#grand mogul

[ducktoonsfanart]

Junior Woodchucks and Chickadees - Kids scouts group - Duckverse

This is also my gift to my friend from Instagram and Deviantart, but I also drew this for Scouts Day, which is celebrated on February 22nd. Robert Baden-Powell, 1st Baron Baden-Powell, was born on that day in 1857, who was also the founder of scouts (the first scout camp was Brownsea Island Scout camp) in 1907. On the same day, his wife Olave Baden-Powell was born, but in 1889, she too was credited with founding the Girl Scouts, just as Robert Baden-Powell was credited with founding the Boy Scouts. While the whole world celebrates the Scout Day on February 22, in America it is celebrated on February 8. Yes, those scout groups of either boys or girls help to improve their knowledge and skills and to get along better in nature and not be at home all the time in a closed space. Those scouting organizations are still active today.

Yes, I drew Donald's nephews, Huey, Dewey and Louie together as the Junior Woodchucks, in which they are much more disciplined than before, and there is Gyro's nephew, Newton who is also a member of the Junior Woodchucks. There is also Sonny Seagull (Garvey Gull), who, although not a member of the Junior Woodchucks, is still best friends with Donald's nephews, so he is often with them. Unfortunately, he is an orphan. Incidentally, it is also the anniversary of the comic "Operation St. Bernard" published in February 1951 and written and drawn by Carl Barks and that comic was the beginning of Junior Woodchucks. Besides them, there are also Daisy's nieces, April, May and June (version from the Dutch comics), but as the Littlest Chickadees, a girl scout group and dressed in uniform. There is also Bertie McGoose or Grand Mogul, the leader of the Junior Woodchucks, also one of Donald Duck's best friends from childhood. And there are their parents, Aunt Daisy, Uncle Donald and Uncle Gyro Gearloose from Little Helper, watching their kids have fun and socializing while in scout groups. I mostly drew by combining styles from European comics. And yes, Huey holds the Junior Woodchucks Guidebook, which contains all the important information and is a veritable encyclopedia for young curiosities.

I hope you like this drawing and sorry for some mistakes I made. Feel free to like and reblog this, just don't copy or use my same ideas without crediting me! Thank you! And once again, Happy Girl and Boy Scout Day!

[aewmoves]

[photog-crafty]

[formulawolff]

“my favorite driver!” - t.w.

pairing: fem driver!reader x toto wolff

word count: 1.9k

warnings: cursing, mostly fluffy content, jack being a little shit (unintentionally), some tension between an ex-wife and the new girlfriend, mentions of divorce, toto being clueless, yadayadayada

a/n: well, well, well. here we are. a busy day of karting complete with jack, toto, golden girl, & susie! lemme know if you guys enjoyed this one! <3

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺

"are you ready?"

exhaling, you adjust your cap, praying that it will somehow keep your identity protected. after all, you wanted nothing more than to keep a low profile today.

"as ready as i'll ever be."

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺

"be careful, schatzi," he rolls his eyes, "if you sound any more ecstatic you may burst like a little bubble."

"oh yeah," you scoff, lingering in the passenger seat. your hand hovers above the handle of the door, palms clammy as your fingers wrap around the cool surface, "i'm filled to the brim with excitement."

"hey," fingers grasp your chin, forcing you to maintain eye contact, "it is not going as terrible as you think."

"it sounds like it's going to be an absolute shit show," you cringe internally as a whine escapes from lips, "i have to sit next to your ex-wife all weekend! we both know that i am the last person she wants be seen with."

toto tuts, shaking his head, "can you at least push through? for me? for jack? he's been chattering about this all week. you have no idea how much this means to him."

"i'll try my best," shame ripples within you, cheeks burning as toto nods, shooting you a wink.

"that's my girl. now, let's get going. he starts in about an hour."

the illustrious team principal slips out of the car, shutting the driver's side door. before you know it, he's on the other side of the coupe, a breeze rolling through as he opens the passenger door, prompting you to come on out. swallowing the lump in your throat, you oblige, ensuring that your bag and sunglasses aren't forgotten.

keeping your head low, your heart skips a beat as you feel his fingers find yours, intertwining them together. he squeezes tenderly, a signal that he was there for you, no matter what.

with that anxious sensation growing in the pit of your stomach, you couldn't be more grateful for his reassurance.

since there was a brief break in your schedule, you agreed to accompany toto to a weekend of karting. well, mostly because of jack. the little one was constantly buzzing about you, often inquiring when he was going to meet you. due to the nature of both of your bustling lives, toto conferred with susie on what a good time would be.

the two ended up settling on a weekend between singapore and austin, a couple of weeks before the united states grand prix.

it was a simple outing, really. hanging out with your boyfriend on a beautiful autumn day. you would be introducing yourself to his kid, a little one who absolutely adored you. yet, there was one factor that weighed heavy on your mind.

susie.

the f1 academy founder and racing mogul would be in attendance today in support of her son.

and god, did the thought of facing her for the first time since the news broke have you absolutely reeling.

what would she say? would she be kind? or rather, would it be a sickeningly sweet sort of niceness? would it all be a facade? would she even acknowledge you? would she let you meet jack?

no matter how much toto told you that she was over it, there was still that anxious feeling. it was ever-present, gnawing away at you.

and now, as you approach the garages, hand-in-hand with toto, that anxiety heightened, almost paralyzing you with fear. with every step, it felt as if you feet were concrete, barely moving at all.

"it's okay baby," a voice, his voice, floods your ear. it's barely a whisper, almost inaudible as you grow closer to the throng of parents and children, "i love you."

chewing on your lower lip, you manage to croak out a response, "i love you too."

you hadn't even spoken with susie yet and you were already bristling with fear. only five minutes had passed since you got out of the car and your palms were slick with sweat, armpits damp as well.

fuck, was this going to be torture.

you could manage to get behind the wheel of a vehicle that topped speeds of over two hundred miles an hour but meeting an ex-wife and former acquaintance was almost too much.

how fucked was that?

for a moment, you couldn't but admire toto's initiative to keep your nerves at bay. how he had pulled you closer, looping your arm through his. how his thumb traced soothing circles into your skin, his mercedes cap situated on your head.

he was doing everything in his power to keep you calm. and god, did you love him for that.

the team principal comes a halt, your heart thudding as scans the garage. he pauses, eyes forming slits as he searches for susie. after all, with her blonde bob and striking smile, she was pretty distinguishable.

you couldn't forget a stunning face like susie's.

"ah," toto sucks in a breath, "guten morgen!"

your head swivels in the direction of his voice, picking out a blonde. the woman turns, lips pulling into a grin as she recognizes toto.

"good morning!"

your hand trembles, knees almost buckling as she strolls towards you, little one in tow. for a moment, you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping that maybe this was some sort of a dream. praying that you would simply wake up, wrapped up in your lover's arms.

yet, his hand breaking away from yours reminds you that is real. very real.

you remain still as toto's arm envelop susie's frame, bringing her in for a warm embrace. he pecks her cheeks, the words indistinguishable. you recognize them as german, cursing yourself slightly for not keeping up with your courses.

"and good morning to you," susie bears a bright smile as she turns to you, opening her arms up for a hug. you return the gesture, awkwardly placing two kisses on either cheek.

"it's nice to see you again."

"papa!" a voice squeals, bursting with joy, "she's here! my favorite driver is here!"

at that, you notice susie's right eye twitch. toto kneels, scooping jack up. he hoists the little one into the air so that he was at your level. at the interaction, you feel your lips curl, forming a quaint smile.

"guten morgen, jack! i can't believe i'm finally meeting my favorite kart racer. i think i'm a little starstruck."

jack's eyes widen, his cheeks tinged a rosy pink. his hands fly to his face, shielding his shyness. toto leans in, whispering something in his ear. in turn, jack peeks out, stars glistening in his gaze as he peers at you.

"did you come to watch me race today?"

"i did," you nod, "i figured i would give your dad some company today."

"mama says that you keep my dad company too much and-"

"let's not worry about what mommy thinks," susie cuts in, "let's just worry about racing today, okay?"

toto arches a brow, yet holds his composure, "let's go check out the kart and let the women gossip, yeah? what do you think about that?"

jack nods enthusiastically as toto sets him down. taking his father's hand, he leads him to the other end of the garage, buzzing about a mile a minute. for a moment, there's a beat of silence, susie inhaling a sharp breath.

"i am so sorry."

"about?" your brow furrows, "ms. wolff, you have nothing to be-"

"it's stoddart now," susie's lips form a tight line, her eyes squeezing shut, "did toto not inform you? the divorce was finalized."

"i-" you stammer, swaying slightly, "i-i had no idea."

the blonde rolls her eyes, bringing a hand to her temple, "he has a knack for forgetting important events like that. i apologize for putting you on the spot. i hope you know that i have no ill-will or grudge toward you. it's just... different, you know? he is so different now that he has you."

"what do you mean by that?"

susie motions her head, pointing in the direction of toto and jack, "just look at him. i have never seen him so loving or careful with anyone until you came into the picture. i have never seen him so proactive in jack's life. you have changed him. you truly are his golden girl."

in that moment, your heart swells, bliss rippling all throughout as you watch toto and jack. the little one's hand was wrapped around toto's finger, the child showcasing all of the new modifications to his kart. toto couldn't look any more proud, his gaze brimmed with affection, dimples apparent as jack toted him along.

"susie," you begin, attempting to form some sort of response that would truly express your gratitude, "thank you, for that. you really have no-"

"don't thank me," a chuckle bubbles up in her throat, the blonde resting a hand on your shoulder, "just stick around, yeah? i don't know if i can handle anymore drab and depressed toto. also, i wouldn't mind if you wanted to stop by the academy sometime. we miss you around there."

"i could probably fit that in sometime," you beam, "there isn't much more of the season left. i would love to come by and see how things are progressing."

"don't feel like you have to just because of me," susie sticks outs a hand, "i know you're fairly busy at brackley in your free time."

after her statement, she winks, heat billowing into your cheeks the moment you realize what she meant.

so she had heard the rumors.

"well," the blonde clears her throat, fishing her phone out of her pocket, "my partner is going to be here any minute now. i need to go meet up with her so she doesn't get lost. you think you can keep the boys out of trouble?"

"i sure can," a giggle flows from your lips, "i'll go see what they're up to. isn't the first lap going to start here soon?"

"yes," susie responds, spinning on her heel, "if i can't find you two around here, will you text me from toto's phone?"

"of course!" you chirp, flashing her a thumbs up, "we'll meet up with you soon!"

"great," susie flashes you a grin, waving at the boys one last time.

as she disappears among the growing crowd of parents, children, and family, you make your way towards toto and jack. the moment jack spots you, he waves you over, "i need help!"

"what is it?" you fold your arms across your chest.

"will you give me some tips?" the little one cocks his head as toto zips up his racing suit.

"what sort of tips?" there's a cozy sensation blooming in your chest as you kneel to the ground.

"racing tips, duh!"

"i'll tell you what," carefully, you place your hands on his shoulders, maintaining eye contact.

"the most important thing i can tell you to do is to believe in yourself. if you can do that, then you can do anything."

"anything?" jack's lip purse, toto hovering with his helmet in his grasp.

dipping your head, you take the helmet, placing it on the child's head, "anything. no go kick ass out there. i know you'll do great!"

at your words, you can't help but notice the way jack brightens. his mouth forms a radiant smile. for a minute, he's a spitting-image of his father, the sight tugging at your heart.

"okay! i'll go kick some ass! only cause you said i can!"

as toto helps him into the kart, you rise to your feet, a singular thought buzzing in your mind.

maybe one day a little toto wouldn't be so bad.

just maybe.

[slowd1ving]

hello!! Your fic is so cool and if your request is open, can I request DG x male reader when DG still in his James lee era while reader is the King of Busan

XENIA ゜゜・DG

Xenia, noun: the classical concept of hospitality to strangers. This, unfortunately, includes a wandering dog and his conniving owner—a most irritating, tooth-grinding conundrum the King of Busan has with Charles Choi and his boy-genius. sorry for the wait anon I was away from my laptop for the past week or so! and I couldn't write :'( first meetings and onwards for this particular work haha chicken and egg problem.. haha introspection on business and corruption... haha capitalism pairing: dg (james lee) + male reader warnings: male reader, canon typical violence, arguing (bickering) wc: 3.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

In the lengthy chronicles of Charles Choi’s grand plan—to mould the precarious South Korean underground into something far more profitable—James Lee finally came across his very own cause-and-effect conundrum. 

What came first, the chicken or the egg? Plutarch initially posed this question in The Symposiacs: a symbolic tug of war between creator and creation. James supposed, in his bored sort of way, that this question described the relationship between cities and Kings as well. Chronically, objectively, the cities existed first—tall structures and unique ecosystems that forged shadowy figureheads to rule the violent underbelly. But poetically, it was rather hard to ignore the hands etching—pummeling—a pathway for the power to flourish. Without those in charge, what were the cities? And without the cities, who were the people in charge?

Parsing the matter, it distilled into who influenced whom.

Of course, the dazzling sprawl of Busan refracting from the glass under his feet was no exception. Even he, who satiated his youthful wanderlust with blood on his fists, couldn’t deny his reluctance to sully this city more. But, what did it matter? The second most important city in South Korea (some would froth at the mouth and argue it was the first for its gateway to Eurasian trade, or at least for its world-class ports) was built from perfectly respectable trade; but alack! it was also protected by its snarling underworld. It had already been befouled: polluted by fists no better than his, trodden by legs more filthy than his own. Blood and toil smeared its golden sand, and its money was just as dirty.

 Sure, the city was propped up by honourable (hah) commercial deals, but it was shielded by the illicit ones. 

A defiled aegis, if you would.  

It was clear the current glitzy glamour of Busan night-life was carefully orchestrated by someone: from the specific mouthfeel the night air had, to the businesses that ran late into the witching hours. Those mythical beings and chaebols who fed and extracted money from this place, in endless loops, were culpable for these towering skyscrapers and glittering lights. 

Creators. 

In turn, the city cradled your grimy little body—chubby hands wrapping around index fingers of the metaphorical hounds—and made you. 

Did this metropolis represent you, or did you represent the metropolis?

It was not in a polite setting that James Lee scouted the venerable King of Busan: arguably the second most esteemed figurehead for the Kings of South Korea. In theory. In theory, since Busan’s reputation as a hub for trade and exalted trade (rather than the mere cold, hard cash ill-reputed other cities offered Choi) entwined with your own. Except, in practice, you were a far more reticent King than anyone could imagine. A shadow to fade into obliquity more than any other shadow. 

Underbelly, yes. This was the turf you were most at home in; he could forget all about the glamorous, illegal casinos in basements, he could forget about eavesdropping on business moguls and their lackeys, he could forget about waiting in the entertainment districts for the proverbial snake to finally rear his head. 

You were the fucking microcosm of this city: draped with expensive fabric and chainmailed with gold, but the blood on your knuckles stank of impurity. In a parking lot nestled on the outskirts of Busan, he witnessed the King in his court: complete with the luxury, the opulence, and the hamartia of brutality that came with capitalism. Yes, Busan had minted you as a shadowy side to a glitzy coin—as your eyes snapped to where he lounged against concrete, he couldn’t help but observe how your imaginary hackles raised. 

Thwomp. Casually, you tossed the grunt beaten black-and-blue to the frigid asphalt, with the magnanimity of tossing breadcrumbs to ducks in a pond. Like the lackey was the bread and James fucking Lee himself was the duck. A bloodied cheek squished into his sneaker, but you merely stared at him owl-like. No, cat-like, because it seemed to be the same nonplussed stare a cat would give someone after bringing them a dead rat. 

“Nice city.” Since you clearly had no intention of speaking first. Deftly, his fingers unravelled the mystic plastic of a lollipop: popping the cherry-flavoured candy into his mouth to soothe the acerbic irritation he tasted. “You treat all your guests like this, or do kings not follow xenia anymore?” 

It was a rather futile attempt to lighten the mood. After all, if he could help it, he’d rather negotiate to pave the way for the second generation before resorting to throwing his fist. No, that was a lie. His flexing fingers wanted nothing more than to curl into a fist to let off some of the steam he’d garnered from searching for you in this uselessly big city, but fate had him making stupid jokes based on The Odyssey he’d read just last week for his Classics competition. If he rummaged in his pocket, he could probably find the gold medal clanking against hard sweets. 

Your expression changed minutely—a slight disturbance in your brows. They furrowed, and for a brief moment James Lee thought his joke fell flat. With all the blood soaked into your expensive garb, maybe you just valued fists over Homeric hexameter. Violence over prose. Brawns over brains. You slinked like shadows. Crude. Ominous. He could barely see your face even with the city lights flashing neon in the backdrop, but when your loping gait came to a halt, there was an exasperation that afforded more subtle nuance to your character. A bitterness to tinge what he thought was mindlessness. 

“Mr. Lee.” Your voice curled low in your throat, as quick and elusive as mercury, and perhaps just as poisonous. Shadow King of Busan, the man who never introduced himself to you noticed. Silence was golden, and he suddenly understood why Charles Choi so badly wanted sway over the young King in charge of this port city. “I hope you’re aware that beating my subordinates would invalidate any sort of hospitality between us. You’re no god amongst men either, so ritualistic hospitality is a very weak premise to coerce my amiability with. Try again.”

Deity in the flesh. Perhaps James Lee was the closest thing to breaking the limits of humanity, but all men were fallible. That wasn’t what caused his brow to rise though; going in blind may have been risky, but it was worth it to find someone with a silver tongue like this. 

You looked about his age—treading on the precarious cusp between First and Second Generation, fists stained as red as his hair—but you spoke as if you were triple your years. 

“You wanna transfer to my school? It’d be fun to have you in the Debate Club,” he said on a whim, but it wasn’t really a whim either. His instructions were expressly to negotiate with Busan—the city was far too volatile to create a power vacuum in. For cities like Ansan, struggle was welcomed; but Charles Choi had too little of everything to contend with Busan, of all places. Just like in Seoul, the situation would resolve itself, and it was far too soon for the HNH Group to meddle in a place like this. “You talk like a teacher.”

His tone was as syrupy as his candy, but there was half-provocation, half-probing-curiosity entrenched in his cadence. Go on, it coaxed, throw a punch. Argue back. Unorthodox was his means of securing cooperation, but he’d have to be a little unorthodox to secure the deal old man Choi had painstakingly written out. A contract between Elite and the capricious man before him, between HNH Group and the microcosm of Busan himself; it sounded like every capitalist’s wet dream. 

“Good question, kid,” you smiled, but it was less of a smile and more of a sneer as you ghosted closer to him. Kid, like you weren’t one yourself. 

Crack. You stepped, heavy, on the hand of the man you’d pummelled—only his unconscious groan of pain re-alerted James to his existence. “The term isn’t over. You should still be in school. Playing around like this makes me far less likely to listen to whatever you’ve followed me for. Try again.”

The thick scent of metal invaded his personal space as you peeled your black gloves off; the rings beneath them were tinted with the blood that had seeped through the material. Just like that, you callously tossed the garment onto the slumbering man under your feet—though he truly wasn’t sure whether it was a final affront to a beaten man or throwing down the gauntlet towards James Lee himself. 

It was a reminder, once again, to not be hasty. There was the real possibility of fucking Charles Choi several times over if he didn’t get this right, but the thought of his imminent doom didn’t seem all too unappealing. On the contrary, he found his heart beating faster—pulse hot on his tongue as an intriguing challenge presented itself before him. 

“I’m sure your informants have relayed more intel than just my name,” he mirrored the jagged stretch of your lips. The Legend of the First Generation. The Genius. The original, associated with the base moniker of the Ten Geniuses to show just how unparalleled James fucking Lee was. “Take a guess as to how my scholastic life is going, then consider the opportunity that I’m bringing you.”

Ambiguous. His words were dusted with just enough information to seem straight to the point, but vague enough that it was tantalising. A hook to ensnare the snake of Busan himself. And rather than sating the itch in his fists, he found himself looking forward to a parley instead. 

You studied him, appearing to consider his words seriously. Syllables phrased like he was the one with the upper hand, when in fact the HNH group was still tentatively unfurling and in the process of negotiations with both yakuza and Triad alike. He awaited your favourable response, hearing the stats roll into your mind as you calculated the preliminary gains and losses to joining hands with Charles Choi. 

Bloodied fingers tapped a rhythm into your jacket absentmindedly. He watched, anticipating your invitation. 

“Fuck off.”

“Huh?” he spluttered. Maybe he misheard you. Maybe he finally choked on his candy and induced a coma in which he was now dreaming of your response. 

“Your boss sent a high-schooler to broker a deal with Busan.” Your fingers now drummed in irritation against your forearm, but he was just as irritated. He took care of every other prefecture and province, only to have this guy who was his age, nonetheless, tell him his presence wasn’t good enough. Like, what? “Tell old Choi to come himself to negotiate if he wants any sort of foothold in my city. If he truly wanted a respectable contract, why would he send you as a messenger?”

“Excuse me?” If he wasn’t restricted from fighting you—the only exception was valid self-defence—he would’ve made the asshole in front of him eat shit. Alas, Choi wasn’t that generous or lenient. “He sent one of the Ten Geniuses, the primero, for this. I’m one of his greatest assets.”

“Are you a damn car or a person?” you snapped, and it suddenly felt as though he was looking upon an ancient wizard as he lectured a troublemaker outside his tower. His eyelid twitched, and he was finding it quite hard to keep a cool head. “Talking about assets… can’t believe Choi’s sent the guy who’s fucked up all the smaller provinces to deal with us.”

The latter sentence was more grumbled to yourself; it appeared he annoyed you just as much as you annoyed him, which he found a delighted satisfaction in. 

“Tell Elite to come himself,” you uttered finally, not even letting him get in a word edgeways as you ambled back into the shadows—not even sparing a glance for the pile of bodies left in your wake. 

And despite his objective, despite the imminent yelling he’d no doubt face, he couldn’t help but stare at your blood-soaked coat fluttering in the frigid coastal wind. 

Out of hatred, obviously. 

・゜゜・

Charles Choi was a conniving bastard. You already knew it, but seeing him in the reception hall really drove the image home. He was polite, a little too polite; yet as soon as you slid that manila folder across the mahogany table, his demeanour prickled into something knife-like. 

Snake of Busan, you were nicknamed, but this guy was something else entirely. Once he sank his teeth into your determination to keep Busan flourishing, you could practically see his pupils contract into thin slits. Of course you’d dealt with tricky deals. Weaving through negotiation as though it were a riptide was how you clawed your way to the very depth of Busan’s underworld—navigating until you finally found that crown mired in cess. 

Or, more accurately, it was Miss Crystal Choi who’d pierced her venom right where it hurt. A Genius of Business, her father had called her—and boy, did it take all your wit to match her expertise in trade. 

But did he really have to bring that guy along?

The scion of the Geniuses was also in your office, leaning against the wall far behind Elite and his daughter. And though nobody asked for his input—not even old Choi spared his prodigy a glance—it still irritated you to no end that he’d tagged along. A bright, cheerful grin cast the sun against the city nightlife on the top floor of your building—one directed right at you, considering the only other two people he knew had their backs facing him. Quite the foolish move, but you weren’t one to concern yourself with people who were basically daylight robbing you. If the dog they’d raised bit them, all the better.

Or maybe he was beaming right at your bodyguard-turned-assistant, who stood discreetly in the shadows of the blinds: slatted light gently cresting over his tall build. Well. It certainly was one of the less strange things Mr Lee had done.  

Still, for someone who’d been glaring at you just a week ago, the change felt far too eerie to ignore. 

“—and onto the temporary personnel exchange section—” A feeble attempt to pry open the walnut that Busan was, which would only end with the unfortunate bastard failing. You’d choose a loyal subordinate, they’d select someone who was doomed to only grunt work—far from the impenetrable fortress of this building. Boredly, you tapped the pen on the contract, before freezing up at Miss Choi’s next words. “—we’d like to recommend James Lee to transfer to this office.” 

A pen snapped, and ink spilled onto the page. Dumbfounded, you barely registered her sliding over a fresh sheet, as though she knew full well this would happen. 

No, it was no recommendation. Her very mention of his name was a forceful shove of him into your office. No wonder he was grinning like the devil. No wonder he was here in the first place. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to leave Busan behind. 

Your eye twitched. 

He kept smiling—an ominous prelude to the brimstone and fire you were sure to experience promptly.  

・゜゜・

“Aren’t I a better bodyguard than that useless one you keep around?” 

James Lee had been a bit too quiet these past few days; duly loping around behind the lower-ranked subordinates as they made their rounds, never crossing the proverbial line when you’d handed him his duties as interim grunt. Though, whenever you passed him, his eyes followed the shadows of your fluttering hem—two pinpricks of an arid glare sweeping on your back. 

But James Lee was a dog, and whatever command Elite gave him, he’d obey. Heel. Roll over. Serve under the King of Busan for a month. A jester, if you would, with a leash around his neck that kept drawing more and more blood from him. What were the limits? Just how far would he go for the man with a crimson shadow?

“No,” you said. He stood, far too proud, on a summit of lackeys that had been sent your way by one of the companies who’d attempted to cheat their way to getting a more favourable deal. It would’ve been a simple ambush—one doomed to fail—fated to end with you tossing blood-soaked gloves right on them before you postponed the meeting you were on your way to. 

But not today. It appeared the limit of the dog of Elite was passing up petty competition with the man two paces behind you.

“Unlike you, Song’s actually pleasant to listen to.” Yes, Song wasn’t the most useful of bodyguards point-blank, but it wasn’t like you particularly needed someone to take care of protecting you. He made people lower their guards. And he made a mean cup of tea. “I don’t have any use for you, so you’re still worse.”

“Semantics,” he shrugged. “I made your life much easier, did I not?”

He was smart. Too smart, but you already knew that from the intel that had not yet been erased. Hushed up, because of course Elite would painstakingly conceal his cards. 

And unfortunately, you were always drawn to a risky hand. A pleasure far removed from the mundane violence of your everyday life—a heart-pounding thrill of betting all your chips in a hazardous (though not desperate) gamble. 

“Maybe.” For it was one day removed from the multitudes of late meetings and burdensome glove changes. Your hands weren’t seeped in oily red, sliding and dripping onto your expensive clothes that were tailored—though still felt so fucking ill-fitting that it made you sick—right to your body. 

You considered the man toeing carefully past the dogpile located against a cargo container: donning what could’ve been your life. A beige school uniform, pinkie slightly indented from books and study, pen marks still dotting his fingers. Closer. He ambled lazily to your direction, and as he approached with the dying sun behind him, you could see his smile. Just as languid as the day you first met him, and just as irritating. 

Closer. Strawberry candy laced the iron odour, though you could faintly taste lemon in the profile too—testament to the yellow wrapper stuck crudely on one of the men. Closer—he was far too close now, standing chest to chest while he stared directly at you. 

If there was one thing that came from this ill-fated encounter, it was probably the permanent furrowed brows that decorated your perplexed face—the bloodhound had been reduced to this fluffy thing demanding your attention. 

And it was just as unfortunate that your impression had been chipped away for him too—a King whose expressions were utterly delightful to witness. A straight mouth, grinning ever-so-slightly when a deal went your way. A routine rhythm to your biro tapping your notepad. Eyes that shone with practical constellations as you breathed the briny air of the port in. 

A particularity to the way you treated others, steely to the strong, awkward with the weak. So utterly flustered, when it came to tiny kids tugging on your long coat, or the grandmas you lent your arm to on the streets. If he had to compare it, he’d attribute your personality as a non-Newtonian fluid: your very own mix of cornstarch and water. Tough with pressure, all soft without. 

Like now. 

“Come on,” he whined. Psychologically, he was doing a damn good impression of pitifulness—even if you’d just witnessed him commit a beatdown so one-sided that you could feel the second-hand pain. And little by little, he was watching you falter: breath caught in his throat as he watched your brows default to their furrow once more. “I saved you a good few minutes, didn’t I? Don’t tell me Busan can’t even acknowledge hard work and effort.”

“Fine, whatever,” you crumbled just like that, under the heavy weight of his triumphant eyes. “Good job.”

So cute, he thought, then froze almost immediately the moment the words came to mind.

Fuck. 

・゜゜・

[bluebelly-sun-serpentine]

Listen I know we’re supposed to find the idea of death defiance abhorrent - zombies and vampires and morality tales about scientific hubris and tech moguls with bloodboys all scream that death is natural and the artificial extension of the human lifespan is an insult to creation or something, but listen, if I had several more centuries in me I could also be a lichenologist and an entomologist and a logistics expert and learn every reed instrument and have so many more conversations with strangers and go for so many more walks. I could be party and witness to so much more joy and sorrow. Think of how many new cheeses I could try. Maybe I would learn how to dance with the appearance of grace. What if I changed beyond recognition, developed a fear of heights, lost my fear of failure? Could I go on unchanged, like some metaphorical Greenland shark, for hundreds of years (millions of years), only ever moved by the same stimuli, curious about the same things?

Is it really so gauche to be willing to imagine - enjoy imagining, even with the usual dread hanging over us all about things changing and life becoming unlivable - more time? There are so many bees just in one garden here that I’d need several degrees and a microscope to identify them all. Curiosity does not suffice. How could one possibly grow bored? Why should one not be changed? I wish I could become the grand canyon. I wish I could become a dying star.

[mariacallous]

Sean “Diddy” Combs’ countless abuse and sexual assault allegations caught up to him on Monday after he was arrested and charged following a grand jury indictment. Though he pleaded not guilty to three federal counts of sex trafficking and racketeering the following day (he’s in detention pending trial after being denied bail twice), the damage is done in the court of public opinion.

After the U.S. Attorney’s Office in the Southern District of New York unsealed Combs’ indictment early Tuesday morning, social media wasted no time cherry-picking the most searing details — most notably the narcotics and 1,000+ bottles of baby oil and lubricant that law enforcement seized during the March raids on Combs’ properties, which were allegedly intended for his abusive sex parties, aka “freak-offs.”

The shocking information and other parts of the indictment became another point of scrutiny for Combs after his 2017 rebrand as Brother Love failed to conceal the darkest parts of his alleged disturbing behavior behind closed doors.

The U.S. attorney’s indictment of Combs appears to bolster what many have alleged about the now-disgraced music mogul for years, with alarming claims of violence and abuse going back as far as 1990.

The beginning of Combs’ end began on Nov. 16, 2023, when his ex-girlfriend and former record company artist Casandra “Cassie” Ventura filed a bombshell civil lawsuit under New York’s Adult Survivors Act, accusing the Bad Boy Records founder of sex trafficking, rape, physical violence, intimidation and more over a period of 10 years. Combs and Ventura settled the suit just one day later. The latter’s public claims started a domino effect in the months following when seven more women and two men — including Combs’ former producer Rodney “Lil Rod” Jones and another former label artist, Dawn Richard of Danity Kane and Diddy — Dirty Money — to come forward with their harrowing accusations about Combs, all of whom claimed to at some point have been assaulted, abused or threatened by him.

But Combs isn’t the only high-profile figure in the music industry whose alleged misdeeds have been exposed recently.

Shortly before Ventura filed her lawsuit last November, former music executive Drew Dixon filed a lawsuit against famed producer L.A. Reid, claiming that he harassed and sexually assaulted her twice in 2001 while she was working for him (Reid’s request to have the case thrown out was denied in August). In June, producer The-Dream was hit with a sexual assault lawsuit; his former protégé Chanaaz Mangroe accused him of rape, sex trafficking and other violent actions (the producer filed to have his suit dismissed in August). That same month, Kanye West’s former assistant, Lauren Pisciotta, sued him for alleged sexual harassment (a legal representative for the rapper claimed the lawsuit was “blackmail and extortion”). And in July, Murder Inc. Records co-founder Irv Gotti was sued for alleged rape and abuse by a woman identified only as Jane Doe (he has denied any wrongdoing).

As history has shown, a culture of abuse has run rampant at the hands of powerful men in the music industry who refuse to take accountability for any of their alleged harm. Combs claimed in December that he “did not do any of the awful things being alleged” against him before brutal surveillance footage that surfaced in May clearly showed the music executive physically assaulting Ventura at a Los Angeles hotel in 2016 (Ventura detailed the same encounter precisely in her lawsuit). He later released a video apology on Instagram (which has since been removed from his page), taking “full responsibility” for his actions in the footage but for nothing else he’s been accused of.

That could change once Combs’ yet-to-be-scheduled federal sex trafficking trial begins, as his mountain of allegations is just the tip of the iceberg of what’s publicly known. Federal prosecutors’ extensive evidence of Combs’ alleged criminal enterprise will likely expose more, especially since they claim the mogul’s unlawful behavior persisted just days before his arrest.

Nonetheless, Combs’ indictment, which also cites unnamed associates and employees, signals a watershed moment many didn’t anticipate would come so soon after Ventura’s lawsuit — remember, it took over a decade for charges to come down on Jeffrey Epstein for his crimes. With prosecutors adamant about trying Combs’ case in a court of law, the American justice system has taken the first significant step toward holding the industry executive liable for his improprieties.

Now the music industry has officially been put on notice.

The public takedown of Combs is a warning to any wealthy, high-powered folks in the music space who indulge in similar criminal acts and the fearful enablers who stand by silently, unmoved and unwilling to intervene in corruption that goes on far too long. The same goes for those, like Russell Simmons, who thought fleeing could erase the horrid accusations coming from survivors who bravely went on record about the pain endured in their workplace or inflicted by their powerful employers. Evading justice only prolongs the damage, as Combs may be figuring out. But the day of reckoning, for the music industry, at least, is here, and the reign of its abusers is coming to an end.

If we as a culture are to do right by any survivors who have spoken up, we cannot stop with Combs. It’ll take more action and more listening to prosecute unscrupulous men to the fullest extent of the law. Moreover, the music industry stakeholders must commit to creating a safer environment by exiling those who continuously defame it with their deceit.

[ducktoonsfanart]

Donald's girlfriend, Donald's sister, Donald's relatives and Donald's friends. - Duckverse characters

I will be posting some of my old drawings and I am posting new drawings related to certain characters from the Duckverse and the classic Disney universe from comics, cartoons and video games that I love and I am posting them separately.

The first drawing is Daisy Duck and yes Donald's girlfriend, and aunt to April, May and June, but definitely she is a special person that I love in the Duckverse. I drew her in Ducktales 2017 style in a beautiful dress, but in my own way.

The second drawing is Della Duck, Donald's sister and pilot and mother of Huey, Dewey and Louie. Although she had a role in the Ducktales reboot, she also had roles in comics, especially Dutch comics. I drew her combining the Ducktales reboot style with the Topolino style. Also, I was inspired by some drawings related to her,

The third drawing is Gyro Gearloose, a famous innovator who works for Scrooge, but helps Donald and his nephews a lot. He is also Donald's best friend. Yes, I drew him in the style of Ducktales in 1987. And there's Little Helper.

The fourth drawing is Fethry Duck, Donald's clumsy cousin who does all kinds of things just to somehow please others. He likes to help, but sometimes things go too far. Still, he's Donald's best cousin to me. I drew him in the style of Italian comics (Topolino).

The fifth drawing (new drawing) is the Gladstone Gander, Donald's lucky cousin. He is often lucky and annoys Donald a lot, although his luck is not always useful. He also has problems. Overall, I love Gladstone. I drew him in the style of Italian comics (Topolino) and he is wearing a four leaf clover as well as a horseshoe which symbolizes good luck.

The sixth drawing is Gus Goose, Donald's cousin who is often lazy and likes to eat and sleep. Although he annoys many, he is still useful to Grandma Duck where he works at her farm. Still, I love Gus. I mostly drew him based on the Italian comics (Topolino) and that he was eating his sandwich.

The seventh drawing is Grandma Duck (Elvira Coot), who is also the best parent in the Duckverse in general, because she took care of Donald, Della and her other grandchildren a lot. She is also strict, but she is also well-intentioned. I drew her based on the Italian comics (Topolino) and that she is holding a cake, as she likes to bake and cook cakes. She is also the oldest living citizen of Duckburg, although she lives on her farm and is the daughter of Clinton Coot, who founded the Junior Woodchucks.

The eighth drawing is Dickie Duck, Goldie's granddaughter. She is a very lively, exciting older teenage girl who works a lot and hangs out with her friends. Yes, she works for Brigitta and Gideon, but also helps Scrooge. She also hangs out with Daisy a lot. Plus she babysits Donald's nephews and Daisy's nieces. I drew her based on the Italian comics (Topolino).

The ninth drawing is Bertie McGoose or Grand Mogul, the leader of the Junior Woodchucks, also one of Donald Duck's best friends from childhood. He can be curmudgeonly, but mostly he does everything to help the Junior Woodchucks, in which Donald's nephews and Gyro's nephew Newton are certainly the most useful.

I hope you like these drawings and love these characters.

[aewmoves]

[fromthedust]

Adolf M. Hopfmuller (German/American 1876-1971)

Adolf M. Hopfmuller - selected covers from SHADOWLAND magazine - 1919—1923

When publisher Eugene V. Brewster launched his third magazine SHADOWLAND in 1919, it was obvious this was something quite different. Billed as the “Handsomest Magazine in the World”, SHADOWLAND was most definitely an ARTS magazine, not just a movie fan magazine. Literary, theatrical, visual and fine arts, interior and set design, and yes, movies, and much more from the world of art, were all showcased inside SHADOWLAND. SHADOWLAND was retired in November 1923 and blended into the Brewster Publications sister magazine, Motion Picture Classic. A.M. Hopfmuller continued as the Art Director of Brewster Publications (Classic and Motion Picture Magazines) until he left the company in early 1926 at the age 51. Although he may have retired from Brewster Publications, A.M. Hopfmuller never retired from painting. He went on to work for another publishing mogul, William Randolph Hearst, on magazines such as Smart Set and McClures, and was named the Art Editor of Harper’s Bazaar in 1927. His creative interests and abilities weren’t limited to painting. Hopfmuller worked with wood, hand-carving picture frames, building rustic garden furniture, and carved bookcases.

“He enjoyed building models of sailing ships for his grandchildren to sail/race in a local park (we still have one). And he designed and maintained a beautiful garden on his property adjoining his house.” – Ruth Hamann (Hopfmuller’s grand-daughter-in-law)

more about his life:

www.50plusworld.com/shadowlands-art-deco-artist-a-m-hopfmuller/

[thebisexualdogdad]

Could I request a Roy Harper and Reader

Where Roy asks for help fixing up his suit/asks reader to help with a tie for a formal event/formal dinner date.

Roy has experience in this but wanted reader to do it

Reader clues in that he knows how to tie his tie and unties it to tease him.

(Dc comics version of Roy)

Roy Harper x GN!reader - the tie

*Ben Levin used as fancast*

The titans had gotten word that HIVE was sending a few of their assassins to kill a tech mogul during his yearly charity gala which meant the team was going undercover.

You stopped by Roy's apartment to pick him up as Dick had assigned you to pretend to be a couple for the night though this may have been an indirect set up since Kory had been telling Dick for months that the two of you had feelings for each other.

Letting yourself in with the spare key Roy had given you, you walk into his bedroom to find him standing in front of a mirror dressed in the only suit he owns, a loose tie around his neck.

"Wow Roy, you clean up nice," you say, Roy smiling at you when he turns around.

"You don't look so bad yourself," he laughs, giving you a once over, "lend me a hand with my tie?"

You approach him, biting your lip at how close you are to him now.

Roy looks into your eyes, making you nervous as you attempt to tie his tie.

Your hands tremble ever so slightly, you were a badass superhero yet somehow Roy Harper was able to make you a nervous wreck.

"I think that part goes under now," Roy says as you struggle to get through the final steps making you realize he fully knows how to tie a tie he just wanted to get you close to him.

You finish tying his tie, smoothing it down, "there, now you look even more handsome," you smile.

"So you think I'm handsome?" He grins.

You gulp, glancing between his eyes and his lips.

Two could play this game.

You tug on his tie, undoing all the work you had just done.

"Really?" He laughs.

"Since you seem to be such an expert you can tie your own tie Harper," you say leaning in so close you are nearly kissing him, "and hurry up, Dick scheduled our grand entrance to be at 8pm on the dot."

Roy licks his lips, intently staring at a certain part of you highlighted by your form fitting attire as you walk away from him.

He's broken from his trance by Dick's voice in his coms, "Roy are you and Y/N still going to be on time?"

"Yep, we are just about to leave," he informs him.

"Good, Kory and I are already on our way, Donna and Garth will arrive after you guys, then Gar and Raven with Vic running base of operations," Dick states.

"You paired me up with Y/N on purpose didn't you Grayson," Roy chuckles as he redos his tie.

"Well maybe if you just asked them on a date already you would be going out tonight as a real couple," Dick teases.

"Well maybe I'm just waiting for the right time to ask Y/N out," Roy retorts.

"Um guys, this isn't the private line," you state, Roy blushing when you peak your head back in his bedroom, "and yes Roy I will go out on a date with you."

"You're welcome Harper," Dick says and he can hear the others laughing through their coms.

"Shut up Grayson… but thanks…"

[amillieaway]

prompt: that hurts

They break up in the middle of dinner.

Maybe at a restaurant Granger would have avoided a scene, but because they were staying in, yet again, and because Draco insisted on it, she takes full liberties in unleashing hell upon him.

At one point plastic cutlery and teriyaki-stained wooden chopsticks are airborne. Later, when Draco undresses, he finds a rice noodle in the buttonhole of his blazer. And for the grand finale, shards of his great-aunt’s vase become a mosaic on his foyer floor, once valued at some fifteen thousand galleons. Now, worthless.

She’ll be back, he thinks, quite confidently. He experienced a similar rockiness when he dated Pansy. They broke up and got back together at least every other fortnight.  

A day goes by.

Three, five, ten—and nothing.

Fine, Draco relents, he’ll write to her.

It’s a fine letter. Bottomless black squid ink, proof-read four times, eloquently expressing that he misses her, that he’s sorry they haven’t been together in public places and, if she’s willing to hear him out, he’ll take her out for a proper meal. She can even tip-off the Daily Prophet if it pleases her.

She doesn’t reply.

Draco grows irritable. He begins to resent her a little.

Once, before the war destroyed his reputation, any girl would have been thrilled Draco Malfoy was giving her the time of day. He was good-looking. He was wealthy. His family was connected to top politicians and moguls in the Wizarding World. He was Slytherin’s Seeker. She would have been lucky to date him.

So what, they haven't been out in public after a couple months of dating? That gives her no right to give him the cold shoulder and act like they never knew one another.

To hell with her.

Days pass, and Draco is gutted. Wrecked.

Her absence hurts and hurts and hurts.

He catches himself staring out into space at odd moments. Over a bowl of soggy cereal, trying to remember what her hair smelled like. Peach? Pear? Wiping the same spot on the window for five minutes, knowing it’s Sunday, and somewhere on the other side of town, she must be cleaning her flat too.

He caves and writes to her once more.

This time, with more apologetic and less arrogant undertones.

Radio silence.

He knows she’s receiving them because he prodded gossip out of Blaise who lives with Pansy who bumped into Potter at a party, and Potter drunkenly blurted out that ‘your douchy friend Malfoy’s still trying to win Hermione back. She needs to forget that wanker, if you ask me.’

Well nobody asked you, Potter, thank you very much.

And so Draco spirals a little.

He sends fifty-three bouquets to her office. One for each day they were together. When he hears nothing, he follows it up with fifty-three cauldron cakes. When that proves no bueno, he hires a mariachi band to follow her around the Ministry, singing cheery love ballads. He’s given them express instructions to perform until she visits him.

That should prove he’s more than okay with everyone knowing they’re together. He doesn’t care. All he needs is Granger back. Because-because—

“I miss you,” he says when she Apparates into his office precisely thirty-seven minutes after he unleashed the mariachi band upon her, holding out longer than he expected.

She’s red in the face, shoulders bunched up to her ears, eyes blazing, pointing a finger at his chest. “You are the most infuriating, conceited, over-the-top…”

“I miss you,” he repeats, speaking over her as he rounds the desk to meet her on the opposite side.

“…PRAT I have ever had the misfortune…”

“I miss you so much.” He has her shoulders, forcing them down a little, pressing his thumbs right where he knows she needs it most, watching delightfully as they liquify even as she’s going on.

“…encountering and when I’m done with someone, Draco, I am DONE…”

“I need you back, Hermione.” He draws his palms down her arms, grabbing her hands and pinning them to his chest when she tries to swat him away.

“…and I refuse to date anybody who’s even slightly ashamed of where I come from…”

“I love everything about you.”

And that about does it.

Granger stands there, mouth agape, no more screaming. She drops her gaze to her hands, splayed open on his chest, realising, perhaps, how close they are. Feeling, maybe, how her presence alone turns Draco on. Seeing, hopefully, the authenticity in his gaze.

“You… you…”

“I love you,” he says, prepared. “I’m sorry you had to leave before I realised it.”

“Harry says I need to forget you.” She’s staring at his lips now, making no effort to step away.

“Potter’s a wanker.”

She frowns, but doesn’t seem angry. Her eyes grow distant, lost in thought.

He waits.

When her focus resurfaces, she's watching his lips again, heat creeping into her irises. “Kiss me on two conditions.”

“One?” he asks, heart racing.

“We tell everybody.”

Her breath is warm on his skin. Deliciously close. “And two?”

“You never send anything to my work ever again.”

It’s the sweetest deal he’s ever made.

xx

[makiitoh]

bucks wore their blood & guts hungbucks trios gear to match with hangman during grand slam 2023 vs mogul embassy (09/22/23) -> hangman does not wear the matching gear -> swerve interrupts the match to blow him a kiss and hangman almost follows him out, but the bucks are able to pull him back

one month later (10/25/23 dynamite) bucks wear black and white tag gear to match with the gear hangman would be wearing during hungbucks vs the hardys & zay -> swerve interrupts the match to break into hangman’s home -> hangman leaves to chase him

one week later (11/1/23) the bucks and hangman fight mogul embassy again, wearing the same black and white gear as they did the week previous -> swerve interrupts the match to taunt hangman -> hangman leaves the bucks for good

[darkmaga-returns]

Attorneys for Sean “Diddy” Combs are demanding a gag order on a witness who claims to have video evidence of the rapper “victimizing” eight of his A-list friends, including two who were “underage.”

The rap mogul is on trial for sex trafficking and other crimes.

Combs and his attorneys attempted to prevent witnesses from speaking about their testimony and evidence outside of the courtroom, The Blast reported.

One of those witnesses is Alter Ego Records CEO Courtney Burgess, a longtime friend of Diddy.

He has been sharing with the press about evidence and testimony.

Burgess revealed that he has knowledge of video evidence of Diddy’s alleged crimes, some of which involve minors.

The witness claims to possess some of the footage on flash drives that Combs’ girlfriend, Kim Porter, provided.

The footage was allegedly taken from hidden cameras in the home.

Attorneys for Combs have dismissed these allegations as nothing more than an “extortion scam.”

[enchantedruin]

The Devil's Game | Michael Langdon x Gender Neutral Reader

Summary; You’ve reached your breaking point with Michael's unwavering temptations, leading you to emotionally unravel in front of him. Michael x Reader, written in Michael’s POV SFW-ish, with light NSFW content towards the end (just some making out tho)

word count; 1220

-~-~-

"You know what’s funny, Michael? No matter how hard I try to pull myself together, one word from you and it all unravels. You thrive on that, don’t you?"

I usually do thrive on that. The despair in your voice, the way you look at me with such loathing—it should have been invigorating. But this time, something about the disgust laced in your words made me recoil.

It was pathetic. Flashbacks of Gallant flickered through my mind—how utterly powerless he was in the end. Perhaps I should be bored by now, but I let you keep…venting, your voice rising with each word, barely giving me the space to draw a breath.

"Why can't you leave me alone? No. It’s worse... why can’t I just run away when I see you?" you continued, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation.

You think you have a choice in this.

"You’re wrong," I cooed, my tone deceptively soft. "You ask why I can’t leave you alone, but you forget something crucial." I let the words hang in the air for a moment, watching the confusion in your eyes. "You’re the one that keeps coming back."

It’s the truth. You could have left, run away the moment you saw me. But here you are, standing before me, defiant yet unable to tear yourself away.

Your defiance is admirable, but it’s a game I’ve played before. I know how it ends.

I tilted my head, considering the possibility. "Perhaps you don’t run because, despite everything, you want this. You want to face me, fight me, even if it tears you apart. Because in the end, what would you be without this struggle... without me?"

"Don’t act like I’ll ever let you take full control of me," you shot back, your voice strong despite the fear and panic in your eyes. "I’ve realized you’re nothing but a test from Him."

Watching you lose it is fun. I remained silent, content to observe as you unraveled, peeling back layers of your psyche one by one, offering them to me without even having to ask.

"Fine! If I have to stay close to you, if that makes me a pawn in this sick game, then so be it! But don’t think for a second it’s for you. I’m here to watch you, to use you, just like he did. I’ll be no better than your father—keeping you in check, using you as my pawn to serve the light. I’ll make sure you never slip beyond it."

Ah, so you want to play that game. Comparing yourself to my Father. You think you can use me, that you’re somehow secretly in control.

How naive.

I narrowed my eyes, the mention of my Father sparking a familiar, simmering anger deep within me. You were trying to provoke me, trying to get under my skin, but I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of seeing me lose my composure.

"You think you can use me?" I asked, letting a small, almost amused smile curve my lips. "You really believe you can turn the tables? My father dealt in pawns. I deal in kings and queens—media moguls, elites. Stop playing with fire, you don’t even realize how close you are to getting burned."

I took a step closer, watching you carefully, noting the way your breath hitched ever so slightly.

"You believe you’re in control, that this is some grand strategy of yours. But you’re forgetting one thing, my dear," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper as I leaned in close, my breath warm against your skin. "You’re already playing my game."

The space between us had all but disappeared. I could feel the heat radiating from your body, the way your breath hitched as I spoke. You were erratic, every muscle tensed as if you were ready to either fight or flee. But I could see it in your eyes—fleeing wasn’t an option. Not now.

Your gaze flickered, searching my face for something, anything you could use to regain the upper hand. But I gave you nothing. My expression remained calm, collected, unlike the confliction brewing behind your eyes. You were coming undone before me, and I could see the frustration in the way your jaw clenched, your hands curling into fists at your sides.

I let a moment of silence hang between us, the tension thick, almost tangible. You were so close now that I could count every rapid rise and fall of your chest, every tremor in your lips as you fought to maintain composure.

"You know," I began, my voice smooth, almost conversational, "It’s amusing how hard you try to resist me, when deep down, we both know you’re just waiting for permission to give in."

Your eyes widened, anger flashing in them, but I continued before you could protest.

"You say you want control, but here you are, standing in front of me, unable to even decide whether you want to punch me or...." I tilted my head slightly, my gaze dropping to your lips before slowly returning to your eyes, daring you to challenge me.

You stared at me, a mix of fury and confusion twisting your features. For a moment, you were utterly silent, no sharp retort on your tongue, no defiant comeback. The realization of what I’d just said seemed to hit you like a tidal wave, and I could see the conflict in your eyes—anger, disbelief, and something else, something far more dangerous.

It was in that moment, when you realized you had nothing left to say, that you acted.

Without warning, you grabbed me by the collar, your movements abrupt, driven by something beyond logic. And then your lips crashed into mine, fierce and demanding. It was a kiss born of frustration, defiance, and something raw that neither of us had the strength to deny any longer.

For a brief second, I allowed myself to be surprised. This wasn’t the reaction I’d anticipated—at least, not so soon. But as your lips moved against mine, the force of your passion pulling me deeper into the kiss, I found myself almost... impressed.

I didn’t pull away. Instead, I let you take what you needed, feeling the intensity as your tongue played with mine. The kiss was rough, almost frantic, as if you were trying to assert some kind of control, your hands gripping my collar with a desperate need.

Now your hands were gripping the back my head, your delicate fingers curling tightly into my hair, demanding a response, and after a moment, I placed my hands on your waist, steadying you, though I still let you lead. My touch was firm but unhurried, a unlike the fervor of your kiss. I could feel the heat of your breath, the tension in your body as you pressed closer, your heart pounding against my chest.

An unexpected, breathless moan escaped me as you tilted your head to deepen the kiss. I could feel the undercurrent of your uncertainty, your need for something you couldn’t quite name, it was undeniably arousing. I remained composed, allowing you to pour everything into this one moment.

But even as this passion consumed you, I knew one thing for certain: you might think you had taken the lead, but you were still playing my game. ♥