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megamindsecretlair · 11 months ago

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Mr. Black, Part 1

Pairing: Tre x Assistant!Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. PWP, cursing, PIV, fingering (fem receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, dumbass reader, degradation kink, power imbalance, Tre is a boss, all consensual.

Summary: Tre is sick and tired of the countless mistakes you make while performing your work duties. You were recently hired and just trying to do your best, but nothing is ever good enough for him.

Word Count: 4,099k

A/N: Listen, Idk what happened. He's barely in 2 mins of the film and it broke my brain. That outfit and that smile was too much for me to handle! Idk how many parts this will be. Please, please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! And please put ages in bios! Or get blockt!

Tagging the usual lovelies, please tell me if you want to be removed: @planetblaque @browngirldominion @notapradagurl7 @honeyoriginalz @blackerthings @sevikasblackgf @henneseyhoe @miyahmaraj

Shit! He was going to kill you. You whined as the numbers swam in your vision. You desperately looked between two invoices, wondering how you were going to solve this before he found out.

Your leg bounced as your nerves unraveled the longer you stared at the documents. Shit! You were done for. Your stupid little job was over before you had even gotten started. Your bottom lip quivered. There was no way you were going to recover from this.

Tre’s heavy footsteps pounded the carpet on approach and your heart dropped into your stomach. Shit!

You pushed the papers on your desk into one huge pile that you’ll painstakingly unravel in the safety of your home. You tapped a few keys on the computer, trying to look busy. He did not need to know that you had been staring at your egregious mistake for the past half hour.

“Do you have that report I told you to do?” Tre asked, once he reached his office.

“Yes, Sir,” you said. You gave him a dumb ass, goofy smile. You handed over the report in a yellow folder. He snatched it from you, not sparing you a glance, and stalked into the office. The door slam made you flinch.

You weren’t even sure why you stuck around this job. You were recently hired to help with the background work stuff while people all around you were getting fired. Tre had been leading that charge.

Ever since you got hired, you wondered if he hated you. He barely said anything to you except to insult your hard work. Look, the workforce was hard, okay? There’s a lot of shit that school or life doesn’t teach you. More often than not, you had to hide your scrolling on Youtube for any kind of help.

Even when he was in a good mood, flashing those pearly whites and that sinful smile, it immediately froze whenever you entered the room. Your good mood would evaporate and then you were falling all over yourself trying to correct whatever the issue was.

His coffee was too cold, too black, too sweet. His blinds were up too high and he had a nasty glare. This report was wrong, that report was wrong. No, this wasn’t the one he wanted. Yes, this was the one he wanted. Run out and get some lunch. Well, you took too long, I don’t want it anymore.

It was exhausting working for the man, but some part of you wanted a crumb of his praise. Just a crumb. You could survive off of it. You knew you sounded pathetic. Your friends and family were getting sick of you complaining about the man.

Your best friend sort of got it. You snuck a picture of Tre one day and showed her. She nearly fell off of your couch when she saw him.

“This? This is your boss?”

Yes, he is seriously your boss. And he was a fucking asshole. Who else would feel absolutely nothing about firing people a few days before Christmas? Christmas! It was your favorite holiday and just thinking about all the tiny traditions made you so giddy, your heart flipped.

Person after person, box after box, floated by your desk looking absolutely miserable. You watched their tortured faces and your heart hurt thinking that all their years of service fit into one tiny box. The tinsel and ornaments decorating the office seemed like cruel mocking reminders that there would be no Christmas cheer for them.

“Get in here, now!” You jerked out of your seat. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The intercom flashed red and then turned off. You hated that damn box. Whatever happened to sending a chat? Way less intrusive and easier on your nerves.

You stood up with your heart racing. The pulse in your neck thumped so painfully, you placed your hand there to try and steady it. Realistically, you didn’t have to tell him about the mistake right now. You just needed a chance to find out what you did wrong.

You smoothed your checkered skirt suit, wiping your sweaty palms on the thick material. El Segundo didn’t get that cold, but the mornings were brutal.

You bit your lip as you approached his office door. You opened it. Tre stood over his desk, one hand on his hip and a paper in his hand. It had to be the report he asked for. You assumed that since it was so late in the evening, that he’d read it first thing in the morning. You had hoped to leave here with a little hope. Not defeated like the past few nights, still not living up to his impossible standards.

All things considered, he was damn delicious. His favorite aesthetic was black. Black shirts, jackets, pants, shoes. The only hint of color on him were his gold chains and glasses. His thick beard complimented his facial structure beautifully. It was an odd mix being both attracted to and afraid of your boss.

“Close the door,” he said.

You followed his command. Shit. You were really in it. Was it your report he was reading? Or did he magically glean that you royally fucked up a fifteen million dollar contract?

Your stomach roiled. You were going to be fucking sick.

You approached the front of his desk like a deer in headlights. There was no room for you to maneuver. It was you, the headlights, and inevitable death. Shit, would you go to jail over something like this?

You twisted your fingers as you stood there and waited for him to acknowledge you. He gave a long sigh and then put the paper down.

“Come here,” he said. His tone was so disrespectful and biting. It was insulting coming from such a pretty man with a soft, ungodly voice.

You rounded his giant desk and stood beside him. He was so huge. Thick muscles bunching the confines of his black suit jacket. You gulped and glanced down. He was looking at your report.

“What does this say?” He asked and pointed to a sentence.

“Due to the natre, er, nature, of the findngs.” Shit. This thing had so many damn typos in it. You typed the damn thing up, distracted, watching all of the people you never got to know walk out of here. Their faces haunted you day in and day out. You shouldn’t care, but well, here you were.

If he had done this at any other time, maybe it wouldn’t have affected you so much. If he fired people around, say…St. Patrick’s Day, then at least people would have an excuse to hide their inevitable drinking.

You looked into Tre’s eyes, an apology ready on your lips, but he was fuming. He was usually so calm and collected, firing people with an ice cold exterior. To see so much passion in him now…you were in deep shit. Without a paddle.

He reached across his desk and plucked out a red pen. “I want you to sit here and highlight all of the mistakes you made. And you better find them all,” he said.

Your shaking hand reached out for the pen. He held it away. “All of them.”

He held out the pen once more and you took it. Tre sat down in his chair and motioned for you to proceed. You spied the chair on the other side of the desk, but you didn’t get the sense that you were allowed to get comfortable while you did this.

You licked your dry lips and leaned over slightly. Page by page, you hunted your mistakes with the red pen. You circled all of the typos you made. Good god, there were so many of them.

Tre sat like a silent specter. His disapproving eyes burned your back as you searched the document. At the end, you were appalled that you let so many slip through. The fuck was wrong with you?

“Count them,” he said.

Shit, shit. You couldn’t handle this fucking stress. “I am so sorry–”

“Count. Them.” You glanced at him. Besides the fire in his eyes, he seemed calm and a little disinterested. Like he was already bored of this shit and wanted you to hurry up.

You took a deep breath. He was only a man. You needed this stupid fucking job, but you will not be treated like this for much longer. Fuck his praise. And fuck him. No man, no job was worth this bullshit. You were going to find a nice quiet job somewhere.

You counted the circles. Like bubbles of misery. “Twenty-four,” you said. At least your voice was strong, giving no hint to your frazzled nerves. Though, the more you thought about it, the less nervous you felt. You were so going to type up your two weeks notice tonight. Fuck this cheerless company.

“Do you have any clue what it’s like trying to do my job but all I can focus on is your shitty ass mistakes? A toddler can type better than you,” he said.

You gasped. Such a fucking asshole. “Everyone makes mistakes,” you pointed out. For fuck’s sake, you weren’t decoding international secrets. The occasional, okay this instance many, typos should not warrant a trip to the principal’s office.

“I spend more time correcting your mistakes than trying to turn this company around. The least you can do is be a competent assistant. Your job is to assist,” he said.

“All you can see is my mistakes instead of all the other shit that I do!” You fired back. Shit. His eyes narrowed and you swallowed, but you weren’t going to hold back. Whether you quit or got fired, you were saying goodbye to him so what the hell did anything matter?

“I bend over backwards to do everything for you! Do you know how many times I’ve had to fix my nails as I run around here doing everything that pops into that meaty ass head of yours? Fix your computer, get you coffee, charge your fucking phone. I was hired to do assistant work, not become your personal maid. The least you can do is treat me with some fucking respect!”

A weight lifted from your chest. You took deep, heaving breaths and felt lighter than you ever had. Even before taking this soul sucking job.

“Bend over,” he said quietly.

“What?” You asked.

Tre stood to his full height. Not quite reaching six feet, but close enough. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and then slipped it off, revealing a black, long sleeved shirt. He rolled up the cuffs.

“I’m spank that tight ass you keep taunting me with for every mistake you have on that report,” he said.

Whoa, what? “Did you not hear what I said?” You asked. You watched as inches of his forearm were revealed. Shit, this shouldn’t be so hot. But it was. Your mouth ran dry for entirely different reasons.

“Every word. Bend. Over. It’s a simple instruction to follow,” he said. The sleeves were at his elbow now.

You barely thought about it. You bent over the desk, breasts pressing into the coolness of his desk. You felt him slide behind you. His thick hands rubbed over the fabric of your dress. He squeezed the fleshiness of your ass and you softly huffed.

“Count out every mistake,” he said.

Smack! Red hot fire bloomed on your right ass cheek. “What the fuck,” you gasped.

“Count it, or we start over,” he said.

“One,” you immediately said. Was this really happening?

Smack! Shit, it really was. “Two,” you gasped again, trying to fight off a moan. Your pussy ached with each subsequent hit. And he was not going easy on you. Each smack was severe, making you reach up on tiptoes to escape it.

He wouldn’t let you. His hand found your ass in any way you had it displayed for him. No two smacks were similar. Some were harder than others. He never hit the same spot twice. Your ass was a mosaic of pain. Heat bloomed in tiny flickers. There was no way you were going to sit down after this.

“Fifteen,” you ground out. Your ass sought his hands, relished each smack he delivered. Your mind turned blissfully fuzzy. Nerves melting away until it was a tiny puddle at your feet. Fuck. You were so turned on and your panties were ruined. Soaked.

Your clit throbbed in time with the flickering heat on your ass. And he continued to smack it. Your ass jiggled after each one. Your feet scrambled for purchase.

“Twenty-two,” you cried out. Tears gathered in your eyes.

The final two smacks to your ass were the worst ones. He had been hiding that strength this entire time. He smacked you like he was truly punishing you for all of the mistakes on the report. You shuddered to think what he would do when he found out about the contract.

He had maintained a professional demeanor throughout it all. He hadn’t spoken, except with soft grunts as the force of his smacks met your ass. He rubbed your booty and you moaned from the white hot pain. How the hell were you going to get home after this?

Tre lowered the zipper on the back of your dress and you whimpered. What more could he fucking do right now?

The answer to that was swift as he pushed the edge of your skirt up and over your wide hips. He groaned with a soft, “fuck”, as he revealed your racy black panties. The lace was sheer with tiny flower designs woven into it.

“I knew hiring you was a fucking mistake. Can’t even focus on shit around here,” he said. Though it seemed like he was talking to himself.

“I thought you hated me,” you whispered. You wiped the wayward tears from your face.

“You and these fucking outfits,” he answered back. He rolled your panties off of your damp pussy. He bent with it, so his breath trailed the back of your thighs and legs. He kissed his way back up. Plump lips placed soft kisses to your thighs and ass. Pain bloomed from his recent spanking and you moaned and moved away. He straightened and pulled your hips back.

He smacked your bare ass this time. The wet sound was loud and lewd. You prayed that everyone was gone for the day. There was no way that these flimsy ass walls had good sound proofing.

“Fuuuuuck,” you moaned out.

“That’s for being such a fuckin’ tease,” he said. His hands left you, going to his own fly as you heard the zipper and the frantic huffs as he hurried to free himself.

“I wasn’t–”

“You know you were. Bending over every chance you got. Smiling every time I fuckin’ saw you. Wearing these outfits you know are not professional,” he said.

He settled back behind you, groaning as you assumed he pumped himself. Fuck, you wanted to see. You looked back at him. Oh, that was a mistake. His head was thrown back, his arms moving jerkily as he pumped his thick length with his hand.

Your pussy clenched as you watched him. You bit your lip at the sheer ecstasy on his face. You didn’t want to speak and interrupt him. While it was true that you dressed up a little more than your coworkers, these outfits were appropriate. You didn’t show unnecessary cleavage and your skirts were decent lengths.

Okay, maybe they went a little too high. But you spent most of your time behind a desk, who was really going to notice? It was better than the bland ass, off the rack looks these other girls wore. It was like they all shopped at the same, ugly ass store. Why should you be bland like them?

You were fucking gorgeous. And wearing pretty outfits made you feel beautiful and comfortable. You loved your heels. Why should you keep all that shit in the closet to make basic bitches feel nice? Fuck ‘em.

Tre rubbed the tip of his dick through your wet folds. You nearly buckled. Your knees collapsed and Tre roughly grabbed your hip to make you stand upright.

You rested your cheek against the cold desk. The coolness helped cool off some of the heat burning through you. You moaned as his tip brushed against your clit. “Please,” you whispered.

“Please what?” He asked.

“Please, fuck me. I need it,” you moaned. God, it had been too fucking long since you got fucked. Not had sex. Got fucked. You had decent situationships in the past. Sure, you had fun. But to get fucked, you needed a certain type of man.

He grunted as he shoved inside, stretching you completely. You cried out as he pulled back and shoved back in, getting his dick wetter from your juices alone. “Sweet fuck,” he moaned.

“So fuckin’ wet for me.” He worked himself inside you, pushing into the warm, wet core of you. You were a vice grip on his dick. Welcoming him deeper and more easily with every glide. His fingers dug into your hips.

“From now on, I’m checking over all of your work. If I catch more typos, that’s your ass,” he said.

How the hell could he expect you to listen when he was buried so deep inside of you, you were pretty sure with one more shove that he would hit your G-spot? You pathetically whimpered as his movements grew slippier. He slid in and out with more ease than before.

His thrusts turned sharper. Each one shoved you against the desk. The hard plane of the desk shoved into your stomach. The pain was barely a thought.

“Oh yes, yes,” you moaned.

“Takin’ this dick well,” he moaned. His thrusts increased. Barely giving you time to breathe in between each one. They were powerful and unrelenting. The desk rattled. His thighs pushed into yours, trapping you against the desk as he pounded into you. His hands around your hips were bruising. He had you slightly lifted, so your feet slightly dangled off of the ground. He supported you easily.

The minimal praise from him made your heart soar and your pussy flutter. “Oh, you like that shit, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” you moaned.

“Tell me you like it then,” he said.

“I like it,” you said.

“Like you mean it,” he said and gave another savage thrust that made you see stars.

The desk made an intrusive knocking sound in time with his thrusting. That’s how hard he was fucking you.

“Oh shit, I’m cumming,” you moaned. Your belly flipped as your orgasm built and built.

“Let it go, then,” he said.

You cried and whimpered as you came.

“Mhm, let it go. Let it go. Mhm, feeling all of that,” he cooed while you came, stars going off like bombs in your weak vision. Your head swam. Your vision winked in and out. You were bliss personified, cumming with a type of euphoria you didn’t know existed.

You squeezed his dick as you came. “Get that shit nice and creamy,” he said.

He continued to pound into you, fucking any last remnants of your orgasm out of you. He was so hard and thick, sliding in and out and wrenching every little sound he could out of you.

Wet smacking and the rattle of his thrusts filled the room with a harmony you wanted on repeat forever. You were creamy for him. Needy for him. Needy for the way that he could fuck you stupid and you thanked him for it.

You managed to look back at him. Again, his head was thrown back. The wide expanse of his neck pulsed with a thick vein you wanted to lick. Sweat dripped down into his shirt. His sleeves were still rolled up. He was power and strength. Thick in every sense of the word.

Broad shoulders, soft beard, and those glasses. Good god, you loved those glasses on him. That wide smile of his. His rich, midnight skin. You could spend hours licking every inch of him and it wouldn’t nearly be enough.

He was lost in you, lost with his dick pumping into you. Watching how you were making him feel, another orgasm built. It climbed its way to the surface, whisking you away to the stars again. Shooting through the universe with nothing to hold you down. Nothing to keep you anchored. You just floated like stardust around the cosmos.

“Oh fuck, please,” you moaned. You didn’t know what the fuck you were saying. You were mumbling and moaning, unaware of anything but his hands on your hips. His dick inside you. His balls slapping your clit. Your hand moved behind you seeking his body. His thrusts were too much.

You pushed against him. You didn’t want him to stop. Just for him to ease a bit. Your swollen clit was sensitive as hell. You weren’t sure if you had another orgasm in you. It was too soon and his punishing pace was going to literally fuck you stupid in a minute.

“Move that fuckin’ hand before I do,” he spat.

“But…Sir…” He was fucking the air out of you. You couldn’t breathe. “Fuck, please.”

True to his word, he grabbed the hand that you were trying to push him away with. Your left hand was twisted behind your back as he leaned forward, deepening his strokes.

It turned harsher, fucking you into the desk. He’d fuck you through it if he could. His moans turned desperate.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he moaned. “Take this nut.”

He groaned as he unleashed his climax inside of you. He filled you with his cum. His dick twitched and pulsed against your spongy walls as his cum was fucked into you. Still he moved, still he pounded into you like he was trying to prove something.

His hips faltered as he sputtered the last of his cum. He buried himself to the hilt and a shiver ran through him. Your frantic breathing matched his as he slowly pulled out of you.

Fuck! You were fucking sore! A hundred baths wouldn’t soothe this shit. A moment later, his cum slipped out of you and you moaned. Well shit. No condom. Luckily, you were on the pill but still. You shouldn’t be so fucking horny that you didn’t talk about these things.

However, after getting fucked the way you just did, you’d happily accept his cum. Many times over.

His cum leaked out of you, sliding down your pussy and legs. He groaned, leaned down, and spread your ass cheeks just to watch.

“Such a pretty fuckin’ pussy,” he said. He pushed two fingers inside and you whimpered. He grunted one last time and removed his fingers.

He grabbed a few tissues off of his desk and started to clean you up. You hissed when he hit a sensitive spot. He kissed your ass and legs as he cleaned up. “So fuckin’ pretty. So fuckin’ beautiful,” he soothed as he cleaned.

You were a shaking mess. Your legs could not support you. He chuckled as he finished. He pulled his pants up first. You heard the slide of his belt buckle. Then, he pulled your panties up to cover your ass. Next, he lowered your skirt and fixed the zipper.

You were too weak to move from your spot. Too weak to stand up and say or do anything. You laid there in amazement. He helped you up and then steadied you while he lowered you into his chair. His chair.

He got to work, righting various knick knacks on his desk. He moved a tiny Christmas snow globe on his desk that you had brought him on the first day. He had raised his eyebrow at you, told you that you couldn’t bribe your way to a good start, and disappeared into his office. You thought he had thrown it away. You were too nervous to notice anything when you came into his office. Just his disapproving eyes and smug smirk.

He moved the report back into the yellow envelope and closed it. He turned around and rested his ass against the desk. He tapped the file with his long fingers. “Be sure to correct this. We’ll go over it first thing in the morning.”

You glanced at him. “Yes, Sir,” you said with a hoarse voice. Fuck, your throat hurt. Everything hurt. He smirked as if he were reading your thoughts.

Yeah, a merry Christmas to you too, mu’fucker.

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mondaymelon · 1 year ago

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₊˚ෆ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐘 | xiao, childe, kazuha, scaramouche x gn!reader

ˋ°•*⁀➷ cw: fluff. established relationship, yeah that's it. writer's block hits again!!

⤷ [ the little things they do when they think you’re not looking ෆ]

— xiao, who... glances at your fingers often, a longing gaze that's only present when he thinks your eyes aren't on him. he's too scared to reach out and take your hand, intertwining his and yours fingers together, despite how much he yearns for the feeling of you. he wants your warmth. it's bright, it's comforting, it soothes something restless inside him. your presence is radiant, like the sun's rays, and he wants to bask in it.

"xiao?" your voice snaps him out of his thoughts, and his face instantly warms the slightest. he's been caught, hasn't he? he slowly trails his golden eyes up to your face with a rather sheepish expression, like a criminal caught in the act.

"...yes?" shit, his voice sounds way too tentative. if you hadn't noticed anything off before, you certainly did now. his cold enough exterior remains as he watches you try to hold back a bout of laughter.

"love. if you want to hold my hand, you don't need to ask."

swiftly, like the cunning being you are, you take his hand in yours, just how he wanted to. there's warmth in your hand, and he can feel it through his gloves. not enough. he withdraws with reluctance, spurring confusion in you. "oh, did i assume wrong? sorry, i didn't think..." your words trail off as you watch xiao swiftly dispose of his gloves, and then his fingers are intertwined with yours, his callused hands against your smooth ones.

"then..." his face is noticeably red, and the gold in his eyes seems to have softened at your touch. he brings up the back of your hand to his lips, his words leaving the ghost of a breath lingering on your skin. "this is okay, right?" his fleeting lips kiss them in a way so gentle you'd thought never be possible, and you don't need a mirror to tell how flustered he's made you.

"xiao, you-"

"don't refuse me now, love."

— childe, who... tends to stand behind you a lot, just so that he can glare at whoever you're talking to that's speaking a little too comfortably. his dead eyes will give them a brief answer, and then he'll scoff under his breath, as if they aren't worth his attention. small pests like this lived to be exterminated, and he'd be happy to do the honors, but the way your smiling without a care in the world makes him pause.

"childe, we need to talk." your voice is serious. fuck, were you going to break up with him? had he not been good enough? fatui duties were so annoyingly persistent, but he'd finished them up as fast as he could so he could come home to you, like he promised... was that not enough? of course it wasn't enough, he should've-

"childe? i can see you standing behind that wall. get over here." his heart drops to his stomach, and he comes out from behind his hiding place with a wobbly grin.

"ahaha, you got me! what's... what's this all about?" his words die in his throat at the exasperated look you're giving him.

"childe, you can't keep doing this." doing what? "you're scaring all my friends and-"

"...friends?" there's astoundment in his voice, and his eyes are wide. "oh- i mean, yeah of course. what else?"

you sigh, yet your face can't help but break into a smile at his antics. "what, did you think i'd break up with you? no chance in hell. it's just that you've been glaring a whole lot at my friends lately and they've issued several complaints that i've had to endure-"

you're cut short as the taller man engulfs you in a tight hug, using a hand on the back of your head to press you against him. your face is on his chest, and through the fabric you can hear how his heart races.

"you can't scare me like this, love. not again, pinky promise?"

— kazuha, who... likes to smile. a lot. whenever he's around you, his serene expression changes, the corners of his lips curving upwards, eyes shining as he spots you from however far away. shh, don't tell anyone, but secretly, your occasional visits to the crux are what he looks forward to the most in his days, quietly yearning to see the bright smile on your face one more time.

"kazuha?"

his head tilts as he directs his full attention on you, as if it already wasn't in the moments prior. "yes?" his crimson eyes glow with warmth, the warmth you've granted him.

"why do you always... smile so much?" it's not unnerving, no, not in the slightest. the way it sets his face alight is beautiful, if anything. but you've heard of his past, and you're wary that it might all just be a show he's acting out so you won't have to worry over him. that self-sacrificial idiot.

kazuha seems startled by the questions, his eyes growing round before his quietly laughs into his fist, his chuckles like birdsong against the wind. he leans forward, resting his face in his bandaged palm. "love, is it not obvious? it's because of you that i'm able to smile like this."

he's acting so cheeky right now. it makes you want to kiss him, with just how romantic he's making the situation. your face is flushed, you're well aware, and kazuha captures it all in his knowing gaze, smiling still. "kazuha, you have quite the way with words, don't you?" suddenly, something you overheard from the sailors arises amongst other thoughts.

[ "hey, haven't you thought that kazuha doesn't smile often?"

you had scoffed then, a plain lie. they must not see him often.

"ah, you poor, unknowing fools." a proud voice this time, a female one, one riddled with a laugh. you could catch a glimpse of the brown hair. "don't you know that he only smiles when his lover comes around?"

a collective gasp. ]

his eyes are warm. his voice is warm. he is a man of warmth, like the yearning leaves on the wind. kazuha stirs something within you, and you can't help but break into the slightest of smiles.

"love, the truth has a way of captivating an audience."

— scaramouche, who... is not well versed on whatever he's feeling right now. he'll try and hide it all he wants, turning his head away whenever you're not staring in his direction so he can hide the furious crimson that has dusted his cheeks. is he flustered? as if. you're not quite skilled enough to pull such a feat. yet...

"scara?" your finger grazes his cheek as you gaze at him with concern in your eyes. it's almost irritating, how persistent you are, but he'll allow it. he'll allow it, because it's making him feel a rush in his blood, and it makes him warm. "are you okay? your face is red."

shit. it is? he immediately covers his face with his hands, and prepares to flee. look at him, the exalted sixth harbinger of the goddamn fatui, about to run with his tail between his legs like this. his dignity attempts to pull him to his seat, but the thunderous rush in his ears, audible to himself, is something that you should never witness. it's shameful.

your hand latches onto his wrist, and you stare up at him, brows slightly furrowed as your lips formed a pout. "as i thought, you're unwell. c'mon, let's get you to bed, and then i'll-"

"no." his refusal is instant. his own voice rings in his ears. how it even possible to feel this way? you called him your lover, but it was something he had just... agreed to, in the heat of the moment. he clutches the fabric of his clothes so tightly they almost twist in his hold. the empty silence is all he needs to confirm it. no, he could never love someone like you. or anyone at all.

with grudging certainty, he knows. if he were to fall, it'd be you that he'd yearn for. yearn. perhaps... was that the longing he felt whenever he saw that soft gaze of yours, or faced your very presence? the two of you were already lovers, so why couldn't he bring himself to pull you closer into his arms?

"scara? love, what are you..." the use of a nickname catches him off guard. you know exactly what you're doing to him, don't you? despite that, he can't help but fall deeper and deeper.

"say that again. call me love again."

(a/n) tried doing a different style of writing this time? pretty silly if i do say so myself !! sorry for the shorter length existential crisis loves me so mmuch

໒꒱ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open! send an ask or a comment ♡) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis, @swivy123

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chokchokk · 1 year ago

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𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢 | park seonghwa x fem!reader x choi san

part one of gangster!mafia!series "𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞-𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞"

“Brother, can’t you see I’m doing this for you? Enjoy yourself.”

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 : Picking your own poison, if poison was given to you in form of bankrolls by venomous men with high demands.

In which Park Seonghwa had a plan and Choi San has ideas.

“Sounds like you’re enjoying her more than anything."

𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 : noir, smut, angst | korean mafia/geondal!au | ceo/jaebeol!au

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 : 18.2k

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗�� 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 : entitled rich people, workplace harassment, alcoholism, softdom ceo!seonghwa (headman park), half-drunk satoori-using dom mafiaboss!san (mr. choi), both are called by their names at some point, sub-leaning bratty switch servant!femreader, use of (pet-)names (missy, baby, princess), groping, thigh-riding, light choking, light hair-pulling, non-penetrative sex, voyeur!seonghwa, sex in the elevator, counts as mirror sex right, biting kink, manhandling!san, edging, breeding, cum-eating (m), cunnilingus; reader hates the rich except for when they are sexy, implied but not severe age gap, writer does not have daddy kink but mafiaboss!san does, gunshots and death, use of korean proverbs

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 : this with the next part will be the origin story for reader, specifically the series synopsis’ first half :) originally, this has been a request, so please read this, if you desire to have a bit more insight to what the series actually is + translations of certain terms (mostly character dynamics) in this chapter !!

tl;dr: since it's all based around korean mafia/gangster/etc, there will be korean culture scattered between the lines. it is all translated, hopefully in an understandable way!!! (please hmu if there are difficulties) i let out honorifics/romanisation, except for "chaebol" since it's an actual word :) that being said, reader's ethnicity is not specified and won't be relevant to the series in any way !!

smut comes after the second border, and uh,,, i had to shorten that shit (pls dont ask me where) but uh. you’re getting 8k words of smut so buckle up LMAO !!! i hope you enjoy as much as i did writing it !!! thank you for likes, reblogs and feedback xoxo (also this is NOT beta-read so pls dont hesitate to tell me about... like.... errors, tags and shit)

[ now playing : money ▸ pink floyd | listen to the playlist ]

It's getting repetitive. They are drinking their ninth bottle of expensive whiskey, smoking their third or fourth disgustingly pricey cigar— what the fuck, is this seriously what the upper men of your nation are doing at some stupid chairman’s dinner party?

“Missy!”

“Me, sir?”

No wonder the economy's fucking shit.

“Yeah, you, missy, give that gent over there one of our divine Denmarks!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give him a kiss too, while you’re at it! What do you think? He’s still got it, no?”

Said ‘gent’, some old, scummy clown— winks at you, his gray eyelashes fluttering towards your direction.

“Yes, sir."

God, how bad you wish you had snuck your phone in to take a picture of these red, drunken, senseless faces, but you're a dutiful servant, abiding by the rules at all times, however difficult it may be. You’re holding in your puke professionally, not even doing something as to grit your teeth, just softly letting your jaw play along to your friendly smile.

“Does your willy even still work that way, old friend?", a cranky, yet humorous voice pitches in.

Agreeing to your supervisor’s offer to earn “big money” may have been a bad idea, but a good choice. Jongho said he’d seen you at your work, took special note of you— even though you weren’t sure where exactly he had observed you, since it’s only been a month of actually working as a servant in the lower tiers of the building— and wanted to give you a chance to swim with the big sharks. “I think you’re best suited for the job,” is what he said to make you giggle and think about your initial rejection of his proposition, “you have a talent for serving.”

Something you didn’t know you had, something you didn’t know someone would see in you ever in your life, “talent.” Sure, maybe you let yourself be persuaded a bit too fast, but it felt very touching that somebody saw you and saw potential, for whatever occasion it may be for. You don’t necessarily want to screw the rules of the hierarchical pyramid or what it was that kept you from being in the proximity of the chairman, but you really need the extra cash right now.

"What does a girl from the mountains look for in being a servant in the city?", had been the question you were asked by Lady Kim who gave you the leftovers of her restaurant at the end of the day, when you had just started with the training– poor, barely standing on your own feet.

You remember how you explained to her that the buddhist monks who raised and send you here surrounded themselves with wells to remind everyone that water always returned, and you assumed it would work the same with wealth. You also remember how hard she tried to stay kind to you, showing you her sincerest sympathy by telling you that "the chaebol are no joke!" (at least not a joke, an innocent girl like you could laugh about, she later explained) and giving you an extra portion of her home-made dumplings to suit you up.

Her sharp, yet compassionate voice rings in your ears, as you reapply your red lipstick on the way to your target guest. Oh, Lady Kim, what a graceful woman– she put her all into her work for her restaurant to succeed, but had always made a place to share what she had for those who needed it. Such a lovable woman, she must have been well-liked by all around her.

You get it now, the way you had been so naive back then. Floating on the philosophical happy-go-lucky psyche of the city’s promise of prosperity, trying to live the Korean dream strangely enough as someone who was so sarcastically out of touch with it. If you had been in her position, you wouldn’t have been able to be as nice, no, would have warned yourself with a finger pointed upwards as if you were teaching a little kid about strangers, or how your monks said, ‘tigers in the woods’.

“After that cigar, his dick will turn to dust!”

Maybe things would have looked different, if you hadn’t taken that fund from the school’s superintendent, who slid you that card on your table with a smirk on his face. Oh dear, do you remember how excited you had been? You ran through the streets in your worn-out shoes with that plastic sheet in your hand, on your way to tell that the money on it was such a ridiculously high number that you could split— but Lady Kim had got to know it first, the ridiculousness of the rich, with the demolition of her restaurant-building.

“He’s got no cum in his nutsacks ‘no more anyway!”

No warning, no compensation, just everything crushed to pieces to make place for the big corporations; the fancy neon-signs she'd invested in, the ambition of her enthusiastic dreams, your only source of tender charity, shattered to a wreck. You have never seen her since, and can only laugh about how the fancy food of the chaebol—and you definitely know who they are now, those tasteless men gawking at you in the moment—doesn’t even look half as good as her low-cost black bean noodles you could more than afford now.

The present day-you is less dreamy, but just as lost, forced to work off a debt you hadn’t been informed about when you lived off the favorable “fund”-money. No, Lady Kim, this is all a joke, you would tell her today. A really fucking bad one.

So, making room for another ha-ha in your life, you pulled your eyes up innocently, returning Jongho’s specious smiles. “Is it illegal to collect pocket-money from the rich?” It’s not like you had any doubts at that point, but 'they'll buy you out of prison if you’re good enough' was all you needed anyway to put your uniform on tightly at home.

"Can't even shoot his cum in missy to save his blood!"

Your more experienced co-workers are watching you work with a condescending frown, feeling both jealous you're getting all the men's attention, but also maliciously delighted you're being challenged as the new-coming servant who's obviously of erotic interest to these richlings. They want you to get a "taste of life" for you may be the most goody-goody fawning bitch they have ever seen; just a young birdbrain who has nothing to bring to the table except her body. Young thing won’t hold up, doesn't know who she's working with— though they are quite right about that part, you must admit, you frankly didn’t look up whose money you’re taking right now— she doesn’t know who the fuck she is.

"What? Did his son leave the company, too?"

It’s flattering to know that the other pretty servants look at you and only see some candy-coated muppet, but fairly, your ever-frozen smile on your face doesn’t give them much to work with. You’re simply an annoyance to their routine, and if you could, you would like to comfort them by saying none of the money you’re getting will stay in your hands– they’d be so happy to hear that you’re really worth nothing– but you must stay focused.

“Idiot, he’s only got a daughter!”

So yes, that being said, you’re glad nobody ever asks you about you. Everyone just assumes, judges from what they see, and if what they see is an opportunistic bimbo-girl chasing money, then so be it, right?

"You know, the one he married off to the governor?”

Right. Because you too have not a single second to think nor talk about your past. The present is scarce and the future is fragile, you know it the best. And you owe it to your old men to make the best out of their efforts, don't you? The air in this room may not be the one you inhaled in the mountains, but you still have to use it, breathe, be alive, despite how moldy and spoiled it simmers in your throat.

"Real mad! Anything to avoid that fee, huh, missy? Got no semen and no glory! You really want to give him that cigar?”

So, that taste of life? Fucking bitter, just like how that name 'missy' seeps and sweats on your tongue. You can’t loathe your co-workers for this reason, they're basically in the same wooden, shaky boat as you, but these asswipes here are floating on a fucking yacht. Of course they don't follow some type of code of human decency for you, they don't give two shits about the lowlifes, the poor. They watch them like a spectacle, and because they don't regard you as a human-being but rather a toy, they play with you on strings that are, on the other hand, binding together a big, fat bankroll.

Ka-Ching.

Eyes on the price, Y/N, eyes on the price. You may not own a lot, that's been more than established, but if there is something you have, it's dutifulness, commitment, and proficiency. It will remain difficult to keep inner peace and honor with a job of which "duty" it is to be a deferential, subservient doll, but at least you're alive and well, soon to leave this floor with more money to your name that these fuckers don't know anyway, right? Never let that smile drop, smart girl. You have a talent, just like your supervisor said. Just keep on serving.

“No children-makin' is better for the cheatin'— ha!”, the barren, that fruitless man who’s been made fun of whoops in to stand up for himself, and awaits his tobacco that's being driven to him by your cart.

You open up the wooden chest in which the cheroots, so unnecessarily gold-plated, sit and ridicule you with their rare existence. There are just thousands of dollars sitting in your hand right now, and as you fetch the thick roll with wary fingers, you think, fucking hell, this could feed so many people, and they're just smoking it away like it's nothing, assholes.

The other servants frown at you spitefully during the time you bow down. You're sensually placing the brown cylindrical object into his mouth, a match lighting held to his face to light it up. In addition to the experience, you hold one long stare with his washy eyes, because you assume it will ignite him.

And, oh, how excited he gets.

"Thank you, sir," you chuckle and flutter with your eyelashes, pursing up your lips like you’re an innocent little girl getting a piece of candy behind her parents’ back.

“Just mad! Missy's young enough to be your grandchild, fella!”

You’re aware of exactly what your dear co-workers are thinking, but being ordered to light their cigs and then ogled at is not "baby-treatment” or whatever they’re muttering under their breath, it's your subtle strategy to have that bankroll be slid between your thighs.

"Hey now, I still can get it on! Don't you think so too, missy?"

Dumb Y/N, only has money on her mind. Allows herself to be called "missy", like a dumb fucking slut.

Hm, kind of has a ring to it, don't you think?

"Yes, sir."

Let them all think you're a dummy. Let them believe, believe each other's words in whatever they fucking want. You're almost too certain it's the secret reason Jongho offered you a place here anyway; "suited for the job", because he deems you dense enough to not understand any of the nonsense these twelve men are babbling, "big money", because he knows you will do anything for it.

You’ll still take the talent, but if he really thinks the rest, then oh, sucks to be him.

Yes, you haven’t looked up the names of who the men here are for the same reasons they're not using yours, but the second you’re out of this whiny, weak testosterone-drowned room, you're going to write the most thorough blackmail, because you can not listen to their cheating, money-laundering, corrupted bullshit anymore. Getting involved with the handshakers is the last thing you should do if you want to live a silent, carefree life, and you know this too well, but they're not going to believe it was you anyway. They wouldn’t dream of their missy to do such a competent, smart thing. You even know what you're going to write under the letter so they have something to think about in their cells: 'birds listen to the words of day, mice to the words at night'— walls have ears, too.

Ah, the soft, sometimes very cryptic voice of your favorite old monk. Always there to teach you new things, remind you of how to live your life cheerfully. You still believe he would have rather kept you in the mountains and not drop you on a wild voyage into the unknown urban life, but your old man had his reincarnation coming. You should visit his grave again, it's been a while, hasn't it? Wouldn't he be so proud to see you? To see how much his little Y/N has grown and learnt, using his proverbs to restore justice? Well, for what you still can collect of your late mentor, he would probably make big eyes and use his whole body to keep your monetary gift away from him. "Teacher," you would ask, "don't you at least want to save?", and his answer would remain the same;

"Peace comes free."

You feel warm at the distant memory of the bald-headed man warming himself in his orange gown, teaching you about love, harmony and kindness, but that sweet veil of untainted innocence has long dropped from your eyes.

In front of you, you see tycoons continuing having a blast being their shitty selves, and as golden teeth blend your sight, they are entertaining each other by staring at your legs that are covered by your sheer black stockings, whispering their insight of how you'd look like under it, but the mini-skirt only leaves so much for imagination.

"Sweet missy!"

How could you not want to spit into their face? They have bought the war. They have bought the chaos. And why? Just because they can. It doesn't cost you anything to restore some peace, maybe that’s the thing your old man got right.

"Yes, sir?”

“Do you have any Cubans left, sweet missy?”

“A Cuban, coming right up, sir.”

“Hopefully someone’s gonna come after the party tonight!”

Are you humiliated? As someone who lived among the wisest, clearest heads, and was considered just as smart by them to be wished a ‘more fortunate life’ — No.

You couldn’t care less about their perversions. Especially now, when they seemingly don’t care enough to know your name you've introduced yourself with. You are here for one reason, and it's not to prove your worth to the world, it's to secure your place in it, get that parasitic debt off your shoulders.

And if anything, as long you are staying truthful to yourself, there’s nothing that could take away your spirit. That’s what you want to believe, at least. When you’re out of debt and continue with this job, you could spend every day downtown like the other servants, but for you, it's all going to the savings for the family you're going to feed with not one worry in life on the clear land in the mountains, not under a sky that's polluted by light even when the sun has set.

The clock has announced night long time ago. Outside the windows, there shines and roams a loud, restless city under a starless, foggy black blanket, inhabited by people like you who live day by day to make their living, like small flies forgathered in a hive of exhausting labor, buzzing their life away.

It’s what you think every time you peek down the glass room: Seoul has never looked so small. Across and around the ever-flowing Han-River, the metropole is the home of millions who are looking up with their heads far back their necks to the point right here, where you stand, at the center or peak of all the wealth gathered together, inside the highest building standing tall amidst of the tumult, on the 114th floor, towering over the world in a luxurious dining room decorated by exotic animals, marbled statues and most importantly the filthy glimmer of something they call ‘class’.

“Missy,” the chairman calls out for you, raising his hand, right after he’s made another infidelity joke and showed his luxurious wedding ring to the audience.

“Yes, sir?”, you call out, wearing your pristine servant-smile with your hands folded nicely in front of your stomach, voice not tainted by your disgust as to even one note, despite the other servants looking at you with hateful expressions. They wish you the worst; the worst treatment, the worst performance, anything to get you out of this place.

Maybe they're driven by the same instincts and avarice that makes you hate the rich, with them just thinking you're taking away their money, but it's free territory here with these predators; you just make for great prey.

It’s a challenge to all of the people involved and the contestants can only win. Will it be another pick-up line? You're going to pick on that with ease. Another joke about your age? That one is never going to get old. There, bring it on, you think, and feel proud of your confident spirit, ready to run with whatever they throw and stash it into your wallet.

“You see those youngsters back there? Get 'em some more ice."

“Yes, sir.”

“Chaps don't know how to drink the good stuff yet, what a waste! Next time, buy 'em the cheap soju from the mart! The ones for 5,000 Won, missy, you know those?”

“Yes, sir.” Your whole face flashes a smile, bowing to accept the task of refilling some ice, dragging your cart across the room, as male laughter rings in your ears. It's as if they don't realize they also drink cheap liquor, but you suppose that's forgettable when they are flushing the fanciest of meats down with it.

"Be careful, missy!"

Are you being too mild by saying you want to ram the green glass-bottles into their heads?

"They bite!”

Maybe choke them with their own money bills?

Yes, “Yes, sir.”

It's a fun exercise to fantasize about how to hurt them, so you thought you would be busy enough to ignore the chairman's warning, but as you are on your long way to the end of the even longer glass table to push your cart towards the men he is referring to, there's a growing feeling inside your guts that oh, the chairman may be ...

Huh, right for the first time. The quizzical lump expands warmly as much as it is cold, with goosebumps running down your spine, your hands feeling hotter than ever over the metal cart. Your whole body is trying to signal you that something is off on the other side of the table, but you don’t know whether to ignore it or run.

The annoying, empty-minded, impertinent elders, who have been belly-laughing at the chairman's joke a second ago stop with their chatting and only exhale huffs, and prolong them nervously, that’s off. The servants gulping, loosening their crossed arms– that’s off, too.

“So, uhh… Where was the, uh– food from?”

“Oh, lad, good topic, yes– the delicious food…”

It seems that everyone in the room is trying to fill in the silence with the fakest of laughter, so the chairman can move on from the topic, but you're well over your way there, uninformed to what you're going to be hit with once you halt.

Tycoons like them usually don't need back-checking. You know how to deal with ill-willed imbeciles that only use their estate as a weapon. Their bodies and brains have passed prime an eternity ago. Left behind are only their numbed minds that seek shelter in lust, ecstasy and aphrodisia because nothing else excites them anymore. They’re what you probably would have been if you hadn’t spent your teens brewing tea and listening to the leaves rustle, not experiencing all euphoria and more at a too early age– they’re washed out, just swimming in money they haven't worked a day for, are lazy, weary sloths.

However, opposed to the cloudiness in their class that's only getting more foggier through the many years of monopoly, these two men that are waiting in front of you, and you understand why your lungs are pinging now, they are potent.

Money is power, but twist it around and there is them, with that; a certain force that the rich ooze out by just acting and looking a certain way, and oh, Y/N, how they are, how they are looking at you right now, best believe you have to hold onto your strength like it's a small purse.

'Youngsters', he said— 'they bite', he said.

They have been rarely reacting to the chairman’s words, notwithstanding being the ones to be the most respectful in this meeting for their young age, just looking at each other with unamused eyes. Even the director who is older than the chairman lets out his best holler every time, but these two have not laughed once at his jokes, not the slightest chuckle has left their mouths to flatter or satisfy the chairman.

Interesting.

Both black-haired, the one you get to first has his mane gelled back, a cigarette hanging out his scarred mouth, as you approach his seat with your cart walking carefully practiced steps. His white shirt is opened up to where chains, most importantly a silver cross, hang from his collarbones to his chest that’s covered with scars and scratches you can’t quite identify how they got there. This man looks gigantic, muscular, dangerous. Shoulders terrifyingly broad popping out his black vest, he sits on his seat with widened legs, thighs flattened in his also black pants, fastened by a leather belt, and with his white sleeves pulled back to his elbows, his slightly tanned forearms only appear more huge after the rather average-looking wristwatch catches your eye, just when you stop with your cart in front of him.

“That old geezer just can’t keep his mouth shut, can he?”, he chuckles, the Gyeongsang-provincial dialect rolling so naturally off his tongue. Everyone else in the room has been faking their speech to cosplay a charm they didn’t possess, but even the slight lisp and lull from the drunkenness are not hiding how deeply masculine and sincere this man’s voice sounds. It’s a mixture of the sarcasm you've gotten used to by now, but also a brashness that the older men lack, and you’re a bit embarrassed to say it’s working you up a bit. "Empty carts rattle loudest, I say."

A wintry breeze goes through your breast and you feel your eyebrows flinch. You haven't heard that grandmotherly expression in so long, that it does feel somehow refreshing to reconcile with it, but maybe the whisk you sense shouldn’t feel as comforting given the way the man is looking up to you brazenly with a bit of atrocity in his appearance. He is far away from the serene sketch you drew to save the vision as you left the village, he is what you felt when you took your first train, asphyxiated by the big masses of people who you would never see again— an unhomely, yet intimate feeling of... adventure.

He glances through you smoking his cigarette with no hands attached, and it moves at the corner of his lip as he talks. Wait, cigarette? Missy, did you forget to bring him a cigar?

"Let's see when he runs out of words."

“It’s alright, sir,” you answer, suppressing a slight chuckle because yes, you too have been wishing the chairman would finally shut the fuck up, but haven't expected anyone to say it out loud that boldly. You watch the male in front of you take out the slim roll from his mouth with his thick fingers that are covered with silver rings that all look different and not matching each other, blowing out the smoke whilst maintaining eye contact with you. “If you require, I can bring you a cigar, sir," you say, but he waves his hand to brush off your offer.

“Ah, they give me bad breath.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please," the man progresses instantaneously, scratching over the vertical scar at his lip-corner with his thumb, his ciggy continues to burn, "Do be so kind and give brother his ice," then smiles, "he needs to preserve his cold head.”

“You are one to talk about keeping mouths shut,” the ‘brother’ answers, voice velvety and adequate despite dissing the man that’s sunken unmannerly into his seat, while he, on the other hand, is sitting up straight, his black suit buttoned up, tie set cleanly under his ironed pearl-white collars, elegantly decorated by a golden pin. A Greek "π" is chiseled into it, and you recognize it so well for you’ve seen it written all over the tall buildings you drove by on your way here. His hair is combed evenly to the sides and the more you look at him, he’s just— wow, flawless, prestigious, expensive. Everything about him is crystal clear; his rich voice, his unblemished skin, his eyes, oh god, you just noticed those eyes, how does such a shameful man have such pure eyes?

Orbs— and they're not innocent as much as you can't say they're not guilty— are looking at you with a defiance that is suffocating, as if you ought to do everything perfectly, not miss a single twitch of his eyebrows to understand whether he's enjoying or disapproving of the situation.

Well, is he enjoying you or disapproving of the way you're listening to his partner's order to refill his ice?

Huh. No fucking idea. He probably doesn't, but you must do it still— must still serve.

It feels irrationally sheep-headed, but hey, being a sheep is your job, is it not? Being in this herd is keeping you alive, and even in this situation, where you are following the orders of the blackest of sheep, no, wolves that can't be covered by any fluffy wool— you must mow your best.

"Ohh, brother, it's been a while since I heard you talk! Feels lonely droppin' all the good sayings by myself."

You’re serving Choi San and CEO of PARA-conglomerate, headman Park Seonghwa.

Sat right across the chairman, the percentage this couple holds of his company-share is more than most of the attending seniors combined, which makes them stand at the top of the guest-list. You couldn’t have missed their names, even if you’ve made the attempt to, and the other information you’re getting is just your co-workers whispering hurried words to each other, and it seems to you that you may be more in need of them than ever.

You already eavesdropped on them a little, and to be honest, you didn’t need any real confirmation that everyone in this room was unlawful and corrupt, but it is good to know you really don’t have to feel guilty stashing those bankrolls into your purse.

The man that is licking the tail of his scar at his lip, rolling his neck, clicking with his mouth and tapping his fingers onto the table, he is rumored to be the boss of the Choi-Clan, the infamous ‘Mad Dog of Namhae’, whose face had been unknown. The chairman has made a drunken joke about allegedly trying to sell him off to the government— “everybody act like you don’t know, okay?”— and nobody had taken him seriously, but once the supposed mafiaboss had entered the room, an hour later than everyone else, and sat down comfortably like nothing was strange about his heavy breath and slightly purple knuckles, nobody dared to say something else.

If you’d heard beforehand that you would be meeting a CEO and a mafiaboss today, you don’t know if you would have acted any differently. Thinking, here comes the chairman, his jesters, the mafia-guy, the chaebol; ah, all the motherfuckers aligned, let’s get to work, shall we?

But this does challenge you a bit, indeed. If they just weren’t so young and intimidatingly good-looking, fuck, you could have treated them in the same cookie-cutter way you’d been at perfectly.

Maybe a bit of change-up won’t hurt, you were starting to get a bit too irritated anyway.

"Control yourself."

“You wanna see him dead too, brother,” the smoking male sneers— you’ll call him ‘Mr. Choi’ for now— pointing at his companion to accuse him of being a yawner, his cigarette stuck between his fingers.

Headman Park smirks with a short twitch of his lips that makes you think you just imagined it, but none of his extremities has moved since you came here: Every single action he takes seems so... calculated, thought through, measured, planned out. He is the only one to have brought a briefcase to the dinner, and looks a little bit out of place with his sober expressions which seem to you as if he was observing the whole room in its possible entirety, not leaving out a corner in his sight uncovered.

"Want," he parrots, face dropped to a neutral visage, highlighting the only word that seems to be bothering the CEO regarding his vis-à-vis' statement, eyes darting down to Mr. Choi having his fingertips pointed towards him.

"Don't you become pushy with the words now, brother," the mafiaboss teases him, and tugs his sleeves up to his elbows again, eyeing you up and down while you're passing him with your cart. You discern his interest in the pockets of your skirt, or what is there underneath, instantly, but before you can think that the man may be just the same as the others, he cracks his knuckles. “Old geezer might die on his own at this point, look at how he's smoking his raisin-lungs away."

"Poetic."

So much for hearing government and company secrets, here are these two joking about the chairman’s death. You need the chairman a little bit longer if you want to earn money, but the idea of him dying soon isn’t too bothersome.

"You gotta get used to my Korean way of speaking, brother! Then we can communicate correctly!”

With your ears sharpened, but your face presenting unconcerned, you devote yourself to headman Park to refill his bucket, ice cubes jangling down the iron jar, whilst Mr. Choi stretches his arms behind his head, raising an eyebrow towards his elder who isn't hearing him out.

“Thank you,” headman Park says, very briefly and precisely. The tong you put in the bucket for him to use almost tips, and you don’t know whether he does it on purpose for he’s been frozen still all during the dinner, but with his reflexes, he prevents it from falling before you can, but if that wasn't surprising enough, he grazes your skin while returning.

Soft, uncalloused; not a single ounce of labor roughed up these hands, it seems. They tickled you featherly, and right now, you are looking for some type of confirmation in those black spheres of his to know that you're allowed to exhale and react to his touch, because you gasped slightly and have held your breath ever since.

Nothing. You are the first one to look— no, shy away from his stare, getting your hands in front of your abdomen again, your fingers searching for each other, fiddling around by themselves without your knowledge.

Mr. Choi lets his wrist-watched hand fall between his lap, neck tilted slightly to the back, licking over his canine tooth with a grin, and it appears to you that he's either noticed his associate's small gesture or how headman Park is still staring at you. “You wanna do something, don’t you, brother?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

Mr. Choi shakes his head to irritate headman Park and make him explain himself.

“This is not business.”

Headman Park glances down his whiskey, droplets of water have formed around the brim of the cold glass. It is untouched.

"I see you aren’t enjoying the whiskey, would you like something else to drink, sir?", you ask, trying to finish your job and get away from here before you get ideas that don’t include money between your thighs.

"The Fillico, please," the male answers, not having glanced away from your eyes once to inspect your cart, where the black, long bottle, donning a crown and wings adorned with Swarovski-crystals, awaits you to be grabbed.

"A glass of cold Fillico Black King!", you exclaim, your surprise of the particularity that anyone would drink water at the chairman's dinner can’t be hidden, and then hum, "Coming right up, sir."

“You’re really something, brother,” Mr. Choi wheezes, taking the last pull of his cigarette, watching you fill up a new glass for his unrelated brother with the finest mineral that can be bought to-date, pricing around 6 Billion Won, or 4500 US Dollars per bottle. “Wouldn’t you say it’s difficult to not be smokin’ or drinkin’ in this business, Y/N?”

Sure, whatever ‘business’ a man like him is talking about. “Yes, sir." Wait, hold on, did Mr. Choi just say your name?

“You don’t look too impressed,” the male grins, seeing how you’ve narrowed your eyes in confusion.

"Pardon me, I was just– how do you know my name, sir?”

Mr. Choi shrugs as if to say ‘I dunno’ and presses his cigarette out on the table. It sizzles out, like your head is also slowly deteriorating. He throws the bud into the CEO's ice-bucket— headman Park is not even minorly irritated by it— and then, with his ringed fingers, goes through his hair, setting it loose behind his head. He’s picking on you, and you surely feel picked out, that's all you can think. It's so unusual to be hearing your name, not because it hasn't been said during the dinner, but because—

"Y/N Y/L/N, a pretty name for a pretty servant like you, huh?"

Your heart somehow flutters. A stalwart man like him taking your name into his mouth is nothing you hear on the daily. Deep, manly. It's not flattering, no, it sounds wrong, feels so dangerous for a guy like him to be taking something so personal and turning it into his possession, like you're slowly going to lose yourself in the words he speaks in a lax manner. Your name is precious to you, and it just drops off his tongue like it's candy. Where on earth does a man like him get your full name from?

"Sir," you insist, dipping your fingertip under your fingernail, fidgeting.

“Oh, don’t tell me ya prefer that stupid name ‘missy’,” Mr. Choi chuckles and fetches headman Park’s full glass of whiskey, his dialect draping out his mouth.

“Or do you secretly enjoy it," he grins, and with his eyebrows raised, Mr. Choi drinks up his acquaintance's booze in one big gulp, letting the glass fall down on the table with a thump, breathing out, "missy?”

People drink whiskey neatly, you know that. The guests have been doing it all evening, but that's for two ounces. Headman Park had a glass full of the oak-colored sherry liquid with an uncommonly high alcohol percentage placed in front of him. A taunt from the chairman maybe, to subtly scorn them about their apparent boyhoodish inexperience, but Mr. Choi makes it look so adept: The strong alcohol flows down his throat smooth and speedy, even though he did misplace the rim by an inch.

There's whiskey dripping down his chin as he glances over to his side, smirking at his neighbor who's blinking frozen, as well as the other guests, who are seemingly just as irritated that the mafiaboss got you as flustered as you look like.

You’re left with your mouth slightly open, shotting down a glass of whiskey shouldn't have looked as barbarous as Mr. Choi made it appear. Like a striking attack, baring his claws, he growls out the herby aftertaste. "'Scuse me, 'got really thirsty there."

The mafiaboss goes over his lips with his tongue, watching your hand play with the seam of your skirt, where he knows a handkerchief is buried in your pocket.

“Aw, shit, I got wet,” he wails over-dramatically, looking down on himself and then again locking his eyes into yours.

“Wanna clean me up, baby?”

“Pardon?”

Much to your continued bafflement, Mr. Choi smiles, and as he sees you taking a second to confirm what he said, he continues talking to you like you’re a hooker.

“Don't like that one, Y/N?” Again, with the name! Where does he get the name?!

“Sir, how—“

“You have introduced yourself to us,” headman Park finally reveals in the high Seoul tongue, perchance by pity, and you inhale, a bit embarrassed that you didn’t come to think of it earlier. What is happening to you? Is it because you’re finally away from those sleazes, that you’re being so light-headed? Lack of training? Sexual attraction? God, that’s a rookie’s mistake, Y/N, think about them as targets, not objectives. The objective is to not end up in a bed with them, remember? That’s like, rule number one. Even though nobody told you about the Mafia while you were at training, that’s a valid argument.

Don't let your guard down, you’re in a room with the men of men, no maybe the men. The most influential men you could be meeting in Seoul right now, aside from how little is known about them.

Whether he's a real chaebol or not, PARA-CEO Park Seonghwa is definitely the nephew of good ol’ chairman over there, just leeching off his money even if today is the first time the man is visiting his distant uncle who is definitely a bit sour about the fact he took so long to connect with him. Money has its sources and sometimes, most of the time, it’s nepotism. There you go, the explanation of his wealth and why the male is so well-mannered sitting on his seat. He’s woven into the conglomerate-family, been made CEO to keep him that way and all in all, you could care less about him, if he just wasn’t the only person that was kind of nice to you. Just thinking about his eyes makes you a bit dizzy, but you can get that fixed by turning your eyes to the mafiaboss.

Mafia and chaebol don't usually associate, for reasons that are rather obvious. Mafia’s rule the underworld with the overworld’s laws, and the chaebol rule over what laws the overworld decides on, digging their hands into the government like it’s soot, planting and pulling crops wherever they can profit from it. Money.

It’s sickening every time you think about it. How many people in this room could pay for your whole life? No, how many can’t pay for your whole life and beyond? You can count them with one hand and they’re all wearing the same clothes as you.

Money knows where it belongs; that’s a phrase you made up the day you were told about the crippling debt by the letter and the bank declining your card. It sounds similar to your monks' sayings of water's ever-flowing life, but if water returns, money drifts. It wanders across the citizens, but follows a direction it's always bound to end up. Just like today, with you getting bankrolls to graze the inner space of your legs, only to know it’s going to end up in the same fingers that gave it to you.

So, where do headman Park and Mr. Choi get a say in this? Do they get a say in this?

“I did introduce myself, how could I forget? I’m sorry, sir,” you admit and let out a laugh that is half intended to sound as nervous as it did, and half regrettably filled with authentic uneasiness.

Old chairman, what does he know? Have those teeth really ever sunk into flesh? You can’t play with your fate here, but by hook or crook they intrigue you so much. You haven’t expected guests that aren't ass-kissers of the chairman, and apparently your talent only goes so far. You have no idea what to do with them to satisfy them except letting out your real thoughts and you can’t do that, definitely not in front of the man.

But you feel so connected to them. The caution everyone has, it confuses you just as much you're amazed by it, and you want that, you want that kind of safety. Every guest here has money, but not every guest has their authority.

“It’s alright, everybody makes mistakes, baby,” Mr. Choi smirks and musters you again, rubbing the liquid away from the corner of his lip with his thumb and kissing the remaining alcohol away, savoring every droplet of whiskey, but also savoring you by keeping his thumb leaned into his opened mouth, eyes looking sultrily at you, you might as well just—

“Mistakes, San. Beware of them,” headman Park falls in and his companion finally sways his eyes away from you, hand backing down. “Talkative drunkard.“

“Brother,” Mr. Choi sighs and grabs the glass from his neighbor that's filled with ice cubes to murmur, “I’m not that drunk," swinging it around with concise flicks of his wrist to enunciate his words.

With the couple bantering, you think you can calm down. Maybe you were overreacting. Bootlicking some birdbrains is a way easier life than to follow these two.

"Hey, baby?”, but there's another call of the bird of prey.

“Yes, sir?”, you answer, fingers letting go of your skirt that has thrashed your skin by how you abused it. You don’t even know when you started to react to the name 'baby', but truth be told it’s better than ‘missy’ by miles. Being over here is better than being over there by miles, that is unchangeable.

“Could you get me clean? This is kinda sticky."

With two fingers, he grabs the collar of his shirt and flails it softly, ice clinking in his glass, as he shows you his indeed quite syrupy breast.

"Yes, sir."

You nod towards the crevice that is the space where his muscles meet, and before your eyes can get lost in the plump thews, you collect yourself so you can do what you were asked for; getting your hands on his body.

“Please.”

“Ahh, I liked you more when you were quiet, brother! I don’t wanna call you a party-pooper, but c'mon! It’s your plan, and I’m just— doin’ my part.”

Mr. Choi twists his upper body a bit so he’s still able to hold the empty glass behind your back, though it feels more caging in than it should, when you lean forwards to softly tap his skin with your handkerchief. His arm hovers next to your hip and his upper body is extended wide around you.

“What do you say, baby?”, the male asks, and you harrumph to take your mind elsewhere from how rock-hard the mafiaboss feels under your hand, how his cologne smells so rich and inviting, and how— “Wanna be bitten?”

“Pardon?”, you ask, not understanding the context of Mr. Choi’s question, but without fail grasping the intentions of it.

The male grins, and you’re unsure as to how he got his hand on the bottle of whiskey from your tray as quickly as he did, but it’s there, in the hand that’s across your hip, and from then on, everything you do seems risky. His bicep is curled around your thigh so he can fill himself another glass, and if you take a step back, your ass will be pushed against his arm, but if you step forward, you’ll land on top of him; a straining dilemma that only inflames your guts the more you think about it.

“San,” headman Park grumbles quietly, seeing you struggle to stand on your feet.

“Agh, come on, brother, 's all going well! Live a little for me, will ya? Watch me and follow,” Mr. Choi nags with a juvenile pout and takes a disgruntled sip from his drink, making your imaginations reality by pushing you with his forearm with no forewarning. You trip closer to him and his arms raise, as you have to find safety on his shoulders to not fall into his crotch.

“Oops, ‘scuse me, baby,” he grins, feline eyes glancing up to you, your bust in his view. The other men are grumbling, fussy, yammering— if they knew, they would have done that with you a long time ago!— and in your head, you don't know whether you should be doing this at the chairman's dinner and not somewhere in a stripclub or just, god, anywhere else.

“It’s okay, sir,” is what you answer, and the short silence would be the perfect opportunity to scuffle back to your original stance, but you saw his ever-growing, throbbing bulge in his black suit-pants and it is staring you down.

Everything about him is so big…

“Really, baby?”, Mr. Choi asks, eyebrows pushed together, lips formed into a pout, feigning an expression of worry.

“Yes, sir,” you say, the big question of 'what is the goal here?' unnerving you, but with the quick, harsh movement of his leg against the back of your knee, you're—

“Sir!”

Sat on his thigh, your butt is bouncing on the hard flesh, fingers dug into his shoulders deeper due to the shock, ribcage moving up and down as you’re breathing fast and anxiously. At this point, you’ve gathered the attention of many who are seemingly more excited about the situation than you are, silencing all around, while the chairman continues to crack drunk jokes on the other side.

Mr. Choi chuckles at your nervousness and puts his glass down. “Aww, look at you, baby,” he coos, his rough, calloused fingers trailing between the inner space of your thighs that’s pushed into his leg. “Need a little break?”

As you sit there— securing yourself on the table, feeling his hand sit between your legs, you become lighter with each passing second, tingles being sent down your abdomen. Could Mr. Choi please stop smirking like that? It’s going to make you lose your mind, lose every thought of what you were trying to achieve at this table tonight.

“The chairman doesn’t allow breaks, sir,” you murmur, trying to cling onto the last sense of service you have, “I have to stay here.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper for the CEO in front of you to become curious, but loud enough for the mafiaboss to scoff and massage his hand deeper into your flesh.

“Sir, I really—“, you try to protest, but Mr. Choi uses his other finger to signal you to come closer to his face. You do as you’re told, his warm breath hitting your ear after you lean backwards.

“Baby,” he cackles, and his lips touch your earlobe, the smell of the smoke fading out his mouth.

“I practically own that wimp,” and Mr. Choi lets out a chuckle before his voice lowers an octave, “Let me own you, too.”

His tongue grazes over your sensitive skin as if he was a snake trying to convince you of eating the strange fruit, and you shudder forwards in surprise, his growl still vibrating in your ears.

You should get yourself together— yeah, that sounds like a good idea, if it just wasn't for the fact that this is exactly how you've been presenting yourself the whole evening. You're cornered, and not only by him, but your actions and it's, oh, old man, it's something. It's something that broadens the playground that was set out in front of you, something that gives you more to play, no, more to be played with.

The other guests are gawking already, forgetting about their prejudices when it comes to the 'youngsters', just happy to be seeing their missy in action.

The mafiaboss sighs, breaking his whispering and speaking louder than before. “But if you cherish so much about that old geezer, he’ll be taken care of, no? Maybe even better than before, or am I wrong here, brother?”

He clicks with his mouth— is it a habit?— and looks at headman Park, who rolls his eyes, as if they’re sharing some secret you’re not a part of. But before you can fall into further confusion, your legs tighten around Mr. Choi’s wristwatch, as his thumb strokes the surface under your skirt one time, right across your cunt which has been heating up since the first time you saw the reflection of yourself in his silver cross. A pant leaves your mouth and you have to grind your ass over so you can somehow clench your legs together.

“You like that?”, Mr. Choi sneers, chuckling into your ear, as he continues to move his thick finger against your clit. "Of course you do. Let me hear more of those cute sounds, baby.”

You grab his bicep, heat crawling up your abdomen against his forearm, your crotch feeling more and more buzzed as the male works his fingertip into you. Nobody says anything, just murmuring insignificant sentences to keep up the chatty mood.

Headman Park in the meanwhile, crosses his arms, catching the attention of the mafiaboss.

“Brother, can’t you see I’m doing this for you? Enjoy yourself.”

Mr. Choi flashes an eye-smile and keeps groping your cunt, you melting more and more into his lap and under the heated gazes of the crowd. Your servant-colleagues don’t know what to do, or no, maybe they knew exactly that this would happen and think you deserve all of this shame, just in general not helping you escape the touch of the mafiaboss.

“Sounds like you’re enjoying her more than anything,” headman Park says, looking indifferent, but his words don’t cross out the possibility that inside his pants, his cock isn’t growing too, how his arms are crossed, clenched around each other.

“Come on, baby,” Mr. Choi growls into your ear, “give that fucking bore a show, won’t you?”

You’re split open. He’s strong, oh gosh, so strong, taking not more than one push to grab you by your thigh and spread your legs, make you slip on his crotch, as he closes his knees together to support you from down under.

“San,” headman Park warns, but his mouth stays slightly open, tongue pressed against the surface of his upper teeth, suppressing a grin.

You flatten your back against Mr. Choi’s torso as an attempt to hide your face behind his neck, and breathe heavily against his freckled skin, the cold exterior of his pearly accessory grazes your chin.

“What?”, the male asks, taking his glass, his arm slithering under your armpit and his chin resting on your shoulder as he sips from it, not to forget the hand that is still pushed into the now moist fabric between your legs, moving in circular motion.

Headman Park doesn’t answer and folds his hands together, placing his elbows on the table, fingers touching his lower lip.

“Geez, brother, you should feel this cunt right now,” the mafiaboss wheezes, almost hiccuping from his excitement, “so fucking hot, you won’t believe.”

“Make her louder.”

Even Mr. Choi was surprised to hear that come out of the reserved CEO's mouth, and as he chuckles and takes the last sip from his whiskey, he puts down his glass once in for all to accept headman Park’s order.

With a slight lean forward, his free hand wraps around your neck and you gasp for air. Mr. Choi’s legs are spread so when you have to tuck in your pelvis, you can feel his bulge under your cunt. At this point, you don’t care for the piercing gazes anymore, and the chairman might as well give you a nice tip for the sight of you grinding your wet pussy into his biggest investor’s clothed cock. You’re such a master profiteer, Y/N, Jongho was right.

“Fuck, missy,” Mr. Choi grunts and he’s so frustrated he can’t take off more of your clothes, but it doesn’t prevent him from following the order when headman Park mutters, “grab her breasts.”

It is one shameless show.

You becoming needy and whiny on Choi San’s lap, the mafiaboss grinning, as CEO Park Seonghwa’s eyes are unmoving from your sullen, aroused expressions— it has persuaded the audience to want their own slice of fun, but even with hands wrapped around their no-use cocks, everybody in the room has their eyes sealed on the young servant whose only job was to refill some ice.

Mr. Choi can feel it; what a slut you are on top of him, how eagerly you’re grinding your cunt over his bulge, and how jealous the others are watching— and this includes all the blokes that are watching with cigars in their mouths, but also the servants that would have gladly taken your seat and not rub their hands over old, moist, wrinkly skin.

“Sir,” you whimper, as Mr. Choi knobs your breasts, his tough hands cupping each tit, just like headman Park commanded him.

Fuck, how he wishes to be able to see your face as well as well as headman Park does, but the sobby whines might as well do.

“So noisy on my cock,” Mr. Choi snarls, “you’re practically begging for attention, missy.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” you hiss and the mafiaboss inhales sharply, gasping, his cock jumping, very turned on by your sudden spunky tone. Bingo.

“Did you hear that, brother?”, he whales, tempting the headman to interact with him more as the main viewer of his performance, but the man to his friend is only raising an eyebrow. “Baby's got some zest in her. You like that, don’t you?”

Mr. Choi continues to coo headman Park into defeat, “You like ‘em feisty, brother. I know you, chief execution officer, sir. You wanna ram your cock into this little missy's pretty mouth, just admit it.”

Little missy's pretty mouth. "Say that again, shitbag," you hiss, but Mr. Choi grins and pries into your bust, working folds into your freshly-ironed shirt. "Listen, brother," he breathes, "It gets your cock fucking going, doesn't it?"

The mafiaboss chuckles and adds, so only you can hear it, "Definitely gets my cock going, baby."

Headman Park scans the room, and you can see how he shakes his head, and looks at Mr. Choi with a slight distaste. “You may leave soon.”

“Really?”, Mr. Choi grins, beaming, grabbing your hips forcefully in the joy of it, and while the CEO’s words leave you misled, you sigh into the pressure of being pressed down deep into his muscled thigh, your cunt pulsating through his flesh.

“Change of plans.”

“Alright," he murmurs, just as offended as you are by his lack of reactions, but quickly catching up on his lust to hear, see, feel you more. "But not before I make this baby come."

“Punster,” headman Park jeers and it does occur to you that you’re hearing more of his soft voice than before, but when he looks at his wristwatch, you suppose you’re not doing well enough for him. Look at me, you rich-ass prude, you think and whine, being moved across Mr. Choi’s thigh by his own hands. Your clit feels hot, like it is seriously going to burn and fall off, but you, fuck, feel so good; the sounds just keep leaving your mouth, your high approaching very soon.

“How long were you thinking, brother?”, Mr. Choi asks and is nibbling at your neck, as he rams you over his thigh, fighting with the pace you're breathing wispy and digging your nails more and more into the glass-table until your fingertips turn white.

"Five.”

“Five? Make it ten.”

“You only last ten?”

“You can be such a bully, brother,” Mr. Choi fleers, and you have no fucking idea what they’re talking about, since you are feeling your orgasm coming in less than a minute, stars appearing in front of your eyes. “Make it ten.”

The male takes note of how you're bucking in your pelvis and uses his canine teeth to make your neck flame on, his hand placed roughly around your throat, as you become more sensitive to every move. "Sir," you whisper, a knot forming in your stomach.

Your clit is begging you for mercy at this point, demanding you to get the clothes off your legs so your slick has some way to escape, but you're drenching Mr. Choi's suit-pants in your wetness with stuttered heaving, ready to moan loudly in any second now if you could just find that one fucking spot—

"Are you gonna cum, baby? Right in front of everyone?", he murmurs against your neck and you nod repeatedly, raving your clothed clit on his thick, pillowy muscle, desperately chasing your high. "Come on," he snickers, "Show them what kind of slut missy is, huh? Such a good fucking slut for us, aren't you?"

"Yesyesyes," you whine, not caring for anything than your release, and Mr. Choi is being so kind as to continue breathing heavily into your ear to make you melt into bliss, but nothing gets you on more than the gentle smile that headman Park is sending your way, head slightly tilted to the back— is he nodding? Is he finally approving? Oh, fuck, you think, and you're doing the best job darting your hips non-stop to continue feeling your cunt be stroked by Mr. Choi's flesh, pursuing the CEO's praising acknowledgment. "Good fucking slut on my lap," the mafiaboss cackles, "come for daddy."

"You fucking weirdo," you falter, not wanting to call him "I'm never gonna call you—

Mmmuh!" Mr. Choi grabs you by your hair and tugs it harshly, making your back arch and your head rotate to his side. In the open mouth, his tongue plunges into your throat, the taste of woody herbs and bitter alcohol are flooding your tastebuds. Smearing all of your lipstick, his mouth is pressed against yours like he's sealing yours shut. You convulse your lower body in surprise of the sudden act and holy shit, get that one spot over your clit that's also stroking your gaping entrance, your body releasing all of its heat into one blaring, roaring zap, with your eyes rolling back your head, your stirred voice screaming, "FUCK!"

There is a gasp heard through the dining hall and you're not sure whether it was the chairman, a servant, or headman Park in front of you, but as you are spasming on Mr. Choi's thigh and your back arches to his chest, you feel like the world is expanding on you, peeping, intrusive onlookers cramming out their money to thank you for the show they got, white trickling through the linen of their underwear.

Coming down from your high, weakened and all the while more aroused by the mafiaboss whispering the words "good girl" into your ear, you try to open your eyelids to catch headman Park putting on some black leather-gloves he got from his briefcase, muttering something under his breath to the mafiaboss.

“Go."

What the fuck?

Mr. Choi hooks his arm under your legs while he re-applies his lips to yours, and lifts you up like the pretty princess you are to most of the gawkers that don't stop watching, when he stands up.

Everybody has their eyes on the kiss the mafiaboss and servant missy are sharing, but headman Park doesn’t even look at you, when his partner starts carrying you to the elevator that's waiting for you at the wall about in the middle of the dining table, and just retrieves his open briefcase from the floor. Has he had enough of you already?

“Where are we—“, you breathe, but Mr. Choi kisses you silent, tongue forcing its entry, preventing you from figuring out what's happening, after the mafiaboss puts you down in front of the door and pushes you against the frame roughly. Cheering and hooting encourages him to continue rubbing his thumb over your skin as the other ringed fingers are holding your thigh, and you're pressed against his leg, virtually fenced in by Mr. Choi while he pushes the button for the lift to come.

His eyes are squinting to the side while he works his lips against you, in a way confirming that all of the guests (except the CEO) are begrudgingly anticipating the next actions of the mafiaboss, not caring how the headman is slowly pushing his seat away from the table to get more leg-space, which you seem to be the only person noticing it.

The golden door opens with a bell dinging the elevator’s arrival, and Mr. Choi grabs you by your ass, leading the way inside it. You can't see it correctly with your eyes closed, can only feel his big arms push into your frame, but he even makes for a show-like exit, burlesquely saluting the audience with two fingers, clicking with his mouth. It must really be a habit, you think, and giggle into the kiss.

The men attempt to throw bankrolls into your space and some succeed, some don't, but while you're glad your plan worked out, you aren't too sure what you've just done with, or for the mafiaboss.

Your heated kiss continues and because you want to feel him, you unbutton his shirt that doesn’t need that much working, three buttons being pushed open by your jellylike hands. Before you can unclothe him though, Mr. Choi pushes his arm against the mirror next to your head, stopping you to take a look at his wristwatch. He strokes his hair to the back with the other hand, revealing some of his meaty abs, and once he’s reached the backside of his head, he slides his fingers down his neck and around his Adam's apple to scratch it, announcing, “Ten minutes on the clock. Shit, brother's dick must be fucking exploding in his pants right now."

“Sir?”, you ask, overwhelmed by the words that are not making sense in your head, but also distracted by his hand that’s around your tie.

“Given he really could've finished in five but,” he yanks you towards his face. “I wanted to have you a bit more for myself, missy.”

He smiles, very arrogantly like the patronizing fuck he is, like he knows how strong he is, what a dominating aura he possesses, but at this point, in between the mirrors and on this black, marbled floor, you are not at the chairman’s dinner anymore, aren’t a servant anymore– you aren’t bound to any authority, are you?

“If you fucking call me ‘missy’ again, I’ll bite your fucking dick off.”

Except for the moment that you’re talking to him, a mafiaboss, whose breast is marked by— and you can see it very clearly now for it fits perfectly into yours— hands that have shared the same, if not a similar experience with you.

“How’d you know I was into biting, baby?”

And holy fuck, his back looks even crazier.

“God, sir,” you breathe out in awe and a little bit of fear. You can count the lines of red scratches on his back and as you finally let his shirt fall from his shoulders, the reflection of his muscles, how they relax under your touch. You become starstruck. Everything about him is so scarring, but fuck, how it attracts you, the wildness, the savagery— there’s something so free about him.

"What, baby? You like what you're seeing? How naughty..."

Ten minutes aren’t a lot, but Mr. Choi makes his best attempt to hurry over the trivial parts of fucking you. He steps closer, your ass hitting the handrail, legs crossing together, and your buttons pop in one rip, as his two hands rupture your blouse open. He lets his shirt drop to the floor, all the while his lips clash against the nook of your neck, making you sigh under the luminous lights of the elevator and grab his neck. You’re getting hazy, horny; damn, it’s been so long you’ve had a good fuck. Satisfactory sex is another luxury you were postponing for later.

With his lips sewn on your shoulder, kissing and forcing his tongue against a spot he deems especially tasty, the half-naked male unzips your skirt to finally reveal the black pantyhose that looks soaked in your slick. After he chuckles at the sight of it, Mr. Choi licks over his lips and cups your jaw with his hand, drawing a trail of insatiable kisses across your skin.

“Still wanna bite my dick off?”, he asks with a sly smirk, breathy, having caught your aroused look locked on his silver chains, his jacked upper body inviting you to get your mouth in there until it’s molded around your teeth.

“Come on, baby,” the male provokes you, “You think I’m gonna fuck you just like this? Think I’m gonna ram myself inside your cute fucking cunt ‘cause I’m such a big scary fucking man?”

You inhale sharply. “N- no, I…”, you breathe out, letting your tongue run over your teeth.

“Aw, baby, am I making you shy?”, Mr. Choi hoots, “I didn’t think you were a shy one. You were pretty noisy on my thigh for your cunt, weren’t you? Getting all the sounds out for brother to hear them… You really served a show there, baby.”

Your mouth only lets out stammered gibberish– you have never learnt how to talk dirty, but Mr. Choi uses your opened lips to ram his tongue into it again anyway, and you're almost proud to say you've gotten used to it.

He breathes rashly through his nose, and he tastes less of bourbon but more of dulcet desire, mixed in with the red of your lipstick sitting on his lip. Your knee strokes his erection while he gets his hands behind your back to get your bra off, lips clashing and raving against each other. “Letting your body talk for you?”, Mr. Choi husks, panting at having his overstrained cock touched. He relieves you from the pressure around the bust and continues to ramble. "I knew I could have a lot of fun with you the second I laid my eyes on you.” You pant and reunite your lips with his. "Little missy, such a whore for the rich."

He’s overconfident he’s seeing right through you, it infuriates you. Mr. Choi massages his hands into your breasts, the cold rings grazing sharply into your warm flesh, and as your knee is still between his crotch, you huff. You can be a whore for the rich when you’re earning money, but right now, you’re doing things for your own pleasure.

“Are you going to have a lot of fun with me?”, you sing-song in a high-pitched female voice to the mafiaboss that’s immediately taken aback, and you know the word 'missy' is on top of his tongue again, when you interrupt him with a quick jab of your knee into his groin. "Shit-eating fat-cat."

Mr. Choi grunts, head tilting down. His feline eyes meet your foxy ones, and while you weren't preparing for a staredown, the mafiaboss smirks and bites his lip.

He has a lot to say, you can see it. There’s something glimmering under the lust-drunken layer behind his eyes, and it’s deep, goes deeper, but for some reason, the mafiaboss, who just so despicably couldn’t hold his mouth, doesn’t let out the words that’s crossing his mind.

“Sir–”

Wrong deduction.

Mr. Choi scowls in laughter, and you guess he meant to joke with you, but he means to play with you much more, when he, once again, lifts you up, by your waist this time, and balances you on the handrail.

Resting his forearm on your thighs to stabilize you, Mr. Choi digs in his pocket to fetch his cigarette box, looking at himself through the mirror and shaking some strands out of his face. "Shit-eating fat-cat," he repeats with a lisp, pulling out one of the slim rolls with the corner of his mouth, and he continues to chuckle, as he glances at you through his eyelashes, "you should've said that to the old geezer when you had the chance to, baby."

"The chairman?"

No answer. Mr. Choi lights his cigarette with a zippo, and keeps it lit in his mouth, as he, with no forewarning, tears open your pantyhose from your crotch with both of his hands, spreading your legs wide. You have to get your hands around his head to be able to keep yourself on the handrail.

“Why do you look so scared? Think I’m gonna fuck you?”, he lisps. “I’m just taking a good look, baby. What a pretty cunt you got there, baby.”

You gulp. Mr. Choi slides his index finger across your heated folds through the fabric and your cunt clenches together, wanting to be filled up. “Sir,” you sigh, and the mafiaboss pulls in smoke from his cig, raising an eyebrow.

“What, baby? ‘You need something?”, he asks, “You’re not a fucking servant anymore, or do you need to be ordered around, missy?”

You try to look angry, but Mr. Choi only pouts and presses his finger through your panties, soaking them in your slick that’s gathered at your entrance. “Desperate to please the money-man? So wet for him…”

“Fuck you,” you mewl, but Mr. Choi knows what he’s doing when he thumbs your clit and exhales smoke into your face, hiding his face for a short second which gives you confidence. “I need you… to fuck me.”

“What did you say, baby? I couldn’t hear.”

“Please, sir, just… fuck me, please…”

“Louder.”

“God! Just fuck me! Didn’t you say we have ten minutes? Make them fucking count!”

“There we go, baby. My slutty little missy. Oh, baby, you’re growing on me, brother’s gonna hate that.”

You huff and Mr. Choi slides your panties off your legs, taking a short glimpse at his wristwatch. “Damn, ten’s really a short time.”

How many minutes have passed? Ten already? You know you said it, but you mentioned it only because it made sense, if you’re honest, you have no clue what the time is worth for. Aren't these the men who have time for gold?

The biting smell of tobacco enters your nose, making you cough out loud. Is smoking even allowed in the elevator? Wait, wait, wait, no, maybe you should worry about other things, for example what you're going to do when those ten minutes are over, when all of this is over. They clearly have some type of plan and thing they are carrying out right now, but you don’t know how much you’re invited in there.

Mr. Choi finishes his quick break, inhaling one last puff and keeping his cig between his lips again, and his hands unbuckle his belt in silence, while you contemplate.

Clanking, ruttling, and steps begin to thump behind the door— have any of you two even pressed a button? The mafiaboss looks concentrated, fixed on your cunt, taking out his throbbing, panging cock out his underwear, stroking it a few times to god, fuck, finally get to touch it after having been dry-humped hot.

Squelching, huffing, and voices echo through the floor— is that the chairman you hear? You can only yelp, when Mr. Choi drags off your panties and slathering his thick fingers across your folds in one, then penetrating with another forceful movement.

"Fuck!", you hiss out, grabbing the handrail next to your hips, trying to balance yourself on it still. The mafiaboss snickers into your ear, and tours through your cunt, all the while it appears that all hell is breaking loose outside.

BANG!

"Sir, what—!"

"Shhh, baby," Mr. Choi hushes you, and takes out his cig with the fingers that are now glistening with your wetness, placing it on top of his lips vertically to the scar that is accompanying his smug smirk.

BANG!

"You got nothin' to worry 'bout, baby," he lulls, "we're just eatin' the pheasant and the egg here," and exhales smoke into your face out his mouth-hole, which distracts you from the third, fourth—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Another proverb, pheasant and the egg— 'two birds with one stone'. Mr. Choi unfolds his hand as if he was counting the minutes, or the shots— wait, yes, shots! Fuck, those are gun-shots, right? You've never heard something so loud ever in your life, where does someone get guns from in South Korea? What even would they need guns for? Why would they use them? What the fuck is happening outside?!

"Oh, fuck!", you moan out, before fear and realization can crawl up your scalp and take away your lusting for the male, Mr. Choi has jerked his hip up, his cock gliding into you smoothly as if your cunt was made for him, the length and girth perfectly curling inside. Your back arches, at least as far as you can arch it, and he grins bemusedly at your jolted reaction.

BANG!

With every blast that follows, Mr. Choi is thrusting into you, first slowly, but then adding more speed and vigor as he goes, or as the blasting goes, making you shakily watch yourself be wrecked by the broad man through the reflection on the other side, your legs dangling with his rough movement.

You don't know how he's fucking you through your tightness, because with each ducking of his hips it feels like your inner walls are expanding more and ungodly more, as if he was piercing you in half.

Small puffs of smoke leave Mr. Choi's mouth each time he pants out raspy "oh baby"s and loud claps of him slapping your ass overtone the screaming, scrambling noises outside, as you two work your lower bodies against and into each other, growing more passionate, throbbing feverishly.

"Fuck, baby," Mr. Choi hisses, cigarette tilting in his mouth, as his face frowns together. "So fucking good for daddy, aren't you? So fucking tight and wet, such a good fucking girl—"

The screams outside are dying down, but the mafiaboss and you are getting louder, breathier, lustier; with your head falling backwards, hitting the mirror, the twisting feeling of fear and the ecstasy to be bouncing on Mr. Choi's big cock mix up like one hellish drink, boiling and churning inside of you.

Smashing both his hands on each of you ass-cheeks to dig his fingers into them and get more stability to ram into you so fast, and oh boy, it's so fucking fast, you're going to spiral— Mr. Choi sputters, "Are you gonna come? Are you going to come for daddy, baby? Greedy baby gonna take daddy's huge fucking load?"

The male is unraveling, his once low, stable voice turning into a whiny, hoarse, cracked mess just like you, practically urging, begging you to finally take the name ‘daddy’ into your mouth.

"Come on baby, say it for me, huh? Feels good to be my slut?", he disentangles, "Be a good slut for daddy, baby."

"I'm not gonna call you— that, fuckhead!", you moan, though your insides are curdling together to finally be released, the knot tightening with each drop of sweat that is forming on your boiling face.

"Really? Think you can afford to misbehave, baby?", Mr. Choi snickers and spits his cig on the floor, your ass being handled at an insane speed, his cock slipping in and out of you with rough ease. He takes it upon himself to dig his teeth into the nook of your neck, biting you heftily, your pulse knocking against your throat, as you feel his cock run in and out of your cunt. Your head goes light and dazed, but before you can gasp out your high from being fucked, bitten, sent to bliss, the male sinks you deep into his cock fully, it does not give you the last thrust you would need to—

"Fuckfuckfuck, I'm gonna cum," you whimper, needing to tremble, but unable to move because his hands are restricting you from any movement, and you continue to bring out a string of weak "pleasepleaseplease" that bounces back from the mafiaboss, who is raising an eyebrow, waiting for the magic word to be spoken out of your wet lips. Tears have formed at the corner of your eye and he thumbs it away, grinning coyly.

"Fuck you, I'mnotgonna fucking, ugh—!", you sob, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

"Aww, you wanna hate daddy so bad, don’t you?”

“Fuuuck you!” Whines leave your mouth, wanting to cum, wanting to move, wanting for Mr. Choi to continue fucking into you and not wipe away your tears.

“Just say you love me, baby,” he heaves and returns his hand to your hip.

Thrusting into you once with a clap against your groin, to make your cunt clench around him, and then twice with the last blood-curdling BANG! from outside, his cock is deep inside you. He feels you tighten, pulsate, craving to be released, but Mr. Choi will not move again to your liking until you finally let go of yourself, which riles you up with no hope.

"F— Fuuuck, okay!", you scream out, annoyed, angry, wanting to fucking cum; "Daddy!", you sob and Mr. Choi smirks, instantly getting to work to toast the adieu of your pride. Thumb on your clit, he circles around your sensitive bud to double the tension you feel through all of your body, while you gutter, "fuck me, daddy, please, make me cum, please, daddy, please—"

He laughs, no, howls— elated, animated, drunk, and then, with his strong, buff fucking arms, pounds you into his cock like a punching bag, your ass hitting his pelvis so many times until you have to use his gelled hair as a last resort to hold yourself up and not push yourself from the handrail with your head against the mirror, but he holds you, holds you steadily in his grip.

"Good god, good fucking missy, such a good fucking slut for me, cum all over my cock– all over my fucking cock, baby," Mr. Choi grunts, and the string that was keeping you balanced snaps, your orgasm hitting you like that makes your insides tighten around the mafiaboss and his throbbing girth, your whole body being flushed by an overwhelming wave of pleasure which you drink up whole. His cockhead rubs against your sweetspot, you riding out the high while seeing nothing but bliss.

"Holy fuck," you breathe, and your fingers grip into the thick skin of his back, and with Mr. Choi's hips not stopping to hit your pelvis, there are additional, injuring, deep red marks on there with every thrust. You’re scratching him like a beast wanting to tear up its prey, but the beast is fucking into you like there’s no tomorrow. His cock does not stop grazing against your deepest spot, tears rolling down your heated cheek, and your mouth is unable to get out the words you want it to when you get the feeling that he's going to cum soon.

"O- out," you warn him, but the mafiaboss makes a disappointed face, “I– I really can’t afford a child, p-please pull out–!”

He draws his eyebrows in, scoffs and looks you deep in the eyes, his muscular body tucked in, murmuring, rambling out his whiskey-painted throat, “Is that really your only problem, baby? That you don’t have enough money?” His forehead leans against yours and your eyelids flutter open– you are being a mitt around his dick– and he pouts in pity, his iron cross hanging from his chest, as he talks to you.

Mr. Choi gets his hand flat on your lower belly and presses down on it, feeling himself bulge inside you. He moves his hips slowly, his cockhead dragging across your sweetspot, while he gutters, “you’d look so sexy as a mother, don’t you think, baby? With the tummy and all.”

“S- sir, please I–”

"Come on, do you think I don’t have enough money to pay for a fucking kid? God, how fucking annoying– I’m not that kind of man, baby,” Mr Choi growls, his voice vibrating against your cheek, as he charges his forehead deeper against yours, “I still got some honor.”

You shake your head, unsure whether there are pills for after in the pharmacies, or whether the mafiaboss will really be there to be with you as he promises, but Mr. Choi continues to beg in his low breathy, guttery voice. “Baby,” he rumbles, pressing even harder on your abdomen, your ass being pushed into the handrail that you’re sure it’s going to leave one red straight mark, and his cock is almost exploding from the edge, “Let me, no, let daddy cum into your tight cunt, baby, please.”

God, he wants you. He wants you so bad, doesn’t he?

"Y- you should see yourself," you chuckle, stroking over Mr. Choi's gelled hair, and his head tilts up a little bit as your fingers get tangled in his black locks, the white of his eyes making him look like a wild dog waiting for its treat. "F-fucking do it, you fucking slut."

"Fuck, baby," he laughs, out of breath, "You’re really a price."

Mr. Choi hammers his hips into you, until the stars in front of you all look like wishes falling from the sky. Both of you feel it, how his cock just feels so right, fits in like your cunt is a fucking glove which is full and getting even fuller.

"God, fuck," Mr. Choi grunts from the bottom of his throat, his hot cum lading into you, and it's like your lower body is melting with it, becoming heavier with every drop he's unloading inside.

"Take all of my fucking cum," he husks and your faces clash together for one finishing wild kiss. Mr. Choi sucks on your lower lip, as he fucks his ejaculation deeper and deeper into your hole with slow thrusts, until he bucks up his pelvis the last time and moans out a raspy, “perfect fucking missy with a perfect fucking cunt..."

Ding!

For a man that uses his mouth so sparingly, his tongue surely works wonders.

"Sir, are you—"

Headman Park has entered the elevator without a word, pulling off his leather gloves, and with Mr. Choi stepping away, he has all the place he requires to get on his knees and throw your leg over his shoulder, his wet and warm muscle delving into your throbbing cunt. You've been bereaved of the time to inspect what was behind or around him when the door closed, but maybe that's irrelevant anyways. What is relevant, is how impatient, but also how careful the CEO remains, and how he still tries his best to slowly sift his tongue into your folds, feeling every inch of your wetness. He’s been dying to do this.

"Fuck, sir!"

"Please," the CEO chuckles, hastily pulling the black leathery from his hands to put it back in his briefcase that he's been carrying, but he doesn't miss your cunt once, purling over your clit and glancing at you. "Call me Seonghwa, princess."

You could cum right here and there, just at the sight of this pretty man looking up to you, who has laid out his first name and put it into yours, scream it out loud until everyone hears what a princess you've been made of.

Princess. You knew his eyes were different, but you didn’t know they saw the world differently too. Oh, how you wish you could see more of his world.

"Aww, what? That's why you're still a foreigner in our country, brother! 'Can't be dropping our titles," Mr. Choi huffs and lights himself a second cigarette, filling the elevator with smoke and tobacco. How his breath really doesn't smell is questionable to you.

Just like you, the CEO, or how you're allowed to call him now— Seonghwa, ignores his partner's words, laps over your clit with his tongue, gently easing into your cunt with his clean fingers, and your soft sighs are like a reward for him, for whatever he's done outside.

"Respect, brother, 's all about respect..."

You tighten your thighs around Seonghwa's neck. The charcoal-haired has closed his eyes, sighing into the taste of you, and you are flawlessly overlooking the loud mafiaboss, just completely concentrating on the commitment the CEO is eating you out with. His head fits magically between your legs, he works his fingers so flawlessly into you, this must be fate— and if it's not, you're going to make it your future in any which way possible. You're falling. No, flying; never coming down.

"Seonghwa," you whine, and your hand glides over the hooked male's forehead, his hair feeling smooth under your touch as he presses his tongue slowly— in circular motion— against your clit to keep you on the high, but not in a way that would make you trip over.

"Mmf," the mafiaboss in front of you huffs, clearly attracted, enticed by the way you've exhaled the other male’s first name, scratching his temple with the fingers that are holding his cigarette.

"Whether you wanna call me San or 'daddy', baby," the scarred male, no, San, the fucker grins, "I'm gonna be hearing both either way."

"Fuck—", you moan out, having to take a breath because of how Seonghwa has curled his fingers into you with his tongue ready to shovel anything into his mouth that comes out, "you, fuckhead!"

The CEO is giggling a bit, finding your tone very amusing— and he tries to tell you this by looking up and slanting his eyes a friendly way, no, a way that you've never even conjured up the fantasy to perceive him, the cold-faced Park Seonghwa who hasn't drunk a drop of alcohol tonight. What pureness in a man...

"I liked 'fat-cat' better,” San snickers and goes through his hair that definitely needs combing, turning around and looking at himself through the mirror, though his eyes squint towards Seonghwa's reflection on the other side, now again lost in your cunt, taking off his jacket and folding it in half behind his back.

"Brother, you're eating my cum, by the way," the mafiaboss jabs, puffing out smoke while he's decidedly getting hard again in his trousers. San really can't hide his emotions on his face, can he? His lips are pursed, eyebrows slightly pulled in— how obvious. The man is jealous and doesn't want to admit it, you're sure of it.

"Shut up," you hiss, having become a bit comfortable with teasing the frustrated, outwitted mafiaboss. Ten minutes were definitely too little for him, but you've already rid his thigh, let him cum inside, and Seonghwa is simply too good with his tongue right now.

"Fuuuck," you whisper, and feel every drowsy twirl of his finger inside you, but it's slow, so slow, Seonghwa is swerving around every sponginess inside you, savoring the contraction of your inner space, and how your muscles tighten, when he licks over your clit, he enjoys this; enjoys you.

And so it continues, Park Seonghwa exploring every detail of your cunt as if he's a sommelier tasting the rarest of fluids, appreciating every drop that lands on his tongue, his fingers making sure that they don't go to waste.

"Shit," San comments, "I should've eaten her out, too."

The CEO is not cocky about it, about the way you are grabbing into his hair and squirming, how he has to slightly lift you up so you don't fall from your position. And then, when Seonghwa thinks your taste has perfectly coated his palate, speeds up.

"Fuck, sir," and the title slips out of you, like a habit you can't change for good when you feel so small. The CEO between your legs doesn't mind it though, at least doesn't say anything on it and just lets his fingers hit your sweet spot until there is a distinctive "Seonghwa" leaving sighed out your lips.

"I'm going to—", you announce, but the male has been long aware of it, preparing himself more access by bending his upper body to angle himself across your cunt, giving his partner a better view on how you glisten in arousal.

San in front of you is standing frozen, with his cigarette slowly burning out in his mouth, and you recompense the lack of his cock in your cunt by moaning louder, so your voice can vibrate around his erection. He grins and gets a tongue to his canine tooth, naked upper body still glowing in sweat, muscles shining, cock twitching every time he hears you breathe, and breathe more intensely, "make me cum, Seonghwa, please!"

"I knew you would taste delicious," Seonghwa murmurs, silently, rather for himself, and this must be how he sounds when he's drunk, because he is so high on your taste, "but this is ambrosial, princess."

You curl up your pelvis, and Seonghwa holds you by your hips, as his tongue picks up in speed, drawing out every word he hasn't spoken tonight on your labia, stamping them into your clit, all the while his fingers row in more and every last drop.

"C- coming~", you purr, and your eyes close down, your hands deep in Seonghwa's scalp, exhaling the weight of your worries, that flushes down into the man who seems to have none in his life, and he breathes into your hot cunt through his nose, not letting go of it until he's made sure that your hips tremble around his head. "P- please, f- fuck, fuck, feels so good—"

Pumping the remaining come into you, Seonghwa licks up your cunt and kisses your clit until you go completely flaccid, your arms giving in, but Seonghwa catches you by your hand, kissing your thigh with his swollen pink lips.

With your body relaxed, your ass feels a bite sore, having been prodded into the iron rail for so long. You grab into Seonghwa's hand and try to push yourself up, but ultimately fail at getting yourself into a more comfortable position.

"San, hold her."

"Huh?", he asks, "'Need something more snuggly, baby? Or what did you call her again, brother?"

"Princess," the CEO answers immediately and you have to suppress a girly giggle, as Seonghwa turns his head around, lips still pressed against your thigh. He presumably sends San an admonitory look to hurry up, and gets up from his knees.

The mafiaboss shrugs, not offended by being ordered around. He puts out the cigarette against the mirror and cracks his neck by rolling his head around, his thick neck dousing into your sight as he does so. He's so intimidating, you think, but he's on his way to coast those monster-arms behind your back, hands down to each of your hamstrings to, "up you go," pick you up like real royalty. The giggle escapes your mouth but you don't feel the slightest embarrassed nor do you have a reason to be. You are sunken deep into San’s cushiony arms— his muscles make for a great seat, and hovering, air hitting your hot cunt, as your legs spread for the CEO in front of you when you fall into the elbows. You yelp, but the giggles just keep coming, making San in the mirror in front of you wink at you, cackling, "you like that, princess?"

Seonghwa smiles, satisfied by your enjoyment of this position and approaches you once more. "I have yet to kiss you, Y/N," he says with his sweet voice, and his gentle hands find your chin and waist, your eyes blossoming open for him to stare into.

Even San shuts up now, and you suppose he is too taking part in the beauty that is the embrace of you and Seonghwa; two sets of lips, crazing each other, meeting for one flowery affair, breathing out small vapors of life. You can taste yourself, which means that Seonghwa is fully consumed by your aroma.

God, you think again, your cunt tingling at how Seonghwa tugs at his tie, pulling it side to side as he kisses you— the golden 'π'-pin clanks shrill to the floor— everything about Seonghwa is so...

Clean?

You are inhaling the mellow smell of his satiny skin, and the CEO unbuttons his shirt with proficient, skilfull flicks of his fingers. He is so handsome, handsomely pretty, and even when it’s drenched in your fluids, his skin shines on its own, like Seonghwa has a light shining within. Once you can see his bare chest and get lost on the smooth surface, your eyes dive down, admiring his slim, yet very muscular physique.

Seonghwa gets his tie and drags off his shirt by tugging at one sleeve with his hand, the white fabric revealing the rest of body with one clean pull that matches one of the curtains.

"W-", and you have to jump back with your head to get the full spectacle that's presented in front of you, exhaling in awe— "Wow.."

"Not so blank, our brother, is he?", San chuckles from behind of you and lowers his head to press his chin against your temple, surveying the same sight.

Two colossal, monstrous dragons, red and black, are colliding, looped, entangled all around Seonghwa's right arm, fighting for dominance on his skin. The raven hydra has its jaw wide open where Seonghwa looks to his shoulder with a rather shy smile once he sees your reaction, baring its teeth towards his heart, while the crimson dragon ends at the CEO's wrist, sitting on top of his pulse.

"Would you believe me it was brother's idea, baby?"

"As if," Seonghwa murmurs, folding his shirt into a square.

San chuckles again, re-shuffling himself and pressing your back close to his stomach, granting the back of your head to rest at his collarbone. "I asked her if she would believe, brother."

You watch the delicate lines, the elegant strokes of tint meeting on his skin, but while your first impression made you believe they carried a certain viciousness with their svelte bodies, the second sight presents you a different image of two forces maneuvering into each other as a reminder that they both co-exist as supreme. It's not one another they're reviling against, it's the bearer of the both who is threatened by their fangs. Their existence is a warning reminder, but also a sign of pride.

"I believe it's... beautiful."

“Aw, you’re so sweet, baby.”

You haven't seen many tattoos in your life, none in the mountains, and even in the city the only observable tattoos were those of the sleazy guys in alleys that wait when you're done with your job to gape at your uniform. They got tigers and other animals roaring on their bodies to hide the fact they don't have the fighting skills to keep up, but for Seonghwa, a CEO, to have this amount of ink under his skin is a commitment and to imagine he’s hiding that under his ironed shirt and black jacket, no, that you are seeing it right now, it’s… You’re overwrought, steamed up, aflame.

"Wanna touch it, baby?", San asks, and you nod eagerly. Seonghwa chuckles, “Go for it.”

You let your fingertip ghost over the dragons' scales, tailing their curvature. Goosebumps form on Seonghwa's arm and his hand finds its way to your head, stroking your cheek, as you meet the red beast's eyes.

The mafiaboss whispers, almost sentimentally, "No blood or tears."

Another expression, which proves to you that the tattoo was undoubtedly his idea, but you see it, the romance that is spoken from the male's skin, regardless of the little insight you have on both of them. Loyalty, reverence, creed, a belief and a duty, and before you know it, you want Seonghwa to enwrap you with his arms and never let you go, which he does.

His slender hand cloaks the left side of your head, and he pulls himself into a kiss, while he unbuckles his belt with his other hand.

You don't know how much you understand of this situation, no, you don't know how much you want to understand of this situation.

You've been on your own. That's all you ever had after you left home: Your body and soul, the windstorms of the mountains pushing you from the back to keep going, and you've lived your best life living for yourself that way, in bliss, in ignorance— in peace, but what is peace in a place where you can't move by yourself? In a world that’s maimed by the rich, and sure, it may be that you’ve chosen your path, but you were never walking a road that was yours, always trailing behind something.

Nameless, that’s what you thought you would need to be.

Your monks wanted to be called their title like everyone else, it would have been disrespectful to ask Lady Kim for hers which you now regret, and not even as a secret did your old man tell you his name, but you— you, Y/N, you have a name and you want to scream it, live it as loud as you can, hear it echo back with a volume that feels stronger when it rings back.

You could have settled on being acknowledged by your supervisor to earn some good money, but this is what you’re here for, aren’t you? Why you trusted your gut to stick to the scary men? Why you walked to them with confident steps, even when a nervous knot was forming together inside you? Did you go as what, an act of defiance? One of independence? To prove yourself that you were still standing on your own feet?

"Speaking of, brother..."

Yes, with no shame.

"You really enjoyed yourself back there, didn’t you?”, San asks. “Didn’t expect that from you.”

Seonghwa is kissing you down your breast, observing closely how you breathlessly react to his tongue twirling around your nipple.

"You left me no other chance," the older male hums, coating your circular buds with his saliva, bringing out your heavenly sighs every chance he gets, stroking himself to the sounds of your pleasure.

"Well, I would have made sure you still fucked her, brother."

“Sure,” Seonghwa lisps and positions his cockhead at your entrance.

You try to grab San's shoulder behind you, as the male pushes himself inside, and your torso rotates to the side with your eyebrows pulling together, your cunt being spread apart. “F-fuck,” you exhale, and Seonghwa kisses the corner of your lip to soothe you. Your cunt squelches around his cock and your hips roll by themselves, wanting to take more of his length.

"Shit, look at her go," the mafiaboss woos, "Fuck yourself out, brother."

"Think you’ll miss this?", Seonghwa snickers and it must be the first question he has asked today. “Y- yeah, you will!”, you snap, feeling eager to be acknowledged for how good your cunt wraps around his throbbing heat.

“Oh, princess,” the CEO laughs, and your stomach drops because of how pretty his laughter sounds, and he caresses your cheek, only making your confusion and desire to finally uncover what the two men have obviously been keeping from you grow bigger. You don’t want to say it abruptly, but you three are naked, in a confined space, skins pressed against each other, so you believe you’re worth some type of explanation– or are you not?

“C- can you tell me what’s going to happen?”, you whine, and Seonghwa moves his hips, grabbing you by your waist to get his whole length. “Are you, fuck, going to leave me?”

“I dunno, brother, you call it,” San mutters. “It was your plan.”

“D- don’t!”

“It’s barely my plan anymore,” Seonghwa breathes, bucking his pelvis in, his cockhead being sucked in by your sensitive cunt.

“Don’t leave me!”

“You needed a distraction, brother, I got you one.”

“No,” Seonghwa chuckles, but in his heat, he kisses you and glances up at San while his tongue brushes against your lip. “But I’ll admit she saved us some jail-time, San.”

They continue talking over your pleas, and though you would have loved to ask a second time how the night was going to end, your brain has started to give into the pleasure once San folds your legs together, holding you by your hamstrings, giving Seonghwa an easier angle to fuck you senseless.

“F- fu-huuck,” you breathe out, and your eyes are disappearing behind your molten, droopy eyelids, with Seonghwa cumming for the second time on your abdomen and cleaning it up with his handkerchief, and you don’t even know when it was, that San crammed out his cock again, but you can definitely feel the difference of his girth, when he re-enters your used cunt, your legs shakily landing on the floor. They feel wobbly, your thighs having gone loose, and the mafiaboss has to hold you by your arms behind your back to support you.

“Can’t take it anymore, baby?”, San whispers into your ear, and his voice is low, very low, you don’t know how much time has passed since you could make out any of his words, but it feels like you’re back here, in the elevator, and Seonghwa is putting on his belt again.

“I c- can!”, you manage to whine out, not wanting the night to end, not wanting to return to your small apartment, not wanting these two to be gone from your life. “I can!”, you repeat yourself, when San lets out a mockful cackle. “You’re not going to fucking leave me here, San!”

“Who said anything about leaving you here, baby?”, he asks you, and he does mean his confusion, but the sarcastic undertone makes you desperate grow desperate. San frowns. “What did I tell you, baby?”

“You aren’t telling me shit, San!”, you sob, and his cock running through you prevents you from finding a braver voice, his two hands find your wrists to bind them together in his grip. “Aren’t you such a smartie,” he growls into your ear, hot air hitting your dissolving ear.

“Brother,” San calls out, and the addressed man is busy opening up his briefcase, getting on his knee. “I’m still waiting on you, y’know.”

“If you had stuck to the plan, th–” Seonghwa murmurs, but the mafiaboss falls into his word. “Then we would have fuckin’ send the bitch to prison and someone else would have him killed him, but there! You know I didn’t come with the fucking patience for that, brother! Geezer was getting on my fucking nerves.”

Killed?

“And don’t you talk back now,” San warns, “It was you who killed all of ‘em, so you figure out how you’re going to carry that one out.”

Killed?

“You already know how I’m going to carry this out.” Seonghwa smirks. “But you’re stopping me, San.”

“Augh, brother, you’re too sober for your own sake!” San’s cock is too deep in your cunt and your body is too much in his control for you to stop moaning like a bitch, but in your head, you’re puzzling together tonight’s happenings.

Expensive whiskey. Ice cubes. Ten minutes, gunshots, black leather gloves– “killed.”

Oh, Y/N.

“What did you do with the chairman, Seonghwa?”, you moan out, feeling how the mafiaboss is ramming himself into you at a sloppy, greedy pace, prolonging how much he can be inside you before he comes again, and you don’t know whether his heavy breathing can cover up the silence that it takes for the CEO to react to your question.

Seonghwa is still kneeled on the floor, when he rotates his head, smiling, his eyebrows pushed up. “What do you think I did?” His second question of the day.

“I- I,” you stutter, but San shakes his head, and interrupts you with his voice still loose from the alcohol, “you really don’t know how to keep up a good mood, brother!”, grabbing you by your chin and yanking your head up. “Lemme make my baby cum first!”

You can’t see Seonghwa anymore. You can barely see anything anymore, you’re counting your fifth or sixth orgasm of the night, cunt growing hotter with each time San thrusts into it, and with your breath being cut off, you slowly feel your arms lose their responsibility, tingling up from where your wrists are crossed behind your back. His cockhead is flaying against your g-spot and your thighs tremble at how used you’re being, eyes falling in, throat feeling tied up.

“S- San,” you manage to cough out, back arching for your final cry of pleasure, and San grins, letting go of your wrists, which makes you immediately fall to the front, finding safety against the mirror with both of your hands. He smacks his hands against your ass and lunges into you until your whole breast is pushed against the cold wall.

“Come on, baby, come for me,” San roars, and you wail, tired, exhausted, feeling the orgasm drown you like another wave in the ocean of bliss you’ve been swimming in, whining out, “coming, coming for you, San!”

The mafiaboss presses himself against your back, his silver cross being imprinted into your neck, as he unloads himself, his last drops of hot cum overflowing out of you. “Fucking slut… So fucking good…”

He kisses your jaw repeatedly and looks at how tiredly closed your eyes are in the mirror, cooing “aww, baby.” San strokes away a strand of hair and gets himself off your body, pulling out. “You look like you need some sleep, baby.”

You are trying to catch your breath, grabbing the handrail to hold yourself up, as it sounds like San is putting on his shirt again. They’re gonna fucking leave you here, aren’t they? Leave you here in the elevator with the– with the fucking bankrolls on the floor of the fucking men you fucking– Oh god… Keep breathing, Y/N. Keep on breathing.

“I mean all I’m saying… you know… lobsters and crabs are friends, pal.”

What the fuck is he on again…

“You’re making this hard on yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything, just sayin’ that she just grew on me, that’s all.”

Your legs tremble, as you try straightening them to stand up and see what the two are scheming again, but as you turn your body around, ass against the handrail again, you hear a very unfamiliar clicking in front of your forehead area which is not coming out of San’s mouth.

“You’ve grown soft. That’s what you did.”

“Ahhh, fuck you, brother.”

“Pathetic.”

You see a hole, and it also doesn’t take you long to see Seonghwa ready to pull the trigger, the mafiaboss leaning into the corner of the elevator, arms crossed, looking at you with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, pressing the button that leads to the lobby.

The night is over.

“A- are you going to– oh my g-god, are you going to kill me…?”

“Yes, princess.”

Your heart is going to burst, you could puke out so many words right now, but you don’t know what to do. You don’t want to die, not when you felt so fucking alive– you– fuck, you should feel sorry that your coworkers that they didn’t deserve to go the same way as the asswipes did, because you’ve long realised that the bangs were their skulls being crushed by the bullets, but at the same time you couldn’t care any fucking less about them right now. You just have to survive, that was the only thing that mattered since the very beginning. This is about your life. Your precious fucking life.

“Ah…”

Your body is too weak to hyperventilate, but your brain is working overtime. Do you run? Attack them? No…

Seonghwa hasn’t moved an inch away from your face, and you take it upon yourself to raise your hand and slowly push the cold, black gun to the side, so you can look him in his eyes, but he forces it back there.

“Please don’t kill me… I can do so much for you! I– I,” you stutter, trying to gather all the knowledge your monks have taught you. “I– I’ll do anything! You– you saw me, didn’t you? I have– I’ve been told I have a talent for serving! I– I can do anything, please, I beg you, just…”

You fall to your knees, and they burn on the glassy floor, your hands folded in front of your abdomen.

“Just please, let me live…”

You’re not greedy. You’ve only taken what you were given, and tonight, you’ve been given so much. Too much? No, it couldn’t be…

“Brother.”

There are tears flowing down your eyes, and you feel so sorry for yourself. You miss your old monk, and hope that you may be reincarnated to a butterfly that he can admire, just so that he can look at you with his adoring eyes again. So someone can want the best for you once in your life–

“Brother?”

So anyone can finally love you for once in your life.

next part coming soon... series masterlist | main masterlist

#cromernet #choi san x reader #choi san smut #choi san scenarios #choi san x you #choi san x y/n #park seonghwa x y/n #park seonghwa scenarios #park seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa smut #ateez scenario #ateez smut #ateez x reader #chokkiwa #chokko #drivebyme

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rachetmath · 3 months ago

Text

Jaune: *pacing back and forth*

Writer: *scared* Um.

Jaune: Let me ask you something. Do you get off on me suffering?

Writer: What? No. No. No, we don’t.

Jaune: Really? S-so—so w-w-why have me kill Penny? Like I really could have saved her. I really could have healed her. Like what are we doing? But no, I listened to a girl who had a human body for the first time and was having a dying experience which she probably wasn’t thinking straight.

Writer: …. ….

Jaune: Then I don’t even mention her and Ruby was going through it, acting like she killed her.

Writer: I mean she technically did kill her.

Jaune: Why didn’t you let Ruby do it then? Why did I have to go through all that crap?

Writer: Jaune your a knight.

Jaune: I also had a rabbit hoody. Plus didn’t Ruby pick a knight piece? She is TECHNICALLY a knight. You all could have had me as the late bunny.

Writer: How does that fit into your character?

Jaune: Hm. Beacon wasn’t I late to save Pyrrha? Mistral, wasn’t I think irrationally to where Weiss almost died. Argus, I was close to getting my friends killed because I was lack of leadership skills.

Writer: …. ….

Jaune: The heir always arrives late because he neglects his responsibility and doesn’t do his job. Haven’t I been neglecting some of my duties to almost where no one has complete faith in me?

Writer: …. …

Jaune: Plus, again, Ruby has silver eyes. She could have been training with those and her scythe skills. You can also determine what age you want her to be.

Writer: Okay Jaune chill. We just thought it was best for your character.

Jaune: So having me go back in time. I was stuck in the Ever After for years and couldn’t find a home until RWBY was there. Letting me get poisoned by Alyx. And getting no kind of skill set was good. Isn’t my character all about growth and change? So why does it feel like I haven’t changed? I’m back to square one again.

Writer: Yeah…

Jaune: y'all come on. First, you had Tyrian having some interest in me which might as well be a prison joke right now. Then you had Vine say something about extending my aura which is irrelevant considering y'all wanted Ren to have attention. Y'all had Harriet grieving over Clover which I could have been related to her on, you know, because I lost Pyrrha. And I let Emerald join my team because Oscar says so. There was a lot of shit I could have done. But no, killing Penny was important.

Writer: …

Jaune: Ya’ll had Ruby and Salem in the same kingdom, Salem drops the Summer bomb, and instead of having Ruby figure that shit out by seeing her you had her sidelined.

Writer: She was protecting Nora and Penny.

Jaune: She could have left and gone help in the war. Silver-eyed warrior timing and left Weiss in charge. Don't give me that shit.

Writer: Okay but -

Jaune: Back to what's important, why was James her highest priority over Salem? I mean at least he was protecting his citizens. Salem was trying to kill everybody. How was she not Ruby's target? Why didn't you leave James to me? That would have hyped up Penny’s death way better if you wanted me to kill her!

Writer: You wouldn't stand a chance against James?

Jaune: I almost outsmarted the Atlas military with my plan.

Writer: James is stronger and smarter than you. You are no fighter

Jaune: Exactly fighting for me is the last resort. I am a strategist! Not an all-out fighter! My job is to adapt to situations and operate within the chaos!

Writer: … I mean-

Jaune: I also have emotional intelligence. And I’m not stupid. Are you telling me I wouldn't see through or question some of James’s actions if given a chance?

Writer: Well Ruby was trapped in an electric barrier.

Jaune: Gravity shield. So Nora didn't need to be absent in the fight.

Writer: Shit.

Jaune: Let's go to the Ever After.

Writer: Come on man. If it wasn't for you team RWBY wouldn't have made it out. Also, you were going through the worst.

Jaune: F team Rwby.

Writer: What could you have done better than Ruby?

Jaune: The same shit but better. I would have traded my armor for Yang’s arm. My sword for an audience with the Red King. Pyrrha scarf for the antidote. All are a part of my identity. Not to mention while having my friend's gun on me which she rejected after keeping it safe and not destroying it.

Writer: …

Jaune: Alyx’s dagger, I could have used it by probably seeing her memories and figuring out what happened to her and how to get home. And, mainly, as a means of self-defense.

Writer: But Yang, Blake, and Weiss-

Jaune: Speaking of them why did they prioritize me over Ruby? And why did Ruby need help from a god when her issues were minor compared to mine? I mean even if she spent years alone, talking with her team would have been enough for her. And probably for the best considering Ruby is her team's sister, friend, and leader.

Writer: … …

Jaune: Like seriously, I was messed up mentally. Penny whose death I might as well be keeping a secret, from everybody. I mean if you killed one of your allies to save the world, wouldn’t you feel morally messed up? Meanwhile, my team was nowhere on site. I don't know Weiss, Blake, and Yang like that, so opening up to either of them would have been a challenge. Especially Ruby. Not to forget but my friends were in a whole different kingdom by themselves and I don't know what happened to them. They could've been dead for all I knew. So my worries would have been expeditiously high!

Writer: Oh God.

Jaune: And since we are on Penny, what happened to her body?!

Writer: … … We don't need to discuss that.

Jaune: Funny, because of the way the Jabberwocky was looking at Ruby I can make a guess what happened to her.

Writer: Please don't.

Jaune: Then we have the Cat, my enemy and opposite to my personality., He manipulates my friends and controls them like puppets. Neo would have had a field day with me too. After all, Pyrrha died because I couldn't stop her. Penny died because I had zero options to save her. Ozpin died because I failed to do my job. Ironwood died because of me and Ruby. And Harriet told me about Clover so I know he’s dead.

Writer: …

Jaune: And after all that bullshit you just gave us nothing. No new looks. Now new weapons I could have used. We might as well have been through a filler arc. Oh, and you know what, you could have finally given me a backstory. Something that finally ties my character together.

Writer: *tears falling* Jaune, please.

Jaune: *weapon drawn* You f*** with me for the last time. Now. DIE!

Chopper, Steven, and Orihime: No!

Orihime: Shoten kessun I reject.

Writer: *protected*

Chopper: *Goes Arm point and restrains Jaune*

Steven: *Traps them both in a bubble*

Windy: Jaune please calm down.

Jaune: Nah I'm killing them. They got me f*** up.

Steven: We’re really going to need therapy for you buddy.

Jaune: I don't need therapy, I want them dead.

Sakura: Chopper.

Chopper: Come, buddy. They are not worth it.

Jaune: Let me at least punch them.*screams in rage*

Sakura: *stares at the new staff*

Viz media writer: …

Sakura: Look just go easy on him. Please? Just let him be useful in other areas. Don't give him more trauma.

Viz media writer: You must know how he feels.

Sakura: Yes. Yes, I do.

Steven: And so do I.

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kiss-theggoat · 1 year ago

Note

please more bo i beg of you. you’re my favourite writer for him

A/N: Literally sobbing, thank you so much for the words of support. I looooove Bo and I love writing about him so thanks so much for your request! I hope you like it! Longer fics for Bo to come :)

Bo Sinclair Headcannons

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Toxic relationship, Bo being Bo, Talks of past trauma

SFW:

No matter how you end up in Ambrose, I see him having sort of a honeymoon phase with you. He sees you, thinks your the hottest thing alive, either convinces you or forces you to stay, but after a few weeks, he realizes that he’s gotten himself into some sort of screwed up relationship. This isn’t because he doesn’t like you, but because he thinks about the way his mom and dad left him, and worries about you wanting to leave too.

Let’s be for real, Bo is not the kindest man ever on the surface, and he’s a stereotypical tough guy. If you identify as a woman, he’ll want you to do your “womanly” duties, clean the house, get him a sandwich and a beer, be at his beck and call. If you identify as a man, be prepared to be put to work in the garage, fix buildings downtown. In Bo’s eyes, men do the hard labor and women do the house work. Very old fashioned.

Living in the Sinclair house is like playing slot machines. One day you’ll wake up to a Bo who gives you a kiss on the forehead and walk downstairs to Lester making some sort of roadkill bacon, Vincent putting flowers he found in a little vase. The next day you’ll wake up to screaming and walk down to the brothers fighting, you might even get your own “the fuck you lookin at?” From Bo if you stare too long.

Bo secretly loves EVERYTHING about you. He literally thinks you’re a god on earth, the way your pretty eyes glimmer in the Louisiana sun, the way your skin is so smooth when he runs your hand over your thigh, when you laugh at something Lester says and it lights up the entire house, puts him in the best mood. Makes it hard for him to wear his usual scowl. He just wishes he knew how to tell you.

With this is the resentful side of Bo. He can be rude to you, calling you names, pushing you away, and I wouldn’t put it past him to hit you. He would hit you and then sit in silence, alone, in shock of what he’d done. He can’t stand that he’s letting someone get close to him, can’t stand that he’s letting YOU get close to him, so he tries really hard to push you away, despite how scared he is of you leaving.

The moment Bo knew he was head over heels for you. You and Vincent playing with Daisy in the long grass, laughing and running around, carefree. Bo sat against a tree with a beer, watching the beauty that is you spend time with the things he loves most. He can’t deny how good you fit in, and he loves it.

NSFW:

Bo likes a pillow princess. He loves being in control, having every single part of your body in his hands, his mouth, covered by his body.

His favorite position is probably doggy, but this is because he usually just bends you over things randomly do fuck you. In the garage? You’re bent over the workbench. In the house? Bent over the kitchen counter or side of the couch. If you’re in the bedroom and he gets to move you around, he likes missionary (he gets to see every single movement of your face) and spooning (easy to choke you).

Some of Bo’s kinks would include impact play, he loves to spank you, dacryphilia, if he can fuck you until you cry he’s smitten, and very light bondage. He likes to tie your wrists to the headboard every once and a while, or behind your back if your bent over something. Other than that he’s a fairly vanilla guy in a kink sense, but he’s rough.

You’ll wake up the next morning sore, bruises on your hips and thighs, hickeys on your neck, collarbones, and chest. You’ll wobble down the stairs with one of Bo’s shirts on to find a smirking Lester and a casual Bo, eating breakfast.

No one gives you more shit than Lester. You and Bo’s brothers get close, but Vincent doesn’t make fun of you like Lester does. If he hears you and Bo fucking? Oh my god, that man is going feral, banging on the door, mocking your moans. If you come down in the morning from an obviously rough night, he will not let you leave the house without details. And god forbid he walks in on you two, he’d laugh and probably slap Bo’s ass before he left.

Bo’s favorite thing on you is your ass. He’s an ass man. If you’re standing in the kitchen cooking, he’s coming up behind you and squeezing your butt, trying to distract you. When he fucks you from behind, all he can stare at is the way your ass bounces against him. He loves it.

#slasher x reader #slashers #horror movies #bo sinclair fanfiction #bo sinclair x reader #house of wax #house of wax fanfiction

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ultfreakme · 9 months ago

Text

Zuko's character arc is not lost it's clickbait

*Tired sigh* EarlyGame released an article saying "Zuko's character arc is lost!" in the live action and have said that Zuko's character motivation has shifted from chasing Aang to restore his honor to now chasing Aang to help the FN win the war. They use the short promo clip of Dallas Liu's Zuko writing a letter/journal about the Avatar to say that, especially when he says the line "it is my duty to capture the Avatar".

First of all, I read the article, because I got concerned too. Honor is a large pat of his motivation, we also got a trailer clip of Zuko telling Aang "You are the enemy of the Fire Nation!". We know Zuko didn't hunt Aang for the war.

Except.

New audiences do not know that Zuko's chasing Aang for his honor. The first premise we as an audience knew when we watched the cartoon was this;

Fire Nation is taking over the world

Aang is the only one who can stop them

The Fire Prince is chasing Aang and getting in his way

When we are introduced to Zuko, Sokka talks about invaders and spies from the Fire Nation. Zuko then attacks the village and destroys Sokka's wall with his ship and fights him. From all of this, we get the impression that Zuko's here with animosity towards SWT along with the goal to capture the avatar for the FN.

We, the OG viewers, did NOT know Zuko was doing this as a necessity due to his banishment until The Storm, halfway through the series. We thought he's just in competition with Zhao and being an asshole FN Prince. It was a huge twist and a spoiler that contributed heavily to us sympathizing with Zuko when we learned the real reason.

The Live Action isn't just for the original fans, it's for everyone. What is blatantly obvious to us is not for those who are going to watch it with brand new eyes. Zuko doing this due to his banishment is a surprise and they're 100% trying to maintain it for the live action too.

Zuko's arc of honor is also impossible to be removed btw, because we SEE clips of Ozai attacking Zuko, Zhao is still his competition. These characters and incidents are the bedrock of establishing the 'honor' motivation so no it's not gone.

In addition, it makes sense for Zuko to at least tell other people that he's trying to capture Aang for the Fire Nation. In the og series he didn't give a shit about the war, which makes sense, but Zuko is a Prince, an heir to the throne. He would've been deep in the propaganda. It's like;

Father wants to win the war -> Father has banished me-> The Avatar is a huge obstacle in the way of the war -> He has assigned me the task of capturing the Avatar -> I AM important to the war! -> So war= avatar's capture= me being vital -> The war and capturing the avatar, an honor mission, become one and the same.

If Zuko frames his mission as serving the Fire Nation, despite his banishment, he can think himself as still being a part of the royal family.

Nothing has drastically changed, I honestly think it's a good addition to include Zuko's thoughts on the war itself because of course the PRINCE of the FIRE NATION would have an opinion on the war. It is impossible for him to not think the Fire Nation is deserving of their victories.

Literally every single time I've seen people freak out over things, it's over a clickbait title, the article writers badly misinterpreting things, or people going into this convinced that the Live Action is bad. A conclusion has been made, and people are desperately searching for evidence even if it's false.

#natla #atla la #avatar the last airbender #atla netflix #atla live action #netflix avatar #netflix atla #zuko #dallas liu

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proshippers-against-censorship · 11 days ago

Note

I’m gonna be completely honest I’m a little baked so apologies if I make no sense

I would just like to start with I am a very big fan of dark fiction. My favorite movies are Silence of the Lambs and Midsommar. My favorite fanfiction at one time contained a violent rape scene. I have no issues with murder, torture, brainwashing, rape, or any flavor of violent/sexual depravity in my fiction, fan-created or otherwise. But the thing is, there’s a reason for it to occur within the narrative the writer is trying to tell. Characters don’t kill and die for no narrative reason, that’s just bad writing. If there is a torture scene, or a rape scene, or incest or pedophilia or whatever depraved shit you wanna put here, you can analyze that piece of fiction as a whole and deduce why the writer might’ve put it there. Media analysis. There is media to analyze. It’s a huge leap in logic to assume that the director included Buffalo Bill’s obsession with skinning women because they had fantasies about skinning women. It is also a huge leap in logic to assume that Vladimir Nabokov wrote Lolita because he is a pedophile. When you read the book or watch the movie and think about it critically for more than ten seconds, it becomes very evident that that isn’t true, even with an unreliable narrator like in Lolita.

However, the (fan)fiction I take issue with isn’t like that. There isn’t much to analyze when the only part being posted (or written at all) IS the rape scene, or the incest scene, or the necrophilia scene, especially when that particular author/artist exclusively posts about that one thing. Fetish content is pretty easy to spot in my opinion, and if you aren’t turned on by that particular fetish, it doesn’t provide you much in the way of storytelling. That kind of fiction was created to feed someone’s fetish, whether that’s the author’s themselves, a friend’s, or a random requester who asked them to write it. (You can also only deduce what is and is not fetish content via media analysis).

The issue isn’t that the writer had the gall to include these topics in their fiction, the issue is that someone is way too into those crimes they’re writing about and it shows. People who are also way too into violent fantasies are just as big of an issue. The comparison shouldn’t be Adult/Child PWP Oneshot Fanfic to Call of Duty, it should be Adult/Child PWP Oneshot Fanfic to that kid in the back of class scribbling in his notebook about school shootings but with different names than his real teachers and classmates. Compare Call of Duty to Lolita (example), and compare sexual fantasy fodder to violent fantasy fodder.

I think it is immoral to fantasize about harming another person. Whether that harm would be sexual in nature or not is completely irrelevant. If someone believes that having certain fantasies is morally objectionable, the fiction they create to stroke that fantasy is also morally objectionable. Obviously I can’t stop anyone from creating whatever kind of fiction they want for whatever reasons they want, even if I find them immoral. That’s censorship. But I don’t think anyone, antis or proshippers, have been taking into account the full nuance of the topic at hand.

TL;DR: You can portray acts of violent or sexual crime in your fiction with all the gorey details you want, without it feeding into a fetish or a fantasy. The fantasy is the thing I take issue with, not the fiction. This is true of both violent and sexual fantasies. Everyone oversimplifies it as “good/okay in fiction” or “bad/wrong in fiction” and that isn’t a conducive discussion to be having.

Anyway. I have the munchies, I’m gonna order a pizza now I think

-🐜👔

Fair enough.

There's still nothing wrong with finding fetish/fantasy/for-fun content gross or highly immoral.

So long as you just block the creator and move on with your day.

#proshippers against censorship #jackal barks #proship please interact #proshippers please interact #proship positivity #proship #proshipper safe #proshipping #proshipper #anti anti #ask #asks #anti stance

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megamett44-lover · 6 months ago

Text

Matt Sturniolo x Reader

Summary: It’s been two years and Y/N is greeted by a ghost of the past.

Warnings/Notes: Use of Y/N, mild cussing

Requested? No!

(Music rec for this story is ‘Coffee’ by Chappell Roan)

part 1

Coffee (Part 2 of ‘Know It’s For The Better)

Los Angeles. The place I was determined to leave behind had now become my home. After scoring a job as a writer on a Netflix series, I had to relocate from Boston back to the place I swore I would never return to again.

“Order for Y/N?” The barista calls as I make my way up to the counter to retrieve my coffee.

“Thank you.” I smile, accepting my flat white and returning to my computer in the corner.

I sigh, looking at the blank screen in front of me. I was stumped; I had to write a rough script by 9:00 am tomorrow, or I could kiss my dream job goodbye. How was I supposed to write a long lost love reunion when I was clearly lacking in the romance department in my daily life?

As if the false God themself heard my thoughts, a voice pulled my attention away from the dauntingly blank screen. “Y/N?”

I look up to see none other than the man I left a mere two years ago, Matt Sturniolo.

I feel my face lose its color as I stare back at the man I once loved. ‘Damn you, universe’

“Matt,” I say, my voice catching slightly. “hi.”

“Hi.” He returns my awkward smile. “Mind if I sit?”

I merely nod at the chair as I study his features. Tattoos now sprawl out sparingly across his left arm, his stubble growing in slightly. His hair longer than usual, as his blue eyes seem a bit more dull than I once remembered.

“Fancy seeing you here.” He finally speaks, breaking me from my trance.

“Oh…um, yeah.” I say, motioning towards my computer. “Duty calls.”

“I understand that.” He says, offering me a genuine smile. “How’ve you been?”

I pause. Should I tell him the truth? About how much I had missed him, longed for his touch? Reminisced about our time shared together?

“I’ve been okay.” I say. “And you?”

Matt thinks for a moment. “I’ve been good.”

I force a smile. “Always great to hear.”

“So, a big shot Netflix writer, huh?” Matt questions. “I always knew you were destined for great things.”

“Wait, you knew about that?” I ask.

Matt smiles, and I see the boy I had fell in love with; my Matty. “Of course I did.” He says. “I told you I’d wait forever.”

I shake my head. “Matt-” He cuts me off.

“I know, I know.” He dismisses me. “That’s not a conversation for now. What do you have going on later? Chris and Nick would love to see you.”

I glance back at my blank screen. Should I agree to this? To put myself back in reaching distance of the man who had never put me before anything? “Well, truthfully, nothing.” I say, closing my laptop to rid myself of the teasing blank screen.

“Oh, cool!” Matt says, seeming surprised at my response. “Here, I’ll text you our address. Same number, right?”

I was surprised he still had my number. “Um, yeah.” I smile.

Matt quickly typed on his phone as my phone dings to signal a text.

“Just swing by whenever.” Matt says. “Nick and Chris are gonna lose their shit.”

I laugh. “I bet so.”

“Speaking of,” Matt says, standing. “I’d better get back with their muffins or they’ll probably kill me.”

I let out a small chuckle. “Yeah, probably.”

“Oh and Y/N?” Matt says.

“Hm?”

“It was really good seeing you again.” Matt smiles before walking away.

Part 3…?

#makaylawrites #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x you #sturniolo fanfic #nick sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets x reader #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo imagine

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mhsdatgo · 5 months ago

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No, it's not Alicent's orders that Aegon pays mind to, in fact, I think Alicent's words have long since stopped mattering to him.

I say long since because it hasn't always been this way. Believe it or not, no matter how much rage and callousness grew in him from his young age to adulthood, he too was a boy once, with a need for an authority figure just like everyone else. Alicent took upon that role, in the only way she knew how.

See, Alicent's changed. She is turned cunning, politically savvy, extremely smart, albeit incredibly emotional and paranoid, no longer passive. She's aware she's the only one siding with her children in those dire times, she knows they are threats to Rhaenyra's rule, and as such, must be eliminated. She's aware, yes, but all along she feels like she's the only one who truly cares, at least cares enough to do something about it. She's already felt like she was the only one noticing the elephant in the room, but she's always bitten her tongue. Now those days are over.

Unfortunately when it comes to generational cycles, Alicent is a woman that is packing with those. She's the daughter of a politically savvy man himself who used her for the fulfillment of one of his ambitions, no regards for the way she felt, no resistance met in this girl who is only trying to please her father, to serve her King with kindness. In terms of scheming, Alicent and Otto perfectly mirror each other: they turn to the only ones they truly feel they can spur to their side (their children). The reaction they're met with, on the other hand, not so much: Alicent is compliant since the start, Aegon is extremely rebellious. He evades from her in every way he can.

From episode 6, at first, we see that Alicent does indeed hold influence on Aegon: since it was really necessary to HAVE TY'S ASS ON SCREEN before anything that shapes Aegon into something else other than a bully, there's a scene of him pleasuring himself on the edge of a window, literally for everyone to see. The moment he's apprehended by Alicent, however, he immediately tries to recompose himself in the best way possible, he practically throws himself away from the window, drapes a blanket over himself, tries to speak coherently the moment she questions him. It's clear he wouldn't have even tried if he didn't see some kind of authority in her.

Here is another parallel between Otto and Alicent: assuming their plans will always align with their childrens', not only are they convinced their plans will result in the greater good (although for personal reasons), they are bluntly honest about the consequences the neglect of these ambitions will bring. Otto downright tells Alicent that Rhaenyra will put her children to the sword the moment she wavers and shows to be siding with Rhaenyra, Alicent grabs her son's face and practically yells the same thing at him, saying that their family's survival depends on his compliance.

Both are enormous burdens thrust into these two's shoulders, but they register differently in their minds: for Alicent, it's about survival, to Aegon, it appears to be way more about compliance. Because Alicent has turned so paranoid, so overprotective, that she's perceived as domineering. And because Aegon had ways to run from his duties and responsibilities, Alicent has always been forced to make the best out of them. And this speech DOES affect young Aegon! He looks shocked and even distraught after his mother leaves him to his devices, meekly inviting him to get dressed.

Now how do we go from THIS Aegon, who is indeed fucked up and a bit of a little shit, to the absolute devil incarnate that is adult Aegon? The answer is very simple: Otto's arrival, AKA granddaddy issues arc.

Now there are NO scenes between Aegon and Otto, nor are there scenes in the timeskip between Driftmark and Lord of The Tides (thanks writers) so let's base stuff off of what we know of these two. What do we know about Otto? He's cunning, extremely manipulative, cold, imposing, ambitious, intolerant to any sign of rebellion. What do we know of Aegon? Mainly, I'd say he's extremely defensive and protective of what he believes to be his freedom, which he perceives as something to enjoy alone, or away from anyone who knows him. (mainly, his family) Quite a hellish mix if you ask me.

Otto sees the potential in Aegon, but not as a human being: as a tool, a path to greatness, with protection and survival as a plus. Aegon sees a tyrant in Otto, nothing but a tyrant, something who squashes him and his every defiance. It shows in episode 7 first and foremost: I'd assume it hasn't been long ever since Otto came back to court at this point, because Aegon wouldn't be so STUPID to drink himself stupid while none other than Otto was around. He learns it the hard way, getting kicked awake and dragged to bed while in hungover.

If Aegon in the next episode literally tells us anything, is that Otto's treatment of him had the opposite of his desired outcome: Aegon is even WORSE than before. A LOT WORSE, if Dyana and her telling is capable of telling us something.

Even with how he acts with Alicent, everything's changed: he isn't scared of her authority anymore, it doesn't matter to him. He doesn't wake up when she screams at him, he flinches only when his covers are pulled from him. (thanks for flashing us again HBO) He fights back: no more does he treat her as someone to respect, he disregards her, he tries to go back to sleep, he faces her with defiance,

"Why? What is it today?"

And when she tries to discipline him, using force again, (this time rightfully so, and she should've done more) he talks back: still, he doesn't relent. That's what he sees Alicent as, now: challenge. Obstacle. She isn't something he worries about anymore, but rather who she follows. We all know who that is.

Interestingly enough, Alicent still continues to act according to what her father has out in her mind, although to her own accord. But she doesn't fool Aegon: he knows where it all comes from, which idea spurs in both of their minds. I adore Alicent, but she isn't nearly as demanding, as imposing and as callous as Otto is. They are two halves of a whole in Aegon's eyes, with how similar their words and the reasonings are, but Otto has toughened him up, and has turned him into a man so full of rage that he WILL fight back against anything about him he has a chance to fight back against. And we know exactly who that "thing" is, don't we.

That's part of why he's so ecstatic when he becomes King. He had the chance to turn to the smallfolk the moment the crown was placed on his head, but he doesn't: he waits for everyone, everyone, to bow. He doesn't stop at his mother and siblings, but finally turns to Otto. Only when HE bows as well, is he satisfied. He has power over him too. That's all he needed to know to confirm that he's now unstoppable. He's above everyone, and he'll prove it.

#house of the dragon #hotd meta #alicent hightower #aegon ii targaryen #otto hightower #granddaddy issues #alicent and aegon #otto and aegon #can't wait to see more of this in s2 #hbo this is not a warning #this is a threat #damn this was long #beebee babbles

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monocle-teacup · 30 days ago

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You know, that other anon’s Breakdown rant reminded me of that line of his about “letting Optimus come between us” or something (holy shit I hope I’m not remembering this wrong ahehfjf) and honestly? It really does show him to be irresponsible and reckless, and entirely unwilling to acknowledge his own actions and the way they hurt people, instead trying to blame it on other people (in this case, Optimus for getting in between their friendship, and Bee for letting it happen.)

(Also is it just me, or do a ton of characters seem to make all these passive-aggressive comments about OP? I’m thinking about Megatron’s “when in OPTIMUS gonna help us with clean up duty” from Outtakes, and while I feel like what the writers were TRYING to do was portray OP as flawed, but instead it’s coming off as really fucking obnoxious in that they only tell, never show, and I’m just wondering what the fuck is going on?? Cause previously Optimus was the one shown putting the most effort into the human-TF alliance? Hfhdhrh none of these characters are very good at self-reflection are they?)

IIRC, that was what Breakdown said. A lot of people seem to take the Cons coming to help fight against Mandroid as them changing. They knew they would DIE if Mandroid won. It's the whole, the enemy of my enemy is my friend thing.

About OP... His portrayal in ES seems like someone watched TFP and wanted to do something totally opposite from that. OP was always set up to be the butt monkey even in the ES Production Bible.

OP mostly seems to exist in order to make Megatron look good in S1 to the point that both OP and Dot's bios flat out say that she doesn't like the Autobot leader. Now the idea of OP being shady is interesting in theory, but I couldn't take him seriously because the writers went out of their way to make him an idiot (like bringing the Maltos and Terrans to GHOST when there a cameras). You mean to tell me he lead a faction in a war that lasted millions of years? It's another example of good idea sloppy execution that is rampant in ES.

#tf #tfe #transformers #transformers earthspark #tf earthspark #earthspark #optimus prime #earthspark optimus #asks

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whoishotteranimepolls · 3 months ago

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hello, finn here, resident one piece "insane tag" writer.... im doing my duty to defend mr. smoker. smo-yan, if you will.

what are my credentials in commenting on this matter? Well. Glad you asked. I've been a onep fan for admittedly not that long, but in that time (like... 8-9 months?) i've messaged one of my close friends. hm. discord receipts.

681 times about him. also you know that one post? yeah from "smoker. smo-yan." to "i fucking love him good god" that's all me. glad we've established my expertise here

2. look at him. first of all, im raising my eyebrow at you anon because woahhhh looking 60 is fine for me. just perfect, actually. they grey/white hair is fucking wonderful to me personally considering i also love rayleigh and beckman.... also just like. every other part of him. he has huge boobs that he refuses to cover because he's allergic to shirts for some reason. he has leather gloves (would suck on any day). when also jacketless, he wears his jitte with a thick strap over his chest that is So droolworthy. he has a Fat Ass. search up stampede smoker because that's like his peak look. his face scar is endlessly sexy. the slicked back hair (more recently) and the more messy spiky look from earlier in the series both serve in contributing to his bad boy persona, which leads me to my second point: the dichotomy of personality.

3a. part a - the bad boy delinquent persona. if you only take him for his surface level actions and words, he seems a little bit mean. like every gruff, rough-around-the-edges mad dog delinquent type. just look at him as a marine cadet, head shaved and frowning. look at the illustration oda did of him as a kid, holding a nail-imbedded bat. he's loud and brash and commands a whole marine squad, he's big and always has a frown on his face and he's arguing and cursing and you just expect him to be unkind. but. But.

3b. But he's not. he's not unkind at all. He's not nice, maybe, but he's so kind. when tashigi has her crisis about justice vs the marines vs "doing the right thing" are often, actually, at odds with each other, smoker supports her in his own gruff way. tells her he'll be there to support her. and. the scene of all time;

4. la pièce de résistance - his character introduction. oda does character introduction SO well in general (see: mihawk, zoro, galley-la shipwrights, countless others) but the smoker intro is my top intro of all time, it's SO good. to recount to those who don't know, we basically see this big scary gruff guy - shirtless, obviously strong, all spiky hair and big stompy boots - and a kid bumps into him and spills their ice cream all over him. He obviously has a reputation as a powerful guy, because the villiagers around all beg him for forgiveness, ask him not to hurt the kid - and yknow what he does? He says to the kid "looks like my pants ate your ice cream," drops a few coin into their hand, and tells them to buy more scoops next time. that's the most attractive thing i've ever seen. he does masculinity like NO other. gods.

5. strong moral compass - doesn't often agree with general marine guidelines. he's pretty shit at being a marine, honestly. tells the brass to go fuck themselves often. follows his own sense of justice, and even though he hates pirates.... temporarily allying himself with them is not off the table, not if it means more justice (in his eyes). he doesn't like innocent people being killed. in stampede, even as everyone attempts to leave the island in light for abuster call, he stays because there must be something he can do. hina sighs and calls him stupid for it, but takes tashigi koby and helmeppo away anyways, showing that this has happened before, likely multiple times.

6. can he stub those cigars out on me. please. please. plea- [comically large piano falls on me, cutting off my speech]

For context, they are responding to this post about Smoker

It's always the last paragraph that pushes it into horny jail territory every time

And he does have one of the best intros. I hope they keep it in the live action

#defend your blurbo response #white chase smoker #smoker one piece #smoker #one piece #not a poll #spicy #nsft

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xxrainbowvibezxx · 10 months ago

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Fluff ABC for Taleena

This was fun to do. Remember, I'm not a writer, and this is the first time I've ever written something like this. Enjoy❤️

Due to their duties, they don't always have free time, so they cherish every moment they get. Mileena enjoys hunting. Tanya goes with her to make sure nothing happens to her. Along the way, Mileena goes into detail about different hunting techniques for different animals. Tanya watches/ listens to her with a smile on her face.

A ctivities - What do they like to do with their s/o? How do they spend their free time with them?

In Tanya's free time, she likes to read and brush up on her light magic and Pyromancy. She'll tell Mileena about new techniques she wants to learn or is learning. Mileena sits back and encourages Tanya. Mileena is very proud of her when she perfects her technique.

B eauty - What do they admire about their s/o? What do they think is beautiful about them?

They love everything about each other.

Mileena admires Tanya's strong-willed, take shit from nobody, stoic attitude. She likes that Tanya takes down that facade when they're alone.

Tanya loves Mileena's confidence. She knows how strong Mileena is and defends her when people say otherwise. She sees strengths where people see weakness.

C omfort - How would they help their s/o when they feel down/have a panic attack etc.?

Mileena deals with arguments from her mother and people doubting her. All that weight on her shoulders becomes overwhelming. Tanya knows Mileena well enough to know when she's upset. Tanya sits with her and embraces her. Letting Mileena cry and talk about what made her upset (if she wants to talk about it). Tanya just listens and rubs her back.

D reams - How do they picture their future with their s/o?

Both hope their future together is secure and whatever obstacle comes their way, they will overcome it together. Mileena pictures ruling Outworld together with Tanya. Eventually, start a family.

E qual - Are they the dominant one in the relationship, or rather passive?

Despite their different ranks, they see each other as equals. When they're together, titles don't matter.

F ight - Would they be easy to forgive their s/o? How are they fighting?

Every good relationship has a few disagreements here and there. When they fight, Tanya usually apologizes first. Mileena can be stubborn sometimes. Depending on how big the fight was, they both realize their wrongs and forgive each other. They don't like being upset with each other for a long time. Especially if it's something small.

G ratitude - How grateful are they in general? Are they aware of what their s/o is doing for them?

Both are grateful. Mileena acknowledges everything Tanya does for her. Protecting her, helping her with tarkat, and just overall being there for her when she needs her. She is forever happy that Tanya stayed by her side after she got tarkat. Tanya is grateful for Mileena's protectiveness as well. It's a mutual thing. They both fight for and protect each other.

H onesty - Do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? Or do they share everything?

Over the years, they've built a strong, deep connection. They tell each everything.

I nspiration - Did their s/o change them somehow, or the other way around? Like trying out new things or helped them overcome personal problems?

Mileena is very insecure about her tarkat. It's unpredictable. She feels isolated from her family sometimes. Tanya stuck with Mileena after she got sick. She didn't/ doesn't care if Mileena has tarkat. Tanya helps Mileena see beauty in her imperfections.

J ealousy - Do they get jealous easily? How do they deal with it?

Mileena has a jealous side. Mileena likes to down play her jealousy but eventually talks about it. I think most of her jealousy comes from people thinking Kitana deserves the throne more than her. She'll vent to Tanya about it.

I don't think Tanya gets jealous.

K iss - Are they a good kisser? What was the first kiss like?

Mileena, for sure, is 10,000 years old, I'm sure Tanya is around the same age. They have had years to perfect kissing. So when it comes to kissing, they're both good. Their first kiss was probably a quick peck on the lips after confessing their feelings. A short, quick kiss just because they were worried they'd get caught. They were both a little flustered and made a plan to secretly meet later.

L ove Confession - How would they confess to their s/o?

Their love Confession was a spur of the moment. Mileena can be impulsive, and sometimes, she doesn't know how to express her emotions. Tanya had feelings for Mileena for a while and felt guilty about them. Due to her umgadi vows, she felt like she was betraying her sisters and the gods. Mileena confesses first while they're alone. Tanya smiles and thinks for a moment. Thinking about the risks, the scandal, her vows, how all of that could bite her in the ass if they get caught. She decides to follow her heart and confess her feelings, too.

M arriage - Do they want to get married? How do they propose? What would the marriage be like?

Yes. They have a small proposal first in secret. They would wear the rings as necklaces, so people won't question it (the ring). Once Mileena becomes empress, she changes the umgadi rules so her and Tanya can be together freely. With rules changed, they have a bigger wedding.

N icknames - What do they call their s/o?

Mileena's nicknames for Tanya: Dearest, dear, my love

Tanya's nicknames for Mileena: beloved, my love, princess/ empress

O n Cloud Nine - What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious for others? How do they express their feelings?

When they first got together, they were both giddy on the inside. Due to the circumstances, they hid their relationship well. As time went on, they got a little loose with their flirting. Kitana, Sindel, and li Mei picked up on it first (in reality, everyone and their mother know). They both express their love through quality time and acts of service. Behind closed doors, they express their love through physical touch and words of affirmation.

P DA - Are they upfront about their relationship? Do they brag with their s/o in front of others? Or are they rather shy to kiss etc. when others are watching?

No. Their relationship is secret.

Q uirk - Some random ability they have that’s beneficial in a relationship.

Both have the ability to change their schedule to see each other. Since Tanya is an umgadi leader, she has Khameleon fill in for her while she goes to see Mileena. Mileena can easily come up with a reason to have Tanya come to her. Any excuse, and no one questions it because Mileena is the princess/ heir. Although Kitana suspects there's something going on, because why has Mileena called for Tanya 6 times this week, and it's only Tuesday😒.

R omance - How romantic are they? What would they do to make their s/o happy? Cliché or rather creative?

Mileena is a romantic. She loves buying little gifts for Tanya. She thinks Tanya deserves everything for what she does every day for the royal house. Tanya loves leaving little letters or notes with a flower in Mileena's room. Mileena saves each letter and sometimes writes her own. They take turns choosing the location of their dates. They go to hidden locations around Outworld and have a little picnic.

S upport - Are they helping their s/o achieve their goals? Do they believe in them?

They support each other 100%. On top of keeping their relationship secret, Tanya also keeps Mileena's tarkat secret to ensure Mileena can claim the throne. Tanya believes in Mileena and continues to support her as she becomes empress.

T hrill - Do they need to try out new things to spice out your relationship? Or do they prefer a certain routine?

They don't feel like they have to change or try anything new. Their comfortable with the current routine of their relationship.

U nderstanding - How good do they know their partner? Are they empathetic?

As I said before, their relationship is built on a deep and strong connection. They've been together for thousands of years. They know each other inside out. They notice a change in each other's body language, eye contact, voice, and/or actions. They both notice small changes in each other's behavior.

V alue - How important is the relationship to them? What is it’s worth in comparison to other things in their life?

Very important. Both knew before their relationship that it was risky. They love each other so much. Their bond is so strong that they risk banishment or punishment to be together.

W ild Card - A random Fluff Headcanon.

They like going for walks and sparring together. When they go for walks, they get as far away from the palace as they can. Mileena makes up an excuse to her mother before she leaves. "I just want to test my skills against one of the strongest umgadis, mother." This will give Mileena and Tanya a couple of hours together. They'll actually spar for a bit, then take a break. Leaning against a tree or lying on the ground, talking about everything and nothing.

They love to hang out around the palace gardens at night

Tanya knows how to cook. She'll cook for her umgadi sisters and save some for Mileena. Mileena can't cook for shit. When she can, she'll watch Tanya cook or help her cut things.

X OXO - Are they very affectionate? Do they love to kiss and cuddle?

Mileena is very affectionate. She loves lying in bed with Tanya and cuddling. Mileena is small spoon. She loves leaving kisses on Tanya's face and neck. Tanya loves holding Mileena in her arms after a long day. She caresses Mileena's side and kisses her shoulder and neck.

Y earning - How will they cope when they’re missing their partner?

They're used to not always being with each other. Even when they are together, they can't be like a couple. Tanya tends to her umgadi duties, and Mileena tends to imperial business. When they miss each other, they occupy themselves with their duties.

Z eal - Are they willing to go to great lenghts for the relationship? If so, what kind of?

Both are willing to go to great lengths. Tanya has made it clear plenty of times that she would give her life for Mileena. She would fight for her no matter the opponent. Tanya betrayed her vows to be with Mileena. That is a huge thing considering how important the umgadi is to Tanya. Mileena wants to change the umgadi rules once she's empress so that her and Tanya could have a normal relationship.

#mileena #tanya #taleena #mileena x tanya #tanya mk1 #mileena mk1 #wlw #lgbtq #mk1 #fluff ABC #taleena 🔛🔝#my headcanon #my lovelies

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mnemo-li · 1 year ago

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Gosh, I have so many thoughts about Gromph Baenre. Maybe I’m reading too much into things lol, but here we go. Spoilers below for Starlight & Shadows, War of the Spider Queen, Companions Codex, Homecoming, Generations, and parts of The Way of the Drow.

Imagine literally being the most powerful man in a city, potentially the oldest (non-undead) man of a race, and still being limited in what you can do just because you’re born male. You have so much power, and yet in the end you are not free. People may fear you and perhaps even respect you, but no one cares for you. You, no matter all you have done, are replaceable and will be discarded the moment you are deemed a liability.

There’s this quote in Tangled Webs:

But no matter what powers he might command, what information he possessed, Gromph needed someone like Shakti. The archmage was tied to Menzoberranzan by the task of enchanting Narbondel—an honor that was also a chain with links forged anew with the coming of each midnight hour.

The so-called honor of being the only one allowed to enchant Narbondel is a double-edged sword. It’s a symbol of his status yet, because he has to do it daily, it means he can’t be away from Menzoberranzan for more than a day. It’s a chain that binds him to the city, to the control of the Matron Mother. It’s a leash.

I also find the mention of Narbondel in Extinction to be interesting:

Despite the toehold the enemy had gained—and lost—in Tier Breche, Menzoberranzan seemed untouched by war. The stalactites and stalagmites of the noble manors still sparkled, and a ring of magical fire was creeping up the great spire of Narbondel. Gromph frowned, wondering which of the wizards of House Baenre had been keeping it going in his absence. It seemed that he was not quite as irreplaceable as he would have liked. He’d have to speak to Triel about that.

That’s what I was referring to. The lighting of Narbondel — something that is meant to be performed only by the Archmage of the city — is in actuality a role that anyone could do, really. Logically, I’d agree with Triel too. The city needs Narnondel to tell time and if Gromph was missing, it was more pragmatic to have someone perform his duty in his stead. And yet, all of this goes to show how if someone else could do what Gromph does, then that means he isn’t irreplaceable.

I also find this exchange between Guldor and Gromph to be intruiging (and funny— I always love when Gromph is his good old surly and sarcastic self).

“Archmage!” cried Guldor Melarn. He was supposedly without peer in the realm of elemental magic, though it couldn’t be proved by his performance thus far that night. “We were worried about you!”

“I’m sure,” said Gromph, striding closer. “I noticed all the search parties you sent out looking for me.”

Guldor hesitated. “Sir, the mistress of the Academy commanded—“

“Shut up,” said Gromph.

The small interaction is also very telling. None of the other mages seemed to care about Gromph enough to go look for him, or it could be that what Guldor said was true, that Triel forbid them from doing so. It’s either that Triel believes Gromph is capable enough to get out of whatever trouble he’d gotten himself into by himself, or she too couldn’t be bothered (or has other pressing matters to deal with— and considering the state of Menzoberranzan, that’s understandable).

Whatever the reason, it still must be harrowing for Gromph deep down. To learn that he is replaceable, and to not have anyone he concerned about his disappearance enough to look for him. Of course, the concept of caring for someone is arguable something alien to the drow in the first place. Still, it would be interesting to see how Gromph would react should he realize that his position as Archmage isn’t secure.

As much as I sometimes joke about RA Salvatore being a shit writer — at least compared to the likes of Elaine Cunningham and Paul S. Kemp (whose Star Wars books I’m a huuuge fan of, whose contribution to the War of the Spider Queen series I absolutely adore) — Salvatore did manage to sprinkle bits and pieces to make Gromph a sympathetic villain or at least a villain whom we can partially sympathize with and feel pathos towards.

Take for instance, this excerpt from Vengeance of the Iron Dwarfs:

It is about embarrassing Matron Mother Quenthel, Kimmuriel said in Jarlaxle’s thoughts, and he looked from the psionicist to the archmage, trying to sort it out. Or perhaps it goes even higher than her. Jarlaxle snorted at that, for who could be higher than Quenthel, who served as the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan? Then he figured it out, and he stopped snorting.

He looked at Gromph, only then beginning to appreciate how wounded his brother had been by the betrayal of the Spider Queen. Lolth had gone to the realm of arcane magic, had tried to dominate the Weave itself—and indeed, by all reports, she had made the magical strands encompassing Toril take on the aspect of a gigantic spider web. Gromph had dared to hope that Lolth’s move would elevate his standing, that he, as the greatest drow wizard of the age, as the greatest drow practitioner of the Art, would become more than a mere male in the matriarchal City of Spiders.That was Gromph’s error, Jarlaxle realized, and he nodded knowingly as he considered his brother.

Poor Gromph had dared to hope.

I feel pity for Gromph reading that. As an aside though, I really love the dynamics between Gromph and Jarlaxle throughout the series. I wonder too if Gromph is secretly jealous of or resentful towards Jarlaxle for his relative freedom.

Also, there’s this bit from Archmage that really makes me feel for Gromph:

His sly taunting of his sister did little to improve Gromph’s bitter mood. Even if he toppled her, even if he destroyed every matron mother and high priestess in the city, what would he accomplish?

He was a male, nothing more, and even when Lady Lolth had turned to the Weave, to a domain he had come to dominate more than any dark elf in centuries—in millennia, in perhaps the entire history of the race—Lolth’s gratitude had not reached to him, nor his fellow male wizards.

Sorcere, the drow school of arcane magic, the academy under the control of Gromph, had counted among its students almost exclusively male drow, with only a few notable exceptions of priestesses looking to enhance their magical repertoire by adding arcane spells to their divinely inspired magic. Yet as soon as the Weave had become a web, as soon as it appeared that Lady Lolth would steal the domain of the goddess Mystra, the noble Houses had flooded Sorcere with their daughters as students.

The matron mothers, with Lolth’s blessing, would not suffer the males of Menzoberranzan their position atop the ranks of Lolth’s arcane disciples. Would Gromph’s ultimate title of archmage have proven secure? But Lolth had lost her bid for the Weave, so Gromph had learned, though the details were not yet known to him. The Weave was no longer in her spidery claws and the city and school would return to normal, perhaps. Gromph would remain the archmage, and, he now even more poignantly understood, would remain a “mere male” in Menzoberranzan.

I’d like to argue that it isn’t Gromph’s ego or arrogance that is the reason behind his hunger for power. But rather, it’s Gromph deep rooted desire for security— not just in his position as Archmage, but security in the sense that he is quite insecure deep down. After all, excessive arrogance is often a mask for hollow confidence. Look at the scene here leading up to Gromph’s accidental summoning of Demogorgon.

“Your demon led the defense,” the matron mother spat. “This failure falls upon your shoulders. Be cautious, wizard, for Tsabrak Xorlarrin will surely survive this, and he remains in the graces of the Spider Queen.”

She spun and swept out of the room and Gromph fell back in his seat, his fingers tap-tapping once more. He tried to dismiss Quenthel’s overt threat, but he began to see some troubling possibilities. Would his sister cut a deal with Matron Mother Zeerith to absorb House Xorlarrin into House Baenre? Where might the Xorlarrins go if the dwarves gained an unshakable foothold? They would not be welcomed back into Menzoberranzan as a rival House, particularly not now with so many backroom alliances being formed among the ruling matron mothers.

And perhaps Quenthel would spread the whispers that Gromph had failed, that the archmage had, in fact, been the cause of the loss of Q’Xorlarrin. In that event, would Quenthel be in a stronger position to offer Zeerith one of her most coveted trophies: a Xorlarrin as Archmage of Menzoberranzan? Nay, this was not a threat Gromph could easily dismiss, and in that realization, so came his outrage.

His “outrage” was a reaction to being “threatened”. Sure, it was his anger and ego that overruled his common sense, the sense of caution that he should’ve had when summoning a powerful demon… but the root of it all was the fact that Quenthel threatened his position as archmage.

This all harkens back to the fact that Gromph is replaceable and will be replaced should he no longer be useful. Hence, his insecurity and the constant need to prove himself.

Additionally, I also find Gromph's interaction with Catti-brie in Maestro to be incredibly fascinating from a character perspective.

First though, I should put a disclaimer saying that I think their relationship is weird as fuck, and Salvatore's way of writing Gromph thinking of Catti-brie in a horny way is just... ew. The whole 'mind-rape' thing is not something I condone, the bit where Gromph uses his psionic abilities to impart a vision of him and Catti together into Catti-brie's mind. However, it does hint a lot at the way men are treated in Drow society and how Gromph's sexual relationship with women usually go.

In Daughter of the Drow, there is this quote:

Perhaps even more than his obvious wealth and famed magical power, Gromph's ability to select his consorts was a testament to his status. In this matriarchal city, males had a decidedly subservient role, and most answered to the whims of females.

I might be reading into it too much, but if men are suggested to be unable to choose their wives, then it is implied that they wouldn't have any experience in romantic courtship either. It's like their entire notion of what a relationship is for men, is that they are meant to be pickedby women and forced to marry or have children with women without any say in it. Men getting to get to know someone, to flirt with them and court them, before making the mutual decision to enter into a relationship doesn't seem to be a thing in drow society. Starlight & Shadows goes to explain more about how male drows don't even get to be a part of their children's lives either, which is why Gromph's decision to murder Sosdrielle Vandree and "adopt" Liriel Baenre to be such a major powermove and a violation of societal norm.

Anyhow, the point I am trying to make about Gromph and Catti is that, of course Gromph would "flirt" with Catti in such a fucked up manner. He doesn't know anything about courtship, doesn't have any other frame of reference for what a healthy courtship or relationship between males and females is like.

“I forgive you,” she repeated. “For your telepathic intrusions. I understand now that you were not even there in my thoughts, and that it was only a suggestion placed for me to find.”

“And to enjoy.”

Catti-brie’s expression went cold.

“Then I am no rapist,” Gromph smugly replied to that look.

“You are a scoundrel and a fraud,” the woman said. “But I expected as much from the outset. I forgive you because now I trust that you will not hold me in lust, in body, in mind, or in hatred.”

Gromph wanted Catti to "enjoy" the image of him and her together. In other words, that really is his way of initiating a sexual relationship, that is what he thinks flirting or courtship is. In real life modern day terms, Gromph's telepathic intrusion would definitely be a form of sexual assault... but Catti-brie is right in the sense that Gromph hadn't meant to rape her. Let me be clear though, I am not justifying any of his actions. I just find Gromph to be so fascinating from a narrative perspective. If the Drizzt series wasn't what is was, if it was more like A Song of Ice and Fire for example, then I'm sure the author would explore more about how Gromph's actions and attitudes probably stems (at least partially) from his women-related trauma.

Look at this scene in Archmage here for example:

She dared look up, to find Gromph glaring at her.

“You know nothing of what I know or do not know, Minolin of House Fey-Branche.” His reference to her lesser House, instead of naming her as a Baenre, was a clear and sharp reminder.

“You are not a woman,” Minolin Fey said quietly. “There is nothing more … personal.”

“I am not a woman,�� Gromph echoed. “A fact of which I am reminded every day of my life.”

Gromph definitely has a sore spot about not being a woman, and thus being beneath a woman in terms of societal status. This resentment and emotional wound of his shows up again in Maestro, in this interaction of Catti-brie.

“You have no power over my free will, and that is the measure of intimacy,” Catti-brie pressed on against his sheer awfulness. “You’ll not get back into my thoughts, nor will you ever get beneath my robes.”

“Truly?” Gromph asked slyly. “Dear human, you will be amazed by the things I can accomplish, particularly when a woman tells me that I cannot.”

I find the latter half of the sentence to be poignant. It's as if he's taking Catti's resistance as a challenge, or an insult. Mind you, Gromph is still a monster for many of the things he does. But he has such a potential to be a multifaceted villain (who then becomes something of an anti-villain), something I believe Salvatore is working towards. I believe Salvatore’s attempt at a pseudo redemption arc for Gromph is very... lacking. The scene at the end of Maestro where he bows down to Catti also gives me weird vibes too ngl.

Yet, I still wouldn’t dismiss his attempts to soften Gromph recently. Take this scene in Boundless for example:

“And your friend in Ship Kurth?”

“Any who should concern us are in no danger,” the archmage assured her. Caecilia gave a little snort, but tried to cover it when she saw the scowl on Gromph’s face and realized he knew she was mocking him.

“Such a drow thing to say,” she admitted. “If all of Luskan other than those you deem valuable to you were to be slaughtered, would you even care, Archmage?”

“Should I?”

Caecilia blew a long sigh and let it go. Curiously, though, as she walked through the door leading to her extradimensional mansion, she realized that she actually didn’t believe Gromph. Had he been so battered by the distorted culture of Menzoberranzan that he thought it a sign of great weakness to admit compassion? How many others? the cloud giantess wondered. How many other dark elves had been similarly broken?

Gromph has spend pretty much the majority of his long, long life in the Underdark. Menzoberranzan is all he knows. Which makes me curious about the direction Salvatore plans to take Gromph’s character in the The Way of the Drow. Take this scene for example:

“To the Nine Hells with that ugly spider,” said Gromph from the tunnel.

Drizzt turned to watch the sour archmage come forth, and took great pleasure and great hope in seeing the man verily transform at the sight, as if the tension and anger were suddenly simply falling away from him as he looked upon the wonder of Callidae.

“It was worth the journey, yes?” Jarlaxle asked him, and Gromph couldn’t respond, and he didn’t have to.”

Callidae, a place where drow may live in peace upon the surface, is a symbol of hope-- a hope so strong to the point where Gromph is willing to throw away his allegiance to Lolth. I know Cunningham is unlikely to come and write for the Drizzt series, but damn... I wish Gromph could meet up with Liriel again. I wonder what she’d think of her father now. I wish we could one day see Gromph fully embody his role as the Archmage of the Hosttower, shedding the former identity of Archmage of Menzoberranzan, both in name and in heart. Speaking of Liriel, a part of me wonders too how much Gromph actually cares to her (yes--- she is a tool to him, but Liriel seems to be capable of activating a strange sort of fatherly instinct in him, something very vulnerable and pure and hopefully enduring). We have this scene of their first proper meeting, in Daughter of the Drow:

"Look down," advised a lilting, melodic voice, a voice that rang with mischief and childish delight.

Incredulous, Gromph shifted his gaze downward. There stood a tiny, smiling female about five years of age, easily the most beautiful child he had ever seen.She was a tiny duplicate of her mother, whom Gromph had recently left sleeping in a nearby suite of rooms. The child's face was angular, and her elven features delicate and sharp. A mop of silky white curls tumbled about her shoulders, contrasting with baby skin that had the sheen and texture of black satin. But most striking were the wide amber eyes, so like his own, that regarded him with intelligence and without fear. Those eyes stole Gromph's annoyance and stirred his curiosity.

This, then, must be his daughter. For some reason that thought struck a faint chord in the heart of the solitary, evil old drow.

(Of course, I won’t disregard how he then goes on to murder her mother / his wife in the next scene... so lol. Gromph is still a ruthless drow, after all. But even monsters can love, or so I wish to believe.)

There’s also certain tiny details that stuck out to me:

"So, drowling. I don't suppose you can read?"

It was a ridiculous question, for the child was little more than a babe. Yet her brow furrowed as she considered the matter.

"I'm not sure," she said thoughtfully. "You see, I've never tried."

She darted toward the open spellbook and peered down at the page. Too late, Gromph slapped a hand over her golden eyes, cursing under his breath as he did so. Even simple spells could be deadly, for magic runes attacked the untrained eye with a stab of searing light. Attempting to read an unlearned spell could cause terrible pain, blindness, even insanity.

See what I mean about fatherly instincts? His immediate instinct was to protect her eyes, her sanity etc.

As Liriel grows up, her relationship with Gromph also seems almost... cordial. She seems relaxed with him, not holding back her tongue too much. At times, Gromph is seen chuckling and seemingly enjoying her presence too (unless he’s in a bad mood or she crosses a line somehow). Gromph is more lenient with her than one would expect, but also knows how to be strict when necessary, as befitting his station.

"Have a good time," Liriel mimicked bitterly as she and the archmage strode down the hall. "This, from someone whose idea of fun involves whipping people with snakes!"

Her blasphemous remark drew a shocked chuckle from Gromph.

"You must learn to guard your tongue," he admonished. "Few of the Academy's mistresses are burdened with a sense of humor."

"Don't I know it! Father, do I really have to become a priestess?" she demanded. "Can't you do anything to stop this?”

Liriel knew the words were a mistake the moment she spoke them. No one stayed healthy for long by pointing out to proud, frustrated Gromph that there were limits to his power. The expected rage did not come.

"It is my will you become a priestess," the archmage said coldly.

The scene continues with Gromph granting Liriel the means to go wherever she wish.

The archmage reached into a hidden pocket of his cloak and drew out a small book.

"This is yours. Learn it well, for you would surely go mad in Arach-Tinilith without the escape this book offers you." He paused for a grim smile. "I had this compiled for you—a task that spanned several years and cost the lives of a number of wizards—knowing this day would come."

That was quite a pitch, even for melodramatic Gromph, Liriel thought with a touch of wry humor. She took the book and opened it to the first spell. She skimmed the page, and the meaning of the symbols came to her with a rush of excitement and disbelief.

"This is a spell for summoning a gate!"

"And so is every other spell in the book," he agreed. "With this knowledge, you can travel where no priestess can follow."

Liriel leafed through the spellbook, her excitement growing by the moment. Magical travel was extremely difficult in the Underdark, and those who tried it often ended up as a permanent part of the landscape. This gift would give her greater freedom than she had ever enjoyed. Best of all, her father had foreseen this day, and prepared for it! Liriel hugged the precious book to her chest.

"I can't begin to thank you!" she cried joyfully.

Gromph Baenre smiled down at her, but his amber eyes remained cold. "Not yet, perhaps, but when the time comes I will tell you how you can properly express your gratitude. Become a priestess and seize what power you can. But never forget you are a wizard first and foremost. Your loyalty belongs to me."

The warmth fled from Liriel's heart. She held the arch-mage's hard gaze, and her golden eyes mirrored his. "Don't worry, Father," she said softly. "Lloth forbid I should ever forget what I am to you."

Gosh, this is why I love Cunningham sooo much. Much like Gromph’s scene with baby Liriel where the two have somewhat of a cute father-daughter moment, throwing faerie fire at each other etc.. the heatwarming scenes are always proceeded by an emotional whiplash, reminding the readers that this is Gromph Baenre we’re dealing with. In the first scene, Gromph murders Liriel’s mother right after having a cute moment with Liriel. Here, Gromph grants her what is one of the most valuable grimoires she’ll ever own, right before reminding her that she belongs to him as his tool.

A part of me could not help but wonder too though... does Gromph see himself in Liriel? The natural aptitude for magic, the fact that by their gender they are being forced into a role they did not want (Gromph being subservient to females as a male, Liriel being forced to become a cleric as a female despite wanting to be a wizard etc). The parallels are definitely there. I wonder if, through Liriel, Gromph may be unconsciously wishing to give her the opportunities he never had: freedom.

True freedom.

A part of me would like to think that Gromph, deep down, secretly wants Liriel to one day flee Menzoberranzan--- just as Jarlaxle did, to an extent at least.

I could go on and on about this forever, but I’ll stop here. If anyone is reading my rant this far, thanks! Feel free to hmu if you want to talk to.

#legend of drizzt #gromph baenre #war of the spider queen #Starlight & Shadows #the way of the drow

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