#The Sinking City review

[dumbfinntales]

After my ARPG addiction, I decided to finally try out a game that has been sitting in my library for over a year now, and a game which development I followed until release. The Sinking City. A very flawed game, but currently the closest one to a lovecraftian themed game that I enjoy. Strange cults, odd happenings, even weirder creatures and madness are a plenty in the sunken city of Oakmont.

I've always wanted a cosmic horror game where you explore a dilapidated town, or a fishing town of some kind with strange creatures and survival horror elements. The Sinking City seems to deliver this on the surface and succeeds somewhat, but also fails in many aspects. This game is a bit of a janky unpolished gem, and you'll either ignore its flaws and enjoy it for what it is, or absolutely hate it. I happened to enjoy myself enough, but I don't see myself playing this again any time soon.

If there's one thing this game gets right it's the right inspiration and atmosphere. The game is comically lovecraftian making it almost stereotypical, but it works. You got a private detective who's plagued by visions who then travels to a strange American town where even stranger things are happening. You got mad cults worshiping maddening horrors and you get to explore ancient temples dedicated to unknown gods, all that good stuff. The city of Oakmont is pretty in the dilapidated, water damaged and monster infested way and is a joy to traverse and explore.

The quests, or cases as they're called in this game are pretty fun and well thought out. You are a private detective after all so you go around looking for clues, finding missing people and solving mysteries. The game doesn't hold your hand at all and you have to figure out your own way. Sometimes I had to look up what to do because there are some confusing and cryptic things in the game. Especially when you have to go research at a library, or the archives of a newspaper.

The combat isn't much to write home about. It's serviceable. You got several different types of guns that you acquire as you go through the main cases and you can thrown grenades and plop down some traps. Monster variety is disappointingly low though, and you'll be fighting the same 5 monsters throughout the entire game. There are a couple rudimentary boss fights there to spice things up, but the questing and mystery solving is obviously the games main draw.

But the game does fail in some departments and has some strange design decisions. For one, at the start of the game they state that normal money has lost its use in Oakmont, so they deal in bullets. You don't actually get to buy anything as there are no merchants in the game. The oddest thing of all, there's a limit to how many bullets you can carry. The game might seem like you have to save your resources, but you'll never run out of bullets because the game showers you with crafting materials. You also get bullets as a reward from cases, but if you're at max capacity you actually get no rewards at all from a case, which is such a weird decision.

The city of Oakmont is very limited. Despite being a city there are only a few points of interest and very few buildings can actually be entered. Most buildings are static and most doors are locked. You usually have to run large distances to get to anything interesting, and chasing after clues in a case can lead to lengthy runs around the town. There are a lot of braindead NPC's around as well, who don't really serve a purpose other than keep repeatedly walking into lamp post or cower on top a trash can.

You'll also notice a lot of repeating assets and layout. Sometimes I'd walk into a random building and I'd wonder to myself if I've been there before. But I feel like this can be forgiven because the studio that made this game is far from a triple A company and it's actually quite amazing what they achieved by themselves. Despite the repeating assets Oakmont is a very pretty city.

I also dislike how the game calls itself "survival horror". I already talked about the bullets, but you really don't even have to worry about resources. Maybe at the start of the game you feel like every bullet counts, but not far into the game you have more than enough. The madness mechanic was really spooky at the start though, and I feel like our poor detective character starts to lose his marbles a little too easily. True to Lovecraft I guess, but this makes the madness mechanic a little tedious at times. There are a couple genuinely good spooks in the game that caught me off guard, so it does somewhat keep the horror elements going.

So, the Sinking City is a bit of a divisive game. It succeeds in ways that I enjoy, but also fails in some annoying ways. It is obvious though that the developers seemed to care about this game and tried their hardest to make a game true to cosmic horror to the best of their abilities. If you're a lovecraft nut, I do recommend the game. Maybe get it on a sale and remember to play on a gray rainy autumn evening.

[hardcore-gaming-101]

The Sinking City

So, if you play a lot of PC games and ever gotten an interest in playing The Sinking City, you may be extremely confused. This is understandable. The story goes that Frogwares, after leaving a deal with Focus Home Interactive to make a Call of Cthulhu game, decided to work on something original with the Lovecraft lore, and got a new distributor for the job. Bigben Interactive, now known as Nacon, helped with funding the game and distributing it, but had no control over the IP itself.

Read more...

[first-impressions-gaming]

The Sinking City

Developed & Published by Frogwares

Release Date 2019 (depending on platform)

Tested on Xbox Series X

MSRP 39,99 USD

Journeying into the unknown, leaving everything you know and you are familiar with behind, a strange and stranger land sucks you in, and you’re there to solve the ongoing mystery and everything stemmed from it. Good luck, private investigator.

The Sinking City opens as you come ashore on Oakmont, the town that is sinking with each passing day and experience unusual flooding coupled with unbelievable mysteries where people experience hysteria and visions. That’s hell of a (un)welcoming to you, as the player. Right there, you know you’re stepping into a town where you are always called as “newcomer”, and you cannot not feel like an outcast. We receive a letter from J. van der Berg, just going through what we should expect from Oakmont and such. The main reason our protagonist, Charles Reed, decides to visit Oakmont is that like many people in Oakmont he is afflicted with hysteria as well and maybe he can find a remedy for his illness.

We land on Oakmont, we are barely on the shore and we see that the police aren't allowing anybody going in or out from the port. Shortly we learn that the most-influential person’s, Mr. Throgmorton, son is missing and he is standing in front of the building with police where the son was last seen before missing. We explain ourselves why we came to Oakmont and he says he could help us if we solve this case of his missing son. So, right off the bat, this’s our first case to show off our excellent private investigator skills and get to learn case-related abilities like a tutorial.

As a detective, from your deductions and the evidence you find, you are to make the final decision about a case, such as the first one concerning Albert Throgmorton’s murder. Upon collecting all the evidence and matching clues, you arrive to your verdict, did Lewis murder Albert on purpose with full awareness and knowledge or was he afflicted and mentally incapacitated?

As for this case, you can watch step-by-step how you progress and make your decision:

First, you arrive the location where the incident took place, you collect evidence in the vicinity and the game will signal you that you should switch to Mind Palace so you can go back in time and watch the event unfold:

Second, after checking every step, you are to decide which event happened in what order, by clicking on them you give them a number as 1, 2 or 3, then you can progress further:

Third, then we follow the path that leads us to the suspect, Lewis in this case, and we interact and talk with him about what happened and where Albert Throgmorton is. He gives us ambiguous answers, stating that he does not remember that well and even if he’s dead he did not do anything knowingly. We locate Albert Throgmorton’s corpse nearby, hanged and killed. What’s our verdict then?

You don’t interact with NPCs you come across on streets even though the streets are filled with them. The only interaction you have with them, or I should put it as the only reaction you receive from them is, “what you doing?, “watch where you going” sort of generic feedback when you bump into them. You cannot even interact with the NPC who is selling papers, it’d be a nice touch if the character gives you a summary of what has taken place or something similar, for example a short of summary of the town, flood. The town we’re in may seem massive at first but once you get the hang of it, each district and street will appear almost identical to you except few key locations. There isn’t any landmarks and NPCs don’t add any value to locations. For example, each time I walk by one particular street I witness two characters arguing and one of them shoots the other one on exactly same location. This breaks the believability aspect for me, this action isn’t something to happen over and over again on the same location with same scenario. You can find the clip below:

Since a quarter of the town is flooded, you are to travel with boats in some districts:

For some reason, in mid-dialogue camera angle or zoom changes and this causes characters’ faces not fitting in the screen, this’s a weird issue and I encountered it frequently:

At the end of my 3-hour gametime, there was an climactic cutscene which is followed by totally empty reaction from the protagonist, after the scene, Charles Reed wakes up in his room as he does every morning and he does not react to what happened, how can he not say anything to himself after these revelations and intrigue?:

Despite the shortcomings and some “meh” moments, The Sinking City is still a worthy detective game, the game makes up for what is missing in other aspects and presents an enjoyable walkthrough to the player.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Conspiratorialism as a material phenomenon

I'll be in TUCSON, AZ from November 8-10: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

I think it behooves us to be a little skeptical of stories about AI driving people to believe wrong things and commit ugly actions. Not that I like the AI slop that is filling up our social media, but when we look at the ways that AI is harming us, slop is pretty low on the list.

The real AI harms come from the actual things that AI companies sell AI to do. There's the AI gun-detector gadgets that the credulous Mayor Eric Adams put in NYC subways, which led to 2,749 invasive searches and turned up zero guns:

https://www.cbsnews.com/newyork/news/nycs-subway-weapons-detector-pilot-program-ends/

Any time AI is used to predict crime – predictive policing, bail determinations, Child Protective Services red flags – they magnify the biases already present in these systems, and, even worse, they give this bias the veneer of scientific neutrality. This process is called "empiricism-washing," and you know you're experiencing it when you hear some variation on "it's just math, math can't be racist":

https://pluralistic.net/2020/06/23/cryptocidal-maniacs/#phrenology

When AI is used to replace customer service representatives, it systematically defrauds customers, while providing an "accountability sink" that allows the company to disclaim responsibility for the thefts:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/23/maximal-plausibility/#reverse-centaurs

When AI is used to perform high-velocity "decision support" that is supposed to inform a "human in the loop," it quickly overwhelms its human overseer, who takes on the role of "moral crumple zone," pressing the "OK" button as fast as they can. This is bad enough when the sacrificial victim is a human overseeing, say, proctoring software that accuses remote students of cheating on their tests:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/16/unauthorized-paper/#cheating-anticheat

But it's potentially lethal when the AI is a transcription engine that doctors have to use to feed notes to a data-hungry electronic health record system that is optimized to commit health insurance fraud by seeking out pretenses to "upcode" a patient's treatment. Those AIs are prone to inventing things the doctor never said, inserting them into the record that the doctor is supposed to review, but remember, the only reason the AI is there at all is that the doctor is being asked to do so much paperwork that they don't have time to treat their patients:

https://apnews.com/article/ai-artificial-intelligence-health-business-90020cdf5fa16c79ca2e5b6c4c9bbb14

My point is that "worrying about AI" is a zero-sum game. When we train our fire on the stuff that isn't important to the AI stock swindlers' business-plans (like creating AI slop), we should remember that the AI companies could halt all of that activity and not lose a dime in revenue. By contrast, when we focus on AI applications that do the most direct harm – policing, health, security, customer service – we also focus on the AI applications that make the most money and drive the most investment.

AI hasn't attracted hundreds of billions in investment capital because investors love AI slop. All the money pouring into the system – from investors, from customers, from easily gulled big-city mayors – is chasing things that AI is objectively very bad at and those things also cause much more harm than AI slop. If you want to be a good AI critic, you should devote the majority of your focus to these applications. Sure, they're not as visually arresting, but discrediting them is financially arresting, and that's what really matters.

All that said: AI slop is real, there is a lot of it, and just because it doesn't warrant priority over the stuff AI companies actually sell, it still has cultural significance and is worth considering.

AI slop has turned Facebook into an anaerobic lagoon of botshit, just the laziest, grossest engagement bait, much of it the product of rise-and-grind spammers who avidly consume get rich quick "courses" and then churn out a torrent of "shrimp Jesus" and fake chainsaw sculptures:

https://www.404media.co/email/1cdf7620-2e2f-4450-9cd9-e041f4f0c27f/

For poor engagement farmers in the global south chasing the fractional pennies that Facebook shells out for successful clickbait, the actual content of the slop is beside the point. These spammers aren't necessarily tuned into the psyche of the wealthy-world Facebook users who represent Meta's top monetization subjects. They're just trying everything and doubling down on anything that moves the needle, A/B splitting their way into weird, hyper-optimized, grotesque crap:

https://www.404media.co/facebook-is-being-overrun-with-stolen-ai-generated-images-that-people-think-are-real/

In other words, Facebook's AI spammers are laying out a banquet of arbitrary possibilities, like the letters on a Ouija board, and the Facebook users' clicks and engagement are a collective ideomotor response, moving the algorithm's planchette to the options that tug hardest at our collective delights (or, more often, disgusts).

So, rather than thinking of AI spammers as creating the ideological and aesthetic trends that drive millions of confused Facebook users into condemning, praising, and arguing about surreal botshit, it's more true to say that spammers are discovering these trends within their subjects' collective yearnings and terrors, and then refining them by exploring endlessly ramified variations in search of unsuspected niches.

(If you know anything about AI, this may remind you of something: a Generative Adversarial Network, in which one bot creates variations on a theme, and another bot ranks how closely the variations approach some ideal. In this case, the spammers are the generators and the Facebook users they evince reactions from are the discriminators)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Generative_adversarial_network

I got to thinking about this today while reading User Mag, Taylor Lorenz's superb newsletter, and her reporting on a new AI slop trend, "My neighbor’s ridiculous reason for egging my car":

https://www.usermag.co/p/my-neighbors-ridiculous-reason-for

The "egging my car" slop consists of endless variations on a story in which the poster (generally a figure of sympathy, canonically a single mother of newborn twins) complains that her awful neighbor threw dozens of eggs at her car to punish her for parking in a way that blocked his elaborate Hallowe'en display. The text is accompanied by an AI-generated image showing a modest family car that has been absolutely plastered with broken eggs, dozens upon dozens of them.

According to Lorenz, variations on this slop are topping very large Facebook discussion forums totalling millions of users, like "Movie Character…,USA Story, Volleyball Women, Top Trends, Love Style, and God Bless." These posts link to SEO sites laden with programmatic advertising.

The funnel goes:

i. Create outrage and hence broad reach;

ii, A small percentage of those who see the post will click through to the SEO site;

iii. A small fraction of those users will click a low-quality ad;

iv. The ad will pay homeopathic sub-pennies to the spammer.

The revenue per user on this kind of scam is next to nothing, so it only works if it can get very broad reach, which is why the spam is so designed for engagement maximization. The more discussion a post generates, the more users Facebook recommends it to.

These are very effective engagement bait. Almost all AI slop gets some free engagement in the form of arguments between users who don't know they're commenting an AI scam and people hectoring them for falling for the scam. This is like the free square in the middle of a bingo card.

Beyond that, there's multivalent outrage: some users are furious about food wastage; others about the poor, victimized "mother" (some users are furious about both). Not only do users get to voice their fury at both of these imaginary sins, they can also argue with one another about whether, say, food wastage even matters when compared to the petty-minded aggression of the "perpetrator." These discussions also offer lots of opportunity for violent fantasies about the bad guy getting a comeuppance, offers to travel to the imaginary AI-generated suburb to dole out a beating, etc. All in all, the spammers behind this tedious fiction have really figured out how to rope in all kinds of users' attention.

Of course, the spammers don't get much from this. There isn't such a thing as an "attention economy." You can't use attention as a unit of account, a medium of exchange or a store of value. Attention – like everything else that you can't build an economy upon, such as cryptocurrency – must be converted to money before it has economic significance. Hence that tooth-achingly trite high-tech neologism, "monetization."

The monetization of attention is very poor, but AI is heavily subsidized or even free (for now), so the largest venture capital and private equity funds in the world are spending billions in public pension money and rich peoples' savings into CO2 plumes, GPUs, and botshit so that a bunch of hustle-culture weirdos in the Pacific Rim can make a few dollars by tricking people into clicking through engagement bait slop – twice.

The slop isn't the point of this, but the slop does have the useful function of making the collective ideomotor response visible and thus providing a peek into our hopes and fears. What does the "egging my car" slop say about the things that we're thinking about?

Lorenz cites Jamie Cohen, a media scholar at CUNY Queens, who points out that subtext of this slop is "fear and distrust in people about their neighbors." Cohen predicts that "the next trend, is going to be stranger and more violent.”

This feels right to me. The corollary of mistrusting your neighbors, of course, is trusting only yourself and your family. Or, as Margaret Thatcher liked to say, "There is no such thing as society. There are individual men and women and there are families."

We are living in the tail end of a 40 year experiment in structuring our world as though "there is no such thing as society." We've gutted our welfare net, shut down or privatized public services, all but abolished solidaristic institutions like unions.

This isn't mere aesthetics: an atomized society is far more hospitable to extreme wealth inequality than one in which we are all in it together. When your power comes from being a "wise consumer" who "votes with your wallet," then all you can do about the climate emergency is buy a different kind of car – you can't build the public transit system that will make cars obsolete.

When you "vote with your wallet" all you can do about animal cruelty and habitat loss is eat less meat. When you "vote with your wallet" all you can do about high drug prices is "shop around for a bargain." When you vote with your wallet, all you can do when your bank forecloses on your home is "choose your next lender more carefully."

Most importantly, when you vote with your wallet, you cast a ballot in an election that the people with the thickest wallets always win. No wonder those people have spent so long teaching us that we can't trust our neighbors, that there is no such thing as society, that we can't have nice things. That there is no alternative.

The commercial surveillance industry really wants you to believe that they're good at convincing people of things, because that's a good way to sell advertising. But claims of mind-control are pretty goddamned improbable – everyone who ever claimed to have managed the trick was lying, from Rasputin to MK-ULTRA:

https://pluralistic.net/HowToDestroySurveillanceCapitalism

Rather than seeing these platforms as convincing people of things, we should understand them as discovering and reinforcing the ideology that people have been driven to by material conditions. Platforms like Facebook show us to one another, let us form groups that can imperfectly fill in for the solidarity we're desperate for after 40 years of "no such thing as society."

The most interesting thing about "egging my car" slop is that it reveals that so many of us are convinced of two contradictory things: first, that everyone else is a monster who will turn on you for the pettiest of reasons; and second, that we're all the kind of people who would stick up for the victims of those monsters.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/29/hobbesian-slop/#cui-bono

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[meazalykov]

is that my shirt?

ellie carpenter x lyon!reader

summary: someone stole your favorite shirt, at least it was your favorite person who did.

warnings: suggestive content, making out, no smut but 18+

you had always been a dedicated player, and since joining lyon  in 2020, you had found not only happiness but also a close knit family in your teammates. 

now, in 2024, as you renewed your contract for another two seasons, the team felt more like home than ever. with your position as an attacking midfielder, you had thrived, your skills shining brightly on the pitch. 

off the field, you had created a warm and inviting space that your teammates adored.

your apartment was a sanctuary, decorated in soft colors and adorned with plants that added a touch of life to the cozy environment. the open-concept living area featured a plush sofa surrounded by a plethora of cushions, inviting anyone to sink in and stay a while. 

on weekends, it was common for your teammates to stop by. they would gather for lunch, indulge in beauty treatments that you happily provided, or simply lounge around, binge-watching their favorite shows on one of your many streaming services.

among all your teammates, you shared a special bond with ellie. your chemistry was undeniable, and ellie seemed to be the one who frequented your apartment the most. 

whether it was to catch up on each other's lives, share a meal, have late night activities, or talk about any other important stuff, ellie’s presence always felt comforting. you couldn’t help but feel a flutter in your stomach whenever she came over. 

that spark had started a while back, evolving into something more than just friendship, yet you had never put a label on it.

one chilly november afternoon, you were getting ready for a cozy day at home, but as you rummaged through your closet, panic set in. your favorite shirt—a soft, oversized brown piece that you often wore on lazy days—was missing. 

you couldn’t recall the last time you had seen it. a quick mental review of your week revealed nothing but confusion. just then, a light bulb went off in your head. ellie had borrowed it during your last movie night, but you had been so wrapped up in laughter that you hadn’t thought about it since.

“oh no,” you mumbled to yourself. “ellie has my shirt.” the thought made you smile, and you decided that it was probably among the drying clothes in your laundry. 

you would simply ask ellie to return it the next time you were together.

fast forward to january, you and your teammates were celebrating the opening of a new seafood restaurant in the city. you entered the beautifully decorated space, the scent of the ocean filling the air. you felt excitement, not only for the food but also for the time spent with your teammates.

they took their seats around a large table, laughter echoing as they perused the menu.

as you chatted with your friends, your gaze fell upon ellie, who sat across from you. she looked radiant, her hair falling perfectly around her face and her eyes sparkling with mischief at the menu. 

your heart raced as you noticed ellie’s leather jacket had slightly parted, revealing the hem of your favorite shirt peeking out from underneath.

“no way,” you thought, a playful smirk forming on your lips. you tried to focus on the conversation, but your attention kept drifting back to that shirt. 

you wanted to say something, but the thought of embarrassing ellie or drawing too much attention to your romance held you back. the playful teasing from your teammates would be relentless if they caught wind of it.

just then, ellie stood up, heading toward the bathroom. you seized the moment, your curiosity and playful nature urging you to follow. 

a few minutes later, you slipped out of your seat and trailed after ellie, the sound of laughter fading behind you.

upon entering the bathroom, you found ellie at the sink, washing her hands. without thinking, you slipped behind her and wrapped your arms around her waist, feeling the warmth radiating from her body. 

ellie jumped slightly at the sudden embrace, turning her head to meet your gaze in the mirror.

“is that my shirt?” you whispered, your voice low and teasing.

ellie’s cheeks flushed a deep shade of red, her eyes widening in realization. 

“i forgot to give it back,” the australian admitted, a sheepish smile creeping across her face.

“forgot, huh? so you are a thief then,” you teased, your voice dripping with playful sarcasm. 

“but that is okay because you are a very hot thief.”

the air between you crackled with energy as you leaned closer, the warmth of your breath ghosting against ellie’s skin. she turned to face you, her eyes sparkling with mischief and something deeper. 

without a second thought, you leaned in, capturing ellie’s lips in a soft kiss.

the kiss deepened, both of you losing yourselves in the moment. your heart raced, and you could feel ellie’s smile against your lips. it was everything you had both been wanting, a sweet moment stolen amidst the chaos of life. 

time seemed to stand still until the sound of the bathroom door swung open.

“hey! you two! can you stop making out in there?” lindsey’s voice rang out, breaking the spell. 

“the food is ready, and we are waiting for you!”

you and ellie pulled away, laughter bubbling between you as you turned to face lindsey. your face felt hot, knowing you had been caught, but the embarrassment melted into joy as you exited the bathroom together, joining your teammates at the table.

“what were you two doing in there?” selma joked as you settled back into your seat.

you exchanged a glance with ellie, the warmth still lingering in your shared smile. 

“just talking,” you replied, unable to suppress your grin.

“you know how it is.”

“yeah, right,” sara chimed in, winking knowingly. the playful banter continued as everyone dug into their meals, but you and ellie continued to exchanged secret glances.

masterlist

[incorrectbatfam]

Wayne Tower yelp reviews pls (wrong answers ofc)

★★★☆☆ Disappointed but not surprised

Was invited to the Wayne Gala held at the Tower this year to accommodate special guests from the Justice League. Was photographed by reporter Clark Kent. Wanted to meet Superman but he didn't show up. Food and atmosphere was good. Got told off for swinging from the chandelier. Why have a chandelier if not for swinging?

★☆☆☆☆ Not even gonna dignify it with a title

I'd give zero stars if I could. The CEO is a massive fucking asshole. He's full of nothing but smooth-brained takes. He claims he'll be there when you need him but never shows up. And when you RIGHTFULLY resent him, he'll turn around and pretend YOU are the bad guy. That isn't even touching on his AUDACITY to replace you so soon after you leave. You think you know this man, you think you've grown to trust him, and then he goes and stabs you in the back. Believe me when I say RUN. Get as FAR away from this company and that bastard Bruce Wayne as you possibly can.

★★☆☆☆ SOS

I work here. Too many emails. Half the execs are Boomers who can't export a PDF. The break room is out of coffee. My dad won't stop visiting the office. When will the nightmare end???

★★★★☆ Imperfect but respectable

I had the opportunity to visit Wayne Tower on Bring Your Child To Work Day. The building is up to code and I was able to view all the health code certifications. I admire that Wayne Enterprises takes care of its employees by allowing ample vacation time, in-house daycare, and well-maintained recreation spaces. The cafeteria did not have as many vegetarian options as I would have preferred, but I have been informed that they operate on a rotating menu, so I shall revisit again next week and possibly amend my review. I would leave five stars but I ran into Tim Drake on the way out and that brought the whole experience down a notch.

★☆☆☆☆ No Chipotle

Was told there was a Chipotle here. Did not find Chipotle.

★★★☆☆ Badge entry didn't work

I'm on the night shift at the company's call center. One time I was already running late but for some reason I couldn't badge in. The janitor wouldn't let me through even though I had proof I was supposed to be here. Had to escalate to the CEO. Still better than working the Batburger drive-thru though.

★★★★★ Hi Dad

Hi Dad.

★★★★☆ Good but...

I love the bathrooms. They're easy to find and very accessible for a wheelchair user like myself. There's plenty of space for me to navigate and the products are top-notch, especially the hot towels. The toaster oven under the sink also doesn't make sense, but then again, my lockscreen is Nightwing so I can't judge.

★★☆☆☆ No cats allowed

I got written permission from the CEO himself to bring my cat to the office, but the doorman turned me away. Next time, there should be better communication between the employees.

★★★★☆ Rooftop makes for good date

I brought my girlfriend up here for our anniversary date. The building has a beautiful view of the city and the restaurant was great. The bread was a little dry, but nothing that a little butter couldn't fix. Unfortunately, she's an on-call detective and we had to cut our evening short, but that's not the staff's fault.

★☆☆☆☆ Got called Bri'ish

Someone called me Bri'ish.

[mariacallous]

“There are only so many books on Ukraine we can review each month,” an editor from a major British newspaper tells me at one of the country’s largest literary festivals. He looks a bit uncomfortable, almost apologetic. He wants me to understand that if it were up to him, he’d review a book on Ukraine every day, but that’s just not how the industry works.

Since the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion, I’ve had a glimpse into how several industries work: Publishing, journalism, and the broader world of culture, including galleries and museums. Even before the big war, I knew more than I wanted to about how academia works (or rather doesn’t) when it comes to Ukraine. A common thread among all these fields is the limited attention they allocate to countries that do not occupy a place among the traditional big players of imperial politics.

Cultural imperialism lives on, even if its carriers often proclaim anti-colonial slogans. It thrives in gate-keeping, with editors and academics mistrusting voices that don’t sound like those higher up the ladder, while platforming those who have habitually been accepted as authoritative. “We’ve done Ukraine already” is a frequent response whenever you pitch an idea, text, or public event centering the country.

The editor who can’t keep publishing reviews of Ukraine-related books walks away, and I pick up a copy of one of the UK’s most prominent literary magazines to see their book recommendations. Out of a handful of reviews, three are on recent books about Russia. It seems like the space afforded to Russia remains unlimited. I close the publication to keep my blood pressure down.

Keeping my blood pressure down, however, is challenging. When my social media feeds aren’t advertising another production of Uncle Vanya, they’re urging me to splash out on opera tickets for Eugene Onegin. What happened to the dreaded “cancelling” of Russian culture? The Russia section in most bookshops I visit in the UK is growing daily with everything from yet another translation of Dostoevsky to accounts of opposition figures killed or imprisoned by the Kremlin.

The international media focus on the August 2024 release of Russian political prisoners was yet another example of how the more things change, the more they stay the same. While these released prisoners were provided with a global media platform to call for an end to “unfair” sanctions on “ordinary Russians,” there was no mention of the thousands of Ukrainian civilians who continue to languish in Russian jails.

The ongoing international emphasis on all things Russian goes hand in hand with a reluctance to transform growing interest in Ukraine into meaningful structural changes in how the country is perceived, reported on, and understood. Although there has been some improvement in knowledge about Ukraine since 2022, the move is essentially from having no understanding to having a superficial grasp.

Each time I read a piece on Ukraine by someone not well-versed in the country’s history and politics, my heart sinks. The chances are it will recycle historical cliches, repeat Kremlin propaganda about Russophone Ukrainians, or generalize about regional differences. And to add insult to injury, such articles also often misspell at least one family or place name, using outdated Russian transliterations. A quick Google search or a message to an actual Ukrainian could prevent these errors and save the author from looking foolish. Yet aiding this kind of colonial complacency seems to bother neither the authors nor the editors involved.

I often wonder what would happen if I wrote a piece on British or US politics and misspelt the names of historical figures, towns, and cities. How likely would I be to get it published? And yet the same standards do not apply when it comes to writing about countries that have not been granted priority status in our mental hierarchies of the world. We can misspell them all we like; no one will notice anyway. Apart from the people from those countries, of course. And when an exasperated Ukrainian writes to complain, I can almost see the editors rolling their eyes and thinking, “What does this perpetually frustrated nation want now? We’ve done Ukraine. Why are they never satisfied?”

It is not enough to simply “do Ukraine” by reviewing one book on the war, especially if it’s by a Western journalist rather than a Ukraine-based author. It’s not enough to host one exhibition, particularly if it is by an artist or photographer who only spent a few weeks in the country. Quickly putting together a panel on Russia’s war in response to a major development at the front and adding a sole Ukrainian voice at the last minute doesn’t cut it either. This box-ticking approach is unhelpful and insulting.

It is important to acknowledge that some Western media outlets have significantly enhanced their coverage of Ukraine over the past two and a half years. They have typically done so by dedicating time and resources to having in-house experts who have either reported from Ukraine for many years, or who are committed to deepening their knowledge enough to produce high-quality analysis. However, many of these outlets still seem compelled to provide platforms for individuals entirely unqualified to analyse the region. Surely this isn’t what balance means?

Since February 2022, more than 100 Ukrainian cultural figures have been killed in the war. According to the Ukrainian Ministry of Culture, by May 2024, over 2,000 cultural institutions had been damaged or destroyed. This includes 711 libraries, 116 museums and galleries, and 37 theatres, cinemas, and concert halls. In May 2024, Russia bombed Factor Druk, the country’s biggest printing house.

When I attended this year’s Kyiv Book Arsenal, Ukraine’s largest literary festival, each panel began with a minute of silence to honor the memory of colleagues killed in the war. All this is in addition to mounting military losses, many of whom are yesterday’s civilians, including journalists and creatives who have either volunteered or been drafted into the army. This is the current state of the Ukrainian creative industry.

To save time for Western editors, publishers, and curators, let me clarify what all of us perpetually frustrated Ukrainians want. We would appreciate it if they turned to actual Ukraine specialists when working on Ukraine-related themes. Not those who suddenly pivoted from specializing in Russia, or who feel entitled to speak authoritatively because they discovered a distant Ukrainian ancestor, or those who have only recently shown interest in Ukraine due to business opportunities in the country’s reconstruction. We would be grateful if they took the time to seek out experts who have been studying Ukraine long before it became fashionable, who understand the country in all its complexity, and who care enough to offer Ukrainians the basic dignity of having their names spelt correctly.

I like to fantasise about a time when editors of top Western periodicals will choose to review books on Ukraine not simply because the country is at war and they feel obliged to cover it now and again, but because these books offer vital insights into democracy, the fight for freedom, or the importance of maintaining unity and a sense of humor in times of crisis. I hope for a day when galleries will host exhibitions of Ukrainian art, not just because it was rescued from a war zone, but because the artists involved provide fresh perspectives on the world.

I also dream that we, the perpetually frustrated Ukraine specialists, will eventually be able to focus on our own scholarship and creativity rather than correcting the mistakes and misleading takes of others. This will happen when cultural institutions, publishing houses, universities, and newspapers acquire in-house experts whose knowledge of Ukraine and the wider region extends beyond Russia.

Dr Olesya Khromeychuk is a historian and writer. She is the author of The Death of a Soldier Told by His Sister (2022). Khromeychuk has written for The New York Times, The New York Review of Books, The Guardian, Der Spiegel, Prospect, and The New Statesman, and has delivered a TED talk on What the World Can Learn From Ukraine’s Fight for Democracy. She has taught the history of East-Central Europe at several British universities and is currently the Director of the Ukrainian Institute London.

[tobbesdiscordkitten]

Guns N’ Roses Fic: Sugar Daddy

Summary: Axl takes his precious sugar baby on a cruise only to discover that her pompous attitude is ruining the trip. He takes matters into his own hands and punishes her, hoping it’ll demolish the self-entitlement within her.

Characters: Axl Rose and (female) reader.

Pairing(s): Axl Rose/female reader, Axl Rose/reader.

Rating: Explicit, 21+

Word Count: 3,000

Warnings: age gap, smut, (p in v) penetration, excessive use of pet names, clit stimulation, physical altercation: whipping, and cat and mouse game.

A/N: requested by anon. I hope you enjoy the little twist I added into the story! ^.^

The 40 year age gap between you and Axl didn’t define your relationship. Instead, it was the way he pampered you with his wealth by taking you out to extravagant restaurants, and allowing you to spend an enormous amount of money on clothes, jewelry, beauty products, etc. You were his sugar baby and he was your sugar daddy.

If people batted an eye or called it strange, Axl would defend it and say they were just jealous. You were grateful not to be living an ordinary life like an average middle class citizen who worked a 9 to 5 job with a minimal base salary each week. Yet, somehow, that feeling began to dwindle as your daily consumerism increased…

Axl noticed the change in your behavior for a while. He used to see you as the girl who always said “thank you” after gifting you with presents, or honoring your tastebuds with the finest cuisine that melted in your mouth.

Now he viewed you as a spoiled little girl, taking everything he gave you for granted. It disappointed him. But he hoped it was just another hormone imbalance. The old version of you would return someday, at least he anticipated. Younger folks could be quite complicated.

One day Axl surprised you by showing you a booked getaway on a cruise. The two of you would spend a week on the ocean in the best quarters, having unlimited alcoholic beverages, and having 24/7 access to the pool, gym, casino, theatre and other leisures. He thought this would be the perfect opportunity to win back the appreciative spark within you.

Both you and Axl packed your suitcases before heading to the docking site. You’ve never been on a cruise ship before and were amazed at how big they were. It was like looking at a major city except…it was on a ship!

Once inside Axl hauled the luggage to the reserved suite you’d be sleeping in. The space was fairly decent for two people. One King-sized bed occupied the hardwood floor in one room while a kitchen occupied the marbled flooring in another room. You had access to a telephone in case you needed room service, house cleaning, or other emergencies. The room also had a vast walk-in bathroom equipped with two toilets, two sinks, a shower (with a detachable showerhead), and a tub with jacuzzi pumps and neon lights. The room was flawless, according to your standards.

You and Axl spent the first day touring the ship and doing some sightseeing. Then, towards the evening, you watched a live musical performance together at the theatre, ate dinner, and socialized at a bar, drinking one too many piña colada’s. Axl had to carry your drunken body to the room, pepper you with goodnight kisses, and went to bed himself.

The next day was gonna be a similar experience to last night. The only difference was Axl wanted to attend a party on the upper deck.

Reviewing yourself in the mirror, you held up two dresses to hide your naked form, trying to decide which dress you should wear - the silky white one or the velvet black one.

Axl came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist while whispering in your ear, “The white dress will look great on you. Wear that one for daddy tonight, yeah?”

“What if I don’t want to?” You teased harshly.

His grip tightened around your waist, causing you to be pressed closer against his chest like a puzzle piece. “Obedience, baby. You’ve been lacking it all week. Don’t make me correct your behavior,” he warned.

You sighed and nodded. The last thing you needed on this trip was Axl losing his temper and breaking the fine China.

Releasing you from his hold, Axl whistled at you, a technique he used to catch your attention. He opened a navy blue jewelry box in front of you, taking out a diamond necklace as it glimmered between his fingers underneath the fluorescent lighting. “Wear this with your outfit.” He encouraged, placing the silver gemstones around your neck. It made your skin sparkle with confidence. “Beautiful.”

You walked past him, looking in the mirror again. “I love it,” you stated.

“Do I get a thank you?” He asked playfully, although a part of him was serious and wanted to hear those exact words leave your lips.

You shrugged off his request and grabbed your purse. “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

Axl huffed. He was gonna let that one slide…for now. If she did it again, there’d be consequences.

On the upper deck, the party was bustling with excitement. People gathered from different countries to clink glasses and dance all night.

Once you and Axl arrived, you walked over to the bar and ordered a margarita. Next, you stood by the balcony, admiring the view of the dark ocean and life below the deck. The passengers down below reclined on their lawn chairs while others engaged in various pool activities by swimming or going down slides.

You sipped on your beverage and exhaled with satisfaction. This cruise was all about you, just like how everyday was, and you were gonna make the most of it.

Axl watched your aloofness, observing how your body gently swayed from side to side to the beat of the music. He could walk up behind you, like he always did, and ask you to join him on the dance floor. However, considering how spoiled you became, he decided to take a different route and leave you inside your own little bubble.

“Hey, ladies!” Axl hollered. “Lookin’ good tonight.”

Whipping your head around, you saw Axl approaching two Brazilian chicks. Oh, hell no! He wasn’t allowed to flirt with other women, only you! He was the one who was supposed to give you all the attention and all the prizes!

Clenching your jaw, you stomped over to where he was, wrapping your arm around his torso and cuddling up to him. “Daddy, where’d you go?”

The two women chuckled, finding your neediness to be amusing and pathetic. Axl didn’t budge. He purposely ignored you and continued making remarks to the other girls. This pissed you off even further.

“Daddy, we’re supposed to dance,” you whined. “Dance with me, please? Spin me around like your favorite record player.”

“How ‘bout tomorrow night?” He suggested coldly. “When you’re not being greedy?”

His accusation took you aback. “Greedy? I’m not acting greedy. You’re the one who’s acting selfish!”

He turned to glare at you. “Watch your mouth, star shine. I won’t hesitate to shut it up with duct tape.”

“Fuck you, prick!” In the heat of an instant, you splashed your drink in his face, causing the two Brazilian chicks to gasp in shock as his suit was soured with the stench of booze.

Axl took a moment to keep his temper in check and not lash out on the spot. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, turning his attention to the Brazilian women. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse us, I gotta teach my girl a lesson.” Grabbing you by the arm, he yanked you out of the area. “I can’t believe you fucking did that!” He roared, his voice booming across the hallway. “I take you on one cruise and this is how I’m thanked?!”

“You were ignoring me!” You shot back.

“Bullshit!” He countered. “All you do is take everything without an ounce of gratitude. I ain’t having it!” He opened the door to the suite and pushed you inside, locking the door.

“Daddy…” you whimpered, fully realizing how awful you’ve been treating him lately. “I-I didn’t mean to-“

“Sit down.” He interrupted, motioning to the bed. You sat down next to him and he clasped your hands in his. “Listen to me very carefully…”

“But-“

“Shh!” His eyes pierced into yours, making you shiver with bewilderment. “You wanna have a nice time on this trip?”

“…Yeah.”

“Then behave yourself. No more acting out and no more taking things, the things I pay for, with my own money,” he stressed, “for granted.” He paused for a few beats, allowing his words to sink in. “Understand?”

You tried to clarify. “I don’t take-“

He released a frustrated sigh through his lips. “If you’re not gonna listen then you’ll be staying in here for the rest of the week.” Standing up from the bed, Axl began walking to the doorway.

“No, daddy!” You squealed, diving onto the floor to grab his ankles, stopping him in his tracks.

“Let go of me,” he demanded.

“No, please! I’ll be a good girl!” You begged as hot tears steamed down your cheeks.

You were acting childish, especially when things didn’t go your way, and he knew it. “Too late. We’ll try again on another cruise.” His patience was wearing thin. He almost regretted taking you on this little getaway in the first place.

You wailed into the floorboards while clutching onto his ankles. “No! No! No!”

Axl wasn’t gonna put up with this any longer. He attempted to move, dragging you along with him across the floor as your wailing grew louder.

After your high pitched screams punctured his ear drums, he swooped you off the floor, and tossed you on the bed. He held your wrists in one hand, while using the other to grab a nearby ribbon lace on the nightstand, and tied your hands together. Axl gripped your diamond necklace, pulling it off your neck. “You’ve been a bad girl.” Lifting up your dress, he smoothed the palm of his hand over one of your asscheeks, creating friction to prepare the tender skin for an intense blow.

“Daddy, don’t…” You sobbed into the pillowcase.

“I wish there were different ways for this stuff, babygirl.” Axl soothed. He’d be lying if he said the punishments didn’t affect him like it did you. In truth, it tore him apart. But a reminder needed to be in order.

Axl raised your necklace and lashed it down onto your bare ass as the diamonds cut into your skin. You screamed into the pillow at the impact. Axl raised your necklace again, whipping your other asscheek. He did the same thing with your hamstrings and decided to repeat the process for good measure.

He straddled your legs to avoid making you kick him and spanked you with the diamonds. Upon striking your hamstring again, the jewels cut deeper into your flesh, causing blood to run down your skin. Axl put the jewelry on the nightstand and quickly got up to retrieve cotton balls and alcohol. He didn’t mean to hit you so hard, he felt guilty.

You laid there, heaving into the pillow as your hamstrings and ass burned.

Axl came back into the room and applied alcohol on a cotton ball, gently pressing it to your skin where a cut was branded onto your skin. “I didn’t mean to take it that far, baby…I hope you learned your lesson and understood why I won’t tolerate such entitlement.” Axl continued to rub the cotton ball over your marks until your skin was cleared of blood. He then untied your hands from the lace.

Unexpectedly, you leaped off the bed, ran to the door, unlocked it and sprinted down the hallway, far away from Axl. He cursed to himself and ran after you just a few meters behind. “Baby, stop! Come back!”

You refused and kept running, going down multiple flights of stairs until you were in the lobby area. Strangers eyed you weirdly as you tried catching your breath while looking around to see where you could hide. The bathrooms? Underneath the front desk? You heard Axl’s voice from above, taking you out of your hiding trance. “Sweetie!”

Turning to the right, you saw a sign on a door that read, Private Love Shack Area. You ran to it and closed yourself in the room. You panted until your heart rate somewhat returned to normal and you felt the tingling of pain on your flesh again.

Glancing around the room, you were shocked to find out it was a miniature sex dungeon filled with numerous sex toys, a love couch, BDSM devices such as floggers, whips, chains, and glass dildos. You never expected the Love Shack Area to look like this. Your brain thought it would resemble a romantic, softcore design. Instead, the room you occupied was obscene and hardcore, perhaps a little too much for your tastes right now.

Before you could think of your next exit plan, Axl came into the room, closing the door shut behind him. You gasped and turned around, backing up until the wall behind you pressed into your back. Words couldn’t escape your lips but your facial features trembled with fear.

Axl sensed this and slowly made his way towards you, his footsteps deliberate and methodical. “Baby,” he cooed. “Come back with me into the room. I’m sorry for making you bleed. That wasn’t my intention,” he tried to explain.

All you could do was whimper and shake your head. You were on the brink of losing your trust in him - the man who cared for you since day one, the man who spoiled you rotten, and coddled you because he cared and loved you so much. Now here you two were trapped under this predicament.

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re crazy…” You whispered, not believing his words.

He chuckled. “Babygirl, you drive me crazy.” Axl stood in front of you, pinching your chin softly so you could look up at him. In his eyes, you didn’t see anger or the rage he had earlier. His eyes were filled with…guilt? And compassion. “But it’s worth it every time.”

“It is…?” You questioned.

“Yes, because we open ourselves up to each other in ways we wouldn’t thought possible.” He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear while running his fingers over your delicate face. You were his little porcelain China doll.

“I’m so sorry…” you apologized. “For everything.”

Axl pressed his index finger to your lips. “Shh. It’s okay. I knew my babygirl would come around sooner for later.” Lifting you up, Axl wrapped your legs around his waist, rubbing circles over your thighs, and caressing the welts he inflicted on your ass. “Still sore, baby?” He asked.

It hurt when he stroked the marks, but at the same time, it felt comforting. “Yeah…”

Cupping your butt with the palms of his hands, he captured your mouth in a heated, passionate kiss, savoring the way you two smacked each other’s lips. “I’m gonna make it up to you.” Unzipping his pants, he freed his pulsing cock and positioned it near the folds of your pussy. Axl loved how you never donned any underwear whenever you wore dresses. He knew how much you loved getting quick, easy access for unexpected moments like these. Just in case.

Slipping inside of you, you gasped at his length stretching you deliciously. “That’s it,” he praised. Securing your legs around his lower back, Axl began thrusting in and out of you, still keeping his hands on your ass so your welted flesh wouldn’t hit or rub against the wall.

You kissed him again and followed his movements with your own hips. “Fuck…”

Axl increased the pace, pistoling his hips into your cunt as you ricocheted off his body, bouncing up and down against the wall. Wet, sloshing noises filled the room. Axl felt how your cunt squeezed around him, soaking his dick which only turned him on even more.

Clinging to him like a devoted pest, you made out with him, pushing your tongue into his mouth as it tangled with his, tasting him while breathing in his smokey cologne.

Axl increased his pace once again and stepped away from the wall, holding you in his arms. You continued to frantically bounce up and down on his shaft until you felt the band in your core snap, causing your orgasm to erupt out of your crotch.

Axl felt the hot flow of your juices drench his dick as your walls clenched around him. He groaned and shot his semen inside of you, hitting the pleasure spot that drove you insane.

“Augh! Fuck! Sh-shit…”

“You okay, honey?” Axl managed to say in between grunts of pleasure.

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m okay.” You tilted your head back, recovering from the high. “It felt amazing. You felt amazing.”

Axl smiled with appreciation. “Good, good.” He carefully laid you down on the couch, thinking of how it might be more comfortable than the wall, and slipped out of you, making you whine at the loss of contact.

You grabbed his hand and tried to pull him closer. “I need you…”

“I know you do, baby. Daddy’s not going anywhere.” A delighted smirk played across his features once Axl realized the sort of room you two occupied. “Perfect hiding spot,” he mused while picking up a few toys to bring to the couch and use on you. “My baby always knows what location to be in.”

You blushed. “Stawwp. I was expecting something else,” you clarified.

“Something else.” Axl hummed, tapping the glass dildo. “Not this?”

You rolled your eyes. “You know what I mean. I didn’t think a cruise ship would have special places like this.”

“Not all of ‘em do. This cruise was just a one in a million chance.”

“You scored your luck with me, huh?” You hinted, excitedly biting your lower lip.

“When don’t I?” He pushed the glass dildo inside your cunt, filling you up once more. Then he reached over and turned on a small vibration stick and pressed it against your clit.

“Fuck, yesss.”

Axl kept the mini vibrator on your clit, rubbing circles over your nub, while using his other hand to pump the glass dildo in and out of you. This went on until you felt another orgasm crash over you, similar to how waves from the ocean crashed against the side of the ship.

He removed the dildo from your cunt and cherished the slick that stained the glass.

You and Axl remained in the room, trying out most of the sex toys all night long. This was, by far, the best cruise ship he ever took you on.

Axl saved your appreciative spark that night. You never acted like an entitled brat around him ever again, only in dreams!

Taglist: @hollywoodroses and @axlsyndrome

Side-note: if anybody wants to be added on my taglist for certain eras/characters, let me know!

[ghostofhyuck]

NCT Dream and 7 days with them.

Mark Lee ; Sunday church and brunch date

Sundays with Mark meant that it is the only time that he can live up to his faith. Sure, you're not really of that religious person but you're willing for your boyfriend. You two visit the nearest church around your place and would dedicate a small portion of your morning to attend it. You admire your boyfriend's dedication and faith so you just sit there and try to sink in what the priest's preaches. After church, you two would go out to have a brunch date! It'll compose of pastries and light breakfast while you two slowly sink in the cozy Sunday morning ambiance.

Huang Renjun ; Lazy Monday mornings

Monday mornings are the most dreadful time of the week. It wouldn't help either if your boyfriend is already whining that he's sleepy despite sleeping early that night. You have to drag him out of the bed because he's been pestering you with "five more minutes" every time you wake him up. When you succeeded with waking Renjun up, he'll be clinging to you like a koala bear as you drag him towards that the dining room where you prepared a heavy breakfast for him so that he can be fully-awake. <3

Lee Jeno ; Tuesday cinema promos

Tuesdays is when cinemas at your mall have promos. It can be the time where you drag Jeno to watch a movie with him. He's not really a huge fan of movies but hey, he can't complain when there's a promo. He'll be the type to pick the most random time slot like 10 am or 2:30 in the afternoon because the movie house is usually not crowded (especially on a Tuesday.) you two will watch the movie in silence, probably munch on the promo snacks you two bought and after the movie, you two would go eat inside the mall, reviewing the movie and whether or not the money was worth it. 

Lee Donghyuck ; Vacant Wednesdays

Wednesdays with Haechan can be a weird occurrence. It's that type of day where you two don't know what to do, stucked in the middle of week and pondering whether you two should do something productive or not. Some Wednesday, you two would go out and probably do a small shopping at the mall because you two want to buy out of impulse. Some Wednesday, you two are just in your apartment. Maybe sleeping the whole day away or doing a random deep cleaning as early as eight in the morning. 

Na Jaemin ; Happy Drunk Thursday

Thursdays with Jaemin meant Happy T! You two don't have any classes every Friday, so you two have planned to get drunk on a Thursday night. You two would dress up, do a pre-game at your place with a few bottles of beer or maybe a small bottle of vodka, then go straight to a club where you two dance the night away. Tons of people would either: hit up on you or Jaemin especially when one leaves the other to go the rest room, that's why don't be surprise if Jaemin has his arms around your waist the whole night. Maybe steals a kiss on you or two while giggling tipsily. 

Zhong Chenle ; Friday night-out

Fridays are the best especially when you have Chenle. You two would always find a way to make your Friday night the life of a party. If not going out to drink, Chenle would be the type to drag you to a karaoke bar just to sing your lungs out. Of course there will be drinks but singing >>> anything else. Friday nights are always an adrenaline for you two, one time, you two even rented an electric scooter and drove it around the empty streets of the city at an ungodly hour of 2 am. 

Park Jisung ; Saturday morning walks at the beach

Despite being a rest day, you and Jisung would try to be productive even though Saturdays can be so boring. Jisung would drag you out at five in the morning when the sun is barely out and it's a bit chilly. He'll drive you two at the local beach where a lengthy baywalk can be located. For once, Jisung would always tell you that you two should try to be fit by walking or maybe jogging at the beach. So walking it is. It'll be peaceful walk, with you two holding hands, as you two talk quietly while admiring the beach while the sun slowly rises.

[lovelytsunoda]

purple haze // charles leclerc

summary: writing a novel is a long an arduous process. luckily for y/n, she has a very supportive partner in crime, and when it all works out, he's the only person she would want by her side.

pairing: charles leclerc x author reader

warnings: alcohol consumption, talk of deadlines, book referenced is a good girls guide to murder by holly jackson. gets a lil steamy towards the middle but nothing comes of it. still not sure how i feel about this one, but i havent written for charles in forever and i got an idea i really liked but i don't know if it worked out when i put it on paper.

by the time y/n closed her laptop, she felt like her fingers were going to fall off. she leaned back in her desk chair, gutted to find that the monaco cityscape outside her living room window was now pitch black, as might had fallen on the city.

her first book had been a red-wine and oasis fuelled fever dream, the last three chapters being written to ‘don’t look back in anger’. and now, the final edits were done.

“I’m so proud of you, mon tresor.” charles gushed, bringing her another glass of wine.

“the last three years are finally paying off. a good girls guide to murder is done, and the world is ready to meet pippa and ravi.” she grinned, clinking her glass against her boyfriends.

she had poured three years of her life into that book, and Charles had been by her side for all of it. through numerous rejections, edits and late night idea-vomit, nobody was prouder than charles was so see it work out for her.

and now he knew she needed a break.

taking her hand in his, he gently dragged her out of the desk chair and towards the couch, placing their wineglasses on the coffee table as he urged y/n to sit on the ground between his legs.

his hands were warm as he began to massage her shoulders, attempting to release the tension caused by the last round of edits, which she had worked on almost from sunup to sundown.

“there’s still so much to do.” she whined, tilting her head back to look up at her lover. “now there’s arcs and extra promotions and finding advance reviewers and-“

charles cut her off with a kiss. “none of that right now. right now, you and me are going to finish this bottle of wine and watch something pointless on tv.”

smiling to herself, y/n got up from the floor and moved to the leather couch, slipping seamlessly into charles' lap and nestling against his chest. his body was warm, and his sweater soft. even if his cologne was a little bit too strong, he made her feel safe. treasured.

"that sounds perfect." she hummed, gently turning his face so she could kiss him. "thank you for supporting me."

"always, my love." charles smiled before kissing her again.

SIX MONTHS LATER

it was half past five in the morning when the phone rang. charles could sleep through just about anything, but it was the vibrations of the phone against her side table that woke y/n.

she looked over at her sleeping lover, pressing a gentle kiss to the smooth skin on his shoulder blades before slipping out of bed and creeping into the hallway to answer a call from her agent, cecelia.

"cece, its five in the morning. couldn't this have waited?"

ceclia cleared her throat. "i've just heard from the american office. the preliminary numbers for the new york times list are in."

"fuck. how did we do?" she closed her eyes, holding up her crossed fingers and praying to every god she wasn't sure she believed in.

and when cecelia spoke again, she almost dropped her phone.

"okay. thank you for letting me know, cece."

she slipped back into the bedroom, bare, dry feet sinking into the plush carpet at the end of the bed before she sat down at the end of the bed, gripping the phone so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.

"mon amour." charles rasped, exhaustion in his voice as he rolled over onto his back. "what's wrong?"

"i just got a call from cecelia." she started, trying not to let her emotions show through. "she's just been on the phone with our american agent with the new york times numbers."

charles sat up, one of his warm hands going to rest on her thigh. "and?' he asked hesitantly, his piercing eyes meeting her uncertain ones in the dark.

"i made the top ten." she shouted, grin spreading all across her features.

making the new york times list had made everything worth it. all the sleepless nights when she had woken up with an idea she was scared to lose, all the rewrites, the weeks of writers block. the rejections, the aggravation, the insecurity.

this was it.

she had done it.

"i'm so proud of you." charles beamed, folding her into a hug. "i knew you could do it, my brilliant girl."

she dropped her phone on the bed, red-faced and giggly as she kissed him, allowing her hands to wander across his toned chest. "wanna show me just how much?"

THREE YEARS LATER

the theater was almost silent when the lights came up, the end credits of the final episode fading out on the screen. she held her breath, fingers gripping charles' hand so tightly that she thought she might break the fragile bones in her husband's fingers.

oh, yeah. they had gotten married about a year after her book had come out, while she was in the middle of writing as good as dead, the conclusion to the series.

since a good girls guide to murder had come out, her life had changed for the better. she felt more secure in herself and her talent, and the words had never come easier when she started writing the sequel, eager ton continue the story. she had since written two more books to complete the trilogy, as well as two standalone novels: five survive and the reappearance of rachel price. around the time that rachel price was announced, she had gotten another call from cecelia, asking if she and charles could come to london and meet with representatives from the bbc.

they wanted to turn her first book into a tv series.

she had been hands on from the beginning, throwing herself into her work and doing her best to make sure that the version of the story the readers saw on screen was the version that she had visualized when she'd first explained the storyboard to charles, the driver helping her connect everything on their living room wall with red yarn.

and now was the time. the time to see if it had all paid off. the theater was filled with minor celebrities, influencers, and the tiktokers who had made her book blow up in popularity.

it all came down this night.

"it's okay. whatever happens, you know you did your best." charles whispered in her ear, running one hand up and down her bare back. underneath the flimsy straps of her red dress.

she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath when the roar off applause began to drown her.

she rode the rush of emotions, allowing the tears of gratification and relief to ruin her mascara as she let her body go slack, resting against charles as she watched the room rise in a standing ovation for pippa and ravi.

"we did it. we made it, charles." she laughed, tilting her head up to kiss him.

"no, cherie. you did this. they're all here for you."

she watched as the event's host, a former spice girl that charles knew through his paddock connections, stepped out into the middle of the small stage set up at the front of the theater.

"and now, the moment i'm sure you've all been waiting for, a few words from y/n /y/l/n-leclerc!"

she wiped her eyes and fixed her hair, taking a deep breath before she walked across the stage, taking the microphone from geri halliwell, and turning to face the crowd.

in the front row, there was charles. her one true love. her biggest supporter.

and in that moment, she truly allowed herself to believe that she had made it.

[ladylarynn]

Alleyway Affairs

Summary: The last you heard from Astarion, he told you to "die screaming." Months later, you find each other again. Only this time, deep in the city, in an alley under nightfall. Perhaps, he will bleed you dry. Or perhaps, he has other plans for you.

Rating: E

Word Count: 7.2k

Pairing: Astarion x you (fem!reader)

cw: 18+ REVIEW THE TAGS! established relationship pre breakup, post ending for BG3, blood drinking, exhibitionism, p in v, creampie, explicit consent, angst, additional tags posted on ao3

read on ao3

or keep reading below <3

It is in the end— after the blood had been shed, the world nearly ended. When you are once more alone, companions returning to their new obligations or new plights, when you are left with kind consolation and heavy goodbyes.

The city sleeps, yet often you do not. Residing at differing inns from night to night, you attempt to lead a life nameless once more. A lack of sleep, a predilection for forgetting. Perhaps that is also what led you here, entering a tavern prevalent in profound impropriety and bottomless drink.

The ale is a warm rush of current down your throat, a haze settling inside your mind. The scintillating fireplace of licking flames cast rhythms of shadow across unfamiliar faces.

You’re here on business… or rather, pursuing a whisper of opportunity. It isn’t unnatural to be stood up in this line of inquiry. Not many mages boast of wish spells, and even fewer know how to get their hands on one.

You had managed to not resort to needing Gale this long… so. Other avenues became necessary.

At least that is what you keep telling yourself as you keenly monitor the door.

One door close, and you pick lock it open, but your years in this line of work were hells bent on survival. Not miracles.

Yet, your miracles are not here. At least, one of them doesn’t show. The other you hope won’t.

You groan, cradling your head with your hands, then kneading balled fists against your eyes. The man eyeing you from across the bar coughs to conceal his sudden disinterest. Who can blame him? You’re pathetic.

“The deal is still on the table. You play your part just like you used to, and I help. The hero act wasn’t going to last, you know. Coming here is a testament to the matter.”

You grip the handle of your mug, your drink swishing to and fro. It all but topples over onto the front of your undershirt as you raise it to your lips. You take deep gulps, liquid dribbling down your chin. You smear it away.

You cannot get drunk quickly enough.

However, as the hour plays on, you begin to curse your tolerance of drink, as well as everything else gone wrong in the past months.

Fuck.

Gods, surely there is no use to this anymore—

A honeyed voice pollutes your buzz. It is a suave soliloquy, with syllables like rose petals. It wafts in the air, laughter silk soft with an undercut of severity. It prickles up your posture, and you are shrouded in thorns.

Fuck.

As sly as you may, you cast a glance over your shoulder, and there he is.

Without the tadpole's defiance of the sun, Astarion was thrust into the night once more, cavalierly caviling at the young man draped under his arm. The man is of noble build, with embroidered robes adorned in maroon and amethyst gems. The noble’s cheeks are a flush delight fueled by the splendor of Astarion’s charm.

The sight is the sea collapsing into you, wave after wave. Breath sealed in sinking lungs. You will drown if you don’t look away.

There are two awful realities to unfold before you.

One, how dismayingly odd the noble is for someone of Astarion’s taste. Just met his prime, early twenties, broad shoulders, and bright-eyed. These types were the kind Astarion would toy with until they bristled and cried. Not the kind he’d be involved with.

You swiftly shift to stare into your half-empty glass. A shiver stills your sigh.

Unless of course, the context of taste meant something entirely different.

Then it was most certainly his type.

You take a swig.

Second.

Astarion is philandering.

With your intended mark.

You shouldn’t look again. But you must be sure. On first inspection, the noble fits the bill all right; medium height, thin build, pale eyes, hair, and skin. The description checks out, everything but the—

A cacophony of swooning laughter manages to reach your side of the tavern.

“He laughs like a hyena.”

You turn, slow as if that will help conceal your gaze. It doesn’t.

Crimson eyes meet yours, and dread pollutes your surroundings, your thoughts, and your breath. Your stomach drops, the skin of your arms pebbling as a chill slinks its lips down your spine.

This is not how you planned the night to go.

There it is again, the clutch of your gut, the crater burrowing itself into the trenches of you.

You had not died— screaming, as he had last proclaimed. The reminder of those words, dripping in contempt, brazen in believed betrayal. They had marred your thoughts and sought to spoil the solace of your soul. The severance of your last encounter had sunk its teeth into you, chewed sinew, and spit out the scraps.

Astarion.

He whom you had given everything— anything— for. Gone. Never to be seen again.

But he is here— and you… you realize you really shouldn’t be.

You can’t be.

The mark can wait. There will be other nights.

Within a fluid movement, you set your mug aside, reach into your pouch, and spill gold coins across the counter. You make haste from the bar to the entrance. You slide behind shoulders and wade through strangers cackling and clinking cups unaware.

Even so, you feel him watching you.

The tavern bell chimes. You cringe with the acknowledgment it calls forth to you. The breath in your lungs constricts, the agony in the urgency to flee from his line of sight too much to endure.

Why is he here? Shouldn’t he be in the Underdark?

Did recognition pass across his countenance? He could have seen you but not see you.

This is the only comfort you can indulge in as you quicken your pace, the city lamp yellow hues sluicing and splaying across the street.

You’ve sobered up. Yet, everything is spinning. Swaying. Turning inside out.

You’re panicking.

A bell chimes and footfalls patter behind you. You don’t even need to look. The thought is nauseating. How well-versed you are in the sound of his steps.

“I hope you die screaming.”

It resounds in your mind just as he calls your name. It sounds foreign. It sounds like a memory. Like a dream, you never wake from.

You have half a mind to keep walking, roaming further into the city and into the surrounding, comforting dark.

He could want to make his past proclamation true.

Perhaps you’d let him if only to be rid of this ache.

This burden you bury beneath your smiles and behind your eyes, the loss of him you carry in your voice.

How it is known by all who know you.

“I didn’t think I would find you alone, in my time of the night. Where are your companions, darling?” His tone tinged in disdain; his darling laced with ridicule. There is a slow decline in breath. It staggers still in your lungs, like tangled strands caught in dragging dingers. Is it dread? Is it grief? Perhaps it is a touch of mourning.

You know now what you knew the last you spoke— you are the bearer for all that did not come to fruition. You are the reason he won’t say our companions. Our friends.

And though you loathe yourself for losing him, though you blame yourself for all the things you previously thought you were sheltering him from. You cannot endure this in silence any longer. Not when the chance to confront him is here.

Who are you to run away? You have spent your whole life running.

This isn’t imprisonment. This isn’t a life sentence.

Yet… isn’t it?

You can’t go on like this. You haven’t been.

You whip around, and Astarion stumbles into you. As you collide— his scarlet eyes widen, and a flash of recollection startling your pulse. The effect of being this close isn’t lost on you. You can see, even under the dim lanterns glow the crease of his brow, the wrinkle in his nose, the dip of his cupid’s bow. But just as sudden, he steels himself, stepping back and straightening, a glint in his glare, wrath warping his mouth and brandished on his tongue.

You muster the will to speak before he can.

“They were your companions as much as they were mine,” you bite back, though the spite of it makes you hesitate. Whatever you feel doesn’t matter.

“But…” you sigh, then start again, “that matters not…” you offer.

Your companions who watched you wither away the moment he left. Companions who offered you condolences yet spoke in passing of how things may have been different— for Astarion’s fate. It was blameless yet… how could they have not blamed you? And maybe that is why when it was over, you pushed them all away.

That is why you offered goodbyes in place of being a part of the next journey.

Karlach’s hand on your back, Shadowheart’s curt smile, La’zel’s tense jaw, Gale’s exasperation, Wyll’s sorry nod.

You’d never known family—let alone friends. So why grieve yourself over it?

Even if you gave all you could, even though you had killed yourself to keep the world.

It means nothing now.

All you can do is make him see sense. All you can do is convince him to listen, to hear you. You just didn’t think it would happen this soon when you are unready. When you are still angry— at yourself, at him, at everything.

“What matters is that I am sorry,” you plead, and Astarion teeters on his heel, bombarded by your insistence. But you can’t stop. Even if he thinks you are pathetic—distasteful or blunt.

Your hurt is too deep. You remember the vitriol in your supposed lover’s voice. You remember scrubbing your skin raw after the battle with Cazador. You remember numbly thinking if that was all you always were to him. A plot for protection. A ploy for power.

Hadn’t he said as much?

“I’m sorry how things ended. Now if that is all you wanted, let us be on our way,” you bitterly retort. You mean to turn your back on him, on all of this.

But just as sudden, the verses of carved intent burn at the inside of your wrist.

Dammit.

A contract is a contract.

Even if you walk away. Your past self has condemned you.

Abruptly, his cold, nimble fingers curl around your forearm. His filed nails nip into your skin— though the pain doesn’t end there. His touch burns through you fields of forlorn faith of anything different than the vile sure to leave his tongue.

He is incredulous.

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry? That’s all you have to say to me? Are you sorry to be reminded of how you refused to help me despite stating you would? How you ruin any chance of me ascending, of being more than my captor? You’re sorry?!” He bellows out, the way he does when things are far too outrageous to constrain within a reasonable decibel.

The words stick like tar and taste of arsenic. He must have rehearsed a version of these lines before, as he always made sure to hone his skill of slights. They puncture the air with each consonant, every vowel, as he draws you in closer.

His presence encircles you, a predator playing with its prey. He could end you here and now, drain you of all you are.

As if he hadn’t already.

You yank your arm away and vociferate back.

“I ruined your chance at becoming Cazador. You couldn’t see it. You wouldn’t. The spawn aside, you would have been damned. I love—” a near concession you barely manage to conceal, “I loved you,” you finish.

Dammit! You love him. His mean proclivity. His budding vulnerability. His gentle rebuffs. The sly quips, the grandiose turn of phrase, the sharp smiles, the soft uncertainty of palms alleviating parts of you that were left derelict. When the others slept, you’d glide your fingers through his strands of hair, humming quiet, close, gentle. You never knew if he truly saw you in the same way— as if you were precious as if you were his new comprehension of eternity.

It is why you’d been willing to risk your reputation to pay repentance. To earn some semblance of forgiveness.

Even if you had to become what you once were…

He wouldn’t have to.

And that is enough. Yet—

Yet, you blink and blink it back.

You can’t cry- not like this. Not now.

“I was trying to…” it almost tumbles from your tongue. Save you. That is what you mean to say. But it feels wrong to say it— it felt wrong even then, even if that is what you meant to do, even if it was done with intent rife with compassion, with desperation to help him. You know, deep down, he will despise you further if you admit it. You hadn’t wanted to fix him, but in that moment, you knew love would never heal him. Nor power. Not vengeance.

It was through choice— a choice you seemingly made for him.

So, you halt yourself. Shake your head, and turn away.

“Love?!” He sputters at your confession in disbelief. You hadn’t told him that before. It was never the right moment, or perhaps you feared rejection. Even if you had said it countless times, like the mantra pounding in your heart, would he have ever believed you?

He grips your wrist this time, preventing you from even daring to leave.

“I needed you. And you went back on your promise.” He says indignant. “I should kill you for what you took from me.” He gestures towards the blade sheathed at his hip and for an instant you… you wouldn’t mind if he did.

You’ve been beaten, bloodied, beguiled, spurned. What is left of you after the fight for the city? Victories wrought with death, a closure that did not fulfill. All of it was done with a broken heart.

Deep within, you cave.

How did we become this?

Your features crumble, brows pinching together and tears beginning to burn, threatening to descend your cheeks. You’d never let him see you cry. He’d heard you before… held you as you shook beside him. But never would you show your face. It was too much. For anyone.

Except… the night he left. In front of the others— you wept.

You cannot retreat into the night, for he knows the dark better than you. You had thought he’d known you better.

In the thralls of morality, you finally had the chance to do right by the world. So, you tried. Always.

It’s why he disliked you once. It’s why he cared for you later. It’s why he detests you now.

“Then go ahead Astarion, kill me if you must. But I… I love you with all of me. I promised I’d help you defeat Cazador. I never said I’d aid you in ascending. And you know— you had known I wouldn’t.”

It is a dagger through your heart, the tears have come, yet you cannot hide.

You’d said it.

Love. Not loved. Not the past tense, but the current, the now, the always, the evermore.

For a moment you think he didn’t hear you, didn’t believe you, or thought it a lie. With his proficiency in deceit, shouldn’t he recognize the absence of it?

Astarion’s resolve begins to crack. His lips twitched downward, his jaw tense. The watery remorse seeping into your voice makes him shutter, makes him step back. He clenches his fists, his eyes shutting tight. It’s as though he’s fighting— against what you say— against what has become of you both.

He opens his eyes, on the verge of tears.

“You had no right to refuse me,” he jabs his finger toward your chest, his words are crumpled, falling apart, “you said you would do what I needed.”

“I thought I was doing what you needed,” you insist, hands puncturing your wavering intonation, “That I— I couldn’t do what you wanted. And for that— I am sorry… I am sorry.”

You begin to cradle yourself, backing up, treading away from this… demise of you.

You mutter while meeting his eyes again.

“I know what you want now. I promise you will never see me again.”

Just as the others.

As soon as it leaves your lips, his hands are on your arm, at your wrist. He drags you down the dim alleyway between the tavern and the inn. He seizes you against the opposing wall, your body caged by his, your spine straightening to the cool press of brick.

He is all-consuming, a tidal wave. The moonlight combs through the waves of his hair and coruscates in the gleam of crimson irises. You inhale the aroma of his skin, and it riddles you speechless, the notes of rosemary, the undercurrent of bergamot and cinnamon intoxicating.

Anchoring you to the spot, Astarion is seething.

“No,” he pauses, squeezes his eyes closed, and shakes his head in contention before clenching your wrists tighter, pale red ringlets sure to form. “You don’t get to cry… you betrayed me. Maybe I didn’t become Cazador, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t become much worse.” A mirthless smile snags at the corner of his lips. He scrunches his nose, as if in disgust.

“Don’t look at me like I’m the one who did that to you. Don’t tell me you love me now.”

You steel yourself. You know the game he is playing all too well. You can’t let him see the wound he’s prying wide open, even if your heart is plummeting to the abyss inside your chest, even if your stomach churns.

You step into his space, causing him to flinch, his sneer slipping from his smug face. You murmur quiet, kind.

“You were afraid. I know. But power would not have quilled your fear. No one would hurt you more than you would have hurt yourself. You would have become everything you despise, and I couldn’t watch it happen.”

His grip has lessened. He looks at you with timid uncertainty.

Your voice hardens.

“You can hate me for it. You can kill me for it. But I never wanted to hurt you.”

What you say lingers in the air for a long moment. He regards you with an inscrutable expression.

But it shifts. It morphs. It becomes impenetrable, unknowable. Astarion does what he does best. He withdraws within himself. He counters with defiance.

“The path to the hells is paved with good intentions, my dear.”

You gasp as he releases your wrist, then bring his deft fingers to glide over the underside of your jaw. You shiver, ensnared by the sensation of his sharp nails, his thumb pressing against the seam of your lips, parting them ever so slightly. He drags his thumb over the plush of your bottom lip, and the breath strangled in your lungs releases in a broken sigh, his touch igniting a memory, only known by your skin.

He surveys you with a raised brow, with prowling eyes. His eyes peruse your body as his other hand descends your forearm, nails tracing an aimless motif. Fingers flow from there to the bend of your waist, featherlight over the fabric of your blouse. He curls his palm snugly on your side, thumb positioned beneath the underside of your breast. He can feel your inhale beneath his splaying fingertips. You exhale shakily slow, clinging to the façade of indifference. He tilts his head with a tsk of disapproval, then gently grips your chin.

He flattens his palm over part of your cheek and jaw, slanting your head. He brushes your hair aside, unveiling your neck, then skims his lips over the shell of your ear. He is so close, so familiar. The sanctuary of this nostalgia overcomes you. His cashmere voice is a susurration for surrender.

“Say you’ll let me,” he coos, and the sweet redolence of his presence pervades your senses. Yet, you must try to resist, even when his fingers at your side wade up and down, soothing, and — tempting. When his lips press beneath your ear, then over your pulse, warmth cascades down inside your core, and your knees buckle. You feel the heat bloom between your thighs, your sanity yielding from this all-encompassing yearning.

He drags his fangs over the nape of your neck yet does not bite. Instead, he hallows his cheeks and begins to suck, a violet blossom blooming into your skin beneath his mouth.

You tremble against him, another gasp fumbling from your lips.

“Oh.”

You feel him smile as he hums against the hollow of your throat in approval. Your hips jolt toward his, and you inhale brokenly as his arousal presses to your stomach. It is straining against the fabric of his trousers, firm and full.

Your lust threatens to unravel all sense. Your mind is in the mist.

Latching onto your heavy gaze with his own, he repeats himself.

“Say you’ll let me.”

He says it with resolute intonation, yet an inkling of doubt tinges the end of his sentence. It is not a command, though not a question either. Perchance, he is not sure for which he implies. If he is struggling with who he has created himself to be, or if he is still the Astarion you knew.

Never treading too far, too close, without reassurance. Yet, here, and now, he treads the line of persistence in proving to you the error of your ways. The error in endeavoring to see him, to know him for all the beautiful, the soft, and the gentle. For forgetting who he was made to be. For thinking ascension would be the thing that would break him when he, himself, is too far gone.

You ache with the love you have for him.

“Show me the kind of man you’ve become,” you reply, calm, “Why ask for permission?”

He hesitates for a moment, doe-eyed and dazed.

Then, he decides.

He tilts his head, looking at your lips.

“I wasn’t.” Astarion states, with a cadence of wavering insistence, and with it, you sink lower into the surrounding night.

Your body tensing, your pulse quickening.

His fingers leave your side and weave into the strands of your hair. He pulls your head into a slant once again, causing the nape of your neck to become completely and utterly exposed. The markings of his kisses are scattered along the skin, like that of his own design.

The moonlight swims in his half-hooded gaze, glints off his fangs, and fills you to the brim with trepidation.

There is a sudden, stark stillness in your body.

He mutters, insouciant, “I’ll bleed you dry.”

His breath is a warm flush on your skin, and then his fangs delve deep.

“Ahh!” you hiss, sagging into the adjacent wall. His lips enclose, as he begins to suck a stream of your blood into his voracious mouth. He is harsh in his thirst, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every thick swallow of your blood he takes, the tug of your hair eliciting a dull pain.

Despite this— a sinful sense of pleasure saturates the pain, as it always does when he feeds. Your pulse, heightened, like an orchid in full bloom, beating a deafening rhythm. It is reverberating in your ears, in your temples. Your fear once formidable now fleeting, flowing away with each draw of your blood to his lips.

The euphoria of feeding envelops you in a lukewarm embrace, milky mind a mirage. His grip eases on your hair, and he steadies your jaw with caressing fingers, the rush of your blood now a slow, steady pull from your veins. The effect of drinking entrances him, and you feel the hum of his moan, the lulling of his languorous lips.

It is as though you are being anointed, touched by phantom palms in all the places you yearn— the heat building beneath your skin like a fever that will burn you alive. Your voice, a lilt of his name, shivery and silver. He hmmms against your neck, and your fingers find their way into his curls, trailing your nails through his strands and over his scalp.

He groans, deep in his throat. It is just like the way he used to, those many months ago.

It is like your head is floating, the fever a flavor you sought to forget— but there is no forgetting, not when it is etched into the marrow, into your soul. You want him. So much, you are distraught with want, the heat coalescing at your core, seeping down your inner thighs.

He unlatches his mouth, just to mutter, voice drenched in desire, “I can taste it. You’re so eager for me.”

“I— I don’t—” you whimper in response, biting your lip. But as you try to deny—

Astarion holsters your wilting body up and shifts his knee, pushing it between your thighs. The friction is not nearly enough, yet all too much. You try to resist, yet all sense has vanished. You succumb to him, rolling your hips against his knee, aching for relief. Astarion’s breath catches in his lungs, and though your eyes have fallen shut, you don’t know if it’s to solely focus on the chase of a teetering high or to escape the city’s midnight mussitations. Maybe it is to memorize the motion of hips, the silk of his sigh, the bend of his fingers clenching and unclenching on your waist. It’s building and building, a relentless sea in the mellow meringue of his dipping vowels, the thrumming of this heat enough to drown in.

His knee drops, and despite yourself, you let out a faint whine. You think it is on purpose, a cruel way to deter your relief, yet he grips your hips and pulls you flush against him.

He feels so good, heavy, and thick, snug against where you need him most.

He grinds into you with every sashaying sigh, his head drooping into the crook of your neck. His dulcet exhales tremor through you, showering your head from toe. Your toes curl inside your boots, and your hands clench in fistfuls of his hair.

You don’t know how far this will go— especially here, only concealed by nightfall.

If it remained like this, insatiable, yet… safe. Not crossing the line…

Just as the thought nips at you, Astarion is wedging down the sides of your trousers inch by inch, your mound of curls peeking out from your underwear. He means to feel you, to know the wetness between your thighs. You clench them together, suddenly shy, sheepish at him having evidence of how eager you truly are, how completely he’s undone you with only this continual grazing of his hips, a brush of his lips to the shell of your ear.

You part your thighs, just barely enough for him to flatten his palm and curl his knuckles around your cunt, fingers a touch away from delving between your folds. Yet— he doesn’t. He hovers his fingers there. He is waiting for something yet can’t quite admit.

You know.

You nod, ever so slightly, and give in, letting him set the pace, letting him ascertain what he needs from you.

“Please,” you say, trying to withstand shifting into his touch.

His chest rises and falls. His ring finger slides over the seam of your lower lips, thumb a featherlight swirl around your clit. He teases his middle finger between your folds, sinking slowly until he is knuckle-deep. Your hands leave his hair and find purchase on his shoulders. Your head sways and you bite your bottom lip, stifling a moan.

“Mmmn—“

“You like this?” He says, not unkind. He gently pumps his finger in and out, in and out. A leisurely tempo of sweet torture.

“Yes.”

He lifts his head to look at you, crimson irises a thin ring, his pupils blown wide.

“You want more, don’t you darling,” he encourages you in a sly teasing tone, with a lilt of consideration.

“Yes—“

His ring finger pushes in, and you adjust to the width of them both. Your heartbeat is like a crescendo, as his fingers glide, soaked in your arousal. Again, and again, they pump into you, increasing in pressure, in pace. His thumb twirls over your clit, lazy circles compared to his fingers.

Your nose scrunches, your nails dig into his shoulders. He coos into your ear, praises of you sound so insatiable, such a good girl.

It’s coming, you know it when your hips begin to jut forward sporadically, the coil tightening in your core about to snap. Sizzles of stars pepper behind your eyelids, and stream down your spine.

But can you be quiet enough? What if someone hears you? Sees you?

The inkling of worry must show on your face.

“Just focus on my fingers,” he soothes, “on my voice.”

His thumb massages over your clit, and you gasp out a fragmented version of Ah—starion.

“Let me make you cum, sweetheart,” he susurrates, “you’re so beautiful like this. Clenching on my fingers, whimpering my name.”

His reassurances are relentless, and you tip over the edge of oblivion, rashly muffling your moans into his shoulder, into the fabric of his shirt. Waves of white wash over you, pulse thrumming in your chest.

It is pooling in your core, soaking his fingers, and dripping down his wrist.

You hear him give a shaky breath, wrought with longing and saccharine anguish by your release.

“I want you… I… I can’t— I need you,” he admits on impulse, his fingers sliding out from you, drenched. You tremble at the loss of them, nearly delirious in your post-high. His words make your core clench, make you feverish once more.

Does he mean to take you? Right here? Right now?

A concoction of concern looms over you, and you lift your head from his shoulder. You glance at him, then dart your gaze from one side of the alley, a dead-end brick wall, to the other side. The street before you is devoid of life, no Flaming Fist patrollers, no drunkards huddled in dusk. The lanterns give a dim glow, swaying in the cool breeze. Nevertheless, the light cannot reach you here. Though, surely someone will leave the tavern once the hour’s shade dissipates, to flee home from a brawl, or to sluggishly crawl into bed.

You look to him once more, and again it is as though he reads your mind.

“I know,” he sounds pained, head drooping. By the tension of his trousers, the shut of his eyes, perhaps he is.

“I won’t… we don’t have to,” he quietly assures, and it is so unlike the bravado of before. It is delicate.

You see him, the Astarion you had once been devoted to. Ready to fight for, to die for. And although it may lead to disaster, to the unraveling of your very being, you have never been surer.

This evidently wasn’t only about lust. If it had been, he’d have left you by now for your mark in the tavern. He wouldn’t have followed; he wouldn’t have touched. To be this close had always been a rarity done out of a need to be cared for, adored, to be cherished. Though he may never love you, though he may be planning to hurt you in a way worse than death, you… if only for tonight…

Your palm caresses his cheek, and you meet his eyes.

“I want you,” you murmur, “I’ll be quiet.”

A breath and his eyelashes fall over his eyes as they watch your lips. He leans in close.

“Let me hear you,” he states, then his lips are on yours. The seal of his lips eases the weight of hesitation from your skin, his honeyed mouth in harmony against yours. His tongue slides over the seam and you part your lips, tangling your tongue with his. His needy palms are at your waist, gripping and pulling you nearer as he angles his head, deepening the kiss. You nip at his bottom lip, and he groans in his throat.

You briefly come up for air, panting with the metallic aftertaste of your blood lingering on your tongue. A chill hits your exposed skin as he anchors his fingers at your pants once more, tugging them down until they fall to your knees. You step out of them, a flourish of fear amalgamating with shameful escalating arousal. He pulls you in for another kiss, as his fingers begin to fumble with his waistband. You aid in his endeavor, dragging his pants down until his cock can spring free.

You taste his steadying inhale. He breaks the kiss, then hooks one of your legs over his arm, pushing your back further into the wall, deeper into the cocooning shadow.

You are vibrating with anticipation, dripping onto the floor. He presses the head of his cock to you, and you quiver. He nuzzles it over your folds, then glides it back and forth, until it’s slick, until it’s ready.

You look at him, and the array of emotions passing over his countenance is like deciphering a blur of seasons changing. Your chest is heaving. You are fully bare, fully vulnerable, in more ways than one.

You need him so fucking bad, your hips push forward instinctively, the head of his cock nearly dipping inside you. He responds in a low, guttural grunt, hiking your leg a bit higher, bumping the tip of his cock against your sex once more.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, half delirious, half desperate, rolling his hips into you.

His brows are furrowed, white lashes cast over closed eyes. The damask rose of his flushed cheeks, the pink tips of his pointed ears, pale skin incandescent under the moonlight.

He feels so good, so heavy, and thick sliding over your sex.

He looks so beautiful, the corner of his lips smudged with your blood, the scarlet trail disappearing down his jaw.

But it matters not— his body, his beauty. It is all of him, in every way. The meadows of his mind, the lilies of his laugh. The valleys of his voice, the lavenders of his language. The willows of his worries, the serene of sunrise in his smiles—

Your heart could burst outside your chest. Your vision is a stretch of liquid silhouette.

“I love you,” you say, as if it is as natural as breathing, as simple as the sun rising at dawn.

He reacts in a tremulous exhale, nostrils a flare and the arm anchoring your leg falling a little.

A flush of embarrassment flames in your cheeks.

He probably didn’t mean for you to say that again.

An apology is on the tip of your tongue when he repositions himself at your entrance and sinks in.

Inch by inch.

“Ah—!” You gasp, yet his palm is quick to soften the sound as he encloses it over your mouth. You whine into his hand; your eyes rolling back as he sheathes himself inside your wet, hot heat. You squirm slightly to adjust to the girth of him. He doesn’t stop pressing forward until you are full to the brim.

Astarion pulls out almost completely, before slamming back inside. His hand falls a bit from your lips, and as if by instinct you part your lips, sucking his index and middle finger into your mouth. You peek at him with low-lidded eyes, and he curses the gods beneath his breath.

You hum around his fingers as he sets a sinful rhythm of a gradual outward pull, a heavy plunge in. The slapping of skin echoes softly in the alleyway, and it is downright disgraceful, yet you become lost in its soliloquy. He is undoing the tethers of your mind, diluting all sense.

There is no doubt he feels it too, his agonizingly slow pace increasing in intensity, his quiet pants becoming drawn-out moans.

“Gods, you feel so fucking good,” he mutters, pumping himself in and out, over, and over. You think you may go insane. His fingers pop from your mouth, and he takes hold of your chin.

“Look at me,” he instructs, and you comply, though it makes you blush, makes you boil hot in your blood.

“Say it again,” Astarion commands, and you clench around him in astonishment, in a flare of pleasure. You whimper unintelligibly, glancing away, embarrassment steeping in your face as a surge of wetness coats his cock.

He nearly loses control.

“Say it,” he growls out as he slams deep into you again. His hand clasps your jaw, fingers a curve over part of your neck, urging you to look at him once more.

“I love you,” you confess. You feel tears beginning to prick your eyes, as an impending orgasm sears within you something fierce. Your cunt tightens over his cock, you feel him throb.

“Again.” He orders through clenched teeth, thrusts now sloppy, uneven.

“I love… I—” You try to speak, yet the words are a jumble from your mouth. It’s coming, oh fuck… it’s…

“I love you,” you profess, just as your orgasm consumes you in licks of flame, in rivers of euphoric relief, just as—

Fangs. Fangs delve deep into your neck, the shivery silk of your orgasmic high becoming static fuzz, as Astarion begins to drink your blood like he’d gone centuries without it.

You try to speak, but you are left speechless, as with each draw of your blood, you feel his cock pulse inside of you, his body shuttering, his groans vibrating into the hallow of your throat.

Astarion sucks hard, his hips slamming into yours as he reaches his climax. His cock spasms as he releases his seed inside you, droplets of his cum dripping to your feet. The rush of your blood being drained renders you weightless.

He is devouring you, mouthful, after mouthful.

“Astarion—” you plead, fingers clenching in his hair, tugging at his head. He won’t budge, won’t stop.

“Please,” you beg, tears beginning to cascade down your cheeks.

It is as though he can’t listen, as if set in a trance. Your heartbeat starts to slow, your sight fading.

Your grip loosens on his hair. You don’t pull— instead, you graze your fingernails over his scalp, like an ocean wave meeting the shore, trying to remind him, trying to—

BANG.

A door swings open, the sound emitting from the tavern. Astarion jolts, fangs yanking out of your flesh, blood spilling down his chin. His cock slips from you, and you sigh at the loss of him. Your consciousness ebbs in and out. You slump against the wall, almost unable to stand as he drops your leg to the floor.

You feel his frenzied hands at your ankles, yanking up your trousers. You numbly watch his flustered movements as he pries up his own pants.

Foreign voices ring out, an argument of sorts. You aren’t sure.

You aren’t sure of anything.

Astarion is mouthing words at you. His hair in disarray. His eyes glistening in the moonlight. He attempts to keep you standing, while scouring the floor for something.

“Please,” he suddenly sounds so frantic, so afraid. You feel something bump against your lips.

“Please drink. Darling, please,” he implores.

He tips the bottle and something familiar hits your tongue. You begin to gulp it down, the bottle trembling in his hold as you do.

A cool nourishment floods your body, and your senses and your surroundings return to you once more.

A potion of healing.

You drink until the bottle is empty. Though you feel rejuvenated, it is not enough to wholly quell the effects of blood loss. The skirmish down the street seizes your bones in realization, a welcome distraction from what just occurred.

You cannot get caught like this.

You hand the bottle back to Astarion wordlessly, avoiding his eyes. You double-check your body and find at least you are fully clothed. The sticky mess between your thighs and in the crook of your neck, however, brings anything but relief.

“We need to go.” You mutter emotionless, attempting to brush past him.

Could you still scale the wall in this state? It’s a miracle you’re even breathing right now.

Astarion grabs your wrist and says your name.

“You can’t,” he states, and again, he knows your thoughts. It does anything but endear you.

He continues, “Not like this. We need to wait for them to leave.”

“Why?” You bite back in a whisper. “So you can finish me off?”

He recoils with the stab of your words.

Good.

You yank your hand away.

It would have been one thing if he’d just had his meal, but instead, he made sure he had all of you.

You don’t know if it’s him you’re more upset with, or yourself. A sob claws at your throat. You turn away from him, approaching the wall. You begin to scope out a path for your hands and feet.

“It’s your fault.” He declares, and you stiffen, unmoving. You peer back at him.

“Yes. All my fault,” you move towards him, finger jabbing into his chest.

You take your wrist, and without forethought, smear it over the blood still wet at your neck.

You extend it out for him to see. A contract, made in blood, visible only in blood, illuminates in a yellow scrawl of initials on your skin.

“And I have done everything to make up for it.”

His eyes widen in shock. He grips your wrists, inspecting the golden glow of letters.

“Why—”

“A wish scroll,” you don’t let him finish, “I complete the contract, and I get a wish scroll. It could… it could cure you… or at least allow you to live in the sun.”

He drops your wrist, shaking his head in disbelief.

“How many?”

“Seventeen.”

He lets out a breath.

“Only seventeen?”

“Of noble birth,” you state, “though still far better than seven thousand.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.

A voice rings out from down the street. Someone is calling the nightly patrollers.

You tense and then turn away once more.

“You’ll need me alive if you want that scroll. So, let’s part from here. I’m sure I can find you once I get it.”

“This isn’t you,” he argues, “the hero of the grove, the savior of Baldur’s gate, of the world. You can’t tell me your feelings for me are enough to inspire this.”

“Astarion.” You slide a palm down your face. This conversation is going nowhere, and you’re running out of time.

“There are things about me I never spoke of. That our friends could never know. I wanted to be something different, and I was. But this is more to me than that. You are more to me than that.”

He is silent. Your voice softens. You’re about to cry.

“I’ll see you when it’s over.”

Before he can respond, a CLANG clatters from the street. A rustle of feet, and voices rising. Someone is being arrested.

You don’t waste time to find out. You begin to scale the wall, ignoring the throb of your neck, and the exhaustion of your limbs. You force yourself to climb until you’ve reached the top.

You don’t look back at him. You slide over the other side, then hit the ground running.

You hear him call after you, yet you don’t stop. You won’t.

You run as far as you can, bitterly knowing that when morning comes, at least then you’ll be safe from him.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

To a Tea 2

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

Part of the Sweet and Spicy AU 

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

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

Summary:  A demanding customer grows increasingly needy.

Character:  Raymond Smith

The title is a pun, don’t @ me.

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

You don’t often miss work, but that week, a burst pipe throws everything off. A morning spent waiting on your landlord, then the next few hours for a plumber, has things a bit off kilter. Even the next day, you’re not quite back on point. 

The patched wall next to fridge reminds you of the disaster and a dingy smell persists. You hope it doesn’t cling to you as you set off for your shift that day. If you can, you want to pick up some hours from others if their up for grabs. Harry doesn’t like Saturday’s, maybe he’ll hand over some. 

You try to leave your problems behind as you catch a bus down to the city centre. You get to the tea shop five minutes before the hour. Jenna’s wrapping up the opening tasks as you go to leave your things in the back. You tie on your apron and unlock the front door for the first customers of the day. 

At first, it’s a trickle. Never very much at all. The early risers who often come alone or if they aren’t, they don’t speak much or very loudly. The smell of fresh baking and the slow rising sun add to the lazy din. 

“Thought the special was strawberry today,” you comment as you transfer macarons from a cooled tray to the display. 

“Eh, it was but we didn’t have enough jam,” she shrugs. “Changed the sign, is all.” 

“Ah, thought my mind was lagging again. Everything’s been off since yesterday.” 

“Eh, how’s the apartment, anyhow? Marilyn said it was something about a leak?” 

“Burst pipe,” you explain, “they took out the wall above the sink, buncha clanging all day. When I tell you this place is like heaven.” 

She chuckles, “can be.” 

“There’s a formal tea booked in the Marigold Room at noon,” she intones, “forgot to mention that. With Mother’s day coming up, suppose we’ll get more bookings.” 

“Suppose,” you go to check the schedule hanging on the wall. “Party of twelve, wow.” 

“I’ll man the till. Honest, since those ladies at New Years, I’ve hated doing them.” 

“No problem, Harry should be here, shouldn’t he?” 

“Well, he’s... called in.” 

“Again?” You whine as you face her. 

“Are you really surprised?” She scoffs. 

“No one else to cover? Not even Louisa?” 

“Nah, she’s on holiday still.” 

You huff, “fine. Not much of a choose then, is it?” 

🫖

The tea room is as close to raucous as you’ve ever heard it. You have your back to the rest of the shop as you balance the stacked serving trays with an array of sponge cake, fruit, and biscuits. It’s the typical assortment for a tea party booking. 

You’ve already served the tea and the sandwiches, and dessert is the last bit, along with any further pots needed to be steeped throughout. With a partner, it isn’t hard to keep up, but alone, it’s rather overwhelming. Jenna does her best to assist but there aren’t many lulls around lunch time. 

Beyond that, the tourists are chatty. You could hardly get away to fetch each course as they wanted to chat about the culture and your suggestions of what they should do next. It’s nice that they’re friendly but still stressful. 

You put the trays on the cart and roll it around the counter. As you do, you nearly skid to a halt. In the rush, you hadn’t noticed him. Your eyes meet Raymond’s as he watches you. Intent, intense. You give an apologetic smile and nod in acknowledgement. Jenna wanted to deal with the main room, she’ll have to wipe down his table and do her best. 

You roll behind the wall and into the Marigold room. You present the tray and grab it by the ring at the top, lifting it onto the centre of the table. You roll around to gather the empty plates and cups, taking two pots for refill. 

You come back out and see Raymond standing, just as he was. He sees you too. Watching, hands folded, knuckles white, jaw set. He’s usually patient but you don’t know how long he’s been waiting. 

You roll behind the counter and sigh, clearing off the cart as Jenna steams a tea latte. 

“Can you wipe Raymond’s table?” You ask. 

“Who?” She furrows her brow. 

You glance over your shoulder toward the man in question and she follows. She rolls her eyes, “I tried, I wiped the the table. He didn’t sit.” 

“Hm, well... did you wash your hands first?” 

“Christ Almighty, what is he a child?” 

“Jen, he’s just... you know, my mom’s the same. He can’t help it.” 

“You can deal with him. I won’t be arsed,” she sniffs, “he was rude and you know I don’t got time for those ones.” 

“Jenna, I’m kinda up to my eyes,” you dump the used bags from a pot. “I know he can be prickly but just wash your hands and redo the table.” 

“Ugh, fine,” she sneers, “but you owe me.” 

“Let’s call it even,” you retort as you pour boiling water into the pots mouth. 

She shakes her head and huffs, “guess it is.” 

🫖

It’s nearly three in the afternoon. It’s quiet. Harry’s on his phone instead of doing the cups and your wiping the empty tables to keep yourself moving. The door opens and you glance over to make sure Harry’s alert. He’s not. 

Doesn’t matter. It’s him. Raymond. You stand and clutch the cloth tight in your hand as you greet him. 

“Be right with you, Raymond,” you assure him. 

He barely looks at you as he goes to wait next to his table. You go behind the counter and mutter under your breath in Harry’s direction, “...dirty cups.” You wash your hands and make sure to clink some of the empty porcelain in an effort to draw your coworker’s attention. He’s still entranced by his phone. 

You take the disinfectant wipes and go back out. You approach Raymond as he checks his watch. 

“How are you today?” You ask. 

He grumbles and shrugs, “fine.” 

“English Breakfast, black,” you declares as you finish wiping up, “usual.” 

“So you remember,” he challenges as he steps close, closer than ever, before sidling around to sit. 

“Of course, I always do,” you smile. 

“And last time?” 

“Last time...” 

“Twice.” 

You’re confused. What is he talking about? 

“I came on Tuesday and you weren’t here. Then on Thursday, you didn’t even say hello.” 

“Oh, well, I’m sorry, Raymond, it was a busy day. Tuesday, I had a personal emergency so I didn’t even know you’d been in--” 

“I’ll have my tea now,” he interjects tersely. 

“Right, tea,” you confirm and spin around. 

“Crooked strings,” he remarks dully, “again.” 

[afreakingdork]

Writing Request: Reader x Donnie's V-Card 💜

Hey, guess what?! I do these anonymously too!

This one goes out to a lovely anon! Thank you for your support!

From now until the poll closes if you can prove to me that you voted hassan/mikey in this poll then I will write any short 100-400 word request like below or draw you a doodle of your chosing!

ᴰᶦˢᶜˡᵃᶦᵐᵉʳ: ᴵ ᵃᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ ᶦⁿ ᵃⁿʸʷᵃʸ ᵃˢˢᵒᶜᶦᵃᵗᵉᵈ ᵒʳ ᵉⁿᵈᵒʳˢᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜᵒᵐᵖᵉᵗᶦᵗᶦᵒⁿ ᵒʳ ᶦᵗˢ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉˢᵗᵃⁿᵗˢ.

Under the cut for spice, but it's not explicit!

Donnie had meant to do this so sweetly. He had a plan. He was going to do exactly what you were supposed to. Despite his proclivity otherwise, he was going to lay out rose petals. He was going to set the mood with lighting that made up for that garish red and avoided the danger and smell of scented candles. He had four different playlists prepared and an algorithm ready to switch based on what tempo best suited the night. He had a multitude of condoms in their different texture and make-ups because there should be a choice and he definitely didn't get overwhelmed looking at the yokai selection. he had lubes of the same, but that had thankfully been an easier choice.

So why were you sinking down his length in the bathroom while he sat on the toilet of all things?

Family.

He wasn't thinking of them.

Friends.

They were the furthest things on his mind.

What wasn't was the start of this intimacy. The romantic plan had gone as discussed. You were both ready to take the next step. You inaugurated the evening with a date. There was light dinner that was walked off in cozy arm and arm. There were the lights of the city and a few breath taking jumps to get your heart rate elevated. Though he had taken you to see the city from above, there was a new connotation as New York sparkled in your eyes.

The moment you turned to share the sight with him, you saw his vision and that was it.

You kissed.

It grew a little hotter.

You whispered against him to take you home.

it was another shot of adrenaline as he carried you straight down the closest underground entrance that led to the lair. You whimpered in his arms as he shot you amorous looks throughout. You mewling thing were all the more ready and he equally so even if there was a certain clamminess to his hands.

You got to his room.

He locked up the door tight.

The roses.

The light.

The playlist.

The assortment of choice.

You were thankful in your saunter and plied him with kisses. It made all the agonizing and embarrassing preparation worth it. Those cheek pecks once again drew heat from his core. His heart swelled. It was his turn for the flood of endorphins and you steering the pair of you to bed was your confirmation that you were game. You wanted him. You chose him.

What sweet validation.

As you teetered on the bed, it began. First Leo, who portalled straight in because only the lab had that kind of anti-mystic protection. You squeaked knowing your misdeed, but to the outsider, you looked like you were doing nothing more than making out. Donnie raged at the interruption, but Leo brushed him off saying he needed back-up in dinner choice. Donnie oh, so kindly reminded him that he had already ate and the date was long logged in the family calendar. Leo not so hopelessly stared at him and second guessed the decision before he was run out. Donnie was left fuming at the door as he added a 'DO NOT DISTURB' sign.

"It's alright."

Your voice was sweet nectar.

It beckoned and soothed.

He floated back to you and never reached your lips when the pounding came.

Michelangelo in a tizzy because he'd dropped his ant farm. His latest hobby and the colony has somehow unionized. He spoke of how they were taking over the room with domain expansion ready for the kitchen provision and Donnie screamed over his shoulder for Mikey's to just ready for once in his life. There was a popped syllable and bashful apology before the air hung heavy. The littlest made his review of the three words as loud as possible before he cited comparatively non-nonchalant apologies and annouced to Raph that they were going to war as peace talks fell through.

The oldest brother groaned somewhere not too far away.

A little close for comfort as you shudder where you were beneath your boyfriend.

"I'm starting to realize the others are... right there..."

The first signs of uncertainty flared in his mind, but he could fix this. He enacted sound proofing. He set his entire room to do not disturb. This measure was typically saved for crashing on particularly hard nights, but it was worth it. This was his fault for not remembering how tenacious his family was. He was the one making the best nest for you and his folly had been in placement. Once again secure, you reviewed his preparations with some meter of affection.

There was still a chance.

A kiss.

Shy and sweet that simmered as the burner was on. The heat percolated in bubbling pops of lips leaving for air and little soft moans. They lead further down with your hands shaping his plastron and his at your sensitive sides. Down until your back hit the bed and you pulled him with. His knee slotted between your legs and your heads dipped to share a little more than oxygen.

"PURPLE!"

Splinter's voice was a bucket of ice water in some old time challenge and Donnie could only turn his head before all his carefully constructed provisions were broken through in a second. Mystic prison hadn't been able to hold his father; the man was too powerful for his own lazy right. Especially when he demanded his remote be fixed after the ant army had taken its batteries to power their remote controlled tanks.

Donnie was starting to think he may have to help that endeavor as he marched over to get his dad two triple A's.

You.

You with your kindness.

You with your patience for him.

You talked to his father in the meantime.

Yes, the date was wonderful.

Me and Donnie were planning to spend more time together tonight.

No, we won't be eating dinner with you.

I hope you get the clam chowder you're craving.

When Donnie returned, you looked a little to comfortable on his bed. No longer were you ready to be splayed, but you were sat ready on the edge. A sight of someone in the midst of changed plans, Donnie relegated the union of your love to another night. You would go now and have at it on the battlefield before your war torn bodies enjoyed whatever dinner option Leo presumably wanted instead.

That would be nice.

Be it laying beside you with a sheen of sweat from coupling or conflict, you would look just as radiant.

You finally stood, your face determined, and took his hand to go.

He was putty in your fingertips and only sort of noticed your detour to his table of choice.

Then you were in the hallway where the distant sounds of the fray leaked out.

You didn't go that way.

You turned, presumably ready to get suited up in his lab.

You led him right into the bathroom.

He had been stunned, but you continued to move him.

The door locked.

You worked his fly.

He took a cold seat with a bare thighs on porcelain.

You stripped only the necessary bottom layers.

You prepared yourself.

You prepared him.

Back at where his mind had left him, you had descended upon him with little force. Only the angle was a tricky one, but you were certainly managing. A slow up and down that spread your love out from its fluttering wing beats in his heart to between his legs. The steadily increasing moisture of the right whipping filled the air before you caught him. You shared his distraction with a hopeless smile. You accepted him in all parts, family included and you were his beating heart. It was his pleasure to watch your reassurance slip into little breathy moans and he left behind his place as bystander. In one twitch of his thighs and his hands to your hips, his angle improved and you draped over him to share in the sweetness.

The story for old would include the bed.

it would include the petals.

The gorgeous lit neon.

Playlist number three.

You had full say in the memory he'd print, but this, you framed with the shower curtain in the background, working yourself as hard as you could for him, whispering his name like a plea and your salvation, that part he would leave in for your future generations and he leaned in to make sure you'd agree to it the same way.

[vimbry-moved]

*if you've heard a couple songs but don't really know much about them, or haven't listened in a long while, you can play!

update: the highest votes went to gudetama. but was it correct? here are the full titles and albums.

❌ "put your hand inside the puppet head" - they might be giants

the opening verse makes reference to leaving one's job and how "it's sad to say, you will romanticise all the things you've known before. it was not, not, not so great". according to flansburgh, "the lyric revolves around the idea that looking back on anything colors it in sentimentality".

❌ "I'll sink manhattan" - they'll need a crane (ep)/miscellaneous T

this is a flansburgh song, but linnell explained its meaning in a 1989 interview with NME as "a song about a guy who somehow figures out how to sink the island of manhattan just to kill his ex-lover, so it's his apology to the other people he's gonna kill in between. he's just gotta do it!"

❌ "meet james ensor" - john henry

it's about james ensor (belgium's famous painter).

❌ "wicked little critta" - mink car

from the tmbg unlimited collection: "forged in the crucible of an eastern massachusetts junior high, this song expresses the dreams, fears and hopes of a new england young adult" the lyrics seem to suggest said young adult fantasising about being a sports star alongside bobby orr and john havlicek while goofing off outside.

❌ "working undercover for the man" - mink car

from flansburgh: "it's more a meditation on the "mod squad" [a 1968 crime series about cool undercover detectives] than anything else. the idea of the narc just seems... like, those episodes of "dragnet" where they have the young undercover dress in a hippie suit."

✔️ "talent is an asset" - kimono my house

the lyrics illustrate an overly-cautious family shielding their very gifted child from others, to keep him studious and soak in all the glory, and is heavily implied to be little albert einstein through puns on relatives and relativity. it's not by them, tho. it's by the band sparks. it came 2nd, so I think many of you recognised it (or really wanted to see the results!)

❌ "bee of the bird of the moth" - the else

"this is a song about a creature called a hummingbird moth, which imitates another creature, which imitates yet another creature. it's completely fucked up, and can only be explained in song!" so they did.

❌ "2082" - join us

thewrap's review of the album describes this song as, "a science-fiction short story (...) a protagonist who travels into the future, finds himself hobbled but still unhappily alive all the way into the next millennium, and travels back to the title year to smother himself with a pillow in a mercy killing". fun!

❌ "call you mom" - nanobots

referred to by linnell as an "oedipus pan" song, the lyrics follow an unfortunate young man beginning a relationship with a woman, getting dumped due to his behaviour of treating her like a mother figure, then infantilising a possibly younger woman in a different relationship and in turn leaving her, who goes on to experience the same issues. fun! (altho, the final chorus actually still refers to her Mom leaving, not her dad, I got the details wrong there in the poll).

❌ "gudetama's busy days" - dial-a-song / my murdered remains

yes, that's a real song. quote flansburgh: "(...) it is really just about feeling isolated from the world, even if you are in a crowded place and manically trying to keep up with your life. the character of gudetama appealed to me because he is such a mopey sad sack."

❌ "marty beller mask" - album raises new and troubling questions

this is real, too! it's just about how marty beller was actually an alter ego of whitney houston the whole time. he's not, but wouldn't that be interesting. the song name-checks multiple of her own in the lyrics. it was temporarily retired out of respect following houston's death (4 months after its release), returning to live performances ten years later in 2022.

[formulas-bitch]

For you, Always / CEO/Carlos sainz x personal assistant reader

"You're late," the sharp voice of Mr. Carlos Sainz pierced through the quiet office hallway, causing the new intern, Emma, to jump. She looked up from her scuffed shoes to see the stern CEO standing before her, his eyes a piercing brown that seemed to see through her. "Again, Miss Hathaway."

Emma felt her heart sink as she clutched the forgotten coffee tray. She had been warned about Mr. Sainz's punctuality, but she hadn't realized it was this severe. She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself, "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Sainz. The traffic was-"

He waved her off with a flick of his hand, clearly not interested in her excuses. "You're my personal assistant now, Miss Hathaway. I expect you to anticipate these issues and solve them accordingly. Being late is not acceptable." He turned on his heel and strode back to his office, the heavy door swinging shut behind him with a thud that echoed through the hallway.

Emma took a moment to collect her thoughts, feeling the weight of her new role settle heavily on her shoulders. She had only started two days ago, and she was already on thin ice. With trembling hands, she balanced the tray and followed him into the lion's den. The office was sleek and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the bustling city. The scent of leather and polished wood filled the air, a stark contrast to the chaotic jumble of papers and files scattered across the desk.

SUMMARY^1: Mr. Carlos Sainz, the CEO, scolded the new intern, Emma Hathaway, for her lateness. Despite her apology, he expressed zero tolerance for the lack of punctuality, emphasizing the high expectations for his personal assistant. His office reflected his professionalism and power, yet it was also cluttered with work, highlighting the urgency of her role.

Mr. Sainz was already seated, his fingers tapping impatiently on the keyboard of his laptop. He didn't look up as she approached, but she could feel his gaze boring into her. She set the tray down and began organizing the documents he had left scattered. "Your schedule for the day, sir," she said, her voice shaking slightly.

"Good," he said, finally glancing up. "Now, let's get started. I have a meeting with the board in thirty minutes, and I need to review these financial reports before then." He handed her a thick stack of papers, his tone brisk and business-like.

Emma took the documents, her mind racing. She had studied hard for this internship, eager to prove herself in the corporate world, but she hadn't expected to be thrust into the deep end so quickly. She had heard whispers of Mr. Sainz's demanding nature, but experiencing it firsthand was a different beast entirely. She sat at the desk opposite his, her heart racing as she skimmed the figures and pie charts. The numbers swam before her eyes, and she struggled to focus.

As she worked, Mr. Sainz made a series of phone calls, his voice a low, authoritative murmur that filled the room. The sound of his leather chair squeaking as he leaned back was the only other noise in the otherwise silent office. She tried to ignore the pressure, but it was like a physical presence in the room, pushing down on her. Every few minutes, he would shoot her a look that seemed to ask why she wasn't done yet.

SUMMARY^1: Emma faced Mr. Sainz's impatience as she began her duties, starting with organizing his office and preparing for a board meeting. Despite her nervousness, she focused on the task at hand, dealing with the heavy workload and his demanding nature as best she could.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she finished reviewing the reports. She took a deep breath and slid them back across the desk to him. "All set, Mr. Sainz."

He took them without a word, his eyes scanning the pages with a rapidity that made her dizzy. She watched as he flipped through them, his expression unreadable. The silence grew heavier with each passing second, until he finally looked up. "Good," he said, his voice terse. "Now, I need you to draft an email to the board summarizing these findings. and make sure to include Charles Leclerc, Lando Norris and Max Verstappen "

Emma nodded, her hands flying over the keyboard as she typed up the email. Her mind raced as she tried to distill the complex information into concise bullet points. She had never felt so scrutinized. Mr. Sainz's eyes remained on her the entire time, as if daring her to make a mistake. But she was determined to prove herself. She had worked too hard to get here, to let one bad morning ruin her chances.

When she was done, she pushed the email across the desk for his approval. He read it over, his expression unchanged, before nodding curtly. "Send it," he said, his voice a command.

SUMMARY^1: After completing the report review, Emma faced Mr. Sainz's challenge to draft an email to the board with critical information, including the names of three important individuals. Despite the intense pressure, she worked efficiently under his watchful gaze, eager to prove her worth.

Emma exhaled, her shoulders dropping slightly with relief. She hit send and watched as the email disappeared into the digital void. Mr. Sainz stood up, his movements fluid and powerful. "Now, we have the meeting in fifteen minutes. Make sure the conference room is set up properly. and make a reservation at Riccardo's for dinner for 7 people"

Her stomach twisted into a knot. "But sir, it's already-"

"Now, Miss Hathaway," he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We're going to be busy until then. Make it happen."

Emma nodded, her thoughts racing as she rushed out of the office. She knew Riccardo's was notorious for its exclusive reservations and short notice was almost never an option. But she didn't dare question Mr. Sainz's instructions. She had to make it work. and its not like they wont give her the reservation as the owner Daniel was a friend of Mr.Sainz.

With trembling hands, she called the restaurant, her voice a mix of desperation and professionalism. After a tense negotiation, she managed to secure a table for seven at 7 PM. She jotted down the confirmation details and hurried back to the office. "I've got the reservation, Mr. Sainz," she called out as she passed his open door.

He looked up from his phone, his eyebrows raised slightly in acknowledgment. "Good," he said. "Send me the details. Now, about the conference room."

SUMMARY^1: Having sent the email, Emma faced the next task: setting up the conference room and securing a dinner reservation at the exclusive Riccardo's. Despite initial doubt, she successfully reserved a table for seven at 7 PM, thanks to Mr. Sainz's friendship with the owner, Daniel, and relayed the details to her boss.

Emma's heart sank a little further. The conference room was notorious for its temperamental technology, and she had never set it up on her own. But she nodded, her voice steady. "I'll take care of it, Mr. Sainz."

She hurried down the hall, her heels clicking against the marble floor. The conference room loomed before her, a gleaming monolith of corporate power. She took a deep breath and pushed open the door, the cool air from the AC hitting her like a slap in the face. The long, polished table was already set with notepads and pens, but the screens and audio equipment looked daunting. She checked the clock on her phone; she had ten minutes to get everything ready. As she was setting everything up, she couldn't get the projector working.

Her heart raced as she fiddled with the cables. The clock ticked away, each second feeling like an eternity. She had read the manual three times, but the damn thing still wouldn't turn on. Panic began to set in. The board members would be here any minute, expecting a flawless presentation from their CEO. This couldn't be happening. just as she was about to panic there was a knock on the door.

"who's there?," she called out, trying to keep her voice calm.

The door swung open to reveal Pierre Gasly the it guy, with a friendly smile on his face. "Emma, right?" he said, stepping into the room. "

SUMMARY^1: Tasked with preparing the conference room, Emma faced technical issues with the projector. Despite her fear of failure and the looming presence of the board members' imminent arrival, she maintained composure and received help from the IT department, represented by Pierre Gasly.

Emma nodded, feeling a rush of relief. "omg thank god you here i need some hep with this , I'm having some trouble with the projector," she said, gesturing to the tangle of cords.

Pierre chuckled, crossing the room to inspect the setup. "Looks like you've got a case of the Mondays," he said, his French accent giving the words a comforting lilt. He quickly untangled the cables and powered on the device with a flourish. The projector hummed to life, casting a crisp image onto the screen.

"Merci beaucoup," Emma said, her voice a mix of relief and embarrassment.

"De rien," Pierre replied with a wink. "Now, let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

The board members began to trickle in, their footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. They greeted Mr. Sainz with nods and handshakes, their eyes sliding briefly over to Emma before moving on. She tried to shrink into the background, her nerves jangling with each new arrival. The room filled quickly, and soon the only empty seat was the one at the head of the table, reserved for Mr. Sainz.

"Everything set?" he asked, his voice low and expectant.

Emma nodded, her heart hammering in her chest. "Yes, Mr. Sainz."

"Good," he said, his expression unreadable. He took his seat at the head of the table, and Emma quickly distributed the packets she had prepared. The board members murmured to each other, their eyes flicking over the documents. She took her place at the side of the room, her palms damp against the cool glass of the water pitcher she held.

The meeting began with a tension that seemed to thicken the air. Mr. Sainz spoke with confidence and authority, his eyes darting from face to face as he presented the company's latest acquisitions. The room was so silent, she could hear the faint rustle of pages turning. As he talked, Emma found herself admiring his ability to command the attention of the room, despite the chaos of the morning. He was a force to be reckoned with, and she was in the eye of the storm.

As the meeting progressed, Mr. Sainz called on her to clarify a few points, and she found her voice growing stronger with each response. The board members listened intently, their expressions a mix of surprise and respect. She had studied hard for this moment, and it showed. Her mind was sharp, her answers concise and informed. Despite the pressure, she felt a spark of pride in her work.

The tension in the room gradually eased as the meeting moved forward. The board members began to nod in agreement, and a few even offered words of praise. Mr. Sainz shot her a rare smile, his eyes briefly softening before returning to their usual intense gaze. "Thank you, Miss Hathaway," he said, as the meeting drew to a close. "You've done well."

Emma felt a warm glow spread through her chest. Despite the rough start to the day, she had managed to pull it together. As the board members filed out, Mr. Sainz's secretary, Mrs. Rodriguez, slipped into the room. "Mr. Sainz, the car is waiting downstairs," she announced batting her eyelashes towards him and looks towards me with a scowl on her face.

He nodded, his attention still on Emma. "Thank you again, Miss Hathaway," he said. "I'll see you at the restaurant."

Emma blinked, surprised. "At Riccardo's?" she asked.

Mr. Sainz nodded. "Yes. I've invited the board members for dinner to discuss further. Make sure the reservation is for seven."

Emma felt a jolt of excitement. She had never been to Riccardo's, but she had heard the whispers of its legendary cuisine and exclusive clientele. It was a place where deals were made and reputations were forged. She knew this was a test, a chance to prove herself beyond the office walls. "Of course, Mr. Sainz," she said, her voice firm.

The rest of the day was a blur of preparations. She coordinated with the restaurant, confirming the reservation and special dietary requirements. She arranged for a car service to pick them up and even managed to find a last-minute replacement for one of the board members who had to cancel. The pressure was intense, but Emma felt alive with the rush of adrenaline. This was what she had signed up for: the challenge of working at the top tier of the corporate world.

When the clock finally struck 7 PM, she found herself in the back of a sleek black sedan, her stomach fluttering with nerves. The car pulled up to Riccardo's, the elegant exterior bathed in soft lights that cast a warm glow onto the sidewalk. The valet opened the door with a flourish, and she stepped out, her heels clicking against the cobblestones.

The restaurant's interior was a symphony of dark wood and soft lighting, the clink of silverware and the murmur of conversation creating a soothing ambiance. The host, a man with slicked-back hair and a charming smile, recognized Mr. Sainz immediately and led them to a private dining room. The board members were already seated and surprising with their significant others beside them, their faces a mix of anticipation and skepticism as they took in their surroundings.

Emma finally took her place by the wall with her notepad in her hands write everything she thought was important.

The dinner conversation was a dance of diplomacy and power, with Mr. Sainz at the center, guiding the discussion with a grace that belied his earlier irritation. He spoke of the company's triumphs and challenges, weaving a story that painted a picture of a bright future. The board members listened intently, their eyes on him, their expressions a mix of admiration and calculation. their partners sitting beside them eating quietly as glancing at Emma form time to time, wondering why she is not sitting down.

Emma hovered at the edge of the room, taking notes , her eyes and ears open to every word. She had to be ready to jump in at a moment's notice, to answer a question or fetch a forgotten document. The air was charged with ambition and the scent of expensive cologne mingled with the rich aromas of Riccardo's exquisite cuisine. she felt a pang of envy that she wasn't sitting at the table, partaking in the feast.

As the dinner progressed, the conversation grew more relaxed. The wine flowed freely, and laughter began to fill the air. Mr. Sainz told a story that had everyone at the table leaning in, their eyes glinting with amusement. Even Mrs. Rodriguez had a rare smile on her face. For the first time since she had started her internship, Emma felt like she was part of something important.

The food arrived in a procession of dishes that looked like works of art. She watched as the board members and their partners savored each bite, their faces reflecting the pleasure of the exquisite flavors. Mr. Sainz glanced at her from across the room, his expression unreadable. She knew she was being evaluated, but she didn't mind. This was the kind of pressure she thrived on.

The dinner was winding down, and the board members were starting to look at their watches. Mr. Sainz noticed her discreet glances and nodded towards the door. "Miss Hathaway, I believe you've done enough for today. You're dismissed."

Emma felt a mix of relief and disappointment. She had been so focused on the meeting and dinner, she had almost forgotten about the time. She gathered her things and gave a quick nod to the group. "Thank you for allowing me to assist tonight," she said, her voice a little too loud in the sudden silence.

wont you stay and eat something before you leave" asked one of the board members noticing that she hasn't once ate anything or even sat down .

" oh , um thank you very much, but i really have to run home and I'm afraid i don't have much time anyways. thank you all. bye now"

With a quick smile, Emma excused herself and practically sprinted to the elevator, her heels clacking against the floor like a metronome. As the doors closed, she leaned against the cool metal wall and took a deep breath, her heart still racing from the adrenaline of the evening. She had done it. She had survived her first real test as Mr. Carlos's personal assistant.

As Emma walked to the elevator, Carlos got various looks from everyone asking what is going on.

"What is wrong with her?" one of the board members whispered to Mrs.Rodriguez.

Mrs.Rodriguez smirked "She's just eager to please and a nobody who cant afford tp eat here," she said, her voice dripping with something that wasn't quite kindness.

Emma ignored the whispers and the stares as the elevator descended. The cool air from the AC washed over her, and she closed her eyes for a brief moment, relishing the feeling of solitude. When the doors opened, she stepped out into the bustling street, the sounds of the city a stark contrast to the hushed tones of the restaurant. She took a deep breath, the scent of car exhaust and garlic bread filling her nostrils.

As Emma was starting to head home, she hear someone shout her name.

"Emma, wait up!" It was Daniel Riccardo, the restaurant owner, jogging towards her with a smile on his face. " i noticed that you haven't has anything to eat and i cant let you leave without eating anything "He handed her a small takeout bag.

Emma looked at the bag with surprise and gratitude. "Thank you, Mr. Riccardo. I'm okay, really."

He winked at her. "Please, call me Daniel. I know how Mr. Sainz can be. He doesn't let anyone, especially not his employees, enjoy a meal in peace here." His eyes twinkled mischievously.

Emma couldn't help but laugh. "Thank you, Daniel," she said, taking the bag with a genuine smile. "You're too kind."

He waved her off with a warm gesture. "It's the least I can do. Tell Mr. Sainz I said hello, and that I hope to see him back here soon, but maybe next time without the office drama." His words were playful, but they hit a nerve.

Emma nodded, clutching the bag to her chest. As she walked away from the restaurant, the smell of the food grew more tantalizing with each step. She was starving, but the thought of going home to a quiet meal alone was suddenly less appealing. She glanced back at the fancy cars lined up outside the restaurant, Mr. Sainz's sleek black sedan waiting patiently. On a whim, she decided to take a detour.

She found a quiet park nearby, the lights from the street lamps casting a soft glow on the empty benches. Sitting down, she pulled out the warm, fragrant dishes from the bag. The aroma was heavenly, a stark contrast to the bland office cafeteria food she had been subsisting on. As she took her first bite of the perfectly seasoned chicken piccata, she closed her eyes and savored the explosion of flavor. It was the best meal she had had in weeks.

Her thoughts drifted back to the dinner, to Mr. Sainz's words of praise and the board's nods of approval. It had been a grueling day, but she had proven herself. A sense of accomplishment washed over her, tempered only by the realization of how much more she had to learn. She had a feeling that this was just the first of many challenges to come, but she was ready to face them head-on.

The sound of a car door closing jolted her out of her thoughts. She looked up to see Mr. Sainz striding towards her, his tie loosened and his expression unreadable in the dim light. "Miss Hathaway," he said, his voice echoing through the deserted park.

Emma's heart skipped a beat. "Mr. Sainz, I'm sorry," she stammered, quickly gathering her things.

"You don't have to go anywhere," he said, his voice softer than she had ever heard it. He sat down on the bench beside her, his eyes on the takeout bag. "I see you've been enjoying the fruits of your labor."

Emma felt a blush creeping up her neck. "I hope it's not a problem, sir. I just didn't get the chance to eat earlier."

Mr. Sainz's expression didn't change, but there was something in his eyes that told her he understood. He nodded towards the bag. "Go ahead. You've earned it."

Emma took another bite, her eyes never leaving his. She felt a strange mix of comfort and apprehension sitting next to him in the quiet of the park. His presence was commanding, even outside the office. She chewed slowly, trying to make the moment last.

"Miss Hathaway," he began, his tone serious, "I noticed your dedication today. You faced the challenges with grace and efficiency. I'm impressed."

Emma's cheeks flushed with pride. "Thank you, Mr. Sainz."

He nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary. "I expect this level of commitment from you every day. Understood?"

Emma swallowed the last of her food and set the bag aside. "Yes, Mr. Sainz. I'm ready for whatever comes next."

He studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Good," he said finally, his voice a low rumble. "Because tomorrow we're flying to New York for a conference. You'll need to be at the office at 6 AM sharp to prepare the necessary documents and ensure that all travel arrangements are in order."

Emma's eyes widened. "New York? Tomorrow?" she repeated, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice.

"Yes," Mr. Sainz said, standing up. "I'll email you the details tonight. Make sure you're packed and ready to leave at 8 AM."

Emma nodded, her mind racing with the implications of this sudden trip. She had never been to New York before, and the thought of navigating the bustling city filled her with both excitement and trepidation. "Of course, Mr. Sainz," she said, trying to keep the excitement from her voice.

"Good," he said, turning to leave. "Don't disappoint me."

Emma watched him go, his words echoing in her mind. She knew the stakes were high, but she was ready. She had worked too hard to get this opportunity, and she wasn't going to let it slip away. As she made her way home, she felt the weight of the day lift from her shoulders. Despite the exhaustion, she was exhilarated by the challenge.

When she arrived at her small apartment, she immediately began packing. She had to be organized and efficient, just like Mr. Sainz. Her mind raced with the to-do list for tomorrow: booking flights, confirming hotel reservations, and making sure she had everything they would need for the conference. She had never traveled with the CEO before, and she didn't want to leave anything to chance.

As she folded her clothes, her phone buzzed with an email from Mr. Sainz. The subject line read, "NYC Trip Itinerary." She clicked it open, her heart racing. The email contained a meticulously detailed schedule, from the flight times to the conference sessions and even a few networking events. There was no room for error, and she knew it.

Emma worked through the night, double-checking every detail. She sent off emails confirming their flights, booked a luxurious suite at the hotel that Mr. Sainz preferred, and even managed to secure a spot at an exclusive event that had been sold out for weeks. The thrill of the challenge fueled her, keeping sleep at bay.

The next morning, she arrived at the office with dark circles under her eyes but a fire in her belly. The email she had sent to Mr. Sainz with all the travel details had received a curt "Thank you" in reply, but she knew that was the closest thing to praise she would get from him. As the sun began to rise, the office slowly filled with employees, all of whom cast curious glances her way as they saw her luggage.

Mr. Sainz arrived precisely at 7 AM, his usual punctuality a stark contrast to her own sleepless night. He barely glanced at her as he strode into his office, his briefcase swinging at his side. "Miss Hathaway," he called out, his voice sharp and commanding. "Bring me the updated agenda for the conference."

Emma's heart jumped, and she hurried over with the neatly bound document. She had gone over it a hundred times, making sure everything was in order. As she handed it to him, their fingers brushed, and she felt a spark of something she couldn't quite place. He took the agenda without a word, his eyes scanning the pages with a focus that was almost intimidating.

"Good," he said finally, not looking up. "Make sure we're ready to leave by 8 AM. I want everything to be perfect."

Emma nodded, her adrenaline spiking. "Yes, Mr. Sainz."

The rest of the morning was a blur of final preparations. She made sure Mr. Sainz's briefcase was stocked with everything he could possibly need, from his favorite pen to the latest company reports. She had even packed a spare phone charger, knowing his device was as much a lifeline as her own. As the clock ticked closer to 8 AM, she found herself pacing the floor outside his office, her eyes flicking to her watch every few seconds.

Finally, the door to his office opened, and he emerged, his suit impeccably tailored, his tie perfectly knotted. He barely spared her a glance as he strode towards the elevator. "Miss Hathaway," he said, his voice a whip crack. "The car is waiting."

Emma hurried to keep up with him, her mind racing with the last-minute details. As they descended to the lobby, she took one final deep breath, steeling herself for the whirlwind trip ahead with one thought in mind.

new york here we come

[heart2beom]

open the door, mr. choi!

synopsis: going up to yeonjun's dorm, the man you believe to be a complete tool, and asking to use his shower isn't very fun.

genre: one sided enemies to lovers, fluff, angst??

pairing: yeonjun x f!reader

warning: very unrealistic writing of living on campus (i'm manifesting here..), a curse word here and there

author notes: this is so incredibly short but i like writing banter so..lol this really is just banter. reblogging is appreciated!

Transferring to a different college mid semester for better opportunities proved to be that mistake. The mistake you realize is going to be hard to top, the biggest one you've made in your entire life.

In addition to losing daily contact with your friends, you were in a complete foreign city, practically stranded. You had zero relationship with your professors, there were completely different material you had to learn to pass exams, and you had no time to make any friends. even after you decided to go through the on-campus housing route, You were only on friendly speaking terms with your roommate.

You wished you reviewed the dormitories, but you hadn't which then cost you to learn that the girls dormitory had constant complaints about water supply; it was either the sink, the toilet, or the shower — it would just decide to stop working.

Thankfully, the time you've spent living with your roommate, you only experienced one — the sink. There were problems with it practically every other day, ten times more constant than everybody else. Which caused you to naively believe it canceled out all the other occuring problems everyone else had.

So, imagine your surprise when you walk in under the shower head, butt naked, with not one drop coming out on your hair.

"Yunjin!" you yell out, panicking as you adjust the diverter still with no sign of water. "Yunjin is the water out!?"

You sigh when you can't hear a response through the door, and opted to step out the shower, and carefully walk towards the door. You slightly open it, making sure to only poke your head out as your eyes wandered around the dorm.

Great, there's no sign of her.

When you get dressed again, you throw yourself on your bed, staring at the time on your phone. 8:39PM.

Your roommate had helped you out with getting a blind date, in hopes of "putting yourself out there". Though at the time you didn't meet her with much excitement, pretending to despise the idea—Currently, you were practically a few seconds away from pulling out your hair at the thought of missing it.

For god sake, you haven't been on a date since, what, two years? And even worse, when you finally got a chance, you weren't ditching the date on your own accord, but because you couldn't shower!

"I'm gonna fucking sue them!" you shout, directing your pit of rage at your ceiling. Though, right after, you bury your face in your pillow, groaning like a little child, knowing that no matter how many complaints you submit, there would be zero response. So, at the moment, it felt like the best thing to do was give up.

Give up and ...reschedule.

No, you can't—you won't. You have to go on the date—today. An adrenaline-like surge of determination motivates you to shoot up from your bed, and quickly head to your bathroom again. You will go on this date, you owe it to Yunjin—and also, to yourself.

When you look at the counter, you immediately spot the magic wand practically ogling at you, begging you to use it. Your deodorant.

What other option did you have? When you pick up the deodorant stick, you shut your eyes, praying that the combination between deodorant and perfume could manage to make you smell good enough. You exhale, the gross thought making it hard for you to even lift your shirt.

You hear a ping of your phone, quickly opening your eyes, dropping your hand, which in turn also gets your hand off the piece of fabric you were holding.

When you look at the notification, you exhaustedly exhale, your shoulders dropping. It wasn't surprising to see it was him. Yeonjun—the guy you've been working on a project with for the past few months.

And also, the guy you've been trying to avoid ever since you got assigned the project. He was practically a mosquito, buzzing near your ears every waking moment of the day. It was easier for him when he got your number, as per your professor's request. According to her, it would be easier for you two to communicate with each other's contact numbers.

But you begged to differ, especially after these tortuous days of having your phone go off randomly throughout the day. All it did was tear away your focus from more important matters.

You opt to ignore the text, like you always do— and focus on your preparation for your date. That is, until a light bulb lights up above your head, halting your movement, as you furrow your brows in thought.

The boy's dormitory never had an issue with water, it was a usual complaint you'd overhear girls around you say in your morning classes. Their issue was odor. Which you would bet a few cents that that was specifically the consequence of the herd of men living in one space, but you digress.

Sure, you aren't very fond of the idea to go up to the man you find pretty repulsive—in terms of personality, repulsive. He was the walking definition of a douche, but you just got a date, in two years! Who knows the next time you'll get the golden opportunity again? So, you grab your towel and head out the bathroom.

You only hope that your lack of answering back texts wouldn't backfire on you.

Though it took him a few knocks, Yeonjun finally opens his door. His jaw slacks a little and brows raised, clearly taken back by your sudden visit. You wait for him to say something—or rather, you take the time to study his figure for a good second; your eyes instinctually taking in how...good he looks. His dyed hair subtly spiking his eyes, his lips looking a little more pink than usual, and the flowy dress shirt being down two button, exposing his chest—

"Y/N checking out Yeonjun part, what, a hundred?" he stupidly grins, leaning on his door frame with his arms crossed.

"Part zero." you deadpan, he was back to getting on your nerves.

"Right..." he purses his lip, which earns an audible scoff from you, his confidence was astoundingly high. Normally, you'd think it was a praiseworthy trait, confident people are cool, but Yeonjun was something else.

"Okay—look, I have no time to waste. I need your help." you say, cutting to the chase.

"Clearly..." Yeonjun says, his gaze falling to the towel hanging on one arm, and a plastic bag tight in your hand.

"First, sorry for coming here so unexpectedly—"

"Hold on," he raises up a hand to stop you, which is an annoying thing he's been doing to you lately. "Did you just apologize? To me?" he then puts a hand on his heart, pouting like a child.

When you try to open your mouth again, his finger was on your lips in attempt to shut you up — he was getting dangerously confident. You glare at him, which sends the message loud and clear as he drops his hand immediately.

"Look, if you're here for the project, I can't. I actually have a bedtime I have to follow through."

You furrow your eyebrows in disbelief. "A bedtime? What are you? Twelve?"

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head in disapproval. "Damn it Y/N, this was the part where you were supposed to prove to me that you're worthy of me letting you in my dorm."

"I'm not here for the project, Yeonjun." you sigh, your energy drained from all his talking.

"Then what? It's like—" he raises his wrist to take a look at his watch. And to your dismay, his smug smile prepares you for some more teasing. "My, my, my. Coming to my dorm at nine? So I see it you changed your mind about, you know..." he puckers his lips in attempt to make smooching noises, which only earned a judgemental stare from your side.

"We're never going to have sex—ugh, I just came to use your shower, the one at my dorm stopped working." you've learned to stop yourself from engaging with his antics, it only cost you more social battery after all.

"Ah." he says, biting his lip as he appears to think more of your request. "I'm sorry, can't." he concludes.

"Huh? Why?" you ask then immediately groan at a thought, "God, do you have a girl naked in there?"

"You don't realize it sometimes Y/N, but you are a slut shamer."

You deadpan, letting out a long sigh. "Are you calling yourself a slut?"

"Frankly, for your information, I don't have a girl in there. She actually left a few minutes ago." he says ignoring your question, though he couldn't be happier from the annoyed reaction he got out of you— which he was quick to love and appreciate the more he got it.

You roll your eyes, "So, why can't you?"

"Glad you asked," he says, reaching in his pockets to dig out something. He faces his phone to you, your messages open, only blue texts being on the screen. "You've been ghosting me for like, two weeks."

So your lack of replying back is biting you in the ass.

You didn't have time, dropping the plastic bag full of your date clothes, reaching out to your pocket to get your phone.

You quickly type up an 'okay' without reading the text, and hit send. When you hear the sound of a notification from his phone, you put up a tight lipped smile as you shove your phone in your pockets, picking up your clothes and pushing yourself in his dorm.

Yeonjun broke into a smile you don't catch, as he looks back to you. "Breaking and entering is a felony Y/N!" he yells out.

You ignore him, your attention more focused on how weirdly neat his place was. Was he a fast cleaner? Tidying up the place this fast after sex?

You guessed that was what a long duration of experience gives you — the ability to clean up in minutes. But then you noticed a computer open, with the desk it's on being surrounded with crumbled paper.

Odd.

You hear the door shut, guessing it was Yeonjun, which snaps you out of your thoughts as you immediately head to the bathroom. If you stayed a second later, there was a 50% chance he would've stopped you to ask questions.

When you enter the bathroom, and lock the door behind you, you're pleasantly caught by surprise.

The smell—the smell wasn't foul. You hate to admit, in the back of your mind, you'd always have this image of Yeonjun—a player who was gross.

You don't exactly know why you held onto it for so long since there were multiple, multiple times you got close enough, that your nose could pick up his cologne—it smelled really good, not too strong, just enough.

And when you stand there in his bathroom, weirdly finding yourself inhaling the scent of the air—it smelled pretty fucking good.

A loud knock on the door your back is leaning on startles you, making you jump. "Hey, hurry up! I'm giving you fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes? What a psycho.

You shake your head at your own ungratefulness—he was letting you borrow his shower, which you genuinely appreciated, so you undressed quickly in hopes of showering forty minutes max.

You didn't pick up your hair brush with you, so consequently you were spending a great deal of time untangling your hair with your towel—which wasn't very..effecitve.

You already changed, obviously, but your makeup was undone. Just lipgloss was all you had time to do, you thought in your head, disappointed.

Not to forget—Yeonjun has been talking to you through the door the moment you shut the running water—not proving the mosquito reincarnation theories you've been holding onto, to be wrong. He was driving you very close to the edge of insanity.

"You're taking so long." he whines for the hundredth time. "I have to show you something."

You groan, walking towards the door. You were clothed now anyway, if opening the door would finally fix Yeonjun's mouth being a broken record, you would happily do it.

He shuffles away from the door when you push it open, flustered as he clears his throat.

Was he leaning on the door?

"What do you want?"

You think you see his eyes scanning your outfit for a second, a hint of confusion overtaking his expression but he turns away to walk towards the computer—the one that was previously surrounded with balled up paper, so you ignore it. "You look hot but I'll decide to ignore that. I have to show you something."

You exhale, your hair still pretty untamed. "Alright, I don't have that much time though."

He let himself fall on his spinning office chair, as he gestures his hand for you to sit at the edge of his bed.

You clear your throat, waiting for him to stop stalling through his spinning.

And he does.

"Okay." he exhaled, a little shakily. Which was weird. "So, remember the text you sent okay too?"

"Yeonjun...that just happened. Like an hour ago."

"Yep, yeah. Cool, cool, cool." he repeats, opting to spin once more. You raise an eyebrow, is he trolling you?

"I didn't like—you know, read the text. I mean, I can."

"You didn't read it? You should. Actually—nope, no. You shouldn't. You should. Yeah, you should."

You knit your eyebrows together at his odd speaking patterns. Reaching for your phone, you click on the message icon—until a number pops up, calling you.

All of a sudden, you get nervous. Your hand getting all clammy as you swiped right on the call.

"Hi." you breath out, biting your lip in eagerness to hear your date's voice.

Yeonjun only watches you, cocking his head at the sudden mood change. No—he was tilting his head because of all of that. Your dress, the matching bag, your lipgloss.

He furrows his brows, still watching you stutter on the phone, and practically making a fool of yourself with the way you were stupidly, prettily smiling ear to ear.

You never did that with him. Okay, sure, he likes seeing you roll your eyes or scoff at his antics— it brings him pure joy! But god, thinking now, he would appreciate it a hundred times more if your reaction to him was a smile—that smile instead. Or a laugh. Or a hug, maybe a kiss—

Time didn't wait for anyone—connecting the dots unfortunately only happened the moment you hung up the phone.

"Sorry, that was my date. I really have to go. What do you want to show me?"

"Um—uh...gross!"

You scrunch up your face, taken aback. "What?"

"You—you have, like, spinach stuck between your teeth."

Your eyes widen in shock immediately getting off the bed, but then you halt, turning to look at Yeonjun. "But I didn't eat spinach today. Or yesterday." you mumble.

"Well, I'm sorry I'm not a professional chef that can tell what that nasty piece of green leaf is in between your teeth."

"God, is it that bad?" you ask in horror, not waiting for his reply as you burst into the bathroom.

Meanwhile as you check your teeth in the mirror, Yeonjun immediately grabs the phone you left on his bed, which was still open—letting him breath in relief.

He immediately went on to his name on your phone to open the messages between you two—it was ridiculous but a smile still tugged on his lips for a split second when he noticed his contact name was the one he typed in a few months ago, still 'hottest man alive'—he took it a sign you didn't disagree... or it could be that you were too lazy to change it.

But he immediately shook his head out of the thought — doing his job of deleting the message that you sent an okay to.

"What the fuck are you doing?" you say with wide eyes, snatching your phone away from the boys hand.

"Just checking the time." he says with an awkward smile, a little startled of your sudden presence.

"On my phone? You literally have a watch." you say, your tone laced with confusion. Which signaled Yeonjun to shoot up from his bed, pushing you out towards the door—there was no way out of this but to push you out, and hopefully the date being horrible enough for you to forget about confronting him about this tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. Preferably, for the rest of his life on Earth.

"Time for you to leave!" he yells, finally getting you out of his dorm, and now out in the hallway.

Before you could say anything—for example, reminding him that 90% of the stuff you brought was still in the bathroom—he slammed the door right in your face.

When you recollect your shock, you scoff, your annoyance through the roof.

What was he looking at in your phone?

You open it, hoping to find the answer.

But you're only confused as you only see your chat with Yeonjun open.

And even more confused when the text length of the message before your 'okay' was way shorter than what you remember.

Meanwhile, Yeonjun was sitting on his desk chair, biting his lip as he hesitantly hit the delete button on the music project he's been working on.

ending a/n: i think i'm allergic to ending a fic with the two pairings getting together cz tell me why this was deadass just enemies to ????? T_T