting to form in my center, as I moaned in her ear. "Jenna," I huffed. Jenna looks at my eyes again, "My pretty, pretty fiancé." I could feel Jenna's bulge inside of her pants pressing against my core, and she kissed me.

A sloppy wet kiss filled with hunger, lust, and determination. It was no use to fight over dominance, as Jenna carried me to her large couch. Setting me to sit on her lap, and we continued to devour each other's faces, tilting my head a little to deepen our kiss, as I wrapped my hands around her neck, playing with her hair.

Jenna unbuttoned my blouse not taking it off just yet, but enough for her to see my laced bra and tits. Softly grinding on her clothed dick, as she kissed me eagerly.

"On your knees, baby."

I got on my knees, as Jenna started to lower down her pants. Her boxers were slightly wet with her pre-cum, and she palms up and down slowly. I stared at her non visible dick, and I felt my wetness slowly seeping out of me.

Jenna hums at her slow pumping, and looks at me smiling like a devil with her fangs out. "I couldn't help it, your ass just looked so fuckable." I pressed my thighs together, to try and get some friction inside of me.

"What are you waiting for? Get to sucking."

I gulped and slowly took out her underwear. Once it was free from its cage, the tip of her cock slapped my nose, making me blush. It was long, thick, and veiny, just the way I love it. Jenna smirks, she stretches her arms on the couch to rest them, and continues looking at me with her crimson eyes.

I grabbed her dick with my right hand and started to pump slowly. Jenna groans, as she licks her lips. Shallow breathing in the chilly air, I spit on her cock to lube it up.

I kneeled closer to her groin and licked her tip, tasting the salty pre-cum, I took her in. Jenna threw her head back with a moan, as I sucked her more.

"Fuck— Just like that, baby."

Bobbing my head in and out of her in a pace, licking, sucking all at once. My tongue running it down to her base, and up to her tip, only for me to work her even faster. Jenna's moans were throaty, deep and hoarse.

"You're doing so well, princess. Mhmm,"

Jenna grabs my head and pushes me deeper to suck her dick, and her tip makes contact with the back of my throat causing me to moan. The vibrations of my voice made Jenna snap her head back to look down on me.

"Take it all in, like a good little girl, baby."

Jenna continues to push my head in her, as she moves my head in a circle motion. A satisfied grin was in her lips, and I felt it touching and caressing the back on my throat.

"Your mouth feels incredible, shit—"

My eyes watered by the lack of oxygen, and I was starting to gag. Jenna chuckles at me, "My fiancé looks like a slut, my slut. Just look at you sucking my dick like the whore that you are." I closed my eyes and I felt them rolling back to my head in pleasure. My cunt was dripping wet, and I just wanted her dick inside of me.

I tapped on her thighs and she finally let go. I gasped for air, panting and coughing at the same time. Jenna holds my chin and gently wipes my wet lips, her cock was still standing tall but now wet with my saliva.

Jenna patted on her lap, and I quickly sat where she wanted me to be. "A little too eager." She whispers and she pressed her lips on mine again. Jenna unbuttoned my blouse all the way, and both our clothes were slowly discarded on the ground.

Jenna and I were now completely bare, and her hands found their way to my waist, making my wet pussy rub in her dick. I moaned in the kiss, as I grinded my pelvis more. My clit bumping on the veins, saliva and my arousal coating her.

Jenna tugs on my hair and flipped us over, and her figure was on top of me. "Please, Jenna." I begged, desperate for her to fuck me senseless. Jenna settles between my legs, pumping her dick on my wet labia.

"Please what, baby?"

She inched down to my chest, and palmed my breast. She took the other one and sucked hard on my nipples, wetting my skin, and biting it. I whined and groaned, fisting Jenna's hair.

"Please fuck me." I groaned by her sharp canine teeth brushing against my bud, as Jenna looked up at my face. Capturing my lips once more as she pushes the tip inside, moaning in dissatisfaction against her lips.

I wrapped my legs on her hips, pushing it more in me. Before it could slowly enter me more, Jenna slammed it inside. I threw my head back moaning, and arching my spine from pleasure.

"Oh fuck— Jenna." She stopped sucking on my nipples and started thrusting. Jenna pulls back, and starts to push her cock in again, filling my pussy up with her dick with all of her length. "So wet, and so tight just for me." Jenna slams her member in and out of me, "Fuck, you feel amazing." She throws her head back and grips on my hips.

Jenna started to quicken up the pace, slamming her cock, faster and deeper. "I could fuck you all night, princess." She picked up a rhythm, and slammed my hips further to her dick. A loud moan escapes my throat, as I hold onto Jenna's biceps. "You like that baby? Does it feel good?"

My juices were running down my ass, and some were sticking to my inner thighs. I nodded, biting my bottom lip, feeling the pressure slowly building up inside of me. "Words, princess."

I take a deep breath, "Y-Yes, I love it. You feel so g-good inside me…" Jenna smiled wide, as she took her dick out fully, and slammed it inside me once more. "Jen—!" My body flinched, feeling her cock hit my cervix.

Jenna stayed in that position for a second, and started pounding inside of me fast and fiercely. I tasted blood on my mouth, from biting too hard. Jenna looms down over me and devours my lips, as I feel myself tightening around her.

"I'm gonna cum," I mumble against her lips, as Jenna just licks my mouth dry. "Cum for me, princess." Jenna's eyes were glowing red, meeting my gaze she continued to pound more.

Jenna slams her dick inside of me one more time, and my nails dug into her biceps, as my orgasm rolled off my body. She pants, her hands almost breaking my hips, as she builds up her own orgasm.

My pussy felt a burning sensation, and my clit was convulsing by her pelvic brushing it ever so often. Jenna grabbed my chin and snapped it sideways, I groaned at her sudden movement.

My legs were aching from our prolonged position, but I couldn't help but moan by how her cock was entering and exiting my cunt.

"I need you, Y/n."

Jenna's voice was different, it sounded demonic almost, and I knew what she needed. I nodded my head, ready for her. I felt her hot breath on the pulse point of my neck, and her thumb was now rubbing my clit.

I silently curse, feeling another sense of arousal building up inside. "Your pussy hugs my dick so well," Her tongue lapping around my neck, I heard Jenna groan and moan loudly. "Fuck I'm gonna cum, baby."

I panted, feeling my pussy ache from the overstimulation, and another orgasm coming. Jenna opens her mouth and I shudder from her sharp canine teeth making contact with my flesh.

"I'm going to fill you up, so fucking take it."

Jenna sinks her teeth inside of me, and I screamed from pain. Thick ropes of hot cum painted my walls white, my back arches, as my juices came out. Jenna twitches inside of me, spilling every drop of semen inside, and the mixture of our fluids drops on her couch.

Jenna sucked from my neck, and it was starting to burn all around. I hear her gulp, then another, then another again. The corner of my vision was starting to darken, and I moaned from the painful feeling.

My grip on Jenna was starting to loosen, and everything was dizzy. I heard her gulp one more time before detaching herself from me with a loud and wet pop.

"J-Jenna.." I whisper. I whined as she slipped out of me, feeling her cum and mine running down to the couch.

Jenna's POV

Y/n laid on the couch completely exhausted, and my face softened. My eyes changed back to the color back, as I held her close to me.

"Oh Y/n, was it too much?" I whisper to her, she looks at me with her half-lidded eyes, "No.." I hear her mutter under her breath. I smiled at her and kissed her sweaty forehead, "My sweetheart you did so good for me."

Y/n hums with a small smile on her lips, "Let me go clean you up, baby. I'll be right back." I wore my wrinkled clothes, and cleaned my fiancé up. Y/n sat on the couch with her clothes on, but she was pale and unresponsive, just staring into the floor.

"My baby," I kneeled in front of her figure and caressed her cheek, "I'll get off of work for a week to take care of you, sweetheart. It'll take some time for your body to replace all that blood." I hear Y/n mutter a small okay, and she held her arms out to me.

I giggled and carried her bridal style, Y/n burrows her face on my neck. "Kiss.." I heard her say to me, I looked down at her and she was looking at me cutely while puckering her lips.

I gave her a toothy smile and kissed her, she breaks it off and snuggles to my neck more, but with a smile and blush on her face.

My dead heart beats faster, as I grab my things. I walked towards the door, then stopped. I looked back to the dead man behind me and I couldn't help but smirk.

"My wife is all mine, you fuck."

I closed the door behind me and saw 6 men outside, some were hiding their crotch, some were flustered, and some who were too proud of their hard-on to not even bother to cover it.

They all looked at me and I stared at each and every one of them with my eyes, they all quickly looked away, pretending to admire the interior design of my building.

"Get to work. You wouldn't want your boss to clean up your bodies, would you?"

[echoed-salvation]

Watching a certain subsect of manhwa-only fans reduce yoo sangah to a "love interest waifu" character is so frustrating because it literally goes against the entire point of her character. She's been trying her whole life to escape the expectations put on her just because she's a conventionally attractive woman. She went against her family's wishes for her to marry rich and got a job to become independent, only to face harassment and sexism in her male-dominated workplace. She is frequently objectified and pushed to be appealing to the male gaze. Even kim dokja initially thinks of her as less of a person and more of an archetype. Yoo sangah is a woman trying to forge her own identity within a patriarchal society that will never see her for who she truly is.

I think it says something about the way we consume media that we always assume that an attractive female character who plays a particular role in the male mc's life must be a romantic interest - that most of the fandom discussions of yoo sangah I've seen are about whether she and kdj are going to get together romantically and that so many of us complain about being "tricked" into thinking that they are when their canon relationship remains entirely platonic by the end of the novel. When yoo sangah is close to kim dokja we expect the development of a romance between the two. If a woman is close with a man then we think that's the only option for their relationship. We are taught to see female characters not as their own people, but rather mere objects for men.

[amor-ad-nauseam]

Somethin’ Stupid (pt. 2)

Pairing(s): Sam Winchester x reader

Summary :You two are pathetic for each other, so much so that Dean can’t help but take notice. Maybe, just maybe his “playing wingman” will work out alright…

Word count : 3.5k

Tags: Reader and Sam have a crush on each other, fluff, no use of y/n, reader uses she/her pronouns, carheartt!sam, heavy make out, kissing, fade to black, almost smut.

Notes; While this does read as a fade to black i may or may not have gotten a little carried away with myself and wrote part of the smut scene… it’s not included here but if y’all want that lmk!! I am so sorry about how late this is coming out! i’ve been very busy with back to school preparations. Notes and reposts are greatly appreciated

part 1 part 3

“Rise n’ shine, Sammy!” Dean announced, clapping Sam on the shoulder.

Sam flinches awake and like a row of dominos, the guitar that was in his lap is sent tumbling to the floor - creating a harsh cacophony of strings and wood.

The sound causes you to jolt from your slumber. You shoot up in bed in a flurry of confusion. “I’m up! I’m up! Where’s the Rugaru!?” You shout, whipping your head around the room.

“Woah, Good Morning to you too,” Dean chuckles, punctuating the sentence with an obnoxious bite of beef jerky. Sam makes a face. “Want some?” He points the jerky at Sam.

“Hey, Dean.” Sam sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He runs his hands down his face. "I’m good, thanks.”

You visibly relax as the real world comes into focus. “Morning, Boys.” You say as the adrenaline wears off. Sam was still across from you, now flashing an apologetic smile and Dean was well- Dean, but in a cowboy hat. That wasn’t too unusual for him. Dean nodded a hello.

“Eh, more for me,” Dean shrugs with another bite. “Anywho,” He bends down and retrieves the guitar from the floor, now with a newly popped high E string. He hoped the motel wouldn’t charge him extra for that. “When’d you become Springsteen?” He smirks.

Sam was in no mood.

Then, his eyes lit up.

“Hey, Dean, what’s that, uh, mark on your neck?” Sam said, a grin only capable of being mustered by the most annoying of little brothers appearing on his lips.

“What mar- “Dean slid his hand down the length of his neck, stopping about halfway in sudden realization. “Oh- “He clears his throat. Mumbling something about getting banged up pretty badly, he dismisses himself to the med kit in Sam’s bag.

“Oh, and that explains why you’re just now getting back at, uh,” Sam glances to the alarm clock. “7am? from a simple salt-n-burn?”

“Uh, yeah.” Dean scoffs defensively. “Cause you see, Sammy, I was actually doing my job.”

The early morning sun filtered in through the blinds and for the first time you realized that the wood paneling on the divider and both doors were made to look like a saloon door. Damn. They went all out with this whole cowboy theme. On the bright side, the sun gave everything a warm almost fiery glow. Despite the rather cozy atmosphere of the room, Sam and Dean were still going.

Only two things in life are certain: taxes and the Winchester’s arguments.

“The job that requires you to receive hickeys from girls in bars?” Sam laughed. He was now stood by the foot of your bed, stretching the tension from his shoulders. Man, even through a t-shirt his back muscles were attractive- carved like a Greek statue.

“Okay, when you say it like that it makes me sound like a hooker.”

“Maybe you are, Mr. hard worker.”

“Don’t objectify me.” Dean rolls his eyes, feigning offense . Dean was leaned over the dresser, looking in the mirror as he tried to cover a small purple mark on his neck with a square gauze patch.

He definitely wasn’t winning this one.

As if suddenly remembering something, his head perked up and he set his sights on you.

“How’s the leg?” He asked, looking at you in the mirror. He did genuinely care about your wellbeing, but it didn’t hurt that you were also a good out.

“Hm?” You were a little distracted; you’d almost forgotten about your leg entirely.

“Oh right. It’s fine really,” you swing your legs over the edge of the bed.

When you look down you find the bandage that was once around your thigh, half undone, twisted about and just an overall mess.

“Right, fine.” Dean chuckles.

“Woah, you okay?” Sam questions.

Before you know it, Sam’s closing the distance between the two of you and the roll of gauze is sailing through the air from Dean’s palm to Sam’s.

“Damn, I thought you were better at the whole first-aid thing, Sammy.” Dean remarks, happy to flip the situation back on his brother.

“I am,” Sam takes a seat next to you. He’s warm. And close. Too close. “But someone.” Damn he smells good too. Like a brand-new book. “Wouldn’t let me.” He said with a teasing expression.

“Hey, I didn’t do too bad.” Your cheeks flush.

“Riiight.” He gently tugs at an end of the bandage, and it unravels like a loose thread in a pair of jeans. “Not too bad at all.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever.” You reply, your face contorting to an attempt at annoyance.

“Hey, cheer up.” Sam smiled.

You couldn’t help but smile in return.

He gently slid his hand to the underside of your knee and placed your leg over his lap just as he did the night prior.

While you were busy tossing the wrinkled bandage into a small barrel-shaped trashcan near the sofa-chair, Sam took the opportunity to let his gaze linger. He drank in every detail of your appearance, hoping to seer it to memory.

For some reason, 3 things in particular stuck out to him: You never bothered to put your hair up last night, the way squinted as the sun reflected directly into your eyes, and the fact that you were still in his Carhartt. That last one especially made his heart beat a little harder.

Your lovely chaotic hair and the sun shining on your face inspired countless fantasies. Some as simple as kissing the tiredness from your expression, others, he felt bad for even thinking.

The minute you turn around his eyes are once again glued to your leg and you’re none the wiser.

“How’m I lookin, doc?”

Dean with his shirt tucked beneath his chin was rubbing ointment on what he wasn’t quite sure if it was another hickey on his abdomen or an actual bruise. Upon hearing your question he perks up, ready to make a dumb Looney Toons reference when Sam of all people beats him to the punch.

“Ah, just peachy, Bugs.” He replied in a nasally imitation of Daffy Duck.

“Huh.” Dean mumbles with some small shock. He watches the two of you from the mirror's reflection. He knew Sam had a thing for you, but this, this was something else.

The way the two of you giggled and just almost leaned into each other with every joke- pulling away in shy stupidity each time you got too close. The lingering eye contact, how Sam’s hand looked almost reluctant to leave you, the way one of you would stare when the other wasn’t looking. The whole thing left his stomach feeling like a pot of warm honey.

Damn. You’ve both got it bad.

An idea.

“Hey guys,” He chimed in.

“Hm?” You and Sam said in unison.

“Oh, sorry no you go- “you said.

“No, it’s okay you- “

“Well, you did fix me up it’s only fair- “just then you realized that your leg was still in his lap. You quickly pull away and smile apologetically. Sam does the same.

Dean just about face palms. You two are hopeless.

“Guys.” Dean clears his throat, capturing both of your attentions once more.

“I'm gonna go out and uh, do something.” Dean said with heavy emphasis on “do something.”

“Oh, okay..?” you said with confusion

“Oh, uh, need help with that?” Sam added, eaqually as confused.

“No! no, sorry…heh… I just mean that you both should stay here while I go make a move.”

“You… feelin’ alright, Dean?” You question.

“He’s still hungover I think.” Sam leans in and mutters.

“Y’know,” Dean turns his attention straight to Sam. “Making a move is always the right thing.”

“…So, you do want my help?”

“No, damnit,” Dean sighs in defeat. “M’goin’ on a coffee run.”

“Oh… okay…” Sam replied. “In that case, make two of ‘em decaf.”

“Aw you remembered?” You say with an expression reminiscent of a teen girl with a crush.

“Yeah, I know how it makes you jittery.” Sam replied, sounding embarrassed.

Dean watches as the two of you sit there smiling like idiots.

Yeah.

Extra hopeless.

- -

The latter half of the day is spent with Dean acting strangely and you and Sam struggling to figure out why.

A couple of theories arose.

“Maybe he is hungover.” You quietly conceded after Dean stretched his legs across the diner’s booth seat when Sam tried to sit down- forcing him next to you.

“Nah, he’s mean when hungover.” Sam replied.

- -

“Maybe we did something?” You suggested when Dean pulled the same diner stunt later at the library.

“Like what?” Sam replied as he studied Deans relaxed demeanor.

“Dunno. Maybe it’s 'cause we bailed last night?”

“C’mon we didn’t “bail”, you got stabbed and we all know if one of us didn’t stay with you, you’d come crawling back to finish the fight.”

“Fair enough.” You shrugged. “Well, I’m fresh out of ideas.”

“Me too. Just can’t figure out what would make him not tell us details on a case, it’s not like him.”

- -

You also happened to notice that Sam grew increasingly grumpy as the day dragged on.

Whether that was due to Dean, or his uncomfortable sleeping situation last night was lost on you.

- -

“Maybe he got roofied?” Sam mumbled when it seemed as though Dean couldn’t walk in a straight line- continually bumping into you - shoving you straight into Sam.

“Can’t be, after that whole witch thing he’s really careful with his drinks.”

“Hm…”

- -

“Mid life crisis?” Sam proposes in a hushed voice from the huddled corner of a motel lobby.

Dean had bought two rooms instead of the usual one accompanied by “we’re livin’ offa credit card scams and prayers. Besides, we’ve all pretty much seen eachother’s junk anyway.”

“He’s 30” you replied while watching Dean flirt with the woman behind the counter.

“With this job and his liver, it’s midlife.”

- -

Finally, the night had rolled around.

“Been dazed and confused for so long it can’t be true~”

The radio humming as the Impala raced down the road.

Normally, nights like this would be relaxing. Windows rolled down, the sounds of the cold and buzzing night mixed with the same five albums Dean rotated. Empty back roads and the three of you endearingly out of tune as you sang along.

But this night was simply and plainly, dead.

The air in the car had a tension not even Page and Plant could cut through. You all silently sat in your unassigned-assigned seats: Dean driving, Sam shot gun and you in the back watching the night woosh by.

It all came to a head earlier when Dean notified you and Sam that you two were on stake-out duty. You watched as Sam’s expression visibly changed into one of suppressed nausea. Sure, stakeouts usually sucked ass but did the thought of being alone with you really drive him to the point of sickness?

You breathed a sigh, sinking further into your seat at the memory.

Sam steals a glance at you in the rear view- you looked sad. Guess you weren’t too excited at the thought of a stakeout either.

The car stops about 50 yards in the underbrush in front of a dilapidated old building in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere.

The light previously provided to you by the stars was dimmer now due to the thick miles of pine trees stretching high above- looking as though they could touch the sky themselves.

“Aaand we’re here,” Dean said, switching off the ignition

“Mind telling us where “here” is exactly?” Sam quipped.

“Like I said, it’s a nest.”

“Yeah. That’s the problem. That’s about the only thing you’ve said.”

“Okay, fine- look, We’ve had a lot of duds lately and I didn’t wanna get anyone’s hopes up if it wasn’t the real deal.” Dean shrugs.

Dean was an incredibly good liar. Or as he liked to call it, thinking on his feet.

“Wow you are s- “

“Such a great older brother, I know. I’m gonna go walk the perimeter, shouldn’t take too lo-“

“Great I’ll come with!”

You watch as Sam quickly follows after Dean- not even letting his brother get the words out before he’s on his feet and out of the car like he’ll catch the plague if he’s alone with you.

Yeah. Stakeouts really sucked.

From inside the car all you could hear were Sam and Deans muffled voices, but even still, you could tell they were arguing…

“I’m not an idiot, Dean. I know what you’re doing.”

“Well I’d hope so,” Dean chuckled, holding his newly sharpened machete upward to inspect it. “Dad’d kill us if we ever even thought about going in dull and halfcocked.”

“Y’know you’re not the most subtle guy in the world.”

Sufficiently satisfied, Dean re-sheathes the blade and hooks it onto his waistband. “Dunno wacha talkin’ ‘bout, Sammy.”

“You forced me to sit next to her.”

“Leg got bruised las night, had to keep ‘er elevated.”

“Got two rooms?” Sam quirked a brow.

“So? What if i wanted to bring someone back?”

“Dude, you practically threw her into me.”

“Again, the leg. Can’t walk straight.” He shrugs, grabbing a vial of dead-man’s blood and putting it into his pocket.

“Alright, cut the bullshit. I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work. She’s not into me and i’m-“

“A dumbass.” Dean says sharply.

“E-excuse me?” Sam says, caught off guard.

“The girl is head-over-fuckin-heels for you. you must be a dumbass not to see it.” Dean points an accusing finger at him.

“I-“

“I see the way you look at her, hell, you busted out the guitar for her! ah- don’t give me that look, it was obvious. “

“Okay, fine, you got me Dean.” Sam throws his arms up in an exasperated manner. “I have feelings for her.” He pauses. This is the first time he’s said it aloud. His eyes go to his shoes. “Doesn’t mean she feels the same way.”

“Christ.” Dean slams the trunk, shoves his hands in his pockets and walks around the side of the car. Sam gives a puzzled expression. Dean jerks his head. “Watch this,” Dean says.

With the back of his hooked middle and index finger, Dean knocks on the back window of the Impala.

“Hm?” You lift your head from the book in your lap.

It’s a quick set of movements, but obvious, unthought action: your eyes first land on the source of the sound, Dean. He waves. You smile.

Then, all in the fraction of a second you look at Sam. Your smile falters. A short, flustered breath escapes your nose.

Your eyes go back to Dean, your lips curving into a poor attempt at a casual smile.

“See?” Dean says once you turn your attention back to your book.

“See what?” Sam replies, his voice growing annoyed and incredulous- having not picked up on anything out of the ordinary.

“You really make me wanna punch you sometimes.”

“Wha-, you know what, Dean, is this case even real? Cause if it’s not let’s just go back to the motel and-“

“Okay, Okay.” Dean pushes his arms in a ‘calm down’ motion. “It’s real, Columbo. Here,” He reaches behind his back, past the sides of his coat and pulls the local newspaper from the waistband of his jeans. “Happy now?”

Sam’s eyes skim the headline: Reports of “Cult like behavior” spotted near the old McCrowe house.

Below is a photograph of the dilapidated home they were parked in front of.

“Yes, but, h-“

“How do you know it’s real? Ya don’t. But i know you couldn’t take the risk; Even if you tried.”

Sam frowns, combing a hand through his hair. Dean smiles. “Go get ‘em, tiger” Dean says, patting his brother on the shoulder.

"You're an asshole."

Dean walks away with an extra bounce in his step. Sam frowns, again.

After taking a long moment, partially to regain his bearings, partially waiting till his brother disappeared around the bend, Sam pulls open the door.

“…Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

That wasn’t awkward at all.

Leaves crunch beneath your feet, and the book carried at your side rhythmically beats against your hip as you walk.

“So… figure out what’s up with Dean?”

“Oh, uhm,” He tosses the newspaper onto the dash as he slides into the front seat to cover his hesitation. “Nope. Not a clue.”

“Eh, I just hope he sorts himself out. If he keeps walking like that i think i’ll be bruised soon.” You chuckle at your own joke. “Guy’s got hips like Shakira, they do not lie.”

Crickets. Literal crickets fill the beat of silence after that joke.

You knew it was bad but damn.

“Ookay… tough crowd,” You mumble.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” Sam said as if he were snapping out of a trance. “yeah heh, Shakira.”

You simply resign yourself to the book in your lap, every once in a while, taking a glance at the house ahead.

Meanwhile, Sam’s gaze never leaves the house for a moment. He had an expression you couldn’t quite place and an almost glazed over look in his eyes.

“Hey, i’m gonna go catch up with Dean, you’ll be fine right?” He says suddenly.

“No,” You slam your book shut and turn straight to Sam. “Sit your ass back down. we need to talk.”

“I’m sorry?”

The words come barreling from your mouth like a falling knife, sharp and unpredictable. “You have been super weird all day- I swear it’s hereditary- Dean acting strange, that i can deal with, but you? i-i don’t know what to do with that.”

A sinking sort of realization sets in. “I- god i’m so sorry.”

“I mean, did i do something? ‘Cause if i did i’m terribly sorry-“

“No, no, you didn’t do anything i swear.”

“Then what is it? i thought things were good and then- Look, if there’s something wrong just say the word and i’m there.”

“i know that but-“

“I’ll listen if you need it, i’m your friend and i wanna help.”

“That’s the problem.”

A beat of silence.

“That you’re my friend, just, my friend. That’s what’s wrong."

You feel your mouth going dry.

The words come tumbling out of Sam’s mouth much faster than he can think. “I-I knew from the moment i met you that you were this super cool and sweet and pretty but also badass at the same time kinda person and then it sorta spiraled into a crush, -which was innocent enough- so i thought it’d go away but then it didn’t and then-“

Every word, every thought, every action, everything within Sam is cut short and fades off when your lips collide with his. Your hands cup the sides of his face. His eyes widen before slowly dropping shut.

A moment later the kiss breaks and you’re sat there, staring dumbly into those gorgeous hazel eyes. From this new vantage point (the middle of the front seat) the gaps between the pines overhead is greater, allowing for starlight to filter in. The parts of his face not obscured by the shadows of his hair were illuminated in perfect detail. The soft edges of his face look almost sharp given the looming shadows, that detail though, is contrasted by the rosy blush spreading on his cheeks.

“…I wanted to shut you up,” You blink. “But I should’ve asked, i’m sor-“

The last of your attempt to apologize is muffled as Sam’s lips crash into yours.

His hand rests on the far side of your neck, his thumb moving across your cheek. The kiss grows in intensity, his tongue licking at the seam of your lips, your breath short and hot on his face. You drop your hands from his jaw and begin to slide them down his torso, eliciting a low growl-like sound from him. You both grow in fervor, the kiss bordering the fine line between sweet and desperate.

His tongue pushes past your lips and begins exploring you with warm desire. A soft sound escapes your throat at the feeling, his body growing warm, breaths shaky, and his tongue needly licking at the inside of your mouth.

Sam pulls away but only for a moment. He takes a quick survey of your face: lips red, breathing coming out in short pants, hair messy and all of you elucidated by the stars outside. You were no longer a reverie- some fantasy far out of reach. You were right there, lovely and more attention capturing than any star. So he says the thought that’s been on repeat in his mind since the moment he met you. What he’s thought on a thousand breathless afternoons when the sun shines just right on your face: “I love you”

“I love you too.” You reply without missing a single beat. you don’t have to think about it, not even for a second. You love him.

Taglist: @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @lillies444lola @wowzabowza69 comment to be added/ removed

[penny00dreadful]

Okay, okay, okay listen.

Remember when we were all obsessed with Steddie Legally Blonde a while back? Yes, I’m still thinking about it, leave me alone. And I adore everything I’ve read. It’s all so fantastic.

But I had a thought because what if we switched it up a little? I’m going mainly off of the musical here, so bear with. 

So what if instead of having Steddie as Elle and Emmett, we instead have them as Paulette and UPS Guy/Kyle??? Like??? It fits, right???

But then, but THEN who do we have as Elle/Emmett?

Buckingham.

No, but just think of it! 

Or I guess you don’t really need to because I’ve thought of it enough for all of us and it goes like this:

(OMG you guys I blacked out and when I woke up this thing was 3.1k long written over a few hours. I haven't edited this at all so please be gentle about typos/tense changes etc. The fever just took me.)

Chrissy is your quintessential girly girl. She is Elle Woods. She’s blonde, pretty, cheerleader, very feminine and happy where she is in life, President of her Sorority with her besties by her side and her guy who is… well he’s as good as any guy could be, right?

Jason is handsome, rich, well connected, he treats her with affection and he humours her when she has some pretty wild, out there ideas. 

But then it happens and they break up because apparently having a girly girl for a wife just wouldn’t look good if he’s gonna live his life the way he wants to. Lawyer, his own practice, running for office. 

Apparently her blonde hair and boobs would hold him back which, what the fuck??? 

What does that have to do with anything?

They love each other, right? That surface stuff isn’t supposed to matter. At all! They’re supposed to be together no matter what because they… they love each other?

Well fuck that noise, no one tells Chrissy Cunningham she’s too fucking blonde to do anything which is a hypocritical ass thing to say because has Jason looked in the fucking mirror recently?

Different fucking rules, apaprently. 

Well, no more.

She’s gonna fuck up law school right along side him and she’s gonna wear fucking pink while doing it too!

And like, everything is going fine. 

Chrissy’s not stupid, she knows how she’s perceived by people before they get to know her. 

Vapid, bimbo, perky, blonde.

Like that’s an insult.

It’s just harder now that she’s away from her girls, gays and theys back home. And everyone here seems to think that the best way to live their lives is to look boring as shit while doing it along with tearing each other down.

She fucking hates it, but she’s determined to see it through. 

It helps that she seems to have found the one person on the whole of the fucking east coast who actually listens to what’s coming out of her mouth rather than just paying attention to the hair on her head or staring at her tits.

Robin is so strange.

She’s different in such a refreshing way, it’s like being able to breathe clean air for the first time in years.

And she’s fucking sharp. And sweet. And so, so comforting. 

Chrissy would have never managed to survive the depression of those first few weeks without her.

And like, she’s not ignorant to the fact that Robin sometimes does look at her boobs but at the same time it just feels different coming from a woman than it does a man. It doesn’t feel so objectifying.

Instead of putting Chrissy on edge it makes her feel a little smug. A little proud of herself, it makes her feel attractive and desired in a way she hasn’t felt in a very long time. 

Is that sexist? To prefer the attentions of a woman over a man when both do it just fine for her?

Chrissy’s not exactly sure, but she knows she enjoys it when it’s coming from Robin.

So maybe it’s a Robin thing. 

Chrissy honestly thinks things are looking up for her. 

Until Jason introduces Nicole. 

His fucking fiancee???

It’s been, like, four months since they broke up.

Nicole hates her guts, she can tell. She thinks she’s some two braincelled idiot who got into Harvard on daddy’s dime and needs to be babied through the simplest of tasks while not understanding how condescending everyone’s been the whole time.

Chrissy fucking understands. She’s been through it all before, but back then she had people by her side. It’s all so fucking childish. The world already hates women enough, Chrissy desperately doesn’t want to be at another womans throat, over a man no less, but Nicole doesn’t seem to feel the same way.

She’s ambitious and cut-throat and dedicated and a little bit terrifying. 

Apart from Robin, she’s on her fucking own out here.

And she needs something. 

Something of home to bring some light back into her life.

So she gets in her car and just drives around the streets hoping something will catch her eye. 

And it does. 

Some tiny little hole in the wall salon with a pride flag out the front that she’s immediately drawn to because god damn it she misses her friends. The girls, the gays, the theys.

As soon as she pulls over she feels both simultaneously like she’s come home and she definitely won’t fit in here, but she’s so emotionally raw at this stage it all kinda ends up converging on her and now she’s standing in front of a mostly empty salon and there’s a guy looking at her and she’s just fucking crying.

Through her blurry vision she can see the guy approaching and she really fucking hopes this isn’t gonna turn into a thing because she just does not have any spoons left to deal with some creep right now. 

But he seems to sense how he’s coming off because he becomes a little more effeminate from one step to the next.

“You okay, honey?” He asks, big brown eyes wide with concern and a hand covered in rings hovering over her shoulder, not touching. He has a cigarette in the other hand, held away to keep the smoke from reaching her, his arms covered in ink but Chrissy wants nothing more than a cigarette right now.

Or, that’s kind of a lie, but she’d love one in all honesty. She hasn’t smoked in so long. 

The guy spots her eyeing it, sticking the cigarette back between his plush lips and needing to use both hands to pull his carton from his pants considering they’re so tight.

“Bad day?” He hands her one and Chrissy ends up breaking down all over again.

She tells him that it hasn’t just been a bad day, but a bad half a year, really. She tells him all about Harvard and Jason and her professors and Robin and by the end of her ranting they’re sitting back in the breakroom of the salon. They guy’s name is Eddie, she learns and despite his mean and scary exterior Chrissy thinks he might be the gentles person she’s met in this whole god forsaken city.

He holds her hands between his and listens to her. Actually hears her talk and pays attention and is concerned and attentive and she loves him for it. 

He helps her find her confidence again, at least for the rest of the day. They commiserate about how they both stick out like sore thumbs in their communities and how people need to just kinda get over it.

He encourages her not to let the normies win, do go hang out with Robin, to go kick ass and she’s just wondering how on earth she can ever repay the favour when they hear

“Knock, knock.” 

Coming from the front of the salon.

Eddie’s whole face drains of colour before immediately turning red and he bolts up from his chair, stumbling out of the staffroom and moving back behind the receptionists desk.

Chrissy gets to watch in real time as all of Eddie’s incredible confidence and easy lightheartedness disappears into a vat of nerves mostly hidden by cheeky flirtation as he twirls a lock of hair around his finger and bats his eyelashes at the Hot UPS Guy who looks equally as charmed. 

When the guy, Steve, has to get back to his route, Eddie practically melts against the desk as soon as he’s out of sight. 

“Looks like I’m not the only one who needs help.”

Eddie rolls his eyes at her but smiles anyway. “I had that handled just fine.”

Over the next few months, she and Eddie get closer, Eddie and Steve stay exactly where they were that first day and she and Robin are quickly approaching best friends level.

But Chrissy is starting to come to terms with the fact that maybe she wants a little more than to be best girly-girl friends with Robin and maybe she wants to stick her tongue down her throat about it. 

The two of them are practically attached at the hip, spending all day at classes together, alternating between their respective rooms to study late into the night, ending up in the same bed together and waking up together in the morning. 

Chrissy is almost, completely, entirely sure that this is all very not platonic but it’s so difficult to tell.

She’d be constantly sleeping over with her friends back home, hugging, kisses on cheeks, cuddling in bed or when watching movies, just girly things.

But this feels different. Is it different?? Or is this just how Robin is with all her female friends, the same way it’s always been how Chrissy was with her friends back home. How can she tell if it’s going from platonic to romantic??

And all of that needs to go on the backburner anyway because they’re being put on a real life, for realsies you guys case. And if they fuck up this case they could be at fault for someone spending the rest of their fucking life in prison for something they didn’t do??

Unacceptable.

And after Chrissy finds out their client used to be on the same cheer team as her? It was all over. No way was she gonna let her go to prison just because everyone thinks a pretty young woman couldn’t possibly love someone a little older than her. 

Not on Chrissy’s watch. 

But first she has to deal with Robin’s wardrobe because they professor is insistent that all the women wear skirts and tights and Robin is not having it.

Neither is Chrissy to be fair, so she takes Robin out to the most lavish place she can, decks them both out in the fiercest looking pantsuits they can get their hands on, refusing to back down.

It comes as a surprise to both of them when Nicole stands with them in solidarity as well and now their professor is both outnumbered and losing his arguments with only Jason on his side about this and they fucking win.

It’s only a small win but it still feels fantastic. 

Riding her high of winning that small fight, she bursts into the salon and informs Eddie that he is going to either kiss or ask out Steve the next time he sees him and when Eddie reacts like she just said she was going to shave all of his hair off she refuses to hear it. 

Because the thing is Eddie is pretty, really pretty and she knows that Steve knows it, but she doesn’t think that Eddie himself is really aware of it. And despite his prettiness, he’s all awkward elbows and knees. 

So she gives him some tips and shows him how to highlight certain things about himself, the long legs, the tattooed arms, the hip bones. Even his cute little bum. She teaches him how to subtly pull at his clothes in conversation so some skin is exposed or his tiny little waist is highlighted. She teaches him how to use his eyes to go in for the kill.

He doesn’t seem to think it’ll work but she is almost certain it will. 

And it’s confirmed for her when she gets a call later that night from Eddie who sounds fucking over the moon and completely bewildered by the fact that Steve likes him back??? Has done for months?? And they had some incredible dirty nasty sex in the salon after it closed for the night and how they’re going to the movies tomorrow??

Eddie swears he’s gonna send her the biggest fuck off fruit basket he can find. 

Everything is looking up for her, especially after she has such a major win in court, figuring out one of the prosecutors witnesses had perjured himself on the stand (without outing him to the whole damn court, thankfully).

Or at least everything was looking up for her until she found herself alone in a room with her professor and she felt the energy in the room shift before it happened. 

His hands were on her before she could do anything about it and she cracked him across the face for it before she could even think about what this could do to her legal career going forward. 

Because that was the reality of it, wasn’t it? 

Either allow herself to get assaulted or destroy her career before it even started. 

She didn’t know when her priority had shifted from getting Jason back to actually pursuing this as a future career. But she had found to her own surprise she loved it. She adored it actually. 

And now…

Now it would all be gone. 

Jason had seen, of course he had and he was less than kind about it because apparently it made more sense that she had fucked her way into Harvard than had actually been smart enough to get there on her own. 

She couldn’t stomach anything Nicole could possibly have to say to her but if the way she was glaring at Jason with barely concealed rage after that comment was anything to go by, Chrissy didn’t need to worry too much about that.

She just wanted to go. To get out. She needed to get out. And she would have gotten away scott free if Robin hadn’t been hanging around waiting for her.

Robin’s face broke into a bright smile but that quickly slipped away when she saw the state Chrissy was in. She was all sweet concern and care and affection but Chrissy couldn’t fucking deal with it at that moment, she couldn’t face her.

She couldn’t face Robin who would find out what a fool of herself she’d made believing in Chrissy, when Chrissy had thrown all of their hard work away.

Because no one would ever fucking see her as a person. She was just a piece of ass.

So she ran.

She didn’t even realise where she was running to until she was standing outside the salon doors again. 

It was late, they were closed, of course they were, why was she here?

She was standing outside the door crying again like she had been the first time and it was all just so fucking stupid-

“Chrissycakes?”

She was enveloped in Eddie’s arms before she could even blink, being ushered inside and steered back to the staffroom, same as that first time. 

There were beer bottles and take out containers over the table and Steve sitting at the table and oh, she’d interrupted something hadn’t she? 

What a fucking way to officially meet one of her best friends new boyfriend right?

But they were so sweet. 

They sat and listened while she spilled the whole thing, offering at different points to hunt down her professor for her or slash his tires or lose all of his mail or whatever and she was forced to giggle through the tears.

But she shook her head in the end. She was tired. She was sick of having to defend herself constantly. 

She needed… she needed to go back to where she belonged. 

And she was about to. 

She was about to leave the salon, swear to keep in contact with Eddie because god damn it she loved him now and she was ready to run.

But then there was a hammering at the door and Chrissy poked her head out to see Nicole standing there looking like she was on a fucking crusade. 

And… was that…?

Robin was standing behind her, looking like she was just trying not to get in Nicole’s way.

Eddie grumbled to himself about changing the damn salons opening hours if this was to continue but he unlocked the door anyway.

Nicole burst in all fire and determination, shoving her finger directly in Chrissy’s face.

“I hated you. But god fucking damn it if you didn’t prove to me that this is the career you belong in. And I refuse to stand by and see an admirable woman of your smarts and calibre get run over by some small dicked professor with a receding hairline. You’re so much more than that. So c’mon. We’re breaking through that fucking glass ceiling if it kills us.”

Holy shit.

Robin pulled her into a tight hug, warm and comforting and a little too long to be platonic, running a hand through her hair. 

“We’ll do whatever you’re comfortable with Chris, but… you deserve to be in that courtroom.” She muttered into her ear and Chrissy could do nothing but nod into Robin’s neck.

She heard Eddie sigh behind her. “Okay if we’re doing this then… I need to make a few calls.”

A few days later Chrissy made her triumphant return to the courtroom. Everyone was there to support her. Eddie, Steve, her besties from back home that Eddie had called, telling them it was a friend emergency and so of course they all came right away along with Robin and Nicole bracketing her on each side. 

And while she could tell the court wasn’t taking her rants on hair care very seriously, when she finally came out with the verbal crackdown, proving the witness was actually the murderer, the gasps from the gallery were enough to feed her for years to come. 

When all was said and done at the celebration later that night, she found herself being approached by Jason.

He told her it was a mistake to let her go, to discard her the way he had and she agreed that yes it was. But his mistakes weren’t her problem anymore. And from the look of it they weren’t Nicole’s problem either. 

Jason surprisingly took it well enough, mentioning that he never really felt the same passion for law that she so clearly possessed. 

She wished him luck with finding what he wanted to do.

But now.

Now she needed to find Robin. 

Chrissy couldn’t take it anymore.

So weaving through the people around her, she grabbed at Robin’s hand, dragging her away from Steve who she had become inseparable with and pushing her into the hallway.

Robin didn’t even have a chance to ask what was happening before Chrissy was on her, pressing her into a wall, holding her close with her hands on either side of her face, kissing her with so much longing and elation and joy and happiness that when she pulled away Robin looked completely dazed. 

Robin blinked slowly a few times before her face broke into a wide grin. 

“Me too.”

[unhelpfulfemme]

Okay, so you know how Barrayar is full of stories of evil mutants kidnapping innocent Vor maidens, just like we IRL have a bunch of story templates exploiting our societal fears of some exoticized evil Other stealing our women?

And you know how modern romance/erotica takes those stories and turns them into erotic fantasies? Like, women have been going mad over The Phantom of the Opera for centuries, we've had stories about innocent maidens being forced into arranged marriages with big dick sheikhs and Middle Eastern princes for decades, and in the past decade or so both monster romance and villain romance have become completely mainstream staples of the genre?

And you know how Miles allegedly killing Tien so he could court Ekaterin was Vorbarr Sultana's Scandal of the Year for a short while, before the whole affair was capped by Ekaterin's very memorable and very public proposal?

Now, imagine some repressed Vor housewives hearing about it and thinking, in a similar vein to what Mark thought, "NGL, that's kinda hot. I always did have those fantasies where I was ravished by the villain, and I really do sometimes wish my boring sexist husband were dead." Because now that they've caught up on galactic genetics the actual fear of mutant children is kinda low among the bored upper class housewives who can afford gene cleaning, so it's the perfectly zeitgeisty moment to exoticize and objectify the mutants instead.

So one of said bored housewives decides to anonymously write a pulpy gothic-esque dark romance/erotica novel about it. Except obviously the scrawny short guy doesn't make for an appealing romantic hero, so she makes him a Taura-esque tall, massively ripped fellow who growls all his lines a là ACOTAR's Rhysand and conveniently makes all his mutations sexy in the vein of, like, A/B/O novels or Ice Planet Barbarians.

Imagine "Ravished by the Billionaire Secret Agent Mutant Count" slowly becoming popular among the ladies and the main cast learning about it, Miles lamenting about it having come out now when he's happily married and not when he was fifteen and desperate to get laid, Ivan suddenly gaining a lot more traction with the girls because they've caught onto the real life inspiration for the novel and are wondering if the Big Dick Mutation comes from Ivan's side of the family, Cordelia shamelessly reading it at dinner (she's the only person who's read it without wrapping the cover) and annoyedly pointing out the biological inaccuracies as Aral begs her to stop, Mark seeing the opportunity for a cash grab and buying the holodrama rights...

[vamph00n]

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺Addictive ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺

|Hoon!!xfemreader!!

|-Mostly smut disguised with a plot.

|-In which y/n keeps Sunghoon around, even thought she’s not into being tied down to a relationship, and sunghoon believes he can fix her. That’s till he finds out she’s been whoreing around behind his back.

Wc:3,5k

A/n: not proofread lol

TW! Under the cut!

- drinking, alcohol, anger sex, oral, (fem and male), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, fingering, cum eating, breeding kink, intended impregnation, dacryphillia, boobplay, humiliation, slapping(like once only), toxic!reader, simp!Hoon, switch!hoon, switch!reader, etc…..(there’s a lot)

Enjoy :)

“Typical Goody Two Shoes,” is a term she’d describe him. Friends, colleagues, and even her own family, where surprised to say the least. She’d be bombarded with invasive questions, “Alright, what was the agreement.” Her friends asked when they first met her lover. She’d reassure them that there was no “agreement,” and that they where in a happy relationship. Bullshit. Of course, no matter how dark the rose tinted glasses were, her friends could see right through them. “Yeah right, you fucking maneater” they’d refute jokingly. “Would’ve thunk you’d find a Lucifer to your Lilith, but looks like you found yourself a Gabriel.” As much as she wanted to talk her shit, they were right, the man wasn’t even phased. He just smiled on as he sat beside her, staring into her lust ridden eyes. The same smile that made her heart melt when she first saw him. “I can be your Lucifer, if you want me to be.”

Park Sunghoon, the man who’d ask for her permission to hold her hand, the man who would delicately sweep the hair away from her eyes, and the man who held her tender body in bed as he made passionate love to you through the night; in her brain, he was simply not capable of being anything near as devilish. No matter the way she acted towards him,and no matter the circumstances. She could’ve tried to break up with him,shatter his heart, and he’d still come back, entangled in her legs. Instead, she’d insist they needed breaks. This was her game, seeing how many times he’d come back to her. Not for her love, or even her herself for a matter of fact. He’d only come back for one thing, her addictive cunt. Her juices around his dick made him feel a different kind of high. A sip of liquid gold, is what it felt like being beneath her, in pure ecstasy as she’d let him empty his load into her swollen walls. But what he saw as a passionate act of pleasure, was just you fucking him to get yourself off, riding his meat till you where satisfied, and he was overstimulated. The only reason he thought so fondly of your lovemaking, is the fact you thought his heart was too tender to spew obscenities at him when you engulfed him with your wet core; and the fact he thought he was the only man in your life. Despite this, it has always been clear it wasn’t a serious relationship. So why did he stay? Well, he had a strong conviction, a goal perhaps, that just maybe, you’d be the one crawling back to him. That maybe, if he played a dumb whore in your game, you’d stop and realized you needed him. This twisted mindset made his pants feel a little tighter around his crotch. A sick feeling that made his cock twitch, and drip with precum as he bit his lip, but for now, he was more than content with playing a pawn in your game. Because that way, at least your love seemed real.

Of course this screwed up a lot of things for him, but he wasn’t ashamed. One night he’d spend tangled up in her bed, and the other he’d spend in his own, jerking off to her. His friends found him especially odd, the way he talked about you, and the things he’d let you do to him put a bad taste in their mouths. He too had his fair share of things he’d to to you, all of the nasty things he’d do if you didn’t objectify him, and his cock. “Only gonna let her have all of me when she straightens out” he’d tell his friends. But to them, it sounded like a whole lot of bull. He had turned soft on you, and had let your little game run longer that it should’ve.

It was another Friday night, he drank with his friends after a long day of work, and ever since your fling started with him, their conversations where always the same. They always started from “how’s everyone’s relationships going,” to “you need to cut ties with her Sunghoon.” Jake in particular was against her, “You need to get the fuck away from her,” he said downing a shot. Sunghoon fiddled with his glass, “here he goes again.” Jay looks down at his empty cup, “For real, if i took a shot each time your ass went back to her, I’d die from alcohol intoxication. Speaking of which, you’re not gonna drink anymore?” Sunghoon pushed his empty shot glass aside,

“I’m just sobering up for the drive,”

“Oh the drive back home? You didn’t take a cab?” Jake pondered.

Scilence filled the air, the and the sound of clinking as his friends poured more soju into their cups. Sunghoon’s friends looked at each other, they knew what was up. The way his eyes fazed out, as he thought of you, he needed your heat.

“Don’t tell me your going back to that bitch? Didn’t you guys take your ‘break’ just a couple of days ago?” Sunghoon looked at both of them, “we all know that slut needs me more than I do, besides, shes never going to leave me”

You were taking a nice steamy shower, and you hear your doorbell, then a ‘click’. Someone had used a key to open your door. While it could’ve been on of the many guys you slept with, there’s only one man you gave a copy of it. “I’m the shower!!” You shouted. You already knew it was Sunghoon, one of the many men you had wrapped around your finger. Sure, he was a good guy, at least for the first few days you “dated” before it turned into what it is now. He took you on dates, and bought you things. Guys like him always made the space between your thighs a bit wetter, because there was always a chance they would fuck you senseless in bed. Maybe he’d finally put an end to your behavior, but time proved you wrong (or so you thought.) Sunghoon just being here made your head go fuzzy, your imagination went wild. Being the obedient man he always presented himself as, you knew he wouldn’t be so rash to hop in the shower with you and fuck you then and there. “He’s not that type of guy,” you thought to yourself as you scrub your hair. “I wish he was.” Of course someone with such a wide pallet of sexual preference, you got bored. So, you’d go meddle around with other men while you and Sunghoon were on a “break,” in fact you were supposed to see someone else tomorrow night, but you didn’t think your boy toy would come back so quickly. So why? Why did you stay with him? You knew your appetite for dick was insatiable, so why push him away every other week, and fool around with some random men? The answer wouldn’t be so simple, maybe it the way you felt powerful when he showed back up at your apartment, or maybe it’s the way he’d give you back hugs in the morning after, and made you breakfast. When you guys weren’t going at it, it made everything seem less superficial, which scared you, but it made you feel something other than lust. So in retrospect, you couldn’t leave him.

The man was waiting for you to finish showering, as he placed himself on your couch. Call him crazy, but he could still smell the addictive scent of your core, on the pillows where you made love to him a week ago in this toxic cycle. He peered around in your dim lit living room, and he heard a notification, aswell as seeing the light of your cellphone. It was unlocked, and it was on the last app you where using. It was morally wrong for him to look through your phone, but it wasn’t exactly ok for you to play this lust filled game with him either. So he scrolled through it, and an audible gasp slip past his lips, as he saw your messages with a man dubbed “LHs.” He went through your chat with him, and the many nudes you both exchanged. He never felt so disappointed, and angry. His hand gripped the phone so hard, he could’ve broke the screen. He knew this relationship wasn’t serious, he knew you only wanted to see him for his dick. So why did it upset him so much? Maybe it’s the fact he never thought you’d cheat on him, for some reason it just wasn’t a possibility in his mind. Or maybe it’s because his philosophy about fixing you was so strong, he would’ve never let you cheat on him. He didn’t want to cry, or let himself, but he did. Tears streaming down his face, as he used his knuckles to wipe them away. None the less, he came here for one thing, pussy. And he was gonna get it, but he wasn’t gonna take your shit anymore. Part of him felt sad, he was attached to you, and the impossible idea that you’d straighten out just for him. Well, if you weren’t gonna fix your act on your own, he’d make you.

You came out of your bathroom, dressed in nothing but a shirt and underwear, because it’s not like you’d need much clothing tonight anyways, and you saw him sitting on your bed. He stayed silent and didn’t look at your face. His face glistened as the lamp in your room illuminated it. “Back again huh? Only been two days since our break,” you cooed, as your hands made their way up his thighs ghosting his crotch. As furious as he was, Sunghoon didn’t want to pounce on her quite yet, “I let her have her fun first.” She looked at his face, his eyes slightly red, and he smelt of alcohol. Almost squirming in delight, at his disheveled nature. “Let me take care of you,” you purr as you straddle him. His lips press against yours, as you grind back and forth on his clothed manhood, cunt already dripping, making a small pool in your panties. His hands made their way to your head, pushing your lips deep onto his, his tongue intertwining with yours. “Fuck, you really need me huh? What a whore,” you’re breathless as you tease him. Sunghoon can’t stop thinking about it, how you slept with another guy, and his rage is visible in his pursuit as he kisses you. Suddenly your heated make out turned into a battle, as he bites your lip, making his way down your neck. Her skin so smooth, and soft, he wanted to leave marks of purple and red all over it. “Fuck, what’s gotten into him?” She thought, trying to hold back whimpers from the pure bliss his mouth was doing to her. He then pushes her down into the bed, trapping her beneath him. You had no idea what was happening, he looked livid, like an animal in heat waiting to that’s been waiting to devour her. It was hard to piece together coherent sentences, because you felt your core grow wetter by the second. “You’re such a fucking whore y/n,” he growled in your ear. “S-Sunghoon what are you talking about?” She tries to say innocently, knowing damn well he caught her. “Don’t act like an idiot, I saw your texts with that guy.” She was really in trouble now, but there was definitely something different about him today. “Hoon, I’m sorry, it’s just….um..I’ll make it up to you!” Knowing you’re gonna sound like a bitch, you don’t elaborate further. He smirks at you, and his hand made his way to your heat, already riled up with your juices. You can’t stand keeping your voice down now, his fingers work circles on your clit, as your back arches in pleasures. He fucks faster into you, causing the hottest friction in your sopping wet pussy, “Please-god, go faster!” You moan in desperation to meet your high. A malicious grin spread his face, “Wouldn’t you rather be riding my cock doll? Or are you getting tired of me?” He asks you. Your eyes roll, your an absolute mess. Your dizzy for it, you start to move your hips against his hand. He smacks your cunt, and you yelp out at the action, “I’m not gonna let you cum till I say so, and if you try to pull anything, I’m gonna edge you till you fucking cry my name.”

Tears from the pleasure well up in your eyes, and he’s quick to use you however he wants. He removes your shirt, revealing your erect nipples pointing out to him, he shoved his face into them, sucking your sensitive tits. You start to feel like you owe him an apology, always using him however you want, but never letting him do anything he want a to you. Maybe that’s why you go so bored in relationships, you always did what you wanted, but never let other do what they want. “Sunghoonn, I’m…I’m.. sorr-“ you can’t seem to finish your sentence, only having your clit being toyed with but you already feel so drunk on pleasure. There was no mistaking it, he had visible enjoyment on his face now,“That’s right, this tight hole is all mine, if you get to own my dick I get to own you. No way I’m gonna ever let you cheat on me.” His fingers speed up, your mouth hanging agape, holding back you climax. A shit eating grin displays on his face, and his fingers invade your hole. You throw you head back, gripping onto the sheets as your core clenches around his fingers. “Bet you wanna do this to my cock huh?” His voice rings, “too bad though, sluts like you get enough cock.” You can’t tell if your being humiliated, or punished, but one things for sure, you couldn’t hold back your high anymore. Your voice becomes more labored, and your heat is throbbing uncontrollably.

“Shit, Hoon, I think I’m gonna…mhmm!” His fingers pull out from your wet hole, and are stuffed into your mouth. Pussy clenching on nothing, but your orgasm still crashing into you. Fluids dripping from your core, and the taste of your own, on his fingers shoved in your mouth. “I don’t recall telling you to cum,” he say lowly, as his face closes in on yours. Your eyes shut, at his cold breath, but your feel his fingers collect your slick. “Open your eyes doll, I want you to see how good I think you taste.” So dirty, so nasty, so goddamn hot. Your eyes fix on him, as he licks his fingers clean. Already you feel yourself grow wet again. He demands you to get up, and frankly you’re tired of being ordered around, so your don’t listen. “Don’t make this hard doll,” his voice rings mockingly. Still wanting to keep your pride, you don’t listen, then a loud audible smack on your thigh fills the room. “Just get up.” You do as your told, and you see him quickly unbuckle his pants, and his hard member sprang out.

“Suck,” he commanded. Your hand wrapped around his shaft as you took him in your mouth. You bob up and down on him feeling precum drip from his tip. You fondle with his balls, and stroke him whilst sucking, your tongue swirls around it. His head jolts back, as his hands pull up your hair into a makeshift ponytail. He uses his force to sink your head deeper into your cock, “I can’t!” You try to say through muffled tears. Sunghoon tried not to care, but he sees he’s hurting you. A pop sound comes from your mouth as he forces himself off you, and he brings his eyes to your own teary ones. “I think you owe me an apology,” he says looking at you, “an apology for everything you’ve done to me.” He takes your hand squeezing it “oh no,” you thought. There’s that feeling again, that ache in your heart when he looks at you like that. That same feeling that made you reconsider your relationship with him, and the strong attachment you actually had to him. Although you want to say sorry, it’s like muscle memory for you to sass back at him. “Not till you let me ride you, doll” you throw his own words back to him. Sunghoon grins, knowing damn well your already exhausted. He strips himself of his pants and lays on your bed. “Go ahead, let me see you try.” Your legs are already shaking from exhaustion. you straddle him, aligning his penis with your entrance, and you sit down on him. That addictive feeling, the feeling of your cunt squeeze his dick. You look down, trying to get a hold of yourself and you see his bulge in your stomach. It makes your head go fuzzy, and your body go limp. “Your turning stupid on me y/n.” He groans. “C’mon, don’t you wanna ride me? Don’t you know your lucky I let you? Hmm?” Tears drip from your pretty face, and you start to bounce up and down on him. His head tilts, he sees the tears in your eyes, and bites his lip. “Look at you go.” He teases. Your legs are starting to give out, as your tight cunt sucks him in. “Sunghoon, I can’t, I can’t keep going.” You sob. He’s quick to flip you onto your back, and kisses your teary face. His eyes lock with yours, and he gives you that dreamy bedroom gaze. “I want you to fuck me Sunghoon, I want you to use me.” His teeth graze your lips before he lifts them to whisper into your ear. “Be carful what you wish for.”

Suddenly his hips snap against yours, and he speaks up, “your safe word is cheater”

“What a way to rub it in huh?”

“Shut your mouth before I make you.”

Skin on skin, he rammed his dick into you, your abused hole clenching, and dripping from the many orgasms he had already gave you from rutting into you for hours. His eyes start to close, as he feels himself writhing. Your cum giving him slick to keep his cock lubricated, and your poor defenseless body at his disposal. He’d been edging himself for a while, because he didn’t feel you deserve his hot seed in you. “Sunghoon,” you whimper out, “just cum in me already.” He looks at your tearstained fucked out face, with a cocky grin inflating his ego by ten fold. “I should huh? Put a fucking kid in you hm?” You couldn’t tell if he was spewing out nonsense because he was fucked out, or if your were too fuck out to see he was telling only the truth. His hips thrusted his sensitive member into your gummy walls, as they throbbed, mixing your liquids with his. This addictive cunt, the dumbing drip it had that always left him pussydrunk. It felt euphoric, and after seeing it in a different light, now he was certain he couldn’t leave you, and he wouldn’t let you leave him.

“Gonna put a kid in this pussy,” he said as you felt yourself panic. “Your joking right? You’ll pull out right?” You gasp as you feel his cock glide in and out of your hole faster. “Fuck I’m gonna cum again.” Sunghoon doesn’t respond, all he has to show for it is a shit eating grin on his face. “What if I’m not joking? Because I think knocking you up with a kid will keep you from cheating.” Your head starts to snap back, and you start to feel a funny feeling in your stomach. His cock twitches in you, and he sees your face. Utterly entranced bye your fucked out face, his breath becomes labored, he’s seeing stars with every pump into you. He’s becoming a messy whore for you, and he’s even willing to put another life into your belly. “It this was people call possessive?”

“I’m gonna gonna cum into your whore ass, so you can’t leave me. I’m gonna fuck you dumb, doll.” He spits at her face. He takes one of his hands, and spits on it, bringing it to your clit rubbing it to help you reach your high. Your a babbling mess, your body starts to convulse as he plunged harder into your depths. His brain start to short circuit, he’s now grunting obscenities at you. He feels a wave of emotions hit him, as he pounds into you, “Your such a bitch, you don’t realize how much I fucking love you.” He says as he sits you up, bringing his body closer to yours. He lets delicate moans slip past his lips, as he hugs you, pulling your waist in closer. “He loves me?” You can’t help but repeat that line in your head over and over as his cock drags against you. “God this pussy is all mine, gonna cum.” He moans into your ear. You had been mostly silent the whole time, but your emotions got the best of you, and now you couldn’t hold back.

“Fuck, Sunghoon! I’m so sorry, sorry for playing with your heart, I want to fix things with you! I’m done sleeping around, I just want you.” She spews out.

“Yeah baby? What are you gonna let me do huh? What do you say? Gonna let me knock you up?” Your eyes roll back into your head, ready to release, all he needs to do is say the words. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum!” You say wrapping your legs around his waist, “Knock me up Sunghoon! Put your fucking kids into me! I’ll never fucking leave you!” A few pumps after, and his balls start to ache for release. You feel his length reach the deepest part of your cunt, and his semen spurts into you as your own liquids shot out. “Gonna stuff you with all of my cum.” He moans out shakily, as he fucks the pool of arousal back into you.

You lay in bed after the wild ride you just had, and you both had just been hugging in silence for the past thirty minutes. Sunghoon gets up and grabs his pants off the floor. You know he was going to leave, because why would he stay with you? But you at least thought he’d spend the night. This always happened, but you where always the one to send him away. So why did it hurt so much?

“Gonna get going y/n, see you another time.” He said as he buckled his belt. He gave you a quick peck on the head, and started to head out. Urgency and regret plagued your heart as you see him walk out, and you grab his hand to stop him. “What I said earlier was serious, let’s make this work.” You said with your eye’s glistening. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. You bring his face ti look directly at yours. “Baby,” he sighs, “let’s just talk about it another time yeah? I went a little overboard, so let’s just take a break.”

His words sting your heart, and you know it’s all your fault, and you see him wave at you begrudgingly as he leaves your apartment building. But like every other time, you know he’ll come back, and you know he loves you now, so it should’ve felt ok right?

You splash you face with water, and see how ruined you were. Sitting on the counter you see a shiny aluminum medicine package of your birth control taunting you. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

You shakily count the amount you had, and it wasn’t adding up. You had forgotten to take it.

Fuck

A/n: hi guys! First fic I wrote on tumblr, and I know the ending is kinda bitter, and ended on a open note, but I don’t rlly like romanticizing toxic relationships, but they sure are fun to write. Anyways thank you for reading!!!

[mari-lair]

Gladly! Aoi was inspired by the high school of magic Aoi, who also has a secret identity + no popularity queen status. So she is shy when people pay her any attention, especially Akane, and less arrogant. She avoids conflict but is able to take action when the situation calls for it!

Overall she is more open about her emotions, not hiding behind a cutesy smile all the time.

Since Aoi's clockkeeper contract is forced, and she is alone, her situation is less of a fun double life like in the magic AU, and more of a curse.

Mirai made her cry the first week she was forced to babysit her and cleaning the clocks used to be awful, she hates having to be their maid after learning they are the ones who put her best friend's life at risk in the first place.

She trains herself to become a persistent girl, independent by force.

She hates supernaturals but has a soft spot for mokkes. She occasionally hides them in her sleeves and sneaks them to No.1's boundary, paying for their services with candy so she doesn't have to clean the clocks alone.

She befriends Teru when he sees her in her supernatural form, more cause she doesn't want to be alone than really because she thinks he is cool.

She goes out of her way to learn about supernaturals instead of pretending they don't exist. She is scared of being lied to again, specially on something so big as the clock keepers recruitment plan, so she doesn't trust their words. Her glasses are enchanted but she only uses them to not be bothered in her studies, she always takes them off if Akane looks troubled or she is on break. She makes sure to learn every rumor to keep Akane safe from the dangerous ones.

The incident where the keepers nearly killed Akane traumatized Aoi. She always walks on the side closest to the road when they are on the streets by instinct.

Aoi never has to protect Akane from all the admirers he gained by being a beauty king, cause his personality is the same, he can brutally kick people regardless of gender just fine, people know he isn't on the market, but she doesn't catch a break, constantly rescuing him from supernatural trouble and worrying about his safety. Since Akane can't see her in her supernatural form he has no idea she is inhumanly strong, only noticing she has been more stressed after her contract and being even more protective and careful with her.

Most people respect Akane, knowing from personal experience that he is a responsible class representative, kind, and brutally blunt. So even though he is able to make people swoon by just existing, confessions are not a daily occurrence, admired from afar.

In the occasional cases people objectify him, Aoi is more bothered than Akane about it, she wants to throw hands and give away her identity as 'more than a cute shy girl' the second someone is bold enough to hold his hand without his consent, twisting his behavior to fit their personal narrative, and acting entitled to have him.

Think of the rare people that bother Akane as similar to the creepy cashier who created a whole false narrative about Aoi in his head.

Her friendship with Teru makes Akane a little jealous. Why does she wear Teru's glasses? Why does it feel like they are hiding secrets from him? And she does tease him about it, going out of her way to try to make him jealous as revenge for all the time she had to deal with girls gushing about how hot he is. She is petty.

Aoi usually stops time to make her life easier, get away from crowds, save a flower pot from falling. Little things. If her clockkeeper duties drain her too much she'll even copy someone's homework, though she needs to be really really tired to do that, she is usually too prideful to copy someone else.

She does eventually stop Akane's time to stare at him, mostly out of curiosity, but she gets self-conscious about it and avoids him for the rest of the day, much to Akane's confusion. Getting superpowers may have increased her confidence and made her more proactive, but Aoi is still pathetic when it comes to showing and receiving affection.

[c0mbatchameleon]

ohh baby I am still thinking abt pillow princess reg (from this post). she was raised all prim and proper and filthy rich, the spoiled youngest daughter with an older brother right. fuck it maybe she was an actual princess. one of those random countries that still have royalty or whatever. so she leaves her family, and then somehow someway the aforementioned rosekiller murder girlfriends adopt her. and everything they do and wear and say is always SUCH a culture shock but she loves them but she’s a little horrified sometimes. like the girl is short circuiting at something as simple as seeing their unshaved armpits.

and the spaces she’s grown up in, the people she’s been around her whole life have objectified her so much that she’s never once even really considered her own pleasure. that’s not useful to anyone. she’s something to be married off and treated as a vessel of sorts. so like yes she’s been spoiled and is used to being the center of attention but not like this.

barty and evan are like “dw baby you can be a different kind of princess now. we can still find ways to spoil u” and ohhh do they!!!

[netherfeildren]

Forfeiting My Mystique

Pairing: Ezra x F!Reader

Summary: You're a girl made of golden gossamer, a work of art come to life, and Ezra, well he's dedicated his life to collecting beautiful things.

-OR-

An Ezra Art Collector AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: voyeurism; kind of objectifying? (not sure how to tag the strange shit going on here); ezra’s weird; mommy issues; references to past childhood abuse; touch aversion/touch starved (at the same time); sugar daddy vibes; size difference; oral sex (f! receiving); butt stuff lite; dom/sub undertones; power dynamics; self esteem issues x2; panty thieving; masturbation; obsessive behavior; possessive behavior; brief mention of recreational drug use; brief discussion of parent death

A/N: This is extremely self indulgent - basically I wrote it for me, but you guys can read it too. I know I took some liberties with Ezra's characterization but whatever.

Inspo (and some of the dialogue) pulled from Lenny Kravitz’s Paris town house Vogue tour, Jeremy Strong’s favorite things GQ interview, and “Marianne” from Delta of Venus by Anaïs Nin.

Title is from the poem by the same name by Kaveh Akbar.

Word Count: 12K

Read on AO3

Ezra has always loved beautiful things. Since he was a child, his mother taught him to instill an appreciation for beauty into all facets of his world. She herself, a gorgeously beautiful creature, was well versed in such a life. But beautiful as she was, she was also cruel, selfish, capricious to her very core, and she’d turned him into a strange amalgamation of a man by proxy. At once also cruel and selfish and capricious, but hurt and soft and gnarled, as well, so that he was also made gentle and aware and hopeful. That above all else, his greatest weakness, always hopeful. Perhaps, to the point of naivety, the point of peril. For he looked for beauty in all things, and to do that, he was forced to bestow his hopeful eye upon even the ugly and harsh things of the world. 

And so he’d dedicated his life to finding those beautiful things. An art collector by virtue, they called him. A vulture, a scavenger, a treasure hunter. A man full of greed and pride, demons and too much money. All he thought of himself as, was hungry. So yes, perhaps a scavenger, a morsel of greed within the marrow of his bones, always looking for the next sublime artifact, painting, statue – person. But he also liked to think of himself as a protector of those beautiful things, of historic things. Things that changed the very face of humanity, shifted the tide of the world. A collector – always in search of the next life changing sight. Always certain the world was filled with endless possibilities for beauty, for loveliness, for sensuality, for something to captivate, to overwhelm him.

-

The first thing he sees are your feet. Standing in the gallery over from the one you’re inhabiting, people he doesnt know or give a fuck about talking at him, schmoozing and preening and prostrating themselves. Probably hoping he’ll cough up a couple million euro for whatever cause they’re pretending to crusade behind at the moment. He can see only the quarter bottom half of the famed performance artist he’d heard so much about. The entire exhibit tonight had been built around you, and it had the whole of Paris raving and ravenous for a piece of the lovely morsel they so claimed you posed as. Shallow and vain creatures that the peers of his echelon were, they were easily amused and easily bored by the smallest passing fads. At once desperate to be the first to see or speak of a thing, and consequently, the first to discard it as dépassé. 

He’d made the trek all the way to the Left Bank from his townhouse in the 16th arrondissement, to see the performance of the woman whom his associate, Oruf, had said would change the way he thought of a living creature forevermore. Big words from a little man, Ezra had no real inclination to believe. 

The angle of the wall blocks most of you from his view – granting him the sight of only your knees down. Your feet are small, he can see the tiny square shape of your nails, the gleam of them under the soft warm overhead light – lying on your side, one slotted above the other. The fine architecture of your ankles – delicate, the blue hued veins crawling like vines up the top of your foot, lost to the pale of your skin. The smooth, glossy slope of your calf, up to the flat round of your patella. It’s all he can admire from where he stands. Pretty legs, but nothing to lose one’s head over so far. 

The person talking at him is interminably long winded. Ezra would like nothing more than to beg them to shut the fuck up and be on his way. He wants another drink. He wants to see you in full. He’d heard so much about the woman sitting for the live art exhibit. You’d been heralded into a creature of myth by the wagging tongues of Paris. He wanted to discern for himself the level of sanctity you deserved. He wanted to see your face. 

Finally, he’s able to demure from the conversation, the promise of ten million euro for the charity of the sycophant’s choice, promised off-handedly – any amount of money would’ve been too little to get the gaping, begging maw to quit it’s yapping. 

He slinks along the shadows of the walls, a vulture in its natural habitat. The lights brought down to a low warm hue, meant to shape itself along the contours of your skin, bring out the soft gleam within you. Surely the oldest trick in the book, that of light and shadows. He moves further into the room slowly, your back to him. The plush round of your bottom comes into view, two little dimples gracing the low of your back, the notches of your spine, up, up, to the heavy mantle of your hair. You’re resting on your hip, your torso twisted so your chest is pressed to the chaise you lounge on, your head laying cradled in the circle of your bent arms. There is a tiny, delicate outline of a sparrow tattooed at your shoulder. He watches the slow rise and fall of your back, the shadow of your ribs – he’d feed you more if you were his. The thought comes unbidden – a little shocking – a lovely bottom, beautiful, long hair, but for a man like Ezra – one who so wholly avoided any sort of ownership by another or over another, the thought of such intimacy, something to cause revulsion, not desire, coming from his own psyche, it’s almost distressing to acknowledge as his own. 

The crown of your head gleams like a halo in the soft overhead gallery light. The room is muted, voices hushed, and the patrons rove around your unmoving body, the rhythm of your breath the only discernible sign of life on your form from back here. Oruf had claimed that you did not move a single millimeter during the entirety of the three hour long performance. He sure as fuck didn’t believe that. He was having a quite, self proclaimed, contrary and bitter season, by his own choosing, and was prone to bouts of obstinance and general disagreement at anything and everything that presented itself to him. He was choosing, as of now, to not believe in your myth.

He moves further around the center where you lay in repose. He needs to see your face. That will give him the answer he’s come here for. 

There’s a large group standing right in front of you – rudely pointing, whispering, and he feels a surge of annoyance at the sight of them. You were here to be observed, appreciated, not fucking ogled like some cheap attraction, and he was here to see you – they needed to get the fuck out of his way. 

Finally, they shuffle off, leaving the space directly in front of you open. He makes the final round above your head, comes to stand before you. Oruf had said the only part of you that moved were your eyes.

They fall on Ezra now. 

It could have been as if, in that moment, you’d gotten up, naked as Venus, to shriek directly in his face. That powerful was the force behind your gaze – a punch to the gut, his mothers handbag swinging unexpectedly, purposefully into his stomach as he scurried meekly behind her as a child. 

He pulls his Jacques Marie Mage frames from his nose. He needs to look away from the searing power of your attention. He needs a moment to collect himself, taking deep breaths as he studies the glasses, runs the tip of his finger over the bridge. He’s held frozen in place by the feel of your gaze still upon him. 

He decides in that very instant he has to have you. 

When he looks back at you, your eyes flit away. He is dismissed – made ravenous. On the verge of tears, perhaps. Look back at me, look back at me, look back at me. What sort of reaction is this to a woman whose name he doesn’t even know? Nonsensical. Perhaps it’s the sleep deprivation – the edibles he’d downed before coming, maybe he’s having a bad reaction. 

But the gift of your slow, lazy gaze roves around the space he inhabits now, everywhere but directly at him, almost like a punishment for having looked away from you first – even for a second. 

He’s never considered the prospect of trying to buy a person. The moral question or dilemma of it. He decides he doesn’t necessarily care. Whatever he has to do to get you to leave this place with him, he’ll do. What he’ll be able to bring himself to let happen after that,  if he’ll even be able to touch you, be brave enough to let you touch him, remains to be seen. Inconsequential too, he finds. 

He circles the gallery for close to an hour before he can no longer help himself, can no longer feign casualness. The rest of the art here is pale and dull in the light of your luminescence. He finally comes to a stop in a corner diagonal from where you face, in the shadow of the sculpture of Paolo e Virginia. At this moment, he feels certain Puttinati prophecised your existence, to so depict the vision of reverence he’s feeling for you in this moment. 

The performance is three hours long. In that time you don’t move your body at all, Oruf was right – lying with the stillness of marble. The only thing that moves are your eyes, and you watch the patrons closely, examine them. Your gaze is part of the art, part of the power of it. 

The visage of you is shocking, not for your nudity, but because in a lifetime filled with unimaginably lovely things, you are, by far, the most magnificently gorgeous creature Ezra has ever laid eyes on. It is like a recurring bullet to the temple over and over again for the visceral shock you pull out of him. 

Finally, finally, your gaze falls on him again. The meeting of your eyes, like the strike of lightning against the earth. He can feel his cock thicken, grow heavy, just at the touch of your gaze. It’s voyeuristic – unexpected – he can’t remember the last time he got hard. He feels almost perverted, sporting an erection at the mere sight of you, surrounded by all these people in this crowded gallery.

He can’t see your breasts entirely, pressed to the chaise as they are, only the full, pale sides. He wonders desperately at the color of your nipples, the shade, the hue. He’d like to imprint it in his mind. Know the taste of them, as well, of all your skin – wonders if the color there matches that of the skin between your legs. The thought causes hunger to climb like fire up his chest into his throat, saliva pooling heavy in his mouth at the mere suggestion of your cunt in his mind.

His eyes leave you for a moment, to cast the wide net of his gaze around the room, at the other men. He wonders if they’re hard too, if only your naked skin, lying still in repose, has the power to make their blood rush, their muscles thicken. He is not pleased by the thought of that. And when he comes back to you, you’re still on him. Gaze roaming down his body, taking in the fine cashmere sweater, his perfectly tailored suit, built to hang in a precisely designed loose cut over his shoulders, down his long legs, the incongruous sneakers, back, back up to his face, the spot of blonde at the front of his hair. A single delicate eyebrow crooks in a minute arch at him. It is all the answer he needs

You are looking back at him. It’s all he needs to know. 

As the three hour mark comes to a head the lights dim even further until only a singular overhead spotlight falls upon your form. Your skin glows, seems to flare brighter for a single moment, and then a golden sheet of gossamer begins to slowly fall from the ceiling, and right before it lands upon your body, you finally move. Your body stretches, toes pointing and curling, long arms stretched in an arc over your head. The fine lines and slopes of your body coming into startling clarity for one moment, and then you turn over, away from him, where he can’t see your face anymore, and curl in on yourself. The golden gusset falls upon your coiled form, as if you’ve finally been put to rest. The lights dim until all that’s visible is the luminous gleam of the shroud over your curled body. 

You are a girl made of golden myth and gossamer, and he must have you. 

-

“Hello, Sparrow.” He steps into the small, warm space of your dressing room.

You turn to face him, you’ve been waiting for him. “Hello,” you say slowly. “You were watching me.”

“Everyone was watching you.”

“Not like you were–”

“No… not like I was.” His accent is some strange sort of concoction of eclectic European – at once French, but also slightly Germanic, with an inflection of deep American South at the end. The vowels and consonants rolling off his tongue, smooth and hypnotizing like the warm pour of honey, and then, suddenly, inflected with a bout of sharpness. Something that snaps you awake, forces you to come to attention, to pay attention to him. That was all it was really, you could tell, a forceful, demanding grab for attention at all times. He called it to himself, seduced the people around him into ardor. Whether they knowingly chose to be entranced or not, was not up to them.

“Ezra,” he gives an imitation of a little flourished bow. You give him your own name in return. “You were watching me back.” 

“I couldn’t help it.” He had demanded it of you, after all, no need to lie now. 

“I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me.” You turn back to continue packing your bag. 

“I’m not very hungry.” You feel him come closer, hear the subtle hint of pleading desperation in his sensual voice that has pleasure coiling deep in your belly. 

“A drink then.”

You’d like to be on clear ground with this man who you can see, even now, is an enigma not to be trifled with unconscionably. “Where? At your house?” you turn to crook a sardonic brow at him.

“Would you like me to take you to my house?”

“Yes. If that’s what you want too.” You’d already decided, didn’t see the point in prolonging the game. 

-

His security takes you out the back of the gallery, dark Maybach rolling smoothly up as soon as you reach the curb, and you feel the searing phantom  heat of his large palm hovering over the small of your back. 

He hasn’t touched you a single time yet, and everything within you is coiled tight, waiting for that first graze. 

He pulls the car door open for you himself, and then his driver is there, smoothly offering you his hand to help you step into the sleek interior. The leather beneath you is buttery chocolate brown and you press your thighs together. His security had taken your bag from you, and you felt bereft and listless without the protective clutch of it within your hands now. 

He follows after you, sliding gracefully onto the seat across. You can see he’s wearing two gold chains around his neck that rest in the dip of his collarbones, and your mouth waters at the sight. The car pulls quietly away from the curb and then you’re merging into the busy city traffic, ensconced in the quiet of this liminal space he’s stolen you into with him. 

He crosses one knee over the other, one thick arm thrown languidly over the back of the seat. You can see a small gold signet ring gracing his pinky – some sort of crest emblazoned on it. 

Fucking family crest kind of rich. God. You don’t know if you’re prepared for this. 

You cock your head to the side, the muscles in your neck are a little stiff and sore from holding your pose for so long, and you let your neck roll back on the head rest. 

He’s quiet, still observing, as if you’re still existing within the walls of the gallery, and not being spirited away to his home so that he might have his way with you. 

“Are you going to fuck me?” Might as well be blunt, you think, now that you’re here. He was so gorgeous in that room, watching you, circling you like a beast hunting in the wild. There was really no other way this night was destined to end, but with you beneath him, taking him into your cunt. 

“Would you like me to fuck you?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t respond, only gives you a melodic little non-committal hum, continues to look at you from the seat across with those deceptively guileless eyes. You want him to snatch you by the chin and spit in your mouth.

-

The drive ends in front of the grand façade of a pristine Parisian townhouse on a secluded street in the 16th arrondissement – flanked by national embassies, no less. 

You are very, very far from home. In a Paris you’ve not ventured into in all your years of living here. 

He helps you from the car, finally, finally, finally, thick palm wrapping entirely around the thin of your wrist. Everything within you coils and pulses, tight and wet. His skin is warm and dry, you can feel the pull of rough calluses on his palm. You’re sure he can feel the hammering staccato of your pulse through the thin membrane as you stare at the way his fingers overlap completely around the circumference of your limb.

He lets you step into the foyer ahead of him as one of his staff sweeps the door open for the two of you, ready and waiting for their master to return with a respectably quiet, monsieur, mademoiselle, in greeting. There’s a huge Basquiat in the entrance hall, across from the sweeping staircase.

“Lots of his art came my way,” he says at your obvious admiration, shock, desire to tuck tail and run back home. “We weren’t friends, but I was roommates with a guy he’d lived with. His last girlfriend was best friends with my girlfriend at the time, so when he died we had one of the first calls.”

“It’s wonderful–” Your voice is full of awe, eyes taking in a type of home you’ve never seen before up close like this. Something out of a picture book that sits on the coffee table of someone wishing for more. 

“How many bedrooms does it have?”

“Well… they get used for different things – so I’m not sure. Let’s call it eight.”

You huff a small laugh, run your finger along the keys of the opulent crystal Steinway. “Let’s call it eight, sure.”

Now that you’re here, that he hasn’t overtly said he’s brought you here for sex, you don’t really know what it is he wants from you. A bad thought, but an honest one. 

“Drink?”

“Yes, please.”

He leads you into an elegantly lush reception room, hovering hand again at the place above the small of your back. There’s a gargantuan crystal chandelier hanging at the center of the room, two enormous elephant tusks flank the elaborate mantelpiece. The room is a mix of eclectic eccentricities, both neutrally elegant and demure in its obvious wealth, but inflected with touches of vibrant color and idiosyncrasies to bring the room together in a way that you think must reflect the house’s owner. 

He moves to the bar, choosing the green bottle of twenty year Laphroaig and pours a knuckle into two crystal tumblers. He’s quiet, subdued, and the lack of small talk to fill the silence has the backs of your knees itching and sweating. 

There’s a glossy red panther sculpture prowling across a gold and ivory lacquered coffee table. He comes to hand your glass to you. “That’s a museum piece. I can’t remember where I got it, but it’s rare.” You can’t tell if he’s trying to boast, to impress you, or merely share his satisfaction at owning a piece of art worthy of a museum's gallery. You’d already discerned that at the Basquiat’s first glance, shit, at the first sight of the house. It was a veritable museum on its own. You were sure the number of museum pieces in every room were too many to count in a single night, nay week. 

You don’t sit as he goes to do, but start to slowly circle the room. An imitation of his slow roving of you earlier at the gallery. The peat whisky is bold and smoky, a surprising hint of something akin to seawater, but also mellowly sweet. You think that this must be what his skin tastes like, his come – an amalgamation of all the different flavors on the wheel. Saliva pools heavy on your tongue and you take a deeper sip, eyes flitting to him. 

“Three hours is a long time to lay so still,” he says. 

“It is. But I’m used to it by now.”

“You must be tired.”

“Not particularly – perhaps a bit stiff.”

“Have you been doing this for a long time?”

“Not so long, but not so short, either.”

“So just the right amount?”

“Yes.” He’s quiet for a moment then, still watching, watching, watching. His gaze upon you feels like the drag of a specter’s fingers along your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. You wonder if this is how he felt while you watched him in the low light of the gallery. Hunted. But no, you imagine there isn’t anything that could make a man such as this feel like prey. 

“Can I draw you a bath?” You pause at this – firmer, more familiar ground, finally. This is what you’ve been waiting for. His request for you to get naked for him, to let him into your body. It’s what you want also. He’s not rushing this, and it’s making you feel unstable, unsure of the ground you’re treading here together. 

“Yes, I’d like that.”

-

He leads you upstairs, to one of the guest bedrooms. The en suite, one of his favorites in the house – dark marble tub in the center of the room under a low hanging crystal chandelier. The French windows let in the soft glow of the moon outside, and he draws the bath for you as you peer through the glass. The reflection of your face in the windows, eternally distracting. 

When the water is warm and ready, a splash of Neroli Portofino Body Oil poured under the stream, he turns to you. He’s hesitant – both of himself and you, equally. It’s been a long time since he’s touched a body not his own, and he feels the slight anxious tremor of his hands. Although he can’t be sure if that’s strictly attributed to nerves, or all the blood in his body pooling in his cock at the moment. 

“Can I take your clothes off?” said as gently as possible, so as not to spook you.

Your gaze is as direct as it was while you lay watching him, surrounded by half of Paris. “Yes.”

He starts at the tiny bow holding the front of your soft silk blouse together – the weave so fine, it’s almost translucent, and he can see the outline of your evasive nipples he’s been so desperate to see. He pulls on the string letting the neck of the blouse fall open, then down to the tiny pearl buttons holding the rest of it together. All without touching your skin. 

You’re panting, face already flushed, eyes bright, almost fevered. His balls are tight and heavy, ready to come, just with this. Just at the mere fucking vision of you ready and panting for him. His belly clenches and then he pushes the silk off the fine bones of your shoulders. The wings of your collarbones, the shadow of the dip in them the most tempting image he’s ever beheld in his entire life. He wants to dip his tongue into the tiny pool, fill them with ambrosia and drink directly from your skin. 

He feels his cock begin to leak. 

The zipper at the side of your skirt is next. He watches the rise and fall of your ribs, the tremble of your throat as he pulls it down slowly, revealing the rest of your skin to him. There’s a tiny lace thong around your hips, robin's egg blue. Oh, he will be stealing that for himself. 

He finally lets himself touch your skin as he pushes the scrap of lace down your legs, crouching smoothly to his knees to help you step out of it. He takes in the sight of your small feet up close now. The fine tendons of your musculature entirely too fucking beguiling. He ghosts the tip of a single finger over the top of your foot and you moan for him. So goddamn sweet and wanton. 

He unfolds to his full height and pockets your panties. To be inspected at a later time, pressed to his nose and mouth so that he might drink the scent of you down into himself. He tips his chin at the tub now, holding your wild gaze, breaths coming in short little gasps. Your cheeks are flushed the color of your nipples. The tiny wisps of hair at your neck and temples beginning to curl deliciously in the humidity of the bathroom. He could spill his seed just at the look in your eyes, he’s sure of it. 

“In,” he orders, crowds you towards the edge of the tub and grips the bend of your elbow between his thumb and index finger – as little contact as possible – to help you into the water. “Sit.”

You immediately obey, and that fills him with more pleasure than the sight of your naked skin. The control you’re granting him right now, allowing him the privilege of ordering you for the sake of his own comfort – he’s going to reward you very well for being so good for him.

He bends over the edge of the tub, hovering over your beseeching upturned face. He brushes his thumb softly over your full bottom lip. “Good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut, you look down into the water, a lovely pink blush blossoming over your cheeks. “Relax. Soak for a while.”

He can tell you want him. Badly. The flush of your cheeks down to your breasts, rosy little nipples peaked, your quick breath. That want, compounded doubly by his refusal so far to really touch you — his inability. The more he stays his hand, the more you want him, and the more you want him the harder his cock grows, the more frightened he becomes. He thinks it’s very true, that old adage, the harder you try to push a woman away from a man, the closer she will go to him by virtue of rebellion.

You sit in the warm bath for close to an hour, and he watches rapturously, hypnotized by the slick wet of the water rolling over your skin, from his seat on an ottoman at the center of the room. The weight of his gaze on your skin, almost violent in its intense desire. He wants to lick every single droplet from your body and then bite into the heavy lush weight of your tits until his teeth are imprinted in the soft flesh, bruises sucked into the pale globes. He hopes you’ll let him. He hopes he’ll let himself. 

Your returning look is equally wanton. He watches your gaze trained and hungry on the heft of his cock hiding beneath his trousers. You spread your legs for him beneath the water as you wash yourself, putting on another show, private, just for him. An unjustly jealous wrath stirs within him, coiled and hissing, at the thought of any other human on earth ever getting to see you the way he is now. Largely a passive man, the violence that surges within him has him surprised and not, in equal measures. For he thinks that no being ever having beheld you, could ever possibly be driven to feel any other way than obsessively possessive over such a creature as yourself. You’re like a siren in this moment, languishing in the warm water of his bath, in his house, where you agreed to come with him tonight. A nymph willingly slinking into the depth of Tartarus, knowing she’s in peril of being wholly devoured by the beasts that lay at its depths, and still going anyways. 

He helps you out after a while, tiny little fingers and toes soaked to wrinkles, elbow once again caught between his two fingers, and the heat rolling off your skin sears him. Has a violent tremble running jaggedly down his vertebrae. 

He wraps you in a plush white towel, pulled from the warming rack, helps you dry your long hair. Then goes to his room for one of his shirts to put you in. He pulls one he’d worn a few days ago off the pile from the chair in the corner. He wants to know you’re sleeping in something that’s already been on his skin, that smells like him, that you’re soaking now in his own scent. 

As he pulls the towel from around your body to once again reveal your bare form to him he presses a soft kiss to your naked waist – can’t help himself, the soft slope entirely too beguiling. Overtaking any apprehensions he may have, and his gut clenches with fear and desire. He can feel the weeping of his cock dribble down his thigh as he presses his lips to the warm, fragrant skin. 

You’re quiet, watching him, letting him do with you as he wants. His own little sentient doll, created for his pleasure only. “I have a farm in Brazil,” he says. He rounds your form, starts to braid the long strands of your hair into a single plait. You put up no protest – it feels like water, slipping through his hands.  “We grow organic fruit and vegetables and there’s cows, lots of cows. We never kill them, they just live there, graze.” One of his favorite places in the entire world, but perhaps, second to the place he resides now, staring at you, dressing you, touching your hair. “I love it there, I’ll take you.”

“Okay,” you say easily. “I’d like that,” the gift of the gentle curve of your smile. He wants to lick into your mouth, fuck you with his tongue, slap your pussy and watch the blood rush to the surface, feel the tight clench of your asshole as he fills you with his come. 

“Will you let me watch you play with your cunt?” he asks gently.

“Won’t you do it?”

“I’m scared to touch you yet – to find out if you’re actually real.” He feels an uncharacteristically self conscious blush mar his cheeks. “I–I’m not ready. I want to watch first.” He comes to kneel between your parted thighs that dangle off the high bed. “Pet your cunt for me – show me how you like it, sweet girl. Please.” He is not above begging. Not for this. Not for you – for the sight of you playing with your wet, pink pussy. 

You spread your legs wider, give him the tantalizing peak of your bare sex, your glistening folds. You’re already fucking wet for him. He feels an unrestrained growl claw up his throat like fire. His mouth goes dry, parched. The only way to sate himself, to drink straight from the source of your glossy slick. 

You press your fingers to the pearl of your clit, swollen and needy already, he can see. You start to swirl little circles over your slippery flesh, your wet mouth falling open in a gasp. “That’s it, yeah–” he whispers, bringing his face in closer to the apex of your thighs so he can smell you directly from the source. His eyes flutter as he breathes in the scent of you, the deep amber and citrus from the bath oil, but beneath that, entwined in the rich notes, the musky scent of you. Fucking mouthwatering. He hears himself moan, the sound pulled almost unconsciously from his body. 

“Inside– put your fingers inside. Let me see you fuck yourself.” You press a single finger in, all the way to the last knuckle, and start to rock your hips. He can feel your gaze on his face, the weight of it heavy and pleading.

“Ezra– p–please, please, you do it,” you beg, let your head roll back as you press another finger in and start to rock your clit against the mound of your palm in earnest.

“But you’re doing so well, sweet girl. About to make that little cunt come for me. Look–” He gives you the weight of a single palm on the bend of your knee and you moan deep and ragged at just that compact touch. He can’t help himself – he pulls the edge of the t-shirt up to bare your tits to him and holds it up against the base of your throat where he cradles the delicate column in his hand – the entire large span of him completely engulfing your smallness. “Your thighs are trembling, treasure. You’re going to do it just for me, aren’t you?.”

“Y–Yes, yes–” 

He pushes your knee in his grasp wider, opening you more for the fileting of gaze. “Make yourself come – I want to see it. Fucking come,” it’s a demand you answer, just the sound of it causing the heat of your skin to seemingly ricochet even higher. You start to come – he watches the clenching of the muscles in your stomach as you grind your fingers deep. He can hear how wet you are, the sopping wet squelch of your pulsing cunt, and he worries for one second that he’s about to come in his pants. 

You let out a reed high mewl, like you’re singing just for him. “What a good, good girl you are,” he praises, and your eyes flutter shut, pulling your fingers away so that he’s left to admire the clenching of your stretched hole. He can see the glossy shine of your slick sliding down the crevice of your ass, and he wants to lick through your sticky arousal so fucking badly he bites down on his cheek until he tastes blood. He bends his head to press his brow to the edge of the bed between your spread thighs, tightening his grip around your knee until you whimper in pain. He loosens his hold immediately, thumb brushing soothingly over the bend before he stands, lets out a long breath. He stares down at your panting, flushed form. Wet and sated after your orgasm. Fuck all the art in the world. He’d set fire to every single masterpiece he owns in this very moment if he was granted the gift of getting to watch you come even one single time more. 

He passes his palm over his mouth, feeling the soft bristles of his scruff. He’d like to see the smooth insides of your thighs rubbed raw with it, he’d like to see the stretch of your cunt as he stuffs you full of himself, the milky white of his spend leaking from all your holes. 

“It’s time to put you to bed,” he says instead. 

Your brow creases in the sweetest little frown, red mouth puckering, still panting. “You’re not staying?” 

“No, sweet girl. I think it’s best if you sleep here tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“But–”

“It’s alright. There’s no rush.” He leans over you to press a lingering kiss to your brow, pulls his shirt down to cover your breasts. You give him a little whimper, and he allows your hand to come up to clutch the thick swell of his bicep, the heavy muscle there bunching at the feel of your grip. He moves to help you settle beneath the silk duvet, pleased beyond belief at the sight of you tucked into a bed in his home, wearing his clothes, flushed and wearing the sated look of a recent orgasm. 

“Goodnight, treasure.”

“Goodnight, Ezra.”

-

You find his room later. You can’t help yourself, following the glow of the soft light spilling between the crack of his slightly open door, like he’d left you a bread crumb trail to follow, like he knew you’d come searching. You can’t sleep knowing he’s so close, this dazzling creature come straight from a dream. Twisting and turning in the plush monstrosity of a bed he’d left you in. His shirt, butter soft, the dark, gray blue swimming around your much smaller frame. It smells like him, his cologne – you recognize the scent of Le Labo Another 13. Musky with the softest most subtle hint of jasmine, paired with something earthier – greener, and folded between all that: the soft saltiness of his sweat.  Why would you sleep when a figure from your very fantasies was right here in the flesh. Your cunt clenches, wet and aching, even after he’d watched you make yourself come. You need more, want to feel the press of his cock inside of you, the heavy weight of it. 

He’s sitting up in bed, reading something on an iPad, glasses propped low on his nose. He looks up at your small knock, not waiting for his permission to slip inside. 

“I promise, I’ll be good.” You hold your hands up in surrender. “I won’t touch you. We can put a pillow between us if you like.” You move towards the bed.

There’s a large stack of books sitting on his bedside table, flooded by the warm moss stained light of the antique Tiffany lamp. A single idiosyncrasy of old world charm in a room made stark by its bright modernity. The pile is made up of a book of paintings by Howard Hodgkin, the diaries of Alma Mahler, The Spectator Bird by Wallace Stegner, the fourth volume of In Search of Lost Time – you appreciate his excellent taste – and at the very top, laying open, facedown, as if he’d just put it down a moment ago, My Struggle by Karl Ove Knausgaard. You find it fascinating to see a book that spoke of life in such a granular way — realistic, simple, a normal man in a normal world, speaking in such extensive, caring detail on the small things in his life — on the bedside table of this enigma, this person who seemed to be, by far and large, a different species to all other men you’d ever met before. To see the spine so cracked and worn — as if he’d read it over and over again, in search of the equation for that simplicity, to thus inject into his own existence – a way to embalm his own world in such appreciation for the small but infinitely significant moments. You wonder if it’s taught him much— if he’s been able to find and implement whatever it was he’d searched for through so many reads. 

“Alright,” he says easily, but the look in his eyes is slightly wary. You recognize Glenn Gould’s rendition of the Goldberg Variations playing softly on the surround sound as you crawl into his bed – under the silk smooth sheets, bringing a pillow to blockade you from him, protect him. You don’t want him to be uncomfortable, but you desperately want to be close to him also. The two of you have barely talked tonight – too caught up in the observation of one another, like two animals circling in the wild. You want to talk to him. Want to hear the sound of his deep voice vibrate through your nerve endings. 

“Intimacy is… difficult for me,” he says slowly, swallowing. “It’s hard for me to get close to people… emotionally, physically. I need time to — I suppose, to warm up to them.”

“That’s — that’s okay. I understand,” you say, because you do, because you’re the same in many ways. 

“It’s why I love art,” he continues. “You can be close to something, feel its warmth, beauty – whatever feeling it is the artist intended to pull out of you, from a distance. Untouched – it’s untouchable. That comforts me for some reason.”

“I think – I think I understand that as well. Something, perhaps, about the idea of a thing remaining as it was initially conceived as, for all time, undisturbed by outside influences.”

“Yes – yes, exactly.” His eyes are alive with the fire of being understood.

You look down at his straining erection. You can’t help it. “You’re hard,” you say. You want to touch him so badly it’s a physical ache inside of you. 

“I’ve been hard since I first saw you.”

“Let me help.”

He shakes his head, “Not yet.”

“I was embarrassed that the other patrons would be able to tell how wet my pussy was lying there staring at you.” Shocking words. His eyes flutter shut, fuck, he murmurs under his breath, brings his hand up to rub at his jaw. You’ve noticed he does that a lot – a tell of sorts. He takes several deep breaths, the tension seeming to seep out of his body by sheer force of will. 

You take him in as he settles back into the pillows, relaxing, or at least pretending to. His face, smooth and serene, laying there watching you, despite his heavy erection, but the look in his eyes – it’s also slightly provoking. As if he wants you to challenge him, question him, but also afraid, perhaps, that you’ll force his hand, that he’ll be forced to give in to what you both want before he’s ready. You decide to choose mercy – change the subject. More curious to see how he chooses to play this out.

“Let’s play the question game.”

“The question game?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” he turns to lay on his side, facing you. Both of your hands are tucked beneath your cheeks. He’s wearing a soft, worn sweater, a tiny hole at the collar, the sleeves stretched and overly long. Oh, this may just be too much for you to handle. 

“We’ll start with something easy – what’s your favorite color?”

“That’s easy?”

“Yes.” You roll your eyes at him, laughing.

“Depends on the day,” he says very seriously. His blinks are slow, his pupils huge and dilated in the warm light of the lamp. You wonder if he’s taken something. Every time he blinks the thick fringe of his lashes fans over his cheeks, the pause of his languor allows you a moment to appreciate them.

“That’s not an answer – you have to give a real answer.” You want to reach your finger out and brush along that thick fringe, through the patchy hair on his face, threaded through with the smallest hint of silver, stick your nose in his hair and smell him right at the source. 

“It’s the only real answer there is – no one’s favorite color stays their favorite color forever.”

“Do you do this a lot?”

“What’s that?”

“Make things purposely difficult.”

A flash of his brilliant white teeth, “Oh, always.” You want very badly for him to bite into your flesh. 

“Okay, fine. What’s your favorite color right now?”

Without hesitation: “The color of your eyes – they’re very strange,” you can tell it’s a compliment, and he finally touches you again. A single finger, just the tip, to the point of your chin, tilting your head back slightly for his inspection, as if you were one of the pieces in his collection. You think you may become one by the end of this. You think you’d like that very much. You can feel the slight edge of his fingernail dig into your soft skin. 

“I already agreed to fuck you. You don’t have to woo me,” you breathe. You realize that, as of yet, he’s not overtly asked you to have sex with him – you throw the words out anyways, hoping to provoke him. This is too much. This man is too much. You don’t know what it is about him, but you want him desperately, like no one you’ve ever wanted before. You want him to overwhelm you – to take you by force. To take all choice and will and autonomy from your hands. You don’t care what will come of this, what will become of you after he’s done with you, if he discards you, forgets you –  none of that matters. All you care about, in this moment, is that he finally decides to take you, that he gives you the opportunity to let go, to relinquish control. To unfold from the pose for just a moment. A slightly deranged spark fizzes in your belly. Your heart pinches a burning little pain at the thought that he hasn’t kissed you yet, that you still don’t know the taste of his mouth. 

“None of my answers satisfy you. And yes, I do need to woo you. I find it very necessary.”

You try and emulate an unaffected scoff, his finger is still on your chin, but you feel your brow unwittingly fold into a confused frown. There is a tight knot of want coiled at the very center of you, burning hot and smoldering, and you need him to pick it apart with these strong fingers. He takes his hand away. The look on his face is very telling. He can read everything going on in your mind, you can tell. He looks like the cat that ate the goddamn canary. You try and take a deep, calming breath. “Alright, now you have to ask me one?” you divert. 

“Me?”

“Yes, you – that’s how the game works. I do one, you do one.”

“Alright,” he’s quiet for a second, contemplating, “Do you have siblings?”

“No, I’m an only child. Do you?”

“I had a brother, Damon. He died when we were younger.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yes, well– it was a very long time ago. But thank you. His daughter, Cee, is my ward now. ” Not his niece, not someone mentioned in any capacity as his family. The connection, maintained as if at a distance — his ward — cold. But he gives himself away, his tender vulnerability made transparent, with the sudden flash of bright fondness in his eyes at her name, despite his trying to remain aloof. You are not so easily fooled. You see him despite his attempts to deflect from the true core of himself. 

His gaze is so mercurial – at once relaxed, uncaring, and then flaring into something bright hot like a flash fire. But remote, remote always. Like the very center of him, his true gaze is very far away, very deep within him, and this gaze, the one he presents to the world, is merely a farce, a mask. A shroud he pulls over himself to keep others out. His own golden gossamer. You’re shocked that he’s shared this with you. 

“My parents died when I was very young,” you offer, your own morsel of ragged soul in the face of his sudden vulnerability. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, as well.”

“It wasn’t so bad, after the fact. I went to live with my aunt – my mother’s sister. She was a dancer. My childhood was… unconventional, but wonderful.”

“What about it was unconventional?”

You laugh a little, looking up at the coffered ceiling above you, the thick beams a rich, glossy mahogany. You feel his gaze on your face like a brand. He has not stopped looking at you since he first started. In a sea of years being observed, his gaze is singular in the pleasure it brings you.

“She was a dancer. I mean—” you hum, “What wasn’t unconventional about it? We lived in New York for several years, then Budapest for a time, and then she brought us here, to Paris, where we stayed until her death – where I’ve stayed since. Her girlfriends were always around – fellow dancers, costumes and makeup, drinking and men. They taught me how to smoke when I was eight — Gauloises like a fucking chimney, at all hours of the day, after that — I forced myself to stop a few years ago. Now I only have one on special occasions, sometimes.” He looks at you like he knows you’re the sort to make a special occasion out of a trip to the market. “She had many lovers. Parties… disaster everywhere, but the riotous, happy sort – not the tragic kind.”

“No?”

“No. Perhaps, to the outside eye it may have appeared different… I don’t know. No life for a child, I think. But it was wonderful. She always protected me. But– but never like a mother. She was never like a mother – more like – a friend, or an older sister.” You laugh fondly at the memories, but also a little sadly. In the eyes of an adult now, you’d never want such a life for a child of your own, as exciting as it was at the time.

“One time someone told me I ended up as I did, naked for the world to ogle at, as a means to earn money, because of her. Because of how she was. And perhaps they were right, but… but not in the way they meant —  to insult me. She taught me what art was, gave me the means to turn myself into it.” 

“Who the fuck said that to you?” His tone makes you look back at him now. All the mystery in his gaze is gone, only fury burns now – very clearly. If he’d let you, you’d cup his cheek, soothe him. 

You can see he isn’t ready yet, though. So all you say is: no one that really mattered – the truth, but you can see that it does not soothe him. 

 “What about you? What was your mother like?” You can appreciate how easily distracted he pretends to be, the deception of it, merely another shroud. 

Another one of his long pauses, filled with his eyes on you. He gives you the gift of his touch again. Thick fingers picking up a strand of your hair, running it between his grasp. You feel the slight ghost-like tingle of the tug along your scalp, there but also not, and a jerking shiver moves through you. All the hair on your body standing on end. Fuck, this man. 

“She was very beautiful – very cruel,” he says slowly, mesmerized by your hair sliding through his fingers. 

“Cruel to you?”

“To the world.”

“Why?”

“But also me.” Succinct in its truth. The thought is a terrible one – for anyone to have been cruel to this magnificent dream of a man. The backs of your eyes pinch. Another long pause. “Hmm,” he tilts his head side to side, still sliding your hair through his fingers, twisting it gently around his hair. He gives it a tiny tug, and you want to scoot forward, even just the smallest bit, just to be a little closer to him, to feel the brush of his belly against yours with the movement of his breathing. “It’s difficult to say – unhappiness, bitterness, boredom. A great and complicated concoction of things that made her into the eternally complex creature she was.”

“She died?”

“Yes. She killed herself.”

“Ezra– I’m so sorry,” the words leave you choked and breathless. 

He says it so plainly, starkly, like a slap to the face, one not meant to cause pain or harm, but shock. One meant to cause fear, something to say, look at how fucked up I am, stay away or I’ll infect you with it too. You scoot closer now, you can’t help it, and he goes immediately still, frozen – eyes wide, hesitant, but you don’t touch him. Your hair is still clutched in his hand, and his eyes move back and forth between your own and his hold on you. You’re close enough now, though, that you can feel the heat rolling off his body. Your eyes flutter shut, you say again: “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“She was too vain to grow to old age.” You feel him relax, comforted by the indication that you’re not going to touch him just yet. “I think she felt it was the only recourse for her.”

You open your eyes again, and he’s still staring at you. You so badly want to know what he’s thinking, to feel the press of his mouth against yours, to know the taste of his tongue, the feel of his incisors pressing into your skin. 

You pivot three-sixty again: “Do you want kids?” He lets out a loud barking laugh at that, head thrown back so the tendons in his neck jump out starkly. Your cunt clenches around nothing. Wet and jealous. 

“This is a very difficult game,” he says, giving you a sly look. 

“We don’t have to play anymore, if you don’t want to.” A great lie – you never want to stop playing with him. 

“No, I want to keep going.” He slides his whole hand into your hair now, palm cupping the entire side of your head in its broad expanse, and you can’t help the desperate moan that claws out of your throat. His responding hum is all-knowing.  “I don’t know. But I love being… I like being able to imagine it.”

Your mind has been lost to a daze induced by the heat of his palm. “Children?” you murmur.

“Yes.”

Your fingers are twisted into the front of your shirt, clawing at yourself to maintain respect for his boundaries. “I want them. Lots of them. I hated being an only child. I always felt alone. I want to have lots of babies.” And his eyes flare with heat at that. The first blazing sign of lust in them tonight. Everything else before this, you realize, was merely a low simmering boil. The fist in your hair tightens so that your head tilts back slightly, the line of your throat exposed for his eyes to follow. 

“Lots of them?” You nod your head minutely, wide eyed, equally ensnared by that look in his gaze as you are by his hand. 

“Then you shall have them, Sparrow.” You let out a shuddering breath, turn your face into the pillow, enjoying the slight pull to your sensitive scalp as his hand follows, try to breathe deep, temper your racing heart. You’re so wet, you can feel it seeping out of you in a constant throbbing stream. The conversation serving as a more intense form of foreplay than anything else you’ve ever done with a man. 

“It’s my turn again. When was the last time you fucked someone?” Blunt – thrown at your face to throw you off kilter. Oh, he fucking loves this. A broken little whimper claws out of your throat at that. Your cheeks are flushed, you can feel them burning, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. The smug look in his eyes taunts you, tells you he knows just how soaked you are. But it is also wild, as wanting as you are. 

“Hmm?” he presses.

“Three years ago.” It’s his turn to be shocked now. You see the pause of surprise in that bright light within his gaze. 

“Three years? Why?”

“You’re not the only one who finds it difficult to be close to people.”

“And yet you agreed to come here with me?”

“And yet I agreed to come here with you.” You don’t return the question. You wouldn’t like to know, you don’t think. And you can tell he sees that in your gaze, for he doesn’t offer up the information either. You like the mystique of him. Like some eldritch beast, a deity of old, something amorphous, not to be contained or understood. The unknowable aspect of him is appealing to you for reasons you haven't quite figured out yet, despite this game of questions you’re flirting with. 

You go next: “Are you lonely?”

“Yes, very.” A pause, and then: “You are too.” This is no question. He can see it, recognizes the same scent of it that permeates the air around him, following you. “You seemed it, laying in the center of that crowded room, naked – bared for everyone to see.” It is not said cruelly. He is only telling you that which you already know about yourself, that which is plain for the whole world to see. “And then shrouded in gold, as if you wanted to hide that vein of aloneness that flows through you – it didn’t work very well.”

“Do you think everyone could see it?”

“No.” Good. You only wanted him. 

You take another turn, you can’t help but break the rules with him. “Have you ever been with someone who– who you didn’t really want to be with, but you were– you were so lonely and needed… something… or someone?” All the surety you’d posed your previous questions with is gone now. He’s already discerned so much of you, what’s a little more bared skin? “So you just– you just settled for being with that person even though you knew it was wrong, and the only thing on your mind was the other person you really wanted to be with?”

Without hesitation: “Yes.”

“I think that’s the only type of relationship I’ve ever had. Although, the other person hasn’t really existed – just – just something I’ve thought up in my own head.”

“I accidentally called her by the other person’s name. She never spoke to me again. It was terrible– terrible of me.”

“I want to touch you so badly,” you plead suddenly. Unable to hold it in anymore in the light of all he’s shared with you. Your voice cracking and begging. “I want you to touch me, so badly.”

“I know.” Yes, he does. “You want me to fuck you.” All you can do is let your eyes flutter shut, try to continue to breathe, nod your head. 

“Why was your mother cruel to you? What did she do?” You feel like crying now. 

“Many things… I had terrible night terrors as a child. Scared her half to death. I’d scream and cry and sleep walk. For years. She didn’t know what to make of me. Some sort of demon come from her very womb to possess and haunt her house. She hated me – would lock me in a closet furthest from her bedroom to keep my howling away from her.” 

The blazing heat of anger floods your cheeks, your eyes filled with tears, and he clicks his tongue, smoothes his thumb over the slope of your cheek. “None of that, sweet girl.”

“You were just a little boy – she should have– she should have comforted you. Helped you.”

“It wasn’t in her nature. You cannot fault a thing for not being what it was never made to be. She was a killer of soft things – within herself, within me too, I think. Or she tried, at least. She tried to kill everything soft she came into contact with. But she did love me. In her own way – a wrong way, but she did. That comforts me immensely.”

“That she loved you even if it was the wrong way?”

He nods, “And that I loved her – despite all her flaws.”

“Why?”

“I… I appreciate the idea of being a bad person, and still being able to find someone to love you.”

“You’re a killer.” It is not a question for you already know the answer – you can see it in his eyes, it is his inheritance. You know that either way, it won’t make a difference to you. 

“I am, indeed. But, are you?.” The soft curve of his cunning smile is so incredibly beguiling. The most tempting thing you’ve ever seen in your entire life. You shake your head, you’re not, you never have been. You think it must be very obvious at first glance, for the patronizing look he gives you as he asks anyways. 

“Sometimes I can be very bad,” he whispers slowly, drags the tip of his finger over your shoulder, down the swell of your breast, stopping just shy of your peaked nipple, circling the point. 

“What do you do?” your voice is breathless, beseeching. 

He smooths his thumb over your bottom lip, pushes between to get inside, presses down on the hard edge of your bottom teeth to inspect the wet gleam of your tongue. “I steal beautiful things for myself–” His voice is like smoke – his confession fortuitous, on the verge of disappearing. His mystique enshrouds the both of you. You hope you disappear alongside him. 

“Is that what you’re doing now? Stealing me?”

“Yes.”

“I think I like being stolen.”

-

He wakes, very late into the night, or very early in the morning, the confounding blue hue of the outside world seeping in through the heavy drapes over the tall windows. Shielding the two of you from the real world.

Your body is entirely draped over his own. You’ve invaded him in your sleep, taken over all the space and air and thought he’s ever possessed. The soft weight of your breasts presses into his chest, your head tucked in the hollow of his clavicle so that he can feel each pass of your damp breath wash over his throat and chin. He expects to feel overwhelmed, uncomfortable, perhaps even disgusted, so much skin, so much heat, your legs intertwined with his – but all he can focus on is the fullness of your tits pressed up against him, the hot wet apex of your cunt against his thigh. You’re wet in your sleep for him – he can feel your dampness seeping through the silk of your extra panties. 

One of your hands is curled over his shoulder and he brings it to his mouth, presses a kiss to the soft, small palm. His hand dwarfs yours, swallows it whole. He sucks each one of the tips of your fingers into his mouth, bites down as gently as he can. Your hips start to shift over him, needy cunt trying to unconsciously rub up against his thigh. 

He’s going to fuck you now. His cock is hard, aching, leaking, balls heavy – has been for ages, but finally, finally his mind has caught up. Thank fuck. 

He passes his palm down the smooth line of your back, pushes his t-shirt you’re wearing up your back to get to your skin. This lovely smooth back he’d spent almost an hour staring at in that gallery. He feels a terrible, unfounded curl of jealousy, once again, that anyone else in the world has ever gazed upon the magnificence that is your skin. He wants it to be only for him, he wants you to be only for him – to own you.

His hand moves down to clutch the full swell of your bottom, pushes under your panties to take a handful of your bare flesh. He bends his knee slightly to put more pressure on your core and starts to roll your hips over him. You let out a soft little moan, sleepy, so sweet. 

“It’s time to wake up, Sparrow. I’m going to fuck you now.”

“Ezra–” you murmur, coming to. Your body seems to take stock of the situation before your mind does, little cunt suddenly grinding down more firmly onto his thigh. You let out a moan that goes straight to his cock. He grips your hips and flips you over, settling between the spread of your thighs, slotting his length into your wet cleft, he starts a slow rock that has his head pressing up and into your clit. 

“Tell me how you want to be fucked.”

Your eyes are glassy, dazed and confused. He says again, “Tell me how you want to be fucked, or I will decide for you.”

And then your soft little voice, grabbing him by the balls and showing him that as sleepy or drowsy or small as you may appear, you’re still aware of the power you hold over him: “I think I’d like you to decide for me, please.”

Fuck– he deepens the pressure of his thrusts so that his tip presses into your opening over your panties. Your jaw is hinged open, panting wet breaths as you moan for him. 

He sits back on his heels then, pulls his t-shirt up over your head and then slides your panties over your hips and down your legs, grips your knees to spread your legs wide for him. 

He was right, your cunt is the same color as your nipples. Beautiful. 

It’s drooling, begging for him, and oh, how that fills him with pleasure – for such a beautiful thing to desire him, as much as he desires it. He ghosts the back of his knuckles over your slit, using his thumbs to spread your lips wide – he bends for a taste, moans deep and long from his chest. 

“Fuck, you’re so sweet. Do you want me to feed your cunt, baby?”

“Ezra, please – yes – I want it so bad.”

“I know, I could see – all night, I could see how hungry you were. I’m going to eat you now.”

Please, please. 

He settles between your thighs. Soft little licks to your swollen clit, then down to thrust his tongue into your hole. He grips the back of one thigh to press it up and back into your chest, uses his other hand to press down low on your pelvis, gives you more pressure as he sucks your clit back into his mouth. He can feel the clench of your pussy around his tongue, the shake in your thighs. Your keening moans move through him, have him grinding his aching cock into the mattress. You’re going to come in his mouth, he can feel it, taste it, your slick running from you, sweet and musky, all for him. 

Your hands clutch at his curls, pulling and tugging hard as you arch your back and start to orgasm. Ezra, Ezra, Ezra. It’s a litany, a benediction. You are a work of art come to life to sing into his ear. 

He gentles his mouth over your quivering sex, laps slowly at your pulsing entrance. He wipes his mouth over the tender slope of your inner thigh and goes back to his knees, licks his palm of your wet as he watches your gaze on him. 

He cradles your small foot in his hold. He likes the thought that he can grasp that which has carried you through your life, in his hand. For some reason, it fills him with immense pleasure, the feel of your soft foot, the thought of you walking through life, walking through the world, towards him, to find him. Always him, only him. 

There is a wound in him, dark, and putrid, overwhelming his existence always. It was only through the cathartic fulfillment of holding a beautiful thing in his hands that he felt reprieved of the terrible thing. He feels that reprieve in this moment, with the delicate weight of your small foot cradled within his palm. 

He brings it to his mouth and digs his thumb harshly into the elegant arch, forcing a moan out of you, deepening the curve of your spine, then drags his teeth along the instep, presses a soft kiss to your first toe. He can see the clench of your little hole at his ministrations, the flush of your skin from the peaks of your breasts to your cheeks. 

Your breath is hitching, breasts quivering with your gasps. He bends to lick into your mouth, thin ankle still held in his grasp, finally, finally taking the taste of your tongue onto his own and you moan, wanton and desperate, your legs wrapping around his waist to bring him closer. 

“I’m going to give you my cock now,” he presses into your skin, open mouthed kisses to your throat, your neck, your breasts. He nips a gentle bite to one swollen little nipple. 

He grasps the base of his cock, passes his hand slowly from root to tip once, twice, and then presses the flushed head to your clit, grinds there for a moment, you jerk, then moves down to your hole, feeds you just the tip. You cant your hips, try and take him deeper, but he holds back, pulls out and moves back up to circle your clit again, and then back down again to press inside. “No, no, no, Ezra, please – I need it so badly – so badly.” He watches a tiny tear, track down your temple and back into your hair, and he gives you the entire thick length of him at that, fucks inside, all the way to the end of you. 

“There? How’s that?” He presses a kiss to your breast, sucks it into his mouth. The taste of you is godly. “Is that better, needy thing?”

“So good – so good,” you sigh. Stretching your arms high above your head, arching your back to let him in deeper. 

“Fuck, yes–” he groans. He sits back on his heels, grips your hips and starts to give it to you hard. The strong swing of his hips causing the soft jiggle of your tits with every thrust. Your eyes are closed, lashes fluttering, soft mouth open and wet. So fucking beautiful. 

“Will you let me fuck your ass too?” Your head is already nodding, all rational thought currently being fucked out of you. “You will, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes – anything you want.”

“Good girl.”

He changes the angle, fucks up into that spongy devastating part of you he plans to own after this is done, and he starts to feel the tight pull of your inner muscles working to suck him deeper. “That’s it, beautiful, just like that. Taking me so wonderfully.” 

“God– I– I’m–” you press your palms to his belly and he brings one of your ankles up to his shoulder, presses a kiss to the bone. 

“God isn’t here right now – just me–” He grits his teeth, gives it to you harder. He can feel his orgasm start to pool, hot and liquid, at the base of his spine, balls drawing up tight. 

“Give me another, Sparrow, one more. Need to feel it around my cock,” spit through clenched teeth. 

“Oh, fuck – that’s so good,” you moan, and then you’re milking him, pulling his come out of him with the tight wet clutch of your muscles. 

“Fucking perfect, yes – just like that.” He lets his head roll back on his neck, hand grasping your ankle as he fills you. 

-

He watches you eat your pain au chocolat. Sitting in the warm morning sun of the observatory. Tiny bites of the flaky sweet bread, dollop of chocolate sitting at the corner of your mouth that he plans to lick off in a second. He is mesmerized. He knows, empirically, he probably looks like a fucking creep, staring you down as he is, but he can also see the subtle preen in your gaze when you glance up at him every so often. You enjoy this part of your play as much as he does, so it seems. The watching. 

“Will you let me take you somewhere today?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Brazil? I’d show you the farm.”

You swallow, the most guileless eyes he’s ever beheld, shining in the light. “Brazil? Really?”

“Of course, treasure. Or anywhere you want. Your happiness is mine to watch over now. I would do anything for you.” As he says it, he can tell, you did not lie when you said you’d like to be stolen. 

[aspoonofsugar]

Oshi No Ko - A Family Of Stars

I caught up with Oshi No Ko, so here are some opinions and meta thoughts.

AN INVERSION OF NAOKI URASAWA'S MONSTER

Oshi No Ko and Monster are 2 very different stories, but some plot elements and conflicts are similar:

Monster is the story of a surgeon, who must track down a serial killer whose life he has saved. This monster is one of 2 twins and the story deals with the brother and sister uncovering their past

Oshi No Ko is the story of a doctor, who is murdered and reborn as his favourite idol's child. Together with him there is a twin sister and they must track down the killer of their mother. The series leads the twins to find closure with their previous selves, so they can embrace a new life

In short, in both series there is a pair of twins and a murderer. It is just that in Monster the twins have no memories nor sense of selves, while in Oshi No Ko they have too many memories and baggage.

Finally, in Monster the characters must uncover the truth behind Johan, while in Oshi No Ko they must find out who Ai really is. The former is about understanding a monster, whereas the latter is about empathizing with a goddess.

(A)IDOL

The invincible smile that tears up the media Wanna know her secret, so mysterious Even the things she lacks end up in her area Such a perfect liar, you are: [Miss] ingenious, godly idol (You're my savior, you're my saving grace)

In religion an idol is:

An object which represents a deity, so it can become a manifestation of the god itself

A fake god, at least in monotheistic religions, like Judaism, Christianity and Islam

So, idols are gods. And yet, they are fake gods. In particular, monotheistic religions refuse idols because they are over-simplified representations of the divine.

Similarly, people worship celebrities, but only aknowledge their simplistic personas. Actors and idols are put on a pedestal, but also objectified:

So, what'd you eat today? What's your favorite book? And if you wanna go to play, where are you gonna go? I haven't eaten at all That's a secret No matter what you ask She's elusive, evasive Yet still shining bright; Her secret: out of sight, as if visible, has the taste of honey

They aren't seen as people with complex emotions, but as blank slates fans project their feelings onto.

This is why Ai Hoshino is the ultimate idol:

Drawing everyone's eyes You are the perfect, ultimate idol Never to appear again A reincarnation of Venus With that smile, with that "I love you" You captivate everyone Even if those eyes, those words, are false They make up a perfect love (Ai)

Ai's whole self is a lie. Not because she is malicious, but rather because she lacks a sense of self:

She is not sure of her own emotions and can't tell truth from lies. Everything is mixed and unclear. What does it even mean to love? What does Ai even want?

Ai is supposed to embody love. After all, she is associated to the Morning Star, which is called Venus, also known as the Goddess of Love. And yet, Ai's true eyes are dark:

Similarly, the word "ai" means love, but our idol's name is written with no kanji, which makes it the Japanese transcription of the English word for eye.

Ai's name is the sound of love, but with no kanjis (no meaning) attached. Ai is an empty love with empty eyes. This is the pun she is built on.

Still, why is that so? Well, Ai's parents don't put kanjis in her name, just like they don't love her:

So, Ai's character is defined by these 2 ideas:

I have never been loved by anyone Nor have I loved anyone else

On the one hand she was never loved. On the other hand she has never loved. Because of this, she thinks of herself as a fake.

AI (PURPLE) = AQUA (BLUE) + RUBY (RED)

Ai has stars in both her purple eyes. Aqua and Ruby instead have only 1 star each. Moreover, Aqua has blue eyes, while Ruby has red eyes. The idea is very simple. They are Ai's 2 sides:

Aqua is blue, right, mind and an actor

Ruby is red, left, heart and an idol

Together they make Ai, down to her 2 parallel careers (as an actress and as an idol). That said, the twins' foiling with their mother gets deeper:

As Miyako highlights, both Aqua and Ruby are liars. It is just that they lie about opposite things. On the one hand Aqua hides his most positive and vulnerable side. On the other hand Ruby hides her negative feelings. Aqua always sulks, while Ruby always smiles.

Aqua suppresses his wish to love others and to be happy with them

Ruby suppresses her fear to be unloved and abandoned by those around her

In short, each twin explores one of Ai's complexes (to love and to be loved). They really are the 2 faces of Ai (love).

AQUA - THE UNLOVING ACTOR

Aqua's story starts with Gorou Amamiya:

Gorou is a person strongly defined by guilt, which is at the root of his backstory. His mother was a young girl, who died by giving birth to him. As a result, Gorou feels he lives at her expenses and does all he can to rectify this mistake. For example, he becomes an obstetrician, even if he really wants to be a surgeon. Not only that, but he ends up developing a saviour complex. He feels it is his failure that Sarina dies, even if her illness can't be cured and has nothing to do with Gorou's area of expertise.

So, it is really no surprise that once Ai arrives, he projects on her the 2 people he could not save:

Ai is Sarina's favourite idol and a young girl like her

Ai is a teenage mother and is desperate to give birth in secret, just like Gorou's own mother

Ai represents Gorou's chance of redemption and catharsis. He could not save neither his mom nor Sarina, but he can help Ai. She needs the kind of doctor he is and this time he can make things right. However, Gorou is negated this closure and gets killed and reborn as Ai's own son. A son, who is destined to witness his mother's death. This time again, Aqua is powerless and can't save Ai. So, the story repeats and Aqua is left broken:

Aqua's real wish is to save people, but he keeps failing, so he chooses the path of revenge. He becomes his own antithesis.

He feels he doesn't deserve to live happily with others, but his wish to connect is too strong and he ends up forging some of the deepest bonds in the series:

He insists he is only focused on revenge, but ends up warming up to Kana and Akane to the point he goes out of his way to support them multiple times. Even when it doesn't help his avenge quest.

This is made clear in recent chapters, as well. Aqua has decided to give up on all his bonds. He cuts ties with Akane, decides to manipulate Kana and betrays Ruby's trust. He insists he is ready to go to hell alone. And yet, even after he takes such a dark turn, he can't help, but to save Ruby:

As Crow Girl says, this is a bad move on Aqua's side. His revenge would be easier if Ruby hated him, but he lets his true feelings out. He tries to repress his love and care for others. And yet, it keeps manifesting through the cracks of his vengeful persona. Aqua decides not to love, but he still does.

RUBY - THE UNLOVED IDOL

Ruby's story starts with Sarina Tendouji:

Sarina's life is doomed by her illness, which results in her parents abandoning her. Not only does she suffer physically, but she feels unloved. Despite that, she refuses to give up and laces on 2 people, who become her personal lights (stars):

Ai is the girl Sarina wishes to be. A person who is showered with love, as she shines brightly and moves freely on a stage.

Gorou is a parental substitude, as he is the only adult, who supports Sarina throughout her illness. He is even the person who stays with her, while she dies.

So, Ai and Gorou are around when Sarina's parents aren't, which is why she ends up idolizing them. Ai becomes some kind of ideal self, while Gorou becomes her first crush. The truth, though, is that they are the 2 pillars of Sarina's life.

Ironically, Sarina's make believe family becomes Ruby's real one. In particular, Ai becomes a mother, who loves her children with all her heart. This is healing for Ruby, who projects her wish for love on Ai:

It is Ai's strong emotions, which make it possible for Ruby to recover from the loss of her mother:

Ruby pursues the career of idol earnestly to become a star who never lies. And yet, she keeps lying to herself, as she refuses to confront Sarina's past. This negation is why her reaction to Gorou's death is so strong. This discovery becomes a catalyst for all of Ruby's negative feelings:

Ruby becomes her own antithesis and starts to climb up high through manipulation and lies. It is implied she weakens her relationships and later on she enters a violent fight with Aqua, which breaks their bond.

And yet, when Ruby hits rock bottom and confronts the painful truth that her parents have abandoned Sarina, it is Aqua who comes to her rescue:

Even if Ruby breaks their relationship and is prepared to live without trusting anyone anymore, she is still loved. The girl who fears rejection and abandonement is loved even in her darkest moment.

IDOL + FANS = MOTHER + CHILDREN

Aqua and Ruby are opposites. Aqua is scared to be loved and can't let go of Gorou. Ruby is scared to be unloved and can't face Sarina. And yet, they are also the same. Both project their deeper issues on both each other and Ai.

Gorou's feelings over his mother are projected on Sarina. Similarly, he projects his feelings for Sarina on Ai

Sarina's feelings over her mother are projected on Gorou. Later on, she decides to become like Ai because of her promise to Gorou

In short, Gorou wants to protect Ai because of Sarina and Sarina wants to become like Ai because of Gorou. As a result, Ai ends up as the object of their fantasies and wishes. A real godly idol.

Obviously, Gorou and Sarina's feelings towards Ai grow deeper and more complex as they are reborn as her twins. Slowly, their relationship goes from that of idol and fans to that of mother and children.

So, Aqua and Ruby's story is about overcoming the idealization of Ai. Both as fans towards their favourite idol and as children towards their mother. After all, isn't a mother their child's idol?

SUSANOO, AMATERASU AND MARIA

Among other things, the theme of idolisation is conveyed through the religious motif of the Hoshino Family.

Even the flowing sweats are beautiful Aqua These eyelids that hid the Ruby within

The lyrics reference the legend of Susanoo and Amaterasu:

According to tradition, the 3 god siblings Susanoo, Tsukuyomi and Amterasu are born from the creator god Izanagi. as he washes his face in a river. Tsukuyomi (Moon Goddess) is born from Izanagi's right eye, Amaterasu (Sun Goddess) from his left eye and Susanoo (Sea God) from his nose. In short:

Aqua is a composite version of Tsukuyomi and Susanoo. He has inherited Ai's right eye, like Tsukuyomi. However, the opening associates him to his mother's sweat, like Susanoo is born from Izanagi blowing his nose. Finally, his name links him to the sea

Ruby alludes to Amaterasu. She has inherited Ai's left eye, the opening links her to her mother's eyes and she herself mentions the goddess

This reference loosely comments Aqua and especially Ruby's arcs.

Amaterasu and Susanoo enter a fight, which leaves the Goddess crying and depressed. She hides in a cave and without the light of the sun, the world is left in darkness. The other Gods come up with a plan to lure Amaterasu out of her prison. In particular, the God of Enterteinment Ame-no-Uzume organizes a celebration for a new bright Goddess. Amaterasu gets curious and eventually comes out from the cave, so the world gets sunlight back.

Does any of this sound familiar?

Ame-no-Uzume is mentioned multiple times together with Amaterasu. Moreover, the characters visit the Goddess of Enterteinment's temple and they metaphorically enter Amaterasu's cave:

What the story does is clear, right? Ruby's arc is loosely an inversion of Amaterasu's story.

The Sun Goddess enters a fight with her brother and hides in a cave, only to be rescued by the Goddess of Enterteinment. Ruby is guided by Crow Girl (who could be a composite character between Yagatarasu and Ame-no-Uzume herself) and enters a cave, where she finds Gorou's body. This leads to Ruby going through her eclipse phase, where her eyes go dark. Eventually, she is helped by her brother and she finds her inner light again.

It is possible that Aqua's story will mirror Susanoo's in a similar way. After all, the God of the Sea is famous for killing a monstrous serpent to protect a Princess and for finding a Magical Sword within the beast. This may reference Aqua's quest for revenge, who leads him to find a princess (Akane-Princess Saya) and a blade (Kana-Tsurugi). That said, it is too soon to say.

As a final note, Ruby and Aqua's fight ties into the mythological motif. After all, Amaterasu enters into conflicts with both Susanoo and Tsukuyomi. In Amaterasu and Susanoo's case, they go through a divination ritual, so that Susanoo can prove his good intentions. Susanoo passes the trial, but the aftermath leads to the siblings fighting. When it comes to Ruby and Aqua, Ruby gets angry at Aqua for betraying Ai. As a result, Aqua has to mend his bond with Ruby by revealing his past self. To do so, he proves his identity through the Ai-keychan (a divine sign). He passes the trial.

What's most interesting about these references is Ame-no-Uzume's role. The Goddess of Enterteinment is an ally of Amaterasu, but Crow Girl leads the characters towards darkness. Thematically, she may embody the darkest part of the enterteinment world, which finds fun in people suffering.

So, what about Ai? What is her religious symbolism? Let's turn to Christianity:

Sing, dance, flutter, I am Maria — Right, lying is the most exquisite form of love

Mary is famous for having Jesus, while still a virgin. She is so perfect that God chooses her to bear his child. Similarly, Ai is an idol and is requested to be pure, so for her to have a sexual partner is out of question.

Still, Aqua and Ruby's reaction to the idea of a father is interesting. It speaks of their idealization of Ai both as her children and as her 2 biggest fans. At the same time, it betrays a wish to repress everything related to the final member of the Hoshino family.

MEPHISTO

As @hamliet explains in her meta, Hikaru Kamiki's name means God of Light, which is a reference to Lucifer, the fallen angel turned king of hell. It is a fitting imagery for Ai's enemy. Ai is Aqua and Ruby's goddess, so her killer can only be the devil. Similarly, Lucifer betrays God and Hikaru betrays Ai.

So, what is known about Hikaru Kamiki? Only 2 things:

He was raped and forced to have a son when he was 11

He is a serial killer, who targets famous celebrities

In particular, it is probable Hikaru idolises Ai, just like his children do. As a child, he is raped by a woman, then he meets Ai and has a relationship with her. However, his unsolved trauma almost surely ends up compromising his story with the idol and he eventually kills her. Later on, he projects his feelings over Ai on women similar to her, whom he targets in a neverending cycle.

This psychological mechanism makes him the embodyment of the most twisted love possible:

He was loved wrong (he was raped)

He loves wrong (he kills women he is attracted to)

Given this premise, he is clearly going to be defeated and he will probably die in the end. Still, the way he goes down will be important for Aqua and Ruby, as it will decide their future, as well.

In general, Hikaru is probably meant to be a negative foil (a jungian shadow) to the twins, as he represents their darkest parts. In particular, it is gonna be interesting if he foils them not only on the main theme of love, but also on the theme of lies and truth.

Aqua explores the idea of lies. He hides things from others and manipulates them. At the same time, he also experiences how good beautiful lies can be (his happy life when he thinks his father died). Most of all, though, he embodies the idea that a lie can become truth and vice versa. For example, his most effective manipulation technique is to mix his true feelings with his lies. He tells Kana she is cute because he thinks so. He tells Akane he is interested in her as an actress because it is true. He manipulates both girls, but his feelings are genuine.

Ruby explores the idea of truth. She hates liars and doesn't want to lie even if it would help her become an idol faster. Still, she experiences how painful truth can be (her discovery of Gorou's body). This leads her to lie to both herself and others. In the end, though, an even more painful truth comes out (her parents do not love her). No matter how much Ruby tries to hide her feelings, truth will come out. And yet, despite how agonizing it is, truth also leads to happiness. She is devastated after seeing Sarina's mother again, but this lets Ruby and Aqua find each other as Sarina and Gorou. As a result, Ruby is now happier and stronger.

So, in which way may Hikaru foil his children here? There might already be hints:

Just like Aqua, Hikaru is a master at manipulating others with truth. After all, it is implied he manipulated his rapist's husband to kill her by revealing her infidelity. Similarly, he orchestrates Ai's death by telling an unstable fan about her pregnancy. Even when it comes to Yura Katayose, he openly tells the actress to watch her step. An open threath masked as advice.

Just like Ruby, it is possible Hikaru values truth and hates liars. This could easily tie in his backstory and explain why his relationship with Ai degenerates:

I shall lie today as well (Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!) Hoping that one day, these words will become true (Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!) And yet, still, (Hey! Hey!) I have been unable to tell you, and you, alone (Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!)

Ai sees herself as a liar unable to love. This is obviously the real lie, as her heart is full of love. Still, it wouldn't be surprising if Ai's own issues exasperated Hikaru's fear to be used again. From what we know, it is probable Ai and Hikaru have feelings for each other, at a certain point. Then things go bad. What if Ai's inability to express her love and Hikaru's inability to understand lead to their breakout and eventual tragedy?

Obviously, this is all a theory, but one thing is sure. Ai and Hikaru's relationship is key for understanding their characters and their legacy to the twins. Still, Ai is already dead and Hikaru will die in the end. How can their story find a closure, then?

A WORK OF FICTION TO SHOW THE TRUTH

The climax of the series is building up towards the movie, which is gonna represent Hikaru and Ai's story.

Interestingly, Aqua is playing Hikaru, while Ruby is playing Ai. It is obvious a lot of emotional payoff rides on this. On the one hand it is gonna be a chance for Aqua and Ruby to sort out their feelings towards each other. On the other hand Kana and Akane will probably do the same, which will solve their love triangle with Aqua. (spoiler - KanaXAqua is probably endgame).

What is really interesting, though, is that the movie is set up to reveal who Ai really is. After all, the godly idol asks the director to film the real her and this request should be satisfied. Not only that, but Ai leaves her children 2 tapes whose contents are still to be shown. So, whatever Ai's legacy is, it will be made clear. This is true also for her bond with Hikaru:

So, does Ai forgive Hikaru or not? Her children seem to believe in the latter. However, the former is probably true.

First of all, it is probable Ai realizes Hikaru is behind her murder. The stalker arrives with a bouquet of white roses, which are associated to Hikaru. Moreover, Hikaru is the only person, who knows both about the twins and the new address. Secondly, Ai shows no rage nor fear for the fan who murders her. The man is clearly a stand-in for Hikaru in the scene. Despite his actions, Ai does not lose time hating him, but spends her final moments affirming her love for her and Hikaru's children. In short, Ai possibly knows of Hikaru's involvement, but doesn't regret their kids.

Still, will Aqua and Ruby portray this in their movie? And does Aqua's revenge ride on Ai's forgiveness or hate towards Hikaru? Will the twins understand their mother?

Whatever the result, it is probable Aqua and Ruby will eventually run into their father. In particular, Hikaru is set up as a threath to the 3 main girls:

He sends Akane white roses and she is determined to stop Aqua's revenge, which may put her in harm's way

He is the thematically opposite of Kana. He embodies twisted love and twisted truth. She embodies healthy love and genuine feelings

Finally, there is several build up towards him trying to eventually kill Ruby:

He comments that Ruby is growing up beautiful

He kills Yura, who is the original first choice for Ai's role

Ruby ends up playing Ai in the movie

If this third scenario becomes true, it could give closure to all the character arcs. Ruby may empathize with Ai and forgive her father. Aqua may be given the chance to save Ruby (symbolically both Ai and Sarina) this time. Finally, the outcome may offer catharsis to Hikaru before he dies. In short, I think Hikaru is gonna die, but that the twins are not killing him. Rather, they are gonna understand their mother's feelings and survive their parents' tragedy.

A SECOND CHANCE

Hikaru and Ai's story is a sad one, but Aqua and Ruby's is gonna have a happy outcome. After all, the whole series is about overcoming death and getting second chances.

Gorou and Sarina both go past their deaths and are given brand new lives

The new B Komachi is a second chance for all its members. It is a second chance to live for Ruby, a second chance for Kana's career, a second chance to fulfill Mem-cho's idol dream. Finally, it is the second chance of Ichigo and Miyako's wish to come true

Miyako and Ichigo's love story will also be given a second chance

The movie is the director's second chance to realize Ai's wish to film her real self

In short, this theme is everywhere and it is possible the series ends with B Komachi performing in a dome, exactly as it starts. This time, though, things will go well.

Still, doesn't something feel odd? After all, if the series is about second chances, why isn't Ai given one?

THE REAL AI (TRUE LOVE)

I think there are 2 reasons Ai isn't reborn:

1- Aqua and Ruby are Ai's second chance

The twins are Ai's legacies and will fulfill her dream for her:

Someday, surely, I will have it all in hand I am such a greedy idol Because I wish to love everybody properly in a life-sized way

Ai's wish is to reconcile her family with her idol career. She wants to love both her children and her fans. She wants it all. Well, Aqua and Ruby come to embody these 2 different forms of love:

Aqua is given a lot of focus when it comes to personal relationships. An important part of his arc is his feelings for Akane and Kana and he is not that much interested in the enterteinment business per se. In the end, he may also choose to fulfill his dream to become a surgeon

Ruby's dream is to become an idol, who shines even more brightly than Ai. Moreover, Ruby's wish is pure in how she doesn't want to lie nor to manipulate others to get there. She is right now also stepping into the role of actress, so by the end Ruby may catch up and surpass Ai in both her careers (idol and actress)

In other words, Aqua may live the love of a happy relationship and family, while Ruby may live the love of openly loving the world and people in general. Whatever the case, Aqua and Ruby will fulfill Ai's main wish which is for them to grow up healthy and happy.

2- Ai doesn't need reincarnation because she in fact does fulfill her dream

Ai wants to love both her family and her fans, which is what she does at the very end.

She remembers the stalker's name and his present. She proves to him she never took her fans for granted

She is able to tell her children she loves them and realizes she is not lying

Ah, I've said it now at last This is definitely not a lie; I love you

Ai's wish is to love and to be loved and she gets it through her twins. Aqua and Ruby feel they owe their mother something and that it is cruel they get to live a second life, while Ai doesn't. Still, they are wrong. If Gorou and Sarina were not reborn, Ai would have had a stillbirth, which would have broken her. Just by existing, they fulfill Ai's dream. They give Ai the love she so desperately craves.

By the end, Hoshino Ai becomes the embodyment of true love. True love isn't perfect. It is complicated, as people struggle and make mistakes. Still, if the wish is genuine enough, it shines incredibly bright. So does Ai, not as an idol, but as a real person (the true Ai).

[the-writing-mobster]

Because I constantly get hate for WDYW Chapter 49,

(I get it, it's polarizing) allow me to like,,, explain why I went with the plot point? I don't really owe anyone an explanation, and literally fuck any of my haters, they're ants, but I think my readers/people who actually like my writing would like to know the lore behind my choices.

So, context, in chapter 49, Frisk is drugged into obedience by Muffet and Muffet, being the money hungry cunt that she is, sells Frisk's body on the black market. It's a really uncomfortable concept, and when it happened it caused a lot of readers to drop the fic or rant at me in the comments, talk shit about my fic in private forums behind my back, or even imply a bunch of horrible things about me as a person lmao.

So why did I decide to go with this plot?

Well, for one, it all stems from two books: The Hunger Games, Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins and the Empress by S.J Kincaid.

In both of these books, there is a pivotal character who is drugged, manipulated and used for political gain by a dastardly authority figure. In The Empress, this plot point was ESPECIALLY devastating, because it completely changed and corrupted the character into a horrific shell of their old self to where they were actively antagonistic and irredeemable!

This plot device has intrigued and fascinated me ever since. Drugging a protagonist to make them wholly dependent on their abuser/villain, manipulating them, having them at rock bottom is, in my opinion, one of the worst things that can happen to a character... And seeing how the character can overcome it is the greatest triumph!

Ever since reading these books, this plot device has buzzed in the back of my mind and there is a part of me that always tries to recreate it, but I can never come close to perfecting it.

Either I always miss on the addiction part of the manipulation, or I can never commit truly to character corruption. Either way, the closest I've ever gotten to scratching this itch has been in WDYW part 3, but even then, I barely came close to getting it right.

My second reason for choosing the route; In WDYW, Frisk's whole arc is about having control over her own agency/autonomy/fate. What happens to her in Part 3 is the culmination of everything she's ran away from, fought against, and her greatest nightmare come to life. It was the lowest point I could bring her character, and make her face her past demons in a horrifically evil way. But my plan had obviously been that despite all of the torture she survives, that she not only survives but fucking WINS!

That was the whole point, but when I wrote it I was like,,, 17/18 😅, so there was definitely things I wasn't as graceful about.

With that said, would I change anything? Yes. If I could change anything I wrote about part 3, I would do a couple things:

1. Take out that obedience spell Muffet puts on Frisk. The reason I made that was because it was like a catch all spell to keep Frisk in Muffets clutches? But it was pretty OP and seemed like a hand wavey excuse to brush aside plot holes. I should've just simplified the spell to where she was simply tethered to Muffet's soul so Sans couldn't kill Muffet, or teleport Frisk away.

2. Frisk's "obedience" to Muffet should've been entirely addiction based, which would make the plot point of Frisk using determination to burn out her addiction in Part 4, and then eventually Determination becomes the addiction instead, (because overcoming addiction is really fucking hard actually and a constant struggle) a lot stronger.

3. I would probably be much more careful with my word choice in chapter 49. Some of it comes off as sexualization. Not my intention, but it was because I was writing in the creepy photographer's pov and he was objectifying her. In my head I was like, "surely people can read between the lines right???" (They can't. Only a select few fanfic readers have media literacy apparently)

So, TLDR, No chapter 49 was not some author's barely disguised fetish (that's honestly a really gross way to think about my writing and about me as a person) it was my genuine worst nightmare as a woman, and one of my favorite plot devices from two of my favorite books 😭 Please lay off me about chapter 49, and Part 3.

Last but not least... Some art is meant to disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed.

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[aconflagrationofmyown]

Prima Nocta (or the right of the first night) Part 1

Warnings: so so so so many for thematic material. This is dark. Quite dark. This is freshly divorced and verrrrrry bitter and disillusioned Elvis helping himself to the bride of the newest Memphis Mafia initiate. Hugely unreliable narrator, belittling and objectifying of women, dub con because of that, sanctimonious chauvinism, reference to his marriage going very south. no actual sex yet but definitely 18+.

Notes: this got so long from just lead up that I figured it was worth publishing on its own and seeing if there’s interest for a part 2. Sorry for going bonkers on this one, sometimes you just gotta tap into the villain side of yourself. Also, this was inspired by many talks with my previous mutuals about THAT picture of Elvis holding a gun to George Klein’s head at his own wedding…I’m using it for solely for vibes, sorry George

Series: Sky High Lovin -reading Honeymoon might make this even better but not necessary

Dedicated to: Sweet Christi with the wayward mind and all my thanks to Ally and Jane and Elise for spitballing this into existence.

There was a time, not so long ago, when Elvis enjoyed life affirming events like weddings, believe it or not. He enjoyed facilitating days to celebrate love and loyalty and vows before God, promising everlasting devotion. That is, until he learned that “till death do us part” meant about as much to most as a “bless you” did when someone sneezed.

It makes surveying the pink and white festooned hotel ballroom something of an eyesore for him as he lounges back, dressed in black velvet, a sore thumb of ominous derision amidst the pastels, viewing the merry reception through moody, tinted lenses. The familiarly charming table accents of champagne and flowers and paper mache hearts twist his own into something a little furious and decidedly bitter.

A man’s wife betraying him and leaving him and stripping him of his pride and his joy and all his best intentions for her and your child will do that to a man.

Couldn’t even make it a whole decade before she found fault and spread her legs for another and turned his child against the father that loved her.

Sorry for being away so much baby, I was just singin’ myself hoarse to buy you that fuckin ring and car and hair and face and keep you in the style you’d married me for.

Cause it was obvious as all hell that honoring and obeying hadn’t been first and foremost in her mind when she promised forever. Forever to riches and fame, maybe, but not forever to him. She has those now, and he hasn’t got the family he’d prayed an Old Testament God for.

Rather like the pretty lady currently allowing her rodent of a groom to feed her their wedding cake, fake giggles and batting lashes adding to the nauseating act of pretending she can stand being in his company for longer than a couple hours.

Forever, my ass.

Elvis watches her through his shades and with each passing minute the anger burns brighter and his justification steadily builds for the liberty he’s about to commit.

The groom is here for Elvis’ paycheck, the lovely bride is planning to suck that idiot's cock till death doth them part (or a good four years) for the status of being a Memphis Mafia wife, and even the guests now stuffing their faces with pasta and alcohol are here for what Elvis’ money buys.

Loyalty is dead and what’s left is the goddamn food chain, like they’re the animals school tells them they’ve evolved past. In the recent months since his divorce, Elvis has felt a near Devine calling to bring this wicked devolution of morals and motivations to light, to humiliate these homosapiens until some level of shame is regained by mankind. If this is a pack of animals that surrounds him, he is King of the Jungle, and it is a careless and heartless king who lets his subjects run amuck.

He has no appetite for pasta, the hours of frivolity pass him by and he remains aloof, crouching in wait in his chair, running off righteous indignation and primal sufferance. Good things come to those who wait.

That’s what the bride is thinking, Elvis suspects, as the reception winds down and her luxurious honeymoon full of sunbathing and spas, good food and rich wine and the obligatory playing hooky to get out of sex draws nearer. Just a little more time letting fuckin’ Ronnie feed her cake and paw at her, then she’ll be on her way, securely locked into her future of privilege. He’s got nothing against Connie, uh, Sandra, -oh hell what was her name? he consults the gold embossed invitation at his elbow,- He’s got nothing against the newly minted Mrs. Kemp, nothing in particular, except that she’s a woman. And Elvis has a bone to pick and a point to prove with the whole, whorish lot of them.

Elvis opens the limo door for the bride himself, gallantly ushering in the happy couple before joining them as arranged, the whole merry band of his boys piling in after.

The new Mrs. Kemp, unlike some of his boys wives, had had the good grace not to whine about the lack of privacy and alone time to be found in and around Graceland’s inner circle. As a result Elvis allowed her to choose the more expensive flowers and gold embossed invites and french vintages, even if he knew why knew she’d been disgustingly eager for any chance of her intended husband being distracted from her. Elvis is certain, thanks to first hand accounts from fuckin’ Ronnie himslef, that the groom has sampled the bride already. It’s the way of things in this decadent decade, and she’s no fresh outta the nest baby chick. The fact Ronnie could give no further details about his encounters with his betrothed beyond the mechanics of thrusting above her till he blew his load, made Elvis despair of humanity and suspect Mrs. Kemp had a serpentine pragmatism about this entire arrangement.

Oh my buddy my pal, he thinks to himself as the limo flies through the never dark streets of Las Vegas towards the airstrip, I gave my wife everything and that wasn’t enough, how can you compete? God gave Eve the whole of Eden ‘cept for one measly apple tree -and what did the mother of all mankind do? She took, she ate, she damned them all with her disloyalty.

Ronnie is a damn fool, and while Elvis’ warnings were not needed during the engagement and this marriage has progressed to a limo ride and honeymoon, Elvis is not to be thwarted in his determination to save Ronnie the slow disillusionment, the slow death of any pretense of love in his wife’s eyes, the crumbling of all faith in anything such as Elvis has endured. Better to rip the bandage off now, five years is a long crucifixion.

As the limo parks on the tarmac and the gleaming hulk of the private jet looms over them in the night sky, no doubt Ronnie harbors some pathetic hope Elvis has forgotten his promise.

Elvis proceeds his guests up the jet bridge, cane thumping and carefully harnessed excitement radiating through him as he enters the opulent space, watching with benign magnanimity as the newlyweds board his jet, the boys providing a rollicking group to ferry the new couple to their honeymoon destination.

This was Elvis’ treat, he had insisted the jet drop them off before he heads back to wherever it is he’s supposed to be tomorrow. He’s not lost his appetite for spoiling folks. Only this time, he is gonna get repaid in currency a little more tangible than ephemeral, transient, fleeting loyalty. And Ronnie, kiss-ass, weak-spined fuckin’ Ronnie wasn’t man enough to hold out more than a few minutes when Elvis told him his new bride was the price for being inducted into the inner circle, the intitiation to prove his loyalty to The King.

Predictably, after some pathetic and scandalized objections, some monetary threats by Elvis and some judgmental snickers by the guys, fuckin’ Ronnie had caved and betrayed his loyalty to his own wife before he’d even walked down the aisle to marry her.

“B-b-but d-did the rest of t-the g-guys h-h-have to do this?” Ronnie had protested while they were shootin some pool, leaving the gals the other rooms to wedding plan, “Is it a-a-always this w-way?”

It hasn’t always been, no. Because Elvis hadn’t always been so astute. He had allowed his taste for pleasure and innocence and childish notions of fidelity to cloud his perception of women and the men they married. Elvis once was blind, now he saw, and now there was a currency of wedding nights established in the jungle.

“No one’s forcin’ ya to stay in this group.” Elvis had pointed out while lining up his pool cue with the ball, “you’re mighty welcome to go right on out that door, never receive another check from me or a glimpse of Vegas again, you’ll lose that girl, too, cause she sure as hell won’t be stickin around when all your bells and whistles fall off and it’s just you she’s left with. She don’t want ya Ronnie, she wants what I give ya, which makes me her provider, don’t it?” he reasoned before making his shot, the clatter of the balls deafening against the green felt as the older members of the mafia held their breaths in sick fascination with this new form of hazing. “And now, if I’m her provider,” Elvis had straightened up his posture to watch Sonny mark the score on the board, “that makes me a husband of sorts, an authority, a protector. A sugar daddy. Don’t it? You gonna tell me I should throw you guys a damn weddin’ and honeymoon, buy ya the house you live in and the cars you drive, the clothes she wears and the food you eat cause you hang around me an’ promise to protect me if the time comes? Bodyguard my ass, I could turn anyone to chopsticks before you even woke up long enough to realize a threat. Face it Ronnie, there’s a totem pole in this here life, and no one blames ya for bein’ a few notches down than most in the scale of things, but it don’t give ya much leverage bein’ down there. I give you that leverage. And I’d like to compensate myself for my generosity with a lil marital privilege. Jus’ once, just first night rights.” he took a swing of his coke and watched Ronnie closely, licking the sugar off his lips with deliberate swipes of his tongue, “Or would ya prefer I just wait and fuck her in six monthes when she comes knockin’ on my door sayin’ she just got lost in this big ole place?”

Fuckin’ Ronnie was a coward and a cad and he essentially agreed that he’d rather Elvis fuck his wife on the wedding night and be done with it than always be watching his back, suspecting her of carrying on an affair. Ronnie was a little bitch, Elvis surmised. Gone was any protest that he couldn’t do that to her, that she was a good gal, that Elvis wouldn’t do that to a friend.

Kings had no friends. And tonight Ronnie was oh so close to being officially inducted into the Memphis Mafia, he’d do nothing to jeopardize that . Elvis figured he’d wait until the plane took off to sample the goods, make her husband squirm guiltily over it while his new bride puzzled over why he was so tense.

Out of consideration for her downer of a groom, Elvis handed her a drink, playing the gracious host and taking her mind off her husband's stiff bearing and sweaty pallor.

“Don’t mind him, honey,” Elvis whispered hot and wet in her ear as he handed the drink off, “Ronnie boy here’s just scared of flyin’. You’re not scared are ya, honey?”

Honey….he couldn’t recall her name, Mrs. Kemp’s name, his fatigue and apathy too strong. He stood straight and dug in his pocket for a pick-me-up as he watched her smile and blush under his attentions,

“No sir, Mr. Presley, I’m not scared.” she smiled, “One could think we’re sat in a living room, it's so spacious here.” she added a compliment.

“I’d like to show ya the rest.” he says sitting down next to her, his arm heavy and warm around her shoulders and his gaze intent on her, knowing the effect this has on an ignored woman.

He recalls using that same line on his young bride during their honeymoon, eager to show his own new wife everything he had to offer. Beauty and luxury and care and a damn good fuck in front of the mirror back there. And it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough.

He can feel Ronnie tense further against the back of his hand where he clasps the bride’s shoulder, knowing that the “rest” of the plane beyond this lounge is a conference table, a toilet and a bedroom. Ronnie has had the privileges of being part of the TCB and now he’s about to pay his admission fee, and Elvis smirks at the thought that the man will never ride aboard this jet again without thinking of getting cuckolded by his boss.

The Bride is trying to make sense of Elvis' sudden shift of mood along with her husband’s. Both of them seeming to have swapped bearings, changing from the reception as if the jet’s air pressure had doused Ronnie’s merriment and finally revitalized Mr. Presley from the rather sullen attendee he had been. Elvis can feel her hesitancy to agree in her body language and the way she keeps looking over to Ronnie, as if to figure out his nervous ignoring of her and the way Elvis makes up for it in touches and attention. Beneath them the jet rumbles and takes flight, her little gasp at the heart swooping feeling of take-off a taste of what’s to come, of what he’ll pull from her body, willing or not . He’d rather lure her, try that first, the other can always be resorted to.

There’s an unspoken agreement to wait on this lil tour till the jet reaches cruising altitude, and Elvis spends the wait rubbing her arm and watching her try to make conversation with her groom who finds discussing the latest baseball stats with Red far more interesting than recalling the beauteous memories of the last few hours with his now introspective and mildly panicked bride. It’s funny to hold a woman whose mind is racing, Elvis can almost feel the frantic thoughts and conflicting emotions battering her frame from the inside out like a caged bird against its bars.

Elvis allows the minutes to trickle by and work for him, the soothing sweep of his hand slowly melting her rigidity, the continued abandonment of her husband's attention going from hurtful to frustrating, the innocuous chatter of the fellas talking and laughing around them, the cool air of the jet’s cooling system kicking on, and his warm and broad chest already pressed against her, now beckoning like a little haven for her to cower inside until the confusion passes. He clocks all these developments as the minutes go by, fully aware the boys are making small talk with their minds as preoccupied as Ronnie’s about when Elvis will make his move, their anticipation mounting while her guard drops, finally accepting his closeness without question. The jet rumbles and her drink kicks in and with the wedding fever abated it leaves her drowsy, unmoored.

Elvis waits for the perfect moment to pounce and is rewarded for his patience. The cool blast of the AC has made her begin to curl towards him and he’s met her halfway and it’s not till her head almost nods weakly to lay on his shoulder that her sensibilities prick her and she jerks it back up, another little gasp. It makes his repeated,

“Lemme show ya round, honey, got all sorts of remarkable stuff up here”

sound like a gallant cover for her lapse of decorum. Predictably, she shakes herself upright and gives him a polite nod of thanks, their first mutual, unspoken communication acknowledging something the rest of the room isn’t privy to. Her loyalty is slipping and all it took was a few minutes of heating her up with his embrace, a few whispered teases and buying her a whole damn lifestyle. To her credit she looks to Ronnie as she rises, asking him to come along in a coaxing voice Elvis knows is her trying to get her new husband to even look at her.

Elvis watches her try and fail at this from the curtained doorway leading to the back of the jet, thinking it makes a striking picture. A bride still dressed in white, bending over to try to catch her husband's eyes as he watches TV in his rumpled tux, the entire plane’s worth of masculine attention directed on her, except for the man who swore to worship her. Perhaps the disillusion will go both ways tonight, maybe women aren’t all merley bitches in heat, maybe some start out intending to be faithful and good and content.

Elvis has yet to meet a woman faithful and good and content once he puts his mark on them, they spend the rest of their lives day dreaming and closing their eyes when their husbands are in them and clogging his phone lines, kidding themselves that they’re special. He’s saving her the sin of coming to his room in a couple of months or years and saying she got lost while dropping her silk nightwear down her frame, an old and familiar expression of invitation on her face. She might not know that’s in her future otherwise, but he does. And he’s gonna save her the wait. When she wants something she’ll come to him now, not her husband, and he will have the discipline to make the right choices for her.

Elvis holds the curtain aside and beckons her with his fingers, and she would be angrier that he has the nerve to summon her away from her husband if she weren’t so humiliated at being ignored by the man. Frustration at their man makes women very susceptible to comfort, Elvis knows this intimately, and in their strong desire to be understood and soothed, they’ll spread their legs for the first person who tells them they deserve that attention.

She ducks under his arm, into the shade of the conference room with an attitude written on her face. Elvis drops the curtain behind them, the prey corralled. Nothin so easy as a woman scorned, nothin’ quite so hungry and quite so fierce. He hopes she’ll take out some of that miffed little ‘tude out on his back with those fancy nails his money bought her. It makes him smirk in anticipation and he can tell she finds that unsettling, her huffy bearing faltering once she notices him just watching her move round the glossy table top, suddenly aware of their seclusion and the fact she left her groom behind for a tour of the jet. She’s beginning to doubt her choice, doubt her loyalties.

Honeymoon off to a damn good start, she thinks sourly.

It’s innocuous, standing at opposite ends of a conference table with a man who is your husband's closest friend and at whose house you’ve eaten multiple dinners. There’s nothing wrong with it, but she feels her skin prickle none the less like she’s in danger, like those eyes observing her through shaded lenses are not fully human, not fully beneficent. She curses Ronnie for humiliating her, for his weird mood these past weeks making her feel isolated, for her past making her paranoid of this assessing male gaze.

She’d met a panther in the woods on an Appalachian bike ride once. They’d stared each other down as he had crouched and observed, his eyes fathomless and intent, the muscles of its body undulating in readiness beneath sleek black fur. Her mouth had dried out exactly the same as it does now when her shy smiles aren’t met with anything besides those assessing eyes and that crooked smirk that holds no fondness for her, no pride in his jet, no amusement at her awe of his wealth. A smirk of pure and smug knowingness.

Then he calls to her and the warmth of his voice melts her fear. “Check out this icebox, honey”

Her face lights up like a kids in the yellow glow of the refrigerator light as she bends over to look inside, white stain skirt hugging her perfectly and he gathers that all that athleticism has done her good, she could probably ride a man for hours without tiring, judging by the firm curve of that ass.

“See anyhtin ya’d like?” he asks her casually, laying a light hand between her shoulder blades as she reads rows and rows of labeled refreshments.

“Oh, uh, no, no, the drink was enough for now. Thank you Mr. Presley.”

He used to correct folks when they called him that, and used to punt the honorary title to his father. But nowadays he finds “Mr. Presley” might be closer to “your majesty” than mere “Elvis” -in which case he’s stopped putting little floozies at ease by asking them to call him by the name his mama gave him. That’s a name used by a wife back when he was happy and respected and alive.

“C’mere, I wanna show ya this television back here.” he beckons again, removing the heat of his hand from her back and she breathes easier with him taking the lead, she’s able to watch his imposing figure unobserved as he leads her past the conference table and into a small hallway with a large, showbiz style mirror.

Elvis swaggers right on by the marvelous monstrosity with its low counter and doused bare bulbs, but she can’t help herself. A flicker of childish glee taking over as she flips the switch on the wall and makes the bulbs buzz to life, brilliant as a spotlight in the inky gloom, illuminating them from the knees to the ceiling in a gaudy reflection. The sudden blast of light makes him pause on his trek to the bedroom and he joins her in looking at their reflection.

“Hell, honey,” he drawls amused as he takes in her fresh little wedding set and his decadent black suit, “we look like cake toppers.”

She laughs at that, a sweet unaffected thing that is music to his ears, and no doubt a screech to Ronnie’s. Elvis finds his grin growing at that thought and she mistakes it for joy. She laughs again, aborted little chuckles tapering out.

“There’s a tv back here, too?” she asks, embarrassingly at ease with entering a bedroom in the company of Elvis Presley.

Interestingly she doesn’t even glance at the bed when he ushers her in, she’s peering at the walls and the built in furniture for a peek of a screen.

“Mhmm, keep lookin, it’s hidden.” Elvis follows her and shuts the door behind him, a quiet click she doesn’t hear as she’s got her back to him, busily creaking open dresser doors and clapping in commendation upon finding the tastefully camouflaged TV set.

“How wonderful!” She praises and his heart does something funny and nostalgic over unpretentious enjoyment of what he has to give her.

One day it’ll be old hat to her and she’ll be like all the other wives, naggin’ and bitchin’ over keeping up with each other, forgetting about what it was they ever wanted, consumed with one upping each other and dominating the pecking order, spending Elvis’ money not for pleasure but for bragging rights. For now he watches this young woman bounce in her heels over a hidden TV set and makes a pact with himself to be nice, to gentle her into this ruination.

Then he recalls she married Fuckin Ronnie, and that twists his gut in reminder she’s a practical gold digger like all the rest. And he doesn’t mind that about her, he just hates the dishonesty of pretending she’s in it for more, and her ignoring him for a tv irks him as disingenuine.

“Wanna kick back and watch somethin, doll?” he asks her and sees the exact minute his words make her back and shoulders stiffen beneath white silk.

“Uh, on this one?” she’s scared to ask, scared to sound like she’s accusing him of suggesting it, scared to suggest it and give him ideas.

“They got the damn game on the other.” he answers her smoothly, coming up behind her and reaching round her to power it up.

“Elvis.” she dares to sound reprimanding when all he’s done is stand behind her and punch a button, she’s the one who walked into a bedroom with a man who isn’t her husband.

“Gonna be a long flight, three more hours I reckon.” he is patient with her.

“Y-yes.” she hesitantly agrees, watching the screen flicker to life, “And I wanna spend it with Ronnie, exc-“

Liar! He doesn’t let her turn around, he puts his hands on her shoulders and keeps her facing the TV, keeps her away from the closed door she’s not yet noticed, he nuzzles his nose into the crook of her neck telling himself, gently, gently, tempt her, tempt her. “Doesn’t seem like Ronnie is eager to spend it with ya.” he mourns low and sympathetic in her ear and she gasps at his brutal honesty, at the fact he’d have no tact to pretend he didn’t notice.

“Elvis, t-this isn’t right.” she parrots her mother or her favorite tv show or some rote set of rules she doesn’t really embrace.

“What ain’t right, honey?” he rumbles, keeping his hands on her, moving them from her shoulders down her arms, then swooping them up again and fingering at the sides of her neck, delighting in the shiver her body yields up to him.

If he hadn’t been so aloof before, she figures she might not feel so electrified by his sudden, all consuming touch. But it’s not just that, he’s kept his distance from her since she started dating Ronnie and in her star struck insecurity she’d made no move to become friendly with him.

Now this, this intentional hovering and the petting that tastes like something she’s only ever heard about. It’s Elvis, Elvis petting her in her wedding dress on the way to her honeymoon destination and that’s simultaneously about as predictable and uncredible as can be. Elvis, who’s been the ephemeral host for countless of lovely parties, Elvis who’s been the presiding specter over all their schedules since she became part of the group, Elvis who has been the magical name on the credit card used for everything she ever wanted. Elvis Presley, the man who achieved all there was in life by 21, and has been bored by it ever since. What did she expect him to be, a fatherly figure?

“Did you like your weddin’ honey?” he asks her after her raging thoughts consume the time she should have spent answering and protesting him.

The hands descending to her hips and squeezing there hint a warning prompt even as his gentle tone reminds her of all he has done for her, his inexhaustible benevolence -which it seems something has finally exhausted. She begins to panic, no need to see those panther eyes when the heat is radiating off of him, sexual intent potent from his aura alone, no need to feel a crude gesture or have it spoken out in clunky declarations of desire. Ingrained self doubt takes hold of her for one brief moment before the scratch of his sideburn rubs against her cheeks and the hot press of his lips against her neck tells her it is not vanity making her project on him, Elvis Presley really is trying to seduce her mere hours after her vows, a few yards away from her new husband and his friends.

“Mr. Presley!” she resolutely stiffens in his embrace and tries to turn and leave his hold of her and he lets her so far as she’s spun round and facing him, her stern tone wobbling out when she’s met with the hypnosis of his expectant stare, “Y-yes it was lovely, thank you.” she stammers out, fear and primal instinct kicking in and guiding her to cower and simper her way out of this, her boldness having bounced off him like shotgun shells off cement. Nothing but damaging to her. “T-thank you for all you did.” she tries again, her tone unsure as his face remains unreadable, his eyes burning and unblinking behind his shades, lit with white hot something in the glow of the tv screen. “You’re very generous.” she admits, tacking on every obeisance she can think of while resolutely ignoring the feel of being held to his chest, near eye level with the gap of his shirt and the chains glittering on his skin. “I need to rejoin my husband, sir.” she begs, begs that she doesn’t want this, denies she’s ever hoped for this.

Idly he wonders if she’s being honest, then he watches her swallow thickly as she catches a whiff of his scent.

Suddenly he crushes her to him, her mouth smashed to the metallic, skin warmed nest of his chains, pinning her there with a hand to the back of her head as his other reaches for the hem of her skirt and drags it up and over her ass, palming it even as she shrieks in shock, “Tell me, Mrs. Kemp,” he growls in her ear, “did you go after Ronnie cause he was near me, or did ya come for the money and stay in the hopes I’d pay attention to your little self? Was you countin’ on me gettin lonely some night an’ sendin’ your husband on an errand so I could get my fill of his wife? Is that what keeps ya from gaggin when he’s on top of ya? Is that the hope?”

Elvis’ fingers find the band of her lacy panties -honeymoon lingerie his money bought her- and he snakes his hand in, down the warm curve of her ass and along her crack, dipping between clenched thighs to rake through predictably sopping wet folds. She gave the whole resistance act a good try, but her womanly body responds to dominance, and Elvis is dominance incarnate. It’s in her weak nature to drip for him, plain and simple, and so he swipes and dips and drags his fingers through her as she fights against his chest, pounding her fists impotently against the velvet of his coat.

“Shhh, shhh honey, I know, it ain’t your fault.” he is magnanimous, gracious as King Solomon. “This, honey, this is what hope tastes like.” he brings his glistening fingers to her snarling mouth and shoves them in against her tongue, savoring the way her choke distracts her from the obvious defense of biting him, “Taste that? That’s how hope tastes, and there ain’t anyhtin’ more harmful than hope. Makes a purgatory of your life. Doesn’t let ya be satisfied with what ya got, won’t let ya get dissatisfied enough to wanna change anythin. You just hope and hope and your life goes by, while you’re hopin.”

She whimpers around his fingers, wilted white silk in his arms, dress bunched up obscenely in the screen-lit room. He strokes her cheek with his spit wet hand, the ring faces of rubies and diamonds and priceless gems caressing her tears away, lulling the creature back to her basic instincts, hypocrisy and futility purged away beneath Elvis’ healing hands. “I ain’t gonna let you go on hopin for years and years,” he enchants her with whispers, rocking her now as she whimpers in catatonic fascination, “I’m gonna gift ya with knowledge.”

Everything she’s given up while fighting to get herself on a jet like this, married to a man of means, with a house and a steady future and a predictable timeline stretching out before her -security at last! -all of it crowds her mind, the devil and the angel on her shoulders whisper in a traitorous debate. Of course life isn’t how she wanted at eighteen when she expected to marry for love, yet of course her mature self is pleased with this match. Those can both exist, and she planned for them to exist in a tidy world where Elvis Presley wasn’t an option, because he’s not. He’s not offering himself, doesn't even have enough dreams of his own to bother with lying about it to buy them both a minute of reprieve from the disillusioned hellscape that is life in one’s thirties when you comforted your starry eyed twenties by telling yourself it gets better. Then to no one’s surprise -it didn’t. The one last insupportable piece of this maturing puzzle that would cement her growing up forever is tasting this then going back to Ronnie. It’s out of the question and she doesn’t give a shit what he’s going through right now, or what Ronnie thinks about her angering his boss, what she needs is the peace of mind that comes with not knowing.

“You can take your knowledge and shove it.” she snaps out of the pliant heatstroke his embrace caused her and shoves him away, only succeeding at making room between them because he’s so surprised by her sudden surfacing out of the trance.

One final thrash of the prey and he watches with amusement as she stumbles in haste across the flickering room, yanking open the closed door and steadfastly booking it to the front of the jet. Headed to the shelter of a man who promised to protect and defend her and cherish her and swore it all while counting his bonus for selling her out.

Elvis watches her till she and her crumpled white dress fly past the brightly mirrored hallway and disappear from his vantage point through the doorway. He picks at his nose and thinks about what he might like to take on this little experiment, and having procured a few items of use saunters after her at a leisurely pace. He sets them on the conference room and table and watches as she pulls back the curtain and steps into the lounge, her whole being vibrating in a way that is not subtle or discreet about what just occurred between them.

It’s warmer in the lounge, just pulling the curtain back wafts warmth into the ice box chilled areas of the plane that Elvis frequents, it makes her tremble with relief. She’s back in public, back where he won’t try anything. Ronnie, to her angry bewilderment, is still glued to watching the TV like he didn’t even register her absence. But his mere existence will still work for what she needs. She needs to belong to someone and sit beside that person for three hours while his boss cools off.

She is not prepared for the way everyone in the lounge spins round to look at her once registering her presence, looking with absolute surprise as if her reemergence was the surprise, not the lengthy plane tour to the back bedroom. It makes her seethe inside, they thought she’d go through with it, damn animals that they are, all “what happens on the road stays on the road” and carefree chauvinism inherited from their boss. She has to remind herself why she wanted this life in the first place, has to recall the perks and the wages and lavish reception.

Red and Joe now flank Ronnie and her seat beside him is taken up by those two manspreading oaf’s. Desperate, she decides to play at being cute and makes to sit on her husband’s lap, spinning round to find Elvis watching hehe from the curtained doorway as she tries to lower herself down to perch.

“Babe, I can’t see the damn screen with you like that.” Ronnie has the churlishness to complain and she wants to scream at his denseness, the way pushes at her lower back to tip her out of his lap.

To save herself the humiliation of face planting on the plane floor she chooses to stand of her own accord and catch herself from the shove. She sees Elvis’ lush mouth frown behind the cigar he’s lighting up.

“Don’t be an ass to her Ronnie, she’s your wife.” he reprimands and she gets a funny feeling of appreciation for being defended in all this. Her loyalty teeters towards the man she has to remind herself she needs to escape from. “Or have ya forgotten, ya unchivalrous bastard?”

That’s a little harsh but the memory of Ronnie not giving a damn about the fact she was almost assaulted -that’s harsh word for that too, her traitorous mind supplies- reminds her that she isn’t happy with him at all. But in fact, come to think of it, she isn’t pleased with any one them, and there’s no where to go on this damned plane. It starts to make her skin crawl, the realization that she’s surrounded by men who would either not believe or else not care if Elvis went through with the forceful attentions he was showing her back there. Who would believe her if she said he forced her?

“Ronnie I’m tired and my seat’s been taken!” she argues with him, “I just wanna sit down. Lay down, even!” she begs, thinking of how best to clear the couch of anyone but him so that no one takes liberties and sits down beside her.

“Then go lay down in back where there’s a fuckin’ bed? Why’d you come out?” he snaps.

“Cause-“ because Elvis Presley tried to take liberties, that’s why, but she feels strangled watching how all the men await her answer with a little too much investment, the way Elvis is still watching her behind tinted shades and a haze of cigar smoke.

“You get all bitchy when you’re tired, go lay down and take a nap, honey. I’m watching the game.” Ronnie suggests her worst fear and it infuriates her how he’s changed just since he slipped a ring on her finger.

“Ronnie please-“ She whimpers and would give anything to know why Joe is leering up at her with a sly grin. There’s no time to think on it as Elvis’ ringed fingers close around her elbow and tug her back towards the curtain.

“C’mon honey, ya heard your husband, let’s get ya situated.” he coos and her fingers turn to ice from the shock of it all.

“I don’t wanna!” she protests, “Ronnie!” she tries one more time while being backed away from her husband by his boss.

“Oh for fucks sake just do what he wants!” Ronnie begs with something akin to frustration but the red hot blush sweating up his neck suggests he’s humiliated to be caught saying it.

“Beg your pardon?” she hisses in disbelief, feeling Elvis’ hand clamp on her arm just a little more, maybe to keep her from marching up to Ronnie and smacking him.

“Just, just give him what he wants. Just tonight.” Ronnie spills the beans far sooner than needed and Elvis wants to roll his eyes at how fast they went from taking her for a nap to admitting to something far more sinister.

The bride’s head swivels from viewing her husband to Elvis and back to her husband and the room full of men who’s thrumming interest in her makes her wanna bolt straight out of the plane now she knows why. It’s sickening yet so strongly in character for them she doesn’t waste many moments in disbelief, it all makes sense in a horribly predictable way. Every one of these fella’s grinning at her discomfort are pathetic in her eyes, as pathetic as men who’d prefer to watch naughty movies than better themselves as lovers. Somehow in the mess of it all, Elvis alone stands out as something a little less deplorable. Even if it’s just his brash and demented honesty she admires.

“Y’all planned this?” she asks dully, scanning each lip licking face, ending with her husband’s sullen one, “This was all planned out? You offered me up? You goddamn, two faced bastard-“

Elvis loops his arm around her waist to prevent her from launching at Ronnie and clawing him to shreds. His chest is searing her through the silk on her back and his hands grab at her more than they need to in order to restrain her. It makes her pulse pound and fury swirls inside her, battling with the cold dread of weakness and helplessness.

“Ronnie made a little deal with me.” Elvis is drawling in her ear in so soothing a way it almost counteracts the nauseating confirmation, “And now, we can watch you runnin’ round this plane for hours to get away from me like a Junebug in a bottle but that ain’t gonna change how this night ends. How bout ya just be sensible, hmm? Just cause he’s a lyin’, no good sunnuvabitch don’t mean you gotta turn bad yourself, ya know? He gave ya instructions, ya can still be a good lil wifey and honor and obey him, can’t ya?”

“Why?” she persists, but feebly this time, not knowing if she’s asking her husband who keeps his face averted towards the screen or the man whose hands are mapping out her body in full view of his friends. “Why y’all gotta do this?”

“I told ya honey,” Elvis murmurs, rucking the hem of her skirt up passed her knees, “hope’s a dangerous thing. I don’t allow it in my house. An’ you’re part of my house now, ain’t ya?” he pets at the damp plushness of her inner thighs as the men stare and she struggles to find a way to empower herself while caught in such a feeble position. Hurting Ronnie, twisting the knife a little more like he’s done her is all she can think of at the time. “Don’t you belong to me, sweetie?” Elvis is prodding once more and his cheek is clammy and hot against hers, the cigar smoke pungent around them.

“Yes sir.” she agrees while sneering at Ronnie’s reddened face.

“That’s more like it.” Elvis’ voice gentles to something a little less frightening than before but all the more terrifying for how sure and smug it sounds. His hands grab at her breasts and she can’t help the whimper she lets out from the presumption, no doubt it’ll only get worse. “Since you’re so eager to stick close to ole Ronnie and include e’rbody in our private business, I reckon it’s only fair we conduct this lil interview on the conference table, hmm?”

When she cranes her neck to look behind him and past the curtain, she can see the shiny table top littered with items it didn’t hold when she made her hasty exit passed it; scarves and a strange sort of plastic wand, that stupid police flashlight and a box of cigars are clumped at its foot in an ominous hodgepodge.

Admitting to being frightened by it would strip away her last bit of autonomy in this and so in a bid to act unbothered she slips out of Elvis’ hold and walks on her own two feet into the room, turning her back to Ronnie before shifting herself to sit on the cold, hard surface of the table.

“Is this what you had in mind, Mr. Presley?” she asks him meekly and makes sure to let her legs fall apart just so. She thinks she’s going to have some control in all this, the silly little thing, thinking he’s a man with regular tastes and base preoccupations, easily distracted from the purpose of this like any other. And the purpose is not pleasure -though he intends to draw it from her till she is broken from it- but purity of intention and nature. A lie dressed in white no more, but a wanton woman giving in to her true nature. Only he has the power to bring this out in every one he meets, and to purge it all the same.

Elvis Presley eyes her, as do all the men in the lounge just past him, until with an approving little hum and smile that is almost pleased, he steps towards her, yanking the curtain closed behind him and leaving them (somewhat) alone together in the dimly lit room, full of anticipation.

And maybe dread.