#clothes more appropriate to his new position

[oldblackhat]

You know this means Crowley has to have noticed.

I mean up until 1941 when crowley would see Aziraphale he’d be in a different period appropriate outfit. Every 50 years or so he’d see the angel in different clothes

Then the next time he sees Aziraphale he’s in the same clothes - and then the next time - and the next time - Abe then next time (minus small variations like the neckerchief)

Even as modern fashion has increasingly moved away for it and it’s looked more and more dated - to the point where in any other century Crowley would have expected to see Aziraphale change.

I mean Crowleys not blind; he’s bound to have noticed. Do you think he’s ever asked or teased Aziraphale about it?

Do you think either of them have made even an oblique reference to when he first started wearing it?

So this is a new phenomenon Crowley would observe happening in real time - a new pattern that doesn’t fit with the old pattern - and becoming more and more glaringly out-of-step within each passing decade

Crowley’s has a pretty logical brain - he’s thought about this, must have

Something I’ve noticed, throughout history Aziraphale changes his outfits just as much as Crowley.

I mean, at first he’s dressed like “An Angel”. This takes place during the periods when he is just observing Earth as an Angel of heaven.

Then once he’s “Gone Native” and is hanging out on Earth on a more permanent basis, he dresses to keep up with style and the times, and most importantly to blend in.

Then we get to 1941 and suddenly his outfit is static and unchanging. For 80 years he remains in the same outfit (and yes for this example I’m not including Brother Francis or Warlock’s birthday party because those were disguises).

He even laments to Crowley about his jacket being ruined when it was hit by a paintball.

And then is so happy when he fixes it.

So why is this? Why does he insist on wearing the same thing? For 80 years? Well after fashion has moved on multiple times. What’s so special and significant about this outfit exactly? Why does he love it so much?

It’s almost like perhaps something happened in 1941 that Aziraphale is trying to preserve. Or maybe, to recapture. Something to remind him of that night. GEE, I WONDER WHAT THAT COULD BE?!

I’ll see myself out.

[magpiepills]

Plow

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ MDNI

Pairing: Joel Miller x f reader

Word count: 900ish

Summary: Joel’s neighbor does yoga and he has a new appreciation of the practice.

Warnings: SMUT, voyeurism, pervert Joel, creep Joel, male masturbation, PIV, fingering, spit as lube, reader is able to do yoga and wears activity appropriate clothing.

A word from the author: come get your creepy Joel jerk off fic!

Read Part 2 Here

Read Part 3 Here

He stopped in his tracks the first time he noticed that the little window at the landing on his staircase looked right over your privacy fence and into your backyard. He might or have noticed at all if you hadn’t been outside, splayed over your purple yoga mat, twisted into a pretzel with your legs wide open and your tits threatening to spill out of that little stretchy top you wore.

He looked around, sure that someone saw him, knew what he was seeing, heard his brain telling him to look away and saw him watching anyway.

Joel was a practical man. He was honest and good and upright. He took pride in it.

That didn’t stop his hand from sliding over his jeans to palm his rapidly hardening cock. Didn’t stop him from zeroing in on the way the snug fabric highlighted the point of your nipples, or oh god how it molded to the cleft of your cunt.

He tore his hungry gaze away long enough to flick off the lights, hoping to watch just a little more in secret before he swore to himself that he would do the right thing and go downstairs and put you out of his mind.

It was only seconds before he was back in place at the window, ducking to the side to stay out of sight should you look up. In that time you’d switched positions. He watched as you slowly stretched your legs and spine, lifting your pert ass into the air.

Joel’s heart raced. He let himself believe that you were offering yourself to him. He imagined tearing open the fabric of those fucking pants and finding your bare pussy underneath, he let his mind paint a picture of your slick and swollen lips, your tight little asshole, all on display just for him, ready for him to devour or destroy.

He unbuttoned his jeans, belt buckle clacking against the floor as they fell around his ankles. He left his boxers on and told himself it was ok, that looking was free, that he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

He was hard as a rock.

He watched as you moved through your poses, breath hitched as he daydreamed of fucking you in each one.

You were so limber, bending like a willow switch, your movements so smooth and deliberate. He was transfixed by the graceful motion of your body and soon his boxers joined his jeans on the floor. His hand moved slowly against his length. His palm contoured to the underside of his cock and slid down to cup his balls before going back up to roll over the thick, weeping head.

Joel wondered how else you might stretch.

Did you ever touch yourself? Did you slip your fingers inside? How many? How many of his could you take in that little hole? Would you be loud? Scream his name? He would start with one, if he ever got the chance. He would feel how wet you got and he would spread your wetness over your clit again and again, dipping back for more of your dripping arousal, getting you close to coming then adding a second to make you moan and clench.

His fist moved faster around his cock, he spat into his hand to aid the glide, but he didn’t dare look down to watch, didn’t risk missing a moment of you. You were a goddamn minx.

He would add a third finger, he decided. He would wait until your first orgasm washed away, leaving you limp and pliant on your little mat. You’d think he was finished with you, but he would just dive back in, licking and sucking at your pussy, mixing his saliva with your wet release, and sucking your clit between his lips, feeling it throb as he tongued it, making your back arch off the mat when he split you with three thick, rough fingers.

Joel was close. Too close. He didn’t want to come yet.

He squeezed the base of his cock and took a few deep breaths. He looked at your pretty face, you looked dewy and serene, practically glowing. He imagined your pretty face covered in his cum.

You seemed to be winding down, stretching your body out, arms over your head, tits lifted and begging for his hands and his mouth.

Joel pumped his turgid member, closing in on his orgasm as you laid on your back, arms over your head, legs spread wide and bent at the knee, opening up your hips just for him, he was sure. Every deep breath you took lifted your chest and dropped your knees a little further.

How easy it would be to fold you in half and fill you up with his aching cock. He could pull that little top down, lick those little nipples you were hiding, use your top as a handle to fuck you hard and deep, hammering into you.

Joel’s vision tunneled, the house, the fence, the grass and sky all fell away until it was just you, mere yards away, practicing your yoga in the privacy and seclusion of your yard, while Joel splattered his tshirt and spilled cum down his thick knuckles to the image of you in his mind, stuffed full of cock, rubbing your little clit furiously with your manicured fingers, wedding ring shining in the sunlight as he squeezed your tits and filled you to the brim.

None the wiser to what had just transpired on the other side of the fence, you checked your watch, sipped from your water bottle, rolled up your mat and went back inside. Joel was left alone with his stains and his shame and checked his own watch, making a

Mental note so he could be waiting at the same time tomorrow, tissues and lotion handy.

[venusbyline]

Gift ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 16, oct.

— pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x servant!reader x Aemond Targaryen x Gwayne Hightower x Criston Cole

— type: smut, dark, Kinktober (House of the Dragon Edition)

— kink: punishment + exhibitionism

— summary: Your bravery to face King Aegon II would be admirable, at least if he did not humiliate you in front of his brother Aemond, his uncle Gwayne and Ser Criston.

— word count: 1.9k

— tags/warnings: kinktober 16th day, female!reader, dark!Aegon, dark!Aemond, dark!Gwayne, dark!Criston, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, punishment, exhibitionism, rape/non-con, nipple playing, degradation, non-consensual touching, blood, face slapping, face punching, implied gangbang, dacryphilia, public humiliation, public nudity, crying, breast worship, body worship, sexism, oral (male receiving) mentioned, curse words, dom!Greens, sub!reader, canon divergence (Pre-The Dance of the Dragons), porn with plot. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @baybaybear1 @blessedbymoon @p45510n4f4shi0n @lina-lovebug @moonnicole @badger-reads @turdettethefirst

— crossposting: AO3

You had not been working at the castle for a long time. Alicent had hired you just days after the coronation of her firstborn, Viserys' second child, Aegon II. She needed more servants to deal with her son's stupid demands.

You would rather have gone to the Red Keep to serve the Queen Consort, Helaena, or specifically care for hers and the new King's children. You would rather have been chambermaid to other members of the royal family, any task that you did not have to deal so directly with Aegon.

However, it was impossible. Alicent had specified that you take care of the King's private chambers. Not the matrimonial chambers, where he rarely went to sleep with the Queen, but the room where he took the Ladies, the prostitutes or even some maids. The room that was always stinking of wine, sweat and male fluids. Sometimes even his urine. You hated your work and you hated Aegon.

Alicent ordered you to clean Aegon's chambers even though he was still asleep that morning. She had not explained the reasons why you needed to clean with the King's presence still there, but you did not dare question her. You loosened the ties on your uniform as a precaution, as you already noticed how Aegon always smirked when he saw your curves accentuated by the tight fabric. Even though it was Alicent who gave you the clothes on your first day in the Red Keep, you knew very well that it was probably Aegon who demanded his mother that his servants wear only smaller and tighter sizes. After all, where would the fun be for him if they always dressed appropriately?

Upon entering the room, the smell of wine immediately hit your nostrils. You had nothing against drinking alcohol, but the strong stench present inside the room made you hope that all the wine from Westeros would one day run out.

"You look angry." The King's deep husky voice caught your attention, and you swallowed hard as you approached with the two buckets and some rags.

You ignored his words and lowered your head, positioning the buckets on the floor to begin carrying out your task. "Excuse me, Your Grace. Your Lady Mother has ordered me to clean your chambers immediately."

Still lying in bed, Aegon's sleepy eyes fell on your kneeling figure, your delicate hands cleaning the wine stains spread across the floor. Aegon did not remember very much about the night before, only that he had drunk a lot and ordered the guards to bring him some random maid for him to have fun with before bed. He wanted to ask for you, order the guards to bring you even if you were dragged by your hair.

However, he was so drunk that he could not even say the order correctly, then he had to fuck the servant his men brought. She was pretty. She was hot and had a tight cunt. But she was not you.

"You look so fucking beautiful when you are angry..." Aegon continued to tease, making you take a deep breath and look up at him. His milky white skin remained covered by the silk sheets, his blond hair was messy and probably tangled, his lips were still reddened by wine and there were dark circles under his eyes. He was quite a sight, even if you hated admitting it to yourself.

"I am not angry, My King." You went back to mopping the floor with the wet cloth, trying to ignore your thoughts and the fact that his cock was so marked under the sheet.

"Yes, you are." He chuckled, especially when you got up to clean some other part of the room. The glimpse he saw of your pretty breasts pressed into the neckline of your uniform was enough for Aegon to grab your hand, stopping you from moving to the other corner. Preventing you from continuing your task or continuing to ignore him. "Do not play that fucking shit with me. Do not you dare ignore me."

As harsh and angry as his reprimand was, you could not help but look at him with contempt. Those fingers that were inside another servant's cunt during the last night now held your wrist as if he wanted to mark you. The smell of alcohol and sex around became even stronger. "I am not ignoring you, Your Grace. I am just doing my task."

A humorless laugh escaped the King's lips. "Your task? And what would it be, uhm? To look with disgust at my chambers? Or perhaps to loosen the ties on your uniform because you know I am always looking at your body like a hungry man? Is your task to hate your King?"

Your gaze moved away from his hand squeezing your wrists and shifted to his violet eyes, his pupils so dilated when you stared at each other that you could not tell if he wanted to push you onto the bed and fuck you rough or if he he wanted to order the guards to send you to the guillotine. Perhaps both.

"My task this morning is to clean your chambers, something you, My King, are not letting me do properly."

Aegon's jaw clenched at your boldness. He was not used to receiving sharp words from his own servants. It stressed him out and turned him on with equal measure. The way you were staring at him like you wanted to kill him, the way you did not flinch from his grip, the way you ignored his other questions, and most of all... The way you did not deny that you hated him and did not even beg for forgiveness.

Aegon felt his heart accelerate with anger and his cock begin to throb with arousal. He released your arm from his hands, and brought his calloused fingers to your cheeks, caressing the soft flushed skin for a few seconds. "You are a brave little thing, you know that, my dear?" He purred, lips pulled into a dark smile, before silencing what you were about to say with a slap.

The sound of his palm hitting your face left you in disbelief and fear, your eyes wide and filled with tears as Aegon shouted for Ser Criston Cole, who was doing his daily patrol in front of the outside of the King's private chambers.

"Yes, Your Grace? What does the King desire?" Criston asked, positioning himself and looking curiously at the sight in front of him, you with a redness mark on your cheek, Aegon's fierce and at the same time sarcastic gaze. It was clear what had happened.

Aegon let out a slight chuckle before saying. "I have some things to sort out with my brother and my uncle Ser Gwayne in the Small Council room. Please take this girl there when she finishes cleaning here." Aegon murmured, getting up from the bed, letting go of the sheets and starting to walk to the washbasin, his bare ass and his boner catching your attention when he looked at Ser Criston one last time. "Take her naked, preferably. Aemond and my uncle need some distraction and fun. Just like me"

When Criston pushed you into the Small Council, a weak whine escaped your swollen cut lips from the punch he had given you a few minutes before when he had to drag you through the corridors. You flinched as you held the tray with three glasses of wine, entering the room with red cheeks, the gazes of the three men sitting at the table landing on your naked and vulnerable body.

"Your Grace..." You murmured with a sad and shy reverence, walking over to them and placing the tray on the table, handing the largest glass to King Aegon, who smirked excitedly at your presence.

"Oh, finally! My most beautiful servant!" Aegon clapped his hands before taking the drink and taking a sip, admiring the view of your ass when handed the other glasses to Aemond and Gwayne. The prince looked at you with the same cold gaze as always, although he was enjoying watching your shivering body, completely vulnerable. The knight, Aegon and Aemond's uncle, widened his eyes, taking the drink and whispering an embarrassed thanks, your breasts so close to his face. "You can sit with us, Ser Criston. I am sure my other guards will not mind."

Criston nodded silently, sitting on the chair, but remaining with a severe face as he looked at the hairs of your cunt.

The awkward silence followed for a while, despite Aegon's amused smile when he saw you standing naked next to him, your hands clasped in front of your body, waiting for any more orders.

"What did the girl do to deserve a punch on those pretty lips, Ser Criston?" The King teased, the tip of his thumb rubbing circles on your waist, an involuntary sigh escaping and making you squeeze your thighs together reflexively. Your reaction did not go unnoticed by any of the men.

"She tried to refuse to walk naked through the castle halls while I brought her here." Criston looked at you with a little anger and you lowered your head so as not to see their reactions, but Aemond let a low 'uhm' escape coldly, along with Aegon's laugh as if the royal guard had told him the best of jokes.

"Oh, I see... She is a pretty stubborn little whore. Sometimes too brave for her own good." Aegon's mockery was like a knife spinning inside your chest, further adding to the humiliation when even Gwayne Hightower smirked too.

As much as you wanted to take the dagger from Criston's armor and stab the King to death, until his blood ran all over the marble table and permanently stained the green robe he wore, you forced yourself to look at him with false regret. "Forgive me, Your Grace."

It was an absolute lie and everyone knew that, but Aegon did not address your insincerity words. He caressed your bare waist again, moving his large hand up until it rested on your nipples, playing with them for a few minutes, enjoying your pathetic whimpers and the way your body twitched, without even trying to move away. It would be worse for you if you fought his sadism.

"Do not you think she is beautiful?" Aegon's smile was macabre, his thumb and forefinger wringing the small buds becoming hard like rocks, quite reddish and painful.

Aemond and Criston let out a similar scoff, but nodded in agreement. "She is pathetic." The prince added, looking your body up and down. "But she looks better than most of the stupid maids you fuck."

Aegon chuckled and nodded too, turning to Gwayne. "And what do you think, uncle?"

Gwayne looked at you, his red hair matching his flushed cheeks as he gave his nephew a mischievous smile. "She is quite a sight, My King."

Aegon laughed again, moving his fingers away from your breasts and scratching his chin to think of something that could humiliate you a little more. He knew this would be crossing the line and would make his mother reprimand him furiously, ashamed of the firstborn that came out of her womb. However, it did not matter anymore. He was the King now, and a King should decide how to punish his own people.

"I think you would like to receive some pleasure after the tiring journey to King's Landing. Right?" Gwayne seemed a little shocked by the suggestion from Aegon's words, but it did not take long for him to agree.

"Yes, my nephew. It would be very useful." Gwayne ignored the tears that streamed down your face when Aegon forced you to kneel in front of his uncle, lifting your face so you could see the lust on Gwayne's face.

Aegon petted the top of your head like a puppy, before smirking and whispering. "Well... then take her as your welcome gift, uncle."

HOTD Edition - Masterlist

Criminal Minds Edition - Masterlist

Venusbyline's Kinktober 2024 - Masterlist

[skzdarlings]

bodyguard: the first guard | part one | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | tba

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh's daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. please note this story will contain a great deal of physical violence, some committed against the reader and some committed by her. this will include fighting, training, torture, and parental abuse. there will also be explicit sexual content. chapter word count: 7500 words.

enjoy <3

-

B E F O R E

Felix takes his place in formation.  He is the youngest in the youth regiment at only ten years old, but he is no less competent.  They all belong to the same special-ops program, a group of specially selected children raised for armed service.  They are in the employ of Mister Miroh – and he says they will save the world. 

The world is full of shadows, dank black holes and grimy stains so embedded that no regular agent can scrub them out.  The young subjects of the soldier program are not regular agents.  Their existence is their mission.  

Felix has no life outside of the house of Miroh.   

He stands straight.  He looks forward.  His feet are the appropriate width apart and his hands are folded behind his back.  He holds this position as the trainers scour the lined formation, studying the young soldiers and reprimanding any flaw. 

They need the best soldier for this mission.  This is the most important assignment the regiment will ever receive.  Felix has trained his whole life for this.   

“Miroh has many enemies,” speaks the head trainer.  It is a familiar speech, more important now than ever.  “But our target is his local rival.  This enemy family has been a corrupting force for generations, taking through inheritance what it has not earned.  Miroh is not like The Enemy.  Miroh is a solider like you.  He came from nothing, fought for scraps, and built his own business one brick at a time.  He understands the world and he will fix it through you. You will be his hands in the places he cannot reach.  Your role is an honourable one.” 

A trainer passes Felix.  Felix straightens his spine that last infinitesimal degree.  They touch his shoulder but do not reprimand him.  It makes his pulse hammer with anticipation. 

Felix is one of the best.  There is a possibility they will pick him, if only because the actual best has a habit of—

“Oh, cheer up, mate,” Chris’s voice comes from a few rows back. “You know what they say: all work and no play makes—”

He is interrupted by a whoosh of air, probably a trainer punching him in the stomach. Felix closes his eyes so he does not wince.

“Bang Christopher Chan,” the head trainer says, his voice booming across the facility floor.  “Step forward.” 

Felix hears a frustrated sigh, then Chris stomps through the lines to reach the front row.  Everyone looks at him. 

He is an unassuming character.  Not very tall but deceptively strong.  Curly black hair and dimpled cheeks.  Felix remembers that smile, the lilting and friendly, “Call me Chris,” when Felix was just six years old and first thrown into the regiment. 

Bang “Call Me Chris” Chan is the best soldier here.  Or he would be, if he did not hate the honour. 

Even now he is glaring.  Like the rest of them, he is dressed in combat clothes, the pitch black of Miroh.  Unlike the rest of them, he stands with a lazy hunch in his shoulders.  His dark hair is dishevelled and he scowls like a petulant teenager.  He is thirteen going on fourteen but he is far from a normal teenage boy.  Even compared to the rest of them, Chris is something special. 

“Bang Chan,” the head trainer says.  “You have been chosen for this assignment.  Congratulations.” 

Felix is not surprised.  When Chris is forced to apply himself, it is abundantly clear he is the best soldier in the program by a huge margin.   Felix is also not surprised when Chris responds with his usual verve and ire.   

“Yeah, uh, you can go ahead and shove your congratulations up your ass, mate,” Chris says.  He crosses his arms stubbornly.  “Even if we kill this guy, do you really expect us to believe that’s the end of it?  You’re putting us in the middle of a fight we didn’t start.”   

He addresses the soldiers behind him just as much as the trainer.  He even glances at Felix who glares back at him, unimpressed with the rebellious dramatics.  Chris never learns.  He gets more chances than the rest of them because he is so good.  If he wanted, he could be unstoppable.  He could use his strengths for good. 

Instead, he just looks at the trainer and shakes his head.

“Nah,” Chris says.  “You started this fight.  I’m not ending it.”

A few of the adult guards move towards him.  The gathered soldiers take a collective breath, watching with anticipation.  It is common knowledge that thirteen year old Bang Chan can take a regular adult guard in a matter of seconds.  When it comes to Chris, the question is not who will win, but will he fight at all? 

He stands there like he has no intention of fighting.  But before anyone can grab him, the door opens. 

Miroh enters. 

The room is so tense and silent, his footsteps reverberate like thunder.  Miroh is every inch a soldier even in his blazer and tie.  He walks with purpose, his face intent. 

Walking behind him, keeping decent pace despite her smaller frame, is his daughter. 

Miroh is a fighter who does not believe in unearned inheritance, so his daughter is trainee soldier like the rest of them.  She is the same age as Chris.  She trains with the regiment, one of the better agents, but she was not in contention for this particular job.  People have tried to kill The Enemy before and it did not work, resulting in the death of innocents.  Miroh wants a strong heir and he is not above putting her through the same grueling regime as the rest of them, but he will not recklessly risk her life. 

It is fair to Felix.  Miroh’s world makes sense.  He believes in it.  He believes in him.

So he is rapt as Miroh approaches. 

The adult guards fall back and the young soldiers stand at attention.  Miroh’s jaw is set with grim determination.  He stares at Chris.

Chris drops his crossed arms.  He is smart enough not to run his mouth at Miroh directly, but his frustration is clearly simmering beneath the surface.  His fingers curl and uncurl in little fists. 

Miroh stands in front of him.  He speaks loud enough to address the entire room.

“I do not begrudge your desire for information,” Miroh says.  “You’re soldiers, not animals.  I acknowledge that you wish to know about the long-term goals for this company.  But that is not your job or your purpose.  This business is deliberately compartmentalized so if one cog in the machine fails, the apparatus does not cease to function.  The results of your missions speak for themselves.  What we’re doing is good work. That is all that matters.”

“Says you,” Chris blurts.  Even he looks surprised by his own retort, though he does not take it back.  He looks Miroh in the eye. 

Miroh looks back.  Then he reaches into the holster beneath his long coat and draws a gun.  It is smooth, second-nature.  Miroh is used to getting his hands dirty.  His steady hand points the gun at Chris. 

The trigger has not been pulled but the trainers already flinch.  They know Chris is the best and they have worked hard to shape him, even if his stubborn mind is not molded as easily as his body. 

Chris, himself, does not flinch.  He stares down the barrel, unrelenting. 

“You don’t want to do that.” 

The soft interjection makes everyone pause.  Heads turn and eyes dart, everyone’s attention transferring to the thirteen year old girl in the shadows.   

Miroh does not lower the gun but he looks at his daughter.  Chris looks at her too.  Felix is not sure who is more bewildered. 

The girl, herself, is calm.  She has indubitably mastered a stoic countenance, not a hint of emotion anywhere on her young face. 

“He’s the First Guard,” she states simply.  “This is not worth killing him over.”

The First Guard.  The other kids in the regiment sometimes call Chris that, though he doesn’t like it so it is usually behind his back.  Chris does not like that he has been singled out.  Chris does not like anything about the program. 

This is Miroh’s second attempt at the youth soldier program.   The operation raises soldiers from childhood to fight, to withstand pain, to feel no fear.  This training is supplemented with medical treatments, hormonal injections that are only effective if administered in the crucial developmental years of childhood.  It aids in building a body for soldiership, to take a hit just a little harder than most. 

Chris is the only survivor from the first round of injections.  He survived every test that followed.  He is stronger for it, even stronger than the rest of them.  He is a singular asset.  He will never be replicated. 

Thanks to The Enemy, none of them will ever be replicated.  The Enemy recently attempted to recruit Miroh’s developers and killed them when he did not succeed.  Detailed knowledge of the treatment died with them.   

Miroh can never accomplish anything with his enemy on perpetual offense.  Felix knows the stories like the rest of them, the generations of corruption wrought by a single wealthy family with its iron fist wrapped around the country’s throat.  Miroh wants to free them.  Felix knows if they kill this one man, if the household is left to rot in the hands of its weak successor, then Miroh can finally set everyone free. 

It is a noble honour.

Chris does not see it that way.  He never has.  Maybe it is different for him, having watched those other children die.  Felix understands it was a sacrifice, but a necessary one.  The Enemy cannot be killed by a regular soldier.  So many more innocents will die if he is left unchecked.  Surely that is worth the price of a few soldiers.  Wars have casualties.  It will be worth it.

It has to be worth it. 

Bang Chan, the First Guard – call me Chris – takes a deep breath.  It sounds frustrated.  He glares at Miroh’s daughter who is unaffected. 

Felix looks between them.  Then his gaze lands on another soldier in the formation.  Seo Changbin is in the first row, a boy one year older than Felix.  Not the best soldier, not second best, but not the worst. His most notable trait is his humour and his friendship with Miroh’s daughter.  They are close – at least as close as anyone can be down here. 

Changbin is looking at her right now, his gaze searing with intensity.  Their eyes meet briefly and he shakes his head, a small motion, just enough for her to see.  Despite his clear warning to stop, she is not dissuaded from addressing her father. 

“With all due respect, sir,” she says to Miroh, “Eliminating Bang Chan would be a mistake.  He’s the best soldier in the operation.”

“The best,” Miroh says.  He presses the barrel of the gun against Chris’s forehead.  Chris goes tense and everyone takes a breath.    

His daughter is still unmoved.  She is a quiet character in general.  Felix has barely heard her speak never mind argue.  She keeps her head down and goes about her work obediently.  She is a good daughter and a better soldier.     

Maybe that is why Miroh hesitates. 

“He is not the best if this is how he conducts himself,” Miroh says. 

“Father, aren’t you the best at what you do?” she asks without hesitation.  “Surely a proper soldier like you should be able to control a little boy.  Are you saying you are not capable of that task?  It takes no skill to shoot a teenager.  What message do you send to the rest of us if you have to resort to desperate measures to keep your own army in line?”    

The silence is deafening.  Even with a gun plastered to his forehead, a little dimple of amusement pops in Chris’s cheek.  Changbin exhales.  Felix is sick of standing still but he holds his form despite the growing tension. 

The seconds feel like hours.  Eventually, Miroh lowers the gun. 

“Guards,” he says.  The adult guards are immediately at his side.  “My daughter has faith in our order.  I would be remiss as a father to fail her.”  He looks down at Chris and speaks with a snarl in his upper lip, “Let us all try our best to succeed.” 

Miroh snaps his fingers and points at Chris.  The guards swarm him, two of them taking an arm each.  At least Chris is smart enough not to struggle.  He is an indomitable force but he does not have an army at his call.  He lets himself be seized. 

“Take him to the Cell,” Miroh says.

An instinctive hiss leaves the mouths of a few soldiers.  They have all been trained to withstand various degrees of torture, but the Cell is one of the worst.  Even Felix shudders at the mention of it.  It is a small windowless room buried deep in the bunker of the training facility, a small prison cell with no light and no warmth.  Everyone has taken a turn in isolation, camped on the hard ground in the damp and cold and dark.  Down there, minutes feel like days, days like years.  At least literal torture causes sensation.  The Cell is a great black nothing. 

Chris does not argue, knowing it would be useless, but he does glare at Miroh as he is hauled away. 

“Take her too,” Miroh says. 

With a snap of his fingers, two more guards surface and grab his daughter.  Her stoic expression finally fractures, true surprise bursting on her face. 

“Me?” she asks. 

“As my daughter, your perspective is acknowledged and appreciated,” he says.  “As a soldier, you need to remember your place.  Throw them in together.  Double the people, double the time.” 

Felix would not want to be shoved in that tiny space with another person.  Certainly not if the trade was double the duration. 

But then, Felix does not like company.  He does not understand the exhausted look on Changbin’s face.  Changbin isn’t being punished, so why would he feel anything? 

Felix watches.  He holds his form even where others begin to wane. 

The guards and their prisoners leave.  The door closes and Miroh looks over the regiment.

“Who’s the second best?”  Miroh asks. 

There is a beat of silence, the scene settling.  The trainer finally clears his throat and looks down at his papers. 

“Lee Felix Yongbok,” he says in that booming voice.  Felix’s heart soars just as high.  “Step forward.”

Felix marches forward, keeps his eyes ahead.  Miroh approaches him.  Felix does not flinch, not even when Miroh circles him like prey.

“He’s young,” Miroh says.  “What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”

“I want to do good,” Felix answers.  “I’m ready.” 

They put a gun in his hand and a beanie on his head.  He enters the world looking like a normal ten year old boy. 

He puts a bullet in the head of The Enemy. 

He suspects one day he will be back for the son and granddaughter. 

He hopes it will be soon. 

-

P R E S E N T   D A Y

Despite your father’s remarkable propensity for making you feel like a child, you are a grown adult.  You are intelligent and conniving and dangerously competent.  In some ways, having been raised like a soldier beneath his merciless iron fist, you are more steadfast, more severe.  Your life is carved into his, your fates tethered as one to his success.  You are your father’s daughter, a Miroh, irrevocably a product of his upbringing.   

You do not show weakness.  You do not throw tantrums.  You might spend twenty minutes in the lobby bathroom, splashing cold water on your face, and you might spend another five minutes shining your shirt buttons, then ten more folding and re-folding the lapel of your long coat – but walking into his office almost forty minutes late is not the same thing as throwing a tantrum. 

You think you’re composed until you walk through that door, then the week’s anxieties expand in the cage of your chest.  You are capable but you are not stupid.  Miroh might be your father but he is a totalitarian man of influence and it would be foolish not to be wary of his power. 

You are more apprehensive than you appear, but you march in there like a soldier, shoulders back and head high.  You inherited your father’s marble expressions and stone stature.  No one would ever guess your palms were so clammy, your neck hot and damp with sweat. 

“I’m here,” you say by way of greeting.   You are not characters to indulge in artificial small talk.  There is no affection here and pretending otherwise is a waste of everyone’s time.  

“I won’t bother with pre-amble,” he says, predictably.   ”You know why you’re here.”

“I do,” you say.  “And I don’t agree with it.”

“I know you don’t.”

The argument ends just like that.  You knew it was a dead-end protestation before you opened your mouth, but you had to say something.  You are adamantly opposed to your father’s latest imposition.    

A personal, twenty-four hour bodyguard.   For you.    

The decision was not made lightly.   Your father’s business rival perished just under a month ago, the bloody circumstances extreme and mysterious.  Until Miroh can ascertain what truly transpired at that house on that fateful night, then he cannot be too careful when it comes to guarding his own legacy.

Your father is a military tactician and business man.  He is in the habit of bracing for every eventuality with a detached, pragmatic determination.   Of course he wants you watched. This bodyguard assignment is imperative in protecting his house. 

“I have a security team,” you say. 

“They are insufficient,” he replies. 

“I trained them myself.”

“They are too numerous.”

“I’ll cut down the roster.”

“Rotations open vulnerabilities.”    

“And who’s to replace them?” Your patience snaps. “One of your dogs?”

“You are also one of my dogs,” he says, voice soft for such a venomous retort.  It stings like a slash across your chest.  “I would not disparage them.” 

“Oh, of course, my apology.”  You speak with the same false gentility.  “What a thoughtful master you are.”

“I must be,” he says, “because the dogs still come when I call.” 

There is so much contempt in his voice.  He looks at you with more hatred than he ever directed to his worst enemy.   It makes you want to leap across this room and throttle him with your bare hands, like you can shake the animosity right out of him. 

You are too old to feel like a little girl on the verge of tears, demanding to know why her father does not love her.   You have long since accepted there is no easy answer to that question.  You would say that Miroh is simply not capable of love but you know that is not true.  He can love.  He just doesn’t love you.  

You are the perfect heir, his exact replica in ability and countenance, but it is not enough.  It will never be enough.  No matter what you do, no matter how faithfully you obey him.   You have bloodied your hands in the shadows while he takes the public credit.  You have helped build the reputation of the family name.  You have given him everything. 

He rewards you with this.   

You are not stupid.  Regardless of his excuses, he does not want you under surveillance for your protection.  You both know your personal training puts you leagues ahead of the overwhelming majority of agents.  Your security team is a superfluous accessory as is.

Miroh has just witnessed the collapse of a previously impenetrable legacy.  This does not put him at ease.  The battle technician accounts for every possible manoeuvre.  You know he foresees his own downfall just as easily as he sees his success.  Unseated before his time, reputation annihilated, replaced by someone as savage and persistent as him. 

A bodyguard will not protect you from the world.  It will protect Miroh from you. 

For all your inner turmoil, you are a steadfast rock, standing across your father in his office and exchanging a knowing glance.  You are just like him.  Of course he is scared of you.  Of course he hates you.  Of course he needs you.  

The feeling is devastatingly mutual. 

“Who is it?” you ask, calmly. 

“Agent Slump, step forward,” your father calls one of the guards posted at the back wall.  “This is your new bodyguard officer.  He will accompany you at all times, day and night, including your office hours and service train—”

The agent steps forward as your father speaks.  You draw your gun out of your chest holster and shoot when the man steps into your periphery.  It blows through his shoulder and knocks him down, all in a piercing shriek that reverberates around the small room.  The other guards flinch in the ringing aftermath. 

You look at your father and re-holster your gun.  You lay the lapel of your long coat back over your chest. 

“He leaves something to be desired,” you say.  “I would have thought you learned your lesson with these undertrained toy soldiers.  Maybe a better bodyguard would have kept your wife alive.” 

Your own mother died during complications in childbirth.  Miroh remarried a few years later, a woman he genuinely seemed to cherish, a woman who was killed in retaliation for a deal gone sour.  Nothing fills your father with more righteous fury than the mention of her.  Miroh loved her almost as much as he hates you. 

You know better than to retaliate with such childish rejoinders, but you want to hit him where it hurts, see something real on that stoic face.  It garners you a flicker of rage, bathed in all that loathing, and it makes you smile. 

“Let me know if you can find a competent replacement,” you say.  “Until then, I have work to do.” 

You turn heel and march to the door.  The guards move out of your way despite lack of command.  They have never respected you the way they respect your father, but they do fear you and it works the same way. 

You are dressed for the office but after an unproductive hour spent stewing in agitation, you give up.  The head of your security team accompanies you across town to the primary training facilities.  Hidden in plain site, here Miroh has trained and developed some of his most deadly assets. 

You are one of those assets.  You spent your childhood in this facility, training among an elite selection of children, raised for the purpose of violence and victory.  It was a unique program.  It has never been revived, the medicant administered to the children lost and yet to be replicated.  

You are one of the few still living. 

Your training was relatively more lax.  As Miroh’s daughter, the trainers could not let you die.  But neither he nor they had qualms with letting you suffer.  Miroh never admonished them and you never complained, at the time naively thinking that if you could prove yourself then he would care about you.

A foolish aspiration long since abandoned. 

But the training has served you well over the years.  It certainly comes in handy when you need to fucking punch something. 

Your security team is comprised of regular soldiers so it does not take much to best them in a fight.  The exertion is nonetheless liberating.  You have always felt more at ease in action than behind a desk.  Combat clothes are less stifling than formalwear.  There is a reason Miroh never paraded you at parties the way his late enemy did with his late daughter.  Your place is in a fight and always has been.  

After a few rounds in the ring, you stop to rest.   Your team knows when to leave you alone to brood.  You lay back on the mat, flat in the ring. 

There is a moment, as often passes, where you question your entire life.  It has been a long, vicious fight, clawing your way to your position, that the road back out seems like an impossibly arduous task.  Too much has happened, too much pain and loss.  It has to mean something. 

You cannot surrender now.  The very thought has you reeling, physically painful to even consider.  

This is where you belong.  It is an irrevocable truth.  You are a Miroh. 

“Yah, murder princess,” comes a voice and the thud of booted steps.  “Just three rounds?  Tsk.  You’re getting soft.”

You roll over, grinning even though you know better.  You look up at Changbin who is dressed in similar fatigues, his bulky arms crossed over his broad chest, his dark bangs brushing his smirking face. 

“I was waiting for a real fight,” you reply.  “Looks like I’m still waiting.”

He barks out a laugh. 

Changbin is one of the few survivors of your father’s special-ops program.  Unlike others who were imported from your father’s overseas operations, Changbin was raised right here alongside you.  You do not even remember meeting him; he has just always been there.  

He is a few years younger but he always held your attention, both because of his skill and his ability to retain a sense of humour.  It was an often sought breath of relief in the conditions of your training. 

You look at Changbin now, grinning and more jovial than someone like him should be.  It is a testament to his resolute strength that he can hold a dual personality inside him.  He has always been that way.  He can flip between a stoic soldier and goofy guy in the blink of an eye.  It is part of the reason you have never let yourself entirely trust him.  Though you are fond of him, he is like you: just a little too good at what he does. 

“Haha, the princess thinks she’s a comedian now,” Changbin says.  He nudges you with the tip of his boot.  “If you want to make me laugh, you should try fighting.” 

“Oh, I see.”  You cannot help but rise to his bait, like always.  He is a perpetual little brother even though he is not your real brother and certainly not little anymore. 

You swipe at him and he jumps back.  Just like that, the pair of you fall into a long practiced dance.  

It is not the gentle footwork of a real dance, but a violent collision and parry of limbs.  It is just as musical and in sync, and somehow almost as tender.  You know each other’s weaknesses as well as strengths.  You know how to beat each other and how to prolong surrender, where to give advantage so the other can continue.  You used to fight until the trainers called a tie, saving you both from selection for the loser’s punishment.  To everyone else, it looked like a fight.  To you, it was a conversation and consolation.  Even if you had been in solitude for weeks, in that moment you were not alone. 

Changbin reads you now, in every swipe and jump and dodge.  In your matching black clothes and matching strength you collide and converse.  Your frustration strains in every vein and his enquires are plain in the deliberate pause of his complicated steps.

“Daddy problems, ah, murder princess?” he asks, grinning. 

He catches your fist before it collides with that smirk, twisting your wrist so you are forced to follow with a heavy drop.  You roll together, a back and forth until you individually spring to your feet and face each other.  You wait for the next move with equal calculation.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you say, batting a hit. 

“Really?” he asks.  “Because there are rumours in the pig pen that the general was looking for a big strong soldier to protect his little princess.” 

He lets you clock his jaw but it is a satisfying smack nonetheless.  A drop of aggravation is wrung out with your sweat.  You wipe your brow. 

“There was a change of plans,” you say.

Changbin laughs.   He is loud, always so loud for someone who can be so stealthy. 

“Of course!” he shouts.  “Keeping the doctors busy today, are you?”

He really knows you too well.  It is mutual.  You side-step a movement and body-check him. 

“Guess that’s what the general gets for choosing from the pig pen,” you say.  You infuse your father’s title with all the sardonic venom it deserves and pig pen with the same playful mockery as always. 

“Don’t be jealous,” Changbin teases right back, catching your taunt as easily as he catches your punch.  “If you keep practicing, one day you might be almost as good as me.” He has been making the same wisecrack for years, laughing to himself every single time. 

“Funny,” you say dryly. 

“I am the best,” he continues to tease, embellishing his movements with an unnecessarily dramatic flair.  “I’m sure that’s why the general doesn’t want me on bodyguard duty, right?  I need a real job, not protecting the princess.”

There are a few rapid-fire moves, too taxing for speech.  Then you manage, “Right.”  You take his offered opening and catch the back of his knee with yours.  “I’m sure it has nothing to do with your probation after the last field mission.” 

You expect to take him down but you do not expect the weight of his crash.  It is not like Changbin to fully collapse under you, almost like he was truly surprised. 

You are just as dazed by the impact.  You loom over him, staring bemusedly, like you have no idea how he got on the floor. 

It is not like Changbin to take a hit so personally.  Of all your father’s soldiers, he was always the best at shrugging off his individuality in favour of a mission.   He does not tend to dwell on his losses anymore than he lingers in his victories.  The past is a heavy thing to carry into battle.  He knows to leave it behind.  There is always another job around the corner. 

“You’re not still upset about that?” you ask.

The mission was shortly before the enemy’s downfall.  Years ago, one of your father’s child soldiers betrayed an operation.  Lee Felix switched sides and the enemy did not let your father forget it.   But Miroh is an ever-calculating general who knows which battles are worth fighting.  After one failed attempt at seizing the enemy’s daughter, he waited until the enemy came to him instead.  

When he finally did, you caught him.  You sent Changbin after his daughter and waited for the enemy’s imminent surrender.  He retracted his operation but Felix, that loose canon of a traitor-turned-bodyguard, fucked the Mirohs a second time and disappeared with her.  They all died a week later. 

Changbin was noticeably uneasy after the job, but you did not think much of it.   You were not worried about Changbin taking the mission too personally.  Yes, Felix was a former soldier in this regiment, but Changbin is not sentimental.  You chalked up his despondency to his loss.  It is not like him to let a target slip through his fingers. 

“Upset,” Changbin says.  “Me?”

You know him too well.  The joking tone is diminished, buried beneath the weight of his gloom.  He tries to smile but it does not fit on his face, too big and too wide of a grin. 

You tip your head, your regard scrutinous.  You have no idea how to talk to him with real depth.  You look at each other and understand it, but vocalizing it is another matter entirely. 

Like he can read your thoughts, his face scrunches up and he says, “Yah, you, cut that out!”  He shoves you as he gets to his feet, both of you stumbling.  “I’m fine,” he says.  “Come on, hit me again.” 

You are certainly better at conversing that way.

You take a starting stance but you are interrupted when someone from your security team whistles.  It is a warning whistle, the sharp tone a code for the arrival of your father.

You and Changbin straighten, turning to watch as Miroh approaches with a flank of armed guards behind him.  They are all dressed for combat in their black uniforms and black masks.  The half-mask is regulation for all field agents.  It covers the bottom half of the face and serves as protection in the event of smoke from explosions or exposure to noxious aerosols and gasses.

It also undoubtedly turns a human soldier into a less-than-human figure.  It obscures features, faces, flaws. 

Sharp eyes stare at you, every face uniform and expressionless.  There are half a dozen of them.  Your father’s usual security detail trails behind them.  Your security team eyes them in turn.   The whole room feels like a pot about to boil over.    

“What is this?” you demand.  

“This is my adherence to our agreement,” your father says. 

“Our agreement?” you ask.

“Yes.”  He stops in the middle of the room, standing straight and steady.  He looks at ease, like he barges in here with a small army every day.  “You tasked me to find a competent replacement bodyguard,” he says.  “So here is how this will go: whichever agent can beat you in a fight, right here, right now, will be your new bodyguard.  If you defeat them all, I will drop the issue and leave the matter of your personal security to you.” 

You look at his soldiers then at him.  You force yourself to composure.  It is not like you to instigate so much confrontation. You prefer to keep your head down and get the job done.  Your father does not love you but he knows your work is reliable.  Usually that is enough.

This entire escapade with the enemy has unravelled everyone.  The house of Miroh should be more stable than ever, your father taking over assets left behind by the enemy, but the whole world feels changed.  It is off its axis.  You feel unsteady, your body braced for attack with no reprieve.  You feel like you are looking at the world through someone else’s eyes.  Everything feels wrong.

In difficult times, you fall back on training and soldier instinct.  You are a battle technician, just as competent as your father.  He is not going to drop the issue and this is a fair compromise.  You can fight these guards.  Half a dozen well-trained field agents is a handful but not impossible.  Your body is built to be a little faster, a little stronger, to take a hit harder. 

“Fine,” you say, a single grating syllable.  You bite the word.  Through clenched teeth, you add, “Let’s do this.”

You and Changbin exchange a look.  He reflects your confusion, knowing you can easily take these guards, knowing Miroh knows that too.  It makes you feel even more uneasy.  Your father must be planning something but you do not know what.  But you cannot control him.  You can only control yourself.  You can fight these guys.  You can win. 

You take a swig of water then stretch.  The first guard takes a position in the fighting ring.  You brace yourselves with a starting stance, measuring the other. 

You wait, sweat dripping down your brow.  You feel their eyes on you, every soldier, your father, your friend.  Changbin stands off to the side, sitting in shadows.

It is where your kind belongs.  You are not regular soldiers. 

The fight begins and you take him down swiftly.  Your game with Changbin was just that, a game.  This is real.  This is a battle.  This is what your body was made to do. 

One by one, you take out the agents.  They charge at you, they swing at you, they even try to taunt you.  You deflect it all.  Your fist connects with a temple, your foot their knee.  You pop joints and flip soldiers and springboard back to action. 

You are getting tired by the last soldier but you do not let it show.  You sweat profusely, breathing hard, but you run at him and take him down.  Your bodies are a swirl of limbs and powerful movements.  Then he is on the ground, groaning, and you are rising, victorious. 

“Well?” you say.  You cannot help but grin, elated from the sheer exertion of exercise, and proud of your triumph.  There is a small, stupid part of you that hopes underneath everything, your father is proud too.  That he must relent and admit you are good.  

Miroh just stands there, unmoving and unaffected.  It dims your smile, frustration returning.  It simmers hot beneath your skin. It distracts you. 

Pain explodes in your left cheek, so sharp and searing it turns the world dark for half a second.  You see lightning flashes as you stumble, falling onto your side.  There is another guard in front of you, one you did not even see enter the room.  Did he drop down from the ceiling? 

He is a blurry shape.  You blink the stars out of your eyes, holding your throbbing head until clarity returns. 

Then your stomach drops. 

It is not a guard looming over you.  He wears the same black combat uniform and the same half-mask, but everything about him is different, everything from his build to his stance to the ice cold slash of his dark eyes.  Emotionless.  Empty. 

“Ah, I see,” you say, a breathless slur of words.  You cannot stop your voice from shaking.  “The First Guard.  I should have known.” 

There are only two living soldiers who can fight at your level.  The only two survivors of your father’s special-ops program.  One of them is Seo Changbin.

The other is Bang Christopher Chan. 

He stands over you in his combat gear, unflinching and barely human.  Even without the mask, you doubt you would see any humanity.  There is not a single shred of the boy he once was.  Chan was a problem for Miroh, once.  That was a very long time ago. 

That boy, Chris, is dead.  He has been dead for years.  The soldier in front of you is someone – something – else. 

You get to your feet, slowly and shakily.  He watches you.  He does not speak and he barely blinks, his gaze a meticulous perusal, his body braced for anything. 

Chan has the bloodiest, dirtiest hands of them all.  He does your father’s worst missions, assignments with details that even you are barred from knowing.  He is terrifyingly efficient, deadlier than any weapon in Miroh’s arsenal, and that is saying something because it is a substantial arsenal.  

Your own hands are dirty but it is nothing in comparison.  He is fast, he is deadly, and he feels nothing.  He looks at you like a machine scans a calculation.  A broken bone here, a fracture there.  You are certain he is already picturing a hundred different ways to contort your broken body. 

“Right,” you say. 

You are a strategist.  You know how to fight.  You know when not to fight.  But it is like instinct.  You look at him and something says fight him.   

You feel your father’s eyes on you.  You are not sure who is teaching who a lesson. 

You take a swing at Chan.  He dodges it.  He swings too, faster, but you anticipate it.  You tuck and roll, moving faster than you have ever moved in your life.  You are seldom pushed to the brink of your abilities like this.  Even half your skillset is double what most adversaries possess. 

But Chan is too much.  You spend the fight on constant defense, blocking swing after swing, hit after hit.  You take advantage of the smallest opening and crack your fist on his chest, only to realize he deliberately opened himself to it.  He grabs your wrist and twists you around before you can retaliate.  You are not used to such brute strength.  You follow his twisting to prevent a sprain or fracture, which he anticipates.  He grabs you by the throat and yanks you into him, right off your feet. 

You choke, blue swarming your rapidly blurring vision.  He slams you down on the ground, further disorienting you, still clutching your neck.

You dive somewhere deep inside your head.  You collect yourself as per your training, then swing your knee up between his legs.  It does not fully incapacitate him but it does discombobulate him.  He lets go of your throat and you slide between his legs, jumping up behind him.  He turns just in time to take a kick to the stomach, blasting him backwards to the end of the ring.    He prevents a worse fall by forcing himself down on one knee. 

You take the second he is down to catch your breath.  You try to calculate your next move but your adrenaline is dwindling.  Hopelessness settles in your chest.  You cannot win this fight.  At best, you can prolong it, but—

For the second time, you are blind-sided by pain.  It shatters down the right side of your body, a winded shove that blows right through you.   But it is not Chan.  Chan is still getting to his feet. 

You look up only for Changbin to bring his fist down in your face.  It knocks you off your feet and you land with a heavy thud.  Your heart races inside your aching chest. 

You have never fought Changbin like this. 

“What are you doing?” you hiss when he grabs you by the neck and drags you onto your feet.  You come to your senses and fight back, but you are hurt and tired and he has been recuperating. 

He punches you clear across the jaw and knocks you down again.  The world tilts sideways, spotted with black and blue.  Changbin drops on top of you.  You cannot even wrestle him, so disoriented.  He gets you flat on your front and pins you down. 

Then he takes a second to whisper in your ear, “Stop fighting me, murder princess.  Who do you want as a bodyguard?  Me or that thing?” 

If you were not so tired, you might have laughed. 

Your life is so backwards.  Changbin is helping you by beating the shit out of you.  But it is undoubtedly helpful.  He is right.  If Chan beat you, then Chan would be your bodyguard.  Your father would win.  He would have one of his agents glued to your side.  An agent you would never be able to shake no matter what you did. 

But it is not Chan over you.  It is your friend.  Someone from the same shadows as you.  Someone your father was not anticipating.

Changbin grabs you by the neck and yanks you up.  You look at your father with blood dribbling out of your mouth.

“I win,” Changbin says. 

Your father does not look happy.  That should upset you.  You and Miroh are bound as one. 

But it gives you a thrill.  His abomination of a soldier looms to the side, still staring at you, like he expects the fight to continue any second.  You suppose Chan’s life is one big fight and always has been. 

It doesn’t have to be that way for you, you think to yourself, a dangerous thought, one conjured by the feeling of your only friend holding you in his arms.  It looks like a death grip to anyone else, purely technical, but you feel it, the way he cups your injuries carefully despite his bulk and power.     

Miroh is scared.  He is getting desperate.  He wants you brought to heel.   In doing so, he is only stoking your resentment.

That pot starts to boil over.

“Well?” you say, in a voice as rough as gravel. 

“Yes,” your father says with a petty little snarl.  “I suppose you have won, haven’t you?” 

Changbin helps you off the ground.  You suffer through your pains.  You can feign steadiness for another minute, for long enough to retaliate.

You climb out of the ring.   You pass the other injured guards.  You walk right up to your father. 

Miroh stares at you.  You have identical glares, measuring each other.  Two soldiers with the same fire in their blood. 

You punch him.  It is a nice sharp shot across the face, using all the strength you have left.  You are one of the best.  Despite your injuries, it is still one fucking hell of a punch.

Miroh falls back in an undignified sprawl, hitting the hard ground with a painful thud.  He is good but he is not you. A fall like that would not have broken your bones the way it clearly fractures his arm.  

“Until next time, father,” you say. 

You step over him.  His security team immediately surrounds him, helping him up.  Your team comes to your aid as well.  Changbin follows too, coming right up to your side.  He grabs your arm and slings it around his shoulder, taking the brunt of your weight seconds before you would have collapsed. 

You look back over your shoulder.  The injured guards are tending their wounds.  Chan is looming in the background like a living shadow.  Miroh is clutching his arm and staring at you with fury pouring out of him.  You walk away, smiling despite your injuries. 

Your father should know better than to hit you.

You always hit back.

[felixknow]

Felix + seχsomnia drabble

Contains sexual activity while one party is asleep, including dry humping and masturbation. Consent is mandatory and consent is sexy. This story is fictitious and does not reflect behaviour that is appropriate or acceptable in reality.

Felix had fallen asleep an hour ago.

At first he was talking to you about the issue he'd had with his new PC build, his arms locked tightly around your waist as he nestled his nose into your hair at the back of your head. Then his already deep voice began to lull deeper and drawl slower until you could feel his soft breath against your shoulder.

"Felix?" you'd asked softly, trying to peek at him over your shoulder without bumping heads. "Did you fall asleep?" But he didn't respond.

You tried to sleep for a little while, but something about his body pressed so closely to yours kept you alert and awake. It wasn't the first time you'd shared a bed with a friend, and it wasn't the first time you'd cuddled with Felix, but somehow this felt different. Sleeping in Felix's arms was a deeper level of intimacy than you'd had with him prior.

And things had escalated only moments ago when you felt a growing pressure against your butt. You didn't realize what it was at first, merely thinking that your body was getting sore from lying in the same position without moving for so long, but no-- Felix sighs softly and shifts in his sleep, and you feel the distinct outline of his boner pressed against your body.

You'd be lying to yourself if you claimed to be unaffected. You felt a twinge of interest deep within yourself solely at the weight of his bulge behind you. Now with his sighs becoming more frequent as his hips gently start to rock against yours, you're getting wet.

It's time to move-- you know it is. It's only right to either get away from him or to wake him up, but for some reason you can't move. Maybe you selfishly enjoy the attention, or maybe your hormones have kicked in and your rational brain can't win this battle anymore.

Regardless, you end up arching your back just a little, letting him unknowingly hump your ass as he becomes more vocal, moaning softly against your neck. Your hand slips into your pajama shorts and your fingers easily slide between your labia as your wetness has only been increasing as Felix continues to use you in his sleep.

You bite your lip hard trying to muffle your soft whimpers, but when Felix tightens his arms and forces your body closer to his as he seeks more friction, you moan softly.

You look at him over your shoulder again to make sure he's still asleep, and his eyes are tightly shut, his eyebrows furrowed together and his mouth lazily open.

"Mmm," he moans softly as his dick slides against the cleft of your ass. You're throbbing and desperate for any kind of attention on your pussy right now, but waking him up isn't an option and getting out of bed to get a toy would ruin the fun.

If we weren't wearing clothes right now would he fuck me in his sleep?

The thought is enough to make your fingers rapidly circle your clit, chasing a quick and messy orgasm. Then you'll get up. Yeah, then you'll wake Felix up and pretend he wasn't doing anything to you.

Your hips twitch and buck forward into your hand, and Felix's hips keep stirring against you from behind. His low moans are filthy enough to make you moan softly back, selfishly wishing your friend was awake to fuck you properly.

You don't last much longer after Felix sleepily mutters "fuck" and his face presses into your neck. He partially rolls onto you, making you move so you're somewhat on your stomach, still somewhat on your side. He's fully humping you now, panting and whining, and your climax hits you hard.

"Fuck, Felix," you moan, burying your face into the pillow to muffle the sound. You gasp, writhing, grinding backwards against his hard-on and forward against your hand as you come.

Several minutes later, when your orgasm has passed and you've slipped your hand out of your shorts and sucked your arousal off your fingers, you finally try to pry Felix's arms off your waist. His grinding against you slows and finally stops when his arms unlock from around you.

When you crawl out of bed and stand, you turn to look at him and are barely surprised to see his wide eyes and red face.

"What, um," he clears his throat and tries to subtly shift so his boner isn't as obvious under the blanket. "What time is it?"

"Dunno," you say, glancing at his crotch as you slide your two messy fingers back into your mouth suggestively. You shrug and turn away toward the door, but he calls out for you.

"Wait... Do you maybe want to lay back down...?"

masterlist

I didn't mean to post this today but the draft published itself so here we are.

[maeby-cursed]

KISS ME, TRY TO FIX IT…

𓂃 COULD YOU JUST TRY TO LISTEN ?

a/n: starting a new series of songfics ! this one is very obviously inspired by sad, beautiful, tragic, so you can see where this might be going. enjoy the results of my brainrot ♡ (also, i’ve never written for gojo before, please have mercy)

✧ synopsis: you’ve been waiting for satoru gojo for ten years, but there’s no trace of the man you fell in love with when you were sixteen years old. it’s time to let go, but he might not want to.

✧ pairings: satoru gojo x fem!reader

✧ wc: 2k

✧ rating: angst. so much of it, angst to drown in. might get suggestive at some points.

✧ cw: mentions of drinking, of the great jjk tragedy of 2006 and its aftermath, implied cheating, gojo may be ooc, toxic relationship ??

An ice-cold wind blows through the window as you wait.

It’s not even December yet but it’s already snowing.

Soft snowflakes the size of stars, far away in their firmament, enter your living room. When they land on the sofa, they dissolve, leaving in their wake thousands of specks of water that look disturbingly like tears.

It doesn't matter. You don't think he's going to notice anyway.

It's been ten long years of waiting. Ten long years of fighting, of fixing what's broken and denying that it's ever been broken.

It's over. Let winter freeze everything in its path.

When Satoru walks in through the door, you hesitate for a moment. A moment of madness when you see his hair, as white as the snowfall that has invaded your home. Just a moment when you see him in his burgundy turtleneck sweater, his tight-fitting coat. One single moment when you recognize the cold in his pink cheeks.

But it's all over when you meet his crystalline eyes. The fault is theirs.

"Is the window broken again?" he asks, dropping his keys on the entryway’s table.

The window has been broken since September.

You nod and he grunts, running a hand over his face.

"I'll call someone tomorrow, although you could have said something," he says. This is your fault. Of course.

You keep your eyes fixed on the snow. From the living room you can see the sidewalk across the street, covered in a blanket of white that sparkles under the street lamps. It's so painfully beautiful it makes you nostalgic.

You and Satoru moved into this house three years ago, when he got his teaching position, and you can't quite get over the fact that it's time to say goodbye.

You've spent three years of solstices here. You've seen the sidewalks covered with dead leaves, with thousands of little flowers that broke the pavement in their wake. But it’s never snowed. 

It’s not fair, not one bit.

Satoru says no more. He goes to your room and undresses; he replaces his street clothes with a black outfit that seems very appropriate for the occasion. Since you’ve known him, he always takes off his glasses when he crosses the hall of your building, but for once, you wish he'd put them back on. 

When he returns, his hair is dripping over his forehead. You hadn't even noticed that he was taking a shower. 

But he hasn't noticed that your bedside table is empty, either; that your slippers are missing, that there's a seeping coldness in the hearth of your house, and it's not coming from the window.

"What's for dinner?" he asks, plopping down on the couch with his cell phone in his hand.

You get up.

9:26 p.m., November 8. This is where it ends.

"I don't know. I'm going out to dinner," you say.

He doesn’t even bother to look up.

"Hmm, where are you going? Are you bringing something back or should I order myself a pizza?"

It's painful to watch as nothing seems to touch him. He’s infinite — always infinite.

"I'm going to a work friend's house."

"The one with the lovely curly hair and those pretty hazel eyes?"

Christ.

"No. I'm moving in with Rhea. Dark-eyed, blonde, leggy."

"Hmm, how nice."

A moment passes where he just keeps staring at the screen, and you despair.

"Satoru."

"What's up, baby?"

"I'm moving."

At last – at last – he looks up. In his eyes you see nothing; two blue marbles that have sworn you two to an unjust fate.

"You're moving out? Why?"

Where to begin? Because you have been loving a man destined to save everything and everyone for a decade, because you have been trying to fill a void that is not your size for eight years, because the windows are broken and the bed is cold and Satoru arrives several nights smelling of anisette and the perfume of another, because you don't want to live looking at the Strongest, the possessor of the Six Eyes. Because you thought that in some hidden corner Satoru Gojo was still there, and he isn’t.

"Because it's killing me to live like this.” You settle for that as your explanation and try to keep your stare unwavering.

"Like this how?" he questions, suddenly irritated. "In a luxurious house?" He gestures around him with the cell phone in his hand. "Comfortably, with your dream job? Knowing you'll never have to worry about money?"

"No, Satoru. Like this, without you loving me."

That chills him to the bone.

"Of course I love you."

"Do you? Do you want me for anything other than to warm your bed and your cock? Do you want me here, as your partner? Do you need me for anything at all?"

You don’t gesticulate, you barely move from your spot in the middle of the room. Everything in this fucking place is white and uncannily clean; the sofas, the coffee table, the walls, even the snow; but you and Satoru. He’s in all black, you’re in all red. It’s almost dreamlike, and you struggle to stay grounded. 

The only thing you could remove from this house that would grab his attention would be you.

"Yesterday you weren't complaining about any of this, what the fuck is the matter with you today?"

And you can't stand it anymore. The winter current lifts your hair, soaks the back of your neck and disguises your tears.

"THE MATTER IS THAT I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR TEN YEARS. WAITING FOR YOU. WAITING FOR THE MAN I MET AT SIXTEEN TO COME BACK, SLEEPING WITH A MAN OF ABSENT GAZE WHO STAGGERS INTO MY BED WHEN HE'S TIRED OF BEING IN EVERYONE ELSE'S. I DON'T WANT TO BE YOUR DOG, SATORU. I DON'T WANT YOU TO COME HOME AND FEEL OBLIGATED TO GIVE ME A WALK, A PETTING."

The words come spilling out of you without remedy, every wound bursting open through the stitches. He just looks at you.

"You think I don't love you?"

It hurts to hear him say it, it fucking hurts. You were prepared for the yelling and the coldness, even for a quick vulnerable stare. But never for his trembling voice and soft frown.

You inhale deeply.

"I don't think your love is of any use to me any longer."

Satoru stands up at that.

He's tall, tall and beautiful like Michelangelo's David. All your life, you've been feeling like you had no right to touch him. His infinity assured you that was the case. 

He takes a step in your direction and whispers:

"Then what should I do now?"

Your eyes, fixed on the ground, rise to meet his. There's something in the void and you're not sure if it's just your reflection.

"What?" you mutter. 

"How do I fix it? What do you need that I can't give you? Do you want me to quit work, for us to leave, for me to come home and kiss your temple, to cook for you, to listen to you, to cherish you in bed?” A heartbeat. “I will."

There’s something about the desperation in his tone, you aren’t sure of what to say next.

Satoru knows how to lie, but you don't know how to tell the difference.

"I don't want anything, Satoru. I'm tired," you whisper back, eyes full of water. "I want it to end. I want you to let it end."

He shakes his head, frowning, and through the mist of your tears you recognize that he is crying too.

"There has to be something. Anything. Something I can do, I can do it all."

It's partly true. He's Satoru Gojo; all-powerful, all-knowing. Eternal and young and beautiful and tragic as a poem.

You are just another person. You cried when Suguru left, when Haibara died, when Kento gave up the Jujutsu world and when Ieri locked herself in her office. You clung to Satoru, who resembled an empty seashell more than a person. 

You remember those nights back in 2007. You remember blindfolding him so he wouldn't activate infinity by accident, by reflex, out of overstimulation. You remember cutting his hair when he couldn’t and looking for him in his old antics. You remember taking care of Megumi – always reluctant – and Tsumiki – who you felt was too mature for her age. You remember the burden of being eighteen and having lost a world.

And, above all else, you remember Satoru under the rain. Under the pressure of the world you had lost, the one that he was trying to put back together. There was a month where he seemed catatonic; no smiles, drinking anisette as if it were his one source of life. A thirty-day period followed by the rebirth of a person who looked like the one that stood before, but who seemed cold and alien to you.

"Don't you love me, my darling?" he seeks for you, reaching out a hand to brush against your cheek.

Of course you love him. You love him even like this, like you have loved each and every one of his versions.

"I adore you, Satoru. But I can't stay; you can't fix it."

"Of course I can," he reaches out to you, holding your face between his fingers, "Of course I can."

His lips connect with yours — one last attempt, you don't know by whom.

Snow fills the room and it's cold, but you drink from his mouth, from his everlasting warmth; everything in him lasts forever.

Between kisses, you show him everything you have been for years. Ten years of kisses, of hands looking for hands and flesh searching for flesh.

He moves backwards, keeping you between his hands and guiding you towards the hallway and from the hallway to your shared bed.

This is where it ends.

"Satoru..." you whisper.

"I'm here. I'm here, beautiful, my favorite girl. Talk to me."

A sob escapes you as he utters those words. My favorite girl. That’s what he used to call you. Talk to me, he used to plead, that year at sixteen, when everything was about to start.

Isn't it beautiful that it ends the exact same way?

"Satoru, I'm leaving," you press a farewell kiss to his jaw.

"No, you're not leaving," he murmurs, smiling against your mouth, searching for your lips.

You back away and look at him one more time. And you smile, because there's nothing left.

"I'm already gone. Just let go of me, please."

"But..." he starts, his smile hesitant, "But I'm going to fix it."

You take one of his hands between yours and kiss it as it presses against your cheek, before lowering it to your lap.

"Satoru..." You pronounce each syllable of his name carefully and he stifles a cry. "I'm not going to go any further. I've already made the move and Rhea's expecting me at her house in an hour. I love you, I’ll love you until I run out of kisses, but it does me no good to love you. It is of no use to me, this love. I wanted to tell you. I wanted you one last time. Wasn’t it my turn to be the selfish one for once?"

He watches you, and his mouth shuts close. You've never seen Satoru lose. 

No, that's not true. There was a time, one time, where you saw him lose everything.

His eyes fill up with you one second and empty the next.

This is his second time.

He lifts his chin with an arrogance that no longer means anything and lets go of your hands.

"Go then, if you want. I'm not going to do anything to stop you,” he drags the words with feign disinterest. “I can't do anything."

That's the last gift he can give you. An honesty unbecoming of him, a truth that will never belong to Satoru Gojo ever again. 

From god to human in three kisses and a goodbye.

"Thank you," you say to him. Then you get up, heading for the living room, where your coat and your escape door await you.

He stays in the bedroom – with himself as he always is – after you leave. 

And he hides you where he always hides the things he breaks, in the back of his eyes, where no one can reach to see anything.

© 2023, MAEBY-CURSED — do not copy/repost/edit.

(reblogs are appreciated !!)

[chuulyssa]

Chuuya with 1,5,6 and 12 pleasee

★ PROMPT ─1, 5, 6, 12

!! FT. ─ chuuya

─ wearing his clothes

Chuuya sniffed the new coat he had bought. His eyes widened when he recognized the scent. Your scent. He walked straight into your room and slammed the door open. You looked up from your phone to see him outraged.

"Why?" he demanded.

You looked from him to the coat in his hand and the pieces clicked together.

"It smells like you," you smiled.

"Why- you," he jumped onto your bed in faux-anger and glared at you, trying to hide his fluster.

"It smells like you," you repeated, kissing his forehead.

He gritted his teeth. "Stop that. Can't you see I'm angry?"

"Sure, you are," you said.

Chuuya crawled on top of you with a frown and a pout on his face before kissing your neck. You yelped and he snickered.

"That's for stealing my clothes, dolly."

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

─ kissing

Kissing was Chuuya's favourite pastime. Even now, with him sprawled across his chair and you leaning towards him from his table, grabbing him by his tie and pulling him in more, Chuuya felt as if he was in heaven.

You gave him a harder tug, and his chair rolled to you until it hit the edge of the table. Chuuya smiled in the kiss and stood up to match your height, holding the back of your head and pushing you further into the kiss.

He brushed your jaw with his fingers as his lips trailed down to your collarbone to plant soft kisses there. You giggled.

"Is this behaviour inside the office appropriate?"

"I'm the Executive," he mumbled, planting a long kiss on your lips to shut you up. He pulled away for a moment and said, "And it's hardly my fault you look so gorgeous right now."

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

─ cuddling

Chuuya put his hand on the back of your head, burying you further into his chest. Your hands glided from his arms to his hips, and he felt goosebumps arise at your touch. He thrust his fingers into your hair, brushing it gently and kissing it all over.

It was another stressful night with an even more stressful amount of paperwork. But what put him to ease were your feathery kisses on his neck, and your fingers clasping around his wrist so beautifully.

His legs were tangled up with yours, occasionally spooning you. Chuuya moved his body so you lay on top of him, smiling and hugging him more. He slowly slid his hands to grab your hips and pull you closer towards him.

You whined at the sudden movement and Chuuya simply smiled.

"I'm sorry, doll. I just can't seem to get enough of you."

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

─ styling his hair in silly ways

"How much longer?" he groaned, burying his face into the crook of your neck to kiss it.

"Just a few minutes more, and stop that!" you squirmed on his lap, hairclips falling out of your hand.

Chuuya licked your neck to tickle you, his fingers reaching to your stomach to caress you, but you slapped his hand away.

"Behave," you said sternly, and he pouted. "Don't forget, I can chop all your hair off right now."

His eyes widened and he shook his head vigorously, leaving you with a satisfied smile. A few minutes passed that way, with you straddling him and him admiring your beautiful face, occasionally shifting around to get more comfortable with the position.

"Done!"

Chuuya reluctantly tore his eyes away from your lips and looked at the mirror. His hair was tied in seven small different ponytails, with a bow hair tie on each. The hairclips you had put on his front hair were all hearts and stars.

Chuuya took one heart clip off and pointed at it while saying, "This is how you make me feel."

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

© chuulyssa 2024 - do not copy, plagiarize or repost my works on any platforms. do not translate.

[warping-realities]

Life Adjustment (Repost)

“Did you want to see me, Jack?” said Stu, throwing himself onto one of the armchairs in his brother's enormous office.

Jackson, Stu's brother and the current president of the construction company founded by their father, looked at his younger brother with piercing eyes.

"I'm glad you could make it to our meeting, Stuart, considering you've been busy doing nothing every day for the past few years." Was the response given by the obviously less than happy older brother, as he looked in disgust at his younger brother's paint-stained clothes that had just ruined an expensive armchair.

"Come on, Jack, that's not fair; you know everything I've been through!"

"Everything you've been through? Please, Stuart, being dumped by your college girlfriend is not an excuse to let yourself go and become a bum still living in your parents' old basement. You're 25 years old and haven't done anything useful with your life."

"I wasn't dumped, Jack. She died, you idiot!"

"Yes, very sad, but it's been almost five years, five years during which I've supported your filthy habits, your gym routine, your entire lazy life as a talentless artist. That's enough!"

"I have a stake in this company..."

"Then take responsibility!"

"... and you don't understand, Jen was the love of my life," Stu concluded as if he hadn't been so rudely interrupted.

"Jen? Who's Jen, Stuart?" Jackson asked with a slight smile.

"Who's Jen? You must be kidding, Jack!"

"You know I don't tolerate childish habits, especially in my workplace, Stuart. So I ask again, who is Jen? I've never heard you mention any Jen, brother."

"Jen, Jeniffer, my girlfriend who… wait, no, I don’t know… who is Jen?"

"Precisely," Jackson replied, his sly smile widening but never reaching his cold eyes. He watched an impossible transformation unfold before him. In the blink of an eye, with a flash, instead of the brother he knew and had come to deeply detest over the years, there was a better-groomed version, with a smoother beard and shorter hair, with more defined muscles in workout clothes. Still, far from what Jackson considered ideal.

"So, Jack, why did you call me here? I have a client scheduled at the gym, so I don't have much time."

"A client... at the gym?"

"Yeah, what else would a personal trainer be doing?"

Absorbing this information, Jackson decided to make one more correction.

"I don't understand, why waste a college degree working as a personal trainer, Stuart?"

"Maybe because I studied sports science, Jack."

"But your major was in business, Stuart."

"Business, no way... or... maybe..."

Another flash and another Stuart stood before Jackson. Much better, he thought, seeing the figure before him, dressed more appropriately, with a toned physique belonging to someone who clearly took care of himself but didn't scream "gym rat." Still, there was certainly room for improvement, but he decided to let this new version of his brother speak.

"I imagine you want to talk about the status of the new building downtown; I can assure you I'm in direct contact with the team, and everything is going according to plan, Jack."

"Team? What team, Stuart?"

"Our construction workers, of course."

"And why would you be in direct contact with them, Stuart?"

"Oh, maybe because that's my role in the company? Overseeing the progress of the projects, making sure everything's right, walking among the guys and knowing if they're satisfied with their work."

"Maybe that was the case a few years ago, before you went to college, when our dad wanted to test your abilities. But since you graduated and returned to the company, you begged me to take a position in the office because you couldn't stand being around lower-class people."

"What? No, I would never be that snobby, no, or... did I... ask? No... ask?"

Another flash, another Stuart. Almost there, Jackson thought as he saw this version of his brother. He was wearing a sports coat and khakis, but that relaxed attitude needed a few more adjustments...

"So, tonight I'm having another business dinner with some clients; I'm thinking about hitting up a club with a few of them; you should come along for an hour, bro."

"Actually, I called you here precisely because I wanted to discuss your outings, Stuart. I understand social connections are important, but we have employees for that, plus it's a waste of your MBA. So I'm moving you to the head of financial control, right below me."

"MBA? Jack... no, I... financial department? I don't want that... or do I?"

"Of course you do; you accepted the position last year."

"Last year?"

A new flash and a new version of Stuart. This time, Stuart was wearing a proper suit, although still regrettably without a tie, and despite the neatly combed hair, there was still that beard. This kind of carefree attitude was not ideal.

"The acquisition of the land in Arlington was a success, Jack, so much so that I organized a dinner with the responsible team, along with the bonuses they'll be getting."

"If they're already getting a bonus, why organize a dinner, Stuart? Besides, you've never been one for such frivolities; your life has always been extremely rigid and regimented. Taking care of your body to present a powerful and assertive image, dressing appropriately and behaving with dignity at work, keeping the right distance from the employees; after all, you are the boss. And I don't think I've ever seen you smile at them, let alone go to dinners with them. It's not in your nature; you know how to be sociable when you want to, of course, but only when there's a benefit for the company; after all, profits and the company's image are your biggest concerns," Jackson concluded, thinking that finally this time the result would be as expected.

"I... don't... smile... of course I smile... no... image... profits... yes... knowing how to behave..."

A new flash, and finally, the perfect version of Stuart was before him, Jackson thought. Still sitting rigidly in the armchair with a clean-shaven face and the hint of a sly smile, with the same cold eyes as his brother, impeccably dressed in a dark suit with a tie that made him look like a younger version of Jackson.

"Staff cuts have been made, Jackson; there were some tears from others about the increased workload, but I told them they'd manage or be replaced by someone who would."

"Excellent, Stuart, and how do you feel about that?"

"Sorry, Jackson, but I don't understand your question."

"Don't you feel bad about firing all those employees?"

"Why should I feel bad about that? My role is to think of what's best for this company, and that's what I did."

"So cold, brother. I have to be careful; otherwise, you'll end up taking my place."

"If you lower your standards, brother, I won't think twice."

Thinking quickly that he might have overdone it, Jackson intervened once more.

"I would believe that if I didn't know that since we were kids, I've been your biggest example, and above all, you are loyal to me, Stuart."

This time there was no visible flash, but a clear change in Stuart's eyes, which now showed a glimmer of admiration toward his older brother.

"Sure, brother, if I'm who I am today, it's thanks to you!" Stuart replied, standing up and speaking in a tone of voice that, though cold and distant, still displayed immense reverence for the figure before him.

Jackson couldn't help but display the closest thing he could muster to a smile that his nonexistent emotional skill would allow while responding to what, in his opinion, was a much-improved version of his brother.

"Indeed, brother, and I'm glad you recognize that."

[stararch4ngelqueen]

Sympathy for Breakfast

(Part 1)

—

Time Written - 9:03 p.m

(Completely unrelated photo it’s just funny to me, also just a silly part 2 for no reason. SFW silly, he stands like this for a majority of this Drabble)

—

The early rays of morning sun sent an irritating glare of bright light through his mask when he feels a faint rumble, making him instinctively reach for his phone.

You coming home soon?

I have a surprise :)

Love you <3

Jason smiles at the screen, feeling glad that his girl woke up on the good side of the bed. However, he checked the time, slowly growing concerned as to why you were up so early.

The diner the both of you adored on weekends and midnights wasn’t even open yet.

A handful of thoughts course through his tired brain. Some of them concerning, some of them far from appropriate.

“Good morning, Mister Hood.” You smile from your position on the ground as he shuffled himself through the front door, carrying double bagged to-go boxes in hand.

The only comfort he had at this moment, besides the fragrant hot coffee inside the machine pot, was seeing your smiling, well rested expression. Your hair was styled to keep out of your way as your main focus, the ‘surprise’, was the project the two of you had been putting off on for a while.

“Babe, what’re you doing?”

You sat criss cross on the living room floor in front of an ash gray, large convertible crib, newly put together by yourself alone.

“Built the crib! Isn’t it pretty?” You extend your hands out towards the sight, the crib equipped with every detail perfectly in place. All you had to do left was add in the bedding onto the new mattress for your son, and it’s fully finished.

A very special bed for a very special boy, already loved before he’s even born.

“The box weighed a ton.” Was Jason’s first statement as he eyed the empty box and scattered foam borders. He sets his helmet and breakfast on the dining room table, approaching the messy living room.

“It wasn’t heavy,” you quickly state, gesturing your head over towards the corner of the living room, where the box had sat behind the couch for a good three months.

“It was super easy too! What do you think?” You immediately ask, not liking how he was too concerned for everything but the surprise.

Their was a cute, eager glimmer in your eyes as you stared up at him, like a little girl showing off her extravagant art piece. Right there, he understood why you had lately become quite OCD with all the baby’s essentials.

Sorting out all the supplies, washing all the clothes, ordering a new baby blanket set because it didn’t arrive in the shade of teal blue you wanted.

Nesting. You were nesting.

Cute.

“It’s nice,” Jason says, tilting his head as he examines the large crib. How the hell his eight month pregnant sweetheart built this heavy crib all on your own was a full body shiver he tried very, very hard to refrain expressing.

“Yeah, very nice. How’s it, uh… how’s it gonna fit through the door?”

“What?” Your smile slowly drops. “Huh?”

“I mean, it’s pretty wide?” Jason peeks over towards their semi open bedroom door. “I don’t think the crib will fit through…”

You go quiet, looking over at the crib you were proud of merely seconds ago.

“Huh??”

You express once more, noticing this large, extravagantly built crib, with bottom drawers prepared to pack in freshly washed baby clothes, would be a little too wide to push through the bedroom door. Especially with the bed in the way.

“But this took … this took forever!” Your voice held that tremble that Jason suspected would come, making him playfully pout.

“Awww, Princess.” He tried so hard to hold back a smile or laugh, quickly failing behind his gloved palm.

“Don’t laugh!” You yell up at him. “I was so proud of myself! This was the one time we buy something from IKEA, and I didn’t have to second guess the instructions a hundred times! Now you’re saying it won’t fit through the door!”

Cause it won’t. Jason wasn’t cruel enough to voice it, simply gazing down at his love, who hid her face from his view, still perched in the center of empty screw bags, power tools, and ever so finicky foam beads.

As tired as he was from patrol, this topped the cake of interesting things to happen yet.

He wasn’t delighted to see you cry aggravated tears from this daunting realization you completely missed, but the outcome of your hard work at such an early hour… only to be stumped, it’s funny. Jason can’t help that.

His shoulders bounced with his light laughter, settling down in front of his woman, who had exhausted hands covering that pretty face from him.

“S’okay Princess. Crib looks gorgeous, an’ you still possess all fingers and toes. Proud of you, but no more heavy lifting. Alright?”

His soft praise and gentle warning fell on acknowledging ears, but responded to with shameful silence. Jason couldn’t help that you were a little impatient with exciting tasks, he wouldn’t ask you to change that.

It’s like asking him to stop his horrible, eye rolling humor. Or twisted, cruelly timed jokes. It’s impossible.

He softly shushes you, kissing the top of your forehead. His eyes glance back to the crib, overall impressed at how you put it all together so well by yourself.

At the start of living in your own apartment, the both of you took many IKEA dates. Each night ended up in some form of aggravated frustration over a piece of furniture placed wrong, or the irritation of an extra screw from a missing slot once the entire piece was already finished.

“You take your vitamins?” Jason prompts, watching your head slowly shake no, still sniffling behind your hands.

You were too fixated on building the crib and getting everything together, you forgot the key component of a successful pregnancy; to worry about your own health. The biggest of priorities.

Yep. Nesting.

“We’ll eat, take your vitamins, an’ have our food comas. No worries ‘bout the crib mama, I’ll take care of it.”

Jason’s soothing voice was almost enough to settle your nerves, or the mention of food actually.

“Did you go to Benny’s?”

“Mhm. Got your favorite.”

“Can you help me up?” You reluctantly ask, giving him those pink flushed puppy eyes that he couldn’t go against.

“Whatever the lady wants.”

Tired muscles slip underneath your arms, cradling your sides as he helps you up off the ground. Your swollen belly nudges against his abdomen, making his heart melt. He wondered if your manic rush of dopamine woke up his boy, softly smirking at the idea of you chastising your relentlessly kicking son whilst building his future bed.

“Baby boy missed you, by the way.” You say, as if you just read his mind.

God, kill him already. His twice beating heart can’t take much more of this.

“He just wants food,” Jason chides before stepping to the side, letting you slowly waddle to the kitchen.

“We’re all on the same boat, Papa.”

God, please scratch that last thought. He’s in heaven.

Jason’s exhaustion didn’t stop him from nudging you towards your seat, taking the empty mugs from your hands to fill them with Colombian roast.

He wasn’t just being courteous; he was making sure you didn’t have too much caffeine, diluting the majority of your cup with your preferred milk.

After taking those vitamins you needed, Jason finally allowed himself to sit down and rest, too lazy to pull off anything other than his tactical belt and leather jacket.

He watches the love of his life through hooded eyes open your plate, your expression brightening as if you didn’t just sob over the crib mishap. Something he most definitely wasn’t going to mention at a manor dinner about three years from now.

Fluffy blueberry pancakes, piled with fresh fruit and savory sausage on the side. Honey cinnamon butter, and extra syrup. All topped with chocolate chips.

Beside it, an egg white spinach, cheesy omelette. With vegan cheese, for some odd reason. Suddenly, you had as much distain to cheddar and mozzarella, possibly most dairy, as you did to egg yolks in your omelettes.

This was your breakfast, The only meal out of your three meals a day that wasn’t invaded by a strange concoction of spicy pickles or vinegar based hot sauce. Or any other horrible last minute choices.

Something tells Jason that he’s going to see cake eaten for breakfast after the birth for a good while. Not like he’s going to complain, honestly.

Whatever he can do to combat the birthing blues, but that’s a concern for the future.

“Babe.”

“Hm?” You glance up from your plate before you dug in, seeing that same gentle smirk he carried on his face for the past four minutes.

“I was kidding, by the way.” His smile slowly grew the quicker it sets in, expecting to get pummeled by fruit after this;

“The crib will fit through the door.”

[eldritch-spouse]

Pinna Pin, I have a question-

So, we know how most of the icons react to a pregnant queen. But what about Zizz? How would he react to finding out his queen is carrying his heir?

It's a little anti-climatic.

Zizz reacts to the news that you're pregnant with a "Hmm...? Okay..."

It's a terrible response. Even Jayde will offer more of a reaction, an explicitly positive one. On the one hand, if you were worried about him being upset, then this is not so bad. On the other, if you wanted him to jump in joy, this is awful. Zizz doesn't realize he's upset you with that response.

He's actually overjoyed! You can see that the King is serious about this when the mansion starts changing. He begins demanding that servant baby proof several areas, that more pillows, blankets and other soft paraphernalia be deliberately left in the halls and other rooms -There's a method to his madness, he's not just making a mess- Your bed becomes somehow even softer. There's a large, borderline luxurious top of the line crib, and he's always keeping you warm and comfy.

This Icon is thinking of everything. Zizz is even bringing some of the plushies he has back to their maker, so he can have them be trained for babysitting and protection. The kid will have their own little plush friend as soon as they're born, trust him.

Eventually, he starts discussing names with you, accompanies you to get appropriate clothing and choose their toys. Sure, Zizz's initial reaction is lackluster, but his gestures convey nothing if not excitement.

When you're near the end of your term, Zizz will insist to fall asleep with his head near your swollen belly. Your child dreams in the womb, and Zizz wants to experience those bursts of sound, of feeling. They're like little bursts of their mind, he thinks it's the most beautiful thing, and hopes you can share those dreams too.

[merakiui]

Have you read the new Platinum Jacket Riddle card story yet?

Riddle getting fashion advice from Cater and Ace because he doesn't know how to dress casually. Imagine Riddle in a panic because he somehow landed a date and has no idea how to dress for it. Cue the shopping montage with the boys!

Riddle getting assigned Vorpal as a hazing because the other students knew he was a difficult horse and wanted to put Riddle in his place. There is so much potential for a bully!darling on that one. Something something you are going to teach that brat Riddle a lesson, but he hangs on until he earns your respect (and love?).

I HAVE AND OMG!!!!! SO MANY THOUGHTS!!!

Riddle who was told by his parents that he must always wear a tie because it's appropriate,,,, Riddle who has no sense of casual fashion because he's only ever dressed formally. Which would make sense considering in the manga he's dressed in very studious attire while Che'nya and Trey are in clothes that children their age typically wear. But Riddle is always wearing his Sunday best, as it's what his parents (more so his mother, though) would choose for him. It's so cute that he's asking for fashion advice because he wants to dress more casually. >w<

"because he somehow landed a date" lol,,, Riddle unintentionally winning darling's heart and now he has no idea what to do or how to dress. It's his first date ever! Cater and Ace are on the case. >:D Cater's very excited to dress Riddle in all kinds of aesthetics and styles to see which will be best for his date and Ace is there to be bluntly honest about what works and what doesn't. Ace (self-proclaimed) "rizz master" Trappola knows what the people like to see in a man (he has no idea). All in all, a very fun day spent trying on clothes and shopping. Maybe they wear silly disguises to keep an eye on Riddle during his date with you and cheer him on from the sidelines.

Did you also see how Riddle mentions his Housewarden journal has less and less room now that he's been writing so many things in it!!! AAAAA RIDDLE SOCIAL ERA!!!! I'm so happy for him,, so proud. T^T <3 he finally has friends and is more involved with them and the rest of his dorm. Very much well-deserved!!!

>:( those students!!!!!! Assigning Riddle a difficult horse with the hope that he would quit Equestrian Club altogether...... what a cruel thing to do. But because Riddle is determined and stubborn, he was able to connect with and have mutual trust with Vorpal!!! :D he's truly the best. <3 an impressive feat that only Riddle could have accomplished. I think Riddle and Vorpal have a few similarities, so perhaps that is why they both get along so well. Both are outcasted and disliked by others due to their difficult-to-manage personalities. They both deserve the world. orz

OOOOO a bully darling..... preying on new club member Riddle Rosehearts, hoping to put him in his place. Your bullying has the opposite effect. ;;; rather than discourage him, it only inspires him to do better, to push himself harder, all so he can gain your approval. Riddle who falls in love with you despite all of the mean things you put him through. He admires you in a way that no one else could. Others may think you're cruel or unfriendly, but to Riddle you're an inspiration. He'll continue to strive for your love respect and recognition.

AAAA thoughts of you and Riddle somehow getting locked in the horse stables and now the two of you have to actually work together to find some way to get out so you don't spend all night trapped there. >:) hehe maybe you bully Riddle only because you feel your position in the club is threatened by him because he turns out to be a very good Equestrian Club member. Intending to lock Riddle in there, but it backfires and now you're trapped alongside him.

[celesthysaturn]

Note: Meme, rant, Headcanon Yandere, One shot Yandere

➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃

Even though my obsession with yanderes is just my favorite entertainment in my world of fanfics and ASMR so I can escape the reality where there is no one who loves me intensely and even fantasize my darkest desires without guilt, I'm feeling very stressed about life that I take. I barely sleep or even eat properly besides my precious coffee in the morning ☕ (I lost a lot of weight because of this, which is not normal).

So, deep in my heart, I wonder what it's like to have a yandere in real life who was so obsessed with me that I was his priority and treated my health and well-being as if it were the most precious thing he needed to take care of. .

So, if he sees my current situation, I think he would go crazy 🤭

Dude, I almost passed out at school because I hadn't eaten or slept in days, besides, I study during the day so and I'm still doing an internship, I'm definitely going to end up being admitted. I think he needs to come help me immediately

Do you also feel tired and needy? So here's a Yandere Headcanon for you 🫵

➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃

Paternal/maternal and obsessive yanderes who are shocked when they discover that you are slowly killing yourself (or rather, have stopped taking care of yourself) and see that your mental and physical health is eroding because of the life you have decided to lead

Paternal/maternal and obsessive yanderes who see no other option and now they themselves will have to take care of you for you, and so, they finally decide to kidnap you.

Paternal/maternal and obsessive yanderes will make you completely dependent on them for your new life routine and even your basic needs. This means that they will bathe you themselves, dress you in comfortable and climate-appropriate clothes, cook and feed you in your mouth, make you take medicines and vitamins, take you punctually to medical appointments, blood tests and therapies (or perhaps they will do the exams themselves). Oh! Don't forget the main thing, lots of love and affection even if you refuse ♥️

Paternal/maternal and obsessive yanderes who will suffocate you with lots of affection, kisses and hugs, or at least, will try to demonstrate their great love for you in soft and attentive touches, looks and ears that are totally helpful to what you do and will talk to you every night how special you are to them, how precious you are

Paternal/maternal and obsessive yanderes that after 3 months of extreme care, he finally feels more comfortable letting you do your basic needs alone, but with their supervision, but you will still continue to live with him, you will only be able to leave for a while limited and will not allow you to do something that is not good for your health such as sleeping late, eating a lot of junk, accidentally hurting yourself, walking barefoot, otherwise he will go crazy once again and the whole childcare routine will start all over again

➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃

Everything is so peaceful, my body feels relaxed and fresh as if I had taken a delicious bath and received a massage right after. As I lie in a soft bed, on warm, clean duvets and pillows in a silent, soft environment that smells like chamomile (when was the last time I cleaned my room?), everything made me stay in the position I'm in for hours and with eyes closed to relax in this very pleasant moment, maybe I should even go back to sleep.

For a small moment, I seem to have finally escaped my daily problems and routine, as that infernal alarm clock hasn't gone off yet... wait, where am I?!!!!!!!!

I finally realized why everything is so good...

"Good morning, sweetie. How's my sweetie feeling?" The stranger appeared at the bedroom door, which had been open the entire time, and walked towards me subtly as if approaching a fragile and injured animal. Soon, he sat on the side of the bed I was on and placed one of his warm, wet hands on my forehead.

"Your body temperature is normal, your face looks healthier, and your dark circles are gone. It seems like you rested very well, I feel so relieved!" Giving a sigh of satisfaction, and then he placed a kiss on my forehead with that same hand gently grabbing my chin with his thumb on mine. He kept his loving, soft gaze on me.

"Where am I?" My question was automatic, I didn't know if I remained paralyzed or jumped out of bed to run towards the bedroom door that had been open the whole time, suspecting that he was watching me since I was still sleeping, or was already prepared to attack me. rock when I finally woke up.

It wouldn't do any good anyway, since he would have locked all exit access to the outside and would already be prepared for any attack or kidnapping outbreak.

"You are in my house, or rather in our sweet and cozy home that I have prepared for us for the rest of our lives from now on."

"H-What do you mean? What's this story?"

"It's for your own good, Sweetheart, I couldn't bear to see my baby having such a hard and unfair life on the outside..."

"You should't..."

"No, honey, it's YOU who shouldn't do this to me. I believed that you could be independent and take care of yourself while I finished all the plans for us to have the dream life when we could finally move away from this society and all the tiring life and stressful while I would take care of everything to support and protect our home and you would be my beautiful homely wife and totally spoiled by me." He paused, panting after his harsh speech, and slowly calming down. Now, his welcoming expression now seemed like a frightening and overbearing father/mother. "But after I saw you killing yourself to have a minimally comfortable life, I will have to take this position and you will live the life I prepared for you and me from now on."

So, he got up, walked out of the room and then, within a few seconds, came back with a bowl of soup, glass of water and pills all on a tray. I was too shocked to react.

"Your stomach must be empty after you slept so much and ingested all the sedative I gave you." Sitting once again on the bed, now, even closer as he places the tray carefully on his lap, his right hand taking my cheese again with his thumb on my cheek with a firmer grip and the other hand dipping the spoon into the vegetable soup and lifting it towards me. His loving and welcoming gazes were even more intense.

"Now, my Sweetheart, be obedient and open your mouth ♥️"

➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃ ➳❃

Note: Don’t forget to drink lots of water and get plenty of rest 😉

[rei-ismyname]

Storm used to get naked a lot

Magneto definitely has the longevity (pun intended) when it comes to on-panel nudity or semi-nudity, but Storm had many moments early in her publication history. They're pretty racist, tbh, the implication being that an African person wouldn't have the same understanding of the social contract dictating 'don't be naked in public.'

This one isn't public but it's got a similar vibe of otherness. 'Imagine myself back in Kenya.' As an aside, my disability makes showering a lengthy trial. I'd love to be able to do this.

Jean is Living with Misty Knight and keeping her Marvel Girl identity secret, so she asks Ororo to change out of her X-Men uniform. There's a flash of lightning? Cool trick, but yeah she's butt nekkid and Jean is aghast/horny/who knows? Ororo is like 'We all good?' and Jean nearly chokes on her drink (sure ;) It's not really explained, but I feel like it's meant to be read as 'African woman doesn't understand nudity taboo.' An excellent what if? would be 'What if Storm's nudist/body positivity became an X-Men thing?' I think it'd be good for everyone who consents, though it'd make it a lot harder to run a school.

This one is forced as hell. Nightcrawler realises Storm is swimming naked in the pool, and tries to hurry everyone inside so nobody sees her. If I'm being generous he means well, but it's still a little uncomfortable. Not pictured - Kurt talking to Storm; Storm giving a fuck. Because he loudly told everyone to get inside, Storm does too (why wouldn't she?)

Nightcrawler - 'Too late.'

Colossus - 'By The White Wolf?!?'

Banshee - 'Oh dear.'

Wolverine - 'Nice tits, darlin.' (paraphrased, lol. The look on his face tho )

She doesn't understand what the hell these weirdos are on about, and complies with Piotr's suggestion that she wear his shirt 'if you insist.' (Boo, double standard. Free the nipple!)

Ororo still doesn't understand, so Xavier (who's been listening? Watching? telepathically takes what's barely subtext and makes it text.

'What may be customary in your land is not in this one.' Yikes. Ororo spent a lot of her youth in various parts of Africa, but her childhood proper was spent in New York AFAIK. She's a US citizen This is her land. I consulted a bunch of African friends who've been to Africa and have family there - Nudity is not common in their experience. Same rules as most places. It's a very stereotypical portrayal of backwards Africa - as if it's a homogenous country and not a massive continent.

He continues 'For the sake of group harmony, I suggest in future you use more... discretion.' I wonder what word he was going to use instead of discretion. Professor X is the undisputed patriarch here, so naturally the most patriarchal stuff comes from him (especially in the 60s/70s.) I'd actually love this to be revisited and have it be revealed that she just likes being naked and it has nothing to do with her being from Africa. Maybe with a lightning bolt upside his bald head. Aside from the scene where Xavier recruits her, I don't think there's any Ororo naked in Africa scenes - she understands the concept of clothes. Ugh.

She was just trying to swim, it was these bozos making a big deal of it. It's also just plain weird that this came up multiple times with multiple writers. Same editor, though I think. Expecting progressiveness from Liberal Marvel is folly, but this just feels like policing women's bodies, and a black woman repeatedly in the same way. 'Stop ogling and objectifying the poor woman,' would be much more appropriate.

[kyleeissilly]

𝒋𝒐𝒉𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒆 𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒕 𝑵𝑺𝑭𝑾 𝒂𝒍𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒃𝒆𝒕

𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒍 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕𝒕𝒚

sorry if this is shit i was high while writing this ngl..

༻¨:·..·:¨༺ ༻¨:·..·:¨༺ ༻¨*:·.༻¨:·..·:¨༺ ༻¨*:·.༻¨:·..·:¨༺

A- Aftercare

(what their like after sex)

Johnnies definitely tired after but will run u two a warm shower/bath and help you clean yourself up if your too tired.

wants to make sure u feel loved and cared for !!!

B-Body Parts

(Their favorite body part of their partners and of their own)

i feel like his fav body part of yours is your waist just because he can hold it and he can use it to pull you closer to him,

his fav body part of his is probably like his hands just because of how many photos he takes with his hands infront of his face

C-Cum

(anything to do with cum)

would rather finish inside of you but also rlly likes finishing on your stomach.

D-Dirty Secret

(self explanatory)

honestly is a little bit of a sub sometimes,

E-Experience

(how experienced are they?)

he rlly knows how to use his tongue and loves to eat you out. he knows hes good at it to..

F-Favorite position

(very self explanatory)

Definitely spooning. man loves cuddling in general so whats better than cuddling and sex?

G-Goofy

(Are they more goofy or serious during the act?)

will prob make lil jokes when its appropriate but other than that hes more serious.

H-Hair

(how well groomed? does the carpet match the drapes?)

he usually trims it a little just to make it look neat. and the carpet does not match the drapes since hes a natural blonde.

I-Intimacy

(how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

hes a little awkward the first time you guys did it but now hes definitely a romantic.

J-Jack off

(masturbation headcannon)

jerks off 2-4 times a week because he gets wayyy to nervous to ask and is afraid hes gonna make u uncomfy

K-Kink

(one or more of their kinks)

LOVESSSS to overstimulate you until ur begging him to stop,

neck kissing.... self explanatory..

L-Location

(where he likes to do it)

honestly doesnt like doing it in even semi-public places just because of the risk factor but rlly likes in the bedroom or kitchen sex..

M-Motivation

(what turns them on)

neck kissesss !!!! he LOVESSS them. you give even a SMALL peck on his neck and hes all over you.

N-No

(something he wont do)

degrading. like hes fine with the tame shit but he doesnt want to say something rlly rude to you or hurtful even if you want him to. it makes him feel like a douche.

Oral

(preference in giving or recieving, skill, etc)

hes mastered the art of eating you out. you dont even gotta say nun and hes already got ur legs over his shoulders. he wont deny a blowjob tho,

P-Pace

(how fast or slow they go during)

he will start off gentle to let you adjust to him but once hes about to finish hes definitely speeding up

Q-Quickie

(their opinion on quickies)

Not a big fan of it at all but wont say no. he wants to make sure you feel loved and you know that hes not just using u as a hookup.

R-Risk

(are they down to experiment and try new things? do they take risks when their horny?)

would be down to try new things with you depending on how extreme. he thinks trying new things with you creates a stronger relationship and helps figure out what the other person likes.

S-Stamina

(how many rounds can they go? how long do they last?)

he can go around 2-3 rounds before getting tired but either way he will always make sure you finish.

T-Toys

(do they own them? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

owns a fleshlight but thats it. If you wanted him to use toys on you he would definitely be willing to explore that interest with you.

U-Unfair

(do they tease? if so, how much?)

he doesnt tease you that much but if he wants to then he will.

V-Volume

(how loud are they? what sound do they make)

its mostly muffles grunts or whimpers but when hes close he gets louder.

W-Wild Card

(random headcannon)

loves going shopping with you and watching you try on clothes. also adores when you see something and immediately say smth like "youd look so good in this," to him.

X- X-Ray

(whats going on under their clothes?)

6.7 inches, neat, and slightly curved

Y-Yearning

(how high is their sex drive?)

2-3 times a week but will definitely do it more if you wanted it.

Z-Zzz

(how long does it take for them to fall asleep after?)

hes exhausted afterwards but needs to make sure your alright and comfortable before falling asleep with his arms wrapped around ur waist.

[greatqueenanna]

I occasionally come across posts that claim that Frozen 2 is racist. One example being is Iduna herself, how she was retconned to be indigenous despite her white presenting self. Another is a video I saw on TikTok saying how they had her marry Aganrr aka her colonizer (even though I sincerely doubt Agnarr would follow what Runeard tried to do her people). And another time I saw a Youtube comment saying how the Northuldra are not Saami but Native Americans cosplaying as Saami.

I've said this before, but I'll reiterate my main viewpoints when it comes to this topic because the response was back in 2022, so might as well refresh it.

My viewpoint on this topic is this -

If you are not Sámi, then I don't think it is appropriate to speak on how well the representation was done. We should let the Sámi voice their own opinions, and not try to interject our own biases or talk over them. This goes for both negative and positive comments.

I understand where people are coming from here. All they want is to make sure that a group of people are being represented well and respected. They want to be sure that Disney is not just trying to cash in on a half-assed job at representation at the expense of a group that was often marginalized, discriminated against, and colonized.

However, I do think that when we try to defend on behalf of others, we often create problems that were not considered one in the first place, due to our own biases. What do I mean?

I often bring @hb-pickle's post (linked below), where she emailed Professor Veli-Pekka Lehtola, one of the people on the Sámi Advisory group that helped work on F2. He gave incredible insight on the development of F2, and was very happy with the work they did and the treatment they received.

He mentions within his response three main concerns they had during development.

That Yelena was a villain at first.

That the Northuldran attire was at first even more vague than it is now, and looked more like a non-specific arctic attire.

That the Reindeers were running in a circle at the end, as this was not realistic.

You can read the original response to see more details on these and how the team navigated them.

Out of these three issues - not one of them is about Iduna saving and marrying her 'colonizer', or about Iduna presenting white. These issues are things that are brought up mostly by western audiences. Thus, western audiences are creating a problem , and thus speaking over the group they are trying to protect.

In fact, even the film team did this to some extent. With the second issue that I mentioned above, the film team explained to the advisors that the reason they did not want to specifically represent Sami clothing and colors with the Northuldra, is because they did not want to 'culturally appropriate' them.

Thus, the team was making a decision on what the Sami should consider offensive, much like how western audiences are doing the same with Iduna's character.

I would advise seeking out Sami opinions. I have linked some articles below that you can check out.

“Reindeer are better than people:” Indigenous Representation in Disney’s Frozen

Disney's 'Frozen 2' thrills Sámi people in northern Europe

The last link is from a tumblr blog that is now closed. However, you can get a little bit of info from this user before the read more, unless someone has their full article somewhere.

[saintrocklee]

*:･ﾟ✧ RESTRAINT ╰┈➤ part 03 of 05

masterlist | pairing: itachi x reader publish date: 04.11.24 warnings: itachi pines. reader is oblivious, until you're not. there's alcohol, it's a party!

You're in slight awe as you're whisked up the stairs and through the archway that led to an oversized ballroom. No expense had been spared in furnishing and decorating the space. The fast moving wait staff along with being face to face with more famous people than you can count has you feeling lightheaded. There are pops of light lining your vision from all of the cameras and you're grateful for the warm hand guiding you through the chaos. You're not sure when Itachi had familiarized himself with your bare back but you immediately miss the contact when he takes a step away, only to fight back a smile when he offers you his arm.

If you were being honest you were out of your depth. Judging by how stiff Itachi felt as you slid your hand through the crook in his arm, you assumed he felt the same and took a steadying breath as he led you around the edge of the ballroom. There was a live band playing a soft song amidst the chatter of the crowd and three different bars scattered throughout the room serving drinks. Guests were still arriving and you can't help but pick out the people you recognize from some of the movies you've seen along with those you actually knew from working with Itachi. Multiple standing tables were set up all around the room, leaving a curious space in the middle you assumed was for dancing. You both come to a stop at an unattended table and you place your purse down on the black cloth cover before letting out a shaky laugh.

"This is ..." You trail off, failing to find an appropriate word for what you're feeling. Itachi hums.

"Overwhelming?" He supplies and you suck in your bottom lip to keep from grinning, nodding to a couple as they walked past.

"Over the top?" You counter and you're rewarded with a derisive snort.

"Excessive."

"Excruciating."

Itachi pauses and shifts to face you fully.

"Excruciating." He repeats and you rest your elbow on the table.

"Absolutely agonizing." You tease and there's a flash of displeasure on your boss' face. You let your smile come through and impulsively reach forward to feign adjusting his jacket, far too caught up in the moment to fully register what you were doing. It brings you a step closer to him and you miss the way Itachi's hands clench.

"It's too noisy in here, my shoes are kind of tight, my so-called date has already threatened to fire me -"

"With good reason -"

"For no reason, mind you -"

A girlish squeal interrupts you both and you blink, recognizing the sound immediately. Your fingers fall from Itachi's suit jacket just in time for a beautifully manicured hand to appear in your line of vision, jingling excitedly, bracelets twinkling under the lights. You turn and are enveloped into a comfortable but heavily perfumed hug while being chastised thoroughly.

"I can't believe you're here and you didn't text me, I have been begging for you to come to one of these with me for years!"

You pull away and smile warmly at Ino, an old friend of yours that you met when you started working for Itachi. She held a position equivalent to yours at a law firm and was currently working on passing her bar exam. It had slipped your mind that she would show face at events like this in place of her boss, and you keep still as she doted on you.

"You look ravishing, this has to be new - and I love the color. And your shoes, I honestly don't think I've ever seen your toes."

You smile and swallow a laugh when you glance back at Itachi, who seemed just uncomfortable enough to be in pain. One of your favorite things about Ino was how much she irked your boss and his face went from slightly tense to exasperated as she turned her attention to him.

"Finally letting her out, huh?"

Itachi's lip curled response.

"Ino."

His greeting is flat and rewarded with a roll of baby blue eyes.

"You're no fun." A flip of blonde hair. "I came over here to steal you." A pout of red painted lips. "I haven't seen you since that conference in Sedona."

You nod with your consent, having just spotted a couple of men making their way to your table. Whatever bubble you and Itachi had been in earlier was now popped and soon you'd both be surrounded by people, men and women alike, desperate to talk to him. You shoot him an edged smile as you grab your purse and let yourself be whisked away by Ino, partially grateful for your friend's obnoxious arrival.

Itachi's gaze follows you as you left with the boisterous blonde, tracking you across the room to one of the open bars that were now serving wine. Two men he barely recognized came to a stop next to him and he found himself participating in a rather dull conversation about a recent stock increase on a company he knew little to nothing about. Their time with him was short lived and soon they were replaced by another potential client, and so on it went. Itachi lost track of you in the crowd but he trusted Ino enough to know that you were in capable hands. After his fifth introduction Itachi finds himself alone and is about to find you when a drink is placed in his hand.

"Fair warning, it's not great scotch, but it's not awful."

Kisame grins down at him with more teeth than normal and Itachi sighs before taking an experimental sip. His friend's assessment was correct, but he's sure it's better than the wine they're serving and hums his thanks.

"Figured I'd wait till the sharks left you alone." Itachi ignores the obvious joke and Kisame continues, lips curling knowingly. "Saw who you came in with though."

Shrugging noncommittally, Itachi neither confirms or denies what Kisame was alluding to, and is rewarded with a barked laugh.

"So, what? Testing her out to see how the public reacts? Dazzle her with all the lights and -"

"Kisame." Itachi warns, but there's no venom behind his tone, and the larger man snickers into his half empty glass.

"Dinner and a movie would probably be easier than all this." KIsame pauses and looks at Itachi with eyes wide. "Don't tell me you made her come with you for work."

The frosty look he receives from the Uchiha has him grinning again.

"Of course you did."

Itachi opens his mouth to say no he did not but is interrupted by yet another group of people. Introductions and conversation flow much easier with Kisame next to him and time passes before Itachi is left alone with his friend again. This time Kisame avoids bringing you up and entertains himself by showing off pictures of his brand new baby daughter.

Itachi finds himself minutely distracted from the barrage of pictures as he tries to find you. He's become proficient at keeping you in his peripheral over the years and locates you quickly, off to the side of the crowd with Ino. You're both standing close together, shoulders brushing as you no doubt gossip behind almost empty glasses of wine. There's an easy smile on your face and he can tell by your posture that you're relaxed. Unwinding. Maybe even having fun.

Itachi taps his finger against his own empty glass as he wrestles with the unsettling realization that he is, in fact, more than a little jealous of Ino. Your lips are practically against her ear as you pull your wine glass down, just shy of your mouth, and whisper something that has her throwing her head back with a laugh. Kisame pulls at his attention once again and Itachi finds himself inappropriately agitated at the lopsided grin he receives. Deathly Uchiha eyes narrow and Kisame chuckles, motioning for Itachi's empty glass.

"Looks like you're in need of a refill."

With Kisame gone, he plays with the idea of collecting you when the music suddenly stops. Someone makes an announcement inviting couples on to the dance floor and slower music begins to play. Itachi's eyes find you again, idly wondering if you'd dance with him, and arches an amused brow when he sees you coming toward him. You're struggling not to smile and there's an anticipatory tingle in his chest that's making him work to keep his hands still.

"Long time no see." You breathe as you approach, standing closer than you were before. Itachi inhales a deep breath and hums, enjoying the soft scent of your perfume as you practically bounce in your heels. There's a twinkle in your eye that has Itachi weighing the consequences of running his thumb across your lip, just to see how you'd react, but he pockets the thought as Kisame rejoins the table.

Your face lights up when you see the older man, two glasses of scotch in his hands, and your smile turns devious.

"Good, you're both here."

Both men exchange a quick look as you shuffle in closer, leaning against the table and craning your neck forward. Kisame furrows his brow and hunches his shoulders down at your insistence.

"Okay, right behind me. You both see Hiruzen Sarutobi?"

Itachi could see him out of the corner of his eye and Kisame grunts in confirmation.

"Okay, okay. You see who he's here with?"

Kisame snorts into his drink.

"His wife?"

Your smile sharpens.

"Nope."

Kisame blinks.

"He's getting divorced. That is his daughter's babysitter."

The older man's mouth parts in surprise and Itachi snorts into his glass.

"They went public weeks ago."

Kisame and you both turn towards him in disbelief. He can see the betrayal in your eyes as you nudge him.

"And you didn't tell us? Rude."

Kisame nods in agreement and then jerks his head to the left.

"Notice Tsunade came alone?"

You and Itachi glance at the woman Kisame was referencing and you sigh, feigning boredom.

"Oh please, everyone knows she's sleeping with old man Jiraiya. I'll bet you fifty bucks they leave together."

Itachi hums a breathless laugh and Kisame groans, running a hand through his hair.

"She could do better. Did you hear about the Inuzuka family?"

"Yeah, there was something about the sister, right?"

"No, actually, her brother."

You cock your head in surprise as Kisame fills you in on the latest scandal and Itachi keeps himself entertained by watching the way your eyes widen and your lips part in surprise. He commits every detail to memory as he sips his drink, completely aware that he's fully enamored with you. Charming, he thinks to himself as you continue to relax and gossip with his friend. You were charming, eyes crinkling when you laughed, throat bobbing when you sipped your wine with a smile. He shifts, the back of his hand brushing against your side, and fights a smile when you lean into his touch. You're both shoulder to shoulder now, legs nearly touching, and Itachi slowly drags his knuckles up and around your waist to rest his hand on the bare skin of your back. Your glace at him as if confused and Itachi holds your gaze as Kisame pulls out his phone, excited for any excuse to talk about his daughter.

To his immense relief, you don't pull away as you turn your attention to awaiting baby pictures. That consuming and irritable tingling in his chest returns and to relieve some of the pressure, Itachi begins to stroke your skin with his thumb. You're soft and warm and he fights the urge to just grab you, call his driver, and leave. He'd take you back to his home where you both can finally be alone and confess everything against the unblemished skin just under your jaw. He'd watch the way your pupils would dilate as you finally understood the depth of his feelings, would weather whatever snark you'd throw at him, and maybe catch that stubborn bottom lip between his teeth. Itachi wants nothing more than to be gentle with you, to ease you into this and to take the time he knows you deserve, but you pulled at his patience like no other and he's prepared for the worst.

Itachi is pulled from this thoughts as Kisame is interrupted by a phone call from his wife. His friend excuses himself and before Itachi can say anything, you turn toward him, mouth set in a firm line. His hand moves from your back to your waist and he struggles with the urge to pull you even closer.

"I think I need some air." You tell him and Itachi nods once. Stepping out into the cooler air would help, he was getting too ahead of himself, too comfortable. He leads you towards a large door at the edge of the ballroom that is covered by a thick black curtain. The door knob clicks as it's opened and you sigh in relief when it leads to a balcony. It automatically swings shut behind you and Itachi lets you step away from him, eyes straying towards your chest as you inhale deeply. The area is empty, save for the two of you, and the light that peaks through the windows is faint.

"Thank you." You murmur as you turn back toward him. Itachi only hums in response and you roll your eyes fondly. His lip twitches in amusement and you let him see your smile. You're not sure if it was the wine, the fact that you were both alone, or the way your body was buzzing from the brief physical contact - but you felt a little giddy. Confident.

"And thank you for inviting me. This is actually kind of fun."

Your sincerity has Itachi's chest burning and he takes a step closer to you, unwillingly to be so far from you any longer.

"Of course." He murmurs, tone deepening as he lets himself feel. It's just the two of you, you're glittering and happy and responding positively to all of his advances, and that irritable tingling is back. He wants now, wants to tell you that you're beautiful, wants to drag his knuckles against your cheek and your jaw, wants to pull at your numerous hair pins and take in the scent of your perfume, he wants -

"I mean it. You could have brought anyone. So, thank you."

Your bright smile fades as you take in the way Itachi's mouth settles into a displeased line.

"I've already told you." He speaks and the finality in his tone is startling. "I prefer you."

You blink and what you say next slips out, pushed by the glasses of wine you've had and the sudden realization that you very much want him to mean what you think he means.

"Because we work together." You offer. A way out.

Dark eyes narrow.

"No."

The world must stop with how still you've become, with how silent everything else is. You're afraid to move, to breathe too harshly, afraid that you'll interrupt whatever spell you had been caught in. You're struggling to do anything but truly take in the man standing in front of you that just confessed he ...

Oh.

Oh.

Dizzy.

You feel dizzy.

Maybe lightheaded was the proper term. If not for your feet definitively touching the ground below you, you could argue that you were floating.

You can almost see it carved into the wood underneath you. The line you'd carefully avoided had materialized in front of you again and you're caught, caught in what feels like a trap but ...

But you're not trapped, you're with Itachi and your heart is stuttering in your chest and your throat is tight and you watch in anticipatory fascination as he steps over it like it was nothing. Crowds into your space like it was second nature and your pulse threatens to split the delicate skin right under your jaw. There's something so familiar about being here with him but the fear of not knowing what was coming next has you fighting the urge to run. To break the spell with an ill timed jab, to push it away yet again because -

"You're nervous."

It was like someone had snapped a rubber band against your skin.

"No." You immediately argue, going more off of habit than actually responding. The careful look Itachi had been giving you melts away into something soft and you can see the fond look in his eyes, in the way his face relaxes. A soothing warmth begins to take over the initial panic and you sigh, fighting back an embarrassed smile.

"Fine. Maybe a little."

Itachi exhales, mirth glittering in his eyes. They're lighter than you've ever seen them and the implication that it's because of you has your breathing catching.

"Why?"

You shrug and turn your head. If you were going to speak honestly you couldn't look at him. The sarcasm and bravado you've wielded as a shield for years were long gone and being vulnerable was challenging.

"I guess I don't," you pause and swallow, gathering courage "know why you're doing this."

He doesn't respond immediately and the wind tugs at you, causing you to reach up and brush stray hairs out of your face. You catch his eyes and blink at how open his expression was. He's searching your face and there's something raw about it. About him. You weren't standing in front of your employer anymore, you weren't standing in front of your friend; you were standing in front of man, a man that looked at you like he -

"I would think it was obvious."

Of course he would. The genuine confusion in his tone has you fighting back an exasperated smile.

"Obviously not."

You're barely whispering now, the light breeze taking most of your bravery with it, leaving you feeling bare. Open. Exposed. Itachi makes another move toward you, more of a half step, and you glance down to see your feet almost touching. His black polished shoes were a mere centimeter away from your heels and you can't think of a time you two had been closer. The line was nonexistent now. He'd done more than step over it, he'd gotten rid of it entirely. You couldn't even visualize it anymore, had no idea where it was to begin with, and blink when you watch his fingers twitch before disappearing into his pocket.

"I find myself growing increasingly fond of you."

You freeze, unable to look away from where his hand had slid into his pants. There's something rushing through you, adrenaline maybe, and you find yourself unable to respond. Itachi continues, either completely unaware of the turmoil you were feeling or enjoying the way he managed to stun you into silence.

"My intention is not to force you into this. I understand the delicacies of our working relationship and I do not want to make you feel obligated. I cannot, however, hide my feelings from you any longer. You have become," he pauses and your head flies up to see him. Dark eyes find yours and you swallow the sudden lump in your throat. The absurd urge to cry is from the glasses of wine you'd had, surely, and Itachi's gaze drops to your mouth. You find yourself nodding, blinking back the ridiculous tears that had started to gather, words thick with emotion.

"I feel the same -"

You're cut off by lightning fast hands on your jaw, by his thumb just under your lower lip. He grazes the soft skin there, eyes somehow going darker, and his next words come out strained and rushed.

"May I?"

You nod again, mouth opening to say yes but he's once again too quick and your eyes close just as his mouth presses against yours. It's you who makes the next move, parting your lips just enough to catch his bottom lip and pull. The hand on your jaw moves to your hair and tilts your head up, while his other hand finds the bare skin on your back and pulls you against him. Itachi takes the lead almost instantly, lips moving and pulling as he devours you. Your hands meet his chest and slide up to his neck, to his hair that you've longed to run your fingers through. It's soft and thick, free of tangles, and a noise catches in your throat when you feel the hand on your back tighten in time with your ministrations.

He likes it you think distantly and you wonder if you could get away with taking it down. Your train of thought is cut off when Itachi pulls away to kiss the edge of your mouth, the line of your jaw, and the noise in your throat turns into an audible gasp when his lips seal against your neck. Your body automatically arches into him and his grip on you turns to steel, his chest heaving in time with yours. He's working his way back up, lips continuing to dance along your skin, before claiming your mouth once again. He doesn't let you straighten and seems content to keep you pressed against him. You have to drop your hands from his hair and rest your forearms on his shoulders to keep yourself upright and whimper when you feel his tongue dip into your mouth. Your knees began to shake, you were having trouble breathing, and the heat pooling in your abdomen was sure to catch and burn you from the inside out.

He pulls away only to change the angle of his head before catching your mouth with his again. Confident hands move, one trailing down the side of your body to clutch at your upper thigh, gathering you closer. There's no space left between you and your dress rises as Itachi brings your leg up against his hip. You're on one leg now, completely at his mercy, and the kisses you're sharing turn more fervent. A whine leaves you as he grips the muscle there, his other hand tightening in your hair, fingers no doubt making a mess of your hard work.

We should stop, you think, but the reasonable side if you is gone, no doubt having melted under Itachi's touch. Your head falls back as the man begins to explore the skin of your neck, letting the heat of the moment consume you. There would be time for rational thought later. In the meanwhile, you're content to let Itachi have his way with you as your nerves buzz pleasantly under your skin.

Wait.

You blink away the fog clouding your judgement and frown. Something was buzzing. It takes you a second longer before you realize the source is coming from the inside of your boss' suit.

His cellphone. His cellphone was buzzing. Someone was calling him.

"Ignore it." Itachu murmurs against your skin, teeth catching just above your collarbone. A very unladylike groan leaves you.

"Itachi." You breathe, hoping to sound chastising. There was an entire event happening inside and people would no doubt be expecting to mingle with him. Your efforts have the opposite effect and you shudder at the absolute sinful noise he makes.

"Say it again." He practically purrs and you shudder once more, mouth accepting another heated kiss. The buzzing stops and your focus returns to Itachi's tongue curling into your mouth. He doesn't seem to be pushing you any further than this and it's perfect. You're almost completely lost in him again when the buzzing picks back up.

You tilt your head away and Itachi heaves an agitated breath against your ear. Fighting a smile at the borderline tantrum your boss was throwing, you adjust your position to reach inside his jacket. His hands keep you where you're at which earns him a glare as you wobble awkwardly. Judging by the smirk curling at his mouth, you're intimidation tactic was not working.

"Annoying." You huff, finally pulling his cellphone out. Eyes twinkle at you mischievously as you check the caller ID.

Kakuzu.

Your jaw drops in surprise as you show Itachi who's calling.

"You have to take this."

Itachi doesn't move or let you go.

"I thought it was Saturday."

Your nose crinkles and you bringing the phone to your ear with a scowl.

"Itachi Uchiha's phone."

Your tone is clipped and professional and Itachi sighs irritability as he finally lets your leg go. You shuffle away from him as presumably Kakuzu's assistant asks if Itachi is free for a brief chat. You turn your back to the man in front of you who's impassive face promised punishment if you didn't hang up the phone and confirm that yes, Itachi was free, please hold on. You mute the call and turn back, arm extending out for him to take the phone.

"If he's calling you now, it means he's considering -"

"I'm busy."

You glare at him and jostle the phone. Itachi's lips thin and you can't decipher if he's hiding a smile or a frown.

"I just checked your schedule and you're free. How convenient."

A snort.

"Maybe I should fire you."

Your lips pull upward.

"If you do, I'll report you for sexual harassment."

Your quip earns you a chuckle that sends warmth through your chest. Itachi finally accepts the offered phone and puts it to his ear.

"I will find you later."

You nod, biting back a smile at the promise in his tone, and turn to go back into the ballroom. Shaking hands attempt to smooth the wrinkles in your dress and you delicately pass your fingers over your hair. Surprisingly, most of your up-do held and you decide heading straight to the bathroom was your next logical choice. If Ino got wind of what just happened, it'd be on the front page of every trashy tabloid by the next morning.

Your hand is on the door when quick footsteps stop you along with a hand on your elbow. You turn, ready to give Itachi a piece of your mind, when his lips crush into yours. It's bruising, hot, and quick. He pulls away, phone still next to ear and hums in agreement to whatever was said on the other side. You blink owlishly at him as his thumb wipes away any wetness left under your bottom lip. His eyes scan your face before turning away, tone clipped as he told Kakuzu that was not what they agreed upon. You're frozen in place for a breath and then another before you pull the door open, not wanting to get swept up again, and rejoin the event inside.