#top ping sites

[edenarchives]

♯┆𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 .ᐟ — 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: A joke profile on a sugar daddy site turns serious when @TimeIsMoney starts paying—and praising—you. What begins as harmless fun spirals into obsession after one night in his hotel suite leaves you aching, ruined, and wanting more.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: daddy kink, age gap, sugar baby stuff, praise, rough sex, oral (f receiving), creampie, money kink, dirty talk, power dynamics, he’s obsessed, reader gets absolutely ruined, aftercare, light choking, finger fucking, reader gets called good girl a lot

𝐖𝐂: 4,000

PART 2

It starts as a joke.

Wine bottles rattle as Nobara kicks the recycling bin closed with the heel of her foot, the sound of glass clinking against cheap plastic barely audible over the laughter echoing through your tiny, overstuffed apartment. Maki flops onto the couch beside you, stretching out like a cat, her legs hooked over the armrest and one arm draped across her eyes. The air smells like takeout and wine, sweet and familiar, the kind of scent that clings to memories. Finals are looming like storm clouds, rent is due in a week, and the textbooks on the kitchen table are collecting more dust than notes. The weight of it all sits heavy in the background, but for now, there’s laughter—loud and warm and so completely alive it makes you forget that you’re broke. That you’re stressed. That everything feels impossible sometimes.

“I’m telling you,” Nobara says as she refills her glass, the wine sloshing close to the rim. “Sugar daddies are the answer. Tuition? Handled. Rent? Done. Textbooks? Bought by some old man who just wants to stare at your feet and be told he’s a good little pay pig.”

You nearly choke on your drink, laughing as you wave her off. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

But Maki’s already pulling your laptop closer, pushing aside the half-eaten box of noodles and flicking the screen to wake it. “Come on, let’s just look. You never know.”

The three of you huddle close as the website loads, the layout exactly as tacky as you’d expect. It takes ten minutes to craft a profile that’s both over-the-top and strangely believable. You use a slightly sultry selfie from last month—nothing too scandalous, just a little cleavage and a coy smile. The bio is ridiculous: College student. Lit major. Broke but charming. Let’s make a deal. You don’t use your real name. The username you pick @YourSweetestSin is half a joke, half something that makes you snort. By the time the profile is live, you’re all laughing so hard your stomach hurts. It’s stupid. It’s harmless. You never intend to take it seriously.

But you don’t delete the profile either. Not that night. Not the next day.

The first message comes two days later while you’re curled in bed, laptop balanced on your thighs, half-focused on an essay you’re bullshitting at the last possible second. The ping startles you, the notification bouncing in the corner of your screen.

@TimeIsMoney: Hello.

That’s it. No gross pickup line. No emojis. No sleazy GIFs. Just a greeting. Curious, you click the profile, expecting a troll or someone who looks like he just escaped from a retirement home. But there’s no picture. Just a clean profile with a short bio: Professional. Discreet. Generous. It makes you snort. “Sure,” you mutter under your breath. But you reply anyway. For the bit. For the laugh. You can’t wait to show the girls.

Except it doesn’t end there. He writes back. You respond. The next message comes within the hour. Then another. And another. Each one short, to the point, polite in a way that disarms you. He asks how your classes are going. What books you’re reading. He doesn’t flirt. He compliments you, but not in a way that makes your skin crawl. It’s strange. It’s addictive. You start checking the app more often. You start replying faster. There’s something comforting about the consistency of it, about the way he always answers. Predictable. Reliable. And that’s something you didn’t realize you were craving until now.

Then, on the fifth night

I want to see you.

The message appears while you’re lying on your stomach, feet kicking behind you, chin resting in your palm. You read it three times. Your heart skips a beat, your stomach flips, and your first instinct is to laugh. This is the part where you bail, right? Where you screenshot it and send it to Nobara with a “can you believe this guy?” But instead, you’re walking to the mirror, pulling your hair over one shoulder, angling your phone just right. You pick your best push-up bra—the black one that hugs you perfectly—and snap a photo. You send it. Doll eyes. Slight pout. Your lips parting like you’ve done this a thousand times.

The response is immediate.

Good girl.

Then, a second later, another notification.

You’ve received $500.

You sit up. Blink. Refresh the app. But it’s there. Sitting in your account, waiting to be transferred. Your jaw drops. Then you scream. Then you laugh. Hard. You’re breathless. You don’t tell Nobara or Maki. Not this time.

From that moment on, it’s a blur. More messages. More requests. Nothing below the waist, not yet. Just photos. A little more skin each time. He never demands. He always asks. And he always pays.

Take off your bra. $500.

Show me your nipples. $700.

Each time, the money lands in your account within seconds. And each time, you find yourself a little wetter. A little more flushed. A little more eager to read the next message. You don’t just do it for the money anymore. You do it because his praise makes your stomach flutter. Because you feel seen. Desired. Wanted. Powerful.

Then comes the night he asks to call you. Your hands tremble as you answer. His voice is everything you didn’t expect. Calm. Smooth. Deep enough to settle in your bones and echo. He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t tease. He tells you exactly what he wants. Exactly how he wants to hear you fall apart. You’re already naked when the call starts. The toy he told you to buy is buzzing between your thighs before he even finishes the first sentence. His voice doesn’t falter. He talks you through it like he’s done it a hundred times. You come so hard you see white. He pays you $1,000.

You don’t bother pretending anymore. You wait for his messages. You ache when he disappears for too long. You’re careful not to get too attached, but it’s hard not to wonder. Not to imagine what he looks like. How he might taste. How it would feel to have those hands on your skin instead of just your imagination. So when the next message comes, you already know how you’ll answer.

I want you meet you

When and where?

The hotel he books is far nicer than anywhere you’ve ever been. Just stepping into the lobby makes you feel like an imposter. Crystal chandeliers, velvet furniture, a floral arrangement so big it probably has its own budget. Your heels click across the marble as you walk toward the elevators, your trench coat clutched tight around your body, hiding the lace beneath. You keep your head down. Pretend you belong. The nerves bubbling in your stomach are loud enough, sharp enough to echo.

He said he’d meet you in the room. Top floor. Private. You know the number by heart. You’ve read it over and over again on the message thread. Your fingers hover over the keypad outside the suite door. You press it before you can talk yourself out of it.

The door swings open almost immediately. And there he is.

Nanami Kento.

He doesn’t look how you pictured. He’s younger. Broader. Tall enough that you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. Blonde hair, glasses, expensive-looking suit. He smells like cedar and something clean and expensive. His jaw is sharp. His expression unreadable. But his eyes, they roam your body like he knows exactly what’s under your coat.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

You move past him into the room. The suite is massive. Soft lighting, a king-sized bed with crisp white sheets, a view of the city skyline that stretches beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. You hear the door close behind you. The lock clicks.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says.

Your voice barely works. “I wasn’t sure either.”

“Are you nervous?”

You nod.

“Good.” He steps closer. “It means this matters.”

Then he touches you.

It’s not a grab. Not even a full reach. Just the brush of his fingers down your arm, slow and steady, his touch so light it makes your skin prickle. He looks at you like he’s reading you, analyzing every twitch, every flutter of your lashes. His fingers find the belt of your coat. He doesn’t tug. He doesn’t ask. He just looks at you.

You nod.

He undoes the knot slowly, methodically, like he’s unwrapping a gift he doesn’t want to damage. The coat falls open. His breath catches.

The lingerie is sheer black lace, delicate enough to feel sinful. You chose it for him. You’ve sent him pictures in it before. But the way he’s looking at you now—it makes your knees weak.

“Beautiful,” he says. It’s quiet. Like he’s talking to himself.

He slips the coat from your shoulders. It falls in a soft thud at your feet.

“Get on the bed.”

You crawl onto the bed, your knees sinking into the mattress, your heartbeat thudding loud in your ears. The sheets are soft beneath your hands, cool against your flushed skin, and you feel him watching you. Not just looking—watching. The heat of his gaze crawls along your spine as you settle on your back, your legs folding to the side, thighs tight with anticipation. He doesn’t move right away. He just stands there, drinking you in like you’re art, like you’re something to be studied.

Then he begins to undress.

Each movement is precise, deliberate. He removes his watch first, setting it on the nightstand with a soft click. Then he unbuttons his shirt, one button at a time, his fingers steady and sure. You watch his chest slowly come into view—firm, broad, sculpted in a way that makes your breath catch. His shoulders are wide, his waist trim, his skin smooth and golden under the low light. When he slides the shirt off and starts on his belt, your thighs press together involuntarily. The buckle clinks. The zipper lowers. And then he steps out of his slacks, revealing long legs, tight black briefs, and the hard line of his cock already straining against the fabric.

He climbs onto the bed with the kind of calm confidence that makes your stomach flip. He doesn’t pounce. Doesn’t rush. He kneels between your legs and runs his hands up your thighs, spreading them slowly, pushing them apart with the patience of someone who knows exactly what you need and intends to give it to you—on his terms. The cool air kisses your heat, and you realize how wet you already are, your arousal sticking to the inside of your thighs. He hums low in his throat as his fingers hook into your panties and begins sliding them down, inch by inch.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he says softly. “I can feel it. You’re soaked.”

You whimper, arching slightly as he tosses the lace aside. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t make you wait. He leans down, his broad shoulders pushing your thighs wider, and when his mouth finally touches you, you gasp—loud, sharp, uncontrollable. His tongue strokes through your folds with slow, deliberate pressure, tasting you like he has all night. His lips close around your clit, sucking gently, and your back bows off the bed.

“Fuck—Nanami,” you breathe, fingers flying into his hair.

He groans against your pussy, the sound vibrating through you. He eats you like he means it, like it’s his mission. His tongue moves with skill, pressure alternating between soft flicks and firm, devastating licks. One of his hands slides under your ass, lifting your hips, tilting you up so he can go deeper. The other moves between your legs, and when two fingers slide inside you, you cry out.

Your walls clench around him, tight and wet, your body already shaking. He curls his fingers just right and your thighs twitch in response, your breath catching. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. He watches you from below, eyes dark and steady, like he’s memorizing every twitch, every moan, every desperate roll of your hips. You’re spiraling. Unraveling.

It hits fast. Hard. Your orgasm crashes over you before you can warn him, a wave of heat and light that rips through your body and leaves you sobbing his name. Your hips buck, your legs tremble, your fingers claw at the sheets—but he holds you down, mouth still on you, tongue relentless.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is wet, his lips slick with you. He looks pleased. Controlled. Like he could keep going. Like he wants to.

“That’s one,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers from your cunt and bringing them to his mouth. He sucks them clean slowly, and you moan again, helpless, already throbbing with the need for more.

He leans over you and kisses you—slow, deep, messy—and you taste yourself on his lips. He rolls his hips against yours, his cock hot and hard against your thigh. Your hands slide down, tugging at the waistband of his briefs, and he lets you peel them down.

He’s thick. Long. Veins running along the shaft, the head flushed and already leaking.

“You want this?” he asks, voice low, rough.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

He lines himself up and pushes in slowly. Inch by inch. Stretching you wide, filling you so deep you can feel it in your stomach. Your jaw drops, a choked moan escaping as your nails sink into his back.

“Oh my god,” you gasp.

“Too much?” he breathes, pausing halfway.

“No—don’t stop. Please. Keep going.”

He groans, sliding in the rest of the way, bottoming out. He stays there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs. “So perfect around me.”

Then he moves.

Slow at first. Deep. His hips roll into yours, grinding with each thrust. It’s overwhelming, every drag of his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. You cling to him, moaning into his shoulder, and he presses kisses to your neck, your jaw, your lips.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers. “Taking me so well. My good girl.”

The praise makes your walls flutter. Your body is already on edge again, hips rolling up to meet his, chasing more.

And then you remember—

“I thought you were gonna fuck me stupid,” you pant.

He stills.

His head lifts. His eyes meet yours.

“I was trying to be gentle,” he says, his voice suddenly darker. “But if you’re going to act like a cock-drunk little slut—”

He pulls out and flips you over in one smooth motion, dragging your hips up, pushing your chest into the mattress. He thrusts back into you hard, deep, and you scream into the sheets.

“—then I’ll fuck you like one”

He doesn’t hold back now. His pace is punishing, hips slamming into yours with the kind of strength that makes the bed creak beneath you. Each thrust drives his cock deeper, harder, making you cry out with every stroke. Your hands fist the sheets, knuckles white, as your body rocks forward from the force of him. He grabs your hips tighter, pulling you back onto him, forcing every inch of him inside like he’s claiming you, ruining you. Your thoughts are gone, scattered, every one of them drowned beneath the sound of skin meeting skin and the filthy things he’s growling into your ear.

“This what you wanted?” he pants, his voice a low growl. “To be fucked like a desperate little whore? You like it like this—don’t you?”

You try to answer, but all that leaves your mouth is a broken moan, high-pitched and needy. Your legs are shaking, your pussy clenching so tightly around him that you feel every twitch of his cock. You’re drooling onto the sheets, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how good it feels, from how deep he’s inside you.

He reaches down and grabs your hair, pulling your head back until your spine arches, your back flush to his chest. His hand slides down, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. He rubs slow, tight circles, the pressure just right. Your body locks up.

“Oh my god—Nanami—fuck—”

“I want you to cum again,” he hisses into your ear. “Cum for me while I’m buried in this tight little pussy. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You do.

It hits harder than the first time, your body convulsing around him, thighs trembling, a sob of pleasure ripping from your throat as your orgasm tears through you. You clench around him so hard it makes him grunt, his rhythm faltering for the first time. He curses under his breath, fucking you through it, prolonging your high until you’re left a shaking, overstimulated mess.

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” he growls.

You collapse forward, cheek pressed to the sheets, too wrecked to hold yourself up anymore. But he doesn’t stop. He slows down, but he keeps moving, long deep strokes that fill you again and again. One hand stays on your hip while the other presses between your shoulder blades, holding you down. You’re gasping, moaning brokenly, your cunt so sensitive you’re already on the edge again.

“Please—please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You’re gonna give me one more.”

His cock drags along your walls, thick and pulsing, hitting every spot that makes your vision blur. Your body is on fire. Nerves raw. Everything tightens again, too soon, too fast.

“Cum,” he demands, and the command alone pushes you over the edge.

You scream his name as your third orgasm slams into you, thighs quaking, fingers clawing at the mattress as you fall apart. Your pussy clenches so hard around him that his rhythm shatters. He groans, deep and guttural, thrusts stuttering as he slams into you one final time and spills inside you with a growl.

You can feel it—his cum flooding your pussy, hot and thick, filling you up as his body presses down on yours. His breath is hot against your back. His weight grounding.

He stays like that for a moment, both of you panting, your bodies tangled in heat and sweat. Then he pulls out slowly, gently, and you whimper at the loss. You feel the slick of his release drip down your thigh.

You’re boneless. Floating. Barely able to lift your head.

He pulls you into his arms, rolls you over, kisses your forehead. His hands are soft again, soothing, trailing along your back in lazy circles.

“You did so good,” he murmurs. “So fucking good.”

He holds you until your breathing slows. Until the ache in your muscles fades into something warm and satisfied. Until the world stops spinning quite so fast.

Then he rises. Dresses slowly. Smooths his hair back into place. He leans down to press one last kiss to your lips.

“The room is yours until tomorrow night,” he whispers. “Order whatever you want. Rest. Recover.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “Where are you going?”

He smiles. “I need to get ready for work on Monday.”

And then he’s gone.

The silence after he leaves is loud. You lie there for a while, naked in the sheets that smell like him, your body sore and aching in the best possible way. Everything feels distant. Fuzzy. Like your skin is still buzzing with the echo of his hands, his voice, the way he looked at you like he owned every inch of you. You eventually drag yourself out of bed, your legs unsteady, and pad to the bathroom. The tub is huge, the kind of thing you’d only ever seen in movies, and you don’t think twice before running the water, pouring in a generous stream of lavender bubble bath from the bottle on the counter. You sink into the warmth with a soft moan, letting the water ease the tightness in your thighs, the soreness in your hips. Every shift of your body reminds you of what just happened—of how thoroughly he fucked you, how deeply he filled you, how completely he took you apart.

You stay in the bath until the water starts to cool, then dry off and wrap yourself in one of the fluffy white robes hanging by the door. You pour yourself a glass of champagne from the bottle chilling by the window and collapse onto the bed again, legs curled under you, robe slipping off one shoulder. You stare at the city lights outside the window, the skyline glowing and endless. You feel expensive. Adored. Used and treasured at the same time. The kind of full you didn’t know you were craving.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

You grab it lazily, still smiling.

Nanami has sent you $10,000.

You stare.

You’re up in a flash, jumping on the bed like a maniac, the robe falling off as you laugh and squeal and spin yourself dizzy. You don’t even care. You roll across the mattress, kick your legs in the air, and scream into a pillow. Then you check again—just to be sure. It’s still there. Ten. Thousand. Dollars.

You sink back against the pillows, grinning like a fool, and take a long, slow sip of champagne.

This is the best night of your life.

The weekend melts away in a blur of room service and luxury. You spend hours soaking in the tub, order dessert with every meal, and sleep tangled in hotel sheets that smell like him. You keep your phone close, reading and rereading every message he sends. He doesn’t disappear. He checks in constantly. Tells you how proud he is. How badly he wants you again. How he’s counting the hours until next time.

By Monday morning, you’re still sore. Still giddy. You barely hear your alarm over the buzz of your phone. You get ready for class with your phone in your hand the entire time, texting back between sips of coffee.

I need you again this weekend. Same hotel. I want you on your knees when I walk in.

I can still feel you. Still smell you. I’m not done with you.

You’re practically floating when you meet up with Nobara and Maki in the courtyard.

“You’re glowing,” Maki says. “Who are you texting?”

Nobara leans in to peek. You pull your phone away with a smirk.

“No one.”

“She’s lying,” Maki says. “It’s totally a sugar daddy. Look at her.” She jokes.

You laugh. Shrug. Say nothing.

Because they’re right. And you’re not giving up your secret that easy. The three of you head to class, sliding into your usual seats as you pull out your laptop. You open a blank doc, fingers still dancing over your phone under the table.

I want your pussy on my mouth the second I see you again.

You bite your lip, cheeks hot, and set your phone face-down as the door opens.

Footsteps. A soft clearing of a throat.

You look up and freeze.

Nanami Kento walks to the front of the classroom, calm and collected, setting his briefcase on the podium like he’s done it a hundred times. He’s in a fitted suit, glasses perched on his nose, hair neat and perfect.

He adjusts his tie. Opens his laptop. Looks up.

His eyes meet yours.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter. Just offers the faintest flicker of a smile.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says smoothly. “Welcome to Ethics in Literature.

Your stomach drops through the floor.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

[jazziejax]

𝐉𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐧’ 𝐈𝐈

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Modern AU | Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x Black!OC & Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore | Modern AU

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - What started as a simple night out turns into something a little more complicated when new faces and old ties mix under the summer heat.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Mild language, flirtation, tension, heavy Southern vibes

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - I’m so glad you guys liked this story! I was so nervous to post, especially this one in particular. I’m was so shocked by the feedback, reactions and the LOVE. I’m so happy you guys are enjoying this, I’ve never written for Michael B. Jordan, though I’ve been reading about him since I’ve been on this site, but still. I’m so glad that you guys love this, stay with me as I get through these and the rest of my stories…

��𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 5,940+

𝐌��𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟑

The block party on Vernon Street was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of grilled meats and the rhythmic beats of early hip-hop. Laughter and chatter filled the neighborhood as families and friends gathered to celebrate the return of Smoke and Stack, most just wanting an excuse to party. Children darted between adults, their laughter mingling with the music, while the adults swayed to the nostalgic tunes.

Smoke and Stack moved through the crowd, exchanging handshakes and hugs with familiar faces. Their presence was magnetic, and others could tell the difference from when the boys first left. They were men now, and were drawing attention from all corners of the block. As they approached the cooler, a familiar voice called out.

“Well, if it ain’t the Moore twins.” Sinclair said, her smile as bright as ever. She wore an orange halter top that popped against her brown skin, low-rise jeans, with her hair styled in loose curls that framed her face.

“Sinclair!” Stack exclaimed, pulling her into a warm embrace. “How you doing, girl?”

“Oh, I’m as good a can be.” She smiled, pulling away from the embrace and looking up at him. “Y’all still causing trouble?” She teased, her eyes twinkling at the two as she crossed her arms.

“Only the good kind,” Smoke replied with a grin.

“Pleased there was never a good kind with y’all.” She quipped. “Good for you, maybe.”

“That’s what we meant.” Stack stated before laughing, causing the girl to laugh and smack his arm. Their laughter died down into fond smiles and soft gazes, Elias and Sinclair eyeing each other in particular. Smoke looked between the two, before he let his eyes drift as he felt the conversation about to shift.

“How you been, Claire?” Stack asked, leaning against the fence near the cooler, while Smoke sat on a milk crate, next to some men shooting dice. Sinclair let out a small a sigh, putting her hands in the back pockets of her right jeans, looking anywhere else but his eyes. “Nothing much.” She shrugged, but from the nervous laugh she let out at the ends and the way she divided eye contact let Stack know she was t telling the full truth. “I mean, if you can count having a baby as nothing.” She’s shrugged.

Stack eyes widened a bit at that, blinking as he looked at the girl before him. “A baby?” He asked, and his voice was a bit soft, low, as if the subject was something fragile and foreign to him. His heart then pinged in his chest, a sharp and quick thump, before it dropped to his stomach.

And he couldn’t help but wonder if this was her way of telling him he had a child after their one close encounter the night before him and Smoke is and left the Sip.

When Sinclair nodded, he licked his lips, reading his stance of the fence to stand straight, looking down at the girl. “Damn, that’s crazy Claire.” He said, keeping a calm demeanor in the face of his slight panic. “When did this happen?” He asked.

“About a year after you guys bounded, freshman year at college.” She explained, and Stack could almost drop to his knees and praise the sky at her words. He gulped as he blinked, trying to calm his heart that was still seating from the potential bond she could’ve dropped. But that was all covered up with a simple nod.

“Boy or girl?”

“Boy. His names Tyson.” She said, and now this time, Stack could be more happy for the girl, a small smile drifting onto his face. “That’s crazy, Claire. Congratulations.” He said, placing a hand on her shoulder and shaking her.

“Thank you.” Sinclair said softly, a small smile on her lips. “Now enough about me, tell me what you were up to in Chicago, big money.” She quipped, smiling up at him, looking up at him through her lashes, and that was a look Stack was not unfamiliar with. Which caused him to smirk as he leaned back into the fence.

They continued to chat amiably, reminiscing about old times and catching up on the years that had passed. Sinclair’s laughter rang out as she recounted a particularly embarrassing story from their youth, causing Stack to chuckle and shake his head.

As the conversation continued, Juicy and Mary emerged from the Hall home, their presence immediately drawing attention. Juicy’s black halter top with white lace detailing accentuated her curves, and her dark wash Baby Phat jeans hugged her hips perfectly. Her French tip toes stuck out from her black wedges that added to her height and her voluptuous shape, as well as the boot cut pants. Her stomach pudge peeked out confidently, adorned with a gleaming belly ring. Her dyed blonde highlighted curls cascaded down to her neck in a fluffy blowout, catching the light as they moved. Mary, equally stylish, wore a sequined butterfly top and low-rise jeans, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail.

They lingered by the porch, surveying the lively scene before them. Juicy’s eyes scanned the crowd, landing briefly on the twins before she turned to Mary.

“I’m gonna grab a drink and talk to Sinclair.” She said, her voice casual. “Kk.” Mary said, her eyes already on someone in the crowed that she seemed to want to sink her teeth in.

As Juicy approached the cooler, one of Martin’s friends couldn’t help but stare. The men were sat at a table, and his eyes caught the perfect view of a tattoo on the side of her hip. His gaze lingered for a moment too long, getting distracted from the game of spades. Martin noticed and frowned, turning to his sister.

“Man, go in the house and put some clothes on.” He said, his tone disapproving as she waved the girl over to the crib.

Juicy looked over at him after she picked up a peach Faygo from the cold ice waterz her face was frowned before she rolled her eyes at him, unbothered. “Boy, shut up.” She scoffed.

“I’m serious, Ju. You out here dressed like you grown or some.”

“I am grown, nigga.” She hissed, placing her free hand on her hip as she looked down at man with a deck of cards in his hands in a baggy black T-Shirt.

“Yeah, whatever. You just want attention.” He said, shaking his head before going back to the game, placing a card down on the table. Juicy turned her lip up at him, her eyes doing a quick survey of the men at the table and about. “I don’t want nothing from any of these bums out here you call a homeboy or whoever the fuck else. I came here to speak to Sinclair about Me and Mary going to Dwight’s later.” She snapped at him, her lip still turned up at him as she moved her hands as she talked, her manicured pointer finger grazing over the group of men. Some of the guys around that heard her let out their own sounds of discontent, but nothing crazy since her brother was sitting right next to her. And it seemed that Stack and Smoke were the only ones not bothered by the girls words, Smoke’s eyes dragging over her figure as he tipped his head back to drink his grape soda. Stack looked over at her from his place near the fence, a smirk in his lips at her bold words.

“Leave her alone, Mar.” Sinclair playfully interjected from next to Stack, trying to diffuse the tension.

“Yeah, can you leave me alone? I wasn’t even talking to you.” Juicy added, her tone sharp. Stack’s smirk grew wider as he looked at her, his tongue subconsciously tracing over his bottom lip as he eyed her.

Juicy then turned to Sinclair, her expression softening. “I need to borrow the car tonight. I’ll put gas in it.”

Sinclair hesitated for a moment, slightly squinting he eyes at the younger girl. “You better put glass in it.” She said, causing Juicy to smack her lips. “Didn’t i just say that? It’s my car too, Claire.” She said, crossing her arms. And besides the way her doing so pushed her breasts together and up, the twins noticed her plump lips had formed a small put as she spoke to her sister. They also began to notice that Juicy had grown into a bit of a boujee brat since they left. And that wasn’t a complete turn off to either of them. Sinclair then nodded her head over to the house. “Keys are in my purse on the couch.”

Juicy smiled, her grin radiant. “Thank you, Claire.” She said sweetly, puckering her lips in an air kiss before switching away from them, not sparing anyone a single glance. As she walked away, the twins couldn’t help but watch her, their eyes following her every move, especially the way her hips moved from side to side. Smoke and Stack shared a glance, holding eye contact for mere seconds and fully knowing wha the other was thinking. They shared a single and subtle nod before going back to the party.

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

The sun in the key began to dim and the music had softened into something slow and familiar—Frankie Beverly and Maze playing low over a radio someone left by the porch. Most of the crowd had either filtered to their cars to chill or leaned into the vibe with drinks and smoke in-hand. The air was thick with that Mississippi humidity, but Juicy didn’t seem to mind.

She was perched on the edge of the porch railing, one heel kicked off, sipping on water from a bottle through a straw to not mess up her makeup. Drinking water in the first place to come down from the buzz she felt from her and Mary’s earlier pre-game. Her curls had grown puffier from the heat, and her lip gloss was faded where she sipped through the thin plastic, but it was still shining in the glow of the porch light. She flipped lazily through a magazine she pulled from Mary’s purse, something she always carried the newest edition of. The light bouncing off her glasses, which she pulled from her purse and slipped on.

Smoke spotted her first—leaned up against the hood of a car in front of the Hall family yard, his arms folded, eyes cool. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched her while the men around conversed. Juicy didn’t look up at first, too focused on the gossip section of the magazine, but when she did look up, she saw him already headed her way.

He didn’t say a word when he reached the porch, just leaned against the porch rail beside her, looking down at her from above, as she looked up at him.

“Thought you mighta dipped by now.” He said, voice deep and low. His gaze intense as his eyes trailed over every inch of her face.

Juicy smiled a little, eyes bouncing from the paper in her hands and up into his serene eyes. “Nah. Mary got caught up with some scrub over there.” She said, gesturing over to the girl that was giggling at something a dark skinned man with cornrows said to her, caught in the trance of her laugh. Smoke didn’t even look at where the girl was pointing, his eyes trained on he as her eyes drifted away from him.

He simply hummed. “You look different.” He said.

That got her attention. She looked back over at him, smirking. “Good different or bad different?” She asked with a tilt of her head, subconsciously nipping at her bottom lip. Smoke’s eyes didn’t waver from her face. “Good.” There was a pause as his eyes jumped down to her lips before looking her back in the eye. “Grown.” He nodded.

And that single word settled heavy between them. Juicy raised an eyebrow at him, taking a slow sip from her water as she tried to hide her smile. “Well… it has been about, almost, seven years.” She shrugged.

“I ain’t forget.’ He replied, gaze sharp, but not unkind. “I remember you used to sit on this same porch with that blue bubblegum Stack got for your from the machine down at Phonso’s, scraped knees after falling from his bike for the fourth time cause he drives like a bat out of hell.” He explained with a fond smile, causing Juicy to duck her head as she felt heat creep up her neck. “And you was always talkin’ loud and with your hands, you two arguing about something he told you.”

Juicy chuckled. “Yeah, we ain’t have to reason to argue, but me and you did.” She said, giving him a playful once over. “You used to steal my freeze cups and act like you ain’t do it.” She said, moving to push his arms playfully.

A flicker of a smile threatened the corner of his mouth, looking at the girl who gazed up at him. His gazed trailed her up and down, taking in her form as she sat on the porch. When his eyes made its way back up to her face, he caught her eyes, that twinkled in the dwindling sunlight at him. “You still loud?” He asked. And he could see the way the glint in her eye changed. And it did, because one thing Juicy no longer was, was that shy and self-conscious girl her mother turned her into. She knew she had things abut her that guys loved, and she grew to find the beauty within herself, on her own. And now it seemed that her “new look” was catching the attention of a gut she’s had a crush ion since she could remember. At least, that’s what she thought.

“Sometimes.” She teased, brushing her curls behind her ear, playing subtly into what she thought she saw within him. “Depends on who I’m around.” She said softly, giving him a slow blink as she looked up at him through her lashes.

Smoke didn’t answer. Just looked at her like he was trying to figure something out. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was charged. Both of them could feel it, as it was exchanged between their eye contact.

“I’ll see you around, Juicy.’ He finally said, pushing off the railing. And she watched him go, heart knocking slightly against her chest. He didn’t look back once—but she could feel that his energy lingered.

Almost an hour later, she was back on the porch, both heels kicked off now. Her legs were crossed as she sat on the porch swing, sort of lying down as she swayed back and forth, when Stack strolled up with a plastic cup in hand and that devil-may-care smirk he always wore like a cologne.

“Well, well, well.” He drawled, stopping in front of her with a slow once-over. “If it ain’t my little Juicy fruit. You’ve changed so much, ma.” He said, grinning as he leaned against the porch banister, looking down at her. Juicy gave him a look, moving her eyes away from her pedicure that she was focused on as she hummed to the music. “You still talk too much.” She deadpanned, living her foot up as she looked back at her toes, thinking if she needed another color or not. Stack watched her, how unbothered the girl seemed to be by him as she analyzed herself.

“And you still like it.” He fired back smoothly. “You always did, you know that.” He said before, eyeing her as he sipped from his cup, looking at her over the rim. Juicy’s eyes trailed back over to him as she crossed her legs, ignoring the pulse she felt at her center at his words. She rubbed her lips together, spreading her gloss while Stack continued. “That outfit—mm.” He hummed. “That outfit of yours is a but disrespectful.”

“Disrespectful?” She asked, raising a brow. And her irritation that was rising was clear to the both of them as she blinked at him.

He nodded as he leaned closer, eyes dragging down her legs and back up again. “Yeah.” He said. “To every man at this party that ain’t got a chance.” He smirked. Juicy laughed at that, loud and unbothered, shaking her head. “Boy, you ain’t changed not one bit.”

She grinned, cheesing at him. “Still slick at the mouth.”

“Why would I change when I know you love me no matter what?” Stack grinned, resting his arm on the porch rail beside her. “No change been doin me just fine.” He said. Juicy simply tilted her head at his words, taking his appearance in. She didn’t know what to say to him, because she knew he was right. She had been smitten for Stack for a very long time, even if it was never said. And Stack used to indulge the girl up until the day he left. Their bond went far beyond what most could understand, but when they were younger, she helped Stack more than she knew. Stack did the same. He studied her, all slow. Juicy just hummed. “But you?” Stack started. “What was that earlier, huh? Juicy in Juicy? Baby, when was you gon’ tell me that you were a brand now?” He asked her jokingly.

The girl rolled her eyes but smirked. “Don’t gas me.”

“I ain’t. I just tell it how it is, ma.” He tilted his head. “ So what you been up to since I been gone? I know you ain’t been in no trouble. You was never trouble, I was, but you grown now.”

Juicy let out a small sight, shaking her head. “Nah.” She said shaking her head. “Not me. Not yet.” She chuckled. “Just been doing anything a young girl like does.”

Stack quirked a brow at that. “Like what? Don’t tell me you got a lil boyfriend or something. You talkin’ to anybody?” He asked.

Juicy narrowed her eyes. “Why?” She asked, tilting her head at him.

“’Cause I wanna know what I’m up against.” He smirked. “Who ass i gotta beat about you, ma.” He said. But before she could answer, Mary hollered from inside for her to come help look for her purse. Juicy blinked away where ever the current conversation was just going as she stood up, slipping back into her heels with a sway.

“I’ll see you around, Elias.” She said softly, blinking at him before she moved away.

Stack watched her walk, eyes glued to the way her brown skinned back moved under her top. “Lawd have mercy…” He mumbled o himself, looking at her until those wide hips left his sight and entered the home.

The night went on and the party fizzed out to other parts of the city for the people who didn’t want to go home but had to get the hell out of the Hall yard. Smoke sat on the couch later that night, across the street inside of his old home. He remembered the little girl who used to knock on their door for extra to borrow sugar, or see if they had chips. Who used to cry quietly on Sinclair’s bed when her parents argued in the next room. And now? That girl had gone. She stood taller now, with a body that demanded attention—and a confidence that made it dangerous.

He didn’t like surprises. And Juicy had just become one.

In a room down the hall, Stack was laid out on a bed, arms behind his head, still thinking. He could hear the television that Stack watched in the living room, and as he drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t help but to think of the girl he saw earlier, and the way she was dressed now. He had to admit, she was attractive, and the way they spoke to, he took that as an invitation of something she wanted. And he liked a challenge. Always had. And something about Juicy’s energy? That little attitude, the way she didn’t fall into his rhythm so easy—but played into nonetheless—it got under his skin in the best way.

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

It was a day later and house was lazily buzzing with the glow of the afternoon sun. The TV inside of the Hall family home was humming some rerun in the background as Juicy and Mary sprawled across the worn couch. They were both flipping through their phones, exchanging idle comments about people’s outfits from last night, when Sinclair called out from the kitchen.

“Juicy!” She yelled.

Juciy rolled her eyes but nonetheless called back out to her. “Yeah!” She yelled back, getting a shove in her leg by Mary’s foot, who looked away from her phone to something that caught her eye on the television. Juicy turned her lip up at her but only settled to nudge her back. Sinclair walked out from the kitchen and looked at the girls on the couch. “Can you run to the corner store for me real quick? I gotta keep an eye on Tyson.” Sinclair’s voice was half-pleading, half-commanding—the way it always was whenever she needed a favor.

Juicy groaned softly, head falling back against the couch dramatically. “Okay.” She agreed immediately, even though her slight annoyance was clear as Sinclair move back to the kitchen. “Can I go in the car at least?” She asked.

Sinclair poked her head around the corner, her expression already set. “Only if you fill the tank up.” She stated.

Juicy sat up with a loud sigh, already knowing she was beat. “Man, I ain’t tryna spend my whole check from the shop on gas.” She muttered under her breath, tossing the ouch blanket onto the couch cushion ext to her. “Fine. We’ll walk.” She said, subjecting the other girl into a walk in the heat.

It wouldn’t too bad, she supposed. The sun was high and hot, but the store was just a few blocks away, and a little walk might do them some good. Plus, they could grab ice cream while they were at it.

Juicy and Mary made their way down the cracked sidewalk, the summer heat bouncing off the pavement in lazy waves. As they neared the corner store, they spotted a certain man and his homeboys posted up against the brick wall in front of their cars, laughing and talking amongst themselves, completely ignoring the store owner who was yelling at them to stop loitering.

Juicy rolled her eyes. Of course they were here, she thought.

The store owner finally threw his hands up and stormed back inside, giving the crew a full view of the two girls as they approached.

Donavan, the man dressed in a bulls jersey over a white t-shirt with baggy jeans, didn’t hide the way his eyes slid over Juicy, slow and deliberate, biting his bottom lip like he was seeing her for the first time instead of the thousandth. His boys chimed in too, whistling and throwing out comments, the usual noise that came with being two girls walking through the neighborhood.

“Aye, Ju, let me holla at you.”

“Wassup, Mary? With yo fine ass.”

“Damn, Juicy, when you gone let a nigga get some?”

Juicy sucked her teeth with a disgusted look on her face, swinging open the store’s door with a hard shove as she ignored them, letting the cool air from the store hit her skin. Mary grabbed a small cart and immediately went to the mental list Sinclair had given, while Juicy stayed by the freezer section, scanning for a good ice cream cone.

She was crouched low, comparing brands and prices, when she heard the bell over the door chime again.

She looked up—and of course—there was Donavan.

“Man, you just gon’ act like you don’t see me?” He said, flashing that same crooked grin he used back in high school, ignoring the looks from the man behind the counter.

Juicy stood up slowly, closing the freezer door with a tap of her hip. “I saw you.” She said flatly. “I just ain’t been impressed so far.” She shrugged. Donavan chuckled, swaggering closer. “Aw, c’mon now, Ju. You used to light up when you saw me. What happened to that lil’ smile you used to have for me?”

“First of all, don’t call me Ju. We ain’t cool like that, and tell them niggas you hand with the same thing.” She said, looking up at him with a smirk. “Second of all, I grew up, nigga.” Juicy said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Like you shoulda been did.”

“Damn, Juicy, why you gotta be like that?”

“Cause I can.” The girl said, sassily tilting her head at him.

Donavan laughed again, undeterred by the girls bratty attitude. “You still fine though.” He stated, looking her up and down. “Still got that lil’ mean mouth on you too. Bet you still sweet underneath all that tough talk though, huh?”

“Oh, and I bet you would love to know that.” Juicy said softly, not hiding how her sultry she her tone was as she spoke to him. Donavan couldn’t hide his grin, causing Juicy to shake her head, fighting the little smirk that threatened her lips. He was charming, she’d give him that, but she knew better. Knew what lurked behind that smile.

Donavan wasn’t an ugly guy, far from it. And he could be sweet at times, but there was multiple reasons Juicy couldn’t go for him. One of them being that he was a rival of her brothers and she didn’t like that gang and selling drugs shit at all. She stayed far away from it. Secondly, his persistent flirting was a bit much. He’d been pining after her since junior year of high school, and she had to admit, she was playing hard to get at first. But Donavan was far from a saint. He was a harlot, and damn near every girl in the neighborhood has had a piece of that, and that’s not how Juicy rolled.

Before she could come up with a retort, Mary called from the bread aisle, “I’m done, Ju!” She said before she began walking over to them.

Donavan’s attention shifted immediately, his eyebrows lifting as he took in Mary for the first time. His grin widened.

“Well damn.” He said under his breath, eyeing Mary from head to toe like he was picking out dessert. “Wassup, Mary. How you doin’?” He asked, smirking at the girl. Mary turned her face up at him, while Juicy rolled her eyes, before both girl simultaneously scoffed at is audacity. They ignored him and made their way to the counter with their items, Juicy grabbing their ice cream cones last minute. The clerk began ringing them up when Donavan swaggered over and slapped a wad of crumpled bills on the counter.

“I got it.” He said, flashing a quick wink at Juicy. But the girl snatched the money up without hesitation and shoved it right back into his chest. “We don’t need that.”

Donavan smirked, amused by her defiance. “It’s not about what you need, shorty. Take what you want.”

“We don’t want it either.” She said sharply, pulling out the cash Sinclair had given her, quickly sorting through the bills before handing it to the clerk before the man could even finish telling her the total, and she was right on point with the amount.

She and Mary grabbed the bags, and Juicy snatched up their cones as they made their way to the door, Donavan trailing behind them like a stray dog.

“Why you still actin’ stuck up, Ju?” He called after them, loud enough for half the store to hear.

“Didn’t I tell you not to call me that? Don’t play with me Donavan.” Juicy snapped.

“Man, back in high school you used to eat up the way I talked to you. Now you too good, huh? Cause you in college and shit? Or is it ‘cause of them little fake ass jobs you got now? That lil’ beauty shop money got you actin’ brand new?” He went off, and Juicy was not hiding the way she rolled her eyes at him, scoffing at the man’s pissy attitude. She was about to whirl around, ready to cuss him out, but before she could get a word out, two familiar figures were walking up the pavement toward them.

“Hey, Smoke, hey Stack.” Juicy called out brightly, more than happy for the distraction from the aggravating man behind her.

The twins immediately clocked the situation—the girls, Donavan standing too close, the tension thick enough to cut.

Smoke’s dark eyes narrowed slightly as he nodded at her. “Hey, Ju.” He said. While Stack lifted his chin in greeting too, his lips curling into an amused smirk when he caught Donavan’s posture stiffening.

The silent acknowledgement between the men was heavy. They weren’t strangers to each other—and they sure as hell weren’t friends. Though Smoke and Stack had only gotten back two days ago, they were apparent to the things that’s changed since they’ve been gone. Donavan now controlled his brothers, Demetrius, territory. Said main being locked up. And Smoke and Stack were not good friends with Demetrius at all, so much so that it meant Donavan had a problem with them. They were speculated to had something to do with him going to jail, conveniently leaving for Chicago a week after that big altercation at MO’s spot, which led to his arrest.

Smoke’s gaze slid past Juicy to Donavan, cutting and assessing. “What you doing here?” His voice was calm as he spoke to the girl, but there was something under it, something harder.

“Pickin’ up some things for Claire.” Juicy said, clueless to the silent war playing out behind her.

She gave a bright, casual smile, holding up the little plastic bags like proof. Neither Stack nor Smoke looked away from Donavan though, both of them standing a little more solidly now, like they were ready for whatever might happen next.

Donavan licked his lips, sizing them up, but said nothing—just chuckled low and turned back toward his crew loitering outside.

Smoke was the first to speak once the tension in the air settled, offering an easy way out. “Y’all need a ride?” He asked, nodding towards the bags weighing down Juicy and Mary’s arms. “We just stopped for gas and some woods. We can drop y’all off.”

Juicy glanced at Mary, who shrugged, her arms full. They really didn’t feel like walking back, especially not with Donavan hovering like a damn gnat. “Yeah, sure,” Juicy said, her voice casual but thankful.

Stack, ever the quieter one, fished the keys from his pocket and dangled them in front of Juicy. “Here.” He said, a slight teasing glint in his eye. When Juicy went to grab the keys from his hands, a smile on her face, he snatched them back, looking down at her. “But be careful with the silver Beemer, ma. Don’t scuff her up.” He said. Juicy sucked her teeth, snatching the keys from him without hesitation. “Boy, it’s not like I’m gon’ drive it.” She sassed, giving him a quick, annoyed look.

And Stack couldn’t help but smirk at the sight of her, admiring the way her brows pinched together and her mouth tightened into a small, perfect frown. Those glossed lips shining in the sun, looking extra plump and kissable whether a frown watched its way onto her face. The way she looked up at him, lashes fluttering despite her irritation, did something to him.He let out a small breath, shaking his head at her. “You lucky, girl.” He said under his breath with a grin, placing the keys firmly into her palm.

As Stack handed off the keys, Smoke was still watching Donavan, who hadn’t moved far from the sidewalk. His stare was heavy, daring, but when Stack walked past him and followed Smoke inside the store, Donavan finally peeled his eyes away with a quiet scoff.

Juicy and Mary didn’t waste time. They carried their bags across the lot and slipped into the BMW, bags in laps, ice cream cones still slowly melting in hand. The interior was spotless, smelling faintly of new leather and the sweet, lingering scent of someone’s cologne. It felt way too fancy for them to be sitting in it with grocery bags and dollar store cones. They hadn’t been waiting long before the twins came back out. Smoke slid behind the wheel, tossing the woods and lighter onto the dashboard, while Stack circled to the passenger side. As Stack pumped the last bit of gas into the tank, Smoke adjusted the mirror — and that’s when he caught it.

Juicy, in the backseat, lazily licking at her strawberry ice cream cone. Her tongue swept slow and deliberate over the pink scoop, a tiny bit dripping down the side. She leaned forward slightly to catch it with her tongue again, completely unaware of the way the simple, innocent action had locked Smoke’s gaze. He didn’t mean to stare — really, he didn’t — but damn if she wasn’t making it hard not to.

He shook himself free of the trance when Stack climbed back in, twisting the cap onto his water bottle. Smoke pulled out of the lot and headed back towards their part of the neighborhood, the smooth purr of the engine humming under them.

As soon as the tires hit pavement, the questions started.

“So,” Smoke began, his voice casual but carrying an edge. He looked at Juicy through the rearview. “That nigga botherin’ you?”

Juicy blinked at him, caught mid-bite of her cone. “Who?” She asked, genuinely confused.

Stack turned slightly in his seat to face her, resting his arm against the door. “Donavan.” He clarified, his voice low. “You know… Mr. Tryna-Mack.” He said before scoffing at the mere mention of the boy, who he himself addressed with a purposeful corny nickname.

Juicy rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck. “Please.” She scoffed. “He been tryna talk to me since junior year. Ain’t never gon’ happen.”

Mary snorted beside her, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “He was real bold today, though.” She added. “Damn near droolin’ when he saw her.”

“Yuck.” Juicy grumbled.

Smoke’s hands tightened slightly on the wheel, though he kept his tone light. “You tell us if he don’t get the message.” He said, voice a shade deeper. “We can handle that.”

Juicy smiled a little, amused at their protectiveness but not taking it too seriously. “I’m good.” She said, leaning back against the seat. “Ain’t nobody worried about Donavan ass.” Stack then glanced at her again, eyes sharp but amused. “Well, you should be worried about lettin’ that ice cream melt all over my damn seat.” He said, turning his head to glacé black at her. “And Claire’s groceries.” Mary teased. Juicy stuck her tongue out at him, making Mary laugh, and the tension in the car broke into something easier, more familiar. Smoke refocused on the road, but his mind wandered — mostly back to that image of Juicy, licking strawberry ice cream, entirely too sweet and dangerous for her own good.

And Stack? He couldn’t help the small grin that tugged at his mouth, stealing another glance at Juicy as she chattered with Mary in the back. She was fire and thorns all wrapped up in something too pretty to touch — but damn if he didn’t want to.

And maybe, soon, he’d find a reason to get a little closer.

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[xinganhao]

cherry on top 🍒 mafia boss!seungcheol x reader. (4)

stories like this always end with a damsel in distress. except—this time around—you’re not the one who needs saving. previous chapter + masterlist.

📄 Minutes of strategic information meeting, filed by Kim Mingyu (Mafia Soldier, Logistics & Recon)

Date: ██████████ Location: Safehouse Omega-9, Undisclosed City Perimeter Time: 03:17 HRS

ATTENDEES:

Yoon Jeonghan (Underboss)

Lee Chan (Combat Unit Leader)

Chwe Hansol (Surveillance Division)

Kim Mingyu (Logistics & Recon; Recording Officer)

Civilian Target [REDACTED] (Unauthorized Attendee)

AGENDA:

Contingency Plan for Retrieval of Boss (S.Coups)

Chain of Command During Absence

External Threat Assessment

[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

JEONGHAN: We go in through the east dock. Two snipers posted by 03:40. Chan leads breach. Hansol, your eyes stay on thermal—no improvisation this time.

HANSOL: I never improvise. My brilliance is structured.

CHAN: Can we not do this right now?

JEONGHAN: [ignoring them] Mingyu, once we get him out, you're on evac. Full blackout route. No trackers, no chatter.

MINGYU: Copy.

HANSOL: Any updates on who turned? Someone had to leak coordinates.

CHAN: There’s a list. We’ll handle it after we bring the boss home. One fire at a time.

[DOOR SLAMS OPEN. SOUND OF HIGH-HEELED FOOTSTEPS. SILENCE.]

CIVILIAN TARGET: You’re planning this without me?

JEONGHAN: [visibly tense] You weren’t invited.

CIVILIAN TARGET: He’s my belo—my boyfriend, Jeonghan. You think I’m just going to sit around while you play war games?

JEONGHAN: This isn’t a movie. You’re a civilian. You don’t belong in this room.

CIVILIAN TARGET: No, I’m the reason he still believes in soft things. I belong more than half the people at this table.

CHAN: She’s got a point.

JEONGHAN: Chan.

CHAN: I’m just saying. She’s not exactly fragile.

HANSOL: She did rewire one of my bugs with a paperclip. That was... not unimpressive.

JEONGHAN: [sighs] This isn’t about guts. It’s about blood.

CIVILIAN TARGET: Then you should know mine’s already on the line. Every second he’s gone, I feel it. And I’m done being sidelined. I’m not here to ask. I’m here to help.

[BEAT OF SILENCE. THEN—]

JEONGHAN: You get one job. And if you screw it up, I’ll personally drag you out.

CIVILIAN TARGET: Deal.

JEONGHAN: Hansol, give her the map. Mingyu, loop her in.

MINGYU: You’re going to need a comm. And a bulletproof vest.

CIVILIAN TARGET: Got both. And a knife in my boot.

CHAN: Okay, badass.

[MEETING CONTINUED UNDER LEVEL-2 SECRECY PROTOCOLS. TRANSCRIPT REDACTED. END OF MINUTES.]

FINAL NOTES:

Civilian Target formally added to Operation Homecoming roster.

Jeonghan authorized conditional field involvement.

Morale status: heightened.

Risk level: astronomically high.

🗂️ Operation Homecoming: Field Notes & Briefing Report, compiled by mafia underboss, Yoon Jeonghan

Clearance Level: Top Confidential Date Logged: ██████████ Location: Safehouse Omega-9

SUMMARY: Boss (S.Coups) was captured 48 hours ago following the receipt of a falsified emergency ping traced back to the civilian target’s encoded channel. The ping claimed she’d been injured and was en route to an undisclosed hospital in Sector D. According to surveillance logs, the Boss diverted course alone, abandoning standard security protocol. We believe he was intentionally isolated through signal jamming, then intercepted at the underpass beneath Route 14.

AUTOPSY OF THE TRAP:

Fake GPS tag mimicked civilian target’s bio-signal pattern

Voice distortion software replicated her distress call

EMP deployed upon vehicle arrival to disable tracking

Tactical unit waited with sedation-grade rounds

CURRENT LOCATION OF BOSS: Confirmed. Underground storage facility, formerly Syndicate-aligned. Defected cell now controls the zone. Reinforcements on site. Boss presumed alive—last thermal footage confirms faint movement.

INTERVENTION STRATEGY: OPERATION HOMECOMING

Phase One – Extraction:

Entry through east dock (03:40 HRS)

Chan leads breach unit, Hansol on thermal, Mingyu handling evac

All units silent channel only

Phase Two – Internal Sweep:

Civilian target assigned distraction and misdirection role (see below)

Two-minute window to locate and stabilize Boss

Phase Three – Extraction + Fade:

Mingyu initiates blackout route

Decoys deployed on west perimeter to delay pursuit

Rendezvous at Site Echo

CIVILIAN TARGET: PERFORMANCE LOG

Arrived wearing borrowed Kevlar and jeans tucked into combat boots. Asked if bulletproof vests same in women’s sizes. Did not wait for response.

Showed immediate enthusiasm, zero tactical finesse. Hansol gave her the map. She held it upside down. Twice.

Informed her she’d be working as the visual diversion. Her response: “Like bait?” Followed by: “Cool. I’m good at being annoying.”

Surprisingly effective. Created a loud enough ruckus on the perimeter to draw three guards off their posts. Managed to bluff her way past checkpoint by pretending to be a lost food delivery driver. Claimed she had gluten-free soba for a man named Kevin. There is no Kevin.

Still not sure how she pulled it off.

When Boss was found, he was semi-conscious but breathing. Whispered her name first.

END STATUS:

Boss retrieved.

Minimal casualties (1 injured – not fatal)

Facility compromised but not traced

Civilian target cried in the van. Then threatened to punch me for writing that down. I'm writing it down anyway.

FOOTNOTE — for Seungcheol’s eyes only: You’re reckless, stubborn, and impossible to reason with. But apparently, that’s your thing. You’re also luckier than most of us ever will be.

She didn’t sleep. Not once. Kept looking at every door like you might walk through it.

When you did, she didn’t even say anything. Just threw her arms around you like gravity stopped working.

Try not to make her go through that again.

– YJH

📱 Phone history log, filed by mafia soldier Chwe Hansol

Device: S.Coups' Personal Line (Encrypted Channel #017) Status: Outgoing Messages Only – Blocked by Signal Jammer Timestamp Range: ██:██–██:██ (Time of Abduction)

NOTE: Texts never reached intended recipient. Recovered during post-mission diagnostics. For archival purposes.

[01:12 AM] Where are you? They said you were hurt. I'm on my way.

[01:15 AM] Which hospital? No one's answering. This isn't funny. Call me.

[01:17 AM] Your signal keeps bouncing. Something's wrong. Stay where you are.

[01:21 AM] I swear to god if they laid a hand on you

[01:24 AM] No ambulance ever came.

[01:25 AM] This is a setup.

[01:27 AM] I'm so stupid. They used you. Fuck fuck fuck

[01:28 AM] I should've followed protocol. Should’ve sent Mingyu. Should’ve sent anyone but me.

[01:30 AM] If you get this, lock all the windows. Call Jeonghan. Stay put.

[01:34 AM] They knew I’d come for you.

[01:36 AM] This isn’t your fault.

[01:39 AM] Don’t come after me.

[01:41 AM] Love, beloved, please. Don’t try to save me.

[01:45 AM] You always do this—you throw yourself into fires you don't understand.

[01:49 AM] If they hurt you because of me, I’ll never forgive myself.

[01:52 AM] Tell Jeonghan to burn everything. Get out. Go far.

[01:54 AM] Forget me if you have to. Just live.

[02:01 AM] I love you. Please, please, please, don’t be stupid.

[END OF RECOVERED LOG]

📰 Excerpt from "The Ethics of Mafias: Love in the Line of Fire", a follow-up think piece by Xu Minghao

... If leadership within organized crime is already an ethical minefield, then love within it is something more volatile still: a paradox of vulnerability embedded in violence. New whispers surround the figure known only as S.Coups—the alleged mafia boss whose name, until recently, conjured images of discipline, domination, and an empire forged in precision.

Now, another narrative has emerged. One that reshapes how we understand not just the man, but the very myth he embodies.

According to rumors sourced from both within and outside the organization, S.Coups may have a romantic partner. Not a fellow operative, nor a political alliance. But a civilian. Someone unaffiliated and—crucially—untouched by the bloodied logic of the underworld.

If this is true, the implications are vast.

To love in his position is a risk. It is weakness, some would say. Yet others might argue that such love is the only thing capable of keeping a man like him from becoming monstrous. If the rumors are accurate, she is the reason he looks over his shoulder less. The reason he checks his own wrath. The reason his most trusted lieutenants have stopped fearing him and started worrying about him.

Love, here, is not a diversion. It is discipline.

And perhaps that is the most fascinating ethical twist of all: that this boss, so often theorized as either tyrant or savior, might be both—because of her.

Some say he texts her between assassinations. That he buys her gummy bears because she mentioned liking them once, months ago. That he has started folding her laundry and learning her aunt’s dietary restrictions. These are, of course, unconfirmed. They seem almost laughably mundane. But within the shadowed world of syndicates and secret wars, what could be more radical than tenderness?

Others claim that he was taken. There are now verified reports of a failed abduction and his eventual rescue. She was allegedly involved. They say she showed up unarmed, untrained, and utterly unafraid. They say she demanded to be part of the rescue mission. They say she was reckless, infuriating, and ultimately, instrumental.

And that when he saw her again, he wept.

To be loved, it turns out, is not always soft. Sometimes, it is brutal and inelegant and wildly inconvenient. But in the context of a life built on violence, to be loved is to be saved. Again and again. In the ways that matter.

Whether S.Coups is worthy of that love is not the question. The question is whether it has already changed him. Whether, in the end, the girl outside the syndicate might be the only thing real in a world made of smoke and mirrors.

And whether that, more than power or fear, will be his lasting legacy.

Mafia boss S.Coups is many things. Protector, manipulator. Brother, enemy, friend.

It seems we must add two more things:

Lover, and loved.

FIN. THANK YOU FOR READING CHERRY ON TOP!

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[monster-effer]

Camping Trip Gone Wild - Caleb x reader

Summary: Caleb invites you to a camping trip and you two are having a great time. But, after snooping through your phone, his jealous side makes itself known. R.I.P. to your pussy!!! Content: MDNI, explicit smut, Caleb and reader are dating, slight dubcon but the reader is definitely into it, questionable use of evol, oral - f receiving, fingering, pet names used: pip-squeak, princess, my love (2.2k wc) A/N: Caleb has been running laps around my mind lately, so I had to write something with him in it. I hope y’all enjoy ♡

You’re shopping at a local farmer’s market when you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. When you unlock it, you are pleasantly surprised to see a text from Caleb. He’s usually wrapped up in his work at this time.

Colonel Apple: Hey pip-squeak. You’re free this weekend right? You: Maybe. Depends on what you have planned.

You watch the typing indicator go on and off for a few moments before locking your phone and continuing to peruse the produce at the local farmer’s market. When you have a bag full of fruits and vegetables you feel your phone buzz once again.

Colonel Apple: We haven’t been camping together yet. Let’s change that? You: Hell yeah, I’m in. What do I need to bring besides clothes and toiletries? Colonel Apple: I have the rest covered. Just bring yourself 😊

The rest of the week passed by at an excruciatingly slow pace. But you have just arrived at the camping site with Caleb and all your supplies in tow. Before you can ask, he starts putting together a chair for you to sit on. When he’s done, he wordlessly gestures towards it as if saying ‘It’s all yours’.

You plop down into the chair and cross your legs. Then you enjoy the rocking motion of your new seat as you watch him work his magic. You were more tired than you thought because the next thing you notice is Caleb gently shaking you awake, his face close to yours and his eyes filled with warmth.

“Welcome back princess.”

You yawn and blink a few times to adjust your vision. When you look around, you see Caleb has made significant progress while you were napping. There is now a huge tent set up to the right side of the campsite. And a second camping chair assembled near a table with cooking supplies neatly organized on top of it.

There are fairy lights hanging in the nearby trees and looped around the top of your tent, giving your campsite a cozy glow. The smell of burning wood and the sound of a crackling fire catches your attention next.

“Why didn’t you wake me up? I could have helped with something.”

Caleb softly chuckles “I did say that I have everything covered. And you need to relax more, your job as a hunter has you running around all over Linkon.”

You huff and cross your arms because you can’t really argue with that logic. So instead, you decide to change the subject.

“I’m hungry. Let’s make dinner and tell some spooky stories around the fire.”

You two roast some hot dogs and settle down on opposite ends of the campfire. Then Caleb launches into a dramatic tale. By the end of it, you’re gasping with laughter at how cheesy the ending to his story was.

Noticing that it is getting dark out, a question comes to mind.

“Can you remind me where the public showers are again? I want to wash up before we go to sleep tonight.”

Caleb points towards the main road near your camping spot and tells you how to get there. “Do you want me to walk you there?”

“No, I’ll be alright. I’m taking a flashlight with me.”

Caleb hums as he watches you gather your pajamas and toiletries. He pulls his camping chair closer to the crackling fire and is about to settle down into it when he hears your phone’s notification sound go off.

He decides to ignore it, but the notification sound pings once more, and then three more times after that. Since you won’t be back for a while, you can’t blame him for being curious about who is bombarding his girlfriend with texts at this hour.

Caleb abandons his plan to chill by the fire and walks over to the tent. He removes his shoes before climbing in and looking for your bag. Once he finds it, he digs around a bit before finding your phone.

From the home screen he can see that all the notification sounds were coming from one source. They were all texts from Rafayel, who you have saved as  ‘The Little Mermaid’ in your phone. Since you two reunited after his “death”, Caleb begrudgingly accepted that he cannot be your only source of social fulfillment. His work as a colonel keeps him busy for long stretches of time, sometimes you two aren’t able to chat more than once a week.

Caleb is stone faced as he unlocks your phone with your password (that he memorized) and begins reading through the recent messages you received. His curiosity over what warranted back-to-back texts needed to be sated, for his own sanity.

His jaw clenched hard as he read Rafayel’s overly familiar texts.

7:10 pm: are u busy this upcoming week 7:10 pm: need you to be my model for this piece i’m working on 7:15 pm: cutieeeeee dun you want to help me 7:16 pm: i’ll take you out for seafood if you agree 7:18 pm: 💔🥺? 🐟🐠🐡

Caleb is always one to compliment your beauty, but the dark feeling of jealousy fills his chest at the thought of the artist eye balling you for hours on end. Before he can read further up in the text thread, he hears footsteps approaching the campsite.

Not wanting to be caught snooping, he quickly stashes your phone back in your bag and sits in his camping chair. He closes his eyes and tries to relax his body despite the fury bubbling under his skin over the artist taking up your time while he’s not there.

“I’m back. All fresh and clean now.”

When he opens his eyes, he hopes his true feelings aren’t shining through. Although he was left almost void of emotions after his chip implantation, Caleb can feel his anger towards the needy artist increasing by the second. He can also feel that anger transforming into a burning need to re-establish what you mean to each other.

Meanwhile as you stand there you can feel that something is…off. As hard as he tries to hide it, you can read Caleb’s emotions better than anyone else.

“I didn’t know you were so well acquainted with that artist…Rafayel,” he spits out his name as if it pains him to utter it.

You’ve mentioned Rafayel in passing but you aren’t entirely sure where this is coming from.

“Rafayel is a close friend of mine, what about it?” You snap at him, beginning to lose your patience.

Caleb smiles coldly before responding. “From the texts I just read, it seems like you two spend a lot of time together. I think I need to remind you of something.”

You feel anger well up in your body. “Why were you reading my texts Caleb? What the hell. And I think you need to be reminded of something called privacy.”

Before you can chew him out, the unmistakable weight of his evol envelopes your body. You gasp as you’re lifted then held up mid air, as Caleb pulls your camping chair towards him. As you futilely attempt to struggle against the hold, he lets your body slowly descend into the chair and stares into your eyes.

“As I was saying, I’m going to remind you that you only need to rely on me.”

“Let. Go. Of. Me,” you say through clenched teeth.

He ignores your demand and drops to his knees before you. Your breath catches in your throat as he spreads your legs and places butterfly kisses on the tender skin of your inner thighs.

You are furious with him for so many reasons, but at this moment, you can’t stave off the arousal building in your tummy.

Caleb begins to suck small hickeys on your skin between peppering kisses all the way up your thighs. You muffle a whine as tingles of pleasure zap straight to your clit. His face is so close to where you can feel your arousal pooling in your underwear. Your thighs are a sensitive spot, and he knows that. If you weren’t weighed down by his evol right now you weren’t sure if you’d be squirming away (or towards?) the torturous pleasure.

“Caleb,” you whimper.

Your voice broke the trance Caleb fell into between your legs. His eyes have darkened when they meet yours once again.

“Yes, princess?”

“M-More please.”

He smirks and doesn’t say a word before forcefully moving your pajama shorts and underwear to the side and licking a long stripe between your glistening folds. His hot tongue is wreaking havoc on your throbbing clit and you all but scream out into the night.

“Oh my god, please please please release your evol. I need to move.”

He detaches from your clit to respond to you. The bottom half of his face is noticeably covered in your slick. And his eyes have a hungry look in them.

 “No can do pip-squeak, you aren’t running from this.”

You let out a high-pitched moan as Caleb leans back in and alternates between dragging his tongue over your clit and making out with your pussy lips.

You take in a sharp breath as you feel tension build up in your belly. Your pussy begins to flutter around nothing.

“C-caleb I’m going to-”

He cuts you off by slipping his middle and ring finger inside of your wet hole. The squelching sound emitting from his ministrations seem amplified by the otherwise quiet night. You can only handle him pumping his fingers inside of you a few times before you reach orgasm.

You almost black out from the overwhelming euphoria as your pussy spasms around the sudden invasion of his fingers. You moan wantonly as Caleb slowly fingers you through your climax.

As you come down from that high, he gently pulls out his fingers. As a small act of mercy, he dissipates his evol and lets your muscles fully relax into the chair. He also pulls down your pajama shorts and undies, leaving your bottom half exposed.

“I hope you’re ready for more, because I’m far from done with you.”

You’re still trembling from the impact of your orgasm as you watch him stand up and remove his shorts and underwear. His thick cock twitches as the cool night air hits it. You hungrily watch his right hand wrap around it and give it a few strokes.

Caleb bends his knees and uses the swinging chair as leverage to line up your pussy with his body. You feel him rub his hot, mushroom tip against your clit and teasingly around your opening.

You shudder at his teasing and consider begging for more. But before you can, he slides himself all the way inside you without warning.

Your hands scramble for purchase before gripping the chair’s headrest. Both of you moan at the sudden, intense sensation.

“I’m so full” you whine as you clench your eyes shut.

He groans and readjusts his hold on the chair.

“Hold on tight pip-squeak,” is all he says before gripping the swinging chair and using it to drill his throbbing length inside of your aching walls. Your back arches sharply from the momentum of being slammed onto his cock.

You can’t do anything but whimper at the deep penetration. Faint creaks can be heard from the chair as your body is forcefully rocked back and forth.

Caleb is showing no mercy to your gushing pussy as he keeps up the brutal pace. You can distinctly feel each vein on his cock drag against your insides. Your mind goes fuzzy when he changes the angle of his thrusts and begins to rut against your most sensitive spot.

Caleb lovingly admires the state he’s put you in. Your hair is a mess, your eyes are unfocused, and it feels like you're sucking him in at every inward thrust.

“There you go my love, all you have to do right now is lay there and take it,” he rasps. He uses his evol to take over maneuvering the chair, so he can rub your clit in time with his thrusts.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your mind is filled with nothing but pure bliss. His rhythm turns sloppy when he feels you clench around him.

“You’re doing so good, just let go for me,” he practically coos at you.

You’re barely holding onto consciousness as your orgasm feels like it is never ending. Your legs are shaking, and you futilely try to close them against the onslaught of pleasure.

Caleb continues rubbing your clit and sinking himself inside of you while your spasm.

“Where do you want me to come princess?”

“Inside me please,” you say weakly.

Caleb keens before picking up the pace and burying himself deep inside of you. Feeling the warm spurts of his cum makes you reflexively clench around him. After a few moments, he slowly pulls out and collapses into his chair, letting you both catch your breath.

As you lay there you recall being mad at Caleb about something. But your mind is muddled from the mind blowing, back-to-back orgasms.

Well, you assume it wasn’t that important anyway. And if it was, you’ll deal with it later.

Maybe.

A/N: (Spoiler: Nothing was dealt with. You and Caleb ended up crawling into the tent and fucking some more instead. The end ♡ )

[cheonstapes]

miguel o'hara stars in... 'NERD!MIGUEL STARTS AN ONLYFANS' (ง ื▿ ื)ว

a/n~ this popped in my head so quick and i thought i was gonna combust if i didn’t start writng then and there٩( ᐛ )و once again all creds to @nymphomatique 💗

part 2

summary; your nerdy almost-boyfriend starts an onlyfans without you knowing.

wc; 1.6k

pairings; nerd!miguel o'hara x rich!fem!reader

cw; SMUT!!, onlyfans, miguel being embarrassed, m!masturbation, panty kink, humiliation kink, sub!miguel pretending to be a dom, miguel being obsessed with reader (//∇//), dom!reader, reader being possessive (as you should), the woman was too stunned to speak, paint me like one of your french girls, nawt proofread - i was half asleep

ok,, nerd! miguel with a secret onlyfans that he hides from you.

because he’s lowkey embarrassed 

because he wants you to find it and punish him for sharing what’s yours with others

on top of that, he’s one of the top accounts on the site. i mean it’s not a surprise- he’s still hot as fuck. extremely tall, chiseled body, thick thighs, sexy face, big dick- he’s quite literally perfect, and he knows you know that. 

he only started it because of you, anyway. the compliments you whisper in his ears, telling him how beautiful he is, how much you love his body, he never realised how fine he actually is. so one day whilst he was sitting in your dorm, finishing up on of your reports, he decided he would put his body to good use. you were out for the night, and you probably wouldn’t come back until the next morning so he had all the time in the world. 

he scrolled through a few pics you took of him on your phone, but something was bugging him. he looked so…submissive in them. yeah, of course he enjoyed being submissive - but only for you. the idea of other people seeing him in a way that’s reserved for you and you only giving him a strange feeling in his chest. miguel was a virgin before he met you though, so being submissive was really all he knew. being dominant felt wrong, but he was willing to give it a try.

feeling a surge of confidence, he stood up from your desk, stripping himself of his shirt, leaving him clad in his loose sweats. he sat on your queen sized bed, scooting himself up to the headboard. he really was a tall motherfucker though, long legs dangling off the edges of your fluffy mattress. he props one leg up, resting his elbow against it as he angles the camera down towards his chest, bulging muscles highlighted by your warm fairy lights.

he takes pic after pic, different angles and positions around your room even using some of your toys as props. but in all of those pictures, he never showed his face - that’s for you, and nothing can change that. instead, he offered his followers a view of his plump lips, pulled into a lazy grin in every photo. 

a few months pass and he’s been racking up followers like crazy, all the money he makes - he spends on you, of course, buying you bags, clothes, shoes, anything his pretty mommy desires. you don’t question where he was getting all that money from, miguel also came from a pretty wealthy family - he did still spend as much of his parents money on you as he could.

eventually, he was in the top 3 creators of the site. he started to get a bit more raunchy with his posts, after that, he blew up like crazy. the constant *pings*! from his phone, however, was a means for suspicion. since when was your little loser of a boyfriend, well he’s not your boyfriend yet, but since when was he popular? like, people only know who he is because of you, and still nothing really changed since you claimed him as yours - so what’s with this sudden boost in attention he’s receiving?

he sits across from you, at your desk again, as you glare holes into his back from your plush bed. he’s smiling at his phone, the screen hidden from your view and you can only assume the worst. he’s talking to other bitches. everyone knew you were possessive, but when it comes to miguel? that’s a whole ‘nother situation. you wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of anyone who even thought about fucking around with your miguel. having connections is a real blessing.

your tongue clicks in annoyance, voice cutting through the comfortable silence in the room as you call out to him. “miguel, give me your phone.” you hold a hand out towards him, unmoving as your face remains devoid of emotion - although your twitching eyebrow tells a lot. he looks up at you immediately, pushing his frames back up his face. “w-what d’you need my phone f-for?” it was a valid question in any other circumstance, but this wasn’t any other circumstance. this was your obedient, not so little, miguel questioning you.

your brows raise, an amused scoff leaving your glossy lisp. you raise from the bed, strutting over to him as you snatch his phone from his hand. “the fuck is up with this attitude, hm? i don’t remember teachin’ you to be a little brat.” you sneer down at him, he was pathetic, really. face flushing as he realised his mistake, stumbling over his words and whimpering soft pleas of forgiveness. “shut it.” you don’t spare him another glance, gripping his phone as you sit back on your bed, crossing your legs.

unlocking his phone was easy, his password is your birthday - you could smile at how cutely obsessed with you he is but you were too pissed off at the moment. and of course, his lock screen and wallpaper is a picture of you, the same with his instagram pfp as you scroll through his chats. everything was weirdly innocent. there were only brief dm’s between him and what seemed like old friends and some current friends you didn’t even know he had, even his snapchat was completely barren.

you double, even triple checked his socials - not even a finsta in sight. with a deep sigh, you give up. of course you weren’t going to say out loud that you were overthinking but- oh? that stupid notification sound again. you quickly looked down at his phone again, seeing a notification from twitter. you completely forgot about it - seeing as it’s not even fucking called twitter anymore. 

clicking on it, your eyes widen in surprise. this whole account was a complete 360 from the miguel that grovels at your feet on a daily basis. the most teasingly sexy posts litter his feed - promising all that and more if you just clicked on the link in his bio, and that you did. miguel was watching you nervously the whole time, thinking the worst at your silent reactions. he moves to stand, hoping that just maybe he can get his phone back. “sit the fuck down.” and he sits.

what a fucking slut. your good little boy, in all these different positions, fooling his fans into thinking he’s some strong, sexy, dom. getting off in your bed, calling his fans all the nasty names you call him. the whole situation was just so funny to you. these poor people, they didn’t know how much their favourite daddy dom was in fact a little bitch, for you and you only. 

there was a part of you that was happy seeing have so much confidence, as much as you want to keep him all to yourself. it was kinda hot, him trying to act all dominant. you’d be lying to yourself if you said it didn’t make your cunt throb, biting your lips as you scroll deeper, and deeper. one post in particular caught your eyes, though. it was a video, the lighting was darker than the others but his body was just as clear. you put the volume all the way up, snickering at miguel’s frightened gasp behind you.

you can see why this post had so many likes now, cause god was it sexy. miguel laid on your bed, his face not visible, chest on display as he lightly ran his strong hands up and down his body, mumbling deep praises to his fans about how ‘good’ they are for him, how well he could fuck his pretty little sluts, how they probably wish they were there with him. who wouldn’t? his fat cock was drizzled in lube, sticky, hard, and leaking all over his hand. it rested on his stomach, smearing pre all over his happy trail, as he traced a thick finger along the throbbing veins. 

his moans where still just like you knew them to be, whiny and breathy, small whimpers leaking through his spit soaked lips. his hand worked himself faster, pumping up and down just like you do, skimming over his tip in the same way you do. after all, you’re the only one who knows how to use him. it feels like he edges himself forever. constantly stopping and starting, gripping onto his cock tightly to stop himself from exploding all over himself.

he pants heavily, growling softly as he pulls something up out of frame, a small black lacy thong. your black lacy thong, the same one you had on right now. he wrapped it around his aching cock, rubbing his tip along the crotch before rapidly fucking himself into the fabric. he doesn’t last long though, the thong smelt like you, he had only taken it a few minutes before he started filming - digging through your dirty laundry like some depraved perv to find the perfect pair.

only after a couple quick pumps did he spill all over the pretty fabric, his mouth hung open, chest shimmering with sweat. he brought the soiled panties to his mouth, sensually licking off his own cum before shooting a teasing smile at the camera - the video ending. you couldn’t even speak, slowly turning around to face him, his head hanging down in shame. 

oh, you were gonna make sure he learnt his lesson. his fans too.

to be continued…

- i want his balls jn my mouf

[pucksandpebbles]

𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒍𝒉⁴³

browse my other 𝑙𝑢𝑘𝑒 ℎ𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑒𝑠 fics here

browse my other 𝑝𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟 𝑥 𝑙𝑢𝑘𝑒 ℎ𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑒𝑠 fics here

a blurb in which, Luke loves that you have your own career and is so proud to be sharing such an amazing life with you that he just can't help but tell anyone who will listen

a/n : a quick Luke blurb from me cause he's my fav - so boyfriend :)

always remember to show love and don't be a silent reader - I love your thoughts and without y'all I probably wouldn't be writing so thank you. Also this could be considered a 100 followers celly, which I was blessed by this week - can't believe there are so many of you here!! not proof/beta read

wc : 549

“It’s good to be dating someone who’s whole world isn’t hockey - it’s something that I can escape into on the off days. And it’s nice to have someone who understands what it’s like to have the spotlight on you and to have a busy schedule. I mean, she’s got her own thing, that’s why I love her, Miss Independent.”

You laughed aloud, scrolling down to read more of the article, which although was supposed to be about Luke and his hockey career, was reading more and more like a ‘Luke Hughes is in love with his girlfriend’ segment. You couldn’t help but break into a smile as you gradually uncovered more and more of his high praise for you, laid bare in a sports journal for all to read. No doubt social media sites and gossip blogs were filling up on this type of content, lapping at the way Luke seemed entirely incapable of not mentioning you in an interview. It was kind of adorable, how obsessed he was. 

His head was currently slotted comfortably between your clothed thighs, nuzzled into the warm fabric and trying to hide his growing blush and you read the words out loud to him. Ruffling his dark curls with your free hand, you moved the phone to look down at him.

“Luke, honey, you are such a sap,” You chuckled slightly.

He groaned, “Quinn and Jack are never gonna let me hear the end of this.”

Your smile grew even wider as you replied, “Forget about your brothers, I’m never gonna let you hear the end of this.”

A long drawn out ‘ugh’ emanated from his mouth as he pulled his head up to rest on your lower stomach instead, his flushed face glowing in the sunlight that was streaming in through the large panelled windows.

“No baby, don’t worry, it’s cute.” You reaffirmed.

“It is.”

Pressing gentle kisses to the strip of skin that was exposed between your jeans and the hem of your top, he asked, “You promise?”

You tipped your head back in another laugh, “Of course I promise.”

The scene was so domestic, something that you might have felt suffocated by in other, previous relationships, but that felt just right, here, with Luke. The way you two were entangled on your sofa after two bowls of ramen and crisps shared over the latest episode of the White Lotus that you were watching together. Together, even when you couldn’t be sat together watching it, spread out across the country - but never spread thin. The pings of texts which documented his excitement, his shock, his theories as you watched on in sync in your own hotel room.

It felt normal, it felt perfect.

His hands grasped at your soft hoodie, that was actually his, hands snaking softly beneath the fabric and planting sweet kisses to every inch of exposed skin - but not asking for more, just something domestic.

How your phone lit up with texts of support and congratulations after a concert. How you sent off texts mid-game asking if he was okay after a particularly hard loss and celebrated his wins through emojis and excitement. 

They had these words in an article, but they didn’t get the full picture. Never would. It was just something for the two of them.

[saltnsugarbear]

there's no one else around (you're touching yourself) (18+)

summary: By pure accident, you stumble across the home page of your manager's brother's cam site. But neither of them have to know, right?

title from: "Wet Dream" by Wet Leg

word count: 2.1k

content warnings: MDNI!!! male masturbation mention, what is technically sex work, camshow/cam work, afab reader genitalia, vaginal/clitoral masturbation, rabbit vibrator you're my best friend, pillow humping ummm, don't think there's anything else

side note: HI BEAR WITH ME I FEEL LIKE THIS IS SHORT BUT TRUST WE WILL GET BETTER WITH TIME

You should not be here. By here, you mean Lip's cam site.

You stumbled upon it completely on accident. It had been a long week, and you needed to blow off some steam, and your friend had suggested looking into cam sites for something more interpersonal than just porn. So it was safe to say you were surprised when, in the top twenty for the local area, Lip Gallagher was streaming.

You only know it's Lip from the triangle tattoo on his chest that you have not stopped thinking about since you saw it.

You should not be here. You should not be entertaining the idea of watching your coworker, your manager's brother. Your mouse is hovering over the video, the stream playing in the small display on the sites front page. But Fiona doesn't have to know, right?

That's what you keep repeating to yourself as you go through the process of making an account (of course Lip would set his page to accounts only, why wouldn't he, it's the best way to insure money is made.)

That doesn't stop you from feeling slightly embarrassed by it. Fiona doesn't need to know, Lip doesn't need to know, nobody needs to know.

You make your user something meaningless, something he wouldn't be able to tie back to you. Once you get the minimum access... It's enough to make you blush, mouth going dry as you take everything in.

In most of the thumbnails, you can only see Lip's chest. In a few of them... Well, in a few of them, you can see more than just his chest. So much more.

There's a few items on his site that require a subscription fee and... Well, you're not ready to commit to that just yet. The streams will do, for now.

You're quick to roll out of bed and grab your headphones from your shelf, wasting no time connecting them to your laptop and putting them on. Once you're sure they're connected, you quickly click on the stream, not leaving any room for hesitation as the video loads.

It is. A lot.

The stream only takes a few seconds to load up before it's playing on your screen. You move by muscle memory, putting the video in theatre mode.

You haven't even looked at the live chat as it blows by, little pings and animations dancing on the screen. You're not taking in any of it.

All you can see is Lip. All you can focus on. The only coherent thought in your mind is him.

"Fuckin' hell-" Lip grunts in your headphones. Your eyes are wide as you take in everything you can. You can't even be bothered to get yourself off, you feel like you'll miss something if you tear your attention away from the screen.

You've chosen an interesting stream to start with.

Lip's body is framed perfectly. It's different from the other thumbnails, more of him being shown. His arm is extended, bracing himself on what you can only assume is the wall beside his setup. His chair is positioned sideways, a pillow folded in half and positioned snuggly in the angle of the chair. The leg closest to the camera is extended, giving him a firm footing as his other rests on the seat of the chair.

If you hadn't already taken your jeans off, you'd be fighting with yourself to get them off as quickly as possible.

You're glad that past you had the forethought to place your vibrator beside you, and all you needed to do now was take off your own underwear. Lip's home page was enough pre-game that you don't have to play with yourself too much to slip in the silicone toy.

You have to hit a few buttons before you land on the setting you want. Timing the grinding of your hips with Lip's movements and the rhythmic vibrations of the rabbit is tricky, but you manage to match the pace as best as you can.

Lip repeats this pattern of thrusting into the pillow, punctuating each one with a firm grind against it and then stilling before starting up again. The motions are enough to drive you mad, letting yourself shut your eyes and pretend the toy inside of you is actually Lip as he groans in your ear about how tight you are.

He encourages you and the audience to edge yourselves for as long as you can. To keep yourself dangling on that edge of release until he tells you to let go.

He gives you the clear right before he lets himself come. He doesn't have to tell you twice as you grind against the rabbit buzzing against your clit. The feeling is damn near overwhelming as you gasp softly, listening to the way Lip grunts out praise and curses.

You slam your laptop shut before you can watch him end the stream. Your chest rises and falls heavily, staring up at your ceiling as your brain registers what you just did.

Fuck.

The pit in your stomach when you see Lip walk in makes you feel sick. You knew he was working today. You're not sure why it jars you so much, but the overwhelming anxiety that seeing him gives you... It's enough to make you regret seeing his cam page.

He spends enough time talking with Sierra on her way back to the bar counter that you can cash out your register. Despite your rush to go, you get everything settled nicely in the pouch you need to take back to Fiona.

When you look up, your stomach drops when you meet Lip's gaze. You're quick to turn around and flee the front counter before he can leave Sierra's side.

"Fi am I good to go?" You walk into her cramped office like a whirlwind. You're already untying your small apron from around your waist and folding it in your hands.

"Yeah. Everything okay?" Fiona looks at you, brown eyes wide and searching your own. You nod quickly, tucking your apron in your waistband and placing your till money on her desk.

"Peachy," you tell her, placing your hand on her shoulder and giving a quick kiss to the top of her head. "I'll see you tomorrow, Fi."

Fiona gives your hand a quick size before you're slipping out of the office, stopping at the locker that stores your and Sierra's belongings. You're quick to swing the door open and grabbing your bag from the top shelf. The way you jam your apron into your bag is a little more aggressive than you usually handle things but you are determined to leave before you can run into Lip. Once you close your bag and slip it over your shoulder, slamming the locker door shut after you and turning quickly on your heel.

You're a bit too in your own head, not paying any attention as you head out of the small employee area, not bothering to check if someone else is coming back there.

That is your mistake, colliding hard with someone else. You're hands act on their own, grabbing at the shirt of the person you ran into to keep yourself balanced.

"Whoa-" Goddamnit.

You shut your eyes and momentary curse whatever cosmic being has it out for you today. Once you know you're steady you quickly let go of his shirt, bringing your hands close to your chest and step back a little.

It would be your luck that on your way out the door you would run into Lip Gallagher. The very person you're trying to avoid facing.

"You okay?" Lip's voice is caring as he speaks softly.

"Fine," you say, looking for a way to slip past him. He takes up most of the walkway, and there's that sour taste in your mouth. Your brain is sending mixed messages, guilt, and disgust at yourself, but your cheeks feel flush with Lip so close to you. Maybe it's his own body heat...

"Y'sure?" Lip asks you gently. "Y'look all..."

The gesture Lip makes is confusing, simply just motioning at your whole body, and it makes you want to disappear into the shitty paint job on the wall.

"Great. Just need to get home, so uh.." You gesture behind him, hoping he'll get the idea so you can brush past him.

"Oh shit. Sorry. I'll see ya tomorrow then?" Like he's sad he missed you on the shift. The sentiment makes your stomach flip, and you have to fight it down as he slips by you, his chest brushing your shoulder so you have to turn if you want to keep looking at him.

"Uh, yeah.. Pulling a double, so I'll be here all day." You're not at all keen on the idea, but one of the girls had practically begged on her knees for you to cover her shift.

Lip huffs and shakes his head with a disbelieving grin. "I'll see ya then.."

He does that nervous habit he has, scratching gently at his nose with his thumb as you give you a small wave as you leave. The interaction is only... Slightly bizarre, if you put it mildly.

Fiona slips out of her office, leaning against the doorframe as Lip walks over to the lockers.

"They seem... Off, to you?" Fiona asks Lip as he grabs his rubber apron. He spares Fiona a glance before he brings the apron over his head.

"Off?" Lip asks.

"I don't know... Like skittish? Flighty?" Fiona tries to explain the feeling that's nagging at her brain. You left in such a rush and left her no room for explanation when you brushed her off.

"A little," Lip shrugs. "Just seems like they wanted t'get out of here before gettin' dragged into more work."

Fiona hums softly, crossing her arms over her chest. Lip nods before shutting the locker softly before leaving the backroom, leaving Fiona to mull over your interaction.

The rest of your week follows the same cycle.

Going to Lip's site, getting off while he streams himself getting off, and then trying not to face him the next day.

The only one who really seems to notice your quick get aways everytime Lip clocks in is Fiona. The not knowing makes her fidgety and agitated, becoming noticeably short with people until eventually she snaps.

"Did you do something to piss them off?" Fiona grills Lip as they watch you bid Sierra goodbye before slipping out the door to the restaurant.

The look he gives his sister is offended. Offended that she would suggest he had done something wrong when he barely had the chance to talk to you this last week. It did strike him as peculiar that you managed to slip away whenever he clocked in or found a way to switch shifts so you two no longer worked similar shifts anymore.

"Why do you assume I did something wrong?" He asks. Despite his defensive position, he wracked his brain for any possible interaction that could have caused your change in behavior.

"Because they only ever leave like a bat out of hell when you come in!" Fiona exclaims.

"Well, maybe you should ask 'em, since I didn't do anything wrong." Lip says, glancing around the restaurant as he stacks dishes in his bin.

"Oh, don't give me that!" Fiona turns to him, lightly smacking his arm with the till pouch in her hands.

"What?" Lip jerks his arm away from her, as if it actually hurt. He's just merely offended by the action.

"I have asked 'em! They just say their fine and leave as quick as they can!" She sets the pouch on the counter beside the register and rests her chin on her hands.

"Maybe you did something." Lip shrugs, mouth quirking up to squish his cheek up so his eye squints slightly. Fiona turns to glare at him, but he's not looking at her. Busy doing his job.

"What would I have done that would piss them off?" Lip comes up to settle beside her, setting his bin down as if he really needs to give it some thought.

"Well, let's see-" Fiona cuts him off with a hard smack to the chest.

"Let's see nothing, asshole.." Fiona mutters, leaning against the counter as she stands up straight and watches the people walking by.

"It's gotta be somethin'." Lip shakes his head slightly, picking his bin back up.

"I'm gonna figure it out." Fiona promises her brother.

"Yeah, you do that. I'll uh, I'll be in the back doin' dishes while you try figurin' it out." Lip claps Fiona on the shoulder, gives her a quick squeeze, and heads for back of house.

Fiona huffs at him before glancing back at the sidewalk. She's going to figure it out, whether it's a big secret or not.

Fiona will find out.

[berlioz-the-kitten]

Petri Dishes and Plastic Wrap

ACT ONE: CLEAN CUTS

Next

Brian Moser/Reader

Summary: Y/N was brought in for a psychological profile contract after the Ice Truck Killer case starts gaining momentum and the department begins to feel the pressure. She reviews old case files, offers insight, and quietly builds profiles. What no one knows? Y/N used to work at a private sanitarium in Georgia—one that got shut down after multiple patient abuse reports. She even kept a journal on a particular patient who had dissociative tendencies, surgical skill, and a fixation on reconstructing human bodies like art. The file? It got buried. Now in Miami, Y/N starts receiving odd notes—sketches of bodies in glass boxes, neatly preserved. No threats. Just… acknowledgments. And when she meets Rudy Cooper, the charming prosthetics specialist brought in to consult on a limb pattern, she gets the feeling she’s being studied.

TW: Psychological trauma references, Medical institutional abuse (implied), Body horror/gore (clinical context), Blood imagery, Stalking/psychological manipulation (emerging), Power imbalance/grooming dynamics (seeded), Emotional numbness/disassociation, Canon is a sandbox.

The elevator doors slid open with a sterile and pitching ping!, and Dr. Y/N Morrissey stepped out like she’d been summoned by order, not invitation. 

Miami Metro was cooler than expected—she’d braced for that signature Florida heat to press in around her like damp gauze, but the precinct’s air conditioning hummed a steady chill through the corridors. Still, the scent of too much coffee, simmering egos and overripe evidence rooms lingered beneath the sterile polish.

She walked with precision, heels soundless against the old tile. A folder rested neatly in the crook of her arm, her ID clipped in perfect alignment to her lapel. Her suit was slate grey, sharply tailored, a color too subdued for Miami. Her eyes were the only thing sharper—narrowed, not in judgment, but calculation. She was already dissecting the layout. Already filing away the badge-to-detective ratio, the postures, the voices, the tension.

She could feel it in the air. The fray at the seams.

The Ice Truck Killer case had everyone taut as piano wire. Hallway laughter died when she passed, and she caught the sidelong glances—the quiet assessments from men who didn’t know how to place her. She didn’t smile. Didn’t offer a handshake unless one was extended first. Dr. Morrissey didn’t believe in unnecessary contact. She believed in patterns. In pathology. In what the blood said when everything else lied.

She was escorted to the small office space they’d carved out for her. Temporary, windowless, unremarkable. Fine. She preferred her space like she preferred her subjects: quiet, clinical, and undisturbed.

Her first file was already waiting on the desk. She set her folder down beside it, unbuttoned her jacket, and sat.

The photo on the top page was a torso.

Just a torso.

Y/N exhaled slowly, her breath steady and unsentimental. Then she pulled a black pen from her breast pocket, flipped open her notebook, and began to write.

She didn’t flinch at the image. She didn’t recoil from the bloodless seams. She respected the work.

The files were a mess—coffee-stained in places, pages smudged with fingerprints that told their own story. Y/N laid them out like specimens across her desk, arranging them by date, by dismemberment pattern, by level of emotional detachment. She wore gloves, not out of squeamishness, but because she didn’t like leaving residue behind.

The photos were clinical—light-drenched and sharp—but the evidence spoke louder than the framing. Skin peeled like fruit. Limbs severed with an almost reverent precision. She took a slow breath, eyes scanning the incision sites, the angles. Not rushed. Not angry. There was care in the butchery.

She wrote in looping cursive—no shorthand, no dictation. She liked the weight of ink, the permanence of handwriting.

Subject demonstrates textbook detachment—no sexual motive, no frenzy. This is surgical. Possibly even aesthetic. The blood loss is almost incidental, more a symptom than a feature. In fact, he seems to hate mess.

A beat. She tilted her head, examining a photo of a hand—fingers spread, the skin pale and scrubbed. The nails were cleaned. Clipped.

This one’s not about death. It’s about presentation.

The blood, when it appeared in the files, was sparse. More like punctuation than language. But she didn’t mind it. She never had.

There’d been a time—before the licenses and the clean coats—when she’d sat in dark rooms and watched surgeries for the rhythm of it. The ritual. She remembered one in particular, a facial reconstruction after a car crash, the way the surgeon spoke softly to no one in particular as he moved the scalpel like a painter.

Y/N hadn't flinched then either. Just watched. Just listened. Just learned.

Now, years later, she traced that same calm into her reports. No reactions. No moral verdicts. Only precision.

If anything, it fascinated her—how someone could be so deeply methodical in their violence. Almost... respectful.

It wasn’t about the blood. It never had been.

She was always there early. That was the first thing Dexter noticed.

Dr. Morrissey arrived before most of the techs, before Batista’s morning café con leche, before Deb started stomping through the halls cursing at bureaucracy. She’d be at her desk already, flipping through crime scene photos with the same quiet concentration he reserved for microscope slides.

No music. No coffee. No wasted motion.

Dexter passed her door once and caught a glimpse of her posture—spine straight, shoulders still, hand steady as she annotated a victim photo. The body had been drained and arranged. Most people flinched. Most people grimaced. She… tilted her head.

He slowed in the hallway without meaning to. Watching her through the corner of his eye, the way you watch another predator circling unfamiliar territory. There was no revulsion in her expression. Not even curiosity. It was more like… reverence. Cold and meticulous. Like she understood that a kill could be clean. That it could mean something.

Dexter had met hundreds of professionals who claimed to “understand pathology.” But Dr. Y/N Morrissey felt it. He could sense it in the way she moved. The exactness of her margins. The way her eyes didn’t dart away from the photos like everyone else’s—they focused.

He made it a point to read one of her reports.

It was sterile, sure. But there were glimpses—lines that hummed with quiet insight, phrases that mirrored things Harry had taught him.

Subject exhibits pride in presentation. Murder, in this case, is not the objective—but rather, a means to an artistic end. The body is not defiled. It’s preserved.

Preserved. Dexter blinked at that. It wasn’t the word most people chose. But it was the word he might have.

From that moment on, he watched her more carefully. Slower movements. Softer steps. He didn’t want her to notice.

Because Dexter wasn’t sure if Y/N Morrissey was just a psychiatrist with a strong stomach—

—or if she was a scalpel herself. Sharp. Quiet. And meant for something specific.

It always came back to the red doors. That was how the memory started.

In her mind, the halls of Briarcliff Sanitarium were always too quiet. Too clean. The scent of industrial antiseptic coated the tongue like plastic wrap, and the lights flickered just enough to make you feel watched. Not haunted—observed. That was worse.

Patient #79 never screamed like the others. He was always polite. Always early to therapy sessions. He folded his hands in his lap like he was praying to some god of bone and sinew, and he smiled when he spoke about cartilage the way children spoke about dinosaurs—endlessly fascinated.

Y/N had been young. Too young. Just out of her residency. Eager. Curious. Controlled.

“Do you know,” Patient #79 said once, voice low and sweet, “that the human hand has 27 bones? But no one ever counts the tiny sesamoids near the thumb. They’re always forgotten.”

“Do you remember all your bones?” Y/N had asked him.

“Only the ones I’ve seen from the inside.”

She should’ve reported that. She did—technically. It got folded into the vague language of her early case notes. Obsessive behavior. Surgical fixation. Morbid fascinations. But as the weeks went on, her language changed. Became sharper. More focused. The lines blurred between analyst and archivist. Between observation and recording.

Her notebooks from that period were… precise. Too precise.

Subject shows increasing clarity in conceptual anatomy. Discussed desire to ‘see the hinge in a living jaw.’ Used the phrase ‘reconstruct the way God should have.’ Voice calm. No effective spikes.

Patient #79 never touched her. Never raised his voice. But he watched her while she wrote. Watched her pen stroke each word like it was being etched into stone. He’d grin softly when she turned pages.

“You write like it matters,” he said once. “Like someone will read it when I’m gone.”

Later—years later—when the reports of patient mistreatment came out, Briarcliff shuttered overnight. Records vanished. Doctor’s were either fired out of talks of misconduct. Nurses were just plain shitcanned without any prior warning. Wards were emptied in silence. Some patients were transferred. Some disappeared entirely.

Y/N packed her bags and didn’t look back.

Except—she kept one thing. One notebook. Labeled only with the number: #79.

Even now, in Miami, it sat buried in a box in her apartment closet. But some nights, when the casework made her fingers itch and the surgical photos mirrored old memories, she opened it.

And every time she did, she found something she didn’t remember writing.

A phrase. A sketch. A line marked in red ink instead of black.

And Patient #79’s voice, echoing low in her skull:

You were always meant to see me.

The first one came folded neatly into the pages of her latest case file.

At first, Y/N thought it was a misprint. The type of thing overworked interns slip in by mistake. But when she unfolded the page fully, the edges were smooth, the paper heavier than the department standard. Archival paper. Deliberate.

It was a sketch. Graphite, fine-lined, almost medical in its precision.

A human form—nude, hairless, arranged inside what appeared to be a glass box. Limbs slightly elevated with metal clasps. The lines were labeled meticulously: radius, clavicle, external oblique, orbicularis oculi.

The heart was still intact, she noted. Anatomically centered, outlined in red pencil.

No message. No name. Just an artist’s mark in the lower corner: a single 7 drawn through a 9.

She kept it. Not out of fear—out of... curiosity. It reminded her of something. Not exactly, but closely enough to make her chest ache in that old, quiet way she’d learned not to name.

Two days later, another one arrived.

This one was tucked beneath her windshield wiper after she finished lunch. Same style. Same paper. A male body this time. The skin had been rendered translucent to show muscle layers beneath. The ribs were numbered. The head was tilted up, mouth open as if mid-breath.

Still, no message. Still, no threat.

The third came by mail, addressed to her old university department. It was forwarded to her by a confused assistant who wrote, “Thought it was something anatomical you were expecting?”

It wasn’t. But it was. In its own way.

Each sketch grew more detailed. More intimate. The poses began to shift. One of them mirrored an old photograph she had of herself, taken during a seminar—head down, elbows resting on a table, fingers tented thoughtfully. The sketched figure’s body was opened from sternum to pelvis, as if that version of her had been dissected mid-thought.

Y/N stopped showing them to anyone. She stopped mentioning them altogether. Not because she was afraid.

But because the sketches were… beautiful.

Grotesque, yes. But deliberate. Thoughtful. Like someone had taken the time to know her—her mind, her observations, her exact lines of interest—and then made art for her to understand.

Every time she unfolded a new one, her breath hitched.

Every time, the same thought followed, unwelcome and slow:

He knows I’m watching. And he’s watching back.

The limb came in around noon.

Just the one—left arm, severed clean below the deltoid, preserved unnaturally well. No bloating, no insect activity. The skin was pale and drained, but the hand was positioned in what almost looked like a gesture. Not a struggle. Something else. Something closer to a pose.

Masuka cracked an inappropriate joke. Deb rolled her eyes and left the room. And then they called him in.

Rudy Cooper, Miami Metro’s favorite prosthetics specialist, stepped into the lab like he owned it—collared shirt rolled at the sleeves, tan from the sun, eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that made people relax before they realized they were doing it. He shook hands easily, joked about how “weird” his job was to people outside the field, and then leaned over the severed limb like it was an old friend.

Y/N had been reviewing preliminary notes from the corner, but the moment he spoke, she looked up.

Something about the cadence. The tone. Too calm. Too comfortable.

Rudy didn't acknowledge her at first. Just knelt beside the table, gloved up, and began a gentle rotation of the wrist with his fingers, noting out loud the unnatural preservation, the almost surgical cut.

“This wasn’t rage,” he said softly. “This was... pride.”

Y/N straightened slightly. That word again. Pride. She’d used it in her own analysis days ago. In private.

He turned his head toward her then, mid-thought, eyes catching hers with startling ease. "You must be Dr. Morrissey."

Her spine didn’t stiffen. She didn’t let it. But her fingers curled just slightly on the folder in her lap.

“I’ve heard about you,” he went on. “You're the one who sees patterns other people miss.”

There was nothing flirtatious in his voice. Nothing overt. Just a friendly interest, wrapped in warmth like a welcome mat. But his gaze lingered a half-second too long.

She held it.

“You work in reconstruction,” she replied, voice even. “It makes sense you’d recognize the effort in deconstruction.”

He smiled.

Not widely. Just enough.

“That’s what I like about dismemberment,” he said, eyes drifting back to the arm. “You learn more about the maker than the victim.”

Her pulse ticked once behind her ribs.

Too familiar.

She didn’t remember his face, not entirely. But something behind his voice dragged old hospital lighting and red doors into her peripheral vision.

He brushed a fingertip over the lifeless knuckle of the ring finger, delicate and careful, like a sculptor admiring the turn of marble.

And when he looked up again, he didn’t blink.

“People forget how much beauty there is in structure,” he said. “But I know you don’t.”

Y/N didn’t reply.

She just watched him work. Noted the way his hands moved. Silent. Precise. Almost… reverent.

She didn’t trust him.

But she couldn’t look away.

It was late—one of those nights where the city hummed under neon sweat and the precinct lights buzzed like insects against glass. Most of the department had cleared out. Y/N remained, as usual. Her desk was a neat kingdom of order: files sorted by victim, her notes stacked in clean columns, and a steaming cup of tea cooling beside a half-finished anatomical sketch.

She didn’t expect company.

The knock on the doorframe was light, too casual to be official. When she looked up, Rudy stood there with a sheepish smile and a takeaway container in hand.

“Thought you might forget to eat,” he said. “Figured I'd bribe you with dumplings.”

Y/N didn’t respond right away. She rarely did. But after a second, she gestured to the empty chair across from her. “One bribe. Then you go.”

He laughed like she was joking.

He didn’t leave.

They talked, loosely—about the latest body, about muscle tension in postmortem joints, about tendon slicing angles. It was easy, unsettlingly so. And just when the conversation began to settle into a lull, Rudy glanced at the sketch in front of her. A study of a dissected knee, incomplete.

“You always drew them like that at Briarcliff,” he said, almost offhand.

The pen in her hand paused mid-stroke.

Silence fell between them—not awkward, but sharp. Surgical.

She didn’t look up. Not right away. “Excuse me?”

Rudy leaned back slightly, his voice still smooth, still warm. “It was the same angle. Three-quarters turned. Ligament spread. Always the same. You sketched during sessions. They said it helped you focus.”

Her heart beat once, loud in her throat. She set the pen down with care.

He met her eyes then—really met them—and there was something behind his gaze that wasn’t there a moment ago. A depth. A knowing.

“They were good drawings,” he said gently. “Accurate. Clinical. But I liked them because they were... quiet. Like you were.”

Y/N's mouth felt dry. Her fingers curled slightly against the edge of the desk, a barely-there tremor tapping through her control.

He remembered.

Patient #79’s voice echoed like a blade pulled from sheath: You write like it matters.

“You were in group?” she asked, softly. Too softly.

“I wasn’t a patient,” Rudy said with a half-smile. “I was just... around.”

But they both knew that wasn’t the truth. Not really.

He rose, slow and graceful, collecting the empty container with a casual ease that felt rehearsed.

“Same eyes,” he murmured before leaving. “You haven’t changed them. That’s rare.”

And then he was gone.

Y/N didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Her tea had gone cold.

The drawing on her desk—she realized—wasn't of a knee anymore. Not really. Not anatomically.

It was of a man posed like he was about to kneel.

[rescuebabiesau]

Secret-Keepers

"Ugh... Ow... Wedge? You okay...?"

Hotshot's optics blinked repeatedly, only to find the darkness around them wasn't his vision malfunctioning. His helm tilted back, his gaze shifting upwards to the faint, jagged line of light overhead- the top of the crevice they'd fallen into.

Diagnostics in progress... Mild blunt force trauma to plating. Damage minimal.

Considering how far they'd fallen, Primus was really gracious to the little autobot.

"Wedge?" He called out again, searching the dark. His optics finally found his teammate, huddled up under a rock outcropping, only his optics visible in the dark. "You okay?"

"...No..." Wedge mumbled.

"Physically? Or just... you know."

The skid-steer didn't answer.

"Okay...?" He sat down beside him, "I'll bet the others have already called the professors. We'll be out of here any minute now... And then... Then we can go to our separate places at the Academy and you won't have to look at me anymore..."

He felt a light pulse through his bond, a tap from his father somewhere above requesting correspondence. He sent a calm ping back, hoping it translated to the firebot that his son was alright.

Then he heard a sniffle.

"...I didn't realize you hated my presence that much..." He mumbled.

"I don't hate you, Hotshot..."

"Well, you sure have a weird way of showing you like me, then." Hotshot folded his arms across his stomach, "...Did I do something to offend you or something? Cuz you've been acting all grouchy around me ever since orientation."

"I just... I fought so hard to get on this team, if I don't graduate and have to go back to Cybertron, I-I don't know what I'd do!"

"Come on, Wedge. You're one of the best of us, and even if you weren't, I'm sure your parents wouldn't blame you for trying!"

Wedge winced, his helm drooping down. "My parents...They..." He mumbled the last few words under his breath.

"...What was that, Wedge?" Hotshot leaned closer, "Didn't catch that."

"...My parents don't know where I am."

"...What?"

The skid-steer started to tremble, tears forming in the corners of his optics. "I-I told them I got a contract job working on a construction site off-world and I didn't know when I'd be back. They have no idea I'm on Earth or at the academy. They didn't even know I went to the try-outs, much less made it to the final assessment!"

"Why would you lie to your parents, Wedge?"

"Because..." The skidsteer's shoulders slumped, "...They're Decepticons. I don't think I... I don't I was on their agenda. They fed me and gave me a place to sleep, but... Well... It's not like when I've heard you talking to your mom on the vid feed."

Hotshot was quiet, leaning back against the wall. "...that's why you worked so hard to get here. It was an escape route for you."

"I mean, I guess...?" Wedge crossed his arms across his knees, "I busted my bumper fighting to get a spot on this team. Did probably twice as much training as anyone else, and I made it! But then you show up and for some reason, all of the professors love you! You could mess up a million times and they'd still give you another chance, and I guess I just... I got jealous that you had it so easy... I took it out on you, and... I'm sorry." His faceplate pressed into his arms, "And now it's my fault we're stuck down here and the professors have to waste time rescuing us..."

"Well, I don't think they'd see it as wasted time to do a rescue, I think they'd just be glad neither of us are hurt! Besides, the cliff side looked stable! None of us knew it was gonna crumble."

"Please Hotshot. Please don't tell the others. I'm not quite ready for them to know yet."

"Fine, I won't tell..." Hotshot's brows furrowed, "...but if I gotta keep your secret, then you gotta keep mine."

"What secret?"

Hotshot sighed, "You're right, the professor's love me. It's not super hard to get on their good side for me-"

"How is that a secret?"

"Let me finish... The thing is... They're all a little biased. You know how I mentioned that my dad was stationed off-world all of my life?"

"Yeah?"

"...Heatwave's my dad."

"He's your what!?"

"Shh shh shh! Not so loud...!"

Wedge's helm thumped back against the soil, "It all makes sense now! I thought you were just good at bumper-kissing, but- he's your dad!?"

"Yeah... My mom works on Cybertron, and he works here, so... I mean, he'd video-call us practically every week, so it wasn't like I never saw or talked to him, but whenever I asked if I could come here with him for a little bit, he'd always say no. And then, out of nowhere, when he's gonna the busiest he's ever been, suddenly it's okay for me to be here? I... I dunno..."

"Hmm, maybe it was suddenly safer for you here."

"What do you mean?"

Wedge frowned, "...I don't know what's going on back home, but... I've heard whispers. Mostly from my parents, they're not exactly tight-lipped bots, which is probably why they don't know much about it either. Some decepticons have been chatting, something's in the works, something big, and bots have been going missing- even Bumblebee!" The skid-steer's optics were wide, "Last I heard, they said he made an unauthorized spacebridge jump from a federal facility to some unknown location, and nobody's seen or heard from him since...!"

"Really?"

"Yeah! They think he... Got splintered across space when they shut the thing off...!"

Hotshot could see the horror and sadness in his teammate's optics, "That would be a horrible way to go... But I'm sure he's fine. Probably just undercover."

"I hope so... I'd always wanted the chance to meet him. He's like my hero, you know. The little guy that wound up being one of Optimus Prime's top bots... I want to be somebody like him someday."

There. At least Hotshot didn't feel quite as obligated to admit the truth— that Bumblebee was here, on Earth, and was helm-deep in a secret mission of his own. Perhaps the recruit and autobot would meet someday, if the opportunity arose...

Kzzzzzk-otshot? Wedge? Do you copy?

"Whirl!" Hotshot cheered, "We hear you!"

Are you guys okay!?

"We're fine."

Good. Just sit tight, Professor Boulder says he's got a plan to haul you both back up here to the top!

"Sounds good, Whirl." Hotshot looked to Wedge, giving him a gentle elbow to the side. "Hey... Secret-keepers?"

Wedge gave a slight smile, "...Secret-keepers."

[future-dregs]

Sam sinks in the fresh, damp dirt.

His knees give out and he pitches forward, chest colliding with the rough hewn cross. Driving splinters through his shirt, into his chest.

His arms come over, and under. His chin hooks over the joint. Hugging it close to him he let's the wood take his weight as he weeps, biting the cord around his neck to gag himself, keep from screaming. His throat is already torn. Last time, there was thick strings of blood.

He hugs it tighter.

Whimpers.

Closes his eyes and breathes the leather from a coat that didn't fit and still won't.

Tries to imagine that the wood is not so. That's its yielding, and holding.

He kisses the wood.

Rocks like a child.

He wants his brother.

He stumbles abruptly to his feet. Mechanically tripping over to the car.

Her back door squeals. It's a low, mournful sound.

"She knows."

Sam can't comfort her.

He pulls an rollup sleeping bag from the car and returns to the grave.

The dirt cradles him, holds him. His pillows his head on the jacket and searches out scent in the old flannel he pulls up to his chin.

His dad.

Dean.

There's only his own.

He dreams. Its fitful.

Wakes up throughout the night, hearing his name.

The morning sun wakes him like it's sorry, but the darkness has already touched Sam's eyes. Everything is dim.

The cross is still there.

His hand is around it.

Dirt under his nails, ground into the palms of his hands.

The car still questions when he gets in alone and Dean is still dead.

Sam stops at a gas station for a local map and the strongest cheap shit liquor they've got.

The cashier hesitantly asks if he wouldn't rather have a coffee instead, maybe a sandwich?

Its six thirty in the morning.

Sam just sneers, his lip peeling up to show his teeth.

There's gravedirt in his mouth and his brother's blood stiff and dark on his jeans.

He twists the top off a bottle and sends it pinging into a corner. Swills some back and walks straight out the door.

He starts drinking in earnest as he marks down every crossroad and "thin site" around.

He doesn't stop.

He can't do this sober. Can't be without Dean. Can't feel every raw pain, unblunted.

He's got work to do.

[Don't Let The Ground Be Your Home on Ao3]

[n3ssier]

assist . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

college au!armin arlert x fem!reader

armin arlert isn't necessarily the type to stay up late playing video games, having even taken a break to focus on his studies. this changes when his lifelong friends eren and mikasa finally get him back online when in need of a fifth player for their five stack, and he's met with a new addition to their gaming sessions, becoming infatuated with her after just one night.

part 3/? - masterlist - part 2 - part 4

the day had went by fairly fast, you weren't a stranger to showing up to lessons on half a night's sleep. you watch as your pizza pocket turns in the microwave, a soft yellow light illuminating the kitchen of your apartment. your phone pings aloud from the kitchen island you were leaning on, and as you reach to grab it you see a message from mikasa.

"hey, if you want to get online and play siege with us you should do it soon, as i've convinced eren and jean to sleep early tonight since we three have a history test tomorrow !" your eyes glance at the time at the top of the screen and realise shit, it's half 10 already, never knew i was capable of studying this late! you didn't often study for long periods of time, but with it being the last week until spring break, your timetable was slowly being filled with more and more end-of-unit tests. the only piece of hope pulling you through the schoolwork was connie's party on saturday, just 3 days away.

you scurry through to your bedroom with the warm plate that holds your pizza pocket in one hand and a can of juice in the other. turning your xbox on and as the light from the starting screen lights up your face, you put your headset on and find a comfy spot in bed to sit as you finally wind down for the night. you load up your game as a small pop-up at the bottom of the screen alerts you that "jean has invited you to a party." you accept the invitation and greet your friends with "what's up guys!" the party is already full, with mikasa, eren, jean, and armin all in the team as they must have been waiting for you before they started.

you spent the first game working with eren as a duo every time you were on the attacking side, with you using your characters ability to reveal the positions of the nearby opponents, as eren would push forward and shoot at them. when your teams turn to play as defenders came around, you would find yourself roaming around the map hoping to catch the attacking enemies off guard as they headed towards the bombsite to defeat your team.

whilst on defence in the second game of the night, you had given mikasa and jean the chance to roam instead, and opted to stay back on site with eren and armin. one thing you had come to notice throughout your time with armin on your team was that armin had a tendency to freak out when in situations of high stakes, for example when he was face to face with his opponents, or when he knew that the enemy team was aware of his location. he was also extremely quiet when he played, this was unlike the other three as they were always giving callouts to let you know of the enemies positions and keep you updated on what they were doing, with eren occasionally shouting and cursing when he got eliminated, even more so when jean laughed and rubbed it in eren's face.

hours passed and by twelve you were playing what mikasa, jean, and eren had deemed their last game of the night. this game in particular had dragged on until the ninth and final round. your team were on defense and mikasa was going to roam the map as everyone else stayed at the bomb site. jean had set up cameras around the nearby area, eren had installed traps, and you and armin were reinforcing walls and doors to prevent the attackers from entering. all these jobs were distributed based on your characters special ability, with yours and his not being useful during the preparation phase, so you opted for strengthening the security of your teams bomb site.

armin's gaze at the screen was strong, and the controller was warm in his hands from the tight grip he'd had on it throughout the night. this final round determined the winner of the game that had somehow lasted 40 minutes, and he wanted to prove himself. he had slightly more deaths than any of you so far in this game, yet the least amount of kills, and through the night he was slowly watching assists pile up under his name as he failed to finish the job before either he was killed by the enemy first or his teammates stepped in to kill them for him. he knew that you and his friends had noticed how much he kept freezing up, and he felt embarrsed first and foremost, but also frustrated at the thought of him being the worst in the group. maybe y/n really does make a good replacement for me, maybe i'm not good at this game anymore. his mind was plagued with insecurities and seeing you perform so well with the others made him feel like you worked better with them than he ever did.

after two minutes, everyone had found themselves eliminated other than armin. it was him versus the one enemy that was left. all cameras around the map that you could watch had been shot out and broken, leaving him with no indication as to where the enemy could be and with no choice but for the four of you to sit and spectate his screen for the last minute that determined whether you would all win or lose the game. the room was still, he heard no movement and was crouched in the corner against a wall, waiting for the attacker to make the first move by entering the bomb site. armin was tense, and he was sure everyone in the party could feel it radiating off of him through the screen.

"armin, there's no pressure, alright? just do your best, man," eren then reassured armin. his encouraging words washed relief over armin, making him feel a bit more confident. "yeah, no pressure. HOWEVER, if you lose this i will be adding you to my hit list," jean said sarcastically into his microphone, but not a single laugh was heard, and armin could just imagine the shit eating grin jean would have on his stupid face as he made the unnecessary comment. "jean, you should let him focus" mikasa then said softly. armin gulped before saying "yeah, thanks mikasa."

at the other side of the wall he was crouched against was a corridor which led to two doors at either side of the room he was positioned in. these doors had been previously barricaded by himself and you, but were now knocked down, this meant that there were two potential entrances for the enemy to enter. his eyes flash across the screen of his tv towards a small drone that the last remaining opponent has sent in to find his position. he shot it swiftly, but he knew that his position was already revealed. armin tucked strands of blonde hair behind his ear as he concentrated on the game as if his life depended on it. he moves his character to quickly barricade the door to his left, allowing him to aim his gun towards the open door on his right that the enemy could freely walk into whilst listening for the newly barricaded left door to break down.

everyone in the party was silent, watching with anticipation to see if armin was capable of winning the game on behalf of you all, and he sat for what felt like forever, staring at the same open doorway intensely as he waited for his opponent to make a move. suddenly his body jolted up in fear as a loud crash is heard and an impact grenade smashes open the barricaded door to his left, armin brought his attention away from the door he was previously looking at as he hurries over to where the sound came from, but as he is just about to peek through the doorway and shoot in the place he believed the attacker would be, he's cut off by your voice calmly breaking the silence of your friends to speak to you.

"armin, shoot the entrance to your right." and without a word he spins around and fires aimlessly at the edge of the open doorway across the room, but at the very moment he pulls the trigger, his opponent peeked out into his line of fire and was shot dead instantly. the words "your team won round nine" appear on his screen and his ears are full of cheers from his friends.

"LETS FUCKING GO"

"armin you did great!!!"

"NICE ONE ARMINN"

he smiles from the words of the three people he's closest to, and then lastly, "good job, armin" he hears you through the microphone. yet, he's so confused, how did she know that they would run around to the opposite door after already going through the effort of making an opening?

the game ends in victory as eren, mikasa, and jean decide to sign off and head to sleep, leaving him with no one but you in the squad and xbox party.

mini taglist: @hitcheddreyse :3

[world-of-aus]

Live Now

Pairing: Camboy!Bucky x Camgirl!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI (Use of Toys, Masturbation)

Authors Note: Smut has been on the mind, and well what better way to test the waters? Happy Reading BUNS! (Any and all writing mistakes are my own)

He jerks his cock lazily with one calloused hand, the other guiding the cursor down the list of potential cam girl links waiting to be clicked and watched. Many of his favorites have bumped their way to the top, his search defined already to what he likes, the profiles he views often after a night of work. Tonight, he scrolls past them, despite his aching cock beginning for something other than the lazy stroke he provides. 

Your name had been dropped in his comments for weeks now, many of his loyal viewers asking, no begging him to give you a view. They had promised the long-haired brunette he wouldn’t regret it, apparently you put on quite the show if the frequent drop of your site name was any indication. So he scrolls, continues his lazy stroke as he seeks you out. He finds your link two pages in, the live now icon flashing before his eyes, your profile gives little away, nothing like the other cam girls he’s favorited. He leans back into his chair, body sliding down as he spreads his legs, he gives you your chance. 

He presses your link, his screen going black before the loading screen comes on. He removes his hand from the mouse to guide his grey joggers lower around his muscled thighs. He wouldn’t remove them yet; not till he was sure your show would deliver. 

Bucky waits, fist still lightly wrapped around his hardened cock, his stroke a constant motion now, giving himself something to look forward to. When the video finally loads Bucky is floored, a curse leaving the man's lips, his fist tightening around his cock as he takes all of you in. 

You were sin on legs. 

You were kneeled before the camera, your breasts bouncing from where your rode the black dildo that was buried inside of you. The noises the toy pulled from you were blocked by the silicon cock fisted in your hands that you pressed past your lips. Bucky didn’t think it was possible for him to get harder, but the way you push yourself to swallow more of the silicon down has him aching, he had never wanted to be a toy more. 

And like Bucky, your followers are eating it up. The soft pings of comments and coins being dropped for you. He chuckles huskily, his fist moving quicker over his cock as he watches you eat the attention right up, your hands pressing more of the toy into your mouth till your gagging. He watches you pull back from the toy, a thin line of spit connecting you to the silicon, a noise he’d pay to hear repeatedly leaving your lips as you grind down onto the toy below you. 

Bucky can see you need more, can hear it in the breathy pleas that spill from those lips he aches to have around his cock. “It feels so good,” he hears you say, and he swears he’s never heard a sound so euphoric than your wrecked voice gracing his ears. “s’fucking my pussy so good.” You moan your fingers drifting down your body to split through your folds showing your viewers just how well the black toy was fucking you, how wet you were. 

Bucky’s thinking with his cock when he leans forward to type a comment into the chat box. His fist moving over his erect member in fast succession as he watches you get yourself off. The ping catches your eye, your gaze sifting through all the comments that have accumulated but ultimately landing on his. 

“You think you could fill me out better than my toy,” you purr as you lean forward, your breasts pressed and pushed together to offer a view as you ride the toy in tandem now. Yeah, he thinks, he could have you cock drunk before he even sheathed himself inside of you of that he was certain. “You think you could fuck my pussy till I’m creaming all over your cock?” 

He chokes on a groan, his lips parting as the pleasure courses through his veins. Fuck you were a dirty girl, a dirty girl he couldn’t wait to get his hands on and defile further. He’s moving forward again, the pleasure continuing to build up in his groin as he tried to type something significantly coherent in your chat box. 

Your laugh is breathless, lips parted in an ‘o’, he’s certain this is what you look like when you’re pushing to topple over the edge. “Fuck I would love nothing more than to have your cock in my pussy right now, have you fill me up.” You moan as you push back onto your knees, hands clasped around your breasts as you ride the black silicon toy vigorously. A means to your end. 

The chat box has gone quiet, the only sounds filling Bucky’s room is that of his lube slicked fist rubbing over his weeping cock, the pleasure pleas spilling from those sinful lips as you drive yourself closer, and the soft ping of your viewers dropping more coins for you. He imagines they must all look like him right now; speechless, fists wrapped around their cocks as they race to meet their end with you. 

Why hadn’t he searched you up sooner? 

He has no time to think on that thought, your scream of pleasure meeting his ears, your orgasm seared into his memory. Its enough to push him on, his own orgasm spilling over his fist landing on his stomach.  

‘Holy Shit’, he chuckles, a groan following as he rides the aftershocks. 

A few breaths later and he finds himself cleaning up alongside you. Your movements lax on the other side of the screen as you shift through some of the comments your viewers are leaving. He had typed plenty already, so he sat this part out content enough to watch through the comments with you. Plenty were calling you their ‘good girl’ and he couldn’t help but think of how far from the truth that statement was. You may put on the good girl visage for your Loyals but Bucky knew a brat waiting to be tamed when he saw one. 

He wondered when he might get the chance. If he ever got the chance. 

You wrap up your live with a kiss and a thank you promising to return soon with a special surprise. 

Bucky was certain that after today he would be returning, and with a final praise from you his screen goes black alongside yours. He closes out of the tab, landing on your original link, the live now notification gone like you. He goes to close that tab, but notification pings from the speakers alerting him to a new message.  

His brows furrow as he guides the cursor to the message notification, his heart races, a message from you, Siren, sits in his inbox. He moves to the message clicking it, intrigued, his insides twist. 

“I’ll be damned, buckmeup is a fan?” 

He falls back into his chair, shit. 

[ckret2]

Okay am I missing something that’s going on with the website? I’ve seen one or two posts about it but it won’t load on my phone so I can’t check for myself.

and I saw something about there being even more Gatsby connections? If so that’s great bc it’s one of my favorite books that I happen to have read thoroughly multiple times so I feel like I can actually help solve any mysteries on that front.

go to the site, plug in the password TJ Eckleburg, and currently you get an error message (that by now we suspect is intentional and not an error at all) that looks like this:

If you repeatedly click on Soos's upper body, the messages in the top right change. They're funny. One message offers a link to a PDF of The Great Gatsby to read while you wait; another links to the lofi Gravity Falls theme released a few days ago; and one has Soos display Bill's possessed eyes (aka Boos) and show a coded message that translates to "SO! MANY! QUESTIONS!"

Fandom's been going insane the past few hours looking for any clues to unlock anything further on the site. All have been dead ends; there don't seem to be any other passwords.

People who have dug into the code found that it looks like the site is pinging a text file called /is-it-time/well-is-it.txt and if the text file says "no" we stay on this page with Soos's error message; if the contents of that text file are changed to a URL, we'll be redirected to that URL. So we're probably just waiting for Alex-or-somebody to update well-is-it.txt to get a new URL with the next part of the site.

[ringleaderising]

PIGLET APPLICATION #01 TOOTH THE RESSURECTIONIST.

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT:

These Piglets are for lore clans with a tumblr presence (sideblog, FR posting on mainblogs, etc you simply have to be a lore clan who engages with the community here on tumblr.)

Other players with their siblings (and myself with their parents) will be not only welcome to but encouraged to write interclan letters/in character messages to their siblings, and you'll have to be okay with everything that comes with that (On-Site DMs, the potential of a message going unanswered/etc) I would also appreciate if you ping me for the stuff you do with them because I want to see what they get up to <3

If you win one of the siblings, please refrain from applying for another, this is so everyone interested gets an opportunity and a fair shake at taking one of the girls home!

If you're the selected winner, the dragon is yours to do what you please with! (Regene, change species, rename, change gender identities/pronoun preferences, etc) I ask only that you have a lore/character reason for breed or name changes, as they'll be connected to a wider group of dragons that would need to know these things (What kind of dragon their sibling has become, What to call them in letters, etc) and if you can keep them a modern breed so they can keep their cleavers, well that'd just be nice for their old man Pig.

Please honor the basic lore of the dragon you win, you're welcome to rewrite/reinterpret the lore they arrive with, but please don't eliminate that history entirely, since they'll be interwoven with other clans/players!

[and a big thank you to Khadjin for reminding me I never mentioned this yet!] my lore deviates pretty substantially from site lore. however every aspect can be explained within the context of the site, please don't feel like you have to adopt my headcanons to participate in these!- my "Lesser Gods" are nothing more than magically afflicted/overcharged spirits or magically mutated dragons created in a reactor explosion somewhere in Lightning and some timeloop silliness, and the 'Gaps' are highly concentrated leylines caused by this incident. the eleven gods of sornieth remain the only true gods in my lore much like the site on the whole!- the Piglets and their parents simply lived under the affliction of spirits, cults, and mutated dragons and contextualized them as "Gods" the very same way we create urban myth/legends. While they would know of The Host and the Gaps because of the direct effect both have had on their parents, they are not required to have continued to believe in them as "Higher beings" and can have learned in their time away from their family that these things are likely, little more than the arcane gone haywire.

BLANK APPLICATION

Please copy/paste and fill this out in a Reblog here on tumblr or send it to me through my submit box here so I can keep track of things on a per-dragon basis for the course of the 48-hours each application will be active!

FR Username/Numbers: Basic Clan Lore: (just a general description of the lore/area of your clan you intend to place this hatchling in!) Plans For Dragon: (A little description of any of your ideas, headcanons, story beats, etc you're thinking of for the dragon you're applying for! This can be anything you've got in mind, scries, outfits, etc, feel free to go as big or as little as you want, I wanna see what's going on in your head!) Intended Payment: (These dragons will be PWYW, but I need everyone to acknowledge they're not free, so whatever you're planning on paying/trading for them, even if you change your mind when the time comes, stick something here.)

RINGLEADER'S HEADCANONS

These are just some smaller lore bits and pieces you're welcome to use or disregard for each child, things that I couldn't fit into the bios in a way that made sense. much like the example outfit photo up-top, this is for fun or stuff to help get ideas flowing, if you're stuck!

Tooth has horrible first-child syndrome despite being the third-born, she wants her parents' (and others, really) approval in any way she can get it, which has led to a deathly competitive streak- dangerous in a dragon closer to a horror slasher than anything else.

Tooth is the child with the most heavy proclivity toward plague's flesh and bone sensibilities, and while this is fitting for a necromancer, it makes her look odd when engaging with hobbies that aren't hunting, killing, or doing strange magic- she's mildly self conscious about this.

Her tendency to pull her own teeth to create resurrection daggers has led to her using her mouth as an odd accessory, adorned with teeth carved from precious stones, metals, and various other souvenirs she's chosen.

She's one of the few members of the Piglets who actually has an innate sense of magic, as her talent with resurrection does not require any outside intervention beyond a focus for her powers!

THIS APPLICATION IS OPEN FROM 3 PM DECEMBER 2ND, 2024, TO 3 PM DECEMBER 4TH, 2024. REBLOGS AFTER THIS TIME WILL BE DISQUALIFIED FROM THE RUNNING.

Annnnd the auction pings for my tumblr lovelies!~:

@hor-wod-flir @harpyartisan @fuiran @terra-tortoise @bawkrya @pocketmouse-fr @spongyspingy-rising @avalonianrising @clansunsharp

[whatsk-poppinhomies]

GRAPHIC STORY TIME UNDER THE CUT

TW : boils ; swelling ; infections ; major TMIs ;

So to start off, I have this hormonal problem where my body for some reason gets boils everywhere and anywhere from the neck down. Now, for those of you who have the same issue or have gone through the same thing, I’m praying for you. For those who don’t know, it hurts… so bad.

The past week I’ve been suffering with a boil right at the edge of my ribcage and underneath my boob(my boobs are rather large, which doesn’t make things any better). The first half of the week, it was bearable, it was sore, but not too bad.

Fast forward to today, and it has swollen on the top to the size of a dollar coin, and underneath the skin, it’s swollen to the size of a ping pong ball, and the bruising has expanded the size of a tennis ball. It HURTS. My boobs are constantly rubbing against it, and at this point, the top layer if skin has literally been chaffed off from the constant friction of both my boobs and my bra when I have to wear one.

If I was at my old job, I would have called out, but alas, I just started a new job, I’m on 90 day probation, so I’m scared to call out. So I go in. I am in TEARS as I leave my house, but I don’t want to lose my job, so I pull aside my crew leader (love her so much, she’s amazing) at the start of the night and ask her if I can be on light work. She agreed.

Fast forward an hour into the shift, my back hurts from trying to stand a certain way to relieve some pressure, but I am in so much pain that once I go out on break, I full on cry like a baby in my car. Like, hyperventilating, sobbing, blubbering, I’m a mess. I call my mom, I’m crying to her, don’t know how she understands a thing I’m saying, but she tells me to do what I think I have to do to not be in pain.

SO

I go in, not even finishing my break, I find my crew leader, still crying btw, and I ask if I can talk to her in the office. She agrees, and I get to the office, and I tell her that it’s really bad, I can’t take it.

Now, the cool thing about my job is that we have a medical office and first responders literally ON SITE, they just be working there as normal people until there’s a medical emergency.

So she calls the first responders and the two sweetest, loveliest ladies come up to the office, and they’re trying to calm me down first. It doesn’t work but A+ for maximum effort.

They’re contemplating whether to send me home or not because it is my 90 days (and in their defense, a lot of people bullshit being hurt to try to go home early). So they ask to see it, and lemme tell you, the audible gasps that left all 3 women’s mouths, that shit had me feeling like I was about to die on the spot. (Turns out they were just genuinely shocked and concerned that I came into work, and this was when I still had a bandaid on over it.)

So they take me down to the medical office, and they carefully take the bandaid off, and again, the GASP when they saw the big picture. They were so apologetic even though it wasn’t even their fault, and they were trying to figure out what to do because they didn’t want to touch it or hurt me more. They ended up just putting ointment on it and then gauzing me up like I’ve been shot, but I love them all for how kind they were.

They were offering to drive me home and everything and they told me not to worry about the 90 day thing right now and to just focus on fixing my problem and going to the doctor as soon as possible to get checked because my boil is definitely infected and they don’t want me to go into septic shock.

They even walked me out to my car and made sure I was okay with driving before going back inside.

Like, this job is amazing! Not the work, all work sucks a majority of the time; but the people that I work with genuinely care. I’ve only been there a week and everyone greets me with a smile and they just all care about one another.

I might be in severe pain and on the brink of sepsis, but the people at my job care and that makes my heart feel good. I have to go to the doctors tomorrow though, so not excited for that at all. :(

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Smithsonian Magazine:

The birds weigh about as much as a bar of soap.

That’s how Melissa Boyle Acuti describes the northern saw-whet owl, the smallest owl species found in Maryland and one of the smallest in North America. They’re hardly bigger than a fist with a ping pong ball on top, she adds.

During the fall in Edgewater, Maryland, a small group of volunteers helps catch and band these little owls from sunset to midnight. They’re participating in Project Owlnet, an initiative that seeks to learn more about these birds and their migration and that supports an ever-expanding network of migrant owl banding stations.

Boyle Acuti is the banding station manager for Project Owlnet’s site at the Smithsonian Environmental Research Center (SERC) in Edgewater. She leads the participants through the project’s processes.

The group uses an audio lure to entice the birds, capturing them in mist nets to bring back to the banding station. Once there, they place aluminum bands on the birds—“friendship bracelets for science,” as they’re called within the project. Project participants also measure the owls’ bills, wings and tails.

They use a blacklight to look at the underside of the owls’ wings and see their molt pattern, which helps determine their ages, a difficult task. Old feathers don’t glow as brightly under the light because the pigment has faded, while new feathers have a brighter glow, Boyle Acuti says.

“They nest and summer up in these boreal forests in Canada,” she says. “Those areas, people can’t get to very easily. … So that’s why the fall migration studies are really important to know what’s happening with the population of owls.”

For Christmas bird counts, the owls may be found down in their southern range, possibly showing up at stations in Georgia, Alabama and Oklahoma. “They go pretty far south in small numbers,” she says. “The more that we do with Project Owlnet, the more we learn about their migrations.”

Saw-whet captures have varied widely from year to year at SERC, which became a Project Owlnet banding site in 2017. That year, the team captured eight birds, and the next year, they captured 54. Then in 2019, it was six; the year after, it was 29. And then eight in 2021, 26 in 2022, nine in 2023 and ten in 2024. Notably, one of the birds banded at SERC and identified as a recently hatched owl in 2022 was recaptured nearly 600 miles away in Quebec on October 14, 2024.

Many factors may affect the owl population, Boyle Acuti notes: “You hear about the wildfires in Canada—they’ve been in the news. Even climate change, that could be causing the southern species to move more northerly. The tree species compositions, if those change, that could impact where the owls are nesting and the prey. There’s a lot we don’t know, and that’s why we study them. In order to see trends, you have to have long-term data sets.”