#the answer is obscene (several hours)

[changbunnies]

Angel of Music (18+)

♡ Pairing: Phantom!Minho x Opera Singer Fem!Reader

♡ Genre: phantom of the opera inspired au, horror themes, dark romance, age gap, smut, dead dove? read the warnings carefully and come to ur own conclusion on what you're willing to read before engaging pls :'), the ending is also a lil dark, sorry!

♡ Word Count: 5.8k

♡ Summary: A phantom exists in the opera house– he controls every production from the shadows, lurks around every dark corner, always watching. In your dreams exists an angel– a guardian that sings to you, guides you, and comforts you. When The Phantom appears before you in your dressing room mirror, you begin to realize that he and your angel may be one in the same.

♡ General Warnings: slightly less extreme age gap than the source material that inspires this fic but it's still fairly large (reader is ~mid 20s and minho is ~40), briefly described attempted murder of minor characters, implications of stalking, hypnotism, hallucinations + doubts of reality, so much usage of the words "phantom" and "angel" it's not even funny, this fic is not an accurate representation of how hypnotism works irl but it's fiction so i'm taking liberties!

♡ Smut Warnings: dubcon (due to reader being hypnotized), additionally to not being in their proper state of mind, there are also moments in which reader does not feel to be in full control of their body, light dom/sub dynamics, soft pleasure dom!minho because i want more of him !!, mask kink (does it still count if the mask doesn't cover his whole face?? idk i hope so!), some biting, oral (f rec), overstim, multiple orgasms

♡ Notes: i've known for ages that i wanted to write a phantom!minho fic, and my kinktober series gave me the perfect reason to finally write it! also the fact that both my uploaded minho fics are age gap romances?? that was not intentional i swear lmao

♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.

All inhabitants of the opera house have been on edge these days– consequence of the new owners of the Opera Populaire, who decided to disregard all of The Phantom's demands.

The Phantom, as the name suggests, is a ghost story of sorts. According to your castmates, he has been here since long before you joined the Opera Populaire's trainees last year, but his activity has begun to increase since your arrival.

He controls all in the opera house, and his demands of the previous owner were always quite simple; perform what shows he instructs you to, follow his casting down to the letter, and keep the seats in Box Five free at all times. Evidentially, Box Five is his favorite place to watch the shows from– and sometimes, his dark silhouette can be spotted in the shadows of the booth, indiscernible but unmistakably there.

No one has ever truly seen The Phantom beyond a shadow, nor have they heard him speak. He communicates with notes, always left within feet of the recipient without anyone having seen him come or go. His notes will even appear in broad daylight, with not a single person having caught a glimpse of him despite all the eyes in the room.

Well, more accurately, no one has seen him apart from the Madame– an older woman who used to be a performer for the Opera Populaire herself, but has taken the role of choreographer since her retirement from the stage. In the 15 years it's been since The Phantom made his presence known to the opera house, she's the only one who's ever seen him, or heard his voice.

A brief encounter, she explained when asked about it– had barely seen him for more than a few passing moments. He spoke little, but the beauty of his voice was striking, completely unlike any other she’d ever heard. And all he asked of her, in that fleeting moment, was to remember that the Opera Populaire is his home– and as long as the inhabitants respect him, he'll respect them in turn.

The previous director, the Madame, and The Phantom all had a mutual understanding of what was to be done. As long as they listened to him, shows would go off without a hitch; but refuse, and there'd be dire consequences. As such, the Madame has been doing her best to express the importance of listening to The Phantom to the new owners.

The Monsieurs view it as no more than silly superstition– every opera house has their own beliefs and customs, things they consider good and bad luck before a show, things they view as omens of a show's future success. The Phantom is simply one of those things– and with a guiding hand, they can dispel such superstitions, show the cast and crew that there is no shadowy phantom to fear.

The first note left for the Monsieurs went disregarded– a barking laugh leaving the elder of the two before he tossed it in the bin. The instructions on the note were clear enough– you were to take the role of Eurydice in the opera house's production of Orpheus and Eurydice, and not Carlotta, as they originally casted.

You were just as baffled as everyone else to learn that The Phantom wanted you to take such an important role– you'd only been here a year, were still so new to your opera training. It's true enough that you have a good voice, and your dancing has improved with all your diligent practice, but you're still young, and the tragic role of Eurydice is not so easily performed.

Natural talent for bringing emotion to performance aside, you lack stage experience– experience that you can easily gain from background roles. To make you such a crucial stand-out role after only a year of training was simply unheard of– no opera house would do it!

This is to be your first production, your first time on stage in front of an audience; and so regardless of what The Phantom wants, Monsieur Reyer opted to keep you strictly in the supporting chorus roles, where you would go from shepherdess, to nymph, to spirit as the acts progressed. Not a glamorous, shining position in the cast by any means, but more than enough to help familiarize you with the reality of performing with hundreds of eyes watching.

It wouldn't take long for The Phantom to make his displeasure with the decision known. And what started off as just small accidents and stage mishaps quickly turned violent and dangerous as each week passed with you still not given the role that The Phantom felt you deserved to have.

The first violent turn came during rehearsals for Act 3, right in the middle of Eurydice's climactic aria, when the chandelier above the stage came crashing down. Carlotta was standing directly beneath it just before it fell, and it narrowly missed her– purely because she happened to take a few steps forward whilst singing.

“An unfortunate accident,” the Monsieurs said, “it had nothing to do with The Phantom!” But the veterans of the opera house knew better– and the conductor swore he saw a dark shadow on the scaffolds just before the chandelier fell; a shadow that could belong to none other than The Phantom.

Carlotta screamed as it crashed just mere inches away from her, right where she's just been standing, and cried as everyone rushed to her side to ensure that she was unharmed. Again, the Madame tried to persuade them to heed The Phantom before another such “accident” occurred.

"Good God in Heaven, you're all obsessed! These things just happen sometimes– there is no phantom!" Reyer cried in exasperation over everyone's insistence, still unwilling to give in to the idea that the opera house's ghost was real.

And tonight, just after rehearsals came to a close, another terrible stage accident occurred– this time happening to Monsieur Reyer himself. He was up on the scaffolding when it happened, making sure all the stagehands properly rigged the lights in preparation for tomorrow night's premiere of Orpheus and Eurydice.

He was bent down, inspecting the bulbs and wires, when a dark figure appeared behind him. The shadow wrapped a noose around his neck faster than anyone could even react, pushed him off the scaffolding before swiftly retreating back to the shadows.

Reyer almost didn't survive– he was lucky that the nearby stagehands were quick on their feet and in their wits, managing to grab his arms and pull him up while another cut the rope that served to hang the poor man. And as if the message from the accidents alone weren't clear enough, another note was left behind right in the middle of the stage.

It was astounding, really, that not a single person saw The Phantom leave the note behind– and while some could argue that it was because all eyes were on Reyer, or because the stage became chaos as they worked to save him, the Monsieurs realized that maybe they should start to believe that there really is a ghost inhabiting the Opera Populaire.

The moment the note was noticed, the Madame picked it up, and read it aloud for all to hear. "Again, I remind you that Y/N will play the role of Eurydice. As I instruct, Box Five shall remain open for my use. These seats will not be used by another. This is my final warning– disregard at your own risk."

Realizing they had no choice, lest they wish to continue putting themselves and other cast and crew in danger, the Monsieurs begrudgingly declared you the new Eurydice, right then and there.

Given that you're at every rehearsal, you know Eurydice's lines by heart, and are confident that you can sing them well– but still, you're nervous. It's your first production, the premiere is sold out, is set for tomorrow night, and suddenly you're in one of the most pivotal roles in the entire opera.

You don't even understand why The Phantom is so adamant about giving the role to you; what is it about you that he likes, what is it that he sees in you? You wish you could ask the Madame, but she met him so fleetingly, and so many years ago– she has no way of knowing The Phantom's heart beyond an educated guess.

Sitting before your dressing room mirror, you sigh, utterly exhausted– now that you're Eurydice, it was vital that you do a last minute costume fitting and makeup test. As such, you've been in the opera house hours past the time you'd normally be here. The moon hangs high in the sky now, you're sure; you wonder if you should just spend the night here, sleep in the dressing room instead of making a late trek home.

Regardless, you hope your angel comes to you tonight. You know no one would believe you if you told them, but you really do have a guardian angel; and in your dreams, he comes to you– always when you are most lost and in need of guidance. He's a gentle, calming presence; always comforts you, talks to you sweetly when you're filled with self doubt, sings to you in the most beautiful of voices.

You've never actually seen your angel clearly– only heard his voice calling your name and whispering, singing, in a way that could only be described as angelic in its serenity. In your dreams, he's nothing but a vague, blurry image– even at his most clear, you can't define any of his features.

Still, you think of him fondly– and you suspect that as an angel, you aren't meant to be able to fully perceive him. And your angel always, always, knows when you need him– you suspect that even now, he's waiting; waiting for the moment you fall asleep, so that he can come to your side.

You look at yourself, still dressed as Eurydice. A beautiful, off shoulder bateau gown in the prettiest, purest ivory. There's lace appliques throughout the gown, has a beautiful cinched bodice before the tulle skirt fluffs out. It's elegant, makes you feel like a bride waiting to walk down the aisle.

Your makeup shimmers– extra glitter applied on your eyelids to make sure the stage lights catch it. Your jewelry too, is extravagant– made to sparkle and shine every time a light shines on you, to twinkle with each subtle move you make. It's a shame you have to take it all off just to put it all back on tomorrow– but the effort to make sure everything fits you was necessary.

You reach your hands up to one of your ears, prepare to remove one of your dangling earrings when you hear a voice you know all too well call your name– your angel's voice.

You look around the room, bewildered, but see nothing and no one. And surely you were mistaken– you're still awake! Your angel only comes to you in dreams, and you haven't fallen asleep... right? You are still awake, aren't you?

Again, you hear his voice, another whisper of your name. You rise from your chair, look around the room once more– no one. You turn back to the dressing room mirror, and jump in surprise, realizing that the view reflected in it has changed. You no longer see yourself, or the reflection of the dressing room around you– instead, you see a man.

He looks just as the Madame described her memory of The Phantom– dark hair, and even darker eyes, with a white mask that covers the right half of his face. Not completely– just from his hairline, down to his pretty, plump lips. Every inch of his skin is covered, head to toe, all of his clothes pure black apart from the ornate red vest.

Sleek boots and dark trousers, a tall collar that obscures most of his neck, long sleeves that cover his arms, even gloves covering his hands. He wears a cape, long and as dark as the rest of his clothes, and it blows behind him as if there’s a breeze rolling through.

You’re confused, a little frightened, but you can’t tear your eyes away or will yourself to flee– and as the figure speaks your name, you gasp; he truly has the voice of your angel. But he’s The Phantom, isn’t he? 

The blurry, vague scenery behind him begins to sharpen, coming more distinctly visible to your uncertain eyes. A dark corridor full of candelabra, glowing in dull yellows and shades of orange, held by incorporeal hands with no discernable origin.

What little of your dressing room you see in your peripheral shifts and warps as you stare at him, blur together into dark shadows as the table holding your hairbrush and makeup begin to fade and disappear, leaving the view through the mirror as the only thing you can see.

The figure– your angel, The Phantom?– holds his hand out to you through the mirror, as if the glass that should separate you no longer exists; perhaps it doesn't. Smoke– or maybe fog, mist? you can't be certain– pours into the room as you approach the mirror.

As if under a spell, you reach out to take his hand, thinking not of logic as you follow the beckoning call of your name. Your angel; you trust your angel. He smiles as you place your hand in his, and carefully, you step through the mirror, into the corridor.

Entranced, you stare at him; even with half a mask covering his face, he's utterly beautiful. He appears to be older than you, hints of fine lines beholden around his mouth and eyes, and even that adds to his mysterious charm. He holds your gaze as he takes a step back, a candelabra in his hand now, beckoning you to follow him down the corridor.

You squeeze his hand as you follow, and finally he turns around, walks with purpose as he guides you, glancing behind every so often to look at you in what you think to be adoration. You too, glance behind– and where the mirror once stood is now a desolate, barren wall.

You do not see any hint of your dressing room, or of the mirror you stepped through. And as you continue further down the corridor, the candelabra that were once behind you slowly begin to blink out and vanish from sight, leaving only pitch black darkness behind. A spiral staircase made of stone manifests, and you descend it, hand in hand with your angel.

You're so enchanted and bewildered, you can't seem to find your voice– all you can do is follow, let him guide you along to where it is he wants you to be. Even the staircase dissipates when you've finished descending, and for just a moment, you wonder– is any of this truly real?

Finally, you stand in the middle of a beautiful room, lit candles both resting in more candelabra and strewn about the floor, with dark, intricately woven tapestries hanging from the stone walls. There’s a grand piano, sleek black with gold accents, with even more candles resting atop it, as well as a sheet of music sitting pristine on the music desk, black ink seemingly freshly dried, just waiting to be played. 

There are several mirrors, though only one remains uncovered– the rest are obscured by cloth, for reasons you do not know. There is a bed, in what you suppose would be called a “corner” in this otherwise circular space, inviting and plush in its appearance, with blankets colored a rich red. Naturally, candles surround the bed as well, covering it in a beautifully soft, yellow-orange glow. 

“Where are we?” you finally find your voice to ask, and the man smiles as he beckons you to follow him towards his bed. “We are home,” he replies, and though it’s a strange answer, you feel you understand– yes, you are home. This is home. 

You gaze at him curiously after you sit on the bed, just as comfortable as you expected it to be, and he mimics the way you’ve tilted your head at him. “You’re.. My angel, aren’t you? Or are you The Phantom?” you ask, and the man laughs ever so softly, melodious and beautiful. 

“I am Minho,” he responds, as if that alone is a sufficient enough answer– in a way, you suppose it is. What else is there to know? He is Minho. That is enough.

“I have longed to touch you, to bring you here,” Minho whispers as he reaches one of his gloved hands to your face, strokes your cheek slowly, gently. The sensation, though simple, feels so tender– it sparks something inside you, fills you with a warmth you’ve never felt before. You close your eyes, bask in the comfort his touch provides you. 

You feel his hand move, travel down until his fingers are under your chin. He tilts your head up, and you open your eyes to see him gazing down at you warmly. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers, speaking to you as gently as he always does. He’s said it before, in your dreams– that you are beautiful, talented, deserving of all you wish to have.

He never lets you linger on self-doubt, never allows you to think you are lesser than someone else, or undeserving of the opportunities you’ve been granted. Your angel knows you– you think he’s appearing to you now, like this, because he knows you are uncertain of playing Eurydice; he must think that he needs to remind you of just how special you are. 

All of your doubts about tomorrow’s premiere– he will dispel them from your mind, as he always does. He kneels before you, gazing at you carefully as he inches closer to you, his hands softly rubbing over your shoulders and down your arms. His attentive stare as he caresses you makes you breathing quicken, your heart starting to pick up speed.

“Do you trust me?” Minho asks suddenly, and with not an ounce of hesitation, you nod. You’ve no reason not to trust him– in the year it's been since your angel first appeared to you, you’ve always trusted him. There is no one else that makes you feel so secure, so at peace, so.. Loved, cared for. Yes, your angel, Minho, loves you, cares for you like no other. You trust him. 

“I wish to clear your mind of worry and doubt– to make you think only of me, and the music we can make together. I wish to touch you, to kiss you, to hold you," he says, and oh, he knows he shouldn’t be pouring his heart out like this, for it’s too soon, much too soon. But he’s been enamored with you since the first moment you stepped into the Opera Populaire, has been infatuated with you since first hearing the passion in your voice.

He can’t help it, it seems– now that he has you here, in his lair, his defenses falter, all of his desires pouring out of him. To have you here, and to touch you like this, even so simply– it’s everything he’s wanted. And instantly, unconsciously, you reach out to him. Your angel sees you, knows you– you wish to know him too, to understand him the way he does you.

Your mind is somehow as clear as it is hazy– clear, because you know what it is that you want. Regardless of who he is, what he is, you want Minho to have you. Anything he wants, you feel compelled to give, as if it’s all you know; and in this moment, perhaps it is. In the very back reaches of your addled mind, a reminder blares– The Phantom always gets what he wants. 

And what he wants now, most of all, is you; and despite what logic may tell you to feel, you trust him to have you. He sees all that you feel in your expression alone, knows all that you think as if he’s seen into the depths of your mind. Even now, perhaps more than ever before, he sees you. 

Sees all that you are, and all that you want– and a charming smile plays on his lips as you gaze at him with wanton desire to let him take you. To let him have, to give yourself over– you wish to offer yourself wholly to your angel’s desires.

Your eyes flutter closed as he kisses you, a soft press that you could almost call chaste, his hands slowly moving over your body, each soft touch lingering. You don’t feel his gloves anymore, you realize– did he take them off without you noticing? You suppose it doesn’t matter– his hands are warm, a bit rough and calloused against the soft skin of your arms, and you like it.

Even as his kisses become less chaste, deepen as his hands travel to your hips, they remain slow and purposeful. His hands eventually find the bottom of your dress, begin to lift it ever so slowly up your thighs– not to expose you, but so that he can slot himself between your legs. Somehow, innately, you understand this– and easily, you spread your legs for him, allowing him to find his place between them.

His arms wrap around you after, pulling you closer, pressing your body to his. Your chest is rising and falling rapidly by the time he pulls away, breathless as you look to him with eager, impassioned eyes– a gaze that heats his otherwise cold heart. You reach up, bring your hands to his face; he nearly flinches when you touch his mask, though he knows you mean no harm. 

Minho feels himself ugly under his mask– too scarred and disfigured to be appealing to you in any regard; at least like this, with only the good parts of his face on display, you may find him handsome. Your touch is as soft as your gaze, and though perhaps you should, you make no move to remove his mask; you simply rub your thumb over the cold porcelain.

It’s a vulnerable thing, really– how softly you touch his ugliest spots. It doesn’t matter that you can’t see them from beneath his mask– the tender regard you seem to feel for him, even without having seen the scars that mar him, is more than enough. It’s ironic, in a way, that you seem to think he’s an angel; in reality, the only angel in this room is you. 

“I want to please you, if you'll let me,” he breathes as his fingertips ghost over your thighs. It makes your breath hitch, blinking at him slowly as you process his intent. There is much your angel wants– but chasing the pleasure of his own flesh isn’t one of those things. He doesn’t need it to feel satisfied; your pleasure will more than suffice him.

His dark eyes bore into yours as he awaits your answer, can tell from his wanting gaze how serious he is about pleasing you, and it makes your cheeks slowly bloom with heat. And it’s not just what he wants– it’s what he needs, really; when you surrender yourself to him, he wants it to be for your pleasure, not his own. 

“Oh, please– touch me,” you answer, plead– because something from deep inside you screams for it, wanting it beyond all comprehension. Your darkest, most innate desires manifest for him; desires that you didn’t even fully realize you had. They possess you, drive you to kiss him again, urgent and passionate. 

Minho returns your kiss with equal fervor, lets his tongue slip past his lips to meet yours. They share a dance, swirl around each other until you’re breathless again; and then he’s guiding you back, urging you to lay down as he hovers over you. He pulls the skirt of your dress further up your body, until your thighs are entirely exposed and he can see your dampening panties. 

He lowers himself to you, but doesn’t go immediately where you expect him too– he takes his time trailing wet, lingering kisses over your thighs instead. Your inner thighs are sensitive, ticklish, and you can’t help but squirm from each kiss he grants you.

You also can’t help but jolt each time the cool porcelain of his mask presses against the hot skin of your thigh, and again when he carefully sinks his teeth into your pliant flesh. He doesn't do it hard enough to hurt, or even fully leave indents of his teeth behind– just enough to leave you panting and squirmy; and he lets out a soft, airy laugh every time he succeeds in the endeavor. 

Your bunched up skirt is so full that you can hardly even watch him work you up; but there are times, while kissing and biting over your trembling thighs, that he lifts his head just enough to let you catch his gaze. It makes your heart skip a beat, butterflies dancing in your stomach every time he locks eyes with you while kissing around where you need him most.

You reach a point where you’re no longer squirming because his attention tickles, but because you’re becoming desperate, impatient; and the way he stares at you as he does it all doesn't help in the slightest. “Minho, please,” you whine, shameless; and you can feel him smile against your skin before he lifts himself up from his place between your legs. 

“Needy are we, angel?” he asks, grinning as you pout and nod. “Need you,” you mumble, but he hears you loud and clear; he’s attuned to you, your angel is. He lowers himself between your thighs once more, kisses your pussy over your panties– and it’s not quite what you need, but it’s enough to have you gasping and quivering. 

Again, he takes his time, as if not a single ounce of urgency resides within him. And make no mistake, it does– but Minho knows how to restrain himself. He’s a stubborn man, that is certainly true, but he’s also perfectly in control of himself; for now, anyways. 

And he likes the way you whine for him when you feel his tongue lick you up over the fabric of your panties. It’s not a full enough feeling for you, or a full enough taste of your pussy for him, but the desperate, whiny sounds it draws out of you are delicious enough to satisfy him.  

Still, while he’s enjoying the way his soft kisses and kitten licks over your panties is making you writhe and cry for him, he also can’t deny how badly he wants to finally taste you directly on his tongue. He’s been patient enough, he thinks, and so have you– why not indulge just a little sooner than planned?

In contrast to how sweetly he’s treated you up to this point, he’s quick to tear your panties away from your body. The sound of the fabric ripping makes you gasp, and maybe later he’ll apologize– but for now, lapping his tongue between your folds is of more importance. You moan when his tongue finally meets your bare pussy, as does Minho– and despite the hunger that he feels, he continues to lick you over slowly. 

The languid pace makes you crazy– you want more, so much more, but your angel has been waiting for this; he needs to take his time with you, needs to embed the taste of your dripping sex on his tongue, needs to make sure it’s something he’ll never be able to forget. And he isn’t trying to tease you by keeping the slow pace– well, maybe he is a little; he does enjoy it, after all– but he’s sincerely craved this for too long to let the moment quickly pass him by. 

He brings his hands to your thighs, squeezing them in his hands and preventing you from closing them around his head. You’re sure it’s partly so he can keep you spread out for him, to keep enjoying the easy access to your pussy, but it’s also so that your trembling thighs don’t cause his mask to shift, and fall from his face. 

You gasp when the cool, smooth and rigid porcelain covering the right side of his nose bumps your clit as he shoves his tongue into your hole. And while he isn’t purposely trying to get you to cum just yet, his slow but diligent ministrations are getting you there regardless– with his tongue dipping in and out of your heat, always pushing in as deep as he can make it go, and his mask-covered nose nudging your clit. 

You let your head fall back against the bed, your every high pitched whimper and moan echoing off the stone walls surrounding you. You try to tell him you’re going to cum, but you fail miserably– all that leaves you is a quick succession of whines before your eyes are rolling, back bowing off the bed as release on his tongue. Minho moans with you, hums happily as he licks the mess from your pussy like the cat that got the cream. 

He laves over your clit when he’s done licking up your cum– and it's sensitive, swollen from your orgasm; but that doesn’t stop him from swirling his tongue around it, and positively knocking the air from your lungs. The sensation is overwhelming, he knows it is even without you telling him, but it’s still so good that you don’t want to squirm away, or ask him to stop– or perhaps you can’t. 

You get the distinct feeling that even if you tried, your limbs would resist, would fight to keep you in place– despite your best efforts, you would remain just as you are now. Spread open and trembling, exactly how Minho wants you. “You make the prettiest music, angel,” he separates from you long enough to speak, “want you to keep singing for me.”

And sing for him you do when he dives back in, flicks your clit with his tongue a few times before wrapping his lips around it, sucking it like a piece of hard candy. Your moans, the smacking sounds of his lips, the way he hums when he returns to your hole to collect the cream– it’s an orchestra, just for the two of you.

You cum again in record time, of course you do. Minho finds it cute, the way you incoherently babble away as you let go for him again. And he isn’t done just because you came again– no, he’s far from finished with your pussy. He doesn’t tire in the slightest, ceaseless in the way he lavishes with you his tongue and suckles with his pretty, perfect lips. 

When you cum for the third time, you don’t even know if you truly ever stop cumming at all– the pleasure just keeps coming in waves, never fully receding before it builds again, washing over you like a tsunami before it all repeats. You writhe and twist, back repeatedly bowing off his bed before falling back, but your thighs stay spread for him, even when his hands stop holding them down. 

His hands have found their way beneath you, cupping and squeezing your ass as he eats away. Your hips wriggle, and he helps grind you up against his face, moaning and humming all the while. It’s too much and not enough all at once; your body screams that it can’t take it, and yet your mind screams that it needs more, and God, you can’t think straight– but is there any point in this night that you were?

You’re hot and heaving, sweat dripping from your brow as you tremble and bend. Minho is hot too, of course– his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, his face red from his cheeks to his ears, and even down his neck. And were you not so far gone, you’d have noticed that his mask has shifted and fallen from his face. 

It was because of you, too– when another high took you and tugged on his hair hard, crying as your hips jolted and bucked against his face. He should’ve swiftly put it back on, lest you see his scars, but he didn’t– he just shoved it aside, against his better judgment, so he could keep licking you up without interruption. 

You feel positively delirious by the time he’s finished, eyes heavy and bleary, body utterly limp and boneless. He crawls his way up to you, and your gaze is unfocused, blurry; you can hardly distinguish his features anymore– similar to the way he always appeared in your dreams before now.

Regardless, you smile at him before you close your eyes; a weak, but content one that Minho finds oh so endearing. You’re beyond fatigued, but also feel an unmatched sense of elation as your angel strokes your head and whispers sweet nothings for you to fall asleep to. “You belong to me now,” you hear him say, just before you drift off– and you know it’s true. 

You think, perhaps, you’ve always belonged to him. From the very first moment Minho saw you, he knew he was never going to let you go. And just as Orpheus had done for Eurydice, he’d gladly walk into the depths of Hades itself if that’s what it took to keep you by his side. 

He gently caresses your cheek as you fall into a deeper sleep, presses a soft kiss to your lips and whispers a final soft utterance of love before he covers you with a blanket, and your mind goes completely dark for the night. 

You wake the next day with a struggle– at least, you think it’s the next day; it’s too dark in the room you’re in to tell for certain. You reach out for Minho, but don’t feel him anywhere– and as you sit up, and your eyes adjust to the darkness, you realize that you are alone. Your brows furrow as you look around; you’re still in his room, but it doesn’t look quite the same. 

There are no candles, not on the floor or in the candelabra that now lie empty. The tapestries adorning the walls are torn and dulled in color, the piano dusty and the gold decorating it chipped. The sheet of music that sits on the piano’s music desk, that last night looked so fresh and pristine, now appears weathered and yellowed.

As you grab the blanket to pull it off you, you realize it isn't a blanket at all that is covering you, but a cape– Minho’s cape. And on the bed, just an arm’s reach away from you lies a note– the same kind that The Phantom always leaves behind inside the Opera Populaire.

Your hand trembles as you pick it up, eyes straining to read it in the darkness. The message he leaves behind, when your eyes focus on the words well enough to read them, is quite simple. “To my beloved and beautiful Eurydice; welcome home.”

[007reid]

187. spencer reid (18+)

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: you're dealing with a dumb, whiny boy and you are wondering where your boy genius went.

warnings: 18+, sub!spencer & dom!reader, dumbification, whining, whimpering, overstimulation, handjob, orgasm denial, begging..you know the rest ;)

a/n: this is a result of too much ai spencer tiktok edits....wrote in a rush on my phone late at night but that's how fanfiction are meant to be written. enjoy angels <3 requests are open if anyone want to drop by!

“okay spencer, this is an easy one. can you answer it for me baby?" you pause expectantly, and it takes him a while, but spencer only mewls in response, frustrated. "what states are next to louisiana?”

you see spencer’s eyebrows slowly pent up in thought but then he immediately gives up in lieu of letting out another pathetic moan, bucking up uselessly to your fingers. “answer the question baby," you prod sweetly, kissing your words into his cheek.

“i-hnfgg…” he pants breathlessly, eyes shut tight and when they flutter open, they are round with plead. “please, it hurts so bad, please let me cum i—“

you let go of his cock entirely and he whines, trying to shuffle closer so that you would touch him. in response you move away further, smirk at your lips. “be a good boy for me and i will.”

“i am being a good boy for you!” spencer whines, his eyes blown with need and watering, body writhing pathetically against the sheets. his dick is flushed an angry red and you know he’s only several strokes away from coming undone, being so closely attuned to your boy. “i’m being good i—“ his words hitched in his throat as you gently caress only the tip of his cock, teasing.

“the good boy i remember is super smart,” you slide up to him, pressing a leering kiss on his jaw. “the guy has an iq of 187. can you believe that? how rare is that?”

spencer doesn’t answer, his pleas and whines soft and stuck in his throat as he keeps trying to buck up his hips to get more of your touch, but with no avail. “hm? how rare is it spence?”

“i don’t know!” he cries, tears leaking and wetting his pretty lashes. “i—please it hurts so bad, just please let me cum i’ll do anything, please!”

“answer me and i’ll let you cum baby boy,” you say smoothly, removing your hand from him (which elicited a very impatient groan) to spit on your palm before going back again, moving your hand up and down his shaft deliberately slow. you know it drives him crazy, even crazier than he is right now and you soak in the satisfaction of it. “how many people has your kind of genius spence? hm?" you add encouragingly. "get this one right for me and i’ll let you cum baby.”

“i…uhh….” he's slow, and even slower with your hand working and overstimulating his already-sensitive cock. “one out of every hundred million people. 1000 who ever lived,” he finally decides to peel open his eyes again, searching your face for any hint of approval. as a response you flick up your wrist quickly and he nods his head back, an obscene and needy moan coming out of his mouth.

“and the states surrounding louisiana?”

his head snaps back immediately and stares at you in betrayal, like a kid being scammed out of his cookie, completely flustered and debauched. “you said one question!”

“i changed my mind baby,” you soothe, pressing an apology kiss in the corner of his mouth. “the faster you are the faster you get to cum. do you want to cum honey?”

“yes! yes i wanna cum so bad,” he cries, hands coming up to rest lightly at your waist and you can feel the tremble in them. the heavy feeling at the pit of his stomach has been there for at least half an hour now and you’ve just been toying with it, reliving it then bringing the pressure back. now he’s an absolute mess, curly hair sprayed on the pillow and stuck to his forehead, his pretty, delicate face ruined with tear stains, but it just makes him prettier. he’s completely at your mercy, writhing and whimpering and begging you to do something about his looming orgasm and you denying him of it.

“then answer the question baby boy,” you murmur encouragingly in his ear, fingers still teasing him. he’s so sensitive and overstimulated to the point that a single touch can make his entire body jump, so you are careful. too much and he might actually loose it, and you both know this. “you remember it, right spence?” you press, "the question?"

“hnngg,” he whimpers when you start biting on the lobe of his ear, grabbing and squeezing onto the sheets for dear life. “umm…arkansas and… i-i don’t know,” he admits shamefully, then desperately tries to make up for it. “but i got the first one! you said if i get it i could cum. i’ve been such a good boy for you, just this one time, please!” he begs, not in control of what he says anymore and it shows. he’s completely delirious and fucked stupid, and you take pity on him.

“aww, my sweet boy,” you coo sweetly, running your fingers through his messy mop of hair and pulling it away from his face for him. “i’m sorry angel, but if you can’t get it right, you don’t get to cum,” you whisper faux apologetically in his ear. you see when spencer’s eyes widen with horror, and the tears begins to fall freely.

“please,” he begs, his fingers pleadingly reaching out to try to touch you, convince you to change your mind. it’s a foolish and naive attempt, and he knows it too but can’t help taking his chances. he’s desperate for anything. “please, i’ll be so good for you. i’ll be your best boy. i promise. i swear. it hurts so bad y/n please, i cant take it—“

“fine,” you give in, only because you know for a fact that he can't last any longer. really, you're surprised he's managed to make it this long so far; you had already planned his punishment in your mind. your boy deserves his reward.

you speed up your movements and the sounds coming out of his mouth becomes wanton, sobs becomes louder and his whines a pitch higher and he’s strung high like a violin string, ready to snap. “cum for me, pretty boy.”

at your command his body gives out obediently, thick strings of cum spitting out of his cock, painting your hand and his hips, coating at his thighs. he twitches and his thighs tremble weakly as small blurts of cum starts to collect at the tip of his cock and you kiss him during all of it as he cries against your lips. he pants hard, and when you accidentally swipe a finger over him, he whines painfully and inches out the way, sore. when it’s over, he collapses into you, spent.

“thank you,” he says, sounding genuinely grateful, his voice muffled and his face buried in your shoulder. you laugh, fingers smoothing out the mess of his hair, pulling his head back and pressing kisses all over his face. spencer needs the aftercare, especially after being edged on for so long, needs the love and the assurance and the cuddles afterwards. "i love you."

"and i you," you say, smiling when he whines predictably, unsatisfied.

"you gotta say the whole thing," he says, looking mildly upset, lips jutting out and giving you the fattest, most foul and adorable pout, eyes big and searching.

"'m sorry," you weave your fingers with his, and he presses a kiss against your knuckles. "i love you."

[nrdmssgs]

Idk bout you but like hear me out on helping nikto get dressed like securing the man to go on a mission while you stay behind on base yk like helping him wear his gear and kissing his mask I mean what who said that? 🤨

Masterlist

Oh love, in this house kissing your man's mask is a must.

You two don't share many words. You - because you were never a particularly chatty type. Nikto for his part tries to keep his voices to himself, and any conversation would mean another chance to spit out too much.

Yet the connection between you two is obvious. It grows inevitably as you learn your ways around each other. Tread carefully, observe, memorize, analyze.

You don't need to ask him, when does his scarred face burn and itch. You already remember: it happens before the big operations. Nikto stirs himself up weeks prior to that, exercises more than usual, loses his usual appetite, barely sleeps. There is a certain cost to his extraordinary performance on a battlefield, and this is it. The last hours before the mission, he is so pent-up, his nerves eat him alive. It's when his old scars begin to hurt and torture Nikto. He clenches his teeth and hides his eyes from you.

You saw him trying his usual meds and salves before. But the pain is all in his mind, so nothing can fix it. Or so he thought before you touched him for the first time.

It feels as if you knew, where to press to relieve the tension. At first Nikto turns away, avoiding showing you the disfigured part, although this is almost meaningless since deep scars cross him from cheek to cheek, from lips to the forehead. Little by little he succumbs to your touch, leans in and buries his face in your hands.

He craves your touch. There are just not enough words to express it yet.

There is a small spot nestled between his upper vertebrae. You recall that if you press into it with your thumbs just so, he will groan and tilt his head back, murmuring soft, appreciative obscenities as you relieve the pressure on the nerve.

It sends him somewhere deep into the safety and tranquility. Nikto knew hands that could gift him pleasures before yours, but only you can bring him into another state of mind.

All because you don't treat him mechanically as one would treat a random lover. You observe. You learn.

You have meticulously learned how he prefers to wrap his arms, from his knuckles to midway up his elbow: the precise spots where he folds and knots the banding, and where he carefully tucks the ends to prevent them from coming loose during firing or fighting. Given the severe damage to the skin on his arms, he cannot endure the constant abrasion of coarse textiles. This knowledge, acquired through careful observation, surprises him now as you kneel and gently take the banding from his fingers, setting to the task with practiced precision. He watches you in silent awe. How is it possible to be this perfect? How are you this close to him, even though not in his embrace?

Nikto takes on his balaclava and the hood with straps, meanwhile you touch your fingers against a mask, lying on a bench next to him. He doesn't like it, when you take it. Not because he doesn't trust you - he would rip his own heart out and give to you, no questions asked, should you asked him to. But there are faces, grins, whines, laughter, screams, voices behind this mask. All the ugly, grim things, he tries to keep away from you.

When your soft lips press against the scratched black surface of its forehead, Nikto frowns. A hideous grimace of plastic and metal, yet you kiss it?

He remains quiet until you hand it to him. Only then he breaks the silence.

"Because it's prettier than me?"

You help him fasten all the belts and answer. Your words pass his ears and settle straight into his heart.

A relief. A tight lump growing in his throat. A warmth pulsing deep.

"Because it's a part of you."

[nztsume]

• waiting for the big twenty-five •

homelander x you

{“Only one more year till the big 25. Aren’t you excited?”

This piqued at his curiosity. “What’s the big 25?”

“It’s when your brain finishes developing.”, you replied, remembering the information from back in the day, when you were still trying to get your Psychology’s degree. “Your frontal cortex- the one in charge of your personality and all- it stops growing at around 25 years old.}

Even if you’re just kind of a glorified baby-sitter, you just want to see him happy - instead, you accidentally make him worse.

read on ao3

------

Hi yall!!! The voices won and I finally ended up starting to write the young homelander fic of my dreams where we find out how he ended up being the deranged insecure insane man we know and love!!

In this one, you're Madelyn Stilwell's niece who works at Vought- and have striken an unexpected soft spot for the company’s latest investment- this insecure, shy but sweet young hero called Homelander.

Enjoy!

• 1 •

July, 2005

Every single day, at exactly 5.30 a.m., Homelander was to be awoken by the smell of coffee on his kitchen table. The coffee had to be fresh, beans grinded that same morning, no sugar, no milk, no exceptions. To accompany it, he was to have his pills: two of creatin– for muscle growth, three of protein- to feed them, a weight gainer– so he would stop being so lanky, and an extra dose of vitamin D, to fight those pesky pimples guys his age still got sometimes. All of them should be in a small container, so he could swallow them at once with his first gulp.

Next to his coffee and his pills, he was to have a folder with any relevant document for the day- interviewer’s questions and the answers he was to give, profiles of important people he would meet, scripts for any ad he was to film. All of that, including his schedule for the day- except that was to be read to him by you. This is how Maddie had told you it had to be done, and how you’d done it since day one.

You looked at your wrist watch, holding his coffee on your hand- piping hot, just how you knew he liked it-  and you yawned, watching the thinnest clock hand go round it, as the last minute before you could walk into his apartment went by. 

Finally, it was 5.25, and you could already walk in- so you did. 

You weren’t exactly his maid- he had several of those, but none of them were to do anything to his apartment whenever he was around. He wasn’t to have much contact with the normal civilians, the normies- as Maddie called them. You preferred to reserve your opinions at that- your aunt had changed a lot since she had started working here. 

What you were was Maddie’s secretary- and Maddie was Mr. Edgar’s secretary- or something. There was a fancier title for that, but you couldn’t recall it. All you knew was that she was aiming for vice-CEO or something, as it was the only thing she talked about whenever she dragged you to a bar after office hours, and insisted on drinking glass after glass of whisky.

As you finished setting things up, you appreciated the result- his cup of coffee, his pills, his documents and ah, a special surprise. One big, obscene chocolate cupcake, the kind where the chocolate topping is so rich that it spills and drips all over, with one beautiful strawberry on top, and next to it, one single candle. You weren’t sure if chocolate was his favorite, but you knew he had a bit of a sweet tooth- so he’d appreciate it, at least some. 

Finally, you took out your red lighter and lit the candle- and less than twenty seconds later, you looked up- and there he was. 

"Good morning, John.”, you put the lighter back on your blazer’s pocket, smiling at him. 

He blinked- eyes still not fully alert, as he scratched them. They were boring holes into the chocolate cupcake, and you couldn’t help to smirk a little- you knew he’d be interested in it. 

“Is that for me?”, he asked, surprised, almost like a child- and you laughed. Ever since you’d met him, about five or six months ago now, you’d felt like he was younger than his actual age- there was something about the way he stood in the middle of his own massive penthouse, like a kid lost in a big, elegant furniture showroom. Alone, quiet and shy, even when wearing his own super suit. It didn’t help that it was actually way too big for one person, with its tall, tall roofs, marble everything and sleek furniture- much less for an overworked twenty-something with no time for a social life.  

“Of course.”, you assured him. “It’s your birthday after all, right? Happy 24th!”

He pressed his lips awkwardly, trying to contain a smile- but that didn’t work, as he let out a laugh, and finally came to the kitchen island, almost a skip on his step. You couldn’t help to be glad- finally this kid was getting some happiness in him.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome.”, you said, sarcastically, as he went to town on the cupcake, taking big bites out of it. He stopped for a second mid-bite, mouth full of chocolate, to look at you with a smile- and there was a gleeful glint in his eyes. Actually, that was enough of a thank for you. Anything that made that perpetual sadness that he always seemed to hold go away, even for just a few minutes, was worth it. You laughed at him. “Okay- just go for it. But don’t forget your pills!” 

“I can’t believe it- this tastes so good!”, he finally said, after taking another bite- in less than thirty seconds he had eaten half of it. Unbelievable! “Best birthday gift ever!”

“Oh- shush.”, you crossed your arms, leaning back against the counter, watching him take a big gulp of coffee. “Just wait until you see what Maddie has gotten you- it’ll blow your mind.”

“I don’t think it’ll be better than having chocolate as breakfast.”- he set the last bite of the cupcake aside, finally taking the pill container, and eyeing them with disgust. You sighed- perhaps if they let the kid eat his breakfast he wouldn’t need those nasty pills- it wasn’t like he wasn’t going to burn it off in the training center literally thirty minutes later. You didn’t know much about supe genetics, but they couldn’t be too different from normal people’s, right?

You yawned again, this time covering your mouth to the side, as you let him have the rest of the cupcake and his coffee. You liked to give him some minutes of silence so he could enjoy it properly- you knew that that’s how you liked it when you had yours.

This morning in particular, you just wished you had gotten to drink your coffee alone- but your fiance was just arriving from a shift at the E.R., and you had to deal with his graphic description of a dick that had been cut in half by a broken wine glass. You were still trying to forget about it. At least you lived close enough to Vought- just a ten minute subway trip away - so you didn’t have to wake up much earlier than that. It was just lucky you knew how to do your make-up on the move, another time-saving skill you’d learnt in your college years. 

You heard him drinking the last of his coffee- doing that big slurp noise he always did, and you finally decided to take the document with his schedule- ready to tell him about his day. 

He was tired -he always was, but today he seemed particularly so, even behind the hint of a smile the cupcake had left him with. You could tell by his posture under those cheesy button up burgundy silk pajamas, shoulders too slumped, hips rested against the counter. You weren’t surprised- according to Maddie, ever since they’d debuted him close to two years ago to the public, he’d been worked non-stop. It was only time until he broke, you thought- but you could never say it to her. Your aunt had always been too good at pushing people further than they could reach, and too good at seeing only ahead of her; John was just another one of her subjects. 

“Alright”, you finally said, seeing the subtle move of his shoulders straightening at your voice, “Ready to hear about your day, birthday boy?”

He groaned in response, the hint of his smile completely being wiped away, “I guess…”

You pressed a smile for him, but mentally frowned reading over his schedule- he was packed, of course. “What’s that? Not excited about being 24?”, they’d even put an interview right after his birthday celebration- his 1 hour long birthday celebration. They as in Maddie and Mr. Edgar. “Only one more year till the big 25. Aren’t you excited?”

This piqued at his curiosity. “What’s the big 25?”

“It’s when your brain finishes developing.”, you replied, remembering the information from back in the day, when you were still trying to get your Psychology’s degree. “Your frontal cortex- the one in charge of your personality and all- it stops growing at around 25 years old. So you get only one more year of acting like a dumbass without people holding it against you.”, you added that last one joke to make him laugh- it worked. He wasn’t used to people throwing curse words around him. “Congrats!” 

“Just one more year, huh?”, he said, more seriously than you expected. “That’s kind of sad.”

“No way- it’s great.” you shook your head, “After 25… it’s like your brain rewires. You’re not embarrassed anymore, you get some self-esteem back from when you were a kid.”, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself, remembering how stupidly shy you were back when you were his age. It wasn’t that long ago, really, just four years- but it felt like another lifetime, somehow. “10 out of 10, if you ask me. Anyway–”, you gave one more sigh, before turning your attention back to him, “Let me tell you about your day. So- it officially starts at 9.10 where you- oh. I didn’t know this. You’re getting a new suit!”

His eyebrows rose, “I thought that wasn’t until September.” 

“Hmm, maybe they wanted to launch it at today’s park inauguration for your birthday- which is at around 11.30, by the way. So you get your suit fitted and all, then it’s an one hour drive, and then the inauguration. After that, lunch, and after…”, she frowned. “You have to have tea with- with Margaret Pataki and her friends ...?” , no way they were making the kid spend his birthday with a bunch of rich old ladies that wanted to get in his pants. You couldn’t believe Maddie. What in the world could have they offered your aunt to get the privilege of The Homelander’ s time on his birthday? Unbelievable.  You huffed. “Well… too bad you have your weekly marketing meeting. You’ll have to miss it.”

“I thought that wasn’t until Thursday.”, he frowned, but there was a hint of relief behind his confusion. 

“It’s not-”, you shot a look at him, “But you should get to rest for a couple hours on your birthday, don’t ya?”, you winked at him- and then moved on, before he could protest any further. Better not to think about it too much, or you’d get extremely mad at your aunt. “And then… your birthday celebration!”

“You’re coming, right?”

You looked up from the paper, surprised at his sudden intensity as he cut you off. You found those crystal blue eyes boring at you- like you were another cupcake, expectating of your reply.

“ ‘Course.”, you simply smiled- surprisingly secretly pleased. You liked him- he was a nice guy, behind all the pizzazz that Vought put him through in front of the cameras. Perhaps too nice, in your opinion- there was some trauma somewhere in there, you could tell. But you didn’t weren’t close enough to him to recommend therapy or something, although you had suggested it to Maddie… who obviously shrieked at the thought of their golden child going to the shrink. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Johnny.” 

“Thank god-”, he sighed, rolling his eyes in sass, “If I have to deal with Stan or Madelyn or any of the other old farts there by myself, I’ll laser my own foot.” 

This made you laugh. It always surprised you whenever he showed a bit of bite, as it seemed like whenever he was with Maddie or Edgar, he seemed like the best behaved pupil in the boarding school- and whenever he was in front of the public, he was an absolute boy-scout. “Oh- come on. I’m sure Noir’s gonna be there too. I’m not your only friend here, you know?” She hoped so, at least. John seemed to like Black Noir, although his presence in the Vought building was far and apart, since they hadn’t officially re-debuted him under the company’s name yet.

He shot you one last skeptical look before taking the folder with the rest of the documents- this was your dismissal, and you took it. It was ten to six, and he had to be in the training center soon. 

“Anyway- I’ll take my leave. Maddie’s probably sent me my tasks for the day already.”, you heard a low distracted hum coming from him, already walking to the door. Before you left, you peeked at him one last time, before saying: “Happy birthday.”

He looked up just as you waved, and there was a hint of a smile in his face- good. You smiled back, and finally, slammed the door closed.

 

-

 

When you worked at Vought- more specifically, in their superhero division, every single day felt like standing in the middle of the sea during a storm- wave after wave of issues and tasks coming at you, suffocating you at times. Truth be told, you weren’t supposed to be working there- you were far too unqualified, both emotionally and academically. 

When your aunt Maddie had found out about your mother’s disease, she, of course, had refused to help her. She had always been resentful at how resentful your mom had been of her, at how she had chosen a professional life path while your mom chose to have you at just seventeen, dropping out of school to form a family. Just your average sisters’ feud, splashed with just a bit of new wave feminism and abandonment issues. However, knowing you had dropped out of college, Maddie was kind enough to offer you a job in her workplace- none other than Vought Enterprises. Big shot shit. 

She had told you that she wouldn’t make any promises, she wouldn’t work with you, and she wouldn’t slide you in with the big supes, where she worked. She had hustled her ass off to be where she was- she wouldn’t let your wormy little self run on the path she had so laboriously paved. You were okay with that- any corporation job would pay more than what you were doing in the dingy bar downtown where you’d been working since you dropped off college. Besides, you knew your aunt had never been all there- the love-hate she always showed you wasn’t personal, it was just a thing she did.

It didn’t help that you weren’t even more than seven years younger than her, so a lot of your childhood memories involved playing with her teen self. She was more a cousin than an aunt, to be fair. So there were a lot of things you could easily let slide- her insane mood swings was one of them. You knew she meant well- behind all of her power plays and degradation.

Either way, that didn’t end up happening- you working for a less important division, like pharmacy. As soon as she suggested Mr. Edgar to give you a job he was into the idea- he liked to keep things between family. And in hindsight, it was understandable. The things that happened behind the scenes for supes weren’t half as glamorous or exciting as they seemed to be on camera.

This morning had been particularly busy, the waves of work slowly turning into a tsunami, as Homelander’s birthday was a top priority for the entire department. He was the star, after all- had been for almost three years now. He was Vought’s face and voice, their personality. The bright eyed, all-american, charming, strongest to ever exist superhero. America turned into the shape of a man. Everything they’d ever dreamed, they were training into this twenty-something-year-old. Any excuse to celebrate him was good enough for them- because it was as if they were celebrating Vought itself.

That’s why you’d been running all over New York the entire morning. The tailor had managed to mismeasure John’s shoulders, somehow, and they needed two more of the handmade eagle feather golden shapes that went… well, you didn’t know where they went. You had only gotten the gist of it, along with a brown envelope to take to the goldsmith- any goldsmith that would get them done before 11.30 a.m., when Homelander was supposed to debut his new suit to the world, to mark a new era or something.

Luckily, it was 11 sharp as you ran through Vought’s main hall’s doors, and 11.04 as you knocked the costume division’s door on the 45th floor. You were breathless, knowing that he had to be on the other side of the city, to Fort Lee in less than half an hour- although seeing how tight they were, he was probably going to fly to the inauguration. The city council had granted him his very own children’s park after he’d saved a school bus from sinking into the Hudson a month ago, and they had chosen to inaugurate it the very day of his birthday. As if he had nothing else to do on that day.

Maddie opened the door, blonde waves all over the place, breath ragged. You knew the signs, she had been yelling at someone- and you were lucky it wasn’t you. You saw a flash of dark blue somewhere in the background and you knew it was John- and your curiosity was piqued. Would the new suit be too different? At least it seemed they’d keep his colors. 

“Where are they?”, your aunt demanded.

Wordlessly, you took out a fancy necklace case out of the bag you were holding, “I had to find a different place- our goldsmith was taking too long to decide whether he could do them or in time or not.”, you explained, as she snatched it off your hands and opened to inspect them. While she did that, you subtly went on your tippy-toes, trying to catch the new suit without her knowing. “I think they look just like the mold-so…” 

“Perfect.”, she concluded, slamming it closed, and she took one look at you, with those severe eyes of hers. “Go to the 72th. They need help with the party.” 

After that, she slammed the door on your face. Oh well- you’d see it later, hopefully. 

 

—

 

The 72th was a mess- as it always was, since it was the floor where most Vought only parties were held, the ones no outsiders should know about. Before, you would have thought that that meant something sexual- perhaps some sort of massive over the top superhero and congressmen orgy, the kind conspiracy theorists would talk about- but soon you found out it was not the case. Rather- it was the kind of party where millionaires would get drunk and discuss whether bombing another South Asian country would make them profits or not. You didn’t know which of the two types of parties were worse.

This time, though, at least the purpose of the preparations was much more innocent- just a small party for every person in Homelander’s life to celebrate him and his birthday. It was kind of impressive so many people showed up, in your opinion. It was the 4th of July, after all- most everyone would choose to celebrate it with their families at the park- or even just watch the fireworks from their TV at home. Instead, about twenty or more people were there, running around with you- decorating, inflating balloons, making every cookie in the dish look beautiful and photogenic. All for him- everyone wanted him to be pleased. You were sure that as long as he was allowed to eat enough of them, he’d be just as happy. 

One thing you ended up noticing about the attendees was the variety, or more like, the lack of thereof. Most people there were some of Vought’s scientists, the ones you only knew of by their pictures on the Vought’s Best wall. You wondered what they had to do with Homelander, or if they were there just for protocol. Maybe these were the kind of people Edgar wanted him to surround himself with. Important people- people who did good for humanity. 

And no, no Black Noir to be found.

Interestingly enough, even they were helping with the organization. Perhaps they were close, you wouldn’t know. You didn’t know much about John’s past aside from what you’d figured out by yourself- and what the public knew. 

Either way, he was about to arrive, and you were to get Maddie’s gift ready for him. The box was a bit too big for it- but it needed the space, you guessed. You just wondered if the box was necessary at all. 

Somebody heard the elevator sound starting to ding up- and began shushing everyone, as they started crowding around the room, hiding the big table with the cake and different foods that they had set up in the middle of the room behind them. You, of course, didn’t want to steal any spotlight from someone who could actually be important to him, so you placed yourself to the side, excited for him to arrive. You knew he was going to love this; he loved attention- even affection, as much as he tried to hide it.

The elevator finally dinged on their floor, and the doors opened, and-...

“Happy birthday!”, everyone shouted- only for Maddie to come out, her heels clicking as she saw on her that particular face she made when she scolded someone- her words drowned by their scream. Everyone made a confused noise- wasn’t it supposed to be…?

Then- a massive spot of blue walked in- a young man with wide shoulders, an unhesitant stroll and perfectly coiffed blonde hair- clad in an imposing red and blue suit. Homelander.

You began singing Happy Birthday- loudly, completely drowning everyone’s confusion and whatever Maddie was nagging the young supe about- and everyone was super quick to join. And you had the pleasure to see John’s face go from a slight frown to a bright expression- as everyone sang for him- claps and even stomps to go with it. 

But… there was something off in his smile as he started recognizing the faces around him. You saw his eyes go through every person in the room with a strange restraint- like he was holding back something. Then- they fell on you, and they stayed there, somehow, it seemed that it made that off feeling fade off. You clapped and sang more excitedly.

“Happy birthday, dear… John-Homelan-Johnny !”, everyone laughed, as nobody quite knew how to address him, “Happy birthday to you!” 

You saw him laugh- eyes looking around in surprise at the decorations. Everything was red, white and blue- with lots of golden details, that had been your touch. They were the expensive kind, but anyone could tell they weren’t set by professionals. You thought it added a homey touch that he’d enjoy- and he did, as he quite didn’t know what to do with himself, with his hands, as everyone clapped and whistled for him. 

“Oh-!”, he finally said, “Thank you- thank you, guys!”, he was trying to play it cool, calming them awkwardly. 

After that, the short event officially started. The attendees started mingling amongst each other, coming up in groups at times to talk to John, who seemed more interested on whatever was going on on the food table. You had caught him eyeing it from time to time whenever he was left alone for a second or two, as if he was deciding whether he could have a treat or not .

Meanwhile, you were busy guarding Maddie’s gift- which was secretly the only reason you were here at all. Not by your own volition, of course- you’d obviously come to John’s party if it was up to you. But… somehow, you felt that without your aunt’s express invitation it would have created problems for you. Sometimes it felt like Maddie got insanely possessive of the kid- as if anyone could come and snatch him away from under her management and steal her progress doing that. You didn’t quite know- all you really knew is that whenever you made a small observation, offered a small detail you’d noticed about him, she responded incredibly bad.

It wasn’t too bad, though. At least you were saving yourself from awkward conversations with strangers- plus, sometimes John caught your eyes and smiled at you. He had even tried to make his way to you a couple times, always interrupted by a new group of people who called for his attention.

He looked good in his new suit, you had to admit. A far cry from the leotardish one-piece he had before- that only worked to accentuate his still teensy physique, still too skinny and lanky for what he was supposed to be Edgar’s final vision of him- this new suit was magnificent. It looked like it was a two piece, for once- which he was probably thankful for- held by a strong golden (gold?) belt, and a high collar, covering just enough of his neck to draw attention to the slight v line it formed. He had some padding, she knew that- but it was just enough, not to transform his actual size, but to accentuate it. He looked more mature, more secure in his skin, and it showed - even if just a little bit.

Either way, you could hear her gift getting more and more agitated by the minute- so it was a relief when you heard her voice loud, commanding everyone’s attention.

“Let’s open your gifts, John.” Maddie said, coming up from behind and slapping a hand on his shoulder, making him jump a little. 

The party moved to the gifts table, where a small pile laid. You dutifully took the box you’d been guarding on the corner of the room and started walking it by it with a bit of difficulty, mostly because it kept moving all over the surface- but also because it was making your nose itch.

By the time you had gotten there, John had already started opening some of his gifts. Someone got him an insanely expensive wine you knew he wasn’t even going to try, and someone else a piece of pottery. It was hard to make someone like him a gift- what could you even get someone who could have anything? Not that John ever asked for anything, though. But he could- and everyone was aware of that. Vought made sure they were.

As soon as Maddie saw you with the box, she took it from your hands and walked up to him- and the second he turned to it, his face illuminated. 

“A dog?!”, he took it from her almost immediately, sitting on the floor with it on his lap- hands fighting to open the wrapping as soon as he was settled. 

“Oh John!”, Maddie scoffed, annoyed, “You spoiled it for everyone else!”

He didn’t seem to hear her though- entranced on the unwrapping, and you couldn’t help to hold your hands together on your chest, excited with anticipation. You were sure he was going to love it.

And as soon as the little guy jumped from inside the box- you know he did.

“Oh, lord!”, he exclaimed, as the small dog started barking and twisting in his grasp- as excited to see him as he was, its tiny tail wagging so hard it was moving its entire little body with it. “Oh, my god!”

The dog, a small Jack Russel with a big, brown spot over one of his eyes, barked excitedly, and you were sure you could see John’s eyes shining with tears, sat on the floor while everyone else aww’d at them. You could tell that- for once- he had forgotten about the people around him, as he let the puppy jump on his legs, on his chest, licking his face, sat back on his hands, as if he was stopping himself from squeezing the little thing. He was happy, so happy , and the dog was too.

“I can’t believe it!”, he gasped, again, as he finally decided he needed to pet it, getting rid of the thick gloves that his new suit had, grabbing it with both hands. The puppy barked at him, tongue out, and a laugh escaped from his mouth. “You’re the cutest thing I’ve seen in my life !”

The puppy wriggled its way out of his grasp, and jumped at his face again, licking him- and everyone aww’d once again and clapped. You finally unglued your eyes from the adorable scene to your aunt- and she looked incredibly pleased with herself. You would be too, this was probably the first time you’ve seen him actively elated.

Suddenly, she was startled by something- and you saw her hand going to her blazer’s pocket, picking her cellphone in a second. As she walked away with it, you took a step closer to him- and he turned to you.

“Did you know about this!?”, he asked, incredulous, fighting against the dog’s excited licks, “I can’t believe it!”

You couldn’t help the smile on your lips as you saw him. “Obviously. I went to pick him with her!” you crossed your arms over your chest- still remembering the horrors of the testing lab you’d gone get the poor dog from. It had been a month ago, and the dog had stayed with Maddie until now, “He was not the youngest puppy in the uh- adoption center but…”

“Shush, he’s perfect.”, he interrupted you, holding it to his chest, and turning to you, “What’s his name?”

“I’m not sure actually-”, you turned towards where your aunt had left- and you saw her smiling into the phone, a small skip on her step- and you knew that body language. She was sucking up to someone on the other end of the line. “We could ask Maddie if she named him when she comes back.”

But as you said that, Maddie actually came back- almost running in the short steps her heels allowed.

“Let's get this over with”, she whispered to you, as she walked by you taking over the center of the small round that Had formed around him, “Hey, everyone! Let's cut the cake!”

Everyone agreed happily- but you frowned, running to follow her as she went to the food table, already starting to make space for it. You knew that this was supposed to come at the end of the party, but not even half an hour had gone by yet- what was she doing?

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw John's eyes shoot from you to her to Edgar, as he as well tried to figure out what was going on.

“Maddie-”

“Seems like his birthday interview got delayed a couple hours”, she whispered to you excitedly, almost like a secret, “Guess who'll get to make up for his fatal mistake of not seeing Mrs. Pataki and her friends!”

A sense of disgust immediately took over your stomach, as you realized why she was so happy. She was making John spend time with those women after all- she was going to get him to butter them up for Vought On his own fucking birthday. 

“Go help with the cake.”

You felt sick.

Behind you, you heard John approach and Madelyn’s arm immediately shoot to get a hold of his forearm and guide him to the center of the table, the dog still in his arms.

Suddenly, a lot of things started happening simultaneously. Edgar was on the scene now, - a cameraman that you’d seen wandering about the event next to him - finally caring about this party at all, as he seemed to be giving him directions about how to encapsulate the happy event. 

Maddie, on the other hand, stood next to Homelander- whose eyes seemed far, as he heard whatever she was telling him, his lips pressing in some sort of emotion you didn’t have time to figure out, eyes looking far away from the scene unfolding. You got closer, as you started fixing the cake decorations, and got to hear some of it.

“And you'll show off your fucking new suit and tell her ‘ You like it, Margie?’ like she's the woman of your dreams, okay? She needs to go home and tell Pataki that Vought's doing great things while she considers divorcing his ass. You need to make up for the time you made her lose, John.” she was instructing right next to his ear, and he seemed more out of it by the second, “You'll be so fucking sorry to her she won't doubt for a second that you made a honest mistake with your schedule.” 

People started gathering as well- their loud chatter surrounding them like a massive beehive, buzzing so close to the table it was even starting to make you dizzy and desperate, as you fought to make one of the star decorations stay up. One of the scientists came up to you with a lighter, offering to turn the single candle on and you nodded, mindlessly as your focus kept shifting to him, and the way his gaze dissociated more and more- and you were actually worried now. You’d never seen him like this, not this badly. 

“Homelander!”, Edgar called, his serious nasal voice adding a new layer to the buzz, just like the scientist's lighter he couldn't get lit on. “Move one step to the left and turn a little, the lighting's bad there!”

“Seriously - apologize like a fucking dog, you hear?”

“Fuck”, you cursed under your breath- snatching the lighter yourself and trying- getting to turn on.

The camera started snapping- and it added another layer. A group laughed loudly in the background. Edgar kept giving needless instruction. The dog started wriggling, running out of his grasp. Madelyn kept barking into his ear.

“You'll lick her feet- and…”

And you could almost hear it before it happened. 

“Madelyn, I fucking GET it !”

The loud high sound- the sound his lasers made.

The crowd gasped, shocked- but more importantly, the dog started fucking screaming in pain.

“Oh- no!”

Someone screamed- and all hell broke loose. John ran from the table to the side- where his laser had left a dark, charred line that ended with… with the poor puppy laying on the floor, bleeding and crying. You ran after him.

“Oh no- no, no, no, no…”, he was on his knees, and you fell next to him as he whispered the words to himself, holding the poor thing as it wriggled, its loud shrieks vibrating in your ears. His hands were starting to get covered in blood, and its fur was so bloody- flesh so mangled you couldn't make sense of any of it. “No- please !”

You were speechless, shocked, and the blood was draining from your face by the second. “It was an accident!”, you were immediate to comfort him, but his eyes were glued to the animal- unable to think, to do anything, “It was an accident, John, and-and…”

You looked around- but nobody thought like you- nobody else was stepping up to comfort him. Instead, everyone stared in… fright , taking fearful steps away from the scene like he was a monster- and that made you so insanely mad.

“I-I killed him!”, he exclaimed in horror. “Oh, God, I fucking killed him!”

“ No, you didn't! ”, your hands went to his shoulders, shaking him a little as his eyes filled up with tears- and your heart was going a mile a minute, “He's crying ! He's still alive!”

“N-no, no, I-”

“John!”, Maddie’s voice shouted- and you looked up to see her walking to you, angry, as she got out of her shock, “What the hell was that?! Are you insane?! Are you retarded ?!”

He turned slightly to her, eyes full of tears and remorse and pain- and you couldn't take it anymore.

You stood up like a spring and took a step between them.

“Madelyn!”, you looked at her in the eyes, heart still drumming, “ Are you fucking serious?!”

You saw her eyes widen and her mouth fall open.

She started sputtering your name, visibly shaken. You'd never ever had spoken like this to her. She was always the one that was right, the one whose decisions just weren't questioned.

“Y-you stay out of this!”, she finally managed, and tried to push you to the side- but you slapped her hand away.

“No, I won't! Not this fucking time, Aunt Maddie.” you stood your ground, stomping a foot.

There was a rage in you burning- and you instantly realized this wasn't just about this, right now. This was a rage that had been slowly burning- building up these last six months as you'd witnessed how they treated this kid, how they exploited every single second of his time. How tight his leash was. How simply sad and alone he looked all the time.

It had been burning since your mother had been diagnosed with that heart condition- and how ironically heartless her sister had been to her. How she'd offered you the job the same way someone offers leftovers to a starving stray dog, and how you had to swallow your dignity and take them.

It had been burning, you'd even say, after the first day Maddie had started this fucking job, and how she blew you off when you went to her apartment with a cake you'd made her to celebrate it- saying she had coworkers over and she couldn't deal with a child like you here, too, as if they were too important for you to even see them.

She growled your name one last time, “You're about to lose your job.”

“Then fucking do it, Maddie.”, you hissed back, feeling venom in your voice, “Fire me. Fire me! Who wants to work in a company that depends on how much they can exploit some twenty-year-old, anyway? Oh, but the second he makes one mistake you all look at him like he's a monster, right?!”

You couldn't help to turn around, including everyone in your rant now- every single person that was important in John’s life, who was looking at him like he was going to laser them next. Him, who was still holding onto the crying puppy, hands drenched in his blood.

“Don't look at him like that! God- look at him ! He didn't do it on purpose! You all pushed him to do it!”

You felt frustration building in you- as your eyes started to burn as well, angry. No, you couldn't let yourself cry, you needed to speak up!

You saw Maddie about to say something else when someone took a step forward- Mr. Edgar.

“Okay, okay everyone…” he had his hands raised up, voice infuriatingly calming and imposing. “Let’s calm down. You-”, he pointed at a random woman, who jumped at his calling, “Take the dog to the fifteenth, there must be a vet somewhere there.”

The woman quickly stepped forward- a middle aged with a messy bun hanging off of her head- arms in front of her, ready to take the still wailing dog from John while putting the most distance from him she could. Your eyes followed the movement as he extended the creature to her- his hands still shaking. For some reason, as this happened, you felt absolutely insane- like you were some schizoid character In a movie, and everyone else was just watching your crazy rants unfold. 

“And you- miss… Stilwell?”, he continued, turning to you- and as you shook your head (you didn't share your aunt’s last name, thank you ), he held a hand up, like he didn't actually care about that, “Why don't you take Homelander here home? He's still a bit shaken.”

And you're the only one here not afraid of his lasers, seemed to be the tacit rest of his request. 

At that, you stood straighter, facing him as a bitter bile pooled in your throat - desperate to keep jawing off about all you've been keeping, seeing these last months, about every single thing that they'd knowingly been doing to him- but you held back for him. Edgar was right, he needed to get away from this,  he needed some peace- and perhaps not to have to spend his birthday with some old lady who would be pawing at him all night. 

You swallowed it and nodded at him, chest still out and shoulders squared, like you were a shield and shot one last look at Maddie.

She was boring holes into you- mouth in a thin line, dark blue eyes unblinking in anger, hands fisted to her sides. You knew that look, your mother had been the end of it one too many times. But unlike her, you did not relent- and Maddie should better get used to it.

Then, you simply turned, falling to a kneel once again, as you grabbed his shoulder. His eyes were on you as well, those clear blue eyes, still watery, still shaking. His hands were drenched in blood, as was the rest of his new suit- he looked so small in that moment, so scared.

“John?”, you let your voice fall into a soft tone. At your call, his eyes tuned into an emotion you couldn't quite decipher- aside from intense gratefulness, “Let’s go home.”

[mvlionheart]

21 maxiel

Mini fic / Ficlet prompts (Open & extremely slow)

21. Things you said when we were on top of the world Max/Daniel | 794 words | Rating: Mature Everything is Red

Everything is cherry red. Max’s flushed cheeks. Lips glistening. He’s leaning against the side of someone’s candy-painted convertible and eye fucking Danny over the rim of a warm beer. He’s a shade more than sun-kissed, wearing a tight t-shirt he’d ripped the sleeves off of that morning, his normal khaki shorts, and a Dodge HEMI baseball cap with flames licking up the sides. Turned backward of course. 

There’s a forbidden fruit metaphor in all this that Danny chooses not to dwell on. He’s buzzed, high on the killer set they played earlier and thinking about that rainbow pack of condoms back at the shitty motel they’d copped for the night. They’d already used the red one, a shame really, but the sunset is painting the sky crimson behind Max and maybe that is enough poetic bullshit for the night. 

Max turns to look at him and it’s like a laser pointer, one of those annoying ones that kids shine in your eyes and you have to look away or risk damaging your retinas. Everything with Max is like that. Intense, focused, and for Danny—inescapable. 

He must look away too soon, a beer bottle raised to meet his lips as he studies the chipped paint of an ancient Subaru, because Max’s voice tickles his ear a moment later. 

Little shit is too fucking silent and sneaky when he wants to be.

“Are you pissed at me or something?” Max asks, and Danny doesn’t get it. Not until he pauses and examines his own expression in the side mirror of the truck he’s leaning on. He looks irritated, more than the slight itch under his skin of general impatience, he tells his face to chill out. 

“Nah, we’re good Maxy.” Danny turns a smile on him and Max’s frown deepens. “I mean it, the set was amazing. You played like a god. Everything was perfect. Is perfect.” He’s staring into Max’s blue eyes when he says it, it’s earnest and open and a truth Daniel can force past his lips. 

“It can be more perfect.” Max finally relaxes, Danny can see the angle of his shoulders drop a few degrees, and he smirks. He’s also thinking about the rainbow pack of condoms. Danny doesn’t need to be a mind reader to know that. 

“What color?” Danny asks and Max blushes, crimson blossoming on his cheeks. There’s that damn red again. He’s haunted by it. 

“Maybe green or purple, like that lollipop I had earlier.” Max licks his lips and it’s fucking obscene and Danny wants to suck on his tongue, imagines tasting that grape sucker he’d been downright lewd about eating during their acoustic set at the label’s tent. 

Danny had gone through two bottles of water, chugging one and dumping one on his head trying to keep from tenting the crotch of his skinny jeans in front of a live audience. 

“Or blue, although that makes me think about—” 

“Stop,” Danny interrupts, knowing the voice Max uses when he’s about to say some weird shit.  

Max's face splits in a wide grin and he starts laughing, a partial wheeze as he crosses his arms over himself and grips his sides. 

He’s too fucking cute. 

Danny needs to face fuck him like several hours ago. 

“You’re so annoying,” he says and tosses his elbow gently into Max’s ribs. Max straightens up, but the smile doesn’t flag at all. 

“And you have a big dick,” Max answers, smug, like he’s just delivered the title winning jab in a boxing match. “And the blue condom makes me think about this alien comic I read once.” 

Danny groans at the quick rush of Max’s words, speeding out of his mouth like a train before Danny can stop him. Stubborn brat. 

“Fuck you,” Danny finally answers, downing the dregs of his beer, grimacing at the warm foam. “Now we’re definitely not using the blue one, and I’m still going to be thinking about that later. If I can’t get hard, it’s your fault.” 

��Oh, we both know that’s not going to be a problem.” Max drags his eyes down Danny’s body, gaze settling below his belt. Danny’s dick twitches like an obedient dog. 

Pathetic Ricciardo, really just low. 

“And I will also be thinking about it later,” Max says.

“You’re a freak.” 

“Your freak.” 

Danny ignores the way that lodges in his throat. Doesn’t want to consider the truth of those words. Always fighting back the part of him that wants to take and take and see how much Max will give. Danny thinks it’s probably too much.  

“Fucking aliens.” 

“Yes, please.” Max laughs, tosses his head back and barks up at the sky. Danny thinks maybe Max could take and take from him in return. Danny might let him.

[freakspectors]

ROLE MODEL.

A Fyodor Dostoyevsky | BSD x Gender-Neutral Reader Smut Fanfic.

warnings ; smut , reader has female anatomy but is overall gender neutral (except for one (1) use of 'girl') , slapping , mean fedya , bondage , praise if you squint , a bit short , nikolai mention giggles , not proofread , etc .

authors note ; hihi !!! hope you guys missed me... yes i returned solely because fyodor's birthday was yesterday and i HAD to write smth for him. ignore that. giggle wiggles. also i got lazy and ended it on a cliffhanger.. oopsie poops dont get too mad

Fyodor always was a man who saw himself as dignified.

         He believed someone as sanctified as he shall always receive the utmost respect, no matter the form; especially on his date of birth. He asked for no presents, no surprises to be thrown. Cakes were out of the question, too. The sweet thing Fyodor wished to devour was you.

Silk purple ribbon danced around your body, the fabric an eye-pleasing restraint. It wasn’t your idea to put it on; in fact, it was Gogol who brought it up. The clown dumped several ideas of what to do for your ‘acquaintance’s’ birthday onto you, some more obscene than others. But you couldn’t be upset at him; not when his ideas led you to paradise.

         Lithe digits grip your hips as you sloppily bounce on Fyodor’s shaft, his hands attempting to keep you steady. Hours ago, your ability to think fled elsewhere, the capability to speak following suit. It was as if you were a mindless doll, a toy whose only purpose was to serve its owner.

“You seem to enjoy this more than me, Kukla,” the demon shamed, “must I remind you why I’m permitting you free reign of my body?”

The Russian receives no reply. Sounds of skin against skin and squelching of slick echo throughout the empty bedroom; braindead babbles accompanying the lewd melody of intercourse. It was gorgeous, music to Fyodor’s very ears, but there was something.. missing. Something that would make this song perfect.

        Fyodor slapped your cheek, hitting hard enough to leave a sting, but not a mark. You were beautiful, after all. He would never want to taint such a graceful figure. My, were you a sight for sore eyes when you cried. Eyes that were once glossed over with tears finally let them run free, each droplet hastily streaming down your cheeks.

A pale hand reached up to your face, cupping the section hot with assault and tears. Fyodor wiped away the teardrops with his thumb, a feigned look of sympathy on his visage. “I’m sorry, love, but I will not take such disrespect from you. Give me an answer, or I’ll have another give me the benefaction that I seek.”

        Despite your hazy mind, you shook your head no and brought all movements on the raven-haired man's cock to a halt. Your heart banged in your chest as you finally relaxed, the ribbon still keeping you up straight. Chuckling, Fyodor brought both appendages to your boobs, toying with your nipples through the thin cloth.

“Good. Now, go on. Do I have to remind you why I’m letting you do this?”

“No, sir..”

“Really, now? Tell me then.”

“B-Because you want me to make you feel good..”

“Correct, Milaya moya. Such a smart girl,” the Russian praised. “Don’t lose focus on the objective at hand, and answer when I speak to you. Do I make myself clear?”

@ HELUVAKU 2023 . do not share or repost .

[dullgecko]

The coffee-liquor incident.

The bad kids were doing one of those challenges where you just pour random stuff in the blender and make people drink it.

Unfortunately, Riz landed on the combination coffee and vodka. The moment his mouth touched that glass, his pupils dilated and he couldn’t stop drinking, he tried to grab the blender and chug it but someone tried to stop him. He doesn’t remember who, all he knows is that he clawed the shit out them.

He then proceeded to drink the entire blender, and started doing laps around Seacaster manor. He was jumping off of walls and casually doing backflips. Eventually they gave up trying to chase him and just watched, occasionally picking up after his destruction.

After about 30 minutes he passed out for 5 hours, woke up, vomited on himself and passed out again.

— 🐞

Heheheh, i like this answer.

Alternativly, someone left coffee liqour out on the bench and he thought it was some kind of fancy pre-made coffee (he didnt read the label) and spent the next several hours absoloutly blasted because he kept making himself coffee with it througout the party. Gets very chatty and flirty because he relaxes and drunk-caffeinated-Riz takes over. Drunk-caffeinated-Riz can be downright obscene and very touchy. His friends thought he was straight up possessed. Kristen banished the bottle when they found out what was causing it. Riz does not remember that night at all (some people remember that night very fondly).

[r4ins]

Bruce Wayne x Male Reader

cw. bottom bruce x dom male reader

“Y/N, I need you here, right now,” was all Bruce said before he looked at his watch and waited. Bruce hadn’t seen him in any non-League capacity for the past few months, and he was horny enough to want to make the most of this brief twenty-minute reprieve between meetings.

Y/N showed up in a blur of wind in his full hero costume in about two minutes, looking worried.

“B?” He asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Bruce answered as he shrugged off his suit coat. “Except I haven’t touched you in nine weeks, five hours, and twenty-three minutes.”

The worry immediately melted off Y/N’s face and was replaced with a smirk. “You missed me that much?”

Instead of responding to that he simply gave Y/N a heated look and said, “Take off the suit and sit on the couch.”

The high points on Y/N’s cheeks brightened but he did as he was told, and, in a blur, he was on the couch in nothing but his underwear looking slightly bemused. Bruce loosened his tie and pulled a tube out of his desk before he stalked over to Y/N like the other was a feast and Bruce had been starving all week.

“You couldn’t wait until you got home?” Y/N asked when Bruce got on his knees and pulled down Y/N’s jockstrap.

“I haven’t had a moment’s peace in ages and I’ve been so horny today, I feel like I’m losing my goddamn mind.” Bruce glanced at his watch before he pulled off his own clothing.

“We have seventeen minutes left, I plan to make the most of it.”

Y/N opened his mouth to be the voice of reason (they hadn’t even locked the door for Rao’s sake!) but what actually came out was a strangled moan when Bruce sucked down most of his cock in one swift motion.

“Holy shit, B,” Y/N choked out and Bruce looked up at him under his eyelashes with his reddening lips stretched wide over Y/N’s dick. He looked positively sinful, and that moment was probably the quickest it had ever taken Y/N to get fully hard. He nearly felt dizzy with the force of his arousal. Bruce made a noise in his throat as Y/N hardened, a choking sound, and Y/N put his fist against his mouth to muffle his whimper.

Bruce relaxed his gag reflex and kept going until Y/N was completely down his throat. It was no easy feat, but it was something that Bruce had dreamed about doing for several weeks now. He was already fully hard against his own thigh, loving the weight and taste of his lover.

In the meantime, he squeezed some lube on his fingers and pushed one into his asshole. He was already so ready for it there was hardly any resistance, so he pushed in another to stretch himself as quickly as possible.

Y/N groaned again, face flushed, as he watched Bruce do this, and had to bite his knuckle by the time Bruce had three fingers inside of him and moaned around Y/N’s cock. If they weren’t under a time constraint, and if Y/N’s brain wasn’t being blown out through his dick, Y/N would try to take back some control and play a little. When they had time, Y/N would take the other apart and praise and simultaneously slutshame him until Bruce was begging to come.

As it were, Y/N knocked his head back against the wall and stifled another moan when Bruce began to work up a rhythm, bobbing his head up and down Y/N’s cock inch by inch. Drool dribbled down his chin. It was obscene and gorgeous, and Y/N scarcely wanted it to end. At the very least, Y/N wanted to come like this. Bruce had other ideas though, and Y/N made a noise of disappointment when Bruce pulled away with swollen, wet lips. Bruce leaned in and licked up a bead of precum forming on his tip and Y/N couldn’t help but bite his lip, completely turned on. The moment was ruined when Bruce glanced at his watch and muttered,

“thirteen minutes.”

Bruce squeezed lube on Y/N’s cock, which twitched in response, and stroked Y/N once or twice before standing. With little preamble, Bruce climbed onto Y/N’a lap and angled Y/N’s dick to go into his hole. It was a little overwhelming with how quickly they were going.

“Do you want a condom?” Y/N grunted out when Bruce held him still.

“No,” Bruce answered simply and sank down slowly on Y/N cock. It was slow going because of how big he was, and Y/N’s hands went to hold Bruce’s hips automatically, even if he felt like his participation in this scenario hardly mattered. Even if Y/N was a little annoyed at how Bruce had reduced him to his dick, the billionaire felt wonderful around him. He was hot and tight, and Y/N memorized every little twitch on Bruce’s face while Bruce stilled to adjust to Y/N’s size.

There was a hot flush on the billionaire’s chest running up his neck to his cheeks and a bead of sweat forming at his grey temples. Y/N didn’t have much time to admire all these little facets because Bruce soon became comfortable enough and lifted himself up to slam back down on Y/N’s cock.

Y/N moaned. Bruce felt so good and Y/N knew Bruce knew it because even with his pupils blown wide and the flush on his cheeks, Bruce had on that little self-satisfied smirk. It drove Y/N wild, and he held Bruce’s hips to fuck up into him as Bruce pounded down, and Bruce lost his rhythm, moaning openly for the other to hear. Y/N kissed him solidly and swallowed down those moans as their tongues entwined and Y/N kept fucking.

Bruce took it so wonderfully. Y/N was like a firebrand inside of him, stretching him deep and wide, and Bruce wasn’t quite sure how he had survived without this. Y/N had the thickest real dick he had ever taken; even Bruce’s toys hardly compared. Bruce had spent several nights, when the adrenaline of a patrol hadn’t quite worn off, fucking himself on his biggest toy imagining it was Y/N. He had literally fantasized of this exact moment, on his knees on his bed, moaning into his pillow, imagining it was Y/N that was really pounding him. The real thing couldn’t compare.

Bruce’s rhythm was now thoroughly off as Y/N took complete control and kept Bruce suspended above his knees. Bruce guessed that they had about five minutes left, and he could feel his orgasm approaching, just out of his reach.

Y/N sensed this and changed angles, so he glanced right against Bruce’s prostate and was a little smug at Bruce’s sudden shout. Bruce panted in Y/N’s ear as he grappled for purchase against him when Y/N didn’t let up against his prostate. Electricity sparked from his toes to his eyes and he shook, closer than he thought.

“Fuck,” Bruce rasped and repeated it like a mantra when Y/N sped up, hitting that spot directly, making him spasm with pleasure. It only took a moment and then, Bruce was coming with a yell. His cum spurted on both of their abs and Y/N kept fucking him through it until he was pushed over the edge himself by Bruce squeezing and twitching around him.

Bruce looked wrecked when he pushed back his sweat slicked hair and stood on wobbly legs. Anyone who looked at him would be able to tell he had just had sex, if they couldn’t smell it on him. It was a minor miracle that Bruce had had his office soundproofed a long time ago. He looked completely unconcerned when he glanced at his watch and bent down to pick up his trousers. Y/N couldn’t help but stare; Bruce had a fantastic ass and when cum dribbled down the back of Bruce’s thigh, Y/N had to stop himself from pushing Bruce over his desk to fuck him again.

“You aren’t going to wear underwear?” Y/N asked when he remembered to speak again. It was an odd decision, considering what had just happened.

“I wanna feel your cum drip out of me,” Bruce murmured, as if it were normal thing to say, and Y/N sucked in a breath, completely aroused.

“You can’t just say stuff like that, B,” he complained.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Why, what are you going to do about it?”

Before Y/N could respond to that, Bruce’s intercom beeped, and his secretary said,

“Mr. Wayne, your three o'clock is here.”

Bruce pressed a button and answered, “I’ll be there in a minute, Holly.”

It was amazing how easily he disguised how raw his throat must have been.

To Y/N, Bruce said, “Be at the manor at five thirty.”

And Y/N knew he’d be right on time.

[derww]

Three small oneshots written on keys from people. First, @mapicccc and TA going groccery shopping, second, @happy-mountain-goats and Subz fixing his wings (apologize in advance for the errors/inaccuracies in the anatomical details), third, @nivalulu and 4C doing small differences.

***

– No, – Zam says sterntly, suddenly perhaps even to himself, as he throws a frozen pizza out of the cart. Mapicc rolls his eyes like he's dealing with a small child.

– Okay, genius. Then you choose. Just hurry up, we've been here for half an hour already.

– No problem, – Zam goes to the shelves and – as if completely at random – pulls out a package of frozen vegetable yakisoba.

– Absolutely not, – Mapicc snaps, – there's not even meat in there! I'm going to starve!

– There was no meat on the pizza either, – Zam retorts, waving the box.

– There was pepperoni in there! – Mapicc crosses his arms over his chest, determined to stand his ground. – It counts!

– It's not, – Zam continues to bicker, but he is stopped by a package of mac&cheese hitting him in the temple. He catches it, rubbing the bruised spot with his other hand and swearing under his breath, and then throws it back. Spoke catches it and mockingly puts it into the cart. He is sitting in the place where small children were usually put – with his height, his feet almost touch the floor – and is clearly laughing at their silly squabbles.

– You don't have to eat the same thing, you assholes, – Spoke chuckles, – it doesn't matter – in short, just throw anything, otherwise, we'll be yelling here until closing time. By the way, where is Ro? Terry! – He waves his hand aggressively, and Terry, who is a few meters away from them collecting an obscene number of pastry bags, turns around and bows his head in a silent question, – Terry, find Ro, we've lost him again!

– I think we all know where Ro is right now, – Terry replies with a giggle, dropping everything into their shared cart, – but I can go and take him, of course, – he yawns, – we can't send Mapicc or Zam to this. Zam will get lost, Mapicc will crash into a shelf.

– I'm not that hopeless! I'll find a way back! – Zam objects, but Terry shakes his head and slowly disappears around the corner.

– At least pretend you have something in your brain, – Mapicc mutters irritably, randomly throwing several more random boxes and freezer bags into the cart and pushing it forward in the direction Terry has gone.

– Who would say that! – Zam is indignant, catching up with him, – It was a terrible idea, next time I'm going alone.

– If you go alone, you'll only bring juice, a pack of chocolate croissants, and a half–eaten chipotle burrito!

– Last time you brought sriracha and 32 sausages! Who eats this for a week in a row!

– Relax, – Spoke drawled, – let's not argue about little things.-

Mapicc stops, and Spoke, too lanky for his position, almost falls out.

– You weren't given the right to vote, – he says, – you brought five original monsters last time we've asked you to buy shit. What is there to eat, the jar itself?

– Great breakfast! – Spoke answers calmly, giving Mapicc a thumbs–up and kicking him in the knee, – I don't know what you don't like about it... – he hurriedly turns around and, noticing something, starts shouting, - hey, Ro! - at first it looks like he's trying to distract their attention, but in the distance there really is a familiar figure looming. Ro holds a half-filled shopping basket in his hand. To his left is Terry, who has clearly regretted agreeing to go with them a hundred times.

– Hello, people, – once at an acceptable distance, Ro waves at them, – are you still arguing? Who should I calm down? Has anything been trashed yet?

When Ro gets even with them, Zam immediately reaches in with his hands into the shopping basket.

– Well, I can understand that, – he picks up tomatoes and sweet peppers without any pretense, – at least someone in this circus thought of bringing some vegetables... Also no questions, – a bag of spinach, celery, bananas, – let's say fine, but you'll be the only one eating it, – edamame, some hummus, – why the fuck do you need so much turmeric? – Ro shrugs his shoulders, and Zam rolls his eyes, but approves. – Is there at least someone in our house who drinks it? – a liter of soy milk, – I'll confiscate it, if you decide to get drunk, suffer for yourself, I have to put up with you all anyway, – he takes off a box of alka-seltzer, to which Ro squints suspiciously, and Mapicc says something remotely obscene... – my God, why do you need twenty-one ounces of olives? – Zam looks dumbfounded, first at the cans, then at Ro. Ro spreads his hands.

– He likes olives and eats them, – Mapicc calmly informs and shrugs his shoulders, – it's not for you to object. It's strange that you didn't know.

– It's all bullshit! – Zam objects, - he'd rather pour them down someone's neck than actually eat them!

– I'll go buy some bread and eggs, – Terry informs them meekly, but his words are drowned out by the hubbub of an argument starting again.

***

Okay, the problem is, his wings have been on the verge of breaking for a fucking eternity, but it's not like he could just take them off. Frankly, he had no idea how to solve the tangle of lost magic without ripping off his own spine. When he was sculpting the spell, he was sculpting hard and forever, and you couldn't fly on a Lifesteal anyway... before.

And, okay, the bases of his wings were in a mess, too, of course, but oh, well, not that he could do anything about it. The last time he checked, there wasn't any major damage, so it wasn't important anyway. To his personal surprise, his hind wings in general were not seriously injured in any way, only worn and torn at a couple of edges.

Do I really have to deal with this, he asks himself. It wasn't that important. They still will last a decent amount of time. And even if he falls in the middle of the flight, it's not a big problem. At last... He rolls his eyes and sighs. Friend agrees with him, humming approvingly. Well, or so it seems to him.

First, he has to make all the tools, because of course he doesn't have the right ones – he wanders in circles through the chaos of his base from side to side and over and over and over until he has everything he needs – or a replacement that will do. A brush has to be made very soft and delicate, small and fluffy, and then his hand cramps for half a day from small work, all sharp corners are cut off from the planed stick, leaving a smooth but thin tip, and the formula for the adhesive material is based on water and made as non-toxic as possible... At least he thinks it came out non-toxic... Well, if it didn't work out, then he'll realize the mistake when he can't fly. Or get a couple of chemical burns. Or get poisoned and die. What a cool perspective to have!

At least there is a directional lamp of the right brightness, and that's how he unfolds everything, in the middle of the corridor, holding onto the part of the hind wings that he can reach: first, he cleans off all the dust and dirt with a brush with unbearable care, first wet, and then dry. Some of the debris refuses to move away, and in the middle of the process he has to build forceps and, swearing under his breath, wield them as well. His hands can't reach everything, but something is better than nothing, and the elytras obviously turn out to be much easier to clean – denser and clearer, they soon turn out to be in an acceptable form. He refuses to reach the inside.

It's even more difficult with glue: apply it to the gap with slow movements – hey, and why did he kill the ancient god at all, if even his wings are tearing – and, having fixed it in the right position, leave it alone. There don't seem to be any symptoms of toxic shock. For now.

He's already putting everything together to put it in a corner and not see it for another hundred years when he hears a block breaking – almost a knock on the door when you live in an underground base without a normal entrance. Well, or breaking in with a chainsaw, if it's an enemy. With the garbage in his arms, he turns around only to see Red. Both of his hands are busy, so he just nods.

– Hi, dear friend. – Red drawls. – And what are you doing here?

He shrugs his shoulders disinterestedly.

– I was fixing the wings. They've been worn out all this time.

– So you can take them off? – Red wonders, – then why do you go everywhere with them?

Subz rolls his eyes.

– No, I can't, – he says, bored. – I fixed the part that I can reach.

– Well, – Red says dramatically, – it's a matter of your safety, Subz! You clearly need the help of a friend who will do you a favor in this difficult and painstaking task!

He makes a face and sighs.

– Yes, yes, of course, my friend Reddoons, – he mutters and resigns himself to the fate.

***

4C is familiar to people here as someone who is simple... exists. He doesn't hold grudges, doesn't maintain bad relationships, goes about his business, and lets the others do the same, and tunnel rats smile when they see him and pass him candies in gratitude to the founding captain. People don't attack him in battles, they don't bother him with arguments, they don't see any threat or danger in him, and he takes full advantage of it. He appears here and there, invisible in his routes, never having anything planned, and people shrug their shoulders and perceive him a little better than the moving element of the interior.

Sometimes it seems to him that he really is some kind of ghost: he cleans the bedroom and hall of the FOCUS base, not forgetting to change the linen and put fresh flowers in the vases, he takes care of the trees at the spawn and decorates the buildings for the holidays, he puts an elytra in the Spacewaffles chest and leaves three copper swords with colored handles in the chest in the tunnels, he waters the valley of daisies and wipes discs lying there from the dust.

He feeds pandas with bamboo and cats with raw tuna, he cleans empty houses and lights candles in churches, and he repairs doors and greases bolts. He lures wardens away from busy places and leaves them in ravines and gorges. He collects items from the corpses and leaves them in chests.

He builds a house at Zaun: he has to choose a simpler design, but it's still nice. Maybe one day I'll really be able to live here, he thinks with warm sadness, leaving only a crafting table inside. On the sign at the entrance, he writes: Home.

In 4C, there is no desire to be a good person, both for himself and for others, he is an invisible man, devoted to the grave, a worthy tunnel rat and keeper of secrets, someone who has laid down his life to avoid conflicts with people, not someone with at least some good or heartfelt motives, but something motivates him to continue. Sometimes he plants a new daisy, and it fills the void in him, sapling by sapling.

[jeonghantis]

hiii! could you write some sub!woozi?❤

note: oh anon.. ahaha.. i hope you enjoy this! i had like several drafts of this and scratched a lot of them out but i do hope this one would help quench the sub!woozi thirst. sprinkled in some cute and sweet moments but still, reader is mean oop. i hope i did him justice 🧍 this is not proofread.

requests ⇝ open

pairing ⇝ lee jihoon (woozi) x reader.

tags ⇝ established relationship, smut, fluff, idol!woozi.

warnings ⇝ graphic sexual content, gn!reader but has female parts (sorry, woozi being pussy-drunk is stuck on my mind).

word count ⇝ 1.4k words

smut tags under the cut.

minors do not interact.

smut tags: sub!woozi, mean dom!reader, teasing, degradation, praise, petname "baby", dirty talk, studio sex, chair sex, mention of fingering, cockwarming, unprotected sex, creampie, cumplay(?), grinding, woozi cums a bit too fast (oop), mentions of being used as a toy, woozi being used as a toy instead. if i missed anything please let me know!

“Didn’t I tell you to sit still, Jihoon?”

A whimper was breathed, so broken and so soft that it was barely imperceptible and could have easily been mistaken for a creak of furniture. But you caught it. You knew exactly what it was. And you smile, peering down at the source who sat under you—a man, whose broad frame enriched with muscles, now trembled, and whose strong arms corded with power flexed as he held tightly onto the armrests of his chair for his dear life. 

���But it’s h-hard not to,” Jihoon rasped, trying so hard but failing to keep his hips jerking up, to shallowly thrust his length further into your heat.

Immediately, you reach a hand back, pressing your palm down hard on his thigh as if to stop his movements, but you’re gritting your teeth, biting back a moan from the delicious drag of him against your silken walls. “But you said you’d be good for me, didn’t you?” you crooned, bringing your free hand to cradle your boyfriend’s face, a thumb smoothing over the softness of his cheek. “You’re the one that wanted this, right?”

Jihoon doesn’t meet your eyes. It was true, he was the one who brought the image up—the image of you sitting prettily on his cock, warming him for hours as he would try to work on his music. That had been a little less than an hour ago, just after your arrival in his studio to surprise your busy boyfriend who you hadn’t seen awhile because of his hectic schedule leading up to his comeback. You had meant for it to be a cute little catchup over takeaway dinner and never would’ve expected those combinations of words to leave your boyfriend’s mouth. Jihoon had just shrugged casually as if what he had suggested weren’t strung together to be so obscene, but from the pinking tips of his ears, you knew the embarrassment was catching up to him. And from the bewilderment he had on his face when you immediately moved to remove the bottom half of your clothing and sit on his lap, you knew he didn’t think you’d act on his suggestion right away.

Could anyone blame you? When he looked so adorable trying to play it cool?

And so he relented. He relented when you ordered him to return and work on the tracks, all the while you stretched yourself out above him with your own fingers to prepare yourself for his girth. He relented when you finally sank down, letting out that restrained whimper when you bottomed out completely. He relented for a good fifteen minutes, (barely) working on mastering the track, before you finally felt the most delicate thrust made against you, as if he tried to search for his own relief in secret.

How could a person be so adorable? You were going insane.

“Answer me, baby,” you drawled, forcibly taking his chin with deft fingers to make him look at you. “You’re the one who brought this up. Why can’t you do it well, hm? Already dumb from getting your cock wet?”

“Y-Yes,” he breathed out, not even missing a beat. “Y-You just feel so good. I can’t – ”

“Can’t talk properly?” you cruelly finish with a chuckle. “Have you been so pent up, Jihoon baby?”

Jihoon does not try to speak again, shame coloring his cheeks as he gnaws on his bottom lip. You would have felt bad for him at this moment were it not for him twitching ceaselessly inside you. So, you did not, and instead smiled sharply, tightening your grip on his face.

“Are you not going to answer me again?” you crooned. “Was I not right? Were you not pent up? Were you not dying to be inside me?”

His hands flew to grab your waist, nails digging crescents roughly into your skin. With the strength he had used, it was almost as if he had meant to lift you up and and use your body to fuck himself with. But he had stayed still, huffing heavily with veins cropping up his arms with restraint. 

You had only stared at him, greatly amused by it all with a brow cocked up. “Use your words,” you chided paired with a tilt of your head. “Answer.”

He swallowed hard, throat visibly bobbing, before finally managing out words. “You’re right,” his voice strained. He looked at you now, pure anguish and lust an untamed flame flickering in the darkness of his eyes. His hands are frantic as he begins to feel you up, to just feel you and everything that you are. You gave a disappointed click of tongue, but he was not listening, calloused fingers clutching your waist, as he slowly descended into insanity. “I didn’t think you would cockwarm me right away, I just – I’ve just missed you so much and I really do miss being inside you so much so please, please let me fuck you. Please? I’ve missed you. I missed you so much - ”

He was blabbering, not stuttering as much anymore, but nonetheless blabbering whatever came into his desire-ridden mind first. But that did it for you. Your self-control plummeted hard at the first ‘I’ve just missed you’ and you’ve always been such a sucker for being yearned for. And you missed and yearned for him just as much as he did for you, so it was easy to relent to him, to finally raise your hips and begin moving against him.

“I love you,” you whispered, your teasing lilt long gone, as you let yourself be taken away by the pleasure of being filled, of finally being one with the love of your life after having been apart. 

“I love you,” Jihoon sobbed right back, lower frame lifting up to meet the pace you set. Already his hips stammered as he did so and you couldn’t help the delighted spasm of your walls around him, which did nothing to aid his crumbling self. “I love you so much. I love you so so much, baby. Thank you, thank you, thank you -”

You shut him up with a kiss, rough and hungry, but still holding all the affection you had for him. He eases into it without a fight, his lips parting open for you to lick into. “You can let go, Jihoon baby,” you murmured into his mouth, flicking your tongue behind his teeth. “Fill me up well. I know you can.”

That did it for him and he just broke apart. A thread of whimpers and appreciation fall from his lips as he releases inside you with a violent twitch, spurting loads and loads of his white warmth it was almost neverending. By the time Jihoon had calmed and slumped back on his chair, you could feel his slick leak out of you, sliding back down his softening length, and you just let yourself be amazed by it.

So, he had really been so pent up.

“You did amazing, baby,” you cooed, pressing your lips against his, this time in a more chaste and sweet manner, and then press your lips everywhere else on his sweating face.

Jihoon murmured another ‘thank you’, slowly coming down from his high with slow blinks made in your direction. “Did you cum?” he asked quietly, sounding concern but worn out.

“No,” you admit and already Jihoon is moving to sit up, but you stop him with a hand on his chest. “It’s okay, I can do it myself.”

But Jihoon looked crestfallen and he moves to hold your waist again, giving it a gingerly squeeze. “But you don’t have to, I’m right here and I can help – ”

“I know,” you said, lips curving. “I was thinking of using you.”

Jihoon blinked again. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you affirmed with a laugh. You lift yourself off of him, just enough to have his cock come slumping out of you, unplugging what kept most of his release inside. You let his cum seep out of you as you carefully drop back down, sitting right atop and having him fit snugly between your wet folds. “I hope you don’t mind become my toy for a bit,” you purred and dragged your cunt along the underside of his length, suppressing a shiver made from the friction finally pressed on your clit. “You’ll be good, won’t you?”

“I will,” Jihoon exhaled but his eyes were transfixed to your cunt spreading his own cum all over himself. “I will. I promise I will this time.”

“Good boy,” you smiled. “Let’s make up for lost time, hm?”

[voxofthevoid]

Surprise Rut Wednesday #4: Gojou Satoru has entered the chat.

For an endless moment, all Kento can do is stare.

His mind stalls and stutters, failing to compute the reality of Gojou Satoru in the flesh in his bedroom. And the longer he stares, the more evident it becomes that Gojou’s been here for a while—at least long enough to make himself comfortable. He’s sitting on the swivel chair that was tucked against the table in one corner of the room, having dragged it close enough to the bed for him to prop both feet on the mattress.

Somehow, it’s the innocuous sight of his sock-clad feet that drives Kento’s current reality home.

He drags his eyes up the length of Gojou’s body, from the long legs stretched out between the bed and the chair to the dark blindfold pooled at the base of his throat. He lingers there a moment, uncomfortably aware of the weight of the eyes waiting for him as well as the state of his own body. Itadori is a solid line of heat against his back…and inside him. His cock is mostly soft but no less intrusive for it, and focusing on it is a mistake because Kento’s walls clench around it, his own cock stirring between his legs in helpless response.

He raises his eyes to Gojou’s, breath stilling in his throat at the sight of that inhuman brightness.

Kento spent several of his formative years with near-constant exposure to those eyes, every shade of blue in the world condensed to obscenity. He learned early on to smother the instinctive flare of unease at the sight.

He finds he can’t do it now, the Six Eyes lit from within in a way that’s wholly unfamiliar.

Gojou’s question echoes in his skull.

“Gojou-san,” Kento rasps, voice thick with sleep and worse, “I—”

He cuts off with a strangled sound as Itadori moves, and it’s nothing extreme, just a shift of the hips that’s considerably tamer than the unconscious affair that woke Kento god-knows-how-many hours ago, but his cock isn’t so soft anymore, thickening and lengthening inside Kento to dig into hurts old and new.

Not for the first time, Kento feels like he’s discovering internal muscles he didn’t know existed.

“Huh,” Gojou says. “Guess he’s waking up.”

Except he isn’t. Kento is intimately familiar with the way Itadori moves—awake, asleep, and all the states in between. These lazy, rutting motions and the idle nuzzling against Kento’s nape are all the actions of a boy who’s still blissfully dead to the world.

And Gojou doesn’t take long to realize that either.

“Or not.” That’s followed by a long inhale, and it’s almost certainly exaggerated for Kento’s benefit, but there’s something dangerously authentic about the way Gojou’s flutter half shut, leaving only slivers of vicious blue to lance through Kento. “He’s trying to soothe you. Isn’t that sweet?”

Nothing about Gojou’s tone suggests he finds this sweet.

But he’s not wrong either. Itadori’s scent is rising and rising, smothering the sweeter notes of the alien, unwelcome scent Kento woke to, and they’re not gone, Gojou’s pheromones, but Itadori drenches the air in enough of his essence to drown out everything else, and Kento finds himself both relieved and concerned. Gojou’s expression is sharp and shrewd—a smiling mouth crowned by cold eyes. His nostrils flare again, and Kento becomes aware of the telltale throb of his throat and thighs, his body’s answer to the flood of Itadori’s pheromones.

Kento tries to ignore all of it—his body, Itadori’s body.

“Gojou-san,” he tries again, and by some miracle, his voice comes out steady, “I assume Shouko-san told you about the situation.”

“Well, she left out a few key details,” Gojou says, that scimitar of a smile widening. “Or did she? You didn’t tell her, did you? For shame, Nanami.”

Shame, huh?

Kento doesn’t need Gojou to tell him that. Even the hard cock he’s now impaled on is an unnecessary reminder.

“I take it you came to fetch Itadori-kun,” Kento says evenly.

“I sure did,” he confirms, all faux cheer. “Now, I don’t know. I’d hate to do that when Yuuji seems so…attached.”

Every word is serrated and suggestive, but even worse is the way Gojou’s eyes flicker to Kento’s groin, a pale eyebrow rising in some foul blend of surprise and mockery. Kento knows with damning certainty that he’s seeing more than he should, those cursed eyes not limited by line of sight.

It’s impossible, then, to ignore the cock inside him and the boy it’s attached to.

Itadori isn’t moving with any real intent, but it’s still movement. One of his arms is draped over Kento, and his fingers twitch against his stomach like they want to hold him. The rest of him is no less gentle, rocking against and into Kento, and he’d dismiss it as sleepy lust if not for the low, barely audible croon that’s started up, bursting in sweet slivers of air and noise against his nape. The pheromonal storm raging in the room makes it very clear what Itadori is trying to do, and it’d have worked any other time, as Kento knows from unfortunate experience, but not now, not with Gojou here.

Stop, Itadori, Kento thinks, knowing it’s useless.

Itadori isn’t even conscious. His instinct-driven body is only trying to help.

And Gojou knows it and shows it too, from the keen eyes to the sharp mouth.

“You smell so stressed, Nanami,” he says, tone anything but concerned. “You’ll make him upset if you keep this up. Alphas are very sensitive, you know. Should I help?”

Kento briefly screws his eyes shut. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t be like that,” Gojou murmurs, dangerously soft, and when Kento opens his eyes, alarm bells blaring in his mind, it’s to the sight of Gojou unzipping his jacket, the glossy black material splitting open all the way to the navel. He’s clothed underneath, of course, in some tight, clinging thing that leaves nothing to the imagination, but it’s the newly bared throat that snags Kento’s attention.

As if on cue, Gojou tilts his head to the side. Kento realizes with slow, dawning horror that the juncture of his neck and shoulder, where scent glands thicken the skin, is tellingly wet.

“Don’t,” he breathes, futility numbing his mouth. “Gojou-san—”

Gojou rolls his sleeves up, exposing his wrists—and the scent glands there. They’re smaller and weaker, but they’re also a piece of anatomy that Kento’s lacking entirely, and a single, searing second is all it takes for Gojou’s scent to suffuse the room, blending with Itadori’s and drowning out Kento’s.

He smells like a storm—sharp and electric.

He smells like threat.

Kento’s own throat and thighs flare hot in instinctive response, a pheromonal surge that leaves him dazed and panting, and it’s one hell of a way to find out his body seems to think Gojou’s competition.

Itadori’s reaction is worse.

A low growl is all the warning Kento gets before he’s rolled onto his front in a violent movement, Itadori’s entire body weight landing on him, and that would be nothing, nothing at all, but Itadori’s cock, it’s—

Kento shouts as he’s filled in a single thrust, the few inches of flesh Itadori had yielded to the sudden switch in positions savagely retrieved, and he doesn’t stop, rutting into Kento like a mad thing, and this is nothing like the lazy motions earlier, all intents to soothe superseded by the instinct to take, and Kento knows this hunger, he’s borne it often enough for its heat to be engraved into his flesh, but—

“Ah,” Gojou says flatly. “Maybe I overdid it.”

Kento hisses through clenched teeth, and he needs a long moment, a few shuddering breaths, to make sure his voice won’t waver to the rhythm of Itadori’s thrusts when he speaks: “You’re still doing it. Stop.”

Gojou laughs. “What, don’t you like my scent? Yuuji seems to. But then, he clearly likes yours too. Greedy boy, isn’t he?”

[beechersnope]

Summer of Cum Days 13/14/15: moneyshot, prostate massage, come as lube

george/charles, warnings for intoxicated sex, sexual coercion, internalized homophobia, and charles being a terrible partner, 1011 words

***

They only ever do this when they’re high.

It’s tradition at this point, the slow, mellow exchange of hands that takes place when all their friends have gone home for the night, leaving just the two of them still sitting way too close together on a far too spacious sofa.

George isn’t like, into Charles, but he can appreciate the potent thrill of doing something he shouldn’t. He’s gotten over the hot, slick pulsing feeling of revulsion that had washed over him the first time he’d wrapped his fingers around Charles’s cock—mostly.

This time, though, Charles wants more.

“Come on,” Charles whines, his face pressed into the crook of George’s neck, breath hot against his throat. His accent is thicker when he’s crossfaded, a soupy mix of uvular consonants and nasal vowels. “Haven’t had a fuck in weeks.”

“And that’s my problem, how?” George asks.

Charles doesn’t answer him directly. He scoots closer, shoving a clumsy hand down the front of George’s trousers without warning. George inhales a sharp gasp and tries not to reflexively fuck up into Charles’s warm, dry, too tight grip.

“I’ll make you come first,” Charles promises. “I’ll make it so good for you.”

And George might hate himself for it, but he’s never been good at saying no.

Less than fifteen minutes later, he’s on his back in Charles’s bed, legs akimbo, naked as the day he was born. And Charles is two fingers deep inside his ass.

George wants to believe that Charles’s galling lack of technique is due to the fact that he’s had several beers and eaten two pot brownies, but that would be giving him far too much credit.

“Do you finger your girlfriend like this?” George wonders as he stares up at the ceiling, head jolting against the pillow with every rough thrust of Charles’s fingers. He’s only hard because he’s high, he tells himself. Weed always gets him horny.

“She does not like to be fingered,” Charles replies seriously.

He doesn’t take the hint. Every jerk of the wrist is more forceful than the last, and George can’t help but let out a high-pitched moan—of surprise—when Charles somehow manages to jab his fingers straight into what George can only assume is his prostate.

It feels good. George wishes it didn’t.

“It’s no wonder,” George manages to bite out in between his own heaving exhalations. “You’re not using a power saw, you’re supposed to give it a little finesse. I bet you don’t even touch her clit.” That was probably going a bit too far, George thinks, but after all this there was no denying that Charles needed the constructive criticism.

“You don’t have a clit,” Charles replies dumbly. He takes his free hand, cradling George’s right thigh in his palm and pushes it up, bending his knee towards his chest. Then he fucks his fingers in even faster, this time managing to hit George’s prostate directly on every single stroke.

It feels—George doesn’t know how it feels. There’s nothing to compare it to, just the feeling of hitting a wall at nearly two-hundred miles an hour.

George knows Charles doesn’t even know what he’s doing, that it’s just dumb luck, but that doesn’t stop George from shooting all over his chest and stomach in approximately fifteen seconds flat, his cock untouched, the whole thing dirty and obscene and overly theatrical like something from a porno. He isn’t even sure what sound came out of his mouth when he came, but when his vision comes back into focus again, Charles is staring down at him with an expression George has only ever seen when Charles qualifies on the front row, a future victory within reach.

Charles pulls his fingers out quickly—too quickly—and doesn’t acknowledge the hiss of discomfort that escapes George’s lips at the sudden loss. George wonders (with a sharp tinge of disgust) what it must look like from Charles’s perspective, whether he’s as open and raw and gaping as he feels, whether Charles has created a wound in him that he wasn’t meant to have.  

George clenches down around nothing, pathetically, a silent plea, and it’s almost a relief when Charles plunges his fingers back in again, wet now with George’s own come.

“What are you doing?” George asks, still feeling a bit dazed from the orgasm that had just been wrenched out of him.

“I told you,” Charles replies, a bit impatiently. He pulls his fingers out again after only a couple quick probing thrusts and swipes even more come from George’s flat, trembling belly, using it to slick up his cock instead. “I wanted to fuck you.”

His dick is hard and heavy between his thighs, too big to point straight up at his belly button the way it should. George can’t even conceptualize the idea of having it inside him, not after the way that Charles’s fingers had rent him asunder. He shudders, thinking of steel-spark sensation of something that huge balls-deep in his ass, jackhammering away with no consideration for anything but the pursuit of Charles’s own orgasm.

George wonders if Charles would even bother to pull out, or if he’d come inside him just because he could.

“I could blow you,” George offers as he suddenly comes to terms with the horrifying vulnerability of having Charles between his legs, about to fuck him the way he fucks all his little brunette assembly line girlfriends.

Charles just stares down at him blankly, like he doesn’t understand. “I want to fuck you,” he says again, more insistently this time. He grabs the base of his dick, already shuffling forward on his knees to line up with the give of George’s over-sensitized hole.

George should tell him to fuck off: that just because he has a massive cock and a stupid nickname, it doesn’t mean that he can have everything he wants. But he doesn’t say anything at all.

He just lies back, listening to the chorus of their panting breaths cutting through the silence like knives, and thinks of England.

[beautifulpersonpeach]

You haven't answered my other V ask so you might be wanting to move on from this topic but I just have to ask. Don't you find 10 million USD on album sales excessive?? I'm talking about V's fanbase by the way. Isn't that money amount obscene to believe? Not to sound too conspiracy minded Peachy, but how can a kpop fanbase raise that amount of money? Can they do that through legal means or should sane people be worried? Also don't you think armys are acting irresponsible wasting that money on albums that they don't use when they could be using it for charity instead? I really respect your thoughts so I'm hoping to read your reply. Thank you in advance Peachy.

***

So... you're asking me how a fandom that raised $1 million USD in 24 hours for a Black Lives Matter charity with zero notice btw, how the fandom that raised $100,000 USD in hours for charity in Megan Thee Stallion's name, can raise $10 million USD over a three-year period for albums?

It's basic arithmetic, is it not?

I guess it seems like a lot of money for someone uninformed on just how big the k-pop market is and on how much k-pop fans typically spend on comebacks (note: solo fanbase funds for Seventeen and Stray Kids easily exceeded $15 million USD this year, and it's reflected in their album sales). Also, I'm not sure how long you've been following me Anon, but when I talk about the size of ARMY fandom in absolute numbers, when we discuss things like fandom dynamics that replicate those seen in political systems, or insane ticketing rituals that are more complicated than those used by the Bey-hive, and merch prices etc, what scale exactly, are you picturing when I mention these things?

ARMYs are a lot of people. Lol I'm not sure you understand. And many ARMYs in my circle are working professionals and audiophiles who didn't blink when it came up in conversation that I've spent > $45,000 on speakers. Not trying to be a bitch, but I do think it's important context to know the demographics of the fandom, and to know most ARMYs just buy one or a few albums for themselves. Those with the means carry the bulk of the donations, however ARMYs huge absolute numbers also mean even micro-transactions or donations from people who perhaps cannot afford more, are several magnitudes more than in other k-pop fandoms. The ARMY fandom is literally constantly growing, and that's why BigHit can realistically stagger seven solo debuts in a one-year period and all seven artists will still outperform active k-pop groups.

"Also don't you think armys are acting irresponsible wasting that money on albums that they don't use when they could be using it for charity instead?"

I'm not sure I like your tone here. (1) Because it's pretty clear ARMYs can damn well do what they want with their money. It's incredibly patronizing to presume to know what other fans individually value or to dictate how you think other people should spend their own money, to presume nobody here can think for themselves to know what and how best to spend their earned income. We're in a hobby space, anyone who's already opened a fan account/blog is already in too deep no point sugarcoating it. We're here because we want to be and are getting something we still deem worthwhile for our own pleasure. So what if we spend whatever the fuck we want on our hobbies as within what we deem as appropriate? And (2) ARMYs already and comfortably do both. There's no k-pop fandom that's as heavily involved in charitable causes as ARMY. Take it from someone who's been around. Do you think mobilizing a fandom of hundreds of thousands of people to raise $1 million in 24 hours would be possible if that culture and the fundraising channels didn't already exist?

And this was before Dynamite. Before 60% of the fandom that's already here, joined.

The only place I agree with you, is in that a solo fanbase was so involved and could raise that amount of money in the first place. Because giving influence to solos is just a recipe for disaster. In my experience, akgaes are just fundamentally less intelligent people. Akgaes and solo stans or people who lean towards solo stanning (not including casual fans), are also more reactionary and impulsive, verbally/emotionally abusive, paranoid and prone to conspiratorial thinking. These are people with nearly zero ordered thinking skills and unwavering tunnel vision. They won't think twice about applying blatantly illegal methods or acting rashly if it means getting the result they want. If there's ever a massive scandal on the fandom or BTS, I can almost guarantee you it will be because an akgae fucked up or went too far. Also, I'm actually not certain all the funds raised by Taehyung's fanbase did so through legal means. That's what I mean about solo stans. Too many of them are literally just that stupid. And I mean, just by virtue of being a C-bar, it's fairly common for some bars to be linked to members of wealthy/political families in China and SEA. There's only ever been rumours, but it wouldn't surprise if it were true that some money involved was made by illegal means.

Which is one reason I hold on to my hope that people will refrain from partnering with solos, regardless of how things evolve for BTS, but given the way things are going, by 2026 the fandom will likely be a 65 : 35 ARMY : solo ratio, from what I assume to be 90 : 10 now. It's kinda bleak actually. But it is what it is.

Jikook will still be jikooking anyway and the music will still be dope. So BTS and HYBE will keep getting my money.

[thessalian]

Thess vs Holiday Prep

Well. Today was ... a mess.

As previously stated, we are in something of a distaster with the workload. Because apparently people being gone for several weeks at a time (it's, what, over a month now?) does not call for getting a temp because "Maaaaaaaaaaybe they'll be back next week".

(Side note: honestly, this really is down to Temp and Other Part-Timer having poor communication skills. I was in regular contact with the office when I was on long-term sick getting my fibromyalgia diagnosis, just to keep them in the loop. Temp, meanwhile, leaves it until two days after the date her doctor's note says she can return to work to say, "Actually, that's not happening". This is, frankly, ludicrous on all counts and we still have no idea when she's going to be back.)

Anyway. First thing was, of course, the regular day job. I did, however, stand up on one very basic point - a request that someone please for the love of fuck take that seventeen-minute Monstrosity so I don't have to. I mean, honestly, it was for the best. My left hand - the one that got caught in a door, y'know - was already sore as fuck just on Annoyances. A Monstrosity would have killed me. And I literally said that. My exact words were, "I know everyone leaves the longer ones for me and I usually don't complain, but I got my hand caught in a door over the weekend (nothing broken, just very bruised) and a macro that long will cause me problems, especially with [Breast Guy]'s macros". Looked back and it was gone. I'd bet good money that Scruffman did it himself, since he probably wasn't going to ask Goblin to do it. I think he looked at my email, went, "I have people out sick and [Thess] is working with a bruised hand on top of that chronic pain thing, so I am going to agree to this pretty reasonable request without a fucking word, at least in part because I will need [Thess] on overtime as much as possible since she's* the only one who will actually do any and I can't afford to cripple her right now. Two days without [Thess] in the office was bad enough".

(* - side note: I am not out at the office. Look at the country in which I live, and the government policy on trans folks over here, for the answer as to why.)

Had to step out - on Christmas Eve, no less - for a couple of last-minute things I couldn't carry on my last shops trip. Mostly bleach, toilet paper, a couple of nibbleables, and something I could reasonably stuff into my face with minimal effort. Thankfully that wasn't a huge deal - honestly, Tesco's yesterday was worse.

But after that I had to come home and do overtime. We're only barely below 500 cases, partly because we had the usual folks in - and one lady in particular throwing urgent cases in the queue until, like, 6pm. I literally yelled, "IT'S CHRISTMAS EVE; GO HOME!" Two and a half hours of overtime, nightmare.

After that and a bath to try to soak some of the aches out, it was time to meet another of my obligations. Specifically ... I do dessert for Christmas dinner at the parentals' house. Started as a tradition last year because it's easier for me to make a dessert that I can eat. Thankfully I wasn't baking anything, exactly - just slightly destroying the kitchen with a mint chocolate cheesecake. The "licking the spoon" test says I did good, anyway. But after all that, we were approaching midnight and I hadn't even had dinner yet. That was my "I'm going to make a nice Christmas Eve dinner for myself" out the window; I just made something simple. But it did mean I ate a proper meal.

After that, wrapping the Christmas gifts for the parentals. Thankfully the Christmas snack hamper for my stepfather was easy to handle; just arrange everything nicely in a gift bag (though I have to remember to take his brie out of the fridge when I take out my cheesecake). Mum ... three small things - two for Christmas, one for her birthday, which happens on the 19th. Managed well enough, despite being obscenely tired by then. Did the cards, packed everything I will need (except for the refrigerated stuff) and set it by the door for easy pick-up tomorrow.

After that, I could finally relax ... in juuuuuuust enough time for it to be "nearly time for bed". AAAAAAAAA!

Happy Holidays, everybody. I wish you a more peaceful holiday than I seem to be having.

[ghostsandgod]

There is nothing more precious than time, but there is nothing less esteemed and more despised by men of the world. You will see a gamester spend nights and days in play. If you ask him what he is doing, his answer is, 'I am passing the time.' You shall see others standing several hours in the street, looking at those who pass by, and speaking on obscene or on useless subjects. If you ask them what they are doing, they will say, 'We are passing the time.' Poor, blind sinners! who lose so many days, but days which never return.

-St Alphonsus Ligouri

[lilyvandersteen]

Home Away From Home by @lilyvandersteen

This story was written for the Klaine Prompt Reverse Bang, and is dedicated to @justgleekout, who made art for this prompt, and to my faithful beta @hkvoyage. Thank you so much!

Summary:

Cooper buys a hotel sight unseen and asks Blaine to run it for him over the summer. Only, the hotel is a health and safety hazard and Inspectors Hummel and Abrams are hell-bent on closing it down. Can Blaine spruce the hotel up in time and save Cooper's investment?

Rated M. Warning for the use of a rape drug in the story. No actual rape, though, I assure you.

You can also read this story on AO3.

~~~~~~

Prologue

Thump!

Blaine woke with a start as he fell out of bed.

“Oops!” said his roommate, wincing sympathetically. “Didn’t mean to push you that hard, but you just wouldn’t wake up.”

Blaine groaned and rubbed his sore bottom as he got up, squinting at his alarm clock. “Tina! It’s three o’clock in the morning! Why would you wake me up at this hour?”

“So you could answer your phone. Or silence it. It’s been blaring off and on for at least ten minutes. You’re lucky I haven’t smashed it to bits yet!”

Right on cue, Blaine’s phone went off again. He grabbed it and tapped the Answer button.

“Hey squirt!” Cooper boomed.

“Don’t call me… Coop, why on EARTH are you waking me up in the middle of the night?”

“What? It’s not… Oh, hang on, time difference. Right. Didn’t think of that, squirt, sorry.”

Blaine sighed. “Don’t call me squirt. And okay, I guess you’re filming somewhere at the other side of the world again?”

“Yes, we’re working on that fantasy series for Netflix that I told you about. I’m in Thailand right now. Flying to New Zealand tomorrow. I’m having a total blast.”

“That’s great. Now tell me, what was so important you had to tell me right this minute?”

“Oh! Oh, just you wait, you’re going to LOVE this!”

“Uh-oh,” Blaine mumbled between gritted teeth. “What now?”

Cooper either didn’t hear him, or pretended not to.

“You know how you’re always telling me to stop spending my money on stuff like cars and tech, right?”

Blaine huffed. “And with good reason. You spend an obscene amount on gadgets. And that Bugatti is SO over the top.”

“Exactly!” said Cooper. “Well, now I’ve made a ‘sound investment’, as you call it. Real estate, as you advised.”

Blaine’s heart leapt. “Really? You bought a place in New York? And you’re calling me to ask me if I will move in with you? The answer’s yes!”

Tina put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

“Nah… No. Not exactly.”

Blaine’s sense of misgiving tingled.

“I didn’t buy a house. I bought a hotel. It was a steal, I’m telling you. I couldn’t pass it up!”

“A hotel? Where? Why?”

“Well, I won’t be this pretty forever, you know,” Cooper explained. “And then I might not get booked as an actor anymore. So I needed to find a back-up plan for when I stop being in demand. Talked about it with the guys here over lunch, and Sebastian Smythe, who plays my younger brother in the series we’re filming, said he had a hotel he could sell me. I kind of like the thought of offering people a nice vacation, you know. A home away from home. Maybe I could do a one-man show after dinner. Like they do on cruises. Doesn’t that sound amazing?”

“Yes, yes, that’s all very well, but you’re still filming now. So who’s going to run the hotel?”

“Well, that’s where you come in,” Cooper announced cheerfully. “You’re done with your exams, right? And now you’ve got several months off. So you can go check out the hotel for me. See if the staff that’s in place is okay or needs to be replaced.”

“Coop, are you insane?”

“Think of it as a free vacation, squirt. I’m sure the staff will pamper you once they find out you’re the brother of the new owner!”

Blaine shook his head slowly in disbelief. “Have you even SEEN the place before you bought it?”

“On the website, yes. It looks great!”

“Ugh, Coop! So you saw a couple of pretty pictures on a website and shelled out a fortune sight unseen? How can you be sure the place even exists?”

Cooper chuckled. “Well, of course it exists! The previous owner sent me an Excel spreadsheet with the bookings. It’s booked solid for the rest of the year already! Just think what a fortune I’m going to make!”

Blaine tugged at his curls in frustration, repressing an ungodly urge to strangle his brother. “UN-BE-LIEVE-A-BLE. You are unbelievable! Okay, not everyone has a head for business, but I can’t believe you are THIS much of an idiot! Are you sure you’re actually my brother and George Anderson’s son? Our father would have a conniption if he found out about this!”

“I thought you’d be happy I’d followed your advice.”

Blaine could almost hear his brother’s pout.

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair again.

“I know you meant well. But… Buying a place without even visiting it first is not a good idea, and that’s putting it mildly. There could be all sorts of things wrong with it. If you say you didn’t pay much, that’s quite likely, in fact. This ‘investment’ of yours may be just as useless as that Nintendo Wii Supreme you just had to have.”

“Hey! It’s not useless! I’ve used it a lot!” Cooper protested. “And I’m sure it’s all on the up and up. As I said, the pics on the website look fantastic!”

Blaine pinched the bridge of his nose and suppressed another sigh. Talking to Cooper was very much like talking to a toddler, sometimes.

“Coop … Anyone can copy-paste a couple of nice pictures onto a website. That doesn’t prove anything. Did the realtor give you a virtual tour?”

“Uhm… No.”

“Did you pay someone to do a thorough inspection of the property before you bought it?”

“No.”

“Please tell me that the offer you made had a home inspection contingency, at least?”

“Uhm… No idea.”

Blaine’s voice rose an octave. “A title contingency, to make sure no-one else can claim the property?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you even so much as look the hotel up on TripAdvisor to see if it had good reviews?”

“Nope, didn’t think of that.”

“Oh, Coop…” Blaine groaned. “What a mess! You need to go there, stat, and check the property from top to bottom. You actually bought it already, right? It’s not just an offer you can withdraw?”

“It’s mine, yes. I signed a contract. But you know I can’t go check the property right now. I’m heading to New Zealand tomorrow, and I’m needed there for at least six more weeks.”

Blaine let his head down, overwhelmed. “Ugh… I’m not awake enough for this. Coop, send me all the info, and the contract, by e-mail. I’ll look it over and see what our options are.”

“I knew I could count on you, squirt. Thanks a lot. I’ll send you everything. And now I’ll let you sleep. Sorry again for waking you up, and talk to you later!”

Cooper rang off, and Blaine was left staring at the phone in his hands in bewilderment.

Tina cocked her head to the side. “So… Your brother bought a hotel? Just like that?”

Blaine nodded. “Just like that. And then recruited me to sort everything out for him. Oh, this is going to be a disaster!”

“Why are you in such a panic about this, Blainey Days? Surely, your brother wouldn’t let himself be duped?”

Blaine groaned. “Oh, yes, he would!”

He patted Tina on the arm. “But that’s my problem, not yours. You can go back to bed, and I’m sorry my idiot brother woke you up like that. I’ll make you pancakes in the morning to make up for it, okay?”

“Okay. G’night.”

Blaine wearily shuffled back to his bed, and was out like a light.

By six a.m., though, he was awake again, worrying.

After half an hour of tossing and turning, he got up quietly and started up his computer.

Cooper had sent the files, as requested.

The contract did not have a home inspection contingency nor a title contingency, as Blaine had feared.

The hotel wasn’t in a nice touristy location. It was in the middle of nowhere. A place called Lima, Ohio.

Also, the hotel had certainly not been a “steal”. Cooper must have sunk a lot of capital into it.

The photos on the website did look good, yes, but as soon as Blaine checked the reviews about the hotel on TripAdvisor, he knew they had to be fake.

All of the reviews were negative. And it was bad. Worse even than Blaine had feared.

The mildest complaint was one about the lack of free Wi-Fi. It went steadily downhill from there.

Guests complained about the hotel being overbooked. About dirty and stinky rooms. About a faulty outlet that fried their shaver. About bed bugs and cockroaches. About leaking taps that kept them up all night. About wanting a nice hot shower and only getting freezing cold water. About noisy neighbours that kept them up all night because the walls were so flimsy you could hear everything through them. About beds that creaked with every move they made and mattresses so old and thin their back was in knots. About sweltering heat in summer and bone-deep cold in winter, because the air conditioning units didn’t work. About the stale bread and lukewarm coffee they got for breakfast. About seeing mice in the restaurant. About rude staff that would come into their room without even knocking or that were accused of stealing money and a phone charger. About the lack of elevators and ramps for wheelchairs. And a blind person complained about their assistance dog not being let in.

When he’d read all of the scathing reviews, Blaine let out his breath in a big woosh.

 Oh, Cooper, what have you done now?

Blaine felt like banging his head on the table in frustration, but refrained, choosing to get started on the pancakes instead.

When Tina emerged from her bedroom and saw how unhappy her roommate looked, she steered him towards a kitchen chair to give him a shoulder massage, saying, “Tell me all about it, Bee.”

So Blaine told her everything.

She whistled low. “I know the place. I grew up in Lima. And that hotel was where I lost my virginity after prom.”

Blaine shuddered. “TMI!”

Tina laughed. “Oh please! That’s something everyone does in high school. Get over yourself!”

Blaine wouldn’t meet her eyes, thinking of the only school dance he’d ever been to and how that had ended.

“Not everyone,” he mumbled.

“Well, anyway,” said Tina, “the place was a dump even then. I’d say sell it again immediately. But who’s going to want it? And even if someone does, they’ll pay a lot less than your brother did, so he’ll lose a lot of money.”

“Yep.”

“Can he afford to lose that much money?”

“Nope.”

Tina clacked her tongue. “Then we’ll have to do what we can to save the situation.”

“We?”

Tina put her hands on her hips. “Yes, well, unlike SOME people, I believe in roommate solidarity. Don’t think I didn’t hear you, telling Cooper you’d move in with him!”

“I meant for you to come with me, of course,” Blaine tried weakly, but Tina wasn’t having it, sending him a fierce glare.

Blaine looked down and swallowed, remembering how happy he’d been for a moment before Cooper had dashed his hopes. “Sorry. I just… I saw myself living in one of those pretty brownstones, and I jumped the gun. Sorry. As it happens, you don’t need to be scared I’ll leave you in the lurch. If I want a brownstone, I’ll have to buy one with my own money one day. Cooper’s proved once again that I shouldn’t count on him. And I was a fool to think I could, even for a split second. He’s an idiot, and all he ever does is make my life difficult. I should know that by now. He’s proved it so many times.”

“Aww, don’t be so hard on him.”

Blaine put a pancake on his plate and drowned it in syrup. Then he started shovelling big bites into his mouth, chewing with vigour and determinedly not looking at Tina.

“Blaine, don’t be like that. He made a mistake. We all do that, don’t we?”

Blaine swallowed a piece of pancake and retorted, “Our mistakes don’t cost millions of dollars. That’s the difference.”

“Well, he’ll make more millions, won’t he? How much does he get for that acting job he’s doing now?”

Blaine shrugged. “Dunno. But it had better be a lot, if we’re to renovate the hotel he bought. Let me first check with Monique if we can get that contract voided, though. I don’t think we’ll be that lucky, but it won’t hurt to check.”

“Who’s Monique?”

“She works for my father,” Blaine clarified. “Has done so for years. She’s like part of the family. I’ve known her since I was very little. Played with her daughter in my father’s office.”

“Hmm, so how could she help you? And why would she?”

“Monique has a soft spot for me,” Blaine smiled, thinking of all the scrapes with his father she’d gotten him out of. “And she knows this stuff like the back of her hand. She does everything that’s to do with real estate for my father. Buying, selling, finding contractors for renovation works, buying furniture for buildings, you name it, she does it.”

Tina cocked her head to the side. “Why didn’t Cooper contact her then, if he wanted to buy a hotel?”

“Coop’s more of a split-second decision kind of guy,” Blaine told her. “Never looks before he leaps. And then he looks to me to solve the problems he’s created. It’s exhausting.”

“You’d think he were the younger brother,” Tina giggled.

“Yep. He’s almost forty, but he still has the impulse control of a four-year-old.”

After breakfast and doing the dishes, Blaine called Monique and explained the situation, sending her all the documents. She confirmed what he thought – there was no backing out of the contract anymore.

Ugh.

“Could you check if the place is Cooper’s outright, please?” Blaine asked. “Seeing as there’s no title contingency, there’s no knowing who else might have a claim on it.”

“I’ll look into it,” Monique said, “but I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

“Oh, and please don’t tell our father about this, Monique, okay?” Blaine implored her. “He’d go ballistic, and even though Coop is a moron, I don’t want him dead.”

Monique laughed and promised not to breathe a word about it to Mr. Anderson. “And if you need any help fixing the place up, you know who to call. Glad to help, whatever you need!”

“Well, the first thing we’re going to need is pest control. So if you know a good pest control firm over there in Ohio?”

Monique hummed and click-clacked on her keyboard for a minute or two. Then she said, “We’ve worked with Orkin, based in Cincinnati, Ohio. Did the job well. I’ll e-mail you their contact information. What else?”

“An HAVC specialist, a handyman and an electrician to fix all sorts of stuff, and a reliable plumber. Oh, and another thing… You buy loads of office furniture and supplies cheap in auctions, right? When companies go bust and their assets are sold to pay the debts?”

“That’s right. Want me to look for hotel stuff for you?”

“Yes, please. Furniture, mattresses, quality linens, you name it, we’re going to need it. Thanks, Monique!”

Monique chuckled. “It’s your brother who should say thank you. The things we do for that boy, right?”

“Right,” Blaine sighed. “Looks like I’m heading to Ohio for the summer. I’ll keep you posted, Monique, and thanks again!”