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strategicsmmarketing · 2 years

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Social Media Research

Hello all!

As you may have realized, I am a college student. As a college student, research takes up a lot of my time. It is pretty much a necessity for anyone who attends a university. It doesn’t matter if you’re in the arts, in business, in STEM…you are ALWAYS researching for one reason or another. It’s exhausting for sure, but thankfully modern technology makes it much easier than it once was.

Today, I will be discussing three research papers I found and their practical applications in the marketing world. To keep a common theme, I decided to focus specifically on luxury brands.

When A Luxury Brand Bursts: Modelling the Social Media Viral Effects of Negative Stereotypes Adoption Leading To Brand Hate

The internet, being a free place with little accountability, is littered with incorrect “facts” that can overtake the general online population. When rumors are spread enough, it can be hard to figure out what is actually factual and which sources are trustworthy- these instances are referred to by The World Health Organization as infodemics (Pantano, 2021). It is common for people to trust the information that they see on social media, especially when it is delivered to them by a celebrity (Pantano, 2021). It has also been found that users are more likely to blindly believe the information in a social media post if it has a large number of likes (Pantano, 2021). So: theoretically, if a well-liked celebrity endorses a brand and that same brand also has a lot of likes online, it is probably considered a trustworthy and good company by the general public. This paper, linked here, discusses research done on a Dolce&Gabbana marketing campaign from 2018 where the brand used stereotypes to exploit the Chinese market (Pantano, 2021). Their Chinese #DGTheGreatShow campaign depicted an Asian actress eating Italian food (Dolce&Gabbana is an Italian brand) with chopsticks, which consumers found offensive (Pantano, 2021). This is apparently a common tactic for D&G— make controversial advertisements in order to spark debate and garner brand interest, and even Stefano Gabbana himself expressed on Instagram that the Chinese audience didn’t “get” the ad…which, of course, earned him more backlash (Pantano, 2021). Consequently, Chinese e-commerce and luxury retailers removed D&G from their platforms (Pantano, 2021). Since you can never truly get anything that big off the internet for good, it is expected that D&G will continue to be affected by this extremely poor choice in marketing for years to come (Pantano, 2021). As far as the initial controversy goes, it took about a month from the peak of negative comments for the discussion to go away; since D&G did not handle the “contagion” immediately, it blew up more and took way longer than expected to blow over (Pantano, 2021).

So what can we learn from this? First and foremost, make sure your risky marketing campaigns go through and are approved by a diverse group of individuals. I cannot imagine there was any person of asian heritage on that D&G marketing team considering they still published it confidently. Furthermore, you know how Stefano Gabbana doubled down on his racist campaign and told people that they didn’t “get it”? Definitely do not do that as part of your damage control plan. And definitely do not think you are above backlash just because your company is considered “luxury,” you might just lose a whole continent of people’s support (and more, but I’m especially referring to the asian retailers). Oh, and finally: if you do start to receive an abnormal amount of negative comments, contain the issue and get rid of the content as soon as possible…it will still spread, but it will never be as bad as if you keep the campaign going.

The Common Values of Social Media Marketing and Luxury Brands. The Millenial and Gen Z Perspective.

You may have noticed that luxury brands do not tend to hugely market themselves on the internet. One hypothesis as to why this is: luxury tends to associate itself with authenticity, exclusivity, and hedonism (Dobre et al., 2021). Marketing luxury items on social media could take away part of the mystery and appeal of feeling included in a secret club of sorts once a person buys an item.

To test the relationship between luxury brands and an online environment, the authors of this paper studied a sample of consumers in Romania (they found that not many research papers regarding luxury brands were based on Eastern European markets) and received, in my opinion, some predictable results (Dobre et al., 2021). Firstly, it was found that the perceived value of luxury brands that are present in social media positively affect consumer intentions, as they were more likely to purchase the brands online, visit the brands’ websites, engage in the brands’ social media posts, and more (Dobre et al., 2021). The research also found that the use of social media by luxury brands positively influences the brands’ perceived value, according to the input of Generation Y and Z survey respondents (Dobre et al., 2021). Overall, it was concluded that there is no natural incompatibility between luxury brands and general online marketing, but that the brands need to use the right tools in order to make up for the lack of a physical store (Dobre et al., 2021). Highlighting aspects such as company history, product craftmanship, and brand values with visual aids is a good place to start (Dobre et al., 2021).

From this study, we learn that luxury brands can generally do nothing but benefit from social media as long as they use it correctly (learn from the previous article and don’t be racist, for one thing). They should make up for the absence of a physical store by posting content that is informative and valuable to their consumers in ways that are less common for everyday brands…talk deeply about brand values and perhaps even show them in action, for example. Lastly, Generations Y and Z (who are becoming the biggest purchasers of items across the world) consider luxury brands with social medias to be more valuable. So with all this in mind, if you are part of the marketing team for a luxury brand and are debating whether or not to join social media, definitely do it! I would say: Hold yourself to a higher standard than other everyday companies that are online, and find a way to give your social pages a competitive advantage.

Unpacking the Relationship Between Social Media Marketing and Brand Equity: The Mediating Role Of Consumers’ Benefits and Experience

Digital technology influences approximately 80% of the global luxury market (Zollo, 2020). This aligns with the idea that Millennials naturally expect brands to be marketing themselves and creating dialogue online, and positively respond to those that interact with them (Zollo, 2020). The writers of this paper wanted to closer study the affects of social media marketing on luxury fashion brands’ brand equity, and surveyed a sample of 420 wealthy university students to do so (Zollo, 2020). It was found that cognitive, social integrative, personal integrative, and brand experience mediate the relationship between social media marketing and brand equity (Zollo, 2020). The group concluded that social media marketing does not always positively affect community participation, and in fact it can sometimes cause discontinued use of the brand’s social communities (Zollo, 2020). They also noted that social media marketing tactics are more effective if they can satisfy specific consumer benefits and create positive experiences, and thus they suggested that luxury brands on social media should analyze the personal motives of their consumers—such as implementing elite and fashionable marketing strategies (Zollo, 2020).

What we can learn from this is very similar to the second article’s lesson: luxury brands should put in a lot of effort to pin down exactly why consumers buy from then, and then they should greatly lean into that on their socials. Marketers should make sure the posts provide value to consumers in a unique and interesting way, while also promoting the “elite” values that feed the customers’ egos. It IS dangerous for these brands to market with a simplified plan, since the expectations for them are high and followers could easily get bored if they are posting like every other company nowadays. Luxury clothing marketing teams, therefore, have it harder than teams for stores like Walmart and American Eagle…the former is practically walking on a tightrope and need to stay perfectly balanced the entire time; one wrong move and you could end up like Dolce&Gabbanna! (Although, let’s be real…they make so much money that I’m sure they’re doing just fine in the long run).

Dobre C, Milovan A-M, Duțu C, Preda G, Agapie A. The Common Values of Social Media Marketing and Luxury Brands. The Millennials and Generation Z Perspective. Journal of Theoretical and Applied Electronic Commerce Research. 2021; 16(7):2532-2553. https://doi.org/10.3390/jtaer16070139

Lamberto Zollo, Raffaele Filieri, Riccardo Rialti, Sukki Yoon, Unpacking the relationship between social media marketing and brand equity: The mediating role of consumers’ benefits and experience, Journal of Business Research, Volume 117, 2020, Pages 256-267, https://doi.org/10.1016j.jbusres.2020.05.001. (https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0148296320302885)

Eleonora Pantano, When a luxury brand bursts: Modelling the social media viral effects of negative stereotypes adoption leading to brand hate, Journal of Business Research, Volume 123, 2021, Pages 117-125, ISSN 0148-2963, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jbusres.2020.09.049. (https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S014829632030624X)

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timextoxhajima · 3 years

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Accelerate [Dana’s 600 Special]

Track: Feel It by Michele Morrone / Drunk-Dazed by ENHYPHEN / Insanity by THE BOYZ

Member: I swear he’s not even my bias

Genre: i-ion know-

Word Count: it’s pretty damn long so please don’t make me write a part two

Taglist: @hyunjaethereal @lsangyeons

The first time you laid eyes on Lee Hyunjae, you were both in Italy as he was being blinded by a billion flashes in his face. The light reflects off his dark hair - which was once a brighter color - as he maintains that polite, miniscule smile on his face. Most of the photographers and interviewers were male, for the sole reason that female photographers and interviewers would be too stunned to continue at their job.

Not that the males rushing to get a shot of his face or a string of words out from him now weren’t stunned themselves.

Despite being hailed for looking like every woman’s wet dream, Lee Hyunjae was more known for being South Korea’s youngest first class F1 racer. Sure, if he ever bothered to utter a single syllable of speech to you, you could pass out on the spot.

But right now, all you wanted was to get an exclusive modelling contract from Louis Vuitton to his manager. Not Lee Hyunjae, not his bodyguards, his manager.

“Lee Hyunjae! Do you have anything you want to say before your final race of the season? How do you feel about being so close to coming out top?”

His manager stands a step behind him to Hyunjae’s right, and gives the racer the green light to respond. The flashes and sounds of clicking from the cameras were so overwhelming, it’s impossible for you to even imagine how it felt like being in the spotlight.

But the celebrity couldn’t receive the question any less gracefully, and offers one of those swoon-worthy smiles before leaning into the microphone.

“I feel nervous but I’ve prepared for this. Consistency is key and I believe in myself, so if that answers your question...”

“Do you have any other plan other than racing? Word has it that you’ve received offers to be the face of Gucci and Louis Vuitton!”

The contract in your briefcase is still ironed out safely in its file when you pull it behind your legs, away from plain sight.

Hyunjae turns to look at his manager when the question posed obviously isn’t one of those in the list prepared, so the manager steps forward, and coincidentally spots you at the back of the crowd. He recognises you from the meeting he had with your higher-up.

“My apologies but Mr Lee isn’t permitted to answer to any of these, so if this is all then we must be going. Thank you for coming to the conference tonight.”

Lee Hyunjae and his manager step back away from the microphone and bow for the press to continue their aggressive, merciless snapshotting. You wait patiently for the duo to disappear behind the conference area, and for the press to switch their attention to the pictures they have on their camera before you make your round backstage.

The 5-star hotel is grand in all the ways possible: chandelier, white wines and champagnes being served in waiting areas and water was served sparkling. Finally fishing out the tag that you were given at the registration for entry to the event, you hand it to the lady at the meetings’ conference registration counter.

You wonder how the Louis Vuitton logos on your clothes and briefcase had gone unnoticed earlier at the showcase. Even on the tag, the ‘LV’ logo was so apparent. How far does the company need to go in order for them to have the logo printed in some shiny, golden print on the tag-

“Welcome to the F1 internal press conference and meeting, Miss l/n!” She pulls a sticker off a page and presses it onto the tag below the LV logo. “If you need anything at all, please just approach one of our staffs. All waiters and staff concerned will have a red tie tonight.”

“Alright, thank you,” The tag gets slid across the table to you. “Where’s the nearest washroom?”

“Oh, she’ll show you the way,” The lady gestures behind her for one of the staff members with a red tie to accompany you.

“Oh-” Slightly taken aback by the aggressive escorting, the younger female grins at you before holding out her arm in the direction of the washroom. “Thanks.”

The hotel’s grandeur only gets more and more apparent as your heels click through the hallways and corridors. For an event night, the hotel’s pretty desolate. Then again, the press conference happened outside where all the photographers and journalists were. The one you were here for was an internal press meeting, and last you checked, there were fewer than 10 names on that list.

“I can find my way back to the main hall after,” The slight panic in your voice humors you when the staff member seemed ready to wait outside the washroom. “Thanks.”

She bows and takes her leave only after you enter the bathroom; you can tell from the sound of her shoes echoing down the corridor. The scent of lavender is so overwhelming, you could almost taste it. Walls of cream and silver strokes cut through the tiles, a vase made of bronze sits in the corner of the platform where the sinks were, filled with roses.

The crisp reflection of yourself stares down at you in the mirror; it’s one of the few times you were dressed in branded goods head to toe. None of the articles of clothing you were wearing right now, you owned. Usually, you’d be gaping in awe at how beautiful these places where - after all, you were in a five-star hotel in Italy.

But no, after almost five years of working with Louis Vuitton as a brand ambassador and subsequently becoming an assistant model-scout has numbed your habit of wandering eyes.

The LV briefcase gets set on a dry area of marble, your fingers automatically clutching the edges of the sink as the jewelry on your ears, neck and hands twinkle under the fluorescent lighting. The makeup looks close to perfect - because someone had done it for you. Your clothes and shoes fit right down to your skin - because they were tailored for you.

You were more upset you couldn’t sell it off and donate the money over having actual ownership of these fabrics.

News of the orphanage had reached you hours after you touched down in Italy, and your heart yearns to stop the ache that seeps through you. They had run out of funds to continue the orphanage, the kids already enrolled would be split and sent to other organizations instead.

What you had once called your home was going to be non-existent in another years’ time. Those whom you called your teachers, mentors, parents... were going to be in places you were not familiar with. The children that you always bring back food, clothes and toys for were going to be separated into different cities and states. As if not having a family was not bad enough, the people you now called your family was going to be split apart.

You hadn’t noticed your eyes were closed until you opened them, the weight of the makeup on your face urging you to rub your eyes and skin but the discipline written into your hands stop you from doing so.

Standing back to fix your posture, your eyes land on the one garnish on your body that doesn’t belong to Louis Vuitton - the ring on your middle finger. A gold band that looked more like a wedding ring than anything else.

It had the name of the orphanage engraved on the inner side, so it feels lighter on your hands than it would otherwise be.

A deep breath expands your chest as you take your briefcase and step away from the sink, attention scrutinising yourself more than you actually would.

The corridors of the hotel collect you back into its wealth again, drawing the thickest line between the realities of people like you and those who enjoy the luxurious life.

The racer’s manager was sitting at the end of the meeting table when you enter, and you immediately recognise half the list of names you had seen before. Gucci’s manager was here personally. Another racer and his manager were here too. Stefano Domenicali and Michael Masi were here.

Why were they here? Their names weren’t on the list.

“Ah, Miss l/n!” Masi gets off his seat and holds out his hand. “Such a pleasure to meet you!”

“Honor on my part,” Reaching out a palm, you smile the most graceful smile you can find in the muscles of your face.

“Can I get you a drink? We’re still waiting for Mr Lee before we begin our discussion on the collaboration.”

Collaboration?

“Pardon my ignorance but... I thought I was here for a sponsorship or a model-contract request for Mr Lee... I wasn’t expecting your attendance or... a collaboration.”

Domenicalli chuckles heartily at his seat as he whirls around to gesture to one of the staff members in the room. “Will you get her a Mojito?”

Then he stands up and pushes his glasses up his nose bridge. “We’ve been looking for a company that’s willing to do a three-way partnership with us and Mr Lee’s agency. Right now, it’s boiled down to both Louis Vuitton and Gucci so... it depends on which contract Mr Lee’s agency is more interested in.”

“Oh... Um, if that’s the case then I’m not entirely sure if the contract I have with me right now is appropriate-”

“Oh, it’s not. LV has already told us you’d sell them better unscripted than if planned,” Masi leans forward and mutters away from your ear. “Don’t tell Gucci though. Their manager’s only here because they panicked.”

He pulls away and before he can say anything else, the door clicks open with a staff member pushing the door open for the star of the night.

“My apologies,” He’s changed out of his formal suit and is in a more comfortable set of hoodie and baggy pants now. “Did I keep everybody waiting?”

“No, not at all!” Masi throws his hands up into the air and beckons you to meet Lee Hyunjae. “Might I introduce... Miss l/n from LV. She’ll be the one pitching the collaboration for LV today.”

Hyunjae’s eyes are wide and clear, despite his fringe covering his eyelids. “My pleasure,” He holds out his hand and you take it to shake, but he doesn’t stop there.

Lifting the back of your hand to his lips, the contact is soft and gentle on your skin.

Your hairs stand against your will and goosebumps erupt all over your neck when he pulls away, eyes now locked with yours. Nobody else in the room bothers to provide a reaction - it’s like he’s done this before and it’s perfectly normal.

The rest of the evening is spent listening to your own pitch, and Gucci’s, but you couldn’t really keep your head in the game when... all that was in Lee Hyunjae’s head was... you.

You’d be lying had you said you were comfortable with how much he was glancing at you across the table, obviously not listening to Gucci’s pitch at all. His manager was the one busy jotting down all kinds of things, almost like it was an act of dictation. But the racer’s eyes fail to leave you for any longer than five seconds, and it was becoming glaringly obvious that he wasn’t really paying attention to the pitch.

Gucci’s pitch finally finishes, giving you some kind of escape because now his manager is pummeling him for not listening to the benefits provided as Gucci’s ambassador. The contract document from LV was sitting before you, very single term and condition now inapplicable because you had just pitched something that wasn’t in the instruction manual.

God help me not to get fired.

“Mr Lee has some to a decision,” Masi claps his hands together, earning the attention of everybody in the room. “The Formula One federation would like to officially welcome Lee Hyunjae as the brand ambassador in a stellar collaboration... with Gucci.”

The Gucci ambassador scout smiles with triumph as the room provides a round of applause, you included.

“Thank you so much, Miss l/n, for coming down. Your pitch was nothing short of commendable and I will make sure your manager will hear of that, alright?” Masi and Domenicali take turns shaking your hand. In your peripheral vision, you watch the Gucci ambassador shake hands with both Lee Hyunjae and his manager.

Masi and Domenicali finish up with you, and Lee Hyunjae’s manager approaches you for the handshake with his client behind him. “That was a stellar... impromptu pitch, Miss l/n.”

A gentle chuckle rolls off your tongue as you pull your hand away, tightly clutching the briefcase. “I work better when things aren’t planned, so...”

“We’ll... we’ll keep in touch, LV. You’re an excellent scout with marvelous presentation skills. It makes me sad Mr Lee didn’t choose you.”

Your eyes drift to Hyunjae’s and he’s already looking at you like he hadn’t eaten in three days and you were a bowl of soup.

“Of course we’ll keep in touch. He’ll still be valuable asset and ambassador after his contract with Gucci ends,” Ignoring him, you return your attention to his manager.

“Now, let’s hope the Prince of Korea doesn’t screw anything up, yeah?” His manager grins as he pats Hyunjae on the back. “Anyway, it’s been a mighty pleasure. We’ll be in touch.”

You lower your head as a small nod, turning on your heels to exit the room. Even then you can feel his eyes on your back.

By the time you’re back in your hotel room (which was in the same hotel as you had the internal meeting), your feet are half dead from the heels you were wearing and the makeup on your face was starting to wear off. It took a nice, warm bath and a rather long conversation with your own manager on the phone as he congratulated on pulling through an impromptu pitch.

He finally finishes, and you drop your phone into the towel by the bathtub as the steam fogs up the mirror. But your peace is cut short when someone rings the doorbell of your room.

“Room service for Miss l/n!”

Tightening the robe around your waist, you pull open the door and watch the hotel staff hold out a bottle of wine and an envelop. “Mr Lee Hyunjae sends his regards, Miss.”

Surprised, you receive the bottle. The hotel staff bows and leaves, letting you turn around and the door click shut.

To: Miss l/n

I apologise for the inappropriate staring earlier this evening. This is an attempt to compensate for my behaviour. I’ll be leaving Italy the day after tomorrow so if you could do me the pleasure of having dinner with me tomorrow... I’d like to be acquainted.

I’ve made a reservation at La Terrazza for 7pm. I’ll meet you in the guest lobby downstairs at 6.30 to pick you up.

Love,

Lee Hyunjae

You can see how the material of the paper trembles a little between your fingers. The thought runs, So he’s a creep and a national treasure. He can’t hurt you, right?

Again, the evening gown is more than fitting on you. It’s been tailored to hug all your curves at your chest and your hips and thighs and it exposes your leg where the slit is. It’s like LV knew you had an important evening appointment coming up and had you pack all these different sets appropriate for the event.

The usher standing by the guest lobby nods when you head for the door, and he pushes it open to reveal only one person in it: Lee Hyunjae.

On the phone, he whirls around when he hears the doors swish against the carpet flooring. His eyes are glimmering under the soft, rosy lighting and the glossy collar of his suit looks like plastic from the reflection.

“I gotta go, I’ll call you back.”

The phone clicks to black before he opens his blazer and slides it into his inner breast pocket.

“I’m gonna guess that’s your manager,” Your fingers wrap around the clutch tightly as he takes a few steps toward you, obviously very stunned by how different you looked compared from the previous day.

“Uh, no, actually,” That million-dollar smile gleams at you. He reaches up to his forehead and scratches his brow. His hair is styled upwards so seeing the glory of his forehead was pretty enticing. “My mom. Making sure I’m doing well and fine here.”

He stops a safe distance away from you, finished with taking in whatever of you his eyes and memory can allow him. “Not gonna lie, I thought you were gonna stand me up.”

“I think LV would fire me if they knew I stood the Lee Hyunjae up.”

Hyunjae licks his lips then purses them together, attention finally peeling off your face as he reaches for your hand. He presses his lips into the back of your palm, then casually hooks your arm around his while he walks to your side. “Ready to go?”

At a loss of words for his flirtatious mannerism, all you can afford is a nod.

But as if your vocabulary bank wasn’t already exhausted, you can’t help but stare in complete astonishment when you are led to the matte black Sian Roadster already waiting at the drop-off point right outside the lobby.

“Have them send the Dior package to Miss l/n’s room by 9pm,” He instructs the bell boy by the hotel entrance as he reaches for the vehicle door.

“Wait, what?”

“Yes, Mr Lee.”

“Thanks.”

“Wait a minute,” Your vision is finally peeled off the car when Lee Hyunjae pulls the door open. “What Dior package?”

“Just a token of appreciation from me, that’s all,” He releases your arm as he guides you into the vehicle. “I knew if I gave it to you over dinner, you’d reject, so...”

Twitching his eyebrow, he smirks and retreats, closing the car door.

Flirt.

The vehicle moves off with a sharp rev of the engine, and you almost feel guilty for being able to be comfortable in in your clothes, shoes, sports car and on the way to a fancy-ass restaurant.

If only things could be like that for everybody and everything.

“So, when are you leaving Italy?”

“Oh, um... tomorrow too actually,” Rome’s lights are wondrous on the outside, some of them blinding you. “I have... something to attend.”

“Hmm, that’s... vague.”

You turn to eye him at his silent call for clarification. “I’m attending a closing event; help out with administrations.”

“Like... a pet store or something?”

“Yeah, ‘or something’.”

“That confidential, huh?” He lets out a soft chuckle.

The gut in your abdomen tells you not to look at him. He’ll see right through you, figure out that there’s something more to it than something ‘confidential’.

“Yeah,” You mask it with a sigh. “Funds and things.”

You can feel his attention sink into your back as silence befell the atmosphere.

There’s a kind of light in his eyes when he talks about racing. When he’s describing the feeling of adrenaline in his fingers, gripped around the steering wheel. He’s unexpectedly kind to the service at the restaurant, then again he was a celebrity and he had a reputation to uphold.

It’s the kind of light that made you panic throughout dinner, because there’s no way this specimen of a man would ever pay you a second thought. Maybe you were going to be his Italy fling that he would boast about to his friends and colleagues and they’d laugh at you without you even knowing.

What was a rich, handsome racer even doing, single? It was too good to be true, and even if it was, you? Of all people?

Dream on.

“It’s been... an amazing night. Thank you so much for dinner.”

Lee Hyunjae walks you into the lift, letting you press the button to your floor first.

“I’ll walk you back. I have time.”

Standing with your feet together, in the safety of your gown, your hands are holding your clutch like your life depended on it. You could tell that he wasn’t the most comfortable now, not with his hands over one another and placed politely on his abdomen.

When the lift door dings open, the silence remains. He trails behind you as you walk your way to your room, hands fumbling through your clutch to search for your keycard. The slick of the door is fast and you push the door open, with a black and silver box with the label ‘DIOR’ printed on it sitting at the foot of your bed.

“Oh, my God!” You rush in and grab the box, eyes widening as you turn to him, who has one arm extended to keep the door open. The box was almost as big as a pillow.

There’s a soft, warm smile on his face. A stark contrast to all his flirty ministrations throughout the evening. “Goodnight, Miss l/n. Sleep well and have a safe flight.”

“Wha-” Then he lowers his head, and turns around. “Wait!”

Without another moment of hesitation, he disappears down the corridor and the door swings shut.

It feels ironically empty. Your hands are carrying this Godforsaken box of a gift and yet you cannot think of a way to properly thank the person who gave it to you. With slight reluctance, your fingers find the edge of the cover.

It’s a beautiful Dior blazer, packaged with a perfume and a cosmetics set. The cream letter in it is handwritten and signed the racer himself.

I wish we had more time. Love, Lee Hyunjae

The nauseating sensation of your heart sinking in your chest beats all the logic in your brain when you find yourself reaching for the door handle. The box is mindlessly thrown back onto the bed as you rush out, kicking off your heels in the moment of folly. (Of course, remembering to use the door latch to keep the door open.)

“Hyunjae!” You call down the corridor, and he was just about to enter the lift. He turns, providing you with a gorgeous view of his jaw.

It feels like a fairytale, when you run down the carpeted corridor, barefooted and still in your gown. The urge to throw your arms around him far supercedes your brain yelling at you not to, but you do it anyway.

He catches you by the waist as your rest your forehead in his blazer, arms already struggling to meet the height of his shoulders.

A whisper. “I wish we had more time too.”

He pushes you back by your upper arms, tucking one bit of your hair behind your ear. “If time is what you want, then I’ll make time.”

“But... I- Will you get in trouble?”

He looks you dead in the eye and subtly shakes his head.

Time stops.

Fear. That’s what you’re feeling.

Then he tilts his head and slowly leans in.

“I don’t think I’d care if I do.”

His breath hits your upper lip and your instincts flutter your lids shut.

White wine and strawberries from dinner. That’s what he tastes like.

Warmth radiates off his palms and into your cheeks as he holds your face close to his, unable to resist the satisfaction and sweetness you were providing him. In this moment of intimacy, he loses all sense of realism and urgency - all he wants is you to himself, for the rest of the night until the sun rises.

Then he’d have to worry about never seeing you again because his manager had chosen Gucci over LV.

But right now, he has your heart and soul in his hands, as does his in yours.

Being the romantic and (probably) egoistic man of a celebrity he is, he lowers himself and slides his arms where the back of your knees would be, somehow never breaking the kiss. The material of the gown dribbles over the cotton of his suit and your arm circles behind his neck, only minimizing the distance between the two of you.

It feels like you’re getting married in this black and gold sparkly evening gown when he pushes the door open with his back. The scent of the room is inviting, but definitely none in comparison to the scent of his cologne beginning to stain your hands and your clothes.

Gently resting you into the cool sheets of the bed, he pulls away to remove the Dior package off the bed, placing it on the mini coffee table by the bed.

You were never one to deal with one night stands. Hell, the only person you’d ever slept with was some stupid kid back in the orphanage when your stupid teenage hormones were running-

He pulls off his blazer and leans in again, picking your awkward hands and resting them on the knot of his tie. His fingers are grazing the skin on your upper arm, trailing down to your cheek and then your hairline where he combs his hands through your hair.

The knot on the tie comes undone with some slight tugs, and you slide it out from under his collar. Undoing only the first one, you rest your palms against his chest, creating a small rift where the air rushes to your lips where his should be.

He’s slightly stunned at the slightest breakage, but he is overwhelmed with more care and concern than he was upset. “Why? What’s wrong?” He traces your jaw and rests his fingers on your chin, noses almost touching.

“Are you sure... You want to do this? I can’t risk you losing your career,” Your index finger traces the likes of his cheekbone. “You barely just started.”

Hyunjae shakes his head subtly, taking your hands to his lips and pressing them into the back of your palm. “When I saw you in that room, I was... star struck. You’d think being the celebrity in the room would mean everything, but I felt like I was nothing if I didn’t know you, much less be able to get close to you.”

And for someone who hasn’t really had a biological family to love, his words stuck.

“I just... knew. There are some things in the world you can work for, but I don’t think any amount of effort can give me you.”

His brown orbs find your gaze and it melts you thoroughly. Like ice cream on a hot day; like the way the ocean washes against the sand by the beach, taking grains of sand away with it - the same way Hyunjae was winning you bit by bit, if not already all of you.

Your hands find his collar again, and it tightens around the stiff material to pull him back down. He smiles into the kiss, hands pressing into the mattress by your hair while you undo the rest of his buttons. His skin is hot under the shirt, blood running on the adrenaline and tension he was riding on from the intimacy. Muscles pumped and heart racing, you finally get his shirt off and he does you the honor of dropping it to the ground.

He gives you time to gasp for air while he dips his nose into your neck, inhaling your perfume and the scent of the hotel shampoo in your hair. His back muscles tense up under your cold fingertips as you run them along his spine. It’s almost beast-like, when he flexes his arms and every single move shifts his shoulder blades under his skin. His lips leave gentle pecks in your neck and your exposed collar bone, letting goosebumps erupt all over your skin.

His hand caresses your waist as a way of request, and you arch your back just enough for him to find the zipper on the back of your gown. The vibrations of the zip being pulled downwards already feels like little bolts of electricity up your spine, and the straps around your shoulders loosen with every inch unzipped.

He’s done, when his fingers return to your shoulders to push the straps off. The cool air kisses your skin in spots where he isn’t touching with any part of his body. The silk of the gown gently slides off with every inch of a movement you make, more and more of your torso exposed to him.

Sliding one of his arms under your lower back, he pulls you out of the dress instead of stripping you of it as he helps you further up the bed. Your hands press into the mattress in a bid to help him shift yourself without breaking the sloppy, messy kiss. Your back finally meets the pillows and he pushes the gown off the bed with his leg.

Chin tilting to the ceiling, he finally creates some distance between the two of you, eyes drifting down to your collar bone and chest still covered. His palms are hot around your waist as he trails butterfly pecks on your cleavage, while your fingers find his hair to tousle and grip.

Goosebumps start to surface when his breath is heavy on your stomach, then he reaches your underwear and it’s almost embarrassing to have him kiss you.

Your clouded vision is manually stuck to the ceiling when you can feel your face burning with adrenaline. The tickle of the material when it gets pulled off your hips and down your legs bring your cheeks more color, and before you know it, Hyunjae has your breath hitched in your throat.

He rests your thighs on his shoulders as he works his way around, the bare minimum sanity left inside you decides to grip onto the sheets instead of ripping out his hair.

Chills shoot up your spine mercilessly, emanating in the form of lewd mewls directed into the air. The crown of your head meets the cushioned head board of the bed when his grip on your thighs tighten to keep you from squirming too much.

Without warning, he drags a finger down your sensitiveness and slides it in easily, the sensation erupting a more-than-shameful groan from you. Pulling away, he adds another finger before shifting his attention back to your upper body, now eyeing the last piece of material covering your chest. But he captures your lips first to earn your attention, and your arms naturally find your way around his neck to keep him close.

His free hand goes around your back to unhook your lingerie, and it’s nothing but a new addition to all the clothes on the carpet now. He removes his fingers, and breaks the kiss first, for the sole reason of giving you a perfect view of him licking his glistening skin.

You can feel your brows furrow with frustration now, the warmth from him dissipating when he leans back on his heels in a kneeling position. By providing you a gorgeous view of his being while he undoes his belt, he’s only adding more fire to the fuel.

It’s significant enough to stretch out the material of his boxers, and so he climbs over you as he removes his last bit of clothing. He harshly yanks you downwards into a lying position by your ankle, and the sharp friction against your back is an addition to the heat between the two of you.

His breath is heavy on your lips as he rests his palms by your ears, weight pushing in the mattress. “Tell me if it hurts, love.”

Then he presses his lips into yours, like his life depended on it, and in one swift motion, he buries himself inside you like it was the most natural thing to do.

You suck all the breath out of him as you gasp into the kiss, and he finds your arms to hook around his neck and shoulders.

If you could feel the taste of honey throughout your body, this must be how it feels.

He gives you some moments before he starts grinding his hips slowly, his palms finding your thighs and digging into your flesh as he hooks them around his hips.

Breathless, you pull away first, whimpers in the back of your throat louder than what you would’ve expected. His nose dips into your neck again, arms now stretched out to use the headboard as support when he picks up the pace.

Cursing under your breath, you feel guilty for the bliss that was spreading through you. Your nerves are all heightened by the adrenaline and your vision is blurred from the sole nature of the intimate act.

He’s not fast, but every spot he’s hitting feels like cloud nine over and over again.

Like a spark in the dark, the sacred spot reveals itself in the form of harsher breaths and groans. Your fingernails dig into his back and your thighs are losing stamina to remain wrapped around him.

“That’s it,” He breaths into your ear, pressing a kiss into your lower jaw. “Come for me.”

Tremors burst through your body like lightning in a storm upon his request. He helps you ride it out with a few more thrusts before he pulls out himself, releasing on your stomach, chest heaving.

Resting his forehead on yours, he smiles. “Let’s hope that one day I wouldn’t have to worry about pulling out.”

You scoff, slightly tired. “We’ll see.”

You are woken up by the unfamiliar warmth you normally don’t have under the blanket. White sheets and tousled hair come into your field of vision before you can process the face, partially hidden, but eyes wide open.

“Jesus,” Your morning breath billows out between your lips and you swallow to dampen your dry throat. The room looks too damn bright for it to be morning. “What time is it?”

“7am. Don’t worry, we have plenty of time. My manager hasn’t called me so... we have time to spare.”

You shuffle around under the sheets and your arms slide under the pillow where its cool. He shifts and pulls out his arm to rest on his tricep, palm under his ear and hair as he perches up his head.

“What?” You pull the blanket up to your face and inhale the scent of it. It smells like him now.

“You look pretty when you’re asleep.”

“What?” You frown, but a smile is on your lips. “How long did you watch me sleep for?”

“Not long, don’t worry. I’m not a perv.”

“Well, considering we just slept together after 24 hours of knowing one another-”

“Hey, we’re both about to be deported back to Korea to work. Give us a break, would you?” He groans and shifts again, this time trying to pull you into his chest.

“Ah,” Snorting, you let him cradle you in his arms, his bare skin pressed warmly into yours. “‘Deport’? That’s what you call your job?”

“Only because you’re involved now,” He pecks you on the lips. “So... can I ask about your ‘administrative matters’ you said you needed to attend?”

Right. The orphanage is closing down.

The guilt washes through you again.

“Oh,” A look of seriousness overtakes your facials, and he notes the change in expression. “Um... I- Well... It’s an orphanage. It’s closing.”

He blinks at you, gaze filled with wander. “Were you a volunteer or...?”

Silence.

You can’t bring yourself to say it.

Unable to bear the incoming judgment he might provide you, your eyes dart away.

“Hey, hey,” He finds your chin and tilts it back up to his attention. “What’s wrong? I don’t see anything wrong with being who you are. Why are you ashamed?”

“I... I’ve lived all my life with that label. ‘Orphan’. It only got better when I came out to work.”

“Is that why you are so worried? That... we might affect something and possibly implicate that?”

“Maybe.”

He sighs, thumb stroking your cheek as he shakes his head. “Nah. It shouldn’t matter.” Pulling your head into his chest, you can hear the steady thumping of his heart through his skin. “’Administrative matters’, huh? Are you like a... committee member or donator?”

“I’m an unofficial sponsor ambassador from LV. Well, LV was supposed to arrange for official funding, but they just never really had the time or resources to build the rapport. The orphanage was doing too badly for any company or brand to want to help and invest their attention on.”

“Mm,” He hums, stroking your hair. “I’m sorry about that. I truly am.”

“It’s okay. Nothing could’ve been done about it anyway. All I hope now is for the kids to be safe, no matter where they go.”

It feels empty again, having Hyunjae being ripped from your side at the airport once the plane touched down. The manager was surprisingly not surprised to know that you had spent the night together, the only question he had asked being something that concerned a future pregnancy, which the two of you have already confirmed negative.

It’s late when you reach back your apartment, and you ready yourself for the private meeting with the committee members of the orphanage. Though tired and severely jet-lagged, you cannot miss this meeting. It’s the last time you’ll see all the caretakers and members of the organisation in the same room.

You shift into the taxi in a new set of clothes, but topped with the Dior blazer and smelling like the Dior perfume, you feel like you were probably going to get slapped once you reach the meeting.

The building of the orphanage looks so run-down, it could be mistaken for a prison had it not been for the words HILDA’S ORPHANAGE in big, block letters above the entrance. Before you can exit the taxi, your phone starts vibrating in your purse.

It’s the President of the orphanage.

“I’m right outside the building, going in soon,” You push open the car door and thank the driver.

“The meeting has been cancelled. Someone bought the orphanage and we’ll be managed under a new system.”

“What?”

“Surprise.”

You turn around and see the last person you’d expect to see here, in his hands, a folder of documents and a small bouquet of flowers.

“Um,” Your eyes are stuck to Hyunjae, but you’re still on the phone. “The buyer... Does it have anything to do with Gucci or F1?”

“Yes, it’s an F1 sponsorship but there will be more details into the managerial and planning system. Some things will have to change.”

“I’ll... I’ll call you back.”

Hyunjae watches you lock your phone in shock, attention unrivalled. He takes a few steps towards you and you now realise he’s still in the same clothes he was in on the plane. His eyebags are obvious but the prideful grin on his face makes him glow.

Stopping about an arms’ length away from you, he holds out the folder.

“I checked with my manager and he checked with F1. They green-lit it, but on a few conditions. I heard them out before I told them it would be more likely than not you’d accept it, so here are the legal documents. All the terms and conditions and sponsor contract are already in here, so you and the President can sign it when you deem fit.”

Taking the folder, you didn’t even notice your hands are trembling as you flip through it.

But your eyes flitter up from the page when you notice the printing:

OWNER’S SIGNATURE (Y/N L/N): ____________________

“It’s yours if you sign it.”

Now, he holds out the bouquet. “I thought of putting it under my name but I don’t want you to think you owe me a favour and have it bugging you all the time.”

Gently shaking your head, as if you could shake out the surprise, you close the file and look to him in awe. “But I’ll still owe you, big time. This is... this is everything, so thank you.”

He sucks in a deep breath and shakes the bouquet of flowers a little.

“You can return the favour by going out with me. Properly, whenever I have time, and I promise, no Dior packages.”

Taking the bouquet into hand, you throw your arms around his shoulders, tears welling in your eyes.

#hyunjae #lee hyunjae #hyunjae smut #tbz smut #the boyz smut #the boyz hyunjae #lee hyunjae smut #tbz scenarios #the boyz scenarios #hyunjae scenario #hyunjae fanfic

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daresplaining · 3 years

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Have Matt and Danny Rand ever bounded around having really hard martial arts masters training them?

Great question! And the answer is, not really-- at least, not on-panel, as far as I can remember. Marvel's superhero community (and Danny’s inner circle in particular) is filled with skilled fighters, so that's certainly not an experience that's unique to the two of them, and to be a martial artist with that degree of ability, the training has to be "really hard"-- it's not like Stick and Lei Kung were doing anything strange or gratuitous in their teaching. Lei Kung was strict, yes-- as war master of one of the Capital Cities of Heaven, he had to be-- but he was also a loving father figure to Danny; and Stick and Matt had their own deep, affectionate, if complicated bond. And of course, Danny's training was on an entirely different level than Matt's, so it's a bit of an apples-and-oranges situation. What we do know is that Danny and Matt respect each other very much, both in combat and in life, and part of that comes from respecting each other's history and training.

That said-- and this isn't what you asked, but it's something I love, so I'm gonna geek out about it-- there are some fun connections between their legacies. To start, Master Izo (Stick’s mentor and founder of the Chaste) is in the Book of the Iron Fist!

[ID: Excerpt from Brubaker’s Daredevil run. A bunch of characters (Matt Murdock, Danny Rand, Dakota North, Carlos LaMuerto, and Master Izo) are standing around in Matt’s kitchen in civvies. Izo is in the background, drinking from a container.]

Danny: "Uh, Dakota? Who's the old guy drinking the grain alcohol?"

Dakota: "Says his name is Master Izo."

Danny: "Master Izo? Really?"

Matt: "Wait-- you've heard of him?"

Danny: "Yes... he was mentioned in the Book of the Iron Fist... a few hundred years ago..."

Daredevil vol. 2 #113 by Ed Brubaker, Michael Lark, Stefano Gaudiano, and Matt Hollingsworth

You may know this, and I've talked about this scene before, but it's been a while and I'm always in a mood to ramble about my guy Izo and the Iron Fist mythos. If anyone is unfamiliar, you should follow my IF blog! the Book of the Iron Fist is a written chronicle of the lives and deeds of the Iron Fists, extending back through the centuries. There is no direct link between K'un-Lun/the Iron Fist legacy and the Hand/Chaste lineage to which Matt (and Izo and Stick and Elektra and Maki Matsumoto and Sam Chung, etc.) are connected. They're completely separate worlds. But this fun fact of Izo bumping into an Iron Fist at some point in his long, chaotic life is something I cherish. This interaction is followed by a wonderful scene of bonding-- not between Danny and Matt, but between Danny and Izo, over Matt (which I discussed in some detail here).

There's also this odd little moment from Bendis' Defenders run:

[ID: Excerpt from Bendis’ Defenders run, showing Matt and Danny standing together in a dark alley. Matt is in his Daredevil costume with the mask off, and Danny is in the full Iron Fist costume.]

Matt: "I am blind."

[ID: Danny puts up a hand for a high-five.]

Danny: "Oh! Dude, that is awesome. There was this street-fighter named Stick who was blind."

Matt: "He was my sensei."

Defenders (2017) #8 by Brian Michael Bendis, David Marquez, and Justin Ponsor

There are all kinds of little continuity weirdnesses in this series, so this could just be among them, but it is an extremely cool idea, and does make sense timeline-wise. While we know pretty much nothing about Stick’s early life (get on that, Marvel!), we do know that he spent probably quite a long time training at the Chaste’s secret mountaintop headquarters, and then at some point later wound up in New York, where he eventually met young/teenage Matt. He seemingly stayed in New York after their falling-out when Matt was in college (based on Man Without Fear continuity, which is the only continuity we have for this plot detail), gambling and fighting and doing all the things he complained about Izo doing back in the day. When Matt searches for him many years later for help with a hypersensory issue (in Daredevil vol. 1 #176), Stick is still hanging out in the city. During that gap in Matt and Stick’s relationship, Danny Rand returned to Earth and settled into his new life in Manhattan. And in both his own life and his eventual Heroes for Hire work, he was spending a lot of time in the same kinds of unsavory places that Stick seemed to be frequenting, interacting with a lot of the same kinds of well-connected, low-level people in the criminal underworld who would know Stick-- and so it is likely that Danny would at least have heard of him, if not run into him. (In fact, “mysterious weirdos who can kick everyone’s butts” is Danny’s exact area of interest.) This might have just been a throwaway gag for Bendis, but I’m begging someone-- anyone-- to write me this flashback issue. Please. That is an interaction I’m dying to see.

I’m sorry this went a bit off-topic, but I hope it was interesting anyway. I know I had fun. Thanks for your great question!

#Daredevil #Matt Murdock #Iron Fist #Danny Rand #Stick #Izo #Lei Kung #Asks #Adventures in Continuity

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just-patchy · 3 years

Text

Hell of Heaven | Stefano Fuoco

Title taken from Paradise Lost, gif choice is somewhat intentional

CW: mentions of wet dreams, mentions of sex/lust as a concept, self loathing, negative portrayal of religion, mentions of somewhat raunchy humour between teenagers

Stefano vividly remembers a particular mass he attended as a child.

He couldn’t have been older than eight or nine, his small chubby self wandering into the church when he found himself available and bored on the occasional Sunday. He remembers the priest giving long droning speeches of God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit, before going into a scathing, demeaning session on certain pictures of certain women, hidden behind rehearsed kindness, upholding a pretension of nobleness and honour. He remembers the old man at the altar casually reducing those women to their bodies, measuring them on scales of chastity and rotting morals. He remembers how Father Acacius droned on about ‘respecting your body’, that the only truly right marriage was strictly that between a man and a woman, that lovemaking was strictly for reproduction and nothing more, and anyone who’d have sexual intercourse for selfish pleasure was guilty of lust. He remembers how simultaneously warm and ice cold the church felt with every word that sounded and echoed about the packed church. The adults around him nodded along to every word that fell from those thin withered lips, unseeing eyes focused on the shrivelled elder as they listened intently. And there he was, a small lost lamb with eyes like spilt blood and all the ignorance of any sheltered child.

He couldn’t explain why the speech stuck in his mind, until he woke up at age thirteen, with impure shades of white staining his shorts and bedsheets like blood, the scorching hellfire dancing in his veins, the brief flashes of untamed raven hair and daring, dashing smiles permanently etched into his bones.

His nanny found him gasping for air as he tried to drag the defiled laundry to the nearest garbage disposal, and quietly murmured comforting words and the other servants made quick work of the sheets and his shorts, the hum of the laundry machine indiscernible from the other side of the house in his room. With his parents away for work, he blearily recalls the brief biology lesson she gave him, how it was normal and healthy for a boy his age to go through such things, and yet he only felt the disgusting filthy slimy thing in his shorts that made him wash his hands over and over, until no amount of luxurious cream could keep up with the frequency of dried cracks decorating his skin.

He hides his newfound shame from his friends, puts on an innocent expression practised many times in the mirror and pretends not to hear the way they talk about the pretty girl from the next class over. He’d probably be slapped on the back and deemed a proper man should he mention the foul fantasy, so far as he left out certain details. Yet, the burning humiliation at the base of his spine stops him from saying anything, save for the way he subtly ducks away from Harley’s touch for a while.

He eventually forces the befouling feelings down, stamps them out the same way he does flames on expensive carpets when his tricks go wrong. He continues to be deemed an virtuous, pure church boy who can’t look at anyone in the eye out of shyness rather than out of guilt and disgrace. That is the role he’s assigned to, and only bad actors fail to deliver what their audiences want. He quietly makes sure to zone out of improper conversations, carefully avoiding looking at women’s body parts put on display in dirty magazines like beef at a butcher’s shop. He sits still and poised, angling himself to look like a pretty porcelain doll as he smiles bashfully when asked about his ‘preferences’. He speaks nothing of the additional three pairs of shorts he’s ruined, now burning a hole through the bottom of his drawer. He can almost taste the ‘sweetness’ his friends go on and on about beyond the heavy bitterness of bile threatening to crawl up his throat, but he bans himself from tasting the forbidden fruit, refusing to let the nectar so much as touch his tongue as the boys around him greedily suckled and milked every last drop.

He delivers his act, adding improvs that slowly become part of his routine, and by the time he enters Night Raven, he’s revised and polished so much that the elaborate set up is as shiny as the goblet of Blood in every mass. It’s almost inseparable from his actual personality, lines blurring as more and more of his performance seeps through the cracks in his facade and mixes with the scorching darkness beneath. The flames of impurity dancing along flesh and bone and threatening to expose him in a large flashy show of combustion. The shame weighing down his lower half becomes a constant comfort that he’s doing well, that he’s holding up, that’s he’s still pure and innocent to the outside world, and no one but him would know how wrong that perception was. No one would know the piling weight of sin and lust that rests on his shoulders, no one would know how defiled and disgusting he was underneath all the conservative layers.

It takes a long time for him to come around to the concept of fanservice. Johnathan and Mordred have no problem, with their natural charisma and polished images. Johnathan drops flirty one-liners that leave Stefano’s cheeks burning and Mordred’s built stature has him standing around the corner to calm the sweltering heat in his gut. Yet, when he’s encouraged to do the same, “for sales and promotions”, they say, his body runs hot and cold, a lump of coal in his throat and a knife at his neck. He dares not move, too scared that once the blood is spilled, so will all the impurities and shame he’s been hiding for the past years of his life.

And he was correct.

It’s difficult for him, now, to not let his gaze linger on Azul’s beauty mark and soft lips that would taste like sea salt, to not trace the pale, slender column of Idia’s neck and wish he could unzip the oversized baggy hoodie of his. He finds it difficult to look at the Leech twins at all, and has never been so grateful as to be a head shorter so he doesn’t have to acknowledge their mischievous, knowing looks and coy smiles. He’s practically burned by Kalim’s presence, desperately looking at anywhere else other than the sharp collarbone and intricate designs on his arm. The fire in his body is fuelled by the added guilt of being around someone so pure, naive, ignorant, unlike himself who had been long tainted and was in the process of falling down a never-ending void of temptation. It feels as though his hands can never be clean, of blood or slime, he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins anymore. They all seem to blend into a permanent stain on his hands, and he wonders if he should start wearing gloves.

The voices of the church echo, sometimes, when Gian’s comforting weight drapes all across his back as he purrs. He can almost hear Father Acacius, feel the weight of his judgmental stare as he casually remarks, “A harlot, how unfortunate…Bring your…’friend’ to our next gathering, perhaps he can benefit from the Lord’s word,” and all of a sudden, it feels as though the agonising pain has been suddenly doused, icy chills dragging up his spine despite the warm body against his back. The warm reds and browns of Florenetta fade away into the freezing white and gold, and Stefano feels like he’s the same pudgy child he was back then, a lost black lamb standing in a courthouse decorated with the Sign of God, with a large living cross splayed across his shoulders.

Growing a year older and slowly maturing into an adult did nothing to help the shame he felt, the base instincts he held as he carefully tried not to look anyone out of fear that lust will spill out of his throat. John had figured it out, he was sure of it, and he was grateful the fox decided to say nothing aside from placing a bottle of laundry stain remover on the counter of Stef’s bathroom. Anyone had to have seen his fear, really. His act was becoming less refined, less polished, more tainted and dirty and disgusting. He doesn’t want people to look at him, doesn’t want people to see the mindless animal he’s slowly becoming, one that lives off of instinct to eat and fuck and take as much as he can—as it can—without giving anything in return.

He feels envy sear into his vision in pastel blues, when a familiar first year comes into view. He feels shame for such childish, petty emotions, unfitting of someone like him, of his status and prestige and one that has much more than others could wish to have. He shouldn’t be feeling envy or jealousy or lust, not when he’s nearing that age where he could be baptised, even though the thought of being dunked into a pool of cold, unfeeling holiness threatens to choke and drown him. He has a loving busy family, blessed with talent, wealth, and surprisingly steady jobs for someone in the entertainment industry. Yet Stefano can’t even keep his own emotions and base desires in check like some ragged creature that crawled out of nowhere, and the absolute shame burned him to the core.

The lava in his veins has been boiling for a long time, and eventually it overflows, when John makes an offhanded comment on how sensual Stefano has become as he develops, the hard lines and sharp contours of a traditionally masculine figure replaced with soft curves and seduction skills all the more effective with how unaware he is most of the time. It’s meant as a joke, a little harmless jab at how uptight and shy he is. Yet Stefano feels the telltale burn of tears not a second later, his only warning before he starts crying, or is he really? The tears roll down his cheeks, but he doesn’t know what to feel or how to feel.

Part of him mourns the facade that’s finally been broken, like an old haunted porcelain doll he’s held onto ever since that first dream. He murmurs “I’m sorry” into Mordred’s shoulder over and over, grasping at John’s fluffy tail that’s wrapped itself around his waist. He’s failed to live up to expectations, and he doesn’t know whether to feel guilty over that or over the fact that he’s not that all sorry. He feels free for once, the weight of the cross lifted from his back. He feels like he could actually breathe and move without the shameful fire burning up his limbs and organs, as if it’s rebelled and burning the church in the recesses of his mind into ashes along with Father Acacius and everyone in it.

He wears stiletto heels and effortlessly slides down into splits, he hangs off of poles and sways his hips and explores this new side to his body and self that he’s kept locked up since he was thirteen. He laughs in amusement and embarrassment at all the comments of fans panicking in the best way possible no matter how many times he repeats such daring, scandalous performances, he feels much more comfortable tossing a casual wink or flirty line for his supporters.

He’s never been so thrilled to read the barrages of hate comments, and lights a bonfire every night in their honour. Shallow and fickle people focusing a little too hard on the ‘good, pure Christian boy’ image he’s cultivated over the years, offended when he wears shirts cropped short enough that they’re “barely shirts” with low rise sweats that show off his tummy. They insist that he’s “only 18”, “barely legal”, that “his old stuff was better” because he wasn’t as “slutty” or “sexualised”.

To that, he uploads a video with even more daring choreography, dances he’s only ever done in the safety of his room or one of the numerous studios in Florenetta’s dorm, where it’s only him and the mirror. Daring was a bit of an understatement, really. He was surprised Headmaster Crowley had nothing to say about it (though the man barely had much of an opinion at all when it came to the workings of Florenetta). His saving grace was likely how the video was shot, dimly lit with neon lights that illuminated his barely-clothed body in shades of blue and purple, the camera angles highlighting his graceful movements.

He’d be lying if he didn’t do it out of spite, but more than anything, the absolute joy pumping through his body, the way he throws himself into the steps and hair flips and floor work, and the way he looks over at his mediocre figure in the mirror for the first time, takes all the little flaws from head to toe, and whispers confidently, “I look good.” The sound of his shackles shattering to the floor and the feeling of air rushing into his lungs like he’s never truly breathed before, it was all too blissful to ever be interrupted by some stranger’s harsh repetitive words of chastity.

They say he’s changed, and that they miss the old Stefano, but really, he’s never changed at heart. He still goes red when Gian gives him a friendly slap on his behind, or when John gently offers some tea late at night away from prying eyes in that soft smooth voice of trust that makes him swoon. He still hesitates to snuggle up against Mordred, especially when the ace decides to go about shirtless, turns away when Lulu skips into practice wearing a sports bra and biker shorts because she couldn’t be bothered, and gets just as flustered as Marius when the younger boy catches wind of Stefano’s recent image change. He’s still mortified when his classmates come up to him teasing him about how “erotic” he’s gotten lately, as if he’s never registered the idea that those who know him in person would also watch his videos.

It’s simply that he doesn’t bother putting up a pure white Christian wall anymore. He lets his admiration be known, joining in on the excited hollers as he watches his friends excel in the most beautiful way possible. He doesn’t shy away from putting his body on display like a decorated canvas, a work of art, and finds hiding the tiny blemishes and rolls a bother. Frankly, despite what some of his fans liked to believe, he didn’t have much of a problem being ‘sexy’. It was simply another aspect of himself that both he and they could learn to love in the long run.

And if he smiles to himself quietly while he reads through all the excited and positive feedback he’s gotten, loose-limbed and warm from a long hot soak in the bath, no one else has to know.

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #stefano fuoco #character study #i guess. it kinda is one

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wri0thesley · 4 years

Note

*bursts through the door* Hello Nat, I am here to request some chubby/fat reader smut with Diavolo. Perhaps a more possessive and less reclusive Diavolo who spots reader and has to have them?? Headcanons or a scenario are fine, of course. Thanks!

[opening hours] - diavolo x chubby!reader (4k)

The rules for one special customer at your bakery get you into a situation that you’re not all that mad about, actually.

[NSFW, minors do not interact. Diavolo x Reader. AFAB reader, explicitly fat/chubby. No pronouns used, but Diavolo refers to reader with feminine pet names. Possessive/jealous sex. Power imbalance (he IS the Don of Passione). Brief references to reader’s lack of self-confidence/body-shaming in their past.]

The trouble had started with the bakery's unnofficial opening hours.

You had been told when you started working here that you opened ten minutes earlier than you were supposed to, but only for one specific customer. When you had expressed frustration at not knowing who this customer was and how to identify them, the owner and her son had looked at one another and then back at you.

"You'll know if you meet him," she'd said, eventually - and that was all.

Oh, you're paid for those extra ten minutes, of course - you're paid very well, honestly, for a job that you like working and that pays in all of the leftover sweet treats you'd like at the end of the day. The owner - Francesca - is polite and careful and clucks about you like a mother hen, which is nice considering how far away you feel from home. But after six months of working at the bakery and not coming across this mysterious customer once, you resign yourself to the fate that you're never going to see him.

Things, though, can change in an instant. Tiny little occurrences that feel like nothing at the time can shape your life more than you ever realise. For you, that occurrence had been the morning that the pink-haired man in a crisply pressed suit had walked into the bakery at seven fifty two in the moring and stood by the counter.

At first, he had not spoken. He had simply looked at you, bright green stare coloured with something that made your skin feel hot and prickly. He had rested his fingertips on the counter, tapping black lacquered nails against the glass.

You are used to being looked at. You have been looked at your whole life; generally not favourably. Hell, you have even been looked at behind the counter before, as people snickered behind their hands to their companions that 'no wonder this place sells out of the good stuff so fast, with someone like that working here--'. Your cheeks heat up under the man's intense stare, wondering if he's about to say something to you--

And then, he does say something.

"You're new."

His voice is low and smooth, like fine wine being poured in the dark, and against your will your heart begins to beat a little quicker. You nod. His painted lips curve in a smile that's all danger and elegance.

(It's normal, you tell yourself, to be very aware when someone near you is handsome. It's normal to have your breath taken away, to find yourself shaking a little, to feel warm and strange - and it's even more normal, you think, when you consider that something about this man makes him special.)

"You won't know my usual, then." He says, and you shake your head wordlessly, offering him an apologetic look that seems to amuse him just as much as your newness.

He directs you (cappuccino, cornetto) to his regular, his eyes not leaving you for a moment. It's strange, to be so watched - most customers can't wait to get out of the bakery with their gains tucked neatly under their arms. Very few of them look at you beyond a cursory bark of their order and a nod as they leave. This man, though . . . his eyes do not leave you for a moment.

You bag up the cornetto in one of the pale paper bags and are about to punch the numbers into your cash register, when the man leans over the counter and grabs ahold of your wrist, his grip strong and firm.

Your breath catches at the power with which he restrains you. His suit sleeve rolls up to reveal an intricate tattoo of black inked designs that starts at his wrist and (from what you can see) continues further and further up.

"That won't be necessary, carina." He says, his voice smooth. Your own voice wobbles a little as you reply;

"B-but--"

He raises his eyebrows, clearly amused by whatever it is you're doing. You don't think it's that amusing that you're attempting to get him to pay for what he's bought, but alright then.

"You're cute," he tells you, without flinching. Those lips remain turned up at the corners in a smirk that makes you feel as though you don't know what the hell you're doing. The compliment wraps around you, heated and nervous - men, in your experience, do not often say such things to people who look like you - and certainly not so quickly after meeting you. "Ask Francesca why I don't pay, if you must. Have a good day - I'll see you tomorrow."

You don't realise you've been holding your breath until the door has closed behind him.

You also don't realise how much the promise of seeing him again sounds like a threat.

--------

You find out, incidentally, why he doesn't pay - and the information makes your cheeks flame at how brazen you must have seemed, trying to insist he was going to pay. You tell Francesca exactly what happened and her face creases in concern. At first, you think she's going to tell you off - you wouldn't blame her for firing you, after finding out that you disrespected the Don of Passione like that.

It turns out what she's worried about is the staffing. You are not scheduled to do a morning shift tomorrow. She expresses fear, too, that he spoke to you and smiled at you and stared at you so intently.

"Normally he doesn't look at any of us," she frets. "That's not the kind of man you want the attention of, you know?"

You laugh off her concerns.

"It's probably nothing like that anyway," you tell her. "He was just amused I didn't realise who he was, I guess."

Her worried face does not ease.

--------

(He's not pleased to not see you behind the counter the next morning, Francesca relates to you. He asks after you. He asks your name. He asks when you're next working. And though you know that it's dangerous territory, you cannot help but be flattered).

Diavolo - that's his name, one he gives you over a shared cornetto the fifth time he comes in for his regular order, and it's a name you're told not to repeat to anyone with a gaze so intense that you feel like a butterfly pinned to glass.

Diavolo looks at you hungrily, like he wants to devour you whole. As if you are an item on the menu that he can purchase at his leisure, and he is merely waiting for the right moment.

You're light-headed and flattered and warm around him, a pulsating edge of danger beating below the surface that you ignore for the sake of enjoying someone being interested in you. Sometimes, the fear grips you as it has so many times before that he's flirting with you as a joke, or you're reading too much into things - and then, he leans across the counter to wipe cream from the corner of your mouth with a thumb or leans in so close to you that you can see the slightest sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks and your breath catches and all of your thoughts go entirely out of the window.

He drops compliments easily to you. He mentions the colour of your eyes, the fullness of your mouth, the way your hair falls - once, he mentions how you fill out the button-up shirt you're wearing with the top three buttons undone with approval clear in his voice and gaze and you go all over hot and nervous and unsure, something that seems to amuse and please him no end.

(It’s hot, in Naples. You were not intending to gather his interest. Still, the next morning you have four buttons undone.)

You think that it's harmess flirting. After all - Diavolo is the Don of Passione. You're nothing compared to him; he is a shrine. A statue in a beautiful garden, with worshipers at his feet. You are a fat bumblebee buzzing past the statue - sated, and comfortable, but inconsequential. You assume you're an amusement to him - just a little distraction in a morning, that's all.

You don't realise how wrong you are until you're on a closing shift one evening with Francesca's son. His name is Stefano, and he's perfectly nice to you, if a touch over-eager - desperate to please. He's a little younger than you, with an earnest face and a rushed way of speaking that means you sometimes have to ask him to calm down. Francesca hints, occasionally, that he has a crush on you - and you laugh it off, as you so often do when anyone expresses any kind of interest in you.

Only, tonight he is more nervous than usual. He messes up people's orders. He spills coffee and espresso and cappuccino left right and centre - his hands shake and he fumbles over the names of regular customers who he's known half of his life.

While you're closing up, you ask him, carefully and delicately, if something is wrong. You don't know what you're expecting, as you and he walk to the front door of the bakery together - but Stefano pauses, and touches your arm.

"I've just been balling up my courage, I guess," he says, twisting his lip to one side.

"For what?" You ask, trying to sound interested though one of your hands is digging deep in your coat pocket to try and find your keys. You swear that you left them there this morning. Your hand moves to your bag. Stefano takes a deep breath.

All at once, his words come out in a jumbled rush.

"To-ask-you-on-a-date."

You blink at him.

"Um," you say, succintly. "To ask . . . me?"

He nods emphatically, moving closer to you. He's about the same height as you, so your noses come too close for comfort - the hand in your bag stays there, limply, as you try and process what he's saying.

"You don't have to answer right now," he says, his voice still pitching erratically. "But yeah, I think you're pretty and nice and I'd just-- I'd really like to take you on a date or something, i-if you think you'd like that? You don't have to! You don't have to answer right now, I just--"

He's babbling, and you're trying to keep the thread of the conversation, your mind working in overdrive - and then he moves his head forward and kisses you. It's a nervous little peck that lasts only a moment, before he steps back with his cheeks flushed red and pulls his coat closer to him.

"Okay, yeah, I'll see you tomorrow--" He says, and then he's stepping out of the door and letting it click shut behind him without even waiting to see how you respond to the kiss.

You're not sure of how to respond, honestly. You stand there, the breath knocked out of you, for a few moments. His lips had been dry and quick on your own, and you hadn't felt . . . to be honest, you hadn't felt anything.

No point dwelling on it. Your fingers scramble around the bottom of your bag for your keys, as you try and ignore that your heart isn't thumping the way that it does when Diavolo is near you. Stefano is a nice boy. He's your boss' son. He isn't, as far as you're aware, engaged in any shady business like you know Diavolo must be--

For God's sake. Your keys are not there. You resign yourself to making your way back to your apartment and trying to beg someone else in the building to let you in so that you can get the key you leave under the plant pot by your front door just in case of things like this as you step outside of the door, locking up the bakery behind you (thank God that key has remained where you thought it was)--

Only to step straight into the warm, solid chest of a man.

Fear seeps through all of your bones as you nervously look up to see what kind of person you have angered. You are already dredging up a thousand apologies when your eyes meet Diavolo's keen, green ones.

He doesn't look how he usually does when he sees you. Ordinarily, he's amused and elegant and pleased in a quiet, self-assured sort of way. Tonight, though . . . tonight, Diavolo's eyes burn hot and bright and angry. There's a ferocity in his face and the set of his mouth that makes you feel like he's captured your ability to breathe in a bottle only he has access to.

He speaks.

"Who does that boy think he is?" He asks you, voice low and cool like black velvet - and then, he leans down and kisses you hungrily, and this time you feel a hundred things.

------

You go with him, heady and intoxicated by the way his mouth had felt upon yours and the way his hand had gone around your waist, squeezing the generous curve of your hip as if he wanted to grip you by them and pin you against a wall right there and then, in the centre of the city. You think, judging by the way he had looked at you when the kiss had broken, he would have - if he had not had an image of mystery to maintain.

Instead, he says (his normally velvet voice hoarse);

"Come home with me."

It is not a question. It's a demand - and luckily for him, you are in no mood to decline. You sit beside him in the back of a car (a screen between you two and the driver), and Diavolo's hands are all over you even there.

"I can barely wait," he murmurs, hungrily, into the curve of your shoulder and neck as he lathes kisses over your throat, marking you with his dark lipstick. "Oh, bella, if you even knew how much I've wanted you--"

It's hard not to be dazzled by the knowledge that he wants you. A man like Diavolo - in his sharp suits and ties, surrounded by servile underlings, rings on his fingers that cost more than you make in a year - wants someone like you. It's hard not to be carried away by how hungrily he mouths at you and how beautiful you feel under that piercing green gaze, when you have not often felt beautiful in your life. Your body in the past has been a source of shame and sadness - under Diavolo's grazing palms and questing fingertips, though, you feel transformed.

You tumble out of the car and are pulled along with impatient hands by Diavolo, not letting you take any moments to enjoy how beautiful his home is. Sure, the pillars are marble and flowers drape from the windows in hues of crimson and purple, but there is a different purpose for the two of you now - you are barely aware of anything around you as you're tugged into the first bedroom Diavolo finds.

You're breathless again as you're tossed on the bed underneath him. Things are moving so quickly - but you have no complaints, as Diavolo immediately has you pinned beneath him, his muscular weight self-assured as he leans over your prone form to beg from you another hungry kiss. His teeth tug at your bottom lip, demanding entrance instead of asking; and you yield to him. His hands grasp your hips, holding you with fervent frustrations bubbling under the surface.

He breaks the kiss to say, every syllable of his words dripping with jealousy.

"You're mine. You know that, don't you?"

You hadn't known it before tonight - but with the way his hands are already going to your uniform, pulling open the buttons with little care (you hear one of them skitter onto the floor), it's no longer a question.

"I didn't," you breathe, and he snorts. His fingertips are cool as he slides them up the curved softness of your stomach, pausing just beneath your breast.

"You will," he vows. "After tonight, carina, you'll realise there's nobody else in the entire world for you but me."

Your body shivers under the promise of his words. You shiver harder as he slides your work shirt off of your shoulders, tugging it away, dropping it on the floor along with the button that you assume you will never see again. As his hands slide into the small of your back, cool where you are boiling warm - and you hear the snap of your bra being undone and suddenly you are bare before him in the room.

He looks down on you in satisfaction.

"There," he coos, his hands covering your breasts (they are not quite large enough to cover the round flesh, but they fill out his grip in a way that seems to please him). "You look much better without the ugly uniform. Something so lovely deserves beautiful things only to adorn them--"

A gasp is bitten back as his thumbs rub your nipples, coaxing the nubs to hardened points. You press your thighs together beneath him, your cheeks heating up at how your body responds to him in gooseflesh and slick.

"You should never have to wear clothes," Diavolo muses, as he gathers himself onto his knees and your work pants are the next to go. "It's a waste, to not have your body where I can see it."

Diavolo lavishes hungry, possessive attention on all of the parts of you that you have never gotten along with. He does it with his hands, massaging and petting and gripping - and then, he leans down and he uses his mouth and you're squirming beneath him, the heat gathering with the wetness between your thighs almost unbearable.

The curves of your hips are mapped out - the soft flesh of your thighs. The pillows of your upper arms, the roundness of your stomach, all of the places you have thought of as fleshy and unattractive seem like a siren's call to Diavolo. He kisses you, leaving marks of his lipstick everywhere - and occasionally, he pulls back and whispers things against your skin that have you hot and needy.

"Mine," he murmurs, as he sucks a blue-purple lovebite into your collarbone.

"Il mio tesoro," he whispers, as he kisses you on the mouth hard and his hands go to strip off his own suit jacket.

"You belong to me," he says, and suddenly he is shirtless and you are staring at the sculpted muscle of his chest and the intricate tattoos on his arms. You have no complaints - you look up at him above you, a big cat playing with his prey, and all you can do is swallow and nod.

"Good," he breathes, "you're going to be so good for me, hmm?" His hands alight on your thighs and you spread them without him asking, displaying the damp patch on your silken underwear and making his eyes darken and his nostrils flare. "For me, amore?"

You avert your gaze and do not answer - but that's enough of an assent for Diavolo. He laughs as his fingers curl into the garment, tugging them down your thighs (you shiver at the sensation of slick fabric clinging, just for a moment, against your sodden folds).

"I'm a lucky man," he says to you. "I've always been lucky, you know . . . but you may very well be my luckiest find."

Your thighs are urged further apart, until Diavolo can settle between them, his weight heavy and self-assured. What is between your thighs, too, is subject to Diavolo's piercing gaze - but he is not critical. He is merely . . . hungry. Intoxicated. You know that, arguably, Diavolo has all of the power here - and yet you cannot help but feel as though it is you who is really in control.

One of his fingers slides over your sex, gathering your slick on his fingers, winning the chase of your hips as he slides from clit to perineum and back again. You pant aloud, a soft whimpering noise falling from your lips against your will.

"Look at you," he murmurs, enthralled. "Look how you respond, all for me--"

Your fingers clench in the sheets beneath you as Diavolo presses one finger inside you, slowly, letting you adjust to the feel of him inside. You know that he is longing to fuck you with them vigorously - you can see it from the set of his shoulders and his mouth. He is practically buzzing with unrestrained tension. But he keeps his calm, pumping the lone finger in and out of you (you are wet enough that the sound echoes around the room, mixing with your laboured breathing). Occasionally, he buries his finger inside you almost to the hilt and you gasp at the cool sensation of one of his rings pressing against your entrance. He looks amused, his lips curved into a smirk - but he remains solid. He does nothing, in fact, until your hips buck up and you whimper;

"I can take another one, please--"

"Good," Diavolo purrs, his voice persuasive. "Of course you can, cara. Yes. You'll take all of me, won't you?" A second finger joins the first, scissoring you open with slow movements. "You're going to be so good for me. You're going to forget about any other person in the world when you're speared on my cock--"

Your body heats up in embarrassment and pleasure all over. The way his fingers rub inside your channel makes you squirm, your hips wriggling underneath him, your lungs barely able to contain your breath. A tight, hot ball of tension is making itself known low in your stomach, familiar and yet unfamiliar all at once.

His thumb brushes over your clit and your body jolts. Diavolo chuckles under his breath and pulls out his fingers, accompanied by a wet gush of your arousal that seems incredibly loud to your ears. You watch as Diavolo brings his fingers to his mouth and his tongue darts out to taste you.

Your lower body gives a throb as he drinks in your slick like fine wine, as he utters forth a low groan of pleasure. He looks at you with dark-lidded eyes.

"Amore," he murmurs, all soft, quiet words with a steel edge. He shifts, and something hot and silky and damp brushes across your thigh that you realise is his cock. That same body part is positioned with his thumb and forefinger, at the tight entrance to your sex. "Just relax . . . I'll have finished making you mine soon enough--"

His hips move. You're pushed open, his cock deep and thick - your hands come to cling to his shoulders instead of the bedsheets, your voice coming out in a broken little wail.

It is not that it hurts. Diavolo has prepared you, and you are slick and needy enough that there's only the briefest stretch of discomfort - but it is more that Diavolo's cock inside you feels so right. You feel so full and possessed and owned, and you never thought you would need and adore it as much as you do.

You feel like nothing more than a piece of Diavolo's property, a treasured jewel that he wants to lock away and keep for himself forever - and you love it. Your legs lock about his hips without him even urging you to, determined to have him sink inside you as deep as he can go - and Diavolo groans chest-deep at the feel of it.

His hips move, sliding his cock deep and then shallow, enjoying the feel of you tightly engulfing him.

"You're perfect," he growls, lowly. "Tight, hot, wet -- and most importantly, cara . . . you’re mine.” He sighs, pressing himself impossibly deeper inside you so that your toes curl. A pleased rumble in the back of his throat. “You feel so good." He pauses, before he says, demanding; "Tell me how I feel."

"B-big," you hiccup out in between breathless moans and soft, needy pants. "L-like you're filling me up--"

"Tell me, little coniglio . . . do you like being filled up by me? Belonging to me? Having me . . ." His fingers skitter over your breasts, leaving hot trails of fire behind him. The heat low inside you is just burning hotter and hotter, your head swimming with all of the new sensations. "Lay my claim on you?"

You nod. You're babbling, your hips stuttering against his. Everything feels far away from you, now - earlier on that night feels like a fever dream. You can't remember how it felt to be anywhere but beneath Diavolo with his cock drilling deep inside you, making you feel needed and claimed and unmistakably his--

"Yes," you cry out, as his other hand moved lower, brushing your stomach, your mound - parting the lips of your sex so his fingers can rub firm circles on your clit.

There's that heat again, threefold - tumbling over and over itself until you feel fireworks set off behind your eyes and Diavolo's cock pumps harder inside you, your channel squeezing and constricting around him inside you. You're so busy coming, in fact, that you almost don't hear him murmur;

"Good. Because it's something you're going to have to get used to now you're mine."

#this . . . got away with me #diavolo x reader #not sfw #writing #afab reader #power imbalance for ts #possessive #jealousy #ladynonon

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supervillain-smut · 2 years

Note

Hello, may I request something fluffy (cuddles, sweet kisses) for Stefano Valentini, please? Sorry, I am a soft person. Also, love your portrayals and writing :)

Don’t apologize for being soft! Believe it or not, I love writing fluff as well as smut, lol! I’m glad you enjoy my work! I try to add fluff elements to my writing even if it’s a little OOC.

You awoke to birdsong, sunlight and Stefano sleeping peacefully beside you, his hair messy and exposing his scarred eye It was something you very rarely saw, but this vulnerability was your favorite part; to earn such a sight from a man who was so protective of anyone viewing him as anything other than perfect.

You smiled to yourself and pondered whether you should let him sleep and just watch him as his chest slowly rose and fell, or wake him. Your choice was made for you as Stefano slowly stirred awake, sitting up and yawning. He looked over at you and smiled, leaning down and placing a quick peck to your lips.

“Good morning. How was your sleep?”

You didn’t respond, instead you wrapped your arms around his neck, your hand grabbing the base of his neck and playing with his hair as you pulled him to hover over you for a kiss. He hummed in appreciation at the affection, his right hand moving to rub circles into your hip and rub up and down your side.

He rested his elbow beside your head and pressed his weight into you as he looked into your eyes and smiled ear to ear. You swapped positions with him, straddling his hips and cradled his face in your hands.

You just stared at him for a minute, his face slowly turning to confusion.

“Is something wrong?” He asked, placing his hands on your wrists, rubbing circles into your skin. You nodded.

“Yeah, there is something wrong; you’re too pretty, it’s not fair.” You smiled at him and kissed the tip of his nose. You continued to place kisses all over his face. He giggled as you did so, and when you were finished, you pushed his hair out of his face and placed kisses around and on his scars.

“You really don’t care, hm?” He spoke softly, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into his chest.

“Never. I love you for everything you are, not what you aren’t.”

#stefano valentini #stefano valentini x reader #tew stefano #99 luftanons #the evil within 2 #tew 2 #fluff #sfw

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detectivesebcas · 3 years

Text

Nightswimming

I did write a little something just for fun before I started my Promptober prep. There’s not much to it, but it’s NSFW. Basically, 30-year-old Sebastian meets a mysterious stranger on the beach.

...

Eight cops in one beach house is a terrible idea. It was a terrible idea when Connelly suggested it, but for some reason Sebastian went along with it anyway, and there’s not much he can do about it now. It’s day one, they’ve already been through almost four cases of beer, and while Sebastian enjoys video games and arm-wrestling as much as the next guy, it’s too fucking hot in the house and definitely too fucking loud in the living room.

He slides open the glass door and steps out onto the deck. The others don’t seem to notice his departure, but it’s not all that surprising. They haven’t partied this hard since the Academy, so everyone’s observation skills are probably pretty compromised.

The air is warm against his chest and legs, but at least there’s a nice breeze, and once he slides the door closed again, it’s a little quieter. He takes a deep breath, head spinning a little from the alcohol, and tries to clear his mind.

The gentle lapping of the waves in the distance calls to him, pulls him forward into the darkness. It’s peppered with the reflected lights of distant ships and buildings, and the wind carries the smell of salt. Before he can process all of it, he is descending the steps to the beach.

The sand is soft underfoot, still warm from the heat of the day, and he moves across it silently, drawn toward the water’s edge.

He stands there for a few seconds. The waves are breaking in front of him, but not with the same fury as earlier in the day, when he and his friends were laughing and splashing and drunkenly attempting to body-surf. Now the beach is serene, dark, and deserted.

He’s not sure what possesses him to slip his shorts down and off so that the breeze tickles him even in those places that are normally covered. Leaving the shorts behind on the sand, he closes the gap to the water. It’s almost as warm as the air, and Sebastian wades in up to his waist, then stands, swaying slightly as the waves push him back and forth, staring out to sea.

For just a moment, he feels small, unimportant, as though he has caught a glimpse of something much greater than himself, and he stands in awe of the darkness, but then the clouds shift and the moonlight is shimmering, reflected in the water, and Sebastian turns around to find he is no longer alone.

He knows immediately it’s not one of his friends. The dark-haired stranger is standing on the beach, gazing evenly back at him. There’s nothing threatening about him- or maybe Sebastian isn’t in a position to assess threats after how many beers he’s had- but there is a certain mystery about him, a pull Sebastian feels the same way he felt the pull of the sea a moment ago.

Sebastian doesn’t speak, doesn’t want to ruin the peace of this moment. The other man doesn’t speak either, just casts his gaze down to the sand, and Sebastian feels his own face go hot as he realizes the man must see his shorts there, must know there’s nothing between him and the water.

He almost convinces himself he can see a smirk on the man’s face and maybe in the light of the moon he can, but it disappears almost as quickly as it came, and Sebastian is left wondering if it was ever there at all.

“Mind if I join you?”

The man’s voice reaches him somehow even over the sound of the waves. Sebastian swallows hard. He can’t form any words. His mouth has gone dry, but he shakes his head. He doesn’t mind at all.

The stranger definitely smirks this time, and then he is hooking his thumbs into his own shorts, and Sebastian looks away, his face burning hotter if that’s even possible. He manages to keep his eyes averted until the stranger has waded out almost to where he is, and even then, it’s hard to look at the other man with only the water for modesty.

“What’s your name?” the stranger asks.

What is his name? He has to think about it for a moment, and not just because of the alcohol. Everything about this is so surreal, so dreamlike that he isn’t even sure he is himself anymore.

“Sebastian,” he manages finally.

The stranger smiles at him, and now that they’re within a few feet of each other, Sebastian can see more of him- dark hair, pale skin, shockingly blue eyes. He’s almost as tall as Sebastian though considerably more slender. In fact, he must be quite a bit younger than Sebastian originally guessed.

“Who are you?” Sebastian asks, a little more bluntly than he intended, but apparently he doesn’t offend the other man, who laughs before he answers.

“Stefano.”

“And how old are you, Stefano?” Sebastian asks, because he can’t think of a more tactful way to approach the question.

Stefano does frown a little at that. “Twenty,” he answers.

Sebastian nods, momentarily at a loss for how to continue the conversation before he asks, “What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

“Just enjoying the sea and the moonlight,” Stefano replies. The more he speaks, the more Sebastian can detect a European accent, although Stefano clearly speaks English well. “And you?”

“The same,” Sebastian says. “And my housemates were being really loud and obnoxious.”

Stefano laughs at that.

“Are you here with anyone?” Sebastian asks.

“My parents,” Stefano says, a dark look passing over his face. “They are...irritating as well, but in other ways.”

Sebastian nods again, unsure how to respond.

“It’s a beautiful night,” Stefano muses, taking a step closer to Sebastian.

Sebastian isn’t looking at the night anymore, the water and the sky are becoming blurry, indistinct around him, the crashing waves fading out as he focuses more and more on Stefano’s face, on Stefano’s voice. It is a beautiful night indeed.

He knows he should be saying something right now, knows it’s his turn to respond to Stefano, but his brain is stalled and his heart is pounding, because Stefano is stepping in closer and closer until his face is inches from Sebastian’s.

“Kiss me,” he murmurs, and Sebastian closes the gap, dipping his head to press his lips to Stefano’s. His hands are on Stefano’s hips, pulling Stefano against him, his heart leaping into his throat as Stefano’s bare skin slides against his.

Stefano’s arms are around his shoulders, pulling him close as Stefano kisses back hungrily. It’s a little clumsy at first, though Sebastian isn’t sure if it’s because of Stefano’s inexperience or his own intoxication, and it’s hard not to laugh when their teeth bump against each other, but soon they get the angle right, and Stefano is drawing Sebastian’s tongue into his mouth.

Stefano’s mouth is warm and soft and tastes like coffee and mint. The kiss is long and slow and deep, and when Sebastian’s hands slip around to grab Stefano’s ass, the little moan Stefano makes goes straight to his cock, drives every rational thought from his head, and all he can do is pull Stefano closer to him, fuck Stefano’s mouth with his tongue, and let the sounds of the ocean soothe his mind.

After a few moments, he pulls back, trying to look Stefano in the face with eyes that refuse to focus.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “That was…”

Stefano laughs and leans in for another kiss, which is fine, because Sebastian probably wasn’t going to be able to come up with the words to finish that sentence anyway. Stefano shifts in his arms, pressing the front of his body fully against Sebastian, and then Sebastian definitely isn’t coming up with any words at all.

It occurs to him vaguely to wonder what on earth Stefano thinks he’s doing approaching a stranger on the beach in the middle of the night and being so forward in his advances, but Sebastian supposes he’s being a little more forward himself than he normally would. Maybe it’s the buzz of the alcohol or maybe it’s the spell of the night and the sea. Still, it does seem strange...

Stefano breaks the kiss.

“Is something wrong?”

His confidence falters just for a moment, and Sebastian can see so much written on his face- the hope, the nerves, the fear of rejection.

“No,” he says immediately, gathering Stefano in his arms again and kissing him deeply, savoring the little whine Stefano makes as his tongue thrusts forward.

He can feel Stefano’s cock pressing against his thigh, can feel Stefano’s soft, wet skin against his own cock, and he holds them closer together, lets his tongue stroke Stefano’s the way he wishes he could fuck Stefano, slow and gentle and easy. But of course he can’t do that here, can’t do that now. There’s no time and no privacy and no way to make this comfortable under the current circumstances, and he doesn’t even know if that’s what Stefano wants anyway.

Though of course, Stefano has made it clear that he wants something.

One of Sebastian’s hands slides back around to the front of Stefano’s body, slips in between them to palm his cock, and Stefano moans, breaking the kiss again to rest his forehead on Sebastian’s shoulder, breathing hard.

“Is this-?” Sebastian starts to ask.

“Yes,” Stefano hisses. “Please.”

Sebastian’s hand closes around Stefano’s cock, and Stefano sighs deeply, raising one leg and wrapping it around Sebastian’s waist. Sebastian strokes up and down a few times as Stefano shivers against him, then traces his thumb across the head, smiling when Stefano tries to thrust his hips forward into Sebastian’s hand.

“It’s alright,” Sebastian murmurs. “We’ll get there.”

Stefano nods, taking a few deep breaths and steadying himself against Sebastian, who wonders for a moment if this is the first time Stefano has done this with someone else. It’s not the right time to ask, of course, and whatever the answer is, it’s clear what Stefano wants.

He begins to stroke again, letting his hand glide up and down, making little splashes in the water between them, and when Stefano presses closer and his hand brushes his own cock, sending a little thrill of excitement through him, he has another idea.

“Oh!” Stefano breathes as Sebastian’s hand encircles both of them. Sebastian couldn’t agree more, though he is struck speechless by the feeling of Stefano’s cock pressed against his. He squeezes them together gently, enjoying the feeling of soft, wet skin on soft, wet skin, and then his hand begins the slow slide up and down.

It takes Sebastian a moment to process what he’s feeling, how much better this is than when he pleasures himself alone in his room. The feeling of friction on his cock is amazing, but even better than that is the feeling of Stefano’s body against his, the sound of Stefano’s little gasps and moans in his ears, the way Stefano clings to him.

Stefano is beautiful. His pale skin shines in the moonlight, and the way he lets his head rest on Sebastian’s shoulder leaves his neck exposed in such a way that Sebastian just can’t resist. He presses a kiss behind Stefano’s ear, then kisses his way down, letting his lips and tongue and breath raise goosebumps on Stefano’s skin. He doesn’t use his teeth; he’s too afraid that will leave marks that will lead to questions Stefano won’t be ready to answer, but Stefano is so responsive to even the gentlest explorations.

As he draws his tongue along Stefano’s collarbone, he can hear the hitch in Stefano’s breathing, can feel the way Stefano is pressing into his hand with more urgency, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he gets closer to completion. The waves are still lapping at them, and one of Sebastian’s hands holds Stefano steady as the other strokes them both.

He’s pretty close himself, though not as close as he suspects Stefano is. The other man seems entirely lost in his pleasure, all sense of propriety forgotten as he rocks himself against Sebastian, faster and rougher than the waves now, and Sebastian pulls him close, holds him tightly as his hand squeezes and strokes and tugs at them both.

“Sebastian!” Stefano’s voice is muffled as he bites down on Sebastian’s shoulder, thrusting forward to press their bodies together as he comes. He clings to Sebastian tightly for a few seconds before going limp in his arms.

Sebastian releases Stefano’s cock, wrapping both arms around Stefano’s body to support him as the waves push them gently back and forth, the soft roar of the ocean blurring the world around them. He holds Stefano, kisses his way up and down his neck until he can feel Stefano smile against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Stefano says, sounding suddenly shy. “That was...I didn’t…”

“It’s alright,” Sebastian murmurs, giving Stefano a little squeeze before loosening his grip so Stefano can take a step back and they can look at each other again. “That was really nice.”

He means it. It’s been a long time since he’s been with someone else, and being with Stefano tonight has made him feel good in more than just the physical sense.

“Can I do something for you?” Stefano asks, gesturing vaguely toward Sebastian’s erection, which is still standing proudly between them.

“Oh,” Sebastian says quickly, because he had honestly almost forgotten about that. “You don’t have to. I mean-”

“I want to,” Stefano says. He’s not quite making eye contact with Sebastian, and there’s a blush spreading across his cheeks, but the small, self-conscious smile on his face tells Sebastian he really does want to participate, even if he’s suddenly become rather shy.

“Then of course you can,” Sebastian says with a smile.

Stefano pauses for a moment, still looking down at the water rather than at Sebastian. “What do I…?”

“Uh, have you ever…” Sebastian begins, finding himself at a bit of a loss for words as well.

“No,” Stefano replies. “I mean, not with another…”

“Oh,” Sebastian says, feeling a blush growing on his own face. “It’s not really that different from doing it by yourself. Here,” he says, taking one of Stefano’s hands in his and turning around so that his back is to Stefano. He guides Stefano’s hand down to his belly just above his cock.

Stefano’s other arm wraps around his body, hand splayed on his chest, and Sebastian releases the hand he’s been holding so Stefano can wrap careful fingers around his cock. He’s not going to last long. He can tell that the moment Stefano begins to touch him, tentative at first, but gaining confidence with every stroke. Stefano’s fingers are slender, but his grasp is firm, and he seems to know the perfect rhythm, the perfect way to squeeze and rub that has Sebastian moaning, “Fuck,” and grasping helplessly at the water around him.

He ends up with one hand pressed to his chest on top of Stefano’s and the other arm reaching behind himself to pull Stefano closer to him, and the feeling of Stefano’s body all up and down his back is lovely- safe and exciting and familiar all at once.

It has to be less than two minutes before he comes, but he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed. Stefano’s hand on his cock and Stefano’s skin against his back and Stefano’s breath on his neck just feel too good, and before he know it his hips are jerking forward and he’s spilling over Stefano’s hand, which continues to stroke gently, milking the last few drops from him before he sighs deeply and turns around in Stefano’s arms.

Stefano is looking quite pleased with himself, but Sebastian only has a moment to take note of this before he throws his arms around Stefano, embracing him as his heart slows down, as his breathing returns to normal, as he comes back to himself.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, tilting his head to kiss Stefano’s temple, then his cheek, then his lips.

“Thank you,” Stefano says, and they both laugh.

They stand like that for several minutes, arms wrapped around each other, as though neither of them wants to let go, before Stefano says, “I suppose I should be getting back.”

“Yeah, me too,” Sebastian says, reluctantly letting go of Stefano and taking a step away.

The silence as they wade back to the beach is a little awkward, but once they’ve both put their shorts back on, Stefano gives him a smile that is equal parts warmth and mystery.

“I hope to see you again, Sebastian.”

Sebastian smiles back. “Likewise.”

His head is spinning as he makes his way back up to the house, but this time he knows it’s not the alcohol.

#the evil within 2 #steseb #Sebastian Castellanos #Stefano Valentini

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