#drag fic

[readthephible]

IT'S HERE!!!

I've decided to finally post my months-long revision of an old abandoned work, Take A Chance On Me 💋🥂

In this fic, Dan is a drag queen and Phil is a businessman.

Chapter One is officially live!!!

I will probably make an extended version of thoughts/feelings/etc. at some point btw. Thank you to my betas @nic-the-rat & @peachlessroomba <3

(photo is of Violet Chachki)

[neverlovetherockstar]

right where you left me

Fandom: Stray Kids Pairings: Bang Chan/Yang Jeongin (I.N), Han Jisung/Lee Minho (Lee Know) Status: ongoing, mature, messy Tags: Drag queens, wedding chaos, Enemies to lovers (but make it again??), Smoking, alcohol, Explicit content, emotional damage, and second chances, and No Mi Sun slander—we respect her here 💅

Summary: When Jeongin shows up to his ex-boyfriend Chan’s engagement party, it’s anything but a coincidence. After seven years together, their relationship ended abruptly when Chan left Jeongin behind in Korea to return to Australia without so much as a goodbye. Now he’s back—engaged to a woman—and determined to keep his past buried.

Unfortunately for Chan, Jeongin has no intention of letting that happen. Still sharp-tongued and infuriatingly charming, Jeongin seems to have made it his personal mission to sabotage Chan’s wedding. Thanks to Mi Sun’s well-meaning but utterly disastrous meddling, Jeongin is now a groomsman—an outcome he finds hilarious and Chan finds existentially horrifying. Between tux fittings and cake tastings, Jeongin takes every chance to remind Chan of the life he abandoned—late nights tangled in music and love, stolen kisses backstage, and the way Jeongin ruled the stage in heels and a dress.

As old sparks flicker and tensions mount, Chan spirals into the world’s most painfully obvious identity crisis. Stay on the stable path he’s built—or give in to the beautiful, chaotic disaster trying to burn it all down.

It’s just wedding jitters… right?

Read on Ao3

[kensatou]

deepthroating a gun without breaking eye contact...... he put his entire gongyussy into that | SQUID GAME 2

+ the video because the sound he makes when he puts the gun in his mouth? [redacted]

update: he improvised that. the man really said i'll go full slut.

[syluses]

separation anxiety

⤷ caleb experiences a rut after a long time, and it just so happens that you’re in his path.

cw. 18+ smut, hybrid! caleb, knotting, dubcon if you squint, breeding, obsessive/possessive behavior, perv caleb, fem human! reader, ruts, size difference, also a lil breeding, 3.5k words because i physically struggle to write smut without a preamble, reader is ovulating and it triggers his rut this time for whatever reason

an. saw this trope going around & wanted to try it <33 he’s got that DAWG in him 💪 also i cant decide if hybrid caleb gives german shepherd vibes or samoyed vibes…. that moments post lives rent free in my mind tho idk (>_<)

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆���𝒕𝒔, & 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅! (๑´ `๑)♡

Caleb would say he hates you for the time you’re gone, but it’d be a big fat lie. His love for you, big and bursting in his chest, deepens in the quiet windows where you’re present at work or running errands throughout Linkon before returning home to him.

There’s a permanence of you in his mind and being. He wants it no other way.

His devotion for you doesn’t necessarily drown him- no, you’re always there with a lifering waiting- but it certainly sweeps him up and threatens to.

He gets a bit ahead of himself sometimes, he’s aware of that; energetic, bulging at the seams with vigor; whether it’s an integral part of his personality or just a consequence of his breed, the pound he came from never quite knew. Your Gran never figured that out, either, and for as sweet and trying as she was, she soon realized she couldn’t foster him for long.

Because he was a big boy, hungry for attention and wired to please, well-meaning but oft over involved with personal space— and he brought a loaded package that your Gran just couldn’t sign her name off on, not after a few months, anyway. She tried her best before nudging him into your care, because she sure as hell wasn’t about to give him up to that squalid pound or the streets again- and besides, the mutt liked her granddaughter; all those visits she paid throughout the summer obviously endeared Caleb to her, and quickly.

You admit, it’s a mite difficult to juggle between long days at work, little tasks that drag you from point to point throughout Linkon, and your own personal life on top of caring for a hybrid stowed away in your shoebox apartment— but your grandmother was all but sapped of her energy then, turning to you for aid although she seldom ever did, and you’d always lend a hand where you could.

The mutt- Caleb, is his name (and you call it fondly even as he’s pawing at your thighs for attention or drooling on your collar)- has grown on you considerably in the past half year, anyway.

You won’t let him down or leave him at the curb. He’s yours. The red collar you bought him says as much, printed with your number on a silver plate, and he wears it not because you make him but because he’s proud of it.

He’s a good boy, he is. He always has been and for that you’re thankful.

Except, this week he’s… different.

As of a few days ago, it’s like he’s been testing the waters- and your patience- on just how far he can go before you tell him off or say bad dog. He must find them warm because he’s just been diving deeper as the week progresses.

You don’t know what to do. He’s oddly aggressive. It’s not rare at all for him to follow you all around your apartment, but he’s foregone the very last shred of respect for your personal space and nips when you try to push him away. Not hard enough to actually hurt- the yip you make is more surprised than anything when he pulls you back in and licks at the small red patch- but you look wounded at it.

Because Caleb doesn’t bite— he just doesn’t.

He wraps you up in seemingly endless embraces and breathes your smell in until he’s dizzy, laughing into your neck like a giddy child. He does this every time you try to leave for work and he’s made you late for it.

Maybe it’s just because you’re ovulating and a little hormonal, but it makes you quite sour and the mood stays even when you return in the afternoon. He’s never liked when you’re gone, sure, but he’s always been there to see you off at the door with a pout as you scratch behind his ear- more or less tame about it.

Your patience really frays at the odd uptick in his possessiveness, though. It’s hurtful.

You’ve always treated him less like a pet- a hybrid- and more like a friend, and you feel quite indignant for it when he growls and tells you that he hates the smell of other men on you, hearing none of your excuses that it’s ‘just coworkers’, glaring at you like some brainless extension of him. You feel less like a person and more like an object, a streetlamp in which he emerges from the shadows for just to piss on to show it belongs to him.

He’s touchy. Snippy. Glued to your side at all times. It’s concerning and frustrating and confusing all at once.

By the fifth day mark, on Friday night, you’re tuckered out by it and don’t question where he is when you return home early from a shift and he’s, uncharacteristically, not there to greet you.

A red collar however, laid on the floor, its tag glittering under dim hallways lights, strikes you as both curious and unsettling.

He never takes that off. No- says it’s his way of showing you and the whole world that he belongs to you, and— have you been too impatient with him lately? Brusque? Maybe you’re a little hormonal but it’s no cause to get short with him, even when he’s acting up, and what if he no longer wants you as his owner—

A gasp.

You find him in your bedroom, humping your pillow, yowling as he comes undone- unawares- and the walls spin as you nearly faint.

You drop your purse. “Caleb!” You shriek, and a visible shiver rolls down his spine as he turns around.

“Bad dog!”

✦

You sleep on it.

Well, you wash your sheet and your pillowcases- and then you sleep on it.

Maybe you overreacted. If anything, you should be grateful for what you walked in on because otherwise, he wouldn’t have known how to tell you he’s been going through a bit of a hot phase- the first of his you’ve experienced- and doesn’t know how to control himself.

You blush just thinking about it, shame knocking in your chest as your heart beats heavy. You feel awful for walking in on him for a number of reasons. One of them being he came all over your bed- and his tummy- and you had to clean both up through furious tears as you peeled your covers off the mattress and pointed him off in the direction of the bathroom, telling him to run the faucet and quick.

A pass of guilt, the fear of you being angry with him, made its round across his kicked expression but he held off on arguing.

For the first documented time in the whole week, Caleb appeared mellow- not agitated, restless, or tense- and rather crestfallen, and you noted it only vaguely as you irately turned on the washer.

Now, it’s in the forefront of your brain.

Well, if he’s been going through some kind of rut lately, it only makes sense he’d be all kinds of pent up, and that his release (albeit in an inconvenient way and place) would provide some relief.

It’s closer to noon when you finally exit your bedroom and meet him at the sofa- the same one you’d all but banished him to last night. He prefers to spend his nights with you, either curled up at your side or splaying his full weight over your back- a breed-relative habit, you’re sure. You’ve heard of some other kinds who enjoy a room to themselves or do just fine with the couch, on their lonesome— But not Caleb.

He looks tired but perks up when he hears you patter down the hall, violet eyes lighting when you timidly take a seat.

With a bit of hesitation, he inches closer until you sheepishly wave a hand and he barrels into your arms.

“Ah- Caleb-“

Before you can even apologize for your jumping the gun last night, he beats you to the punch. “M’ sorry. You don’t hate me for it, do you?” He sighs into your collar and you shiver, “I wish you could understand what it feels like- I wouldn’t have done it if it was somethin’ I could control, I hope you realize that.”

You swallow, digesting his words as you belatedly place a hand on his head to pet. He positively melts. “Y-Yeah,” you mumble back. “It’s okay. I actually wanted to say sorry too. I- I didn’t understand what was going on…”

A deep groan looses from his throat, his chest swelling with content as you itch that spot behind the furry ears say upright on his head. They give a few twitches as he leans against you and wraps his muscular arms around your middle, resting his chin by your shoulder.

“It’s my fault, though, not yours. I didn’t know how to tell you- I was worried you’d just end up scared’a me, or…”

His pause instills interest in you. Your fingers smooth back his brown locks, mussed from fitful sleep, and he sighs. “Or what?” You press softly.

You pull him back just enough to get a look at him, his cheekbones almost shiny with a dusting of pink. His thick brows furrow together.

“Or that you’d leave,” he whispers.

Your eyes widen. You lasso your arms around his neck and pull him to you, your head slotting above his shoulder as his fingers quickly move to support the position, one hand perched at your thigh and the other braced at your side.

“Nonsense,” you grumble at his ear, a bit angry at the suggestion. “I’d never leave you.”

Something hard, then, prods at your middle- too fleshy to be something in either of your pockets- and you stiffen at the realization as it comes a beat too late.

Caleb’s voice is breathy at your ear, low, his tail thumping on the cushion. “Yeah?” He murmurs, a pang of heat stirring in your belly at the sound. Suddenly aware, you gently go to push at his broad chest but he stops you with an imploring look- although the desire, brewing in dilated pupils, isn’t lost on you- and musters a pout.

It looks out of place, the wholesome gaze marred by hunger as it reshapes his puppyish look.

“Even when I am no better than a bad dog?”

Your brow quirks, “I didn’t mean it,” you whisper, wide-eyed as his eyes bore into yours. Every micro expression you make is being catalogued and noted with utmost care, his pink tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips as they grow dry.

“It’s okay if you did,” he murmurs back. “I’m just glad I have you around to remind me of my place…” Long, slim fingers reach up and you watch, unseeingly, as they stroke your cheek, his other hand creeping dangerously close to the waistband of your sleep shorts.

He chuckles, but the humor wanes quickly.

“Otherwise, I’d always be misbehaving. Do you even know what you do to me?” His voice is meaningful, torrid, as he draws in and the tip of his nose brushes with yours. You can’t find it in you to move as your thighs- the ones he slithers a singleminded hand in between- begin to roil with unexpected warmth.

You plant a hand to his chest, shying away, “C-Caleb-“

“Don’t worry,” he says sweetly, “M’ not gonna hurt you. I just….” He lets out a sigh, long and perhaps just a bit exaggerated- but it has the intended effect on you. You purse your lips and feel a trace of guilt twist in your heart.

“You drive me crazy. Y-Your smell- I don’t know why this is happening, either. Honestly? I haven’t had a rut in a couple years. But this…”

Caleb lets out a soft noise of pleasure, lending his full weight to you when he breathes you in and shakes.

When he speaks next, his words come out raspy and so low you hardly register them as his breaths grow labored- they’re all you can hear as the living room space shrinks down to just him and the knuckles that dare to dip into your panties.

“This is just too unfair. You won’t leave me hangin’, pretty,… w-will you?” Breathy. With an undeniable streak of need. You can’t miss the lust that usurps the softer parts of him and makes him look less puppyish and cheerful and more wolfish, calculating.

And, well, when he puts it like that, how could you?

✦

He doesn’t fuck you on the couch. He takes you to your bed and fucks you there like a lover would.

He fucks you deep and fast- to his credit, he doesn’t hurt you, staying true to his word, but the possibility of bruises becomes a nearer thing when he folds your legs back and his grasp becomes constricting, plunging in and out of your cunt with rapt focus. Indigo eyes glow with something feral, like you’ve given him no choice but to claim his ownership over you through sloppy kisses and clinking teeth as he pounds into you, driven him into a corner- but his touch turns worshipful when he presses his forehead to yours and moans.

“Ah- y-you feel so good, so tight,” he compliments, words almost slurred. His pupils expand and he looks no different than a drunken, babbling man, his cheeks a rosy red.

His murmurs are wet against your lips as they graze and mush with his, Caleb’s face so close to yours that his lashes tickle your brow as he gawks at you, so entranced by whatever it is he’s seeing to look away.

A fluffy tail sways unevenly behind him and touches your leg on occasion, almost like it’s trying to curl around you, prickling and eager. Every part of him gravitates to you. You’re the ground beneath his feet. Fertile land.

“And you’re all mine, okay? Nobody else’s. I want you to wear my scent- to carry me with you no matter where you go. You have to promise me you will- mmph- That sound good-?

“C-Caleb—“

You groan when he stuffs himself deeper inside and you swear you feel his length throb inside your walls, stretching. The veins running along his shaft carve out a new pathway in you, one special and just for him, as his balls- heavy and fat, with a hell of a lot to give- slap against your ass. Slick oozes out from the squelching seam of you, coating his thick cock but you still struggle to accomodate his size despite the lubrication.

He’s made to make you feel as if you’re losing your mind. You snatch your jaw with your own hand to keep the flurry of high-pitched sounds from spilling out lest they embarrass you, but he shoos it away and cuffs your wrists with a hand splayed over them.

“Nah- I wanna hear you, baby. You can’t keep holdin’ out on me like this... I’m giving you my all right now, so it should be pretty obvious that you can do the same, yeah?”

A mewl punches out from your lungs half a second later and he seems quite contented at that. He sighs, closing his eyes, saying,

“I’ve been good all along. Can’t you play the part, too? I just want you to see how much I really love you,” his confession is by no means considered casual what with the passion in which its conveyed, but you can’t help but feel it’s a little sudden, said a little too quickly, and you wonder if he means what he says or if the rut is responsible for all these novel, amorous feelings in him.

I mean, he’s probably too wrapped up in the moment to even contemplate his own admissions as they all spew out—

“Caleb, too big—“ you gasp, cutting him off, and he lets out a strangled kind of noise when your walls clamp around him.

Holyfuck holyfuck holyfuck do it again, he wants to say, suffocate me, but nothing comes out and he realizes after a long second that his vision has whited completely. He can’t see anything; he’s in a fuzzy, dazzling world with the blinders on and all he can smell and feel is you- your scent, sugar sweet and about as inviting as a barstool pulled out, envelopes him and he can’t breathe. Can’t speak.

He fucks into you with reckless abandon, huffs you in like it’s his final breaths, and then lets it all go without care for anything else. Far as he’s concerned, everything he knows is defined by you. This is a give and take relationship: he actually gives a damn about your opinion of him and takes all you have to offer.

He’s in love, puppyish and clumsy but fuck you lead the way and lead him on.

“Shh, I know,” he rasps out, steaming up your neck like a fogged window pane as he insinuates himself there. Your whole body feels like a furnace, burning up for him as he opens you up and tucks himself inside.

“I know it’s big, but you gotta be ready for-“ he clips his sentence short, thinking better of it.

He wants to warn you of his impending knot- the one that’ll no doubt leave you yelping and writhing away from him- you certainly deserve as much of a foreword to it, but part of him is just so terrified you’ll reject him or deny him the priviledge of shoving it inside you and fuck he can’t have that.

Caleb’s nothing if not loyal. He’s also nothing if not selfish. That’s always been a wriggling bug he’s tried to stomp out but it remains in the baser part of him, only amplified by the intense rut that came right out of the blue.

He wants you singing his name and bonded to him (or as much of a bond the two of you can form), and so that’s what he’ll get.

He’ll apologize later, and you will forgive him. So all’s fine.

“Y-You can take it,” is the simpler thing he settles on, and you let it pass, because between the fat cockhead splitting you apart deliciously and the sweet, somewhat perturbing nothings he gushes at your ear, you’re deaf to most of everything.

But when you come- unexpected and sharp, overwhelming your senses as your hips ruck up and he has to pin you down in place and ride it out with you as you cream around him- the scream you let out rings in your ears and so does his ferocious grunt. It’s loud and you’re so numb as seconds pass that feel like eons; pointed teeth teasing at the squishy chunk of your shoulder, invoking a buried sense of alarm.

And then he’s biting down hard- not just nipping- the pleasure thankfully driving off the pain as he ploughs inside, muffling a string of curses as he picks up his pace. Caleb gets sloppier and sloppier and then he’s burning white-hot inside you and moaning like a pornstar, pelvis juddering as he comes.

“Mmh- f-fuck- Good girl!” he rewards with half a brain, fucked out into perfect oblivion, and for a second you wonder why his voice sounds more meant for comfort than praise- until you expect him to pull out but he doesn’t, something big and round forming at the base of his cock that has his eyes fluttering back as it pops in. He goes boneless on top of you as every limb of yours stiffens and coils around his broad back.

You scream his name. He shivers.

It feels enough to shatter your mind- the pain searing you, but the ghost of pleasure that creeps up along your nervous system makes you go like jelly beneath him, helpless to whatever he’s got planned for you.

“C-Caleb, you-!”

“Yeah, a bad dog, a bad dog,” he stammers, whimpering at your earlobe, “I know, baby, I know. Just- don’t shut me out, okay? I- It’ll be over soon, just- ah- loosen up around it, okay? It’ll feel so much better that way. Just… hold on to me.”

“I-It hurts-!”

“Ngh, shhh…” He trembles out, shifting to sample a broken mewl from your lips, cupping your jaw with all the love in the world and staring at you as if you told the sun to rise this morning. “Be a good girl and take it, mm? Your pussy’s squeezing me so tight, I think she wants it too, but she has to relax a little first, yeah? Mm… I could give you a whole litter of pups. Give your Gran a bunch of cute lil granbabies to drive her crazy.”

You choke on your own spit, the brunet letting out a near delirious chuckle at the idea and your reaction to it before his brow gives a wince, your walls instinctively trying to push his swollen knot out.

“Wha- Caleb, is that even-?”

“I don’t know,” he kisses your forehead tenderly, his tail giving a heavy, excited thump behind him on the bed as you grab the sheets for dear life and they wrinkle, pinched like your conflicted expression.

“But I’ve been dyin’ to try it out for myself.”

[morganbritton132]

Eddie has never sold to Steve Harrington.

He has never nor will he ever sell to Steve Harrington. Sure, he sold to Steve friends who probably give him the drugs but that’s rich boy money.

And sure, Steve has never actually tried to buy from him but it’s the principle of the matter. Which is what makes this so interesting because, “Harrington?”

“Hey.”

Steve has been MIA from school for the past week and Billy has been telling everybody that he beat him to death, and well. It certainly looks like he gave it a good effort. So really.

What’s Eddie supposed to do here? Uphold his morals?

“Can I…help you?” Eddie asks, opening the screen door for him.

Steve hobbled insides and immediately asks, “You sell stuff, right? Whatever anybody wants, you got it?”

“That’s what they say. Got something in mind?”

“Sleep.”

“What?”

“I need - I just need sleep,” Steve says, words fast and a little desperate. “I can’t sleep at my house, man. I can’t. It’s - god, it’s been four days and my head is killing me. I - I feel like I’m going to die. I need sleep.”

Eddie just stares at him, blinking slowly because it doesn’t actually sound like Steve is asking for drugs. It sounds like he’s scared to have his guard down at home so, “Yeah, okay. Um, take the couch.”

Steve is asleep almost as soon as he sits down and when he wakes up a couple hours later, he gives Eddie ten bucks and leaves.

Eddie kinda thinks it’s going to be a one-off situation but a couple weeks later, Steve is back. He only ever sleeps for a couple hours, pays Eddie, and goes.

The only changes are that he eventually graduates from sleeping on the couch to in Eddie’s bed (so Eddie doesn’t have to explain Steve to Wayne again) and Eddie shows Steve where the spar key so he can come in when Eddie is at band practice.

Dont get Eddie wrong, this situation is weird but there are worse ways to make money.

It is what it is until it isn’t. Until it’s… “What the fuck is this?”

Eddie knew Steve was here because he religiously leaves his shoes neatly by the front door but - “A girl? He brought a girl.”

Because, yeah. That’s a blonde sailor girl next to Steve in his bed. They’re both open mouth drooling on his pillows, smell like fire, and look like hell. The only reason he doesn’t kick them out because he knows Starcourt caught on fire last night.

He does pull the blanket off them and goes to sleep in the living room.

He wakes an hour later to the feeling of someone watching him and when he opens his eyes, he’s met with - “Robin Buckley, nice to meet you, Eddie Munson.”

This feels like a trap.

“Uh, yeah. Same.”

She gives him a smile like she has secrets and then holds up a stack of Polaroids, “Does Steve know you take pictures of him while he’s sleeping?”

[happypeachsludgeflower]

A slightly disheveled Shang Qinghua is complaining and crying to an annoyed Shen Qingqiu about some harrowing mission he’s just come back from with Ming Fan (it was a joint Qing Jing/An Ding mission and Shen Qingqiu was too busy to go so he sent his head disciple). It was a train wreck, Shang Qinghua insists. It was an awful experience and they barely survived. Shang Qinghua nearly died.

The scene cuts to Ming Fan, who is covered in what looks like the remnants of a sewer and his robes are oozing something questionable in a puddle on the floor and overall, he looks like a drowned rat, is standing behind Shang Qinghua with a baffled and utterly appalled expression looking like he’s questioning reality as he remembers the shitshow he had a front row seat to in vivid detail.

Because while everything Shang Qinghua is saying is technically true?? Shang Qinghua was grudgingly competent and badass the entire time as he nearly single-handedly took care of the entire thing and the only person in any danger at any point was Ming Fan who has now sworn off ever going on a mission with An Ding again.

[toasterkoi]

Also here's even more art for my fic, I didn't want to gatekeep this one :)

[batsyheere]

Tim froze. "Huh?"

"I mean, you're definitely cute. But I don't feel comfortable with strangers? And I don't want there to be any misunderstandings."

Danny Nightingale looked flustered, nervous, and far too pretty with his cheeks flushing red under the glow of the nearby lamp fixtures. Tim wondered when his brain would finally come back online. Right now it was far too interested in putting everything else on the backburner.

On one hand, he had been trying to get information out of Danny on his connection to Vlad Masters- a connection that had seemed more tenuous with each passing minute of the evening. On the other, Tim could admit it had sounded a bit like he was inviting Danny for something more.

And if he was honest with himself, it was only mostly unintentional.

"It's not even you, I just get attached really easily and don't want something casual. Sorry."

Tim hadn't even realized boundary setting could be so attractive.

"No. Yeah, that's- fine." Smooth. The Drake-Wayne charm at its finest. Tim could hear Jason snickering on the comms.

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ daddy kink

It’s too soon. 

The weight of this certainty is nearly too heavy to carry, his footsteps echoing with dread. 

You’re not ready. 

He’s not ready. 

It’s his fault. Selfishly, he’s encouraged your co-dependence, pulled you closer and closer into deeper water where he knew you’d have trouble swimming without him. He thought he’d have more time to help you develop coping strategies, to get you settled, moved out of your apartment and into his house. Now, he’s leaving you alone as you try to navigate an entirely different life while straddling two living situations, without him at your side.  

You’re at his house tonight. It’s becoming more common, three nights turning to four, then five and sometimes even six, letting yourself in before when he gets caught up on base. His brave fawn on stronger legs, taking self assured steps, and following his lead, his guidance. Your comfort in his home, this world he’s created for you, feeds the beast inside his chest, the dark one, the monster curled around your body in the night, possessive and obsessed. It’s a perfectly balanced scale, never tipping too far in one direction, all his parts and pieces perfectly arranged for you, expertly developed so he can love you in every way you need. 

He’s pleased you’re home and already in bed an hour before you’re supposed to be, curled in the middle with your kindle, your blankets and pillows arranged in the usual bird’s nest, lips parted, glasses halfway down the bridge of your nose. 

They became a new rule after he realized you were getting headaches from not using them. 

“What do you think is appropriate?” 

“For my recipe cards?” 

“For screens and your recipe cards, precious girl. Squinting and strainin’ your eyes is what’s causing these headaches.” 

“Oh right.” You nodded, and then lifted your chin. When you have rules, boundaries, you have security, confidence, support. You don’t have to think, agonize, try to step into a skin that doesn’t fit. All the things that worry you, frighten you, overwhelm you, they now belong to him, they’re his to deal with. You just have to focus on the rules. “Wear my glasses when I’m looking at screens or my recipe cards. Got it.” 

“Good girl.” 

He pauses in the doorway. 

You’re kneading. 

It started a week ago in your sleep. You’d find your way to his chest, rocking and rolling overtop his heart, working a rhythm into to his sternum as you slept, a physical manifestation of your peace, your trust, a subconscious recognition of feeling safe, and cared for, and loved. It’s become present in the quiet of the morning or an evening lull too, when you’re relaxed and content, kneading away on a pillow or his thigh. Such a simple, silent thing that says so much.

Knuckles thunk on wood, and you kick beneath the blankets, kindle falling into the pillows, your startle turning to surprise, and then the sweet spread of happiness colors your face. His drug. The way you beam and light up when you see him is the same way you bloom when you’re baking, or talking about baking, or feeding someone. Your bliss gets him high. A gift he could never repay, and something he’ll never give up. You’ve been able to venture outside of your comfort zone more and into his hold, no longer hiding yourself within his walls, cautious steps becoming more self assured. He knows you’ll always struggle, but he’ll always be here, ready to catch you when you fall. 

“Hi daddy.” 

“Hi sweet girl.” He leans over the edge of the bed to brush a kiss across your lips, little whimper falling into his mouth as he takes it farther, tastes you, nips you. You give him more and more, truly limitless in his arms, your home, exploring and testing, discovering both him and yourself. This willingness, this trust, is a precious thing like your heart. And it all belongs to him.

Your throat bobs when he pulls back and tugs his shirt over his head, sneaking a sly glance as he tugs his pants down next. “I need t’get in the shower. Stay put, keep reading your book, I’ll be a few minutes.” 

“Okay.” He’d have you get in with him, but you look so happy, so cozy, fuzzy socks on your feet, cuddled up in a sweatshirt, and he wants to leave you to your peace. 

Since he’s about to ruin it. 

Your hand is small in his, and too cold. The ice he finds there matches your frozen posture, your nervous expression buried beneath snow as you try to put on a brave face. His precious girl. 

“I don’t understand… I’m- a-are you…” you lose your words, hitch of panic in your breath as you scramble to find what’s needed, something, anything to convey the influx of emotions, the quick build of questions, and he squeezes reassuringly. 

“Take your time.” Normally, he’d just stay silent, give you the space and time, but right now, he knows you need more, recognizing the way you’re tearing yourself apart inside your head. You blow out a shaky breath. 

“How long… how long will you be gone?” 

“It’s hard to say, but I think it’ll only be a few weeks.” The flash of fear strikes through your irises like lightning.

“Okay.” You nod, but it doesn’t stop. You just keep nodding, trying to steady yourself, and he doesn’t think you know you’re trembling a bit, lower lip start to peel away.  “What if something bad happens?” It’s a question for the ages, one he’s wagered his entire existence. A longstanding bet with the reaper, one he never made a fuss about.

Now, he’d barter his soul for one more moment.

“Nothing bad is gonna happen, I’m very good at my job.” He tries to soothe you, but you’re already lost, tangled up in a web, one he should have cleaned up before.

“B-but you can’t promise that, right? I mean, you can’t be sure. Right?” 

“I’m going to be just fine, baby. I want you to focus on yourself instead of worrying about me, alright? You’ll follow all your rules and take care of yourself. Do you understand?” You have a faraway look in your eye, responding like he didn’t speak. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not handling this… I feel… I’m overwhelmed, I don’t…” He pulls you close, and you don’t waste a second, placing your cheek to his chest, ear just over his heart. 

“My good girl, following her rules,” you look up at him, so tortured, conflicted and scared, and his heart aches. “There’s no reason to be sorry. I should have prepared you for this, and I didn’t. That’s daddy’s fault, not yours.” You’re drowning. You’re too far underwater, trying to reconcile what you know with what you fear, kicking and swimming against a current that keeps sweeping you out to sea, desperately clinging to him, searching for your lighthouse in the storm. It’s too much, he knew it would be, and if he could put it off he would, but this is one mission he can’t delay. It’s a rescue, in the bloody jungle, one squad already failing to reach the other. He has no choice.

He curves around you, pulls you down into the blankets and pillows, kissing your salt soaked cheeks. “I know you’re scared baby, I know. I’m sorry.” The guilt stings and bites, a serrated blade between his ribs. He did this, it’s the consequences of his failure that you’re facing now, your uncertainty and fear all created by him. 

Your face presses into his neck as he applies pressure to your nape, murmuring against the shell of your ear, surrounding you with himself, blocking out the rest of the world. 

That’s where the two of you stay, long past the conversation, your tears turning to quiet whimpers before you fall asleep, snuffling against his skin, still holding him tight. 

“I’ll be good daddy, I promise.” He’s got a duffel slung over his shoulder and a backpack at his feet, truck running in the driveway, waiting. He should have left ten minutes ago. Fifteen even, but he can’t let go, still standing in the foyer cupping your face, memorizing every detail. There’s not much he can do now to fix his mistake. It will have to wait until he comes back, a razed city left waiting to be rebuilt.

“I know you will sweetheart,” he brushes his knuckles over the apple of your cheek, “everything is going to be fine.”

“And you’ll call when you can?” He kisses your forehead. 

“I’ll call when I can.” He’ll need to release all of this before he steps on the plane, but for now he allows himself to feel it, ruminate and own it. He’s worried. This is his fault, he’s pulled the rug out from beneath you without any semblance of a warning, he’s changing your routine, your life, again, uprooting you just when you’ve started to feel comfortable. You’re vulnerable, and he’s abandoning you. Ripping a freshly healed wound wide and pouring salt in it.

You lean in, turning your cheek to press your ear over his heart. “I’m going to miss you.” 

“I’m going to miss you too sweet girl, so much. But I’ll be home soon, I promise.” His younger self would scoff at him, chastise him for making such a promise, but it’s different now. 

He’d dig himself out of grave all over again just to crawl home to you. 

[studioeisa]

in good faith 🕯️ seungcheol x reader.

“because angels are beautiful.” he pauses for a beat. “more than that— they’re obedient.”

★ word count: 5.8k ★ genre/warnings: 18+ content. smut. alternate universe: non-idol, religious themes and references, blasphemy, corruption kink. morally gray/manipulative csc, inexperienced reader, oral (m), fingering. let me know if i missed anything. not proofread. ★ footnotes: this is not the first fic that will be written about these photos. it will also not be the last. dedicated to @cxffecoupx, who so generously let me play with her idea and add a bit of my spin to it. love you dearly, ris; i hope this lives up even the teensiest bit to what you had in mind! ‹𝟹

The first time you meet Seungcheol again, it’s in the dimly lit corner of your parish hall. Your mother drags you over to him like an offering, her fingers biting into your wrist as she beams up at him.

“This is my daughter,” she says, voice brimming with pride. “You remember her, don’t you?”

Seungcheol’s smile is gentle, his head dipping in a slight bow. “Of course,” he says, steady as a psalm. “It’s been a long time.”

It has. You barely remember him— just a vague recollection of a boy with scraped knees and a perpetual grin. Someone who always stood too close to the altar, staring up at the crucifix like he wanted to be swallowed whole by it.

This man before you is different. He stands taller now, his shoulders broad. His dark hair is neatly trimmed; his white button-down, pristine. A silver cross dangles from a chain around his neck. 

“Seungcheol is leading the youth ministry now,” your mother gushes. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Wonderful,” you echo, eyes flicking to the way his fingers curl around the spine of a leather-bound Bible.

Seungcheol chuckles. A low, rich sound that hums in your chest. “I’m just doing what I can,” he responds. “It’s a blessing to be able to serve.”

The conversation drifts around you. Talks of charity events, of how Seungcheol spends his weekends visiting the sick, of how he volunteers to clean the church after late-night vigils. Your mother calls him a godsend. A good man. 

And he is. Seungcheol meets your gaze with the unwavering steadiness of a saint, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows across his face. He offers to walk you home, and your mother all but shoves you toward him.

It should be safe. Seungcheol is good. Seungcheol is holy.

But something lingers in the air as he falls into step beside you.

“You didn’t say much back there,” he muses, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Do I make you nervous?”

You hesitate. “No,” you lie.

He smiles. Not the same polite, tempered curve of his lips from earlier. This one is smaller, sharper. As if he knows something you don’t.

“Good,” Seungcheol murmurs with a tone of velvet and smoke. “I’d hate to scare you away.”

The streetlights above you flicker, their glow dimming like a prolonged inhale. You wonder, briefly, if you should be afraid.

The walk home is quiet, save for the steady echo of your footsteps against the pavement. Seungcheol doesn’t push for conversation, letting the silence stretch between you like an unspoken understanding. Every so often, he glances at you. 

When you finally reach your doorstep, he lingers, his fingers slipping into his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. The porch light casts a warm halo over his head. For a moment, he looks almost ethereal. Like a painting of an angel, edges softened by the glow.

“You’ll be at mass on Sunday?” he asks conversationally. 

You nod, your hand gripping the doorknob like a lifeline. “Yeah.”

His grin returns. “It’s important to stay close to God,” he says. 

There’s a beat of silence and you think he might finally leave. But Seungcheol steps closer instead, his presence looming; pressing against you without ever touching. His eyes dip to your hand on the doorknob before lifting back to meet your gaze.

“If you ever need someone to talk to,” he says, “you can call me.”

Your throat tightens. “Okay.”

Seungcheol tilts his head, studying you like he’s searching for something just beneath your skin. Then, he reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against your shoulder. It’s supposed to be casual, supposed to be part of his carefully packaged goodbye. 

Why does it burn, then? Why does it feel like some forbidden apple, hanging just within your reach? 

“Good night,” Seungcheol says, voice dripping with something saccharine. Something final.

“Good night,” you say back as your heart hammers against your ribs.

He turns and disappears into the night, footsteps fading until you can no longer hear them. Even as you step inside and lock the door, the weight of him lingers. 

That Sunday, Seungcheol’s presence bears down on you once more. 

Families are packed into the wooden pews, the soft hum of hymns echoing against the stone walls. Candles flicker, drawing long shadows over stained glass windows. The air smells of incense and old wood.

You spot Seungcheol right away.

He’s kneeling at the front of the church, head bowed in prayer, his fingers delicately clasped around his cross. The morning light catches in his hair, turning the dark strands golden at the edges. For a moment, he looks like he belongs in one of the frescoes above the altar.

You sit, try to focus on the mass, but it’s impossible. Not when he finally rises, turning to scan the crowd. His eyes find yours like a hook, and you swear he smiles before he looks away.

When it’s time for the sign of peace, he’s suddenly there, slipping into the pew beside you.

“Peace be with you,” Seungcheol murmurs, his hand reaching for yours.

It should be an innocent gesture. Everyone is doing it— trading handshakes and wishes of peace. But when his fingers wrap around yours, his thumb drags over your knuckles, slow and deliberate. The touch is fleeting. It sears. 

You don’t even register your automatic response before he pulls away, stepping back as if nothing happened. His expression remains serene, respectful, as he nods politely and returns to his spot at the front.

Your heart pounds through the rest of the service.

Afterward, as the congregation drifts outside, you linger near the vestibule. You half hope and half dread that he’ll seek you out. 

In the end, he does. 

“You’re staying for fellowship?” he asks you smoothly.

“I— no,” you stammer. “I was just leaving.”

Seungcheol tilts his head, considering. “I’m glad you came today.” The corner of his mouth lifts with the hint of a smirk. “It’s nice to see you.”

It shouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it does. But as he steps back, joining the rest of the parishioners with effortless ease, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s still watching you— even when his back is turned.

You tell yourself you’re going to church for yourself. That the knot of anticipation in your stomach is just leftover nerves, not expectation. When you slip into a pew, your gaze flicking over the heads of the faithful, you know better.

Seungcheol finds you like he always does. He slides into the seat beside you just before the first reading, the scent of his sharp cologne mingling with the sharp tang of incense.

“You came back,” he whispers, the hint of a praise just for you. Just for you. 

You try not to balk. “Of course.”

His gaze lingers, dark and steady, before he turns back to the altar. His thigh presses against yours, just enough that you can’t ignore it.

Through the homily, he doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts closer, his knee brushing yours every time you shift in your seat. Your skin sparks where he touches. The ache in your chest only deepens.

When mass ends, he doesn’t let you slip away this time.

“Can I walk you home?” Seungcheol offers. 

You should say no. 

You don’t.

As you head out together, the only sound initially is the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes and the distant toll of the church bells. Seungcheol walks beside you, his cross glinting in the late morning light.

“You’ve been on my mind,” he says after a couple of minutes, breaking the silence. The words are soft, carefully chosen.

Your pulse jumps. “What?”

He stops and turns to face you. For the first time, he makes no effort to hide it— the way he looks at you, like he’s already made up his mind about what he wants.

“I think,” Seungcheol says, taking an infinitesimal step closer to you, “you like when I pay attention to you.”

You step back, but he matches it. His hand lifts, fingers barely grazing your wrist. Not holding. Just enough to feel your pulse hammering beneath the skin.

“I shouldn’t say things like that, should I?” His voice is low, nearly apologetic. “I’m sorry if I’m wrong, angel.”

Angel. The choice of pet name settles over you like a second skin. This is the part where you’re supposed to agree that he shouldn’t say things like this, that you deserve the apology he’s doling out. Instead, you find yourself willingly trapped in whatever dance Seungcheol has orchestrated. 

And the smile he gives you— all dimples and sharp teeth— tells you he notices.

He tilts his head, studying you as if you’re a puzzle he’s already halfway solved. “Angel,” Seungcheol repeats. “Is that alright with you?”

“Why that?” you ask, voice quieter than you’d like.

His thumb grazes the inside of your wrist, the faintest touch, like he’s testing the weight of your reaction. “Because angels are beautiful.” He pauses for a beat. “More than that— they’re obedient.”

The word lingers, heavy and deliberate, and the heat that rushes through you feels sinful. He waits, gaze unwavering. “Do you mind?” he asks again, and his concern would be genuine there weren’t a dozen alarm bells going off in your brain.

You’re a lamb being primed for slaughter, you think, as you give a jerky shake of your head. No, you don’t mind, you’re saying, even though you’re not a hundred percent sure what you’re walking into. 

“That’s what I thought,” Seungcheol says, his hand sliding to entangle your fingers with his.

The satisfaction in his voice sounds a lot like benediction.

You hadn’t expected to see Seungcheol waiting for you outside the parish hall.

The evening mass just ended, the lingering scent of incense clinging to the humid air. Most of the congregation had already filtered out, murmuring goodbyes and making their way home. 

You should be among them, with your mother. Instead, you find yourself waiting with bated breath by the outside of the building— watching Seungcheol shuffle toward you with slow, deliberate purpose.

His eyes drop to your dress. It’s subtle, the way his expression changes, the slight shift in his stance. You feel his scrutiny like a weight.

“This is new,” he says, gaze dragging over the delicate fabric. The way the hem flutters just above your knees.

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly unsure if you should shrink under his stare or stand taller. “I wear dresses to church all the time.”

“Mm.” Seungcheol hums, something unreadable in his tone. “Not like this.”

It’s not a condemnation, not exactly. But it makes your skin prickle. Your pulse, too loud in your ears.

You exhale shakily, trying to maintain at least some composure. “Is there a problem?”

His answer comes slower this time, drawn out like he’s considering it carefully. “Not at all,” he says, though his voice has dropped to something quieter, rougher. “It just makes it a little harder to behave.”

Your breath catches.

“Did you wear it for me?” He takes another step forward, crowding the space between you. The parish hall looms behind him, dark and quiet, as if holding its breath.

“No,” you fib, but you’re not sure why you bother.

Seungcheol clicks his tongue and reaches out. His fingers graze the hem of your dress, barely a touch. Enough to send a shiver up your spine. “Shame,” he murmurs. “It’s a pretty little thing.” 

His hand trails upward. Not far, just a few inches. The implication is there, hanging thick in the night air.

Your lips part, a protest or a prayer— you don’t know which. Then, Seungcheol lifts his other hand, cradling the side of your face. His thumb brushes over your cheek. Featherlight. Loving, in another lifetime. 

Seungcheol leans in, his breath warm against your lips. “Angel,” he murmurs, “tell me if you want me to stop.”

You don’t. 

When he finally closes the distance, kissing you slowly and deliberately, you realize— he already knew that.

The gentleness from before fades quickly, replaced by something more desperate, more demanding. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss. His lips part against yours, tongue sweeping over the seam of your mouth until you give in and let him take more.

You whimper, and he swallows the sound like it belongs to him. It’s reckless— the way he presses you back against the stonewall of the parish hall, the way his body cages yours in. The silver cross hanging from his neck brushes against your chest. A cold contrast to the heat blooming between you.

His fingers ghost down your arm, trailing lower, lower, until he’s gripping your waist. His thumb rubs slow, deliberate circles against your ribs, inching dangerously close to the curve of your chest. He doesn’t go further, but the tease of it— the way he lingers right on the edge of propriety— makes your knees go weak.

This must be how it felt like, your brain screams, for Daniel in that lion’s den. 

Seungcheol bites your bottom lip, sharp enough to make you gasp. He soothes it with a slow drag of his tongue. The shift in pace makes your head spin, your body leaning into him as if begging for more.

But just when you think he might give, he stops.

Seungcheol pulls away sharply, suddenly, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath. His lips are pink and kiss-bruised; he licks them absently, savoring the taste of you.

You try to chase after him, to bridge the distance, but his grip on your waist tightens. Not to pull you closer, but to hold you still.

“That’s enough,” he whispers, voice rough.

It’s not. It’s nowhere near enough.

He must see the frustration on your face, because he laughs. The sound borders on cruel. Seungcheol lifts his hand, dragging his knuckles along your jaw in a gesture so unnecessarily tender it makes your chest cave.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks. “Wear a longer dress next Sunday,” he hisses, his voice low and filled with something dangerous, belying the softness of his touch, “unless you want me to forget my manners again.”

He steps back before you can respond, adjusting the collar of his shirt like he hasn’t just unraveled you in the church’s shadow. His silver cross catches the light as he walks away, gleaming like a promise. Or maybe a warning.

And you’re left standing there, heart pounding, lips swollen, with the taste of him still lingering in your mouth. 

Wanting.

Your mother is practically glowing, flitting around the kitchen to refill side dishes and top off drinks, beaming every time Seungcheol so much as glances her way. 

Across the table, Seungcheol's mother sits with perfect posture, hands folded in her lap, watching her son with quiet pride.

Your family reestablishing its presence back at church has made this a normal thing now. Having Seungcheol and his mother over is something you suppose you should expect a lot more frequently, especially with the way Seungcheol effortlessly charms your parents. 

“This is delicious, ma’am,” Seungcheol says, flashing your mother that gentle, saintly smile. “As good as I remember it. Maybe even better.”

“Oh, you’re too kind!” your mother gushes, waving her hand. “It’s nothing special, really.”

“I don’t know about that,” Seungcheol says, eyes flicking to you. “Everything here feels... special.”

You nearly choke on your water.

His mother, ever composed, laughs softly. “He’s always been so gracious,” she says, glancing fondly at her son. “Even as a child.”

Seungcheol offers her a modest shrug. The perfect image of humility. 

But beneath the table, his knee brushes against yours. 

At first, you think it’s accidental. Then he presses closer. When you try to shift away, he follows— his calf locking you in place.

“Are you seeing anyone, Seungcheol?” your mother asks conversationally.

He hums, considering. “No one serious,” he replies, his free hand drifting under the table.

His fingers graze your knee, light as a prayer. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t give any indication that he’s doing anything at all. Just keeps chatting like he isn’t testing your composure in front of your families.

“I’ve been focused on church,” he continues, his thumb brushing slow circles against your skin. “And helping the community where I can.”

Seungcheol’s mother nods approvingly. “He’s very dedicated,” she says. “Always has been.”

Your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, your heart pounding loud in your ears.

“We need more young men like you these days,” your father adds as Seungcheol’s fingers creep higher.

“I just try to do what’s right,” Seungcheol answers. His voice is steady, almost pious. But the way his touch trails higher, fingertips teasing the hem of your dress— is anything but.

You shift in your seat, enough to have Seungcheol’s hand stilling. “Are you okay?” Seungcheol’s mother asks as she notices your supposed discomfort.

You nod quickly, your pulse hammering. “Just a little warm,” you say, grabbing your glass with a trembling hand.

By the grace of God, Seungcheol pulls away. He resumes his polite conversation, plays the role of a righteous man. 

After dinner, your mothers settle in the living room with cups of tea, conversation flowing easily as it always does whenever they catch up.

Seungcheol lingers with you in the hallway. “Got any movies?” he asks almost casually. “We could put something on while they talk.”

You blink, caught off guard. “I— yeah, but my laptop is in my room.”

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “That okay?”

You should find some excuse, any reason to keep him downstairs, but the way he looks at you— patient, steady, like he knows you’ll give in— makes your resolve crumble.

“Sure,” you breathe.

No one questions it. Your mothers send you off with twin simpers; your father barely looks up from the television. As you lead Seungcheol up the stairs, you realize just how much misplaced faith they have.

When you reach your room, Seungcheol steps inside, hands in his pockets as he surveys the space with quiet interest. The soft glow of your bedside lamp casts long shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp edge of his jaw, the silver glint of the cross around his neck.

He turns to you. “What do you feel like watching, angel?” he asks, just loud enough for your parents downstairs to catch.

But then the door clicks shut behind you. 

All pretenses go up in smoke. 

“We’re not here to watch a movie,” Seungcheol says plainly. 

A shiver runs down your spine as he closes the space between you, crowding you up against your door. Wordlessly, he cups your jaw, fingers resting just below your earlobe.

“Do you want to tell me what we’re here for, angel?” he prompts. 

Your answer is a weak one. It’s a trained response, similar to the way your body involuntarily melts against his whenever he touches you. 

“Practice,” you say hoarsely, and Seungcheol hums with approval. 

“Practice,” he confirms— and then he leans in to crash your lips against his. 

Ever since that first kiss, the tension between the two of you have crackled like a livewire. It’s only been making out so far. Heated sessions stolen every Sunday, in some dinky, dark corner of the parish where nobody might find either of you. 

Practice, Seungcheol had told you about all your rendezvouses. He’s helping you practice for the man you’re someday going to marry, the one you’re obligated to please under your archaic religion. 

It had struck you, of course, that Seungcheol never referred to himself as that. He was not your future husband, not somebody who wanted to be shackled by the label ‘boyfriend’. You were not that big of a fool to insist on that. 

But you are enough of a fool to think that it will be the same thing this evening. That Seungcheol might exhibit some restraint, considering the fact your parents are a floor away. 

He tips you back, one hand in your hair and the other wrapped around your waist. He pulls away from the heated kiss to survey the heat in your cheeks, the haze in your eyes. His breath is hot on your throat, and when he presses his lips to the sensitive skin there, they feel like fire. You shiver, unable to do anything except grip the front of his shirt in both hands, and Seungcheol laughs lowly.

“Trembling already?” he says as he nips at your pulse point, tongue licking over the indentations he’s left. It won’t leave any marks, but the threat of it thrills you enough. 

He’s everywhere. Hands roaming, lips mapping out the terrain of your body. When he kisses you, it’s like being consumed by something larger than life. 

The hand in your hair tightens, forcing your head back. His other hand pushes your hips flush against his. Seungcheol swallows your gasp, tongue pushing past the barrier of your lips to meet yours. It’s overwhelming— to be kissed so thoroughly— but you’re helpless to the rush of pleasure. 

Seungcheol draws back, chest heaving. “You make the prettiest noises, angel," he purrs. “But keep it down, hm? We can’t get caught.” 

“Can’t get caught,” you repeat dumbly, still trying to catch your breath. 

He seems pleased to see you unravelling. Hand still threaded in your hair, Seungcheol begins to guide your body away from the door. He acts like he has a right to navigate your room, like this isn’t his first time in your private space. 

You’d expected him to guide you to your bed, and so you’re mildly surprised when he pulls you over to your work space instead. You stumble over your steps but he holds you upright, tugging at the roots of your hair in a way that borders on painful.

Seungcheol lets go of you as he sinks into your desk chair. You’re dazed as you watch him settle in— as if it’s his God-given right. 

“How far have you gone, pretty thing?” If you strained your ears, you might hear just how condescending he is underneath his curious facade. “Has anyone gotten a proper taste of you? Have you had a cock in your mouth?” 

Your face flushes at the filth that spills from Seungcheol's mouth. For a moment, you hesitate, your fingers nervously toying with the edges of your dress.

“None of that,” you whimper, partially afraid that your inexperience will ruin the moment. “I haven't done... any of that. Just kissing.”

It’s exactly what Seungcheol wants to hear. 

He doesn’t have to probe about any of the other boys you might’ve kissed. In his head, they’re good as gone. He’s the one in your bedroom right now; he’s the one who has you wrapped around his finger. 

“We’ve got a lot more practicing to do, then,” he muses. He goes the extra mile, injecting a tinge of disappointment into his tone. 

Panic flares in your chest like a firecracker. You resist the urge to clamber on to his lap and try to atone for your inexperience. 

Seungcheol is quiet as he surveys your nervous expression. When he speaks, his tone has the blood in your veins running cold. 

“On your knees.” 

You don’t immediately comply. The slowness of your uptake has Seungcheol arching one eyebrow upward, his fingers flexing over the armrest of your chair. 

“Come on,” he coaxes, “you go to church. You know how to kneel, don’t you?” 

You feel pathetic, the way you scramble to prove him right. You’ve never been so grateful that your parents insisted you get a carpet. The plush materials press into your knees, and you gingerly shift until you’ve got the skirt of your dress as an extra layer of protection.

There’s something demeaning about this, you think to yourself. About the way Seungcheol’s gaze is heavy-lidded, full of wicked intent. About his fingers finding their way back into your hair, threading through the strands in a way that verges on menacing. 

But how could he be wicked, how could he be menacing? He’s smiling down at you, urging you to rest your cheek against his knee. You follow— you always do— and you lean against him, some of the tension in your body easing out. 

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asks, and your foolish heart sings. He’s concerned. He’s worried. 

“No,” you say quickly. “I’m— it’s okay.” 

Seungcheol makes a small hum of approval. His nails ghost over your scalp, lulling you into a sense of safety. You lay your head in his lap, reveling in the feeling. 

A couple of moments pass like that. Just as your eyes flutter close, Seungcheol’s voice breaks through the silence. 

“Angel,” he says softly, “do you want to help me feel good?” 

He poses it like a question, like he doesn’t already know what you’re going to say. You haven’t denied Seungcheol a single thing up until this point. And now you feel indebted, now you have to repay all his guidance. 

“Yes,” you breathe, the word a cold, broken Hallelujah. 

Seungcheol keeps his hand on your head— holding you in place or comforting you, it’s not clear. His free hand works on the button of his slacks. You shift uneasily, your eyes taking in every movement. 

His zipper being pulled. His boxers being pushed down, just enough for his semi-hard cock spring free. 

He picks up on your trepidation immediately. 

“It’s practice, angel,” he reminds you, his hold loosening in your hair. He’s giving you the option to pull away, you realize.

You’re not going to. You don’t want to. 

Desperate to prove yourself, you reach out. He gives a low hiss in response, his eyes darkening at the way your fingers wrap around his cock. 

“Spit on it first.” His words aren’t advice or a plea. They’re a command. 

You do as you’re told. You note how the spit makes things easier; it lets your palm slide along him much better. There’s a hint of fascination on your expression as Seungcheol twitches and swells underneath your hold, belying the facade of nonchalance that he’s put on. 

“Does it feel good?” you ask, peering up at Seungcheol. 

His gaze is half-lidded as he stares down at you. “It does, angel,” he says, voice rough around the edges, “but you can go a little faster for me, yeah?” 

You comply instantaneously, your hand running from tip to base and back up again with a little more intent. A part of you preens when Seungcheol’s head lolls backward, resting against the back of the arm chair. He’s obviously trying to keep his sounds of pleasure at bay, and you chalk it up to the fact your families might clock you if they were to find anything suspicious. 

“Good girl,” he grunts. “My perfect angel.” 

The praise goes straight to your head. You’re a little more enthusiastic as you pump his shaft at the pace he seems to like. After a couple of moments of Seungcheol’s quiet grunts, you ask the question that secures you a one-way ticket to hell. 

“Will this be enough?” 

Blink and you’ll miss it. The way Seungcheol’s jaw clenches. The millisecond where he looks contemplative, thoughtful. The moment he realizes what he’s going to say, what he’s going to ask of you. 

“No,” he answers. “It’s not enough.” 

You falter, but you keep your hand firmly wrapped around Seungcheol. So much about this situation is unfamiliar, from the coil in your stomach to the inexplicable need to gain Seungcheol’s approval. 

“I’ll need your mouth,” he says plainly. 

It makes sense to you now, how easily Eve had succumbed to that apple. The original sin, they called it, and you think you’ve learned a thing or two about sin as Seungcheol spreads his legs. You move until you’re positioned a little better over him, your breath warm against his cock.

Seungcheol grips your hair again. You can feel the reservation in his touch, the way he’s holding back with every fraying inch of his control. Letting you set the pace.

You lean forward, hesitantly licking a strike up Seungcheol’s cock. He masterfully keeps his expression under control. The lack of an enthusiastic reaction spurs you to take him in your mouth, to bob your head up and down experimentally. 

Your movements are a bit awkward; the taste of Seungcheol, new to your senses. You grin and bear it as you start to see progress— his fingers tightening in your hair, his breaths coming up a little more ragged.

Instinctively, Seungcheol’s hips buck upwards. You gag when you feel him hit the back of your throat. “Sorry, angel,” he groans. “Feels like heaven.” 

You hum with approval, the sound reverberating around Seungcheol’s cock. He twitches underneath you and squeezes his eyes shut, like it’s taking every ounce of his control not to fuck into your mouth.

When you try to hollow your cheeks, Seungcheol tugs you off of him. You gasp— for air, and in surprise— but he’s maneuvering you faster than you can properly react. 

It happens so quickly. One moment, you’re sucking Seungcheol off. The next, he has you folded over your desk. 

“That was a little too good, angel,” he murmurs into your ear, his cock pressing into the curve of your ass through your dress. “If I come, I want to do it inside of you.” 

A cold shiver runs down your spine. With his chest to your back, Seungcheol feels it; he chuckles lowly, wasting no time to flip over your dress. 

“Cute,” he says, fingers running along the hem of your underwear. 

You feel weak-kneed, supported only by the table and the press of Seungcheol’s body. “What are you—?” you’re asking, even as Seungcheol nudges your thighs apart to give himself a little more room to work with. 

“Say ‘stop’.” Seungcheol’s voice has taken on that quality again. That do-no-wrong reverence. “Say the word and I’m off, angel.” 

The speed of your response surprises even you. “No,” you blurt out, like you’re afraid he’ll pull away if he sees even a moment’s hesitation. “No, no. I— want this. Want you.” 

His smile is sharp against the side of your neck. 

He pushes your underwear to the side. You hadn’t realized how neglected you’d been feeling until the first brush of his fingers tears an unbidden gasp out of you. It feels almost cruel, the way he teases the slick gathered at your core. 

“Seung—cheol,” you complain, and he breathes a soft ‘shhh’ into your ear. 

“What did I say earlier?” 

You swallow. “To— keep it down.” 

He rewards you by pressing the tip of his finger into your cunt. Your teeth sink into your lower lip in a futile attempt to bite back your moans. Seungcheol’s breaths are heavy as he slowly eases his finger into your heat, giving you time to adjust to the intrusion. 

You’ve touched yourself before, but this is something new entirely. Seungcheol’s fingers are thick and he hits parts of you that you couldn’t reach by yourself. Your jaw has gone slack, the sounds of pleasure catching in your throat as you try to keep yourself quiet. 

Seungcheol must deem your efforts insufficient, because he lets out a ‘tch’ of disapproval. “This won’t do,” he grunts. 

His free hand abandons its hold of your hip. You’re just about to ask what he’s going to do when he shows you— tugging the necklace around his neck, leaning over your shoulder. The chain dangles in your peripheral for a second before he’s shoving the cross past your lips, the silver cold against your tongue. 

“Bite,” he hisses. “Keep quiet.” 

Your mouth clamps down on the cross. You have only a moment to feel like this is something damning, something sacrilegious, before Seungcheol fucks his finger into you a little faster. 

It takes a mammoth effort to be the angel he wants you to be. Your legs are shaking; your forehead is slicking with sweat. Seungcheol deigns to slide another finger in, and it goes by without a hitch. You’re so wet that you don’t doubt it’ll gather all over your underwear and the inside of your thighs. 

“Hear that?” Seungcheol coos, referring to the loud, obscene squelching echoing in your room. You can only pray that your parents are deaf to the world as Seungcheol goes on, “Better than a fucking choir. Such a perfect pussy, angel.” 

He shifts from behind you. You can feel all of his hardness pressing up against you— everything from the planes of his body to the shape of his cock. There’s a moment where you hesitate, where you worry that your inexperience and softness might turn him off. 

If anything, it only seems to excite him more. 

“There are bad men out there,” he murmurs, “who will want to take advantage of a pretty little thing like you.” 

You try to nod, but there isn’t much room for you to move. Your brain feels like it’s melting, and it only worsens when Seungcheol’s thumb begins to rub tight circles over your clit. That— paired with the two fingers he’s driving deep into your cunt— is enough for you to see stars. 

But it’s his words that threaten to do you over. 

“Not me,” he says into the side of your neck. “Never me. I’m going to take good care of you. And that starts with having you come all over my fingers, like the angel that you are. The next thing I’m going to do is fill you up, make you feel it right here—” 

He presses into the gummy spot inside of you, and you’re done for. Your body slumps and you come with a soft cry, the cross in your mouth muffling the sound. 

You’re still riding the high of your orgasm when Seungcheol tugs his necklace free. The silver shines with your saliva, filling you with a sort of indignity that coils low in your stomach. 

Seungcheol’s fingers— still lazily fucking into you— distract you from your shame. And when he kisses you hard, as if rewarding you for your compliance, you can’t even think of things like sin. 

There is only Seungcheol. There will only ever be Seungcheol. 

“You did so well for me,” he says against your lips. “I don’t think they heard a thing, angel.” 

The bliss has made your head hazy, has robbed you of your coherency. You can only manage a breathless “Thank God.” 

His smile returns. It makes him look like he’s about to swallow you whole. 

“No need to thank God,” he murmurs, “when you can thank me.” 

[readthephible]

Take A Chance On Me (Revised) — Chapter 1 💋🥂

exclusive tumblr preview!! this fic has been on and off consuming my life for like 6 years now? so it means a lot to me. i would love any feedback anyone is willing to give. also, i plan on starting to post this on ao3 once i have a good chunk of the chapters written so i can be ahead, as well as work out some plot things. enjoy! story and tags under the cut! (PS: tags are for the story as a whole, this chapter does not include smut)

Chapter One: A Favor

Chapter Notes: THE POSTING OF THE REVISION HAS BEGUN. enjoy, and remember i use he/they for PJ, and in this chapter, they/them for dan <3

-

Rain poured onto the concrete in a merciless downpour, hitting the glass windows of the coffee shop Phil was currently seated at.

Wet shoes squeaked against the tiles of the room, which Phil could only assume were PJ’s. He didn’t even need to look up to confirm—the person was sliding into the booth across from Phil, pulling his bag off of his shoulders and setting it down beside them.

"There you are,” Phil said.

PJ's voice was wheezy as he blurted out, "Sorry."

His eyes drifted from the trails of rain falling down his friend’s forehead, and instead to the watch on his wrist, tugging his sleeve back to look at it closer.

“It’s fine,” he said, “It’s not like I had to ask Marianne to fill in for a meeting or anything.”

“Shit,” PJ sighed, shaking his head at himself.

“You’re good. I wasn’t looking forward to going anyway, at least now I have a reasonable excuse,” Phil said passively, watching PJ suddenly lighten, bursting into a smile.

"Good, good, now I know I was late, so let's just get to the main thing I want to chat about," PJ said, "I need your help on a job decision."

"Let's hear it," Phil said, and tugged his sleeve back up, watching the waitress come by. They each ordered themselves a coffee and began to talk.

"So, I have been looking into a management position," PJ started to explain, "It will be at a new...hold on."

PJ magically pulled out a map of London from his bag, making Phil crease his eyebrows and tilt his head.

"There are two bars that are being merged together," he pointed out, "This one…”

“You’re wanting a new management position…at a bar.”

“I’m not done yet!” PJ cried defensively, eyes practically begging Phil to continue paying attention.

Trying to make sense of the map, Phil watched as PJ's fingers moved across the smooth paper. The streets twisted and turned mindlessly around, buildings aligning them in all different shapes and sizes.

"And this one. And a new club is going to be right...here," they made a circle with a pen.

"Right next to the station?" Phil asked, "Really?"

"Yeah," PJ replied, "It's a big building, and I guess something happened to whatever was there before. They say it will be much easier to visit, blah blah blah...I honestly think it might just be for tourist attraction."

Phil studied the map, "And the two older ones?"

"Probably being sold to be made into more new apartments no one can afford," PJ sighed, "Anyway, not the point."

A loud whip-like sound made Phil jump as he saw PJ place down another large piece of paper, which appeared to be blueprints.

"So these are the plans for the new club," PJ continued as they spread out the page, “It will be called...The Cat and Bear."

A waitress' red lips were pursed as she placed two mugs of coffee down onto the paper, PJ yelping and picking up coasters to put underneath them. She apologized awkwardly and walked away, but Phil thanked her, picking up his mug and sitting back against the booth.

"The Cat and Bear," Phil repeated, sipping his coffee, “That’ll stand out from every other ancient pub in London.”

"This is the entrance, right?" PJ asked to check if Phil was listening. Their fingers danced across the paper as they emphasized every detail. He uncapped a marker, labeling each part of the building with symbols and letters as they spoke, "Bathrooms are here, in the front, and there's some in the back...and then there's..."

"What is the actual job part, PJ?" Phil asked with a chuckle.

The sweet taste of coffee burned Phil's tongue as PJ looked up with his creativity shining through his captivating eyes, a look not unfamiliar to Phil in the slightest. He kept explaining a whole lot more, then asked, "Are you following?"

"Yeah, yeah," Phil said as he placed his mug down, "But what is the position you are looking for? And that huge empty area you haven't marked yet?"

PJ grew a smile from ear to ear.

"Stage production."

"Stage production," Phil repeated, his tone unsure. "There's going to be a job for stage production. At a bar."

"Not just a bar, a club...well, a burlesque—kind of—club," PJ corrected himself as more papers went flying across the table again, "Hear me out. They need someone to manage the production—backdrops, stage materials, lighting, music, and I'll kind of be like an agent to the performers."

"And who is it that will be performing?" Phil asked.

"Drag queens!" PJ yelled excitedly.

PJ and Phil looked around the diner to see a bunch of people staring at them.

"Drag queens," Phil said, sounding unamused.

"I'd get to manage all of the theater tech geek stuff," PJ explained, "And the queens. So, what do you think?"

Phil deeply sighed and widened his eyes, picking up his mug and taking a long sip.

"Your professional opinion," PJ requested.

Phil cleared his throat and said, "My professional opinion is no."

PJ took the first sip of their coffee, cringing at how the liquid had gotten cold from ignoring it.

"No?"

"No," Phil repeated, then shook his head, “Since it’s new, you can’t do any research on things like their profit history, turnover rates, company policies…the closest would be some Linkedin stalking of any execs or investors you know for sure are involved in this new business. You said they're merging, so there's probably going to be rivalry, and...no offense, but they're drag queens, so…”

Phil clenched his teeth and cringed, finding it hard to be brutally honest to his friend.

"I know it may be risky, but..." PJ reasoned, "I need to be creative, Phil! Feel like I’m in charge of something like you are! This nine to five office job isn't good enough anymore."

Phil rubbed his jaw as he spoke, "I wouldn't recommend it, Peej. How much money will you be making?"

"Not much, from the beginning..." PJ admitted, "But it'll get better, don't you think, Phil?"

"I dunno," he muttered.

PJ pouted, looking off as they said, "I really want to do more creative stuff. Something new and fun. Particularly audio and video...but managing actual performers will be cool too, like in the movies."

"Well, this is London, Peej," Phil chuckled, "Not Hollywood. I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but you asked for my opinion, and I gave it to you."

"How much was this actually related to your career?"

"Not much."

"Okay, then why don't you do more of your career?" PJ asked, Phil looking offended for a second, "Sorry mate, not what I meant. I meant, do more of your thing...can you look into the business and economic part of it? Do some of your PR magic, see how good the people I'll be working with are?"

"Fine. I'll call some people, get some data, and let you know."

—

Both for PJ’s sake and because his company happened to be doing markedly well, Phil invested in The Cat and Bear, which nearly secured PJ for the position with little question of their qualifications. Other executives saw that he had a close connection to another successful company, and thus boosted his chances of being onboarded.

The club was due to be finished in the middle of summer, the project shortened by resources provided by Phil’s company. He’d maintained a more hands-off approach with the venture, trusting that PJ and/or any of his own employees would inform him of any issues. In May, PJ convinced Phil to visit The Cat and Bear to show him around.

From the outside, the club was completely finished, but once they entered, Phil could see where there was still room for improvement—many places lacked paint, flooring, and furniture. The sparse decorations made the interior look like a sad fixer-upper, but at least the bar, stage, dressing room, and bathrooms were built.

"Welcome...to The Cat and Bear," PJ said dramatically, opening the door for Phil to enter. Phil nodded, walking in and looking around as PJ followed behind him and asked, "Why are you all dressed up, mate?"

"I'm technically working," Phil explained, looking down at his clothing. He compared his business casual outfit to PJ's fully casual outfit, a graphic tee and colorful jacket, curious to ask, "Will this be okay?"

"Don't worry about it, you're just going to be the only dressed up one here," PJ told him. Right as he said so, Phil noticed the only people around them were construction workers, painters, and other people busy on their own tasks. They were installing lights, painting walls silver, pulling up old flooring—so much was going on at once.

PJ gave Phil a lengthy tour of the place, getting especially enthusiastic when showing him how the stage lights and curtains worked. He let him backstage to see the dressing room and where his office was, with cardboard boxes already on the desk.

"Sophie is supposed to come help me decorate soon," PJ told him, "This office, I mean, I'm not sure about the dressing room, but probably. She’s around here somewhere.”

"Have you met any of the queens yet?" Phil asked curiously.

PJ sighed awkwardly, "Uh, no, actually."

"Peej, you guys open super soon!"

"I know, but I kinda just picked the queens that were already planning on transferring here. Some of them moved closer to different clubs, on the other side of the city, or back home, I guess. It’s not the time to be picky, according to some other talent managers I’ve talked to," PJ said, "I've made a Facebook group and talked to a few, and that's about it."

Phil sat down on a chair in front of PJ's desk as they continued to talk, allowing him to ramble about his excitement for this new job and all of the ideas they had planned, until they heard a knock at the office door.

"Come in," PJ called out.

"Mr. Liguori?" the person called out in a silly tone—definitely Sophie. She peeked her head in the room, a pencil resting on her ear. “Oh, hi, Phil.”

“Hey, Sophie,” Phil greeted, then gestured toward PJ, “The ‘Mr. Liguori’ is here.”

PJ just laughed, “What’s up?”

"Um, the queens are here?" Sophie said matter-of-factly.

"Shit!” PJ seethed, looking at his watch, “It’s time already?!”

What a great manager PJ already was.

"That's no problem though, I'll go—um—come on, Phil," PJ said, “Looks like you won’t be the only dressed up one, then!”

Phil followed behind him into the open area right in front of the hallway. There stood a group of performers, and as they gossipped and chatted, Phil looked over the small crowd.

One of them specifically caught his eye. She—or Phil should probably correct himself to say they, because he truly didn’t know—were wearing a pretty, brunette wig, hair cascading down their shoulders.

From only a few moments of staring, Phil picked up on a warm, inviting energy they had. When they laughed with their friends, an adorable, deep dimple paired well with a bright smile, lighting up the room so effortlessly.

Phil hated that he was so far away from them.

PJ then clapped his hands together, looking around the room. It temporarily swayed his attention, but the underlying magnetic pull towards the brunette was hard to distract himself from.

One of PJ’s new employees, Phil reminded himself, so stop ogling at…the most beautiful one of the whole group? Yes, Phil confirmed with a darting of his eyes across the crowd, they definitely were.

"You all look absolutely stunning," PJ said, earning a bunch of claps, thank yous, and a couple shouts of "I know" that made him chuckle.

Phil had been so distracted that he hadn’t noticed Sophie and some other employees following behind them. He stepped off to the side to give PJ the floor, but more so to make it less obvious he was stealing glances at the brunette any chance he got.

"Hello, everyone. Forgive me, I lost track of time. I figured I should introduce myself. I'm PJ, the manager of stage production and talent. Most likely, I was the one you’ve been in contact with about working here. And this is Phil.”

Phil awkwardly waved. Some of the performers seemed to give genuine waves, while others gave more silly or sassy ones. The brunette had a bit of a smirk on their face, waving elegantly.

“His company has been our biggest supporter in the process of getting this club open. He is our biggest investor, so let’s make sure that we return the favor and work hard to give our thanks for all the resources he’s provided,” PJ said, and the performers clapped and waved at him.

“We'll still go ahead and take promotion photos for the website today, and I'll be creating us an Instagram page as well," PJ said, "Later on, I’d like to have a professional headshot session with everyone as well, so stay tuned for that, but this is mainly just to get media coverage for our opening weekend.”

The performers all nodded, continuing to give almost all of their attention to PJ. Phil’s attention, however, was fixed back on the brunette, who had joined in on the casual glances. They were wearing a mesh dress with long sleeves and an abstract pattern. Their friends were trying to whisper to them, but they continuously shrugged them off.

As he looked around at the group again, Phil realized that he was a bit envious of the confidence they exuded. After the effort of a drastic change, it was at a level he didn’t think he’d ever personally reached before.

It was reassuring that it was a safe space for everyone to feel like they could be as unique, queer, or weird as their heart desired, their appearances showcasing the most genuine aspects of themselves. But Phil felt out of place, intimidated by their larger-than-life personas.

Phil wasn't confident. Not really. He was clumsy and awkward, and he’d probably injure himself or someone else if he ever tried to walk in heels. Maybe he'd like makeup, but he had no idea where to start or how to steady his shaky hands. The queens did it all with such precision. His application would be messy and uncoordinated, it wouldn't look nice on him the way it did on them.

And it looked really nice on one in particular. Phil hoped his staring wasn’t obvious, but almost couldn’t help himself.

“Believe it or not, there are some places on the lot with good lighting for photos, and we brought some equipment, too. Sophie and I will be the photographers, while others can look out for minor tweaks. Alright, let’s get started!”

PJ took their camera from Sophie and arranged everyone in different places around the club, specifically the few completed areas. To Phil’s surprise, a few of the performers went up to shake his hand and thank him. Phil was able to reciprocate the greeting, but found himself in a daze. The performer he was interested in was one of the first to be photographed, which prevented him from greeting them. He could stare at them modeling all day, but to keep his composure, he tried to simply exist in the same room.

Phil awkwardly stood off to the side again, finding it easy for his mind to wander.

It seemed like PJ would be occupied for a while, and realistically, he didn’t have any reason to hang around. But if he could find a reason…

“Hey, Peej?” Phil asked, walking up to him as he was nicely directing an employee to move something out of the way. “Do you need me to help out with anything?”

“Oh, did you have anything at work you needed to attend to?”

“Not currently, no.”

“If you could get Soph and I coffees?” PJ said more quietly, mindlessly adjusting camera settings.

Of course it had to be something that required him to leave.

Awkwardly, Phil answered with, “Oh. Okay. Yeah, I can do that.”

“Other than that, I think we’re good. Thanks for coming by.”

He glanced at the one performer one more time before leaving to get their coffees.

[yanaspritesblog]

"Don't hurt these things," - Chuuya tells him, - "Got it?"

that scene killed me. literally. i have no shame in admitting i bawled my eyes out reading this fic.

day #4 of my nearly everyday fanart challenge.

How All Stories End by Anonymous

[mizukkay]

[jesuistrestriste]

cw (18+) : dom!patrick, sloppy penetration, belly bulging, creampie, general filth, reader has afab anatomy

patrick zweig who holds your legs open as he curls over your body and gently rolls his hips, slowly stretching your insides with every thrust. his brow pinches together in a way that makes him look older—older, rougher, and meaner—even if all he truly wants to do is to make you feel good (and play with your body). the look that washes over his face when he begins to properly fuck into you could fool just about anyone..

his calloused palms grip the back of your calves, his fingers curling around your flesh, his eyes fluttering as he feels your walls suck him in deeper. warm, wet, and convulsing against his cock that pummels into that squishy spot nestled upward in your entrance. he knows exactly how to move to get you squirming and mewling like a kitten; it’s easy for him to fuck you into a puddle of fluids—he does it every time. he pushes down on your limbs to fold you in half, and keens like a greedy whore when he feels how much tighter the position makes your cunt. he nearly whimpers.

“fuck, ohh—fuck!—“ he withers atop you for only a moment, slowing down with a shudder so he doesn’t finish too soon, “y’feel so good.. gettin’ me close.. take my dick—just like that—you’re gonna make me come..”

he swallows around a low growl, and you watch as his toned abdomen visibly flexes each time he roughly feeds his length to your cervix. the way he relentlessly bumps it is almost uncomfortable, but the boiling pleasure collecting in your gut drowns out everything other than how much you’re feeling and how wrecked he sounds while he keeps you in place. his right hand leaves your leg, knowing you won’t move a muscle without him coaxing you into a new position, and begins messily swiping his fingertips over your swollen clit. your back arches up like you’re being electrocuted and he smirks in that devilish way he always does when he knows he’s doing something right. it’s cocky. it’s arrogant. his tip catches on a soft area inside your pussy before wholly slotting into it, and then he's jack-rabbiting. the slap of skin-on-skin is obscene. he moves so fast it’s like he’s vibrating. a flood of heat laps at every nerve in your frame, and you let out a broken cry as the very last thing you hear before your ears start to ring from the ecstasy is the sound of him chuckling and cooing.

“feels that good, doesn’t it? shit, it’s like you’re trying to milk me,” he lets his gaze wander down your lower body as his digits circle your bud and his glistening shaft slides in and out, covered in your release, “i love the way you sound when you come.. it’s got me throbbing, you know that?”

then his eyes fix on something that doubles—no, triples—the satisfaction he feels and causes his balls to draw up: the sight of his curved cock pushing up from the inside of you and causing your lower belly to subtly bulge out. he licks over his lower lip, his jaw slacking. he moans, broken and higher in pitch than moments before, then his free hand leaves your other leg and moves to press down over the focus of his affection. his knees shake on the mattress when he feels himself bury deep in your overstimulated hole.

“oh my god, i feel myself fucking you,” he breathlessly gasps, his orgasm rushing from base to tip, his milky load rising readily to paint your womb, “c’mere—touch—fuck—fuck, fuck, gonna come inside you—im gonna come—gonna—HAAH—“

in the last few desperate pumps of his hips that he gives you, he scrambles for your hand that fists the sheets and replaces his touch on your stomach with your own. he watches the way you writhe and hiccup as you revel in the way your pussy is being used like a toy. he throws his head back, his pelvis snaps against yours, and then it’s all over.

“coming,” he huffs in a drawn-out cry, and you get to feel every kick of his release under your hand. thump, thump, thump, throb, throb, throb under your palm. it’s never-ending; it almost makes you wail. the warmth of his seed spreads throughout your insides like a warm bath, and you gather all of the remaining strength in your brain to watch as patrick’s face crumples with every wave of his climax, his head dropping back down. his cheeks are flushed, his eyes are squeezed shut, his nose is crinkling with the effort of remaining upright and not collapsing over your chest.

he sucks a breath in through gritted teeth, hissing, when he gets to the tail end of his orgasm. the sensitivity becomes too much, and he can’t handle the way you continue to spasm around his softening length. his cheeks puff out as he blows a steady breath of air, trying to get the room to stop spinning, and in the next instant he’s looking down to your face. his hands slide up your torso and cup the sides of your neck before he leans down and kisses you. his tongue licks languidly against yours, smearing his spit over your palate. you feel him groan into your open mouth. he only pulls away once he’s gotten his fill—once he’s tasted and swallowed enough of your whining to sate him for the rest of the night (or so you think). his gaze is hazy when he looks down into your eyes. his cock twitches at the sight of your spent expression, then that dumb, snarky smirk is back.

“so good for me,” he hums, “flip over and ill give you two more?”

the heavy nod of your head that follows is all he needs to get his arousal stirring again.

taglist : @voidsuites @fawnnpaws @artstennisracket @imperishablereverie @ghostgirl-22 @lexiiscorect @cha11engers @patricksbf @newrochellechallenger2019 @pittsick @blastzachilles @oncefaist @tacobacoyeet @nozhdyved

[faramirsonofgondor]

Watching Over the Waynes

AU where somehow it comes out that Jason is alive and while Wayne Industries is trying to do damage control for the public, some intern has the great idea of doing a reality TV documentary series thing (sort of like a mix between Keeping Up With Kardashians and The Office) to address the controversy and also show what the Waynes are like as a family. Bruce agrees because he thinks he’s agreeing to a family interview. None of them are prepared for the whole documentary crew to arrive, and Bruce spends three hours on the phone with his publicist trying to get out of it while crew awkwardly eats the food Alfred had hurriedly whipped up for them. Eventually, Bruce gives up and thus starts the family torture bonding session.

The first few episodes are supposed to center around Jason, who is determined to share nothing because this entire ordeal is embarrassing stupid and he hates the press. He does a good job of scowling at the camera and maintaining his stoicism up until someone (cough cough Dick) says he looks like Bruce when he does that (off camera of course, since no one sees Brucie Wayne as the brooding father figure they all know him to be) and then Jason does a complete 180 and pulls out all the dramatics. He even sheds a few tears as he recounts his amnesia and how horribly traumatic it was, and about how it’s hard to remember life before his “accident” but he still does have a few memories he could share with them (and if those memories are conveniently all times where Dick did something incredibly embarrassing - well that’s not Jason’s fault, is it?) From there they move onto the other members of the family and their perspective of Jason’s situation, what it was like when he came back, etc.

Eventually, once they’ve covered everything about Jason, they start asking about their day-to-day lives, what they like to do for fun, and all that other jazz. They were expecting to hear about the business, their jobs, maybe some philanthropy, and to the family’s credit - they do discuss it. But what’s more than is the small but significant moments they catch on camera, like how someone starts to bring up a topic and then seemingly remembers that they’re being recorded, and shuts down the conversation entirely. Or times when they asked about the scuff marks on the ceiling, and all they got in response was a tired sigh from Alfred and the words “that would be Master Dick’s doing, I’m afraid” they crew did not ask for a follow up (they were afraid, too). Or the time they swore they saw Damian chase someone with a sword through the house, but when they checked the footage it was blank.

There are also the odd, quirky personality traits that the family seems to exhibit - but only within the privacy of their own home. Dick walks around doing acrobatics - up until he remembers that other people are there, to which he awkwardly stops, waves, and then retreats. Tim walks around the manor at all hours of the night and day, sometimes talking to thin air (?) and when they ask the other members of the family they just go “it’s the sleep deprivation” without any other context, Damian keeps a whole menagerie of pets in the manor, and somehow keeps getting more as time passes (the crew is too scared to ask where he gets them from - they still remember the sword incident even if there’s no evidence of it), and it seems like sometimes members of the family will just… disappear (???) at night in teams or groups. Like, the crew will search the whole manor (in a non-creepy, authorized way) and they’re just not there (???)

As each episode airs the public starts making up more and more conspiracies about what the Waynes get up to at night (they run an underground criminal empire, they’re all secretly a bunch of dwarves stacked together pretending to be people and need to recharge their energy at night, they’re vigilantes, they’re all secret graffiti artists trying to one-up each other, etc. etc.) Eventually one of the crew members is bold enough to ask them directly, (un)fortunately for the family, the person they asked was Dick, who panicked slightly and blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “we’re drag queens!”

The crew is, of course, skeptical of this answer. So Dick tries to save face by launching into a whole tangent about his drag persona. Dick’s persona is named Donna (he was panicking, okay!!). He has Tim photoshop his face onto photos of Donna to make it seem more believable (it does not work). The crew begins to question the other members of the family on their persona, and the only one who seems even slightly prepared to answer is Tim somehow (Tim did not explain to his family why he had women’s clothes and wigs - not that they asked, they were too busy panicking over trying to figure out their own personas). Steph decided that her drag king persona would be named Dick, much to everyone else’s amusement. She insisted it had nothing to do with Dick and that she just thought it was funny (despite opting to borrow Dick’s clothes for her performance). Cass was confused on the whole drag king/queen concept and followed Steph’s lead and dressed as Bruce. Jason, like Dick, panicked and said his persona was named Diana. Bruce, normally calm, was even more panicked because he was planning on claiming the name Diana and now he has to come up with something else (he decides on the name Lois).

Eventually the crew insists on accompanying them to whatever drag bar they go to in order to see them perform. Bruce and Jason start to sweat because while Dick and Tim might be able to do a passable performance, Jason and Bruce were tanks of men (did they even make dresses in their size ?). Somehow, they all manage to calm their nerves on the big night and get ready to perform, it’s all going well - Tim does a beautiful cover of “Lola” by The Kinks, Dicks flexibility and walk is fantastic, Steph does a hysterical Dick impersonation, Cass is… Cass, Jason’s acting skills are off the charts. Then comes Bruce’s turn, and just as he starts to get on stage, guess who shows up? The fucking Joker. Everyone starts panicking, and Bruce, who is not as coordinated as usual in his stripper platform heels, trips and sends one of his shoes flying. Straight into The Joker. The heel goes through his eye, killing him instantly. There’s a long silence, where nobody knows what to do, until someone in the crowd (Jason - though he’ll always deny it) starts chanting “Lois! Lois! Lois!” and eventually everyone joins in.

The episode airs and breaks streaming records. People beg the Waynes to visit Metropolis and do a reenactment of the whole ordeal - this time with Lex Luthor instead of the Joker. Lois Lane is one of those people. Clark pouts and says that he could do it, but Lois insists on her namesake doing it. Bruce just sighs and waits for the publicity to die down. It does not happen. The next JL meeting he attends he finds everyone dressed as his Lois persona, except for Diana who is very pointedly dressed as Jason.

Eventually he tries to do some more damage control by having an actual family interview about everything that happened. When the day comes, Bruce answers questions carefully insisting it was an accident. He dutifully ignores Lois Lane’s raised hand for the duration of the time (he can see the glee on her face and does not want to touch that with a ten foot pole). The other family members answer questions too, claiming that none of them would ever kill anyone on purpose. This statement holds less weight when, at the end of the interview conference, fucking Scarecrow shows up and Dick, in a panic, throws his microphone at him. The microphone goes through his eye, killing him instantly. The crowd goes wild. Everyone loves the Waynes.

[magicpiano]

Bruce Wayne had a child that was somehow kidnapped right out of the hospital just hours after being born. He of them ever stopped looking despite how cold the trail had grown.

Years later there is some rouge attack and a civilian child was injured and taken to the hospital. Bruce does a DNA test on the blood found at the scene and concludes that the child is actually his long lost kid.

Dani was planning to sneak out of the hospital the moment the doctors stopped looking at her. Then Bruce Wayne of all people comes in and claims that she is his long lost child. She knows that this is very impossible because she is a clone, but Bruce won't listen to her and she really doesn't want to explain the clone thing to a "normal" stranger.

This does brings up a lot of questions about how Danny ended up living with the Fentons though.