#get those clear reference photos while up there

[kaimukiwahine]

Hi. Just popping back in real quick to drop this off.

Digging a bit through the Tallboys server for Militsioner refs since I don't have the demo, I found one of the dev's posts during early development. And these thumbnail sketches are so charming and hilarious.

Also I have seen the five-minute demo video and currently drawing something. Will post it when pau and resume silence.

[yieldtotemptation]

PROFESSIONAL ft. Bae

bae x male reader smut

8k words

For those keeping score at home, Bae Jinsol does appear to have the upper hand.

Not just because of who she is—the looks, the celebrity, the whole perfect package of it all; that's a dime a dozen in your line of work.

It’s how she haunts you.

The messages she leaves on your phone. The way she says your name.

The photos.

So, yeah. Despite the fact that you’re ostensibly just her personal trainer, and therefore, ipso facto, the ‘one in charge’; it’s becoming all too apparent that the balance of power in your relationship with Bae is, well, to put it simply, not exactly professional.

Which makes it no surprise that even though you’re at the gym a half-hour early; a black coffee in hand, ready to chase the one already running through your veins—she’s already there.

Stretched out like a cobra; hips to the ground, back arched, chest high.

Her reflection in the mirror greets you with a knowing smile.

Unsurprised. Unbothered.

Like she's been waiting for this—planned it all out. Down to the exact second that you’d walk in, discovering her in the centre of your private gym, splayed out in a pose chosen specifically to make you feel like you're intruding on something intimate.

Showing off the sharp planes of her abs, the muscles of her legs, the curve of her ass, and that dangerous strip of skin that makes you want to—

"Looks like I beat you again, sir."

You swallow. You somewhat regret giving her a personal key.

“Just getting warmed up.” Bae slithers out of the stretch, sinewy and fluid, turning over and around so she can properly face you; so she can properly present herself to you.

A glance—a gawk, really—has you rethinking your earlier assessment. Most of your clients are a dime a dozen. But Bae, looking at you, looking like that. Gorgeous, fit, unattainable yet somehow within your reach and daring you to do something about it—she’s a whole other currency.

She's been here for a while now, you can tell. Beads of sweat have started to slick her skin; over her brow, down her neck, pooling at the crevices of her collarbones. And the show she makes of wiping across her throat with the back of her hand, leaving a glossy sheen.

You ponder licking it off.

Long enough for her to catch you being unprofessional, again. To her credit, Bae just hums a note of amusement, gracious enough to let the moment pass as if it never even happened.

“You don’t need to do that,” you say, which could really be in reference to anything at this point. “We’ve got one hour. Warm-up included.”

“I know,” Bae answers, revisiting a long-standing argument, "But I like to be ready."

“Ready,” you echo, tasting the sound of the word on your own tongue.

“So that we can make the most of our time together,” She continues, twirling a peroxide-blonde curl around her finger, stirring up entirely inappropriate images of Bae, and her hair, and your hands, and oh God. "I only have you for one measly little hour, after all."

She lets the implication hang in the air, planting her flag (bright red, of course). It gives you an opportunity to take a long sip of your coffee; the burn from it sliding down your throat a welcome distraction.

You clear it with a cough.

"Well," you say, setting your mug aside and putting on the face of someone who isn’t severely compromised by Bae's casual, shameless attempts at whittling down your resolve. "Let’s not waste any of those precious minutes."

There's this grin on her face, as endearing as it is infuriating; and you can already hear the reply she’ll make before it comes, the way she’ll twist your honest words into lurid innuendo. Something with enough plausible deniability to keep it from crossing any lines of proper decorum you’ve tried to set, but pointed enough to blur them.

Something like—"Oh, I plan on making every second count."

You emphasise, “Exercising.”

Bae plays along, “What else would we be doing?”

More of this game, presumably.

The one you've been playing for the entire month you've known her, this routine you've established—you trying to keep things on track, do the job you’re actually being paid by her company to do; and Bae pushing back, pushing you as far as she can.

Trying, hoping, to inevitably bring you to that point where you break, where your veneer of professionalism finally slips away and you give her the type of workout she really wants.

You really should know better.

Should know to ignore the innocent requests to 'help stretch her out' or 'massage this cramp in her thigh'. Should know not to indulge the flirty banter; the 'oh, you're so much stronger than me', or worse yet, the blatant, 'but I bet you're not as flexible.'

You should have never let your hands linger, held her close when she asked you to correct her form, taken your time to navigate the curve of her hip, the small of her back, the slope of her legs.

Definitely should not have given her your personal number. Fuck, you should have blocked hers. Not read any messages, not even dreamed of replying. Not opened the photos, not fucking saved them and revisited them night after night after night.

(Because ultimately, the main party at fault is you.

After that first time, that first session; when you excused all the innuendo as coincidence, pretended the flirtations, the touching was just down to Bae being her normal, bubbly, extroverted self.

And then, when she convinced you to come into the shower because she just couldn’t seem to get the hot water to work, well—

Yeah.

Somewhere between making her moan your name and fucking her into the tile walls; you really, really should have known better.)

But today—today won’t be the day you give in.

The first time was a one-off, a fleeting lapse in judgment. Won't happen again.

You’re the trainer. She’s the client.

You have your clipboard, and your workout plan.

And Bae…

Bae’s biting her lip; blushing at you like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

“So, how do you want me, sir?”

(Bent over, on top, pinned underneath, from behind—you could fill the whole session with your long list of answers; but none of those are on the clipboard.)

You fight the urge to laugh, or scream, or maybe just drop to your knees and surrender.

Instead, you reproach, “Bae.”

“Sir.”

Laying it on thick; the innocence, the arrogance, the knowing in those doe eyes. Something she said to you once rattles in your mind: "Everybody needs an outlet, don't you think?"

Bae swings her legs around, tucking them under her so she’s on her knees. She’s looking up at you, those wide eyes and that even wider smile, sizing up every inch of you through her long lashes.

"I know what you're doing," you try, but it's not enough. Knowing is only half the battle.

"You do?" Bae's playing coy, keeping her tone light and breezy. "And here I thought I was just trying to be a good student."

A finger on her thigh, to dance along the hem of her shorts, peel it back just slightly, only to let it snap back into place.

“Clock’s ticking.”

There's a correct response here, you think, one that keeps you both on the straight and narrow. Not that you get a chance to find it, because Bae's leaning forward, placing her hands behind her back, pushing out her chest and arching her spine just so.

Her top stretches over her, a sports bra that’s somehow both modest and obscenely revealing; clinging to her—she’s filling it out, her nipples poking through like two little darts, demanding your attention.

She tilts her head, smirks, and it hits you like a sucker punch.

That’s the pose.

You’ve seen it; it’s been seared into your brain. The centrepiece of a photo that she so casually sent you in the middle of the day, just to ‘get your opinion on her progress’.

(Only then, all she had on was her smile.)

A sigh, because you know—this is it.

The last exit off the highway, the last chance to say no, to keep things strictly above board and not let this get any more complicated than it already is. But you’re nearing a wreck on the side of the road, and you can’t help but want to stop and look.

Fuck it.

Fuck the clipboard, fuck the workout plan, fuck not giving in. You can always try (and fail) again the next session.

Bae reads your mind. "Time for some cardio, then?"

“Get up,” is your answer. (A command, a plea).

She’s quick to rise to her feet, smugness gone, and in its place shameless glee as she witnesses you crack and concede defeat in real time. 

This is how you'll rationalise it:

There’s only one way to take back control of this situation. At her core, Bae’s an extremely simple person. She sees something she wants; she gets it. She’s a fire—all she does is burn hot, and the only way to keep her from turning your professional life to ash is to feed the flame.

Just enough to manage it.

You step closer, she takes a step back. You follow, each step, each sway of her hips a metronome set to a rhythm that says ‘yes’. She keeps backing up, leading you on until she’s seated on a bench. Placing her hands on her knees, pushing them apart, spreading her legs in a V; an open invitation to the space between.

You're not sure who's training who anymore.

Putting that thought aside—lines can be redrawn, boundaries reset. If you’re going to get some form of authority back, it’s not going to be with words. So, you do the only thing that makes sense in a moment that's lost all logic.

You lean down, take Bae by the chin, and you kiss her.

Something sounding like your name slips from Bae's lips as your tongues meet; as her hands find the back of your neck, pulling you in so she can lick into your mouth and get a taste of your morning.

Eager, greedy, demanding; full of all the pent-up need that’s been festering since that first encounter—when you had her creaming down your thighs and screaming your name. There's little tenderness to be found in the kisses, the licks, the nibbles that follow, you’re both too desperate for any kind of sweetness right now.

Bae’s hands are everywhere; peeling your shirt over your head, tracing the lines of your stomach, digging her nails into the meat of your shoulder. Your own hands are busy too—squeezing her thighs, cupping her ass, drifting up her skintight shorts in search of the heat that’s been keeping you awake at night.

"Took you long enough," she murmurs against your mouth, the words barely discernible but the triumph tinging them crystal clear.

An acknowledgment groaned against her lips, breaking away from the kiss to trail down her neck, licking away that spot you've had your eyes on the whole time. Tasting the salt of her sweat, the sweetness of her skin, revelling in the tang of the forbidden, the vanilla of the inevitable.

It’s some wonder, truly, of how a girl like her—all youthful glow and sharp edges, sculpted by both genetics and sheer force of will—wound up so utterly obsessed with you.

“Because of what you said when we first met,” Bae whispers in your ear, bites on the lobe, and you’re realising that maybe your thoughts haven’t been as silent as you assumed.

“Oh?” Is all you have to offer, because that memory is far gone, and your mind has far too little bandwidth to focus on anything that isn’t her wetness, seeping through the fabric of her shorts and staining your fingertips. 

The dampness—it's a dead giveaway. Yet you still ghost a thumb over her, press down just to confirm, make her inhale, sharp. And sure enough, there it is. Or rather, there it isn't.

The audacity.

There's a giggle from Bae as she feels you discover her secret; that it's just her shorts that are keeping you from being knuckle deep inside of her, and nothing else.

Bae recites your words back to you, only from her lips they’re far more honeyed, sticky and sweet against your cheek. "You said that you'd—ah—that you’d push me."

She’s sighing, melting into you, hips slowly grinding against your fingers, so achingly close to begging. Turning up the heat, you let your other hand glide up her abs, feel the need radiating from her, the muscles tensing and rolling with every slight movement she makes.

You’re reaching for her sports bra when she finds her voice, continuing through gritted teeth, "You said that you wouldn't take it easy on me."

Her breath stutters as your thumb traces the bottom of her top, fingers digging beneath her bra line. With one swift tug, the fabric's pulled away from her body, yanked over head in a blur of motion, leaving her breasts bare and heaving before you.

They’re small, yes, but the curve, the fit, the weight of them in your hands—just right.

“You said that if I—ah fuck—”

You can’t resist, really, your lack of self-control has been well established. So, you kiss her chest, licking a path through the valley between her breasts, drinking in the sweat that pools there, that little reservoir of desire.

“You said that if I tried hard enough, I’d be—God, yes—I’d be rewarded.”

Words, simple instructions you’ve given to countless other clients, but Bae. Twisting them, hearing what she wants to hear, or maybe what you intended all along? (Who’s to say.)

“You weren’t lying, were you, sir?”

You don’t have a response—what is there to say now, anyway? Any words would just be noise, inconsequential compared to the symphony of gasps and groans playing out between you both.

There’s a dusky pink nipple just waiting for your touch, all swollen and sensitive. You don’t disappoint. It’s in your mouth, rolling between your tongue and teeth, pebbling under the attention. It’s so easy to get lost in them, in their taste and feel, in her hands threading into your hair, pulling you closer, as if you need the encouragement.

You’re indulging in her, yes, but right now, there’s little you wouldn’t do to make her keen. Your other hand doesn’t rest; fingers are at work, pressing down, circling her clit through the nylon, making her arch up into you. These touches, swipes over her stiffened nub; she's falling into you.

Needy little sounds spill from her mouth, sweet nothings and half-formed pleas; bad things, dirty thoughts that most would regret ever even thinking, but of course, Bae only has the best of intentions. You’ve got her right where she wants to be; where she needs to be, and fuck she just takes your breath away.

You look up at her, feel her, and the absurdity of it all is dawning on you. To think someone like Bae would ever need training.

She was already perfect the first time you met her.

The long, pale-white expanse of her legs, all toned muscle and elegance. Her ass, the tight curve of it, fuller, rounder than should be possible on a frame so dainty. Her stomach, her thighs, her arms, (God, did you already mention her abs?), every flawless fucking inch of her.

A work of art, meticulously crafted by some divine hand; there’s nothing to be done by mere mortals except worship.

Let it be known the irony is not lost on you, when you let her nipple slip from your mouth and relay your next instruction: “Get on your hands and knees.”

Bae doesn’t need to be told twice.

With grace that’s far too practiced to be interpreted as anything other than a deliberate tease, Bae swings her body around, shifting her weight until she's on all fours.

Standing before her, watching the muscles in her back flex, her ass peeking out from beneath the elastic of her shorts. They’ll be ripped off entirely in due time.

But first, a kiss for your troubles. Over your sweatpants, branding you through the cotton as hers.

“Finally,” she breathes, making you swell, throb under her gaze.

Fingers hook into your waistband, pulling down your pants with ease. Your cock springs free, slapping across her lips, leaving a wet streak on her gloss. It shines.

A giggle, a raise of her bleached brows—like it’s a surprise. Like she hasn’t been made intimately familiar with your length; felt it buried deep inside her, painting her walls, her throat, with your release.

The tip of her tongue peeks out, just enough to swipe across the slit, to scoop up the pre-cum beading out of it. You hiss through your teeth, hips jerk forward, but Bae’s too quick—draws back with a laugh. She’s enjoying this, this little game of hers. The brat and the trainer, the cat and the mouse, the idol and the grown man who’s supposed to have his shit together.

“Tease,” you groan, your hands finding her hair, tugging gently to remind her of her place.

“Sorry, sir. Couldn’t resist.” 

A wink is all the warning you get, and she’s diving down.

No more preamble, no hesitation at all—Bae’s been waiting for this all fucking month, and she’s dead set on making up for lost time.

She’s taking you in, all of you, all at once; her mouth stretching wide to accommodate the girth. The feel of her, the wetness, the tears at the corners of those big, round eyes, and the question in them—'think you can handle this?'

Fuck.

She’s sloppy; so immediately, noisily sloppy.

Cheeks hollowing out, taking you deep, making your hips buck and collide with the back of her throat for that agonising split second before she retreats; only to do it again. Faster, harder; making you doubt the ability of your knees to hold out.

A fistful of her hair, if only to keep you upright.

She’s all over the place—popping your cock from her lips, kissing down your shaft, licking around the base, a cheeky graze of teeth along your balls, and then back again, swallowing you down until you can feel her nose nuzzling into your groin.

You’re a mess of sensations, pleasure coiling in your stomach, a knot inside you tightening with every wet sound she makes.

It’s her enthusiasm that does it, really. She’s not trying to be good at this, not trying to impress you with her skills. She’s just plain desperate for it.

Her moans vibrate through you, muffled by the thickness of your cock. She’s saying something, words that you can’t quite make out, that takes a moment to translate: "Needed this," she gasps around your length, "Missed it so much."

An admission: you’ve really fucking missed it too.

“This beautiful, beautiful cock,” Bae slurs, sliding your cock out of her throat to catch her breath, so she can take a break to wonder. “How many has it ruined, hm?” Her tongue flicks out, scooping the globs of saliva and pre-cum hanging from the head. “All those pretty little girls you train.”

There’s envy there, and you’re barely managing to groan out, assuage her, “Just you.”

“I find that so fucking hard to believe, sir.” Bae says, resting your cock on the edges of her cheeks. “Those tight cunts, those eager mouths and asses, and you're telling me—" she swipes her tongue along your shaft, leaving a wet trail in her wake "—that it's just me?"

Her voice, her fucking words; too, too much. It’s all you can do to not just grab her by the neck and fuck her face raw. (A dream for her, probably. To have you grab her throat and made her choke on you).

“Well, if you say so,” she’s unconvinced; not that it does anything to slow her down. Back at it, back at making her eyes water, at needing these panted, desperate gulps of air between mouthfuls of you.

The little things—her lips glued around your shaft, her throat a tight, warm fist, and her eyes. Looking up at you like she's afraid if she doesn't, if she stops moving and averts her gaze, you'll pull away.

As if.

“Bae, you’re so fucking good at this,” you’re blurting out, because she is. She really, really is.

Wet and filthy and so fucking delighted to let you know, “All for you, sir.”

And you believe it—she makes you believe it.

Everything’s for you, even when she’s not supposed to be. The sound of her, choking and gagging, the wet, slobbering noises of her devouring you, echoing off the empty gym walls.

The sight of it all; tearing your attention to a million different places. There’s the Bae in front of you, focused entirely on your cock, on letting you use her mouth like a toy, plunge your length deep down her throat to make her cry, to make her cheeks flush.

Then there’s the Bae in the mirror, the reflection bouncing off the polished chrome surface behind her. Her ass, rising and falling, in time with the bobbing of her head; and that soaked spot right at the centre of her shorts, the bullseye growing and growing with every second that passes.

Fucking amazing, incredible, too good, too much to handle; spilling out of your mouth as those pouty pink lips of hers slide up and down, drool pooling around your base, slipping down your thighs, a wet mess dripping onto your floor.

“And to think you wanted to stop this from happening,” she’s chiding, offended really, voice raspy with the effort of speaking around your cock.

There’s no argument to make, not when you’re too busy taking in the sight of your cock disappearing back into her mouth. She’s impatient now, not letting up, not even for air; just taking you in deep, deep, so deep she’s trying to swallow you whole.

You’re sliding down, down her throat, and she’s got you; this suction around you that holds you there and it’s a sheer miracle that haven't completely dissolved inside her. Your hips are thrusting forward of their own accord, your hand still in her hair, but not pulling anymore. Just holding on.

The world narrows down to just the two of you, the gym spins around you; the lights, the equipment, everything blurs into a sea of white noise, and all that remains is the wet sound of her mouth and the hotness of her throat, the fistfuls of her blonde hair, her eyes, these pretty drops of chocolate brown; and it’s all building and building and tightening and tightening, until—

"Stop."

It’s a pain to say, but necessary; if you still want a fighting chance to make it out of this with at least some of your dignity intact.

A gentle tug of her hair has your cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pout; leaving the warmth of her lips for the sudden chill of the gym’s regulated air. Bae looks up at you, panting, lips swollen and shiny, drops of you smeared from your base to her chin.

“Something wrong?”

A pause until the room stops spinning, so you can collect yourself and wonder why you’re even here. “I need—" you start, but the words catch in your throat. What do you need? To not fuck your client? To try to keep your job? Or to hear her scream your name, have her beg and beg and beg, drill her into every surface possible—every bench, rack, wall, fuck even the elliptical if she’s game.

Coherence comes and goes, and Bae remains seated on her heels, supplying her own suggestions. “Need to stretch me out? Make me really sweat?”

"Still with that?"

"Tired of the wordplay?" She laughs, and you can't even be mad—you're the one who gave her the opening.

"What do you think?"

Bae takes her sweet time looking you up and down, greed in her gaze, as she takes in you; straining from the effort of holding back. From your chest, down your stomach, landing on your cock, still painfully standing at attention.

"I think," she says, drawing out that word, sliding it over her tongue like a piece of candy, "That I regret not asking you to send me any photos back."

That brings a smile to your face; and it’s enough to clear the fog from your head. You steel your resolve, give her the one thing she’s been craving, from the moment she saw you walk in:

A firm order: “Stand up. Take those shorts off before I rip them off myself.”

You give her room to lift herself off the bench, legs unfurling one at a time and stretching beneath her. She wiggles her hips in this dance as she kicks off her sneakers and shimmies out of her shorts; the nylon clinging to her skin before it’s peeled away to reveal… nothing.

Just her bare, naked flesh—pink and perfect.

Tearing away from her momentarily, from the living canvas of long legs and naked anticipation, ignoring the fucking twirl she does for you, because yeah, she’s fully, adorably aware of just how insanely, lights-out good she looks.

You turn to the bench, kick up the backrest from a flat to an incline; doing your best to pay no mind to Bae, waiting. Rather impatiently, bouncing restlessly on the balls of her feet. The teacher’s pet, so needy for a morsel of attention.

Back to her, unable to suppress the smirk spreading across your face as you take a seat. “Squats.”

Her face. The amusement, the excitement, the acknowledgment that you’re now completely on board with this derailment of a training session—it's all there, painted across Bae's features in glorious, full-colour high definition.

She takes a step forward, sauntering over, one hand sliding down to trace over her mound, to tease herself; tease you. And when she’s close enough, she swings her legs over your thighs, straddling your waist, taking hold of your shoulders and bracing herself against you.

Dripping already, cunt barely kissing the tip of your cock, the heat of it all; it’s a living, breathing entity in the room—thick, heavy, making the air feel charged.

And then, without another word, she sinks down.

A long, hot breath from Bae's mouth: “Fuuuck me.”

Slow, delicious torture has you groaning, has her biting down on her lip. The way she takes you in, the way you push into her, inch by inch—feeling every little twitch of her walls, every throb of your cock; it’s all just so fucking perfect.  

“Good girl,” you find yourself saying when she bottoms out, when your cock completes her, turns her into something beautifully obscene.

“God, you’re just so,” she starts with, but the words get lost somewhere between the shallow gasps and harsh breaths that follows.

She’s staring at you, deep into you, and there’s this satisfied grin playing at the corners of her mouth that makes you want to do everything she hasn’t had the breath to ask for.

"Thank you," she manages instead.

And then she’s moving. Slowly, so goddamn slow, taking her time to feel every ridge, every vein; making sure she’s got you all to herself. Her chest heaves up and down, her tits bounce dangerously close to your lips. You spy past her, enamoured with her reflection, how her back flexes and tenses, how her spine curves with each descent, how her ass cheeks clench each time you fill her whole. 

It’s these tight little squats, this wonderful rhythm she’s setting, these squeezes of her pussy around you, the juices of her cunt slapping against your thighs as she bounces.

“Creaming everywhere, so fucking messy.” You’re taking stock of her; of this mess she’s leaving, all over herself, all over you, all over the bench and down to the ground. You can’t even be mad because, “It’s a good look on you, Bae.”

From a distance she’d be the purest depiction of innocence; the sweetest angel, the kind that would be painted on stained glass and prayed to by the masses.

But here, up close, biting down on your shoulder, devouring your cock with her cunt, moaning in your ear things that would make the Old Testament blush; she’s fucking pornographic.

Yet, she says, “Sir, I can’t handle this—”

You pause, holding her by the hips, eliciting this whine from her lips. “Too much?”

“No, not that, it’s—ah. It’s too slow,” Bae whines, emphasising her point by slamming her hips down onto your thighs, the slap of skin on skin bouncing off the mirrored walls. “I need it fast. And hard. Like you said, I need to sweat. It’s there—I’m right fucking there—so, can we—fuck, can we just go?”

Bae, Bae, Bae.

She makes your blood sing and your cock throb.

Makes you give it to her, just like she asked.

Fingers dig into her hips, thumbs pressed into the softness of her flesh, and you lift her slightly, only to pull her right back down. Like she asked: fast, hard, and you’re thankful you shelled out extra for benches that could take punishment.

“God—” Bae cries out, high-pitched, a scream that has her shaking; not because you’re hurting her, there’s no pain to be found here. It’s all just bliss, pure, unbridled bliss.

So, you lean in, suck one of those pretty little peaks into your mouth, swirl your tongue around, and she’s jolting, her cunt clamping down on you, so tight, so fucking tight.

Every part of her, from the top of head to the tips of her toes, is tuned to this frequency of need. Her nipples, especially so; they’re so sensitive, so attuned to your every touch. They tighten to pebbles with the slightest swipe of your tongue, when your teeth dare to graze them—any pressure from your lips and she shivers.

"That’s—fuck—that’s so much better," she’s panting, “Isn’t it, isn’t it so fucking good?”

You rumble something of an affirmative into her chest, too occupied to bother with words, too busy mapping out her chest, her breasts, that lovely dip between, with your tongue and teeth and hands.

And you’re suddenly having trouble remembering, or forgetting altogether—what was it really that was stopping you from doing this sooner? What could possibly make missing out on this, missing out on Bae’s sighs and moans, missing out on the blistering heat of her cunt and the tightness wrapped around you worth it?

Sure, you had her (had each other) in the shower—slippery, steamy, illicit—but it had been so fleeting. Just a glimpse into what had been begging to happen since she first entered your domain, all smiles and sly glances.

Now that she's in your lap, taking your cock like such a good little slut, you can’t stop the images flooding your mind, feeding your imagination with every conceivable scenario.

Tasting every inch of her, exploring every crevice with your tongue, every peak and valley with your fingers. Spending hours just learning her. In due time, in due time; not now, when she’s riding you like she’s trying to break you—or at least, break the bench.

“This, exactly this,” Bae breathes into your neck, her nails raking over your shoulder blades, leaving these angry red crescents that burn and sting. “Fuck, fuck, I want it just like this—"

Getting more erratic, louder, closer.

So, you lean back, content to let her do all the work, watch her climb that peak. You could take all the time in the world, watch her waste away the very expensive fee you’re charging her company for your time. It’s what she wants, and isn’t that how it goes—the customer is always right?

"This is exactly what I want to do, exactly what we're going to do every session from now on," Bae’s instructing, voice a whip crack in the quiet of the gym. She’s getting braver with each moan that escapes, each grind of her hips that sends you deeper. "You’re going to fuck me, hard, rough, just like you fucking promised."

You can't help but laugh, the situation absurd, the words rolling off her tongue like she’s rehearsed them. "Every session, huh?"

"Every. Single. One," she confirms, her eyes fluttering shut as she starts to bounce faster, her pussy swallowing you up in a wet, delicious rhythm. “No more hiding, no more pretending. Just me, you, and this gym, as much as we need, whenever we want. Fuck, doesn't even have to be scheduled, I'll just call you and you better be here ready to fuck my brains out."

"Alright, Bae," you grit out, something inside you tightening at the thought of her calling you, begging for it like she is now, "If that's what you want, that's what you'll get."

It’s a contract, signed and sealed with the slickness of her cunt, the heat of your skin, the promise in her eyes that she’ll be good, so good for you—or at least, good enough to get more of this.

"But remember," you say, unlatching yourself from her tits, making sure to catch her eyes. "I don't do easy. You want this, you're going to work for it."

Bae bites her lips, “Yes. God yes.”

You correct her. “Yes, who?”

“Yes,” Bae grins, “sir.” 

Something shifts; the dynamic swinging for the first time in your direction, and it’s clear now. Clear to you, to her, that from now on as long as you’re taking her—pushing her—to that precipice, you’re the one calling the shots.

So, you guide her, guide her hips with your hands; setting a new pace. One that’s demanding, borderline violent, that has her chanting—“yes, yes, yes”—the syllables falling from her lips like sweet little prayers to some depraved deity.

She’s coming apart, leaving herself so vulnerable and bare, like she'd just die on top of you if you didn't stop fucking her back to life. It’s so, so painfully lovely, you’re seeing the most beautifully crafted sculpture crumble into dust. You’re in awe of her. You’re in—

Fuck you might be falling for her.

That’s a revelation to keep tucked safely away, because you couldn’t think of a less appropriate time for confessions. No, now’s the time for grunts and groans, for the sound of her wetness and the smack of her ass colliding with your thighs.

"Am I good for you?" Bae mewls, "Am I good for you, sir?"

She’s so, so good. So fucking good that your answer is a knee-jerk reaction. “Fucking incredible, Bae. Such a good slut. Getting fucked like this, used. Taking it so fucking nicely.”

Red colours her cheeks as they flush at the praise, a silent plea for more. And so you give it to her, pushing harder, faster, showering her with these gems of depravity that only someone like Bae could bring to the surface.

“You’re just loving this, aren’t you? Getting so close. So desperate to give it to me,” you’re taunting, feeling her walls closing in around you, feeling her body coiling up tight. “It’s okay, let go. You can let go.”

So close to the edge she’s practically dancing on it. She’s fighting it, fighting against the wave, her cunt spasming around you, her breaths hitching and coming in these sweet desperate little pants.

You can taste it; she just needs that extra push, that hard fucking to bring her there. A demand: “Cum. Cum for me now, Bae. Show me how good you can be, show me how much you want this.”  

And finally, a gasp, “Say my name. Call me by my name, please.”

A hand at the back of her neck, bringing her ear to her lips, so you can whisper the name you’re fucking her hard enough to forget. “Jinsol.”

It’s fucking immediate.

The words leave your mouth, and she shatters. Fine china thrown against a brick wall.

Waves of it hitting her, a shudder at first, then a fucking tsunami; ripping through her, stealing away any last semblance of bodily autonomy she might’ve had left and leaving her as a puddle of trembles and shivers and pure need.

You keep pumping, calling her every dirty name in your book—whore, slut, your little toy, your good girl, just Jinsol—again and again until all she knows is your voice.

Each name you give her, it’s a spark that sends her higher, makes her cum harder, and she just goes and goes and goes.

"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuuuck," Bae whimpers, eyes squeezed shut so tightly you can see the veins pulsing at her temples. And you keep going, you keep pushing her, because you can't get enough of this—of her, of the power she's given you, of the way she's so obviously yours in this moment.

You want to mark this occasion, leave a sign that it was real, that you really did fuck her to oblivion. It has you kissing into her neck, sucking at the pale flesh, biting down just hard enough to make her whine.

"You're mine," you burn into her, in that nook between her neck and shoulder. "You're all mine."

Ragged huffs signal the end of it, the come down from the high—but you’re hardly done with her. You can’t be—not when you’re still this hard, not when she’s still so fucking wet around you, not when you’re feeling like this, like you could drown in her without ever needing to come up for air.

"So good, so fucking good.” She collapses, her body folds into yours, and she’s giggling, all breathless and boneless.

Of course she’d be like this, over the fucking moon. She’s got what she wanted, what she needed; made you promise to keep giving it to her whenever she wanted.

She reaches for you, fingers trace the line of your job, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, smudging a bit of her own gloss there. "I knew you’d be perfect," is what she says, right before she kisses you, "Perfect for this."

The tangling of your tongues, the taste of mint and sweat, and the smiles you’re sharing against each other’s lips when you flex your cock inside her.

“I’m not done yet,” you remind her, pulling back from her kiss, pulling your bottom lip out from her teeth. “Far from it.”

“Not going to let me catch my breath?” Bae teases, acting like this isn't entirely her fault. Like she wasn't the one that pushed you this far, that dug underneath all your layers of professionalism and responsibility until she found someone that could match her appetite.

“No.”

You’re up, pushing yourself up to your feet, keeping her impaled on you, fucking her up into the air and forcing her to wrap her legs around your waist.

And then, with a strength fuelled by lust and want and a need to just fucking cum in this slut; you drop her on her feet, spin her around, and plant her hands against the mirror.

No warning, no easing her in; she’s still so wet, cunt slick and slippery. Just slide back in, slam into her from behind, watch her come apart.

It’s all in front of you, all playing out across her pretty reflection: her face twists, her tits jiggle, her abs, God how they tighten and release all at once.

Taking back a handful of her hair, yanking her head back to claim her neck; all these sweet things—"watch yourself get fucked, Bae, look how pretty you are for me.”

And she laughs, she actually laughs, because it’s all she can do when you’re gripping her hair so tight, scraping your teeth across her neck, making her feel you all thick and hard inside of her.

A hard buck of your hips sends her forward, presses her cheek to the mirror, staining the glass with the heat of her breath.

“Look,” you demand, “look how perfect you are taking my cock like this.”

She obeys; staring at herself in the mirror, watching herself get fucked, get filled, get taken. It’s just too much. She’s too much. You’re too much. This whole fucking situation is just too much.

"Fuck it's so—you're fucking me so—"

"Didn’t you say you could take it?"

Bae's response is a whine, a clench of her cunt around you. "I can, I can take it, sir," she gasps. "Whatever you have for me. But you're just too..."

You lean in, eager to hear her confession. "Too what?"

"Too much! Too big, too good, too everything."

A fucking compliment and a challenge all rolled into one. "Is that so?"

"Y-Yes—I’m just so—just need you to—please fucking cum," she groans, barely audible over the wet sounds of your bodies slapping together. "Do whatever you want to it, to me, to my pussy, please, just please, please, please."

You're breaking her, turning her into this teary mess of moans and whimpers, tapping into something innate inside her, something that wants to be bent to your will, to be used by you, to be treated like the slut she craves to be in this moment.

And fuck, it’s addictive.

"You're going to scream my name.” You’re telling her, telling her how the rest of this situation, how the rest of your entire relationship is going to play out. "You're going to cum all over my cock again, and then you're going to tell me how much you love it."

"I will, sir," she nods furiously to you, to herself in the mirror, "I'll do anything you say."

You just can't wipe the grin off your face.

Thrusting into her, fucking her like you've never fucked anyone before. Like you own her, like she's nothing more than your toy to play with—to use and abuse and enjoy.

She’s screaming your name—no, not your name—“sir, sir, sir, fuck me, sir”—and—“more, sir, please, pretty please.”

More for her—a hard smack to her ass that makes her jump, makes her eyes water. But it also has her push back against you, fucking you back, more frantic than ever. A second smack cracking through the gym, and already there’s red blooming on her skin, marring the perfect pale flesh.

"Sir, please," she cries out, her voice high and tight. "More, more, more."

You oblige, your hand coming down again and again, painting her ass with the sting of your palm. Each smack has her pussy clenching around you, her lips begging for more.

"I love this," she admits, shakily. "I love it."

You slap her again, and again, and again—each hit punctuating her moans. "Say it," you demand. "Say it louder."

"I love it, sir," she cries, the filthy fucking admission bouncing off the walls. "I love it, I love it, I love it!"

Her orgasm builds again, her body tightening around you, a vice. The tension in the air is suffocating, you’re fucking in for it now, dooming yourself to this delicious cycle of sin with every thrust.

Bae, your Bae, all pure white and angry red now, the beauty still standing despite your best efforts to bring it to ruin.

She's there, and you're done waiting.

"Now."

It's that fucking easy.

That's what you think as you watch Bae unravel all over again, all over you; slipping into that sweet, sweet oblivion that you’ve coaxed out of her.

"God, sir, fuck!"

Hammering into her, fucking her apart; through the pain, through the ruinous pleasure, pressing her up against the mirror, squishing her tits into the cold glass.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, sir, fucking me so good, making such a mess, you’re—" But that sentence dies before it even can get started, and all that tumbles out of her mouth is, “fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck—”

She’s fucking gone.

Bae crumbles against the mirror, and you fall into her, keeping your body glued to her back. The clenching, the shivering, the twitches and the gasps; the patchwork of bruises and bites and crimson you’ve left all over her.

You follow.

Something dark, a guttural grunt, and you pull out of her, this sloshing noise from her cunt as you do.

Without your cock Bae just falls to the ground, bracing herself against the wall while she gathers herself—twists her body into something beautiful.

Before you can even process what she’s doing, what’s happening at your feet, she’s in position; that pose again. And you realise what it was: the kneeling, the hands behind the back, the tits out, mouth wide open, tongue waiting.

A preview. A promise. An invitation.

“Sir, your cum, if you please—"

A sledgehammer to your fucking soul—that's what it feels like when you finish.

One, two, three pumps of your cock and your vision goes white, like someone's shone a fucking flashlight right into your eyes, and the only thing you have left is the intense, throbbing release all over Bae.

Ropes of it spurt from your cock, painting her face with thick, white streaks. There’s more sirs, more thank yous and pleases and fucks, (you swear you catch a daddy in there as it hits her); but she doesn't flinch—no, she opens her mouth wider, needy for every drop.

The first shot hits her square in the forehead, sliding down the bridge of her nose and into the waiting cavern of her mouth.

Another shot goes wide, spattering across that dark freckle on her cheek. Another hits her chin, another ruins her hair, the last sprays over her tits; all these shots just covering her, turning this fucking idol into your personal cumslut.

“God, yes, sir,” she slurs through the cum, earning every single drop, “I’m just covered in it. So, fucking much. It’s so good.”

A stumble back on your feet, a step away to assess the damage as you slowly stop pumping your cock. Bae on her knees before you, just drenched with your cum. Bae your client, if she still can be called that anymore.

What else could she be? Your lover, your sub, your obsession, your… what? You’re not quite sure what to call it, call her, other than a big fucking mess.

But, as you watch her happily lick your cum off her own skin, you can’t resist giving a final instruction. “Swallow.”

“Yes, sir.”

You are so, so fucked.

Bae, sweet and obedient, takes her finger, scooping up every trace of you from her cheek, her tits, all along the ridges of her abs. All this hot, hot white you’ve expended on her, marked and branded her with.

It all happens in slow motion; she laps it up, paints it over her lips, pushes it into her mouth. Sticking out her tongue, presenting it to you in one big sticky glob, making sure you're seeing nothing but her be such a good girl for you.

And down her throat it goes.

"Good enough, sir?"

You lean down, wipe the last drop off her temple with your thumb. She opens her mouth, helps you push it in, sucks on it greedily as if it’s the last taste of you she’ll ever get.

There’s a thought to give her more, to fill her mouth until she’s addicted to your flavour. But you don’t—not yet.

You must save some things for later.

Bae’s content to stay there, kneeling, cheek resting your thigh, utterly cum-drenched; fingers idly dancing along your softening cock, toying with the last few drops of cum that still cling to your shaft.

You break the silence with a sigh. “Guess I should get used to this, huh?”

Bae sings, “Every single session.”

“Christ.”

That draws a chuckle from her, and you shoot her a warning look as she dares to kiss your cock once more. “Care to show me how the shower works again?”

You roll your eyes.

“I mean, only if we have the time.”

At this point, you’d give her your every waking hour if you could. A glance at the digital clock on the wall has you guesstimating—"It'll be a squeeze."

Bae, never to miss an opportunity, “Isn’t that how you like me?”

“I thought we were going to stop with the wordplay."

"Can't help it, sir." Bae's arms snake around your leg, sidling just that inch closer. "You just bring it out of me."

"Ah, so it's my fault."

"Of course. This whole thing is your fault," she tells you, donning the expression of a saint; all wide-eyes and sweet smiles. "You just had to make me yours."

"Mine?"

"From now on, yes."

“In that case—” You bend down, lifting Bae up, hoisting her up in your arms as easily as any other weight in the gym. She giggles into your neck, her body fitting into yours like you've been doing this for years. The warmth of her, the press of her breasts into your chest, her legs looping around your waist—it’s all so natural. “While we still have some time left.”

“Before your next client?” She asks, oh-so-innocently, like she isn't prying, isn't trying to make a home for herself in the remaining hours of your day.

“Sullyoon.”

“Oh,” Bae says once, processing, and then again, “Ohhh.”

You blink, trying to keep up with wherever her mind is racing to next. “What?”

The smile that widens on her face is going to haunt you, you can tell. “Oh, nothing,” she says, but she’s got a secret she’s just dying to share.

But she won’t, not yet.

Bae’s fingers trace a pattern down the centre of your chest, playing over your sternum, circling your navel, and then—there’s that smugness again—heading south. “I was just thinking I might stick around for your next session.”

It’s a declaration, not a question. The way she says it, so casual, so flippant, it’s like she’s talking about sticking around to watch a movie, not grossly overstepping even more lines before you get a chance to redraw them.

And then you're back at square one.

“Just to make sure you and her keep things strictly professional."

[sectumsempraaa]

Taking a flight with the Slytherin boys (headcanons)

i wrote these while delayed for several hours at the airport yesterday 🫶🏼 a lil something for y’all while i work on requests!

feat. Draco, Mattheo, Theo, Blaise, Lorenzo x reader

Draco:

- is extremely confused why he has to take off his shoes at security

- threatens the TSA agent during a pat down

- refuses to eat airport food

- pays his way into one of the airline lounges to get away from the public

- doesn’t “trust” the muggle pilot- asks if he can fly the plane instead

- “Draco this is a Boeing 747 not a Nimbus 2000”

- upgrades you both to first class and orders you expensive drinks

- aisle seat kinda guy

- booked a car service for y’all to be ready immediately upon landing

- asks his dad if they have a private jet bc he literally never wants to do that again

Mattheo:

- oh no

- where is he

- you’re not even there for 10 minutes before you lose him

- you find him signing up for Clear bc he hates waiting in lines

- sets the metal detector off bc he “didn’t know” that knives are prohibited on planes

- buys way too much stuff at the grab and go store bc he doesn’t want y’all to be hungry

- teasing you with his hands between your thighs before takeoff

- falls asleep on your shoulder for the entire flight

- big time nuzzling his face in your neck

Blaise:

- airport dad energy

- gets y’all to the airport 3 hours before takeoff

- has everyones documents photo copied in a physical folder

- if the whole group is there he is doing a headcount every 15 minutes

- puts airtags in everyones backpacks in case someone wanders off

- orders you a fancy meal on the plane. this man won’t let you settle for snacks

- makes sure you’re extremely comfortable (seat all the way back, borrowing his pillow, adjusting the air temp bc he knows you get cold)

- not a fan of heights!! plays with your hair to distract himself

Theo:

- showing up to the airport with minutes to spare

- checks all your bags bc he won’t let y’all carry that crap around

- knows your coffee order and is also a caffeinated king

- downloaded a carefully selected line up of his and your favorite films on his ipad

- buys you both painfully cheesey matching airport merch (ie: I ♡ NY shirts)

- if your flight gets delayed he is buying y’all mimosas at the airport bar

- buys the third seat so it’s just you guys in your row (so he can makeout with you whenever he wants)

Lorenzo:

- mans is dressing SO comfy

- hand on your lower back at all times

- staring at your ass all day, he lovesss when you wear those yoga pants

- gets yelled at for trying to go through the metal detector with you

- striking up conversation with strangers who have service dogs

- taking pictures of EVERYTHING

- mega turbulence anxiety but tries so hard to keep his composure for you

- definitely curated a soothing playlist for the flight

- “Y/N, you’re missing the safety demonstration”

- asks for a blanket and drapes it over both of you bc this man wants to cuddle until the wheels hit the ground

- 100% tries to sit on the actively moving baggage claim carousel

—

ALL of them refer to you as their “wife” for fun whenever talking to strangers or employees. “my wife would like a glass of champagne.” “a blanket for my wife and i, please.” “me and my wife are headed back home for the holidays.”

[colleendoran]

How Do I Do Stuff

The question was phrased a little strangely, and I don't want to embarrass the person by posting exactly what was said, but I'll answer it and hope this clears everything up.

I do almost all of my drawing by hand. No, I don't trace in Photoshop. Not a judgment on those who do, but I come from a generation of artists who did not use Poser programs or other digital tools. We learned to draw using a technique called the Sight Size method. I know a lot of people assume everyone - including the old masters - traced everything using optical tools, but while it is true some people did, it is just as true that most didn't, and you can draw with great accuracy if you learned how to draw the old fashioned way.

Sight Size breaks everything down into its barest components of geometric shapes and you build from there. Once you learn it, you never forget, and it applies to everything you will ever draw.

I learned it using a set of Famous Artist Course books my mom had since she was a kid, and they are still the gold standard. They're often on ebay. If I were you, I'd buy them.

I actually find using figure reference really annoying because I like exaggerations and modifications from reality in my final work.

This page from Neil Gaiman's Chivalry was drawn and painted without figure reference of any kind.

I don't know why people assume I trace all the time. If you were to try to use photographs to replicate these figures, you would find they are slightly off. There is no tracing here.

This is not to say I never use reference. This page, for example, was referenced from a photo of my mother. Isn't she pretty.

But this page of Sir Galaad was drawn and painted without reference.

He's pretty, too.

If he were real, I'm sure a lot of people would be very happy about it. But he's not. And had I reference, the art would have gone a lot faster. I had a time trying to nail this face that is very alive in my head but doesn't really exist.

Back in the ancient days, all cartoonists had to learn to draw and paint extemporaneously because reference was limited and digital tools didn't exist. While some high end artists had photography studios and professional models with costume and sets on hand, small fry like me were limited to what was in the house or available at my small local library, which was no bigger than a few rooms of my current house.

Artists kept extensive "morgue files" or "swipe files" which were collected from magazine clippings and photographs so we would have as much of what we might need on hand for quick reference. These ephemera collections could get unwieldy. I have thousands of photographs I've simply never sorted. I finally dumped most of my files this past year.

Have I ever traced anything? Of course, especially if I have to re-use a shot or setting over and over. Making extra work for myself is just silly. It's my job to make pictures, not to perform magical feats, like copying one shot after another over and over without making a mistake.

However, for almost 15 years of my career, I refused to copy or trace anything, and did not even own a lightbox. On the one hand, that forced me to learn to carefully examine what I saw. On the other hand, it was a stupid hill on which many deadlines died.

Only after I realized many professional artists had lightboxes and overhead projectors did I finally break down and get one.

The one thing I use my lightbox for more than anything is for tracing my thumbnail sketches to the final drawing paper. Instead of trying to capture the liveliness of the original sketch by copying what I see - only bigger - I blow the thumbnail up to the size I want the final art to be, then I trace over the thumbnail using a lightbox onto the final drawing paper.

Here's a look at thumbnails from the graphic novel Neil Gaiman's Snow, Glass, Apples.

I enlarged these on my computer to fit onto 11"x14" paper, and traced the thumbs before finishing the art which was drawn in pen and ink and colored in Photoshop.

While I obviously made some changes, the essence of the thumbs is there in the final work. Tracing my thumbs retains some of the looseness of the original sketches, which is often lost otherwise.

So, there is a valid purpose to tracing at times, though in my opinion, too much tracing can weaken drawing ability, substitute for developing skills, and make the work kind of stiff.

If you want to, I'm not your judge. But it's weird to me that people think I must be faking my skills in some way.

Ironically, the word cartoon comes from the Italian word cartone, which is a large heavy sheet of paper - also, the origin of the word carton.

Preparatory sketches were made on this paper which was then transferred to the final work surface via either tracing or by stamping little holes in the paper through which dust was sprinkled, recreating the contours of the drawing for the artist to follow.

So the origin of the word cartoon comes from a process often used...for tracing.

[scarletwinterxx]

have I told you lately, i'm grateful you're mine - jeon wonwoo imagine

helloo, first of all happiest birthday to his sunshine🥺 of course I just had to do a scenario for him. Jeon Wonwoo, you deserve all the happiness in this world🤍

for my other svt fics, check them here

if you want, u can buy me coffee(totally optional but any donation is very much appreciated!) thank you🥺💛

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2024 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

"That's all you want for your birthday?"

"Yep, unless you want to do something else. I'm down"

"It's your birthday, you pick what we do" you smile at him, letting the birthday boy plan the rest of the day. You did ask him before today if he wanted anything and all he said was he wanted the day. At first you were confused then he asked you to clear your schedule for that day.

It's not like you were going anywhere on his special day. It's your favorite person's day. There's nowhere else you'd rather be today of all days.

Wonwoo arrived to your place early today to have breakfast with you, right now you're on your way to a film/photography studio. The only detail he mentioned was there was something he wanted to show you.

When you arrived there, he greeted the worker at the front. Knowing your boyfriend's love for photography he probably already knows the people who work here. He has his camera bag slung on his shoulder while his other hand holds you, guiding you around the store until you enter a very dark room.

"Is this a dark room?"

"Yea, you know?" he looks at you, a small smile on his face

"Looked it up when you mentioned it before, so this is where you spend your time when you can't answer your phone" you tease him, referring to all the times he missed your texts or call but you don't hold that against him.

It might be a small detail but that deepens his adoration for you. It means a lot to him that you're trying to learn his hobby, in a way you're already part of it.

You are his favorite subject after all.

And that's the reason why he wanted to take you here today. .It's more of a surprise for you than it is for him. There's something he's been wanting to tell you but he just can't find the right time to say it. Every time, he ends up overthinking it and chickening out so he looked for a way to say it.

A way he knew best.

At first he tells you all the tools he use, explain the process while you eagerly listen to every word. It's endearing to watch him talk about something he loves so much.

"So you took all of these?" you point at the pictures hanging, waiting for them to finish developing

"Mhm"

"What's your favorite thing to take pictures of?" you asked, Wonwoo looked up at you for a moment before looking down at the table. A smile on his lips as he thinks of his answer,

"Anything really, I like taking my camera wherever I go and just capture that moment. When I look back, I get this lingering feeling of that exact moment. I used to take pictures of roads a lot, must have been my subconscious telling me I felt a little lost" he chuckles

"All these roads and places, I've walked some of those streets my whole life. Different seasons, different versions of myself. I've grown up, aged through the years but the photos I've taken stays frozen at that moment" he explains as he finish developing another photo. After he hangs it up, he looks over the other side of the table where you were.

"Now this is all I find myself capturing" he nods his head over the side making you look over. There hangs a row, maybe a few rows of your pictures alone. From different dates, different times, different places. Some you're looking straight at the camera, some capturing your candid smile.

"That's all me" you mumble

Wonwoo looks at the photos of you, each and every one of them capturing his favorite moments with you.

"Guess I finally found my way home" he says, this time looking straight at you. Watching your reaction as you take it all in.

"I look at those and remember the way you smiled at me, how I feel like my heart's about to hammer out of my chest every time. I know I struggle with saying my feelings using words but I hope this way you get what I'm trying to say"

"No one ever saw me like this"

"I do, I see you. I want you to see you the way I do. I want you to know how I feel whenever you smile at me like that, how you look at me" he walks over to you, holding both of your hands in his.

"Just like this" he whispers

"I look at you like what?" you chuckle, smiling at your boyfriend like you were watching him hung the stars in the sky for you. You can't help the few tears from falling, quickly Wonwoo wipes them away

"Like you love me" his voice barely a whisper, eyes looking straight at you like he's capturing this moment committing every detail to his memory.

You don't say anything, instead you pull him down to meet his lips with yours. He reacts instantly, kissing you back with the same intensity. How he wishes he can capture this moment right now, pause time and stay right here.

Just like that he gets lost, but this time he gets lost in you. And he don't mind it one bit.

He pulls you closer, arms circling your waist. He kisses you until the two of you are out of breath.

When you break apart, he smiling so big at you and all you can think is there's nothing you won't do for this guy. If he asks you to runaway with him, you would.

"I love you, too" you tell him, standing on your tiptoe to give him another peck on the lips making the birthday boy grin even bigger.

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Mino

Debut: Tetris

Tetris is all about blocks! You know that! Did you know that those blocks are called Tetriminos? Maybe you did! Geometrically, they are tetrominoes, shapes formed from four squares connected at the edges. "Tetrimino" is the official spelling of the ones used in Tetris specifically, which is a little confusing, but it's ok. Don't worry about it unless you are making your own game about tetrominoes! If you do that, be careful.

But what about the little blocks that make up the Tetrimino? These are geometrically called monominoes, but in Tetris, they are simply Minos! Humble little things. The game is named after Four, so what place does a measly One have?

If you ask me, they have all the place, because they are all over the place! There are no Tetriminos without Minos. Together, Minos are powerful, some of the most iconic and recognizable shape clusters in the world! Even in the form of a plush, The Tetris Company almost ALWAYS ensures that the individual Minos are visible. It is a part of the Tetriminos' designs at this point! The only exception I can think of is in situations unable to use their distinct colors, where other design factors are used to distinguish each. In this case, all but the I Tetrimino have their Minos visible, while I is just a solid color. Come on now, I. The most universally beloved Tetrimino, and you can't show some appreciation for the little guys who made you who you are? Sheesh!

While yes, Minos are a bit overlooked, they do indeed get the spotlight every once in a while! In game modes with items, you can expect that there will be one that turns all of your pieces into Minos, allowing you to instantly fill in gaps wherever you like. They are not particularly powerful, only able to clear one line at a time, but they ARE very convenient and easy to use!

Tetris Friends, my dearly beloved and departed Tetris Friends, uses Minos as the base for most of its avatars! I have already talked about these specifically, but I just want to point out these VERY default ones, each a piece of one of the classic Tetriminos, based on color... until the end, where we get what appears to be a Domesticated Mammal Mino! What are the implications of this? Have members of an intelligent species selectively bred the most docile of Minos together? Do Minos reproduce? Am I way off the mark, and is this Mino actually made of cookies and cream ice cream?

Finally, the reason I've been thinking of Minos in the first place! Here is a photo of the Tetris board game, with a single gray square in the Matrix. That's right! A Mino! In my opinion, this game is the most special Minos have ever felt. In this version, Tetriminos are dropped straight down into columns in the Matrix, and so they aren't as maneuverable as virtual ones. They can't be rotated while falling, and can't be slid into place to fill in any little notches.

This is where Minos come in! They are a sort of compensation for the lack of extra control, and can be placed to fill in extra space before dropping a Tetrimino. This is especially useful if you start with a Z or S block, since in this game, dropping one on a flat surface would leave a space no matter what! With a Mino, you can make a nice little ledge for your block to land neatly on.

This game's use of Minos really stood out to me! They're a major gameplay mechanic, they are explicitly named in the instruction manual, and, most importantly, they get their own PIECES. Physical, officially licensed, single Mino objects! They even get their very own color! A humble gray, not flashy like the rest, but distinct among all the others, and practical. A gray not to indicate a lack of interesting qualities, but instead, great potential!

There is no "official art" for Mino, so I just made the post's top image by editing some official Tetrimino art. Also, I have distinct memory of SOME official Tetris game, possibly Tetris Friends, referring to them as Tetrimonos. Does anyone else remember this? Please tell me if you do!

With that, we have reached the end of this post. But this is not the end of my fascination with Minos. In a way, it's only the beginning. In my Mino research, I have discovered some truly incredible things. Look forward to reading about them next week in Minos post part 2!

[mel-addams]

Get Started Drawing...

...even as a complete beginner!

In my efforts to help some friends who are only just starting to learn to draw (as adults! glorious!! <3), I kept digging around for resources that cover things I remember learning in the various art classes I've taken...but that does a better job than I can of laying it all out in a comprehensive, but not overwhelming, manner. (I am far too prone to rambling as you can see from this post, and bounce around topics as I remember them, rather than in a sensible order.) I've found a few guides here and there that cover one thing or another decently well...but I've finally found a free site I'm really keen on as an overall source if you're just starting out with learning to draw!

It's incredibly clear and concise, whereas many of the other sites and books I found could sometimes be overwhelmingly detailed. It's arranged in a way that reminds me of the flow of art classes, starting at the very first steps--how to approach art if you've never done it before, and the fact that you only need basic tools to begin with. If you go in approximate order, it then establishes that you should start sorting out a solid foundation by practicing simple lines and shapes--the same way you learned to write letters so you could ultimately make words, sentences, stories... This includes some neat little practice exercises with questions to consider while you do them, so you also learn to see and observe things like angles and proportions, which are critical for being able to accurately draw more complex things.

It evolves from there into how to take those basic shapes and turn them into simplified human bodies--and from there, how to consider more complex 3D versions of the shapes to give those bodies a sense of dimension and physicality. It even touches on things like composition, silhouette, negative space, and line of action--all in a quick, straightforward manner. It plants the seed of understanding for these more complex illustration concepts, which you can then research further, armed with relevant terminology to dig up more in-depth resources as they catch your interest!

The style itself is usually simple, but even if your aim is to draw with a more detailed style, this one can serve as a base sketch to add that detail to. (Combine learning this base with photo studies, plus more detailed style guides for wherever you want to take your art, and you could use this as a base for comics, cartoons, anime, realism...the core concepts and skills remain the same!) There's also examples of how to adjust for varied body shapes, so it provides more flexibility than some drawing guides do, which often only focus on one "ideal" body type. (This style can also be used for that, if it's what you want--you just adjust the proportions of the basic shapes as you need! But this provides examples of how to handle variety, which will give you a better foundation for drawing people and characters so they don't all look the same, instead of having to figure out how to adjust for it later on.) The Shape Dolls for reference are also incredibly delightful, and a great cheap way to have a little pose reference mannequin of sorts!

There's also links to sources if you want to dig into concepts more deeply--available both as a general source page, as well as some specific topics including relevant sources at the bottom of their respective pages. There's also a patreon with some extra thoughts that is fully accessible for free, but has a paid option if you want to support Tan for providing such a lovely resource! (Also they have a legit vegetable farm?? How cool is that.)

So yes! If you have any interest in learning to draw--whether you've ever tried before or not, and no matter your age--try looking through this site, and let it guide you through the process!

[kanmom51]

PJM2 is coming

MUSE

I literally cannot contain my excitiement.

Sitting her, at work may I say, putting these words on paper, so to speak, because f***ing hell, wtf JM?

Where to start?

The colour concepts? The choice of name? Choice of font (That JM popping to eye)? The flower? The links to TTU (notes sheet and flower)? The whole play with Closer than this? The dropped lyrics?

This man is a friggin genius (not that we didn't know this already)...

There is so much to talk about, and he hasn't even started with the promotions, and we haven't even seen the concept photos or the album and the songs. Name, colours, 2 lines of lyrics and we have our hands full already. They certainly know what they are doing.

Before I jump in, I want to, once again, state very loudly and clearly that everything written here are my opinions, which are based on what we've been handed so far, and could change the more we are shown.

So, let's get it...

JM fetching this from the purple locker (which we don't see are purple off the bat and only when the lights turn on). Notes for The Truth Untold.

His wittle thumb with his crescent moon.

The notes title : La lettra - The letter. Hmm... interesting.

And then this:

We have the flower:

and this that makes me believe that yes indeed, it is the silhouette of a Smeralso.

Some of this I am yet to see where is going. like the referencing of "the letter", The truth untold, the flower... (she says, all while thinking of the choice this Festa to stream LY Seoul final with said song and the changes that JM and JK chose to make to it)...

All that and more in one little short clip.

And then we have that little 'chat' opened up by BH, and those lyrics. Oh, those lyrics.

All references that indeed can be connected with army. I mean, that's what JM is king of.

All also a clear reference to a one Jeon Jungkook, if you are only willing to look and see.

Rain

Snow

Crying

We have this:

Which they have BOTH chose to bring up once again in 2023, JK happening to do so during JM's Face promos, not to mention the rain reference in SNTY (and of course, goes without saying Still with you, but that's back in 2020, while they have both managed to bring it up and reference it once again in 2023).

Remember this?

Oh, and what about this?

And then we have these:

Remember JM tearing up after winning MMA for BS&T ?

JM getting emotional and crying only followed by JK tearing up.

*If you haven't seen this one yet, go watch the full live.

And who can forget JK during MOTS ONE as well, seeing JM crying, distress clearly showing on his face, just waiting for the moment he can go and comfort JM.

If these are actual lyrics for a song to come or lyrics that were dropped, one thing we know, and that these words, these lines, they were written by JM, and he made a clear choice to share them with us.

And in doing so, sorry, I'm still not believing this all while sitting here gushing and knowing this was coming (no, I didn't know this specifically was coming, but the feeling that they were going big or going home, that I've had ever since July 2023... took some time and many tribulations, but we are getting there folks). Sidetracked as I always am, lol.

Back on track.... in doing so, JM is basically standing on a rooftop screaming at the top of his lungs:

Not 1, not 2, but 3 JK references in that little shared piece of lyrics clearly written by JM, for an album we are yet to see and hear.

Anyone, and I mean anyone that is a BTS army, that has seen original content, that has followed their Twitter account or seen older tweets, that are open and willing to see it, will KNOW that these lyrics are JAYKAY!!!!!

And let me backtrack a second here...

Cause I did mention that these references could be understood as if they are made for army, right?

So yeah. Army references or JK references? I am going to say both, leaning very much to the JK side of it. Cause that's how they do it. Time after time after time.

Let's mention the colour choices as well.

We have the background colours.

We have the yellow.

And then we have the album concepts.

2 concepts.

Blooming

and Serenade.

Which happens to be Yellow, same colour threaded through Serendipity.

And we even have purple thrown in there too.

Notice how all the lockers are painted purple. The colour of army you may say, but also JK's colour (so again, army and JK?).

And he's pulling out the music sheet from this purple locker.

Those lockers representing his inspiration for his music perhaps?

Giving us these lyrics, then telling us the album is called Muse (or telling us the name of the album and it's meaning and then dropping those lyrics, take your pick regarding the timing, cause basically, same same), showing us the music being extracted from those purple lockers... ya think his muse is that entity he's talking about in those lyrics perhaps (even more so if we see the references as both for army and JK)?

Rhetorical question, btw.

And then we have the mint green.

Perhaps this is what JM was talking about when he told us in his birthday live, if memory serves me right, about going to the starting point, or more so starting from the beginning trying to figure out himself as an artist?

Also, cannot help but think of this image here:

I cannot wait to see his concept photos, and where this is all going.

We talked about JK being so loud during 2023 (well, he's had his super loud moments before that, but 2023 and his lives were smoking). And JM, well it felt (and I say felt, cause it's not really true, and I'll explain why) was quieter, more subdued, especially during JK's Golden promotions.

But here's the thing.

JM and JK have their own special oh so different ways of being loud and showing us themselves (and it shows even more so seeing that JK, for whatever reasons he had for it, did not write his songs for Golden - not saying he did not have influence on the lyrics or choice of songs with lyrics he wanted). JK did it through his choices in his photo shoots and styling for his songs and album. He did it with his lives and his total fanboying over JM. And JM, he does it through his art, which includes also but not only his lyrics.

Those two are both loud as fuck. And JM, well if these sneak lyrics are a promo of more to come (which, they probably are seeing that we have Face to fall back on as an example), then he's as loud as a frigging foghorn.

And last but not least, before I go:

Lookie here...

D-31

[jymwahuwu]

(Ignore this if this isn’t your thing)

I think about sugar daddy Yan jing yuan- man got money I know it I know he also prob has more then 2 black cards and lives in a nice home. He be such a sweet sugar daddy but also manipulative and sneaky too honesty. Yan sugar daddy jing yuan pays for EVERYTHING and I mean everything- bills? Done, high education degree?, paid for all the years you take, food? Done, shopping?- just know you can buy whatever you want with daddy money but you also have to get him a nice and cute pair of lingerie for him to see on you UwU.

And it’s not even thag hard for him too- he has the money and the status I mean- if the great general makes dinner reservation I just know the owner will literally be the one to physically be the host, take your orders, cook the meal themselves with their best chief, and serve it with the best personality and smile. Honestly it be no suprised you get the best views or the entire place is slightly empty bc of his status

Shops will absolutely bend over back for him when he walks around, if he ask if there’s a specific peice of lingerie set that they say it was out of stock- suddnly it’s there-

Always he makes sure your given the best in life UwU

He does all this with a few conditions that you have to follow. Each day 8 kisses, always hold him when in public, sit on lap when he’s in his office reading documents, and most importantly take his cock every hour 7 days a week. Yan sugar daddy jing is essentially molding you to a pretty wife for him.

don’t even think about ending this with him because you may see him as a only cash and sugar daddy but to him- your practically his girlfriend soon to be bride to soon to wife. If you do try all that money he given you will just be gone all of a sudden and your left with practically nothing. You’ll have to come back to jing since he always provides you so well.

Once you crawl back he’ll go UwU ofc baby one thing. And that one thing is he gonna fuking you Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday week- every hour, every minute, every second night after night sevens days a week (totally not a song reference 🫢) because after all that it so your too fucked to ever think you could just end things with him like that

You be play and be his pretty little wife and he will absolutely spoil you beyond your dreams. (Ik those dinner dates he takes you have to be SO NICE and these are def just mt extremes dreams to be his wife)

Thank you for writing such length of thoughts, it was a pleasure to read, sugar daddy jing yuan is something I have never thought of before because I was not interested... but 🫣 But this one is good, I added some background stories 😚💖

CW: yandere, non-con/dub-con, manipulation, abuse of power, fem! reader

You need money, really, you need this. You need to pay your bills, maybe it's an accident, maybe it's medical bills for your important person/pet, maybe you're too exhausted to meet those credit requirements, or some other reason. You move into smaller apartments again and again, eat fast food, and sigh while watching space TV. You need to move to a planet with more opportunities, but how? As you swipe your phone screen, a dating social media ad appears in front of you.

You hesitated for a while, but you still signed up, feeling a little nervous and apprehensive. You simply filled in the information. This application should be very popular. There are users from some cosmic species you have never heard of. The photo only shows a blurry profile of you. Out of place among all the pretty, confident headshots. The introduction simply states your hobbies, you… just want to do things like kissing, cuddling, and dating. Sex is the last step. You don’t think much about it for the moment.

A few days later. You're still going about your life, only getting messages from weirdos saying things like, "I want to cum on your face," "Can you give me a clear picture of your thighs?", "It's mating season on our planet. you can come here”. You always delete and block them directly, which is a bit frustrating. And you get another new message, but this time it's a little special.

Anonymous: hi

Anonymous: want to see a picture of my little lion? 🥺 she is adorable.

You: …?

And then you do receive so many adorable photos of his pet lion that your heart melts. You open a series of topics with this user. His profile picture isn't a real person either, but a picture of a kitten showing her belly to invite pampering. You gradually learned more about him and you felt relaxed talking to him, but of course he didn't forget to discuss...intimate things with you.

Then, the user invites you to meet to discuss more details, and even the cost of traveling through space is prepared for you. That is an electronic certification of a VIP ticket. The stewards of those spaceships bow to you and are concerned about your needs, preparing exquisite meals, blankets and pillows for you. You've never been so far away from your own planet and treated so considerately.

The arrival place written on the ticket is Xianzhou Luofu...?

You quietly search for information about this space civilization, and shyly imagine what kind of person "he" would be. After you got off the spacecraft, you thought about finding public transportation, but someone was waiting for you there and took you to the General's Mansion.

You: Wait...did you take me to the wrong place...

The assistant smiled slightly and left, leaving you standing helpless in the garden of the General's Mansion. The one you've been chatting with for months (the one who was even sending you uwu and kitten love memes last night)...is - one of the seven Arbiter-Generals of the Xianzhou Alliance. General Jing Yuan?

But you knew it was him as soon as the burly, majestic man with long white hair opened his mouth. When he caught a glimpse of you, his eyes like the golden sun lit up, and he rushed directly in front of you. He put his right hand on your soft hip and took you off the ground. "Baby, I finally meet you…" You squirmed, feeling overwhelmed and embarrassed, "You-you put me down first..."

"Oh… sure, my bad." After being reminded, Jing Yuan carefully put you down so that your legs could stand balanced on the ground. “We can’t kiss while I’m holding you like this,” he said before kissing your lips deeply. Your heart felt like a lightning strike, and you were frightened by such a meeting.

Is this normal? Is it developing too fast…?

The words and topics you prepared have no effect at all. After a luxurious dinner and confession (?), Jing Yuan carried you in his arms, entered the room and started caressing and breeding. You wrap your hands around his neck and stare at his sculptured, delicate face, his eyes flashing with some unknown desire. Those long white strands of his hair fell on your chest and tickled. Your legs were stretched out and were sore from being pressed by his balls and cock. The white seed kept flowing out unbearably, but you were required to keep your legs clamped around his waist to better receive the seed. Your lips parted, tears kept flowing down your cheeks, moans and cries were faintly heard in your throat, and your lower body was filled with sticky and loud pounding. The previous agreement (only kisses, hugs and dates) was ignored.

You have been living in the General's Mansion since then and have no plans to return to your planet. Once you have such a plan, Jing Yuan will plead with you with puppy eyes to stay, even though he has no intention of allowing this. Then as you describe, the general pays for all your expenses, even before you ask for them. There are no credit points in your bank account (you don’t know why it became 0, and the account was even canceled later…). You can only use the two cards he gave you. Now, even though you are thirsty while shopping, you use his card to buy drinks instead of your own money. He pampers you and you can buy any beautiful clothes, shoes, whatever you want. Of course, you must also carefully select a set of underwear before you finish shopping, spread your legs on the bed and wait for him, otherwise Jing Yuan will not reimburse you for those expenses.

Kissing him at least 8 times a day and holding his hand are still required, but asking you to be by his side all the time is a bit too much, even though Jing Yuan wants that too. He is considerate and knows that you need some time to yourself, enjoy your hobbies and rest. If you want to listen to music, read a book, have a party, exercise, shop, watch a movie, just do it. As long as you don't take too long and can come back to him every night, Jing Yuan won't mind. Sitting on his lap while he reads papers is a perfect plus. You need to warm his cock, comfort him, or hide under his desk and service him for hours. Once Jing Yuan returns to the General's Mansion, it will be the beginning of a long night.

You've tried to change and leave him, but that ultimately failed. After all, you can't open a new bank account right now, and no bank in the galaxy would. There is no way to buy a return ticket...

If you do try to leave in a situation like this, you will only find that returning to him is the only way. Jing Yuan has to punish you a little and put you on the bed to start the sex marathon. When the general had to go to work, you were placed with an electric dildo the same size as him, bouncing and squirting until you learned your lesson and married him. You will be trained to be a pretty little wife, snuggling in his arms, forgetting that you just wanted to pay the bills.

Maybe you should ask him about the purpose of downloading this app in the first place. Jing Yuan is smart, but he won't lie about this. He wants you, wants to love you, and wants you to be his spouse for the rest of his life.

[aerequets]

Ur art is such an inspiration and motivation for me, as a fellow artist. I’ve been following ur stuff for a bit now and I was wondering how you decided to draw loid, yor, and anya the way you do. I say this bc I really want to start making my own fan arts, but i struggle to take this anime style and have these character read as [insert character] without it being in a “anime style.”

And I guess this applies to any character you want take from a media, and translate it into your style. Bc i don’t necessarily think ur art style is considered “anime” i kinda just see it as an abstraction ig. But even if it is, it isn’t in the style of anime show is yk? Yet the characters read as who they’re supposed to be.

And I think a while back you u mentioned that you were struggling on decided how to draw loid. ig i wanna know How did you come to the decision that “yes, this looks correct and I wanna draw him like this.”

Is it finding defining feature and proportions? Just messing around until you figure something out? And I assume you make a character sheet to keep it consistent?

Like i literally go to art school but cant draw anything without a reference photo and it killing me 😔💀💀

Sorry for the yapp i’m just down bad rn and really love ur work. Please help be get out of the reference photo trap😭

Also sorry if this reads weird and has errors i’m sleep deprived and can’t bring myself to go back and reread

WHAIUGOUGH???? UR TOO KIND??? THANK U

i will try my best to answer below, but i dont think it is anything profound or super secret lmao

so i think that artists get really caught up with finding/establishing a style when they are first starting out. i say this because i was no different. to me it was like 'oh if i have a style then i am a Real artist instead of just a copier'

but like, i think that order is backwards. like the more that you draw things you enjoy, the more those drawings will become your own and in your 'style' if that makes sense. heavy emphasis on the quantity here. you just gotta go really at it. and the best way to do this is through sheer quantity tbh.

however at the same time, i dont really agree with the whole 'draw x things per day every day' thing cuz sometimes thats just hard man. i mean you mentioned you were in art school so you're probably drawing every day anyways, but for a hobbyist or fanartist (me lol) its mostly based on whether u feel like drawing or not. Which is why its rlly cool when you have a show/book/movie/anything you're really into which makes you want to draw more! it becomes something fun rather than a chore.

so basically, dont view a style as something you have to develop right away, or turn drawing into a chore, because that will be very counteractive trust me.

another important thing i wanted to mention, you said "reference photo trap" but ITS NOT A TRAP! USE REFERENCES!!! REFERENCES ARE IMPORTANT AND GOOD (i am assuming you already know this, but using references is not the same as tracing. just to make it clear)

this is another thing common with newer artists (and of course how i used to be), where you feel like you have to draw 'from your mind' for it to be an indicator of any skill. NOT TRUE!! you need to use references to get better!

lastly, to answer your question (as best i can lol) there was never any point when i decided 'yes this is it' when drawing. you just draw and draw and keep changing and growing. it is a little of everything you said (defining features, proportions, messing around) but it is also just drawing a lot and having fun! :D oh and i definitely do not have a character sheet. i am not anywhere near that organized LMAO

[stromuprisahat]

Ivans loss: "soldiers aren't human beings" & "all grisha are soldiers" is probably what the author thinks. I still remember when RoW came out and someone asked Leigh Bardugo a very heated question about Fjerdans and she gave a strange justification (link below). She replied, no to making the reference (let's just respect that answer and let's say Fjerdans arent' what the question said they are - and I don't even want to type it out because it's like kicking a beehive and no good will come from it) Let's focus the issue of grisha = soldier = fair game Leigh justifies Matthias and Fjerda's actions by saying: @ 1:23 "Grisha are soldiers. they are weapons. they are ppl who are fighting back" But....SoC had Matthias and Fjerdans going after non-soldiers. They were quite literally hunting civilians, farmers, etc. in all the lands. "Pursuing rogue Grisha in other lands...liberating Grisha captives with the sole purpose of clapping them back in chains and sending them back to fjerda for trial and execution..." next page captive speaking "We are not criminals...we are ordinary people - farmers, teachers. Not me Nina thought grimly. I'm a soldier. ...Did Leigh truly forget about the 15 innocent souls who were chained in the ship? 15 souls who were there just for being grisha? Does she not re-read her works at all????? x.com/hellcatdynes/status/1584699468536221697

That woman! (derogatory)

(Ivan post)

tw: I'm not gonna hold back in this reply as much as I usually manage. It might get vulgar and harsh.

I've seen this particular pile of shit while it was fresh and gods! I can't even begin to explain how sick it makes me. No wonder so many of her fans are a bunch of ignorant idiots.

Let's start with the icky bit- the whole quote:

... people have drawn parallels between Matthias and the drüskelle and the SS, and I don't think that's completely accurate. The Jews, who were put to their death in WWII were innocent. They were civilians! Their crime was being Jewish. Grisha are soldiers. They are weapons. They are people, who are fighting back, so though the drüskelle are hateful and carry a lot of prejudice with them, it is not the same as them going after innocent civilians. And I need to make that clear, because I would never write a Nazi/Jewish romance.

Honey, that's exactly what you did!

I won't shy away from that passage, because it pisses me off immensely.

... people have drawn parallels between Matthias and the drüskelle and the SS, and I don't think that's completely accurate.

So, here we go with this one- I'm entirely sure their uniforms and Brum's accomplishments have nothing in common with fucking Nazis. If you're colour-blind, or US-American, so you don't grow up with photos of that particular chunk of history in your fucking town, because those people in nice uniforms used to burn corpses of their victims just behind the walls. The crematorium is still standing btw. Daily visited by dozens of tourists.

Seriously- fuck respecting what she said! I possess reading comprehension! These atrocities happened around HERE! It's not just an ugly story for me! I grew up in town once used as Jewish ghetto, concentration camp and Gestapo prison, so yeah, I might be overly sensitive about how you choose to dress you genocidal murder club!

The Jews, who were put to their death in WWII were innocent. They were civilians! Their crime was being Jewish. Grisha are soldiers. They are weapons.

As you mentioned:

... The drüskelle had existed for hundreds of years, but under Brum’s leadership, their force had doubled in size and become infinitely more deadly. He had changed their training, developed new techniques for rooting out Grisha in Fjerda, infiltrated Ravka’s borders, and begun pursuing rogue Grisha in other lands, even hunting down slaving ships, “liberating” Grisha captives with the sole purpose of clapping them back in chains and sending them to Fjerda for trial and execution. ...

Six of Crows- Chapter 14

If I wanted to be extremely kind, I could assume this is just Ravkan propaganda- it's what Nina had been taught-, but later we see her experience:

“You’ll be tried for espionage and crimes against the people.” “We are not criminals,” said a Fabrikator in halting Fjerdan from his place on the floor. He’d been there the longest and was too weak to rise. “We are ordinary people—farmers, teachers.” Not me, Nina thought grimly. I’m a soldier. “You’ll have a trial,” said the drüskelle. “You’ll be treated more fairly than your kind deserve.”

Six of Crows- Chapter 14

The wording's rather obvious- it's not about herding up enemy soldiers, but hunting down another species, another race, another kind. That's exactly the type of reasoning Nazis used- Jews were something different, inferior. Dehumanization is a significant part of their ideology.

*takes several deep breaths, because that Cola I've just drank is about to make a re-appearance*

I'll point out another part- already in one of the links in this post, but:

Until a drüskelle had accomplished a mission on his own and been granted officer status, he was required to remain clean-shaven. ... “Good work is right,” one said in Fjerdan. “Fifteen Grisha to deliver to the Ice Court!” “If this doesn’t earn us our teeth—” “You know it will.” “Good, I’m sick of shaving every morning.” “I’m going to grow a beard down to my navel.”

Six of Crows- Chapter 14

Capturing people to have them slaughtered is a rite of passage for drüskelle. It's an accomplishment worth marking. Something to look forward to and boast about.

Grisha are soldiers. They are weapons.

What about non-combatant members of Second Army? Healers, "untrained" Materialki, Grisha working for nobles? Those are weapons too?!

Like- we've already established nobody cares about the free-range Grisha (unless it's drüskelle in need of promotion), but even Second Army includes those, who aren't the first line of defence! Who won't be used to be attacked.

They are people, who are fighting back, so though the drüskelle are hateful and carry a lot of prejudice with them, it is not the same as them going after innocent civilians.

I'll make it even more obvious- would you say rape doesn't count as such, when its victim learnt self-defense before it happened?!

Nice opinion, Leigh! Great message for the poor young vulnerable girls! Very empowering!

And this is one of those days I'm sorry they don't organize full-experience trips to places like my ex-hometown, because I'd gladly invite that woman, so I can accompany her visit with loud reading of specific quotes from her work.

[eupheme]

— all I want is you

alfred pennyworth x f!reader

rated e - 4.5k

tags: pfyt request, jealous and possessive!alfred, light angst, copious amts of tooth-rotting fluff, split pov, semi-clothed semi-public sex, return of the daddy kink (light), marking, creampie

a/n: inspired by this lovely thot by @csboz 💖 references part ii and vii of penny for your thoughts but not required to enjoy

When a gala brings you face-to-face with your ex, Alfred realizes that seeing something in a photo is a lot different than seeing it in person.

Alfred had never considered himself a jealous man.

Maybe life had been simpler, then. He had known his place, where he fit in. A perfectly-made mould, sculpted just for him.

Solider. Bodyguard. Lover.

The lines of each were neatly set. Not just drawn in sand, but etched into stone.

Rules and regulations only blurring in the evening, behind closed doors. In the same slow way that evening bleeds into night - red to orange to deep indigo. Only to right itself the next morning, with the clear coming of dawn.

As man of routine, it had been easy to follow. He had never given it much thought, this throbbing ache in his chest. Fingers that itch to reach out, and take. The poison that pulls at his brow - the permanent furrow above narrowed, watchful eyes.

It’s uncomfortably new, and unwelcome.

And now, small part of him wonders if it’s because he never had anything that was really - truly - his.

Not the way that you are.

As much his and he is yours. The band on your finger, that promise, had felt like enough when he had sunk to a knee before you.

Now, he’s resisting the urge to drape you in jewels. To whisk you away. To give you anything you want.

It had been different, seeing that photo. Static, splashed across the screen in black and white.

Another insecurity had dug its claw into his mind then, convincing himself that he wasn’t good enough. Acutely aware of just how undeserving he was.

You had set him straight. It’s a night he still remembers, one he cherishes deeply.

The night you told him, even if it had taken him a while to return those words to you.

He had thought he knew better. That such emotion had no hold over him.

But a photo doesn’t move. A photo doesn’t have roving eyes, doesn’t give a look that he doesn’t much care for.

You looked beautiful, of that he had no doubt.

An hour ago it had been almost all he could think about. The thoughts of the Gala and those he must meet with Bruce severing - splitting down the middle, as you had modeled your dresses for him.

Asking his opinion, twisting and twirling in front of the mirror. Letting him undress you after each one, his lips against your spine as he worked the zipper. Black and bronze and silver, all wrapping around you, until you had picked a favorite.

Wanting to get things right. No longer just the messenger girl, but now seen often at Bruce’s side. Someone that was recognized, that was sought after.

He’s always seen you. Then and now and in the bedroom, tucked away, he had been so proud.

And when you had slipped your arm in his in the Tower, neatly curving your hand into the crook of his arm, he had thought it would be a long night.

Eager to end up right back here, to strip the fabric from you, one final time.

But now… it feels like an eternity.

There’s an uneasy flip in your stomach, when you see him.

It’s lessened over the months since that first meeting. You’ve run into Harvey a few times since the Parliament, though you haven’t stepped foot in the building since. Those days were long behind you, buried deep.

Your path with the newly-elected DA would continue to cross, as long as Bruce was working with him to improve Gotham. It was something you had thought about, had decided to bear. Another thing from the past, that you were convinced would no longer take up a worried residence in your mind.

And it was different, this time.

This time, Alfred is with you.

Not physically with you at the moment, but the comfort still lingers. He had just stepped away - offering to get you a drink while the guests work their way into the banquet hall, after the silent auction.

Leaving you next to the ornate seating chart - trying to pick your name out of the hundreds of small groupings.

And it seemed like Harvey Dent had the same idea.

“Thought I would see you here, doll.” The handshake he offers turns into a hug, his hand pressing against your shoulder. You own giving a half-hearted pat against his back.

“And I figured you would be too. To see Bruce, I mean.” You smile tightly before your eyes are drifting back to the list, “Is Gilda with you?”

His arm brushes yours as he moves to your left, to look for his own name, “Not tonight. She’s getting ready for a show next month.”

His fiancée. The girl he dated after you - the girl he was set to marry, once his position was settled.

There’s no twinge in your stomach this time. No weird, lingering feelings that you hadn’t been able to process.

Just a sense of pity, that he had to come alone. Thinking back - you can’t remember the last event she’s been to.

You never minded going to these things. Half the time it was your job. But it was always better when Alfred came with you.

“What about you? You here with anyone?” He’s asking, nodding towards the cane tucked under your arm - but then you hear your name. The press of a warm hand to the small of your back, as you are gently moved to the side.

“There you are, darling.” Alfred coos, as you grin - making room for him. The flute passed over from where he stands between you and Harvey, before he’s turning.

“Mr. Dent,” His left hand extends, “Pleasure.”

Harvey’s eyes flick down for the briefest of moments. Following the path of the arm that curls around you. To where you lift the glass to drink, the glitter that reflects off one of your fingers.

He smiles, as he takes the offered hand. You miss the way Alfred’s knuckles whiten, for the briefest of moments. The slightest wince in reply, before they’re letting go and Harvey is pivoting to face both of you.

“Heard about the accident. I didn’t think you’d be out and about just yet.”

The reminder almost makes you flinch. It’s been months, but you still have nightmares - racing down endless bleached-white halls, trying to find him. Panic flaring when a siren wails down the street, your eyes automatically leaping to the sky.

“It would take more than an amateur to get rid of me, I’m afraid. Much less Master Bruce.” Alfred’s knuckle graze along your back, soothing. A small smile sent your way, “Besides, I had the finest care you could ask for.”

There’s a presence at your elbow then, the feeling of a heavy shadow.

“Table Twelve.” Bruce tells you in greeting, after a quick glance at the chart - before he’s turning to Harvey, “I heard you’re working on the Nashton case.”

“Not much of one,” Harvey grins, a hand smacking Bruce’s shoulder before he sends you a wink. “Don’t worry, you’re safe with me. I’ll make sure that freak stays in Arkham.”

There's a tightness in Alfred’s jaw, his hand staying firmly in place. A tell-tale tap of annoyance of the cane you’ve handed back, against the marble floor.

You're certain that you're the only one who notices, besides Bruce - the briefest flicker of a look before he's lassoed back into the conversation.

There's a shuffle, when you sit for dinner soon after. Your arrangement differs from what's been noted on the namecards, as Alfred pulls out the seat to his right, instead of left. You take it, without much thought - fitting yourself between him and Bruce.

The conversation from before trickling into dinner, silted by the way Bruce has to lean past both of you - an elbow digging into the table - to talk to Harvey.

Your mind has drifted elsewhere. That unease of seeing him again disappearing completely with Alfred's arrival at your elbow. With his touch now - the hand that slips beneath the tablecloth. The breadth of his palm as it presses down, high above your knee.

Curving the silky fabric of your dress against your thigh. His touch firm enough that you can feel the slow drag of his fingers, circling strokes that press into your skin.

Reminding you of his touch, somewhere else.

Distracting you terribly, thoughts drifting back to the stolen moments as you dressed. Barely able to manage not to squirm in your seat, as the food is served.

He’s attentive as you eat - his voice low and smooth in your ear, as he points out people you should make note of. His gaze always on yours - the grip of his hand tightening each time he leans, sometimes slipping higher for the briefest moment.

A welcome distraction, as the courses are served.

The first of the notes are plucked from the big band on the stage when dinner is cleared - a modern cover played in an old jazz style, the notes drawn out and bright.

Harvey’s arm slings across the back of his chair, as he leans to catch your attention.

“I nearly forgot about them,” He gestures with a smile, a two fingers tipping towards the stage, “Bristol County Club, do you remember?

You did.

It had been before you were together, back when you were just friends - a senior banquet, right before graduation. Month spent on a fundraiser that pulled out all the stops.

Catered food, black-tie, a hired band. Compared to now it felt so small - but back then, it was the most extravagant night you could imagine.

The memory makes you smile, and just as your lips part to answer there’s a touch to your arm - a voice cutting through.

“Would you like to join me, dove?”

Alfred’s hand extends in front of you - waiting, his seat already pushing back. His cane tucked against his chair, to be retrieved after.

“Excuse me,” You manage to tell Harvey - before your hand is pressing into his, and he’s guiding you away.

Winding in between the other tables, joining the couples that spill from their own, onto the dance floor.

“I’ve been looking forward to this all night.” Alfred tells you, as the dance floor slowly fills, “You look beautiful. Have I told you that already?”

It makes your cheeks heat, “Maybe once or twice.”

There’s couples swirling around you, each caught up in the endless flutes of champagne, the energy from the live band on the stage.

You stay close, though. A slow, sway - the movement familiar, even if the details are different this time.

How the hand that should cup yours, now entwines - fingers lacing together.

How the palm that guides you slips lower on your back. Not so far that it’s improper, but you can feel the warmth and pressure on the curve of your ass, inside of your spine.

It sends up a spark that follows the path his lips took earlier. A soft press of his lips as the zipper lowered, each time.

You had wanted him, then. The only thing that kept you in check was knowing how he’d never give in, if it made you both late.

Leaving the memory sizzling under your skin.

Stoked by these slow moments of change. Because you’re starting to put things together now - all those little details perhaps imperceptible to an acquaintance.

But not to you.

It takes you another two songs to figure things out fully. The circling steps taking you into the middle of the floor, and then out to the opposite side. Far away from the shared table.

You haven’t really seen him quite like this before. If you didn’t love him so much, perhaps you’d want to laugh.

And you think that maybe - maybe, you should do something about it.

His fingers slip higher on your back, but it’s only to press you just a little bit closer. Your lips brush against the peppered-grey scruff on his beard, just before you press a kiss against his cheekbone.

Keeping your fingers clasped as you step away, back towards the edge of the dance floor.

“Come with me.” You coax, but you don’t have to.

He follows - would follow - you anywhere, a hand in yours until the dark corners of the room surround you, the music fading as you slip with him down a corridor.

It’s near-deserted - a thick ornate rug running down the hall. Small groupings of those discussing business, paying you no mind as you wind down one more hallway.

Your name is a whispered question as you try the handle - the room you open is not in use, like you knew it would be. Year-old memories of helping Hazel set up in these halls are still fresh in your mind.

Perhaps at one point, it had been set up for meetings, or a small, private party. The wallpaper pretty and patterned, but at least a decade old. Matching furniture pushed around - heavy wooden tables shoved to one side. Stacked rows of chairs in another corner.

A dim and dusty table lamp that you click on, as he shuts the door behind you.

“You look like you could use a minute.” You tell him, with a knowing tilt of your head.

The corner of his lips twitch, “Am I that obvious, dove?”

“Maybe just to me,” You smile, hands finding his, as you walk backward. As he follows, again.

Another glance around the room, before you’re adding, “Feels a little familiar, hm?"

His stern look softens, as he remembers.

Your second meeting, that flurry of feelings. Him, thinking might have changed your mind. Your own anxiety, thinking he wasn't going to call.

Leading his hands to your hips, as you lean against a table that bumps up against the wall. A second, before you’re pushing yourself up, to perch on the edge.

"I think I loved you, even then." Your admission is soft. Cheeks burning in the darkness, even after all this time, "Well, I knew when we danced together in your kitchen. But, I mean... even that early, I knew you would be important to me."

He laughs - a short, rough thing. It startles you, a little frown as your chin tips up.

"I'm sorry, darling. I just-” He sounds almost breathless, in the dim room, “That night... for me, too."

Your smile is bright, blinding. If asked, you’d say it was impossible to love him more, but with his answer comes a surge of affection, a little flip of your heart.

His own lips curve, when you meet them. Hair shorn short and velvet against your fingers as your hand slips against his neck. Sighing into his mouth as he leans into your touch, into the kiss.

Pressing himself snug against the table, as your thighs have to inch wider. Your knees digging into his hips, as his hands find your waist.

Possessive, in the way he grips onto you. Fingers pressing into the fabric, your skin. The smallest tug to bring you forward, closing those last few inches of space.

His confession finally coming in the breaths between your mouths meeting - quiet, in the dark room.

“I don’t like the way he was looking at you,” It’s almost a growl, as your lips press against his cheek, “Like he was reconsidering things.”

You do laugh then, but not at him. The sound low in your throat, bitten back, “You know, it would have to go both ways, right? That I would want to want that, too?”

Before your voice lowers, “You know that you’re the one I’m going home with.”

His eyes seem to darken at that, his voice a low rasp, “I know.”

“Then you realize you’re being silly?” You press, gently.

Alfred does smile, then - a small, rueful thing.

“I’m well aware.” An inhale of breath, then, “I haven’t felt this way before, but then again I’ve never-”

His words break off, as his eyes drag down you for just a moment. Admiring, but it’s more than that. The same feeling that was stirred with his greedy touch, the delicious shiver at the growling rasp his voice.

It does something to you - your pulse quickening, something hungry awakening in your belly.

“Do you need me to show you, again?” You offer sweetly, learning forward to let your lips brush his again.

His answer comes as a ragged sigh, “Just once more, love.”

Expecting words, perhaps another soft press of your mouth, before you return to the party.

Not the way that the soft layers of your skirt gather in a hand, bundled near your hip. How your other catches his palm, guiding his fingers beneath.

Cupping you. Where you’re so warm and where the thin fabric clings to you - worked up from before, and during, and now.

He sucks in a breath as you bite back your own sigh. Your hand still on his wrist as your lips press against his throat, to the hollow under his ear.

A bitten-back groan as your teeth graze his earlobe, just before you croon.

“You could take me in here, you know that?”

The hand on your waist tightens, just as his fingers begin to move. The tips of two fingers crooking against the fabric, slipping up to circle against you.

“That’s what you want, right? To send me back out there, full of you?”

Alfred wouldn’t ask it of you, you’re sure. Too proper to suggest it, himself… but to have it offered so prettily and openly.

But he is only human, after all.

You can feel his groan against your lips, the flex of his muscles as he swallows.

“Yes.” He rasps.

The fingers that circle halt, but only enough so he can slip them beneath your panties. His eyes dark in the dim light of the room, fixed on yours as his touch teases you. Drifting along your slit, before dipping lower.

A rough curse growled out as the tip one fits inside you easily. You’re slick, the fabric damp and sticking to your skin, coating the fingers that presses deep, before he’s working in another.

“Oh fuck,” You sigh, thighs nudging wider. Hands wandering, fingers hooking around his belt and tugging him closer, “Please, Alfred-”

“I will.” He promise, before his mouth is pressing against yours. Fingers working you open, as you tug at his zipper, trying to slip your fingers beneath.

Finding him more than half-hard from your words, thickening with the touch of your hand on bare skin, as you work him free. His other hand rises - cupping the back of your neck, just as his fingers press deep and curl.

His desire thrills you. Not often does he give into your whims when you’re out like this. Preferring to make you wait, make you suffer until he’s got you alone again.

More than once you’ve ridden him in his car, but that was an extension of his space. Fingers have drifted during dances, during long dinners.

A promise for later, but not now.

You’d be worried if he hadn’t already admitted just how self-aware he was.

But he needs this.

You can sense it - the tick in his jaw, the not-so-subtle flex of his hips into your fist. The way his fingers pound, as if trying to rip the orgasm from you.

It has you clenching down hard, whining. Your other hand drifting - across his chest, tugging on his tie to keep him close. Parting your lips with the soft brush of his tongue, so he can taste you as his hand slips free.

Working it over his aching cock twice - marking himself fully with you, until it’s slick with your need.

“Come here.” He reaches for you, his other hand guiding your hips to edge of the table, “I’ll give you what you want dove, but you need to be quiet.”

Nudging your thighs wider with his hip, your legs rising to hook around his waist, opening yourself up more. One of your hands bracing behind you, flattened across the tabletop.

He’s so broad like this. The shadowed light cutting across his features, his strong shoulders. The loosened tie, the clinking belt the only pieces out of place.

The velvet soft length rubs against you, as he steps closer. Your eyes drop to watch the slow twist of his fist as he rubs the tip against your folds.

“As much as I want everyone to hear you’re mine, I’m not too keen on sharing.”

It makes you throb, the edge in his tone. How aware you both are of the unlocked door. The hundreds of people just outside, the muted music that crashes against the walls.

Too far gone to stop, as eyes narrow - letting himself look, now. To where you’re exposed and open - so needy for him that it makes him ache.

He won’t leave you waiting.

With the next roll of his hips, he’s splitting you open. Not with the slow tease of home - fitting just the tip, making you earn every inch. No, this makes you cry out - the feeling of his cock making a home for himself in your warm cunt.

He swallows the sound, his own groan rough in his throat.

“Christ, I missed you.” Alfred rasps, as if it had been weeks instead of hours. Eyes fixed on your own, how they go half-lidded with the drag of his cock, as he begins to move.

“Missed you too,” You whine, as you start to lean back, your dress still fisted around your waist.

Thinking he’d like to watch - see where you stretch around his cock, where he fucks you open. How he gleams with your desire, with each sharp rut of his hips.

Instead, Alfred catches your wrist. Holding it against his chest as he tugs you back up.

“No,” It’s close to an order, except for the way he sighs with need, “Stay close darling, just for a moment. Please.”

Your legs hook around him, instead. Doing as you’re told, as your hands drop your dress - sliding across his shoulders instead, fingers entwining behind his neck.

The “good girl” he murmurs shoots straight to your cunt, a shared look that tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

His thrusts grow harder, deeper. A steady pound that will leave both of you aching tonight, not that either of you mind.

In this moment it’s just you and him, everything else fades into soft shades of nothing. Your focus caught on the spots where you’re connected. Eyes, hands, mouth. His cock, pressed deep - dragging against a spot that sends a rolling wave of pleasure to lap low in your belly.

And when his hand leaves your wrist to drift down, circling against you once again, you feel as if you’re about to break.

His name is garbled, another soft plea. Your hips rocking into the perfect pressure of his touch - further proof of his devotion. Every detail tucked away so carefully, keep safe in a mind that never forgets.

“Oh fuck, don’t stop-” You whine, forgetting about your promise. Each breath short and harsh as your nails sink into fabric, desperate to cling to this moment.

Alfred’s forgotten too, his growl lower than the low murmur of before.

“Never.” He rasps, “Come on, darling. Let me feel you-”

Everything winds tight, your breath held. And then - it snaps, fracturing and splintering. The music fading out to white noise.

You come with him wrapped around you. Caged in - an arm wrapping around, hand pressed between your shoulder blades. The other steady and unmerciful against your clit, drawing your pleasure out. He groans with the tight pulse of your orgasm, pressing himself deep, so he can feel each throb.

“There it is, that’s my girl.” It’s murmured into your sweat-dewed skin, as he mouths at your neck.

This is what he’s been craving. His mind a seismograph - those jittery waves of emotions now slipping flat and smooth. A reminder that he’s the only one that makes you feel this way.

Loose-limbed in his arms. Your grin lazy as you squirm against him, trying to catch the fingers that push you towards too much.

You feel a low laugh against your skin, as bristle of his beard tickles your cheek. Then, against the soft column of your throat. His lips following, as he starts to fuck you again.

Just as teeth scrape and then pinch the curve where shoulder meets neck. A rough groan against your skin, just before his lips close - sucking hard against the same spot.

You’re sure it will leave a mark. High above the strap of your dress. Near impossible to hide, and you find yourself thinking that he did that on purpose.

Tongue trapped between your teeth as you smile, going soft. Letting your hands drift now, smoothing over the soft fabric of his shirt. Slipping beneath his open jacket to hook your fingers into the hem of his pants.

Urging him to a quicker pace, as you tell him what he needs to hear.

“Yours.”

Finger pinch at your hips, angling them so he can drive deeper. You can just barely hear the wet suck with each thrust, again and again and again.

“Mine.” He echos, teeth gritting.

This time when you lean back, he lets you. A heave of his chest as your fingers drift down, until they slowly circle your clit.

Pleasure throbs but your touch is more for show, for him, letting him watch as your fingers split - framing where he sinks into you. That steady thrust starting to stutter, the only unsteady thing about him.

“Tell me you want it.” That harsh, pleading tone is back.

“God, I want it.” Your teeth sinking into your lip, before you sigh sweetly, “Please, daddy.”

It catches him off guard like you knew it would, his eyes darkening. How you offer up a piece of yourself like a tempting piece of fruit - how you would burst so sweetly on his tongue if he were to sink his teeth in.

“Only me, yeah?”

Only him.

He knew it was true. A hushed confession in the late night hour - a warmth in your cheeks as your face rested against his bare chest. Rising and falling with his steady breath, tender feelings betrayed by the flutter of his heart beneath your ear.

“I haven’t called anyone that before. Only you.”

“Only me, hm? Then perhaps you should let me hear it again.”

“Yes, daddy. Always-” One of your hands slips from the table, entwining with his, “I want you to come in me. I want to feel you, too-”

He comes with you begging for it.

A rough grunt paired with the rutting of his hips, until they press flush against you. Little shallow thrusts, keeping himself buried deep as he spills inside you - the last dregs of his jealousy swept along with the sharp burst of pleasure.

Leaving Alfred feeling foolish, a throbbing ache in his chest that matches the galloping of his heart.

You’re always so good to him. Thighs tightening against his hips, keeping him inside until you’re sure he’s been milked dry - until the throbbing twitch of his cock has ebbed.

He pants a breath, fingers still wrapped in yours. Wrinkling the fabric as his hips press flush with yours, keeping himself buried in you for another long moment.

Your mind always runs away with you.

Imagining slipping your panties down your thighs. Thinking how pretty they would look as a pocket-square - or tucked beneath, right against his heart.

Instead, he groans as he slips from you. A slow smile, as his lips brush yours, as you slump back fully against the tabletop.

You’re sure you look debauched - the dim light leaving you glowing, after your orgasm.

The straps of your dress slipping from your shoulders, skirts hiked up to where he has your panties still pushed to the side.

His fingers drifting across where you still gape from him, for just a moment. A look crossing his face that is almost smug, if he could be - before he’s tucking the lacy hem carefully back into place, tugging it snug against your cunt.

“Better?” You ask, breathless. Pushing yourself up, reluctantly starting to out yourself back together.

Relishing in the stolen moment, but knowing the night was not quite over. That it would be a little while longer before you were home - already dreaming about the hands that would wander beneath the warm water of a shared bath.

His fingers press down as he cups you. Grazing against the fabric, where it’s damp with him. Dripping from you and sticking to your skin, now that his cock no longer keeps it inside.

Alfred smiles, as he answers.

“Yes.”

(and then the table was purchased for a sizable donation as part of the “auction” and kept as a beloved souvenir 😌)

thank you so much for reading!! and for giving me an excuse to dive back into them again, it has been missed 💖

[alicerosejensen]

Find me pt.1

Warning: kidnapping, mention of blood, two-person narrative (Leon v reader), castle with bioweapons, angst, trauma, dark, forced relationships, hints of sexual violence.

Summary: half a year. That’s exactly how long it took Leon to get on your trail and try to find you. He is ready to do anything to get you back, but hope fades every day.

A/N: I'll probably still post this when I get inspired. The warnings will vary depending on each chapter. You can think of this story as a big reference to another Capcom game.

I apologize for any mistakes because English is not my native language.

Feedback is welcome, but no insults please.

Prologue here.

His eyes closed by themselves from lack of sleep when Leon looked at the received data, which for him is now equal to the treasure, or more precisely, the key to the treasure is to you. Ingrid said that this could turn out to be a false trail, the threads that he had been looking for for so long turned out to be either a waste of time, or led to a dead end stopping the whole thing. And only now, six months later, a single clue that appeared literally out of nowhere makes you drop everything and try to find you.

Hannigan looks at the audio file trying to determine whether it is a fake or not. She runs it through a lot of programs trying to make sure that it's not gluing while Leon is standing next to her, clutching the back of the chair she was sitting at.

"Tell me this is a real recording," the tone of his voice was almost pleading and at the same time scared as he heard your recorded crying over and over again.

"Yeah." Hannigan's hesitant voice made Leon lower his head and look at the woman who continued to click her fingers on the keyboard.

"Hannigan?"

"We don't know when this recording was made…Maybe it's a trap. Another false trail that will lead nowhere. We've checked everything Leon! We found a car with DNA traces, but the trail ended. There were no witnesses, no recordings from the cameras, it was as if she had fallen through the ground."

Leon froze. The arguments were weighty, but what does he have besides this record?

"What's the point of being trapped after six months?" He sees Ingrid biting her lip trying to squeeze out as much data as possible. "If this was a kidnapping for ransom or luring me out, they would immediately get in touch, but nothing. So it wasn't me or the money that was needed, but my wife."

"However, we have not been able to find a motive. I checked all the documents, passport, parents, records from the hospital where y/n was born - there is nothing that could give us a tip. It's all clear."

"Or we don't see something," he sighed.

Leon was sure that something was missing. But it was not on the surface, but somewhere in the depths, which is not so easy to get to. When he was informed about the shots in his house and found a mess with a syringe lying on the floor, he really had hope that he would be contacted very soon. He waited a week, then a second without leaving the search, because with the current level of technology it is impossible to completely cover up all traces so that they lead nowhere, and in the end Ingrid quickly found a car with traces of your hair and drops of blood on the back seat, but that was it. You became one of those who mysteriously went missing.

But no one asked for money, no one sent any extortionate emails or calls. At one point, Hannigan even put forward the theory that you could have initiated your abduction yourself, but he refused to believe it. Why would you leave like that if you could just break up with him, even though on the day you left, Leon was ready to swear that everything was fine between you.

So it just didn't make sense.

Leon speaks softly. He is pacing the room, waiting for additional information, at least from where this recording was sent to him. The sound of the keys echoes in his head and Leon rubs his face tiredly, stopping his gaze at your photo.

"There was a drug in the syringe, there was her blood on the needle and on the floor, in total two shots were fired from the Matilda, one into the closet and the other into the ceiling... traces of a struggle..." Leon quietly wondered out loud, trying to understand what he could have missed, but it seems more there was nothing left that he could grab onto.

"Leon?" Ingrid suddenly called and Leon was next to her in one sharp movement. “I think I found it!”

A map and tracked coordinates appeared on the screen, presumably from the place where the recording with your request for help was sent.

"This..."

“Not low beam”

Leon twitched anxiously, seeing the designated forest area, looking meaningfully at Hannigan, who rested her chin on her hand, not believing what she found. At one time, intelligence discovered Ashley in a godforsaken Spanish village, but she was kidnapped with the aim of infecting her with a plaga and sending her to Graham, and what Leon saw on the map defied any logic. How did you end up in a mountain range in another country?

“This is Leon’s mistake. There is nothing there, mountains and forest, another mistake, someone made a cruel joke.”

“Not if there is any hint of civilization there.”

It was an unnecessary risk. Hannigan is still trying to find at least some information about the nearest village in these places. On the one hand, it’s an ideal place to hide a person, but on the other hand, there are no guarantees that you will end up there and that Leon won’t go to hell in a meaningless search. Suddenly you have been dead for a long time, although Ingrid’s female intuition tells her that until he finds your body or at least clear evidence of your death, Leon will continue to sniff out the trail of his beloved, like a devoted bloodhound, even if there are no traces left.

You are not the daughter of the president, only the forces of Leon and Hannigan are sent to search for you, the latter helps him only out of the kindness of her heart, and no one will send reconnaissance to find at least something that indicates that you were even really in this place. But Leon worked as an agent for too long, he saw the underside of this world and in theory assumed that there might be a house or village in which you are being kept for some unknown reason, but even if it’s all a trap and you are bait, then Leon is ready to go there.

"Nothing, Leon," Hannigan's annoyed voice must cut off hope. He himself sees no signs of human life on the screen. “No one even reports missing people in populated areas”

“I don’t have anything else anyway, right?” he answers confidently, taking his phone to get the exact coordinates “The fact that there is nothing on the map and no one reported missing tourists means nothing. There are places that someone hides very well.”

“This is your personal mission… I won't be able to help you there. I can book tickets, find someone to help with the weapons, but no outside support. You'll be on your own there.” Ingrid drawled sadly, hoping that he would come to his senses or at least weigh everything again before taking an unjustified risk, "You don't know what awaits you there, perhaps there is nothing there except trees, wild animals and mountains. Let's check it out again?!"

"For six months!" he exclaimed, "I've been trying for six months as a bloodhound to find at least something that can shed light on the kidnapping of my fiancee. I have the coordinates and her message for help, which you yourself confirmed was not falsified. Even if I can't find anything, I'll at least try. She wasn't taken away for money or to get back at me… there's something else there, and if she's there…" Leon poked his finger at the monitor, "then she's completely alone there. Defenseless and vulnerable to any danger if they want to harm her."

There was an oppressive silence. It was useless to convince Leon to wait at least a little longer before rushing headlong for a single straw, but she had already delayed him enough. All Hannigan could do for him was squeeze out any crumbs of information about the area, record it, and help with the equipment. At least the technical component. And if they both believed in God, they could pray for a successful return.

"Allright, have it your way." she spread her hands in surrender.

The awakening was painful and difficult. However, between brief glimpses of wakefulness that quickly ended with another dream, you could feel Leon's gentle touches all over your body. His breath on your neck and lips was like an apologetic kiss. You tried to dodge, as you usually did in the morning when you were still asleep, but he was persistent, after which you vaguely heard laughter through the veil… Heavy, broken, unlike Leon's usual laugh. Random images flashed before your eyes, and the last thing that made you fully wake up was the bang of your head on the floor and the sound of a gunshot, after which you abruptly opened your eyes, looking straight at the dark ceiling, trying to figure out what happened.

Tick tock tick tock

The sound of the clock ticking filled the space, remaining for a while the only thing your mind could focus on. Your head was pounding painfully as you stared madly at the dial, standing a few meters away from you, barely discerning what time it was. The lump on your forehead throbbed unpleasantly and may have caused a concussion after that bastard hit your head on the floor with all his might so that you lost consciousness. Feeling with your fingers the place where the skin painfully swelled, you painfully hissed down immediately removing your hand, stopping it and tried to breathe deeply trying to put the latest events in chronological order.

However, nausea rolled in waves, forcing you to squeeze the bedclothes in your hands and finally realize that the environment in which you are unfamiliar.

A dark room lit by a single fireplace in which a fire was still burning warmed the space making it less frightening, but the pouring moonlight from the window made the soul shrink from the horror of the unknown. You slowly looked around realizing that you were lying on a huge bed with a giant canopy of a delicate green shade on silk bedding of the same color. Everything seemed so unreal. As if it were a nightmare and now someone will jump out from around the corner at you and you will wake up realizing that nothing terrible really happened, but after sitting on the bed in one position for several minutes without moving in the hope of waking up, in the end you realized that you were no longer sleeping.

Your eyes involuntarily began to look at paintings by unknown artists. A portrait of a woman sitting at a small table with a human skull on it, an aristocrat with noble features as if carved out of stone, ordinary landscapes… You put your feet down on the cold stone floor, immediately shuddering and slowly wandered to the window to understand your location, but all you saw outside was an endless forest area without a hint of roads.

Listening to other sounds besides the annoying knocking of the clock and the fire, you hugged yourself by the shoulders, thinking that it was definitely not worth shouting just yet. The room you were in was clearly made in the Gothic style and in the current situation it only caused discomfort, given the fact that upon closer examination of the paintings you were able to understand that in front of you were originals and not reproductions. Old Varnish should have been removed a long time ago, perhaps it made these stories less dark, but this is clearly not something that should be thought about now. Turning around in search of some kind of closet to throw on something warm, you could see clothes neatly laid out on a dusty chair: a white shirt with wide cuffs tapered at the wrist, which was probably worn with a short tapered floral pink vest without sleeves, reminiscent of a corset with lacing on the chest, dark trousers and elegant boots next to them that look like they are made of real leather. The sole is small but looks comfortable and is just your size.

Examining the clothes in your hands, it was impossible not to notice the quality of the fabric, for the shirt was clearly silk, and besides, next to it, on an elegant carved table, someone had carefully left a metal box with decoration and a fresh red rose, which until recently seemed , bloomed in some garden, filling the air with its aroma.

You lowered your hands, taking the box in your hands, carefully opening it, as if a spider or other crawling crap might jump out of it, which always filled you with uncontrollable horror, but nothing catastrophic happened. Inside was a cameo brooch, decorated along the edge with fifty small stones resembling diamonds, and at the bottom hung a drop of pearls. Leon once gave you something similar, but it was in no way comparable to what was now in your hands. It was clearly worth your year's salary. It’s not like you had a choice… in the corner of the room, of course, there was a chest of drawers, but you couldn’t find anything in it except snow-white sheets, and you didn’t really want to walk around in negligence. Considering the fact that you were given no choice and that at least the clothes looked comfortable, you decided to comply, scared by the fact that everything fit perfectly as if it was tailor-made for you. You even caught the brooch on your vest because someone probably left it here on the table on purpose.

“Well, at least I feel a little better,” you thought, sighing as you found the mirror. The lack of light made it difficult to judge how bad the bump on his forehead was, but perhaps that was for the best. There were still no footsteps or sounds in the room behind the wooden door, but so you quickly put your hair in a not-so-neat bun so that it wouldn't get in the way while you explored the area and tried to figure out what happened to you after you were attacked and left here.

Perhaps you should find a phone and contact Leon or the police directly… There must be some connection, right? Looking back again, trying not to pay attention to the slight dizziness and nausea, your gaze lingered on a metal plate hanging directly above the fireplace with some kind of inscription engraved on it, but you did not look at it or at other objects in the room. . Not now… all that mattered at that moment was to find someone or something that would help you navigate and call for help.

With a soft tread, almost quietly like a cat, you pushed the door forward and it gave way, making a slight creak, forcing only to pray that it would not attract unnecessary attention, your head poked out looking around. Cold stone walls like in a medieval castle pressed down on consciousness, the wind blew down the gloomy corridor so that even clothes did not save too much and you wanted to throw some kind of jacket on top, but you took a step forward rejoicing that there are familiar lamps here, even if they shine a little badly, but it was better than if there were candles here.

However, the candelabra here were also really empty. When you were completely out in the hallway, you couldn't figure out which way to go to the right or to the left. It was too dark on the left and you wanted to go there the least, so you wandered in the direction where the wind was blowing, listening carefully to everything, trying not to fall off any stairs, although it was not very bright here, but still your eyes could distinguish the situation well and in the end you went down somewhere to a single door. Pulling the handle, it turned out that the door was closed on the other side and except for the old junk lying under the stairs, overgrown with cobwebs in places, there was nothing, which obviously made you turn around and go upstairs again, turning into that dark corridor where you initially did not want to go, but it seems that the choice was small.

Of course, you could go back to the bedroom and wait for a miracle or trouble, the latter seemed like a more obvious scenario, but still you can't leave everything on its own, even if you find yourself in the most non-standard of all situations. Eventually, after passing through the already familiar room again, you breathed a sigh of relief when you realized that the corridor was not at all as long as it initially seemed, and the door at the end was fortunately unlocked and led you to some long well-lit balcony. Your heart was beating wildly from fear of the unknown, but you still walked forward with your hand on your chest, walking to the other end, passing by some more locked rooms, stopping only at the moment when you clearly noticed a bright scarlet stripe on the floor as if something was being dragged… … like a corpse, and the red streak seems to be blood. Your feet were rooted to the ground as you looked around in a panic, looking for potential danger. Despite the disgusting silence, no one was nearby or someone simply did not want to be noticed earlier than expected, so at your own risk you decided to follow the bloody trail that ended abruptly. There were stains on the floor as if someone had tried to wash them earlier, perhaps they didn’t have time to do it or… Well, Leon always said that you have a rich imagination, which no one from your family ever argued with, so you decided not to give it free rein just yet because that otherwise it will drive you crazy.

It was all just disgusting. You realized for sure that you were in some kind of castle or giant mansion that clearly needed cleaning in places, and the worst thing was that all the rooms here practically remained locked. After an hour of wandering through the dark corners, you were damn cold and lost in addition, despite the fact that you found nothing and could not go anywhere except a couple of chambers, although mice ran through there a couple of times and spiders wove a web in the corners, which horrified you, forcing you to quickly slam the door and scream several times. No one really showed up. On the one hand, it was calming, but on the other it was aggravating.

You need at least some kind of map to figure out which part of the building you're in at all, but all you've found is useless trash and increased anxiety. Breathing exercises generally helped, which was why you were on the verge of hysteria. There must be at least a landline phone here! Panic was rolling in and my eyes started to water, I just wanted to call Leon and beg him to take you away from here because every rustle or shadow made you jump on the spot. And if someone really chases you? Where to run to? You don't have a mountain of muscles like Chris Redfield and you're not even Leon's equal. Your brain was clearly no longer trying to think of any plan, and it was at this moment that somewhere in the distance you heard a clock tinkling. It was dark outside, you couldn't see a thing, which made you think it might be midnight.

Startled, you looked around again and still decided to follow the sounds, hoping that they would not lead to your death. Another dark corridor gave way to a lighter one, which led you to a wide oak carved door, which made you even momentarily happy as you entered the wide hall with snow-white marble columns and an almost mirrored floor where a mosaic in the shape of a sun was laid out in the middle of the hall. Everything was luxurious and at the same time forgotten, but the clock that brought you here with a loud blow really showed midnight and it was a real antique! You were ready to swear to God that such a miracle could only be bought by a wealthy well-connected collector. Nearby there were several tables similar to those in your room, and although they were very dusty, in the vases that stood on them smelled sweetly of fresh flowers.

It wasn’t so gloomy here anymore, which helped relax a little. With sincere curiosity, you looked at everything that lay on the tables, and would like to turn the porcelain figurines of animals in your hands, something like this always caught you, causing memories to come flooding back against your will, how during your travels Leon could not tear you away from the souvenir shop where you emptied his card with great generosity, but this was not the case. And although you kept your eyes glued to everything you saw, your feet carefully walked down the steps until you stopped dead in your tracks when you heard loud clapping of hands.

You looked up at the source of the sound but didn't see anyone, however…

"So you've already woken up, my dear?"

[frogchiro]

I hear it is time to spread the word of our lord and savior Tachanka? 👀

link: (https://rainbowsix.fandom.com/wiki/Tachanka_(Siege) Context of link: Just the wiki page of R6 operator Tachanka.

But I wanna highlight a few things!!!

Alexsandr Senaviev was born on November 3rd in Leningrad, Russia to a military family. At the age of eighteen, Senaviev was conscripted into military service just as the Soviet Union was ending its operations in Afghanistan. Upon the dissolution of his draft, Senaviev opted to enlist full time. He was part of the wrestling league, where his formidable frame and match strategy earned him accolades. 

Alexsandr Senaviev has a boisterous sense of humor with a booming laugh. He can be quite blunt, but without the intent to offend

Senaviev's younger sister is a doctor and our discussion had barely started when he was showing me pictures of her in her doctor's smock, along with a dozen more photos of his nieces and nephews and his own kids. […] He and his sister grew up in a strict household without many things, which is why he makes a great effort to enjoy life. They both make sure that their kids are loved and raised with laughter. At the same time, he doesn't like to buy or accumulate physical objects and emphasizes this with his children, much to their consternation. I suspect that's also partly to do with his divorce. […]

(Also the main reason why we refer to Tachanka as 'lord'/godly is mainly 'cause his weapons/loadout is shit.)

Ladies and gentlemen, we got ourselves a REAL LIFE DILF <33

From what I gathered on his wiki he has at least two children, one of them a son and an ex-wife! Also him being an ex wrestler because of his size and strength...

Imagine being a babysitter for his kids, a 6 year old boy and a sweet 3 year old girl who absolutely adore their nanny who spends the majority of their time with them since their father is still a busy man and their mother is using her newfound freedom as a divorced woman so you're babysitting the little ones for a hefty sum from their dad whenever you're free from college.

But you have to admit, while the kids are literal angels and a delight to babysit, they nor the money are the sole reason for you being so eager to babysit and their father, Alexsandr, played a huge part in it too.

He was so large and heavily build, no doubt from his years in the military but his charming, boisterous attitude combined with his broad, toothy grin that almost seemed boyish on his mature face was what really made you fall for him :(( Whenever the kids were playing or napping, you two had a little time with each other to just talk and spend time together, get to know each other better because 'Let's not make this one of those stick-in-the-ass rigid employer-employee relationships, yes?' as Alexsandr put it himself.

The connection between you deepened but you were still so shy under his clear blue eyes :(( You couldn't possibly do the first move, what if he doesn't return your feelings? He's much older than you, he has a military career, two kids and a divorce, surely he wouldn't ever be interested in someone like you...right?

Ofc little did you know that Alexsandr was tugging his lengthy, heavy cock every night after sending you off with a thick wad of cash and a loud, happy thank you for taking care of his kids, though in reality he was everything but happy :(( Like it or not but the burly male fell for you, the most cliche thing on earth, the young, sweet babysitter that visited him home almost every day to care for his little ones with a gentle smile towards them and him too, such a stark contrast from his ex wife...

He was cumming every night multiple times to the thought of you right here beside him, in his bed, all nice and naked, sated and warm after a night of passionate love making. He came on his hairy tummy with a displeased growl, once the post nut clarity set in and realized that he wasted so much precious seed when it could be inside you >:(

Alexsandr knew he had to have you, had to confess to you how he felt but didn't know how; his loud, charismatic attitude failing him for the first time in years but these thoughts were for the time being pushed back once again to the back of his mind. He could think of a better solution on how to win you over once he wasn't so terribly horny, testosterone clouding his mind as his heavy cock jumped to life once again, thick potent sperm oozing from his swollen tip and Alexsandr could only think about how well he could breed you, he was a real stud despite his age y'know? Plus he always wanted another kid anyway <33

[patroxlos]

home base . ch3

"friends who believe in mpreg" - 2.7k words

ultraman: rising (2024). kenji sato x reader

master post. ao3 link.

previous: ch2. "friends who reconnected and who certainly don't want to be more"

next: ch4. "friends who sleep on call with each other"

Kenji endures an awkward interview with sports journalist Ami Wakita.

And is it monsterfucking if you're kind of into Ultraman?

A/N: So my dad accidentally bought me a coffee float instead of the coke float I asked him to get me. I ended up caffeinated at 11PM and began writing this in jitters. it's nearly 3AM. This is unedited and unfiltered which means: my writing is gonna be so unserious you will sit there and ask yourself "Is this writer different from the one who made the last two chapters?"

Hoping you can keep up with all my pop culture references. Motsubishi is such a silly little name. I was workshopping other company names like "Soni," "Yomaha," etc. but Motsubishi is giving Mob Psycho 100 brand parody.

Also, I refer to Ami as 'Ms. Wakita' connotes that she and Ken are still not that close, but as you would be able to tell while reading, they are begrudgingly becoming fast friends.

---

“Absolutely not.” Ken denies it immediately, with a slight aggression. “There’s no lovechild to speak of. We are just friends.”

Ami Wakita flinches a bit at his tone. “Woah, they weren’t kidding when they said you’re a bit defensive about her.”

“Who’s they?” He huffs, taking a bite from a strip of tonkatsu to calm down. He was glad that it is just him and Ms. Wakita in the restaurant at the moment. He would not want anyone to overhear their conversation about you. 

“Your friendship with the Motsubishi scion has been well-documented since the start of your professional career. Rumors about your couplings have been circling since before,” Ms. Wakita points out.

“No comment.” His media training kicks in with his mouth full.

She rubs her temple a bit. “What did I say about you showing a little vulnerability?”

“I didn’t even say anything about my dad before you psychoanalyzed me!”

“Well was I wrong?”

Damn, she’s good. “...I thought you were a sports reporter.”

“Reporting on the players’ personal lives is a big part of it,” she coolly responds. “You should read my articles on Ohtani’s translator embezzling his funds, or the Yuki Tsunoda puppy interview I produced.”

“This isn’t about puppies though…” His shoulders are tense. “She’s just been my friend for as long as I can remember. Her family has always been good to my family– especially to my mom–and I know how much they value privacy. She is at a really crucial point of her career working to inherit one of the biggest conglomerates of the world. She and I definitely wouldn’t risk a secret pregnancy.”

He is impassioned when it comes to you.

“Woah…Can I quote that?” Ms. Wakita glanced down at her phone recording their conversation.

He deflates. “Yeah yeah sure whatever. You’re right, this isn’t the first time someone has made up stuff about us. Lovechild is new though. The last time it was an arranged marriage.”

“If it helps, online reaction has always been generally positive at the idea of you two coupling up,” she tries to be helpful. “Both of you are celebrities in your own right. You’re both young, wealthy and attractive. It fulfills a lot of people’s fantasies. The engagement rumors came about only because you two have been publicly attached to each other for so long.”

It does help. A bit too much. His heart picks up. Of course Ken has read all the comments whenever those articles came out over the years. You visit him in L.A. whenever you could, and those visits helped a lot with maintaining your friendship. There are multiple photos of you attending his career-defining games wearing his baseball jersey— the oversized look making you seem like his perfect WAG sitting beside his mom.

Ms. Wakita reads this on his face, clear as day. She figures that he is telling the truth about you and him never ever being romantically involved, but there seems to be something additional brewing on the surface. Putting on an unassuming tone, she asks “So I guess that’s it? You both can’t imagine being involved?”

He leans back on his seat, confidently answering “Yes, we both think it won’t work out long term—”

He proceeds to unlean as the realization causes him to hunch over. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuckity fuck. She really can get the devil to confess his sins.

She tries not to look too thrilled about his slip up, which he can commend her for.

“W-What I mean is that neither her nor me— it’s not happening. It never happened,” he stammers. He needs a new media trainer.

“I’m sure you recall that there have been photos—”

“Of her at my games? Of course she was, haha!” He did NOT need her to mention their other photos right now.

Please don’t.

Please don’t. Please… He is supposed to be moving on. Which he has!

“—that pop up over the years of you two being overly familiar.” She finishes.

God kill him. “All alleged. They’re too blurry to be sure it is us.”

“...Some looked like pro shots to me.”

Ken nearly slams his face on his tonkatsu.

“The one where you’re both getting smoothies at Erewhon was cute?” She sounds honest, and she is. She isn’t even going to report on this. It is already evident that the gossip is a sham, but she cannot help but want to tease the baseball player a bit, now that they are sort of becoming acquainted.

He sighs. “Thanks. It was the Ken Sato wheatgrass and bone broth blend. She didn’t like it.”

He remembers that day. You made a face when he tried to get you to take a little sip, so he blew some raspberries against your cheek and maaaybe just a little on your neck as you both stood in the parking lot; you were shrieking for him to stop as his smoothie-covered lips smothered your skin. All friendly, of course.

“Where did the lovechild thing even come from?” Ken thinks aloud. “She looks too great to be pregnant.”

Ms. Wakita, known single mother, asks “...Do women not look great pregnant?”

“Oh you know what I meant,” He snaps as she covers her mouth with a napkin to laugh.

She stops the recording on her phone to slide him the online tabloid article. Allegedly, he and you fought about him being an absent father at the restaurant last night as you have endured your pregnancy all alone. The story ends with a sweet coupling at the parking lot before you left on separate vehicles, a marker that neither of you planned to get married, or a possible abortion in the near future. What. 

“You have a thing for parking lots?” She tries to joke.

His eyes nearly bulge at one line. “‘ The Motsubishi scion ate for two as she devoured a Yakisoba platter all alone—’ It was a decently sized portion for a reasonable price! And I definitely am not an absent father!” He says the last bit with a bit too much vigor.

“I didn’t write it,” She tries to keep his emotions in check. “...I did nearly believe it for a moment though when you called me last night. Was it an hour or two after you met up with her at the yakisoba place?”

He admits that if he was in Ms. Wakita’s place, he would’ve also thought he was secretly raising a child. He wonders whether the Baby is awake right now, terrorizing Mina. “Totally unrelated events.”

“And the apparent baby book purchases in your credit histo— how did a gossip mag get that information?” She marvels as she scrolls through her phone.

He doesn’t know what’s worse: the world finding out that he is raising a giant baby lizard in his basement or people thinking that he’s an absentee like his own dad.

A red blinking light catches Ms. Wakita’s eye. “Are…you gonna get that?”

Not hearing her at first, he runs a hand through his face. God he really did not want to imagine your reaction to this news article. He promised you that it would not be weird. The past is past. If your friendship is already in danger, this might ruin things even further. Oh he can already hear the alarm bells ringing in his head—

Or from his watch?!

“Hey, you don’t have a kid growing in you right now, do you?” Your assistant asks you as she glances at your stomach.

You were both in one of your sleek city limousines on the way to a late evening banquet, where you are due to give a speech. The traffic jam in front of you stretches a kilometer. You follow her gaze. “I thought this suit was slimming.”

She passes you her phone. Huh. ‘Motsubishi Scion Gets Impregnated by Famous Baseball Star.’  You pass the phone back to her. “I don’t want to see the kind of porn you’re looking at.”

“Young Master, it’s an article about you and Ken Sato.” Your assistant was not in the mood for your jokes right now.

You just shrug, taking your phone out to send a few quick texts to Ken. You are sure he probably heard the news by now, and he will definitely agree with you that it is as hilarious as it is ridiculous. “It’ll blow over.”

As you look back out of your window, you’ve already forgotten about it. Seems like a slow day for the newsroom.

At the horizon, you see a PacMan proudly sticking out from the top of a building get knocked down by some beam of light. You yawn and stretch back out on your seat. “Can we go any faster? I want to get this banquet over with.”

Your driver sighs. “This new kaiju attack is impossible ma’am. Apparently, it is just running around without any clear direction.”

“Well I don’t think a monster would have access to KoogleMaps,” you reply wryly.

It was going to be a long night. You begin to settle in for a nap while people are exiting their cars and running out into the streets. Their screams of terror sound muffled inside your bullet-proof vehicle.

“Should we get out too?” Your assistant nervously asks.

You lift up your foot and rest it on your knee. “I’m wearing So Kates. I don’t think I can run either way.”

As you say that, your security detail at the front of the limo begins getting out. Ugh, Tokyo is the worst… You need to fly out soon. He opens your car door and extends a hand out. “Let me carry you, Young Master. Better to evacuate now.”

“Must I?” You groan in frustration.

“We can skip the banquet and take you home,” he compromises. Begrudgingly, you step out of the vehicle just in time for the pinkest…chicken lizard to pop up at the corner of the street.

Immediately, you are swept off your feet as your security detail rushes to escort you and your assistant away from that thing as fast as possible, the wind is knocked out of your lungs. You peek over the shoulder of your bodyguard for a better glimpse at the chirping beast.

You lock eyes with it.

Big mistake.

Because why the hell did it flitter with excitement and began chasing you?!

It keeps chirping, and… burping?... as it hobbles and stomps over cars. Your jaw drops as your limo is flattened like nothing. And for some strange reason, the monster’s eyes are solely trained on you.

Did I do something to piss it off? You ask yourself as it gets closer. You know you can be a bitch but you would remember if you told it to fuck off. No, this monster is chasing after you like it knew you. There was no aggression in its oddly proportioned body, like you are being chased by that grotesque baby in the Tin Toy Pixar short. There is no moral compass behind those beady little eyes, just the pure pleasure-seeking nature of baby hedonism.

It gets closer, and your bodyguard’s legs can only run for so long. He screams bloody murder as he feels himself get picked up, you along with him, by the beast. You hear another scream that sounds like your own voice as you feel yourself get ripped from your bodyguard’s grasp. The monster puts him back down on the street, his landing relatively gentle.

You are being shaken like a rattle now in its claws, its gurgling filling your ears. “Oh my god.” You feel yourself getting sick from the nausea. You never thought you were going to die like this. Your legs flail in the air helplessly but your So Kates stay on, pinching your toes like you are about to give them the best shoe advertisement Louboutin can ask for, with how it feels glued to your feet.

The ground rumbles as if a giant springs through the streets. Your life does not flash before your eyes, but you can hear it in your ears— a very clear ring of Ken shouting “Baby! Put down the human!”

…

Huh?

You felt your body decompress as the monster’s grip loosened. Air returns back into your lungs, but you don’t find yourself returned to the ground.

Instead, you are being lifted up way higher into the sky as you lay on the palm of Tokyo’s hero: Ultraman.

You hiss as your eyes burn from the blinding lights of Ultraman’s unblinking lenses. “Are you okay—?” He says your name with a rising panic. You can swear you saw his chest light threaten you change colors. He is cradling you against it.

You did not know Ultraman can be this friendly with Tokyoites. You struggle to regain your ability to speak, a bit confused and frazzled from everything that just happened in the past minute.

The hero takes this as a bad sign. “Oh god you’re hurt.” There is an ache in his words that shakes up your own core. No one has ever sounded this worried for you.

Man is he bright . You try to shield your eyes from his light. You are brought up close to his face as he inspects your body. “I– I’m fine,” You manage to rasp out. You are initially not sure he heard you, but the evident sag of his colossal, broad shoulders affirms that he did.

You have never gotten to observe the hero this up close. Despite the unemoting face, you find his body to be an open book as it trembles with the fear of losing you. Even if he must be like this with every other citizen in need of saving, you cannot help but feel a little special.

“I was so worried— wait here for help.” He lowers you on top of a roof building, his fingers shaky, worrying about dropping you. You shakily slide off his palm, patting down your suit. You stumble a little on your stilettos, and instantly his massive hands crowd you once more to hold you up. " Please be careful."

“Ultraman!” You shout as you push away his fingers. “I’m okay, thank you!” You point towards the Tokyo Tower, where the baby-like kaiju was already climbing up. “You gotta deal with that first! Leave me, I’ll be alright."

“Huh? Oh, yeah, god… ” The hero curses, getting ready to sprint towards the tower. “Be a good girl and stay put, yeah?” He says to you before running off.

Your feet wobble on your heels as you nearly keel over from the adrenaline coursing through your body. That… you are never leaving the house again during a kaiju attack. Though… you watch as the slim figure of Ultraman begin to climb the tower after the kaiju. Maybe it won’t be that bad next time.

Later that evening in the Ultrabase, Ken excuses himself from the company of his father, Mina and the baby as he heads towards the bathroom for a long-awaited shower. His muscles ache with every step, and he is tempted to pass out on the cold floor— wouldn’t be the first time since getting this newfound responsibilities.

This is getting too overwhelming. He still cannot believe he felt so cornered against the wall that he had to call his dad for help like some kid. If only you saw him now. You were oddly closer to his dad than he was.

Oh shit, you.

You, who he left stranded on some random building.

He quickly fumbles for his phone, eager to call you to see if you’re alright.

Shit , he feels some tears of frustration welling up in his eyes. He is fucking everything up. He is a bad son, a bad father, a bad friend.

Ken opens his messaging app, and he first sees the texts that you sent earlier in the evening.

…

[YOU]

Hey bbgirl.

You pregnat? Pragnent?

My mom is gonna hand you a stack of 20M yen just to stay away from me. Are u g to take it so we can split it after? LOL

Not rlly in the mood to be ur baby daddy atm. get a DNA test before i send child support.

SENT LINK: Motsubishi Scion Gets Impregnated by Famous Baseball Star.

Bc if one of us left that restaurant pregnant it definitely would not be me

A/N: Ultraman fine as hell have you seen his waist?

This chapter was supposed to go A LOT differently from how it ended up being. It was initially supposed to be an extended conversation between you and your assistant about your past...whatever you had...with Kenji during your visits to L.A. But I actually really like writing Ken POV because him and I are pretty similar?

[seoulmatez]

MEET THE PARENTS

info ⭑ mikage reo x reader ﾉ 0.9k wc ﾉ sfw ﾉ fluff ﾉ reference to reader's parents and family

note ⭑ happy holidays! i think this is my first time writing a solo piece for reo so hopefully it isn't too bad. thanks for reading! ❤︎‬

requested by @yuukimiyas for my winter wonderland event (closed)!

reo is a punctual man—he sticks to a schedule and considers his time valuable. so when he isn’t home on time after practice on the night that you’re hosting your family for dinner, you’re struck with worry. twenty minutes behind isn’t something you’d usually bat your eyes at but you will admit that it’s strange not getting a text or call explaining his absence on the occasion he’s been fretting about all week.

with dinner started on the stove, you wipe your hands on a dish towel before reaching for your phone to figure out what’s keeping reo from home. though, before you can find his contact, the photo you have saved with his name flashes on your screen as the device buzzes with an incoming call from him.

you press the green accept button, wasting no time starting your distressed interrogation. “where are you?”

there’s a laugh from his end of the line and you can hear the faraway honking of horns. his explanation comes easily, as though you should have expected it. “i swung by the florist to pick up a bouquet for your mom.”

reo’s answer doesn’t come as a surprise. in addition to being punctual, reo is chivalrous, too. ever since you told him that your family would be visiting for the holidays, he’s made it his personal mission to make sure that everything is in order—that he’d be leaving a good impression on the ones you love.

if the preparation he’s taken so far is evidence of anything, it’s that he truly has nothing to worry about. maybe you’re a little bit biased, but how could anyone not like reo?

“you know, typically guests bring gifts for the hosts—not the other way around.” the urgency has faded from your voice upon learning the reason behind his not being here, traded in for a more relaxed tone, one with a playful edge.

“no way,” he starts, and you can practically hear the frown in his voice, “it’s their first time at our place and meeting me. i’ve gotta do this right.”

between his actions and his words, it’s clear that reo is taking the one opportunity he has with this first meeting seriously. it’s flattering to see that he cares so much, that he wants those closest to you to like him even a fraction of the way you do. your heart feels like it’s floating in your chest knowing that reo is doing all of this for your sake.

“understood.” you smile with your declaration. “anyways, did you call for something?”

“right, did you need me to pick anything up while i’m out?”

“nope,” you shake your head even though he can’t see you, “just get home safe.”

“sure thing, love you.”

it isn’t long before you hear reo’s key unlocking your front door and his house slippers shuffling down the hallway and into the kitchen. a purple head of hair greets you in the doorway accompanied by pops of red and white from the flower bouquet he’s holding. his violet eyes light up when you turn to meet his gaze and welcome him home.

“hey.” you offer him a wave from the stove before your eyes fall to the flower arrangement in his grasp. “those are pretty.”

he examines them closely, like you’re sure he did while the florist was putting the bouquet together and after he received the flowers. “you think she’ll like them?”

you hum and nod, a smile tugging at your lips upon seeing the relief that colors his face with your approval. he sets the paper-wrapped bouquet on an unoccupied space of the kitchen island before rubbing his hands together and looking to you for direction.

“what can i do?”

there’s an unspoken rule that reo doesn’t cook on special occasions. he can admit that it’s a skill he has yet to master and that the meals of guests are better left out of his hands. with this in mind, you jerk your head toward the cabinets that hold your plates and silverware. “wanna set the table?”

“i can do that,” he agrees.

while you finish up dinner, reo goes between the kitchen and dining room, neatly arranging the dishes on the festive tablecloth you had set out earlier. he kisses you with each trip he makes, first on your forehead, then your nose, and when he’s back in the kitchen for good, he plants one of your lips. the taste of familiar, minty like the gum he chews with a hint of cucumber from his chapstick. 

you’re starting to get the feeling that his nerves are calming, that the perfectionist in him is mellowing, but his next question is proof that he’s still a little anxious about the events to come. “do your parents prefer red or white wine?”

you shrug. it’s been a while since you’ve had a meal with them and even then you can’t say that you paid much attention to what they were drinking. “i’m sure they’ll enjoy either.”

he opens his mouth to protest but you shush him by pressing a finger to his lips.

“reo, relax.” you hook your arms under his to rub soothing circles on his shoulder blades. he takes your advice, taking a deep breath in through his nose and letting it leave through his mouth. your lips pull up into a grin as you feel his muscles ease, the tension seeping from his body. “they’re going to love you.”

he nods, a small smile of his own appearing with your reassurance.

only a moment later, the ring of your doorbell sounds throughout the house. you meet reo’s gaze with an encouraging sparkle in your eyes. “it’s go time.”