#I had to get up so early and was feeling sum way
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miguel o’hara stars in… ‘SUGAR BABY CHRONICLES’ ヽ(´o｀；
･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡. miguel o’hara x fem!reader .｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･
SMUT
REQUEST from my lovely @miguelzslvtz; So I was thinking of an older!Sugar daddy Miguel x reader. The reader is working at small country club and Miguel noticed her. She’s serving him drinks, and taking care of him. He tells her she’s too good to be working there and introduced the idea of being her sugar daddy (basically some arm candy). He invites her over to his mansion for a party and she’s dressed up for him🫶🏻 all night she’s being looked at by other men and woman, he’s being very protective of her. He loves on her all night and makes sure she’s taken care of💗💗spoiled✨
cw; older!miguel, slight age gap (reader is in early 20s, miguel is in early 30s), cumming inside, slight breeding(not really, i just have a problem), sugardaddy!miguel, readers a little bit of a tsundere kinda, miguel’s really in love, cunnilings, shower sex, hair pulling, NAWT PROOFREAD!!
4k+ words (longest fic omg!!)
@cheonstapes; hi again…🤗 these hiatuses are killing me. i’ve been absolutely swamped and i lost so much motivation to write but im glad to say i think i’ve found my footing. i found myself again and i’ll work on balancing everything from now on! i apologise for the mammoth amount of time it took me to do this (this is what i get for working chronologically) and i have not forgotten about your requests if you sent one! pyramids and project ex will still be coming but i want to make sure requests are out of the way as they’ve been there for months and it’s not fair for the lovely people who’ve waited so long. thanks again! i love you all🩷
you loved your job, you really did.
not many people can say that genuinely, but when you’re getting the tips you’re getting, seeing the men you’re seeing, you definitely don’t wanna leave anytime soon. working at such an elite club meant you were among the rich of the rich — the big shots of the city that wouldn’t be caught anywhere else.
at the very least, the uniform was modest enough — obviously though, there would always be a few buttons left undone on your shirt, your skirt pulled up just that little bit higher. that window of flesh, no matter how small, was a guaranteed extra thousand in your pocket by the end of the night — and that wasn’t even counting him.
mr. o’hara. that’s all you knew him by. the man was overtly secretive, often arriving alone or occasionally with a very small group of associates. he was by far your biggest tipper. at times, you wondered if he owned the club due to the pure influence he has on your boss — somehow, much to your excitement, convincing him to bump your pay-check up by a lofty sum. the amount of money you make could send you into an early retirement, but of course you wouldn’t do that. it meant you wouldn’t get to learn more about him, and you needed to learn more about him.
summer was always the busiest, the great weather meaning there was more members than usual coming out to play. although, running around and serving for 9 hours a day was extremely tiring — gruelling even. there was sweat dripping down your face, your black dress feeling like a leather coat with the way it clung to you like second skin.
one last drink. you had one last drink to serve and then you could go on your break. double checking the table number, your eyes widened slightly as you saw him. mr. o’hara was not a small man by any means — the bulging muscles tucked away under his tight dress shirt, shoulders almost akin in length with the table. to put it simply, he was the epitome of sexy. you were barely at his table and you could smell him already, the masculine musk of his oud creating a musky, rose scented bubble that ensnared all your senses.
“‘s that for me, sweetheart?”
yes, yes it was. but he really wanted to hear you say it. your voice was such a sweet caress to his ear — he could guarantee an angel got its wings every time you spoke. miguel usually prides himself on being in control of his emotions, his body — but having a pretty, little thing like you just within his grasp was the ultimate challenge of restraint.
the man felt absolutely helpless, his heart pounding in his chest like a hormonal teenage boy when you placed the drink in front of him. “you know it, mr. o’hara — you order the same thing everyday.” fuck. the sip he was having was definitely becoming more than a sip the longer he held the cup to his mouth — chub twitching against the fabric of his slacks.
you were just the sweetest little thing — much more enthusiastic than the other girls that worked there. he might be just imagining it too, but he can feel deep in his heart that you dress up just for him. miguel knows you want him, and he’s more than happy to give himself to you.
“you know me better than i know myself, dulzura. almost like you’re keeping tabs on me, hm?”
“i mean, yeah, i kinda am. it’s my job, mr. o’hara. you’re one of our most frequent regulars, it’d be crazy if i couldn’t tell you your order ‘fore you give it to me.”
oh…yeah.
in miguel’s defence, it’s been a while….a long while since he last flirted — and having an 8-year-old daughter who’s judging your every move means there’s not a lot of time to work on your game. but he’d be damned if he lost an angel like you, he will be yours. plus, gabi does need a woman like you in her life too.
“do you enjoy it, though? your job, I mean — not keeping tabs on me.”
“you probably won’t believe this, but i actually do. the pay’s good, at least, and i can afford to pay my bills, uni, and still have fun. i’m kinda lucky, i guess.”
“you wouldn’t have to worry about that with me, nena.”
miguel knew he was probably breaking some sorta rule, flirting with staff or whatever — but god you were worth it. if being able to take you home meant that he would never set foot in the club again, then so be it.
“sorry, what was that, sir?”
“…quit your job — not in a ‘you’re bad at your job way’ — i’ll take care of you. i can give you everything, anything you want.”
you couldn’t say you were surprised, especially with the nature of your job — old men say stuff like this to you all the time. but, miguel wasn’t any old man. as much as you loved your job, had a stable income and good connections — the thought of quitting and running away with a man like him? fuck, it was so tempting.
“alright then. i hope you live up to those words, mr. o’hara.”
———————————————————————————
mr o’hara (sugardaddy?)
i’m throwing an event at work tonight, i want you to be there.
sent 16:42
(y.n)
hi, mr o’hara. i’d love to but i finish work at 7,i don’t know if i’ll be able to make it. and i don’t really have anything to wear :(
sent 16:50
mr. o’hara (sugardaddy?)
don’t worry about it, gorgeous. i’ve already got you off work for the rest of the week, and i’ve got you something nice to wear.
sent 16:50
(y.n)
oh, really? well, i guess i’ll see you there then! ;)
sent 16:56
mr. sugardaddy
mmhm, i can’t wait to see you, babe. and call me miguel.
sent 16:56
———————————————————————————
miguel had promptly sent his driver to pick you up in a sleek black sports car, much to the dismay of your co-workers. a beautifully wrapped box was placed on the seat beside you, a bouquet of orchids and a small note that read ‘for you, las flores más bonitas para la chica más guapa - m’
it was hard to not feel a tinge if heat was rising in your face, for someone whom you’re only just getting to know to be so utterly romantic — it was a new experience! relationships had never been something you were particularly interested in, but there was no denying the allure that someone like miguel held and only time could tell how it would all play out.
arriving at his mansion, which was nothing short of jaw dropping — the halls were mostly desolate aside from the quite bustle of the staff that were preparing for tonight’s ball. an elderly woman escorts you upstairs to the master bedroom, your eyes roaming the area as you take in the grandeur of the building — aged walls paired with a modern nueva york touch.
“where’s mr. o— miguel?” the woman turns to you, an indecipherable smile on her lips.
“mr. o’hara is just getting prepared for the ball. don’t fret over him, he’ll join you shortly.” well, it was a bit rude to invite someone over and not be there to greet them but ok! “ah, i forgot to mention,” she opens the door, stepping aside to let you in. “i left you a little something on the dresser. i believe you both’ll be needing it.” the woman winks, silently closing the door behind her — leaving you alone in the large room.
god, even the room smelt like him. a musky wood and cinnamon smell, with the faintest hint of vanilla from the candle burning by the window sill. it wasn’t everyday you were in the presence of such luxury, especially old money luxury. your eyes flitted over to the dresser the woman was referring to, that sneaky grandma.
a box of xl condoms, birth control, towels, all wrapped in a cute gift basket. “seriously? who does she think i am? i’m not fucking on the first date.” wait— was this a date? it definitely felt like one, but it was hard to be 100% sure. this was too much to deal with now, all that was left to worry about was the ball and getting ready.
on the bed behind you lay a beautifully wrapped box, with a red ribbon to top it off. it fell gracefully onto the bedsheets as you unwrapped it, lifting the lid to reveal the shimmering red dress underneath. a sleeveless satin dress, fabric lined with the finest crystals, a slit raising mid thigh, lined a sheer lace. it was the definition of classy, with a hint of seduction.
putting it on felt like a crime, something so beautifully should be preserved and put into a museum. it took all of your willpower to not tuck the dress away somewhere safe and just go and get one of your own — but alas, it was a gift, the least you could do is wear it. the craziest part was how perfect it fit. practically a glove, clinging onto every curve and crevice of your body — extenuating places you never even noticed before.
smoothing out the wrinkles, making sure it was as perfect as possible — fuck, you looked hot. the colour complimented your skin exquisitely, adding a soft glow to your complexion. in the time it took you to get ready, it seemed like the party was already amping up. you could see the surge of people from the window, flashing lights and an abundance of cars being handed to the concierges. you still had yet to see miguel and what better time to look for him than now?
there was a pair of red heels that matched the dress to a T, slipping them on and bouncing down the steps. the butterflies fluttered wildly in your tummy the nearer you got to the party, joining the line of people being checked in by security. though, from the corner of your eye, you catch sight of him. standing there in all his 6’ glory, curls lightly slicked back, wearing a tight button up shirt and those sexy slacks.
something about seeing miguel like this, so carefree and relaxed, set something off inside of you. even though you were supposed to be his guest, you did everything in your power to avoid his gaze — purely cause you don’t think you’d be able to maintain eye contact him for longer than a few minutes without jumping his bones. but of course, fate was destiny’s whore, and soon enough you were being escorted straight into the ballroom.
“were you avoiding me, cielo?”
a hand splayed across your waist, leading you deeper inside the hall as he whispered in your ear. it was obviously due to the fact that you probably couldn’t hear him all too well because to the loud music, but the way his hands caressed your sides, his lips brushing against the lobe of your ear — it felt all too intentional.
“no…i just didn’t want to cut in line. i figured i’d see you when i see you.”
“is that so?” he slid a champagne flute in your hands, grabbing one of his own as he tilted his head at you — a stray curl unfurling down his forehead. “you’re like an open book, cariño. you think i don’t know what’s going on in that pretty little head by now?”
“so you’ve been studying me, hm?” now it was your turn to raise a brow, tilting your head back as you took a long sip of your champagne. it wouldn’t be a huge surprise if he had been, it was kinda obvious from all the stares he’d give you and when he’d ‘enquire’ about you from your colleagues.
“mmm, studying’s a strong word. i was simply…observing you. can’t blame me for wanting to know someone as enchanting as you better.”
he had quite the mouth on him, didn’t he? you couldn’t stop the small smile that graces your lips, shaking your head in disbelief.
“you’re so stupid, miguel.”
“if falling for you is stupid, then i’m the dumbest of them all.”
it was so bad, so bad that it was actually good. and that comment shaped the rest of your night together. considering your new arrangement, he took the liberty of introducing you to his circle of friends and their wives — conveniently leaving out that he was your new sugar daddy, but that was a story for another day. miguel revelled in the looks they all gave you, seemingly forgetting they themselves had a date nestled on their arms. he really couldn’t have picked a better dress, but damn if it wasn’t killing him.
you really didn’t know how beautiful you were, and he so badly wanted to show you. the dim lighting was a blessing for the tent in his slacks, giving him a flimsy disguise for the arousal he felt at that moment. after more than a few drinks too, wandering hands and lingering words, it was becoming unbearable. however, scaring you off wasn’t on his bucket list tonight. he didn’t take this long fighting for your attention to loose you on the first date. he vowed to do everything at your pace, leaving it up to you to make the first move.
as the party wrapped up, and miguel said his goodbyes — you stood at the door, shivering from the cold air as it nipped against your bare arms. the fun you had was incomparable to any party you’ve ever been to, but you thought you may have overstayed your welcome. shakily tapping on your phone with freezing fingers, ordering an uber to pick you up —
“leaving already?”
“yeah, i had a lot of fun tonight, though.” it was a genuine smile, one that spoke a million words. “thanks for inviting me, miguel.”
for a man so big he sure did move so silently. he stood behind you, gently grasping your hand in his as she looked down on you. “when i invited you, i didn’t invite you as a mere guest — you’re more than welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”
it didn’t even sound like he was simply offering, miguel was begging. you could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice — urging you to stay the night, stay with him.
“miguel, are you sure? i don’t even have anything to change—“
“i’ve already organised sleepwear for you, but you could wear something of mine if you’d like?”
that sly smirk slid its way onto his face once again, rolling your eyes as you walked past him — pulling out your phone to cancel the uber. “fine, i’ll stay. i might take you up on that offer too.”
lo and behold, an array of skincare and pyjamas were set out on his bed as you entered the master bedroom once again — and to top it off, gift bags filled with designer items that you’d never thought you’d ever own. “miguel…is this all for me?”
“unless i have another sugar baby, who else would it be for? ‘course it’s for you, darling — consider it a…’welcome’ gift.”
“more like my entire tuition fee, hell. you didn’t have to spend all this money on me, y’know?”
“cariño,” you could see miguel walking up to him from the mirror in front, his arm slipping round your waist to pull you into his back. “i spend my money how i want, and i want to spend it on you. so i don’t want to hear no more complaining from you, understand.” the small nod you gave earned a small grin from him, a hand smoothing up the curve of your back until it reached the shimmering zipper under your neck.
“you look like a goddess tonight, baby. so fucking beautiful…” his words were whispered softly into your neck, gentle breaths caressing your skin. as he spoke, the zipper slid lower and lower — until your dress was held together by the tips of his fingers. the cold metal of his rings brushed against your bare skin, the tips of his fingers dancing on the curve of your waist as he lets the fabric pool at your feet.
“m-miguel, i’m sweaty from all the dancing! at least let me wash up first, or something.” if you weren’t sweating much then, you were definitely sweating buckets now. the heat radiating from you mixed with the heat simmering between the two of you made for a heady cocktail of unspoken desire — and you silently cursing yourself for almost breaking the number one rule: ‘don’t fuck on the first date.’
“we can use my shower then, it’s large enough for the both of us.” we? oh, you’re definitely breaking that rule now. “i didn’t say this was gonna be a joint effort, did i? i can wash myself, miguel.” you weren’t even convincing yourself with the breathy way you spoke, the way he was caressing you, the pure adoration in his voice was something you haven’t felt before. plus, this is the guy who’s willingly paying you to simply be around him — it’s a win-win situation.
“i know you can, baby —“ letting out a deep chuckle, miguel intertwined your hands and lead you towards the bathroom — “but it’s more fun with two, no?” the gentle pitter-patter of the waterfall shower reverberated through the silence of the room, the sound of fabric rustling followed shortly after. glancing down at your feet, miguel’s clothing was promptly discarded — your widened eyes trailing up his hefty frame.
“fucking christ…”
the man in front of you was nothing short of absolutely beautiful. despite spending everyday surrounded by older men, you never found yourself truly attracted to them until now — or maybe it was simply just miguel himself. “i thought you wanted to take a shower, muñeca?” oh, yeah, the shower. before you could even finish your thought, miguel was already occupying half of the space in there, leaving a small pocket for you to slide into.
the expeditious beating of your heart was muffled by the steady stream of water, but it was more than clear to miguel what you were feeling in that moment. the moment was strangely intimate, and dare i say innocent, for the predicament you found yourself in. his hands gently roamed your skin, barely making contact with any sensitive areas aside from fleeting brushes. he made a point to use his hands instead of a rag, claiming he could ‘clean you better than a flimsy cloth’.
it was truly getting unbearable, utterly frustrating. your subconscious and ovaries were in an intense battle of wits, when a third party made itself known in the worst way possible. you really had forgotten that miguel was as naked as you were until you felt the base of his cock slide between your ass cheeks, chest flush against his back. the slightest hitch of your already shaky breath earned another rich laugh from within him, thick fingers playing with the skin of your tummy.
“you feeling cleaner or what? i’m more than happy to keep going if you are, baby.”
of course you wanted him to keep going! you were already as wet as is, in every way possible. “i..i think you might’ve missed a spot.” the hand on your tummy paused, his breath hitting your ear as he bent down slightly. “i did? i like to consider myself very thorough, cariño — enlighten me.” you did your best to turn with the small space you had, looking up at him with a more confident expression than the one you wore previously.
“here.”
now it was miguel’s turn to be surprised, the tip of his finger brushing against your swollen clit before tapping against your slit. it had been so long since you had a real good fuck, and right now you were genuinely about to give this man some babies if he kept on smiling like that. “mm, looks like i did. forgive me for being so careless. i’ll make sure she gets extra attention.” his words trailed off as he sunk to his knees, the gentle spray of water splattering against his face.
he tapped your ass, lifting you up with one hand as he pressed you against the cool glass, legs resting on his shoulders. his pretty lashes were dusted with droplets of water as he gazed at you from between your thighs, nipping and sucking on the sensitive skin as he kneaded your skin gently. his thick tongue was enough to completely spread you open, eagerly collecting your creamy essence.
miguel was moaning like a pure slut, you would think he got more pleasure in eating you out than you did. his eyes were rolled back, hips absentmindedly bucking to the rhythm of the shower as he sucked on your clit. the position was not uncomfortable by any means, but the unadulterated pleasure you were feeling made it hard to stay upright — nails raking down the expensive marble tiles as you practically grasped for straws.
“grab my hair, darling. i don’t want you to fall.”
whilst his words were slightly muffled, the undeniable concern in his voice had you moaning embarrassingly loud. miguel was clearly strong enough to hold you up all alone, so you surrendered the grip you had on the wall to rake your trembling fingers through his hair — tugging on the curly strands.
“nngh..fuck..”
he fucking whimpered. miguel o’hara, the richest and most powerful man in this city, was shamelessly whimpering between your thighs. that was certainly the biggest ego boost ever, the fact that it’s your pussy that has this huge man so drunk. pushing out your hips, you practically smothered his face — riding him mid-air as you felt the delicious sensations bubbling up inside of your stomach. breathless chants of his name left your lips, panting softly as your head fell back against the panels.
“c-cumming! ugh— fuck, miguel!
the jerks of your body made miguel grip your ass tightly, licking his lips of your release as he shuffled upwards, grinning down at your disheveled form. “you’re breathtaking when you cum for me, beautiful. can’t believe you’re all mine.” he whispered against your lips, forehead to forehead as he kissed you for the first time. it felt like a million tiny fireworks going off inside of you, the previous tension in your body instantly melting away as you leaned into his touch — tongue’s pressing against each other as drooled slipped down your necks.
he kept his mouth latched onto yours as he gripped his leaking cock, dipping the pearly tip inside of your sensitive hole. his movements were unhurried, sloppily kissing you as he dipped in-and-out, in-and-out. it was a steady pace that you soon found yourself liking more than usual, a stark contrast to the inexperienced fucking’s you were getting before. “inside, please…i wanna feel you, all of you.”
you were too dangerous for this old man’s heart. having a pretty little thing like you beg for him to fuck you like you deserved, to mold that sweet cunt into the shape of his cock — it was all too tempting. he was more than willing to do anything his sweet baby asked him to, and he wasted no time in giving in to you. “shit, cielo, no one’s ever fucked you right, huh? she’s gripping onto me like a vice.”
he was right, in every sense of the word. you didn’t know how many partners he had before you, and really didn’t want to find out — but one thing was for sure, miguel knew exactly how to please you. your head fell against his chest, his hand lifting it up by your chin as he pumped into you. “tell me, dulzura, i’m the only one that’s made you feel like this? only man to fuck this perfect pussy right?”
he took the tiny nods and breathy whimpers as a yes, grinning like a madman as he revealed in the satisfaction of ruining you for anyone else — not like he was gonna let you go in the first place. his pace picked up vigorously, finding the perfect balance between pounding into your sore cunt and softly rutting against your ass. the skin where you both combined was tinged red, the on-going waterfall above unable to fully wash away the evidence of your cream on his pelvis.
“only you, miguel — no one…no one’s better than you. i’m yours, daddy.”
those words, hushed and warm, pushed his already inflated ego to the edge. his hips bucked widly, prodding at the spongy spot inside of you as she pressed his lips against yours once more. all sounds were trapped between your connected lips, muffling the choked squeal that left your lips and the guttural groan that left his as he came deep inside you. he did promise to clean you extra throughly, and what better way to do that than flushing out your canal with his cum!
he lazily rolled his hips against yours, ignoring the sticky liquid bubbling on the side of his spent cock. “did so well for me, my beautiful princess. i’m so proud of you.” the fluttering of your heart made you instinctively turn away, cheeks flaring with heat as you pouted — you really can’t believe you fucked on the first bloody date. your little tough act didn’t fool miguel, in fact it fuelled him even more. he continued to praise your very essence, worshiping the ground you walk on despite your protests — smiling softly as he sees your fierce resolve weaken. “there she is, you ready to let me love on you now?”
“yeah, yeah. but first, we need an actual shower. no fucking this time.”
“no promises.”
this was the last place you saw yourself in life, but maybe being in miguel’s arms were where you were supposed to be.
- thank you for waiting and make sure to watch ateez at coachella!!!!!
#cheonstapes#cheonstapes films!🪷#miguel o’hara x reader#miguel o'hara#miguel o’hara smut#miguel x reader#miguel smut#miguel o'hara headcanons#astv miguel#miguel ohara x reader#miguel ohara fanfiction#miguel ohara smut#miguel fanfic
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Ghost king danny goes on a reincarnation vacation to the dc universe by ClockWork, he ends up as a mortician/coroner and chats up the dead and is super creepy and has to go to Arkham to claim a body there (idk how-) and ends up freaking out the prisoners but also makes some friends and is just all around having a good time and Batman is concerned why this guy just feels weird and why Jason likes him enough to call him a friend
"This is Daniel Fenton." Bruce starts clicking the button on his wrist computer so an image of a young man in his early twenties appears on the hologram. "He is the mortician working at Gotham Funeral Home and Crematorium. Recently, he has been the talk of the underworld for his actions in Arkham."
"Actions?" Tim asks, reading over the files that Bruce had downloaded into their own wrist computers. He pauses at the old-school photo of Daniel Fenton smiling shyly at the camera. Two rows below him is Jason's equally bashful smile when he was fourteen.
Huh.
"A patient was found dead in her room. Daniel went over to claim the body, but while there, he made a few of the inmates uncomfortable." Bruce pulls up a security camera footage of Fenton strolling down the hall, pushing the cart with the body covered by a white sheet.
The way his lips are shaped tells the Bats he whistles even if there is no sound.
It looks normal- even if he seems just a tad too cheerful for picking up a dead person- until he passes by Two-Face's room. The man flipped his quarter and then started shouting at Fenton.
They couldn't make out his words, but whatever the mortician said had Two-face laughing so hard he fell to the ground.
Then, the camera glitched as if there were some kind of interference. They watched it clear up with Fenton walking away and Two-Face sitting on the ground, staring at a wall with a blank expression.
"What happened?" Dick asks.
"It's unclear what Fenton did to him, but Harvey has been unresponsive since. This was three days ago."
"Shit," Steph swears, which pretty much sums up everyone's thoughts.
"Yeah, Danny has that effect on people," Jason speaks up, shrugging his shoulder at the looks he receives. "What? Danny has always been weird, but I doubt he is dangerous."
"You are acquainted with Fenton?" Damian asks, and Jason shrugs again.
"We were in the same graduating class. I spoke to him more after I died and came back, but I wouldn't meet up with him for a drink or anything."
"You don't drink."
"Exactly, Timbos."
Bruce clears his throat. "In any case, I want you all to keep an eye on him."
"B, seriously, the guy is harmless. He cried the other day over a book character's death-"
"How would you know that?" Cass cuts Jason off, a teasing smile on her face even though her eyes are narrowed with suspicion.
"We're in the same book club. Not another word." Jason grunts.
Dick, who has been staring at the class photo that Tim has seen, snaps his figures. "I know him! He's the weird kid who told people he was the reincarnation of the Ghost King on vacation! Claimed he was a powerful afterlife entity. Didn't you get caught with him behind the bleachers, Jason-"
"Shut it Dickface!" Jason screeches face a bright red suddenly. " That was one time, and I was fourteen!"
Bruce's frown is suddenly more profound. "I had forgotten about that particular detention. Jason, are you compromised for this mission?"
"What!? I am not!" The second oldest yelled, balling his hands "In fact, I bet I could get Danny to tell me what he did!"
"Good. Go get that done." Dick waves his hand at him in a dismissive motion. "Don't come back without the little crazy mortician's number."
Tim smiles as Jason explodes, but his eyes never leave Heavy Dent's image on the security camera. There is something about the way his eyes are hazy that set bells off in his head.
He is sure he sees flashes of green on Dent's pupils. He saw similar flashes in a file inside the League of Assassins while searching for Bruce.
It was the warning of ghosts.
Was Fenton's teenage lies not so fatuous after all? He'll have to investigate.
Master Post Link
#dcxdpdabbles#dc x dp crossover#The Ghost King's Fibs#Basically Danny is on vacy as a reincarnation#and told EVERYONE about it but no one believed him#Jason did in fact get caught kissing Danny behind the blechers#Dead on Main#Tim's sharp mind seeing the dots that others need to connect#Is Danny dangerous?#Who knows?
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the beast’s beauty
fushiguro toji x f!reader
description: because of your father's mistake, the infamous toji zenin forced you into imprisonment in order to pay his debt. however, what you never expected was to fall in love with the monster he was.
genre: angst, historical au, 18+, mini series
warnings/tags: explicit smut(vaginal penetration, unprotected sex, ) violence, mentions of stockholm syndrome & misogyny, blackmail, character injury, blood, profanity, mdni, grammar mistakes
a/n: to welcome our fav dilf to the jjk screen, here's a little beauty and the best retelling for toji:) reblogs are truly appreciated <3 (taglist: open) (wc:1k)
general masterlist
part one ♕ part two ♕ part three ♕ part four ♕ part five
You never enjoyed the company your father kept. Drunks, assassins, mobsters, gamblers. You would always find yourself pulling him out of taverns in the early hours of 2 to 4 am. Usually, fear would course through women’s veins if they had to enter an establishment of this kind however, that wasn't your case. You were predisposed to bars, and whore houses since you were 10.
Now here, age 22 as you make your way through the liveliest bar in town. The air stank of beer and fresh cigarettes; a smell that you've grown more than used to. Your upbringing was merited to being the only daughter of a single father. Your mother died in childbirth and your father never chose to remarry. When you were younger you thought of it as romantic, but as time went on you saw it for what it really was.
He gained a free pass to hoard whores. Your house doors welcomed a new woman every week. The most motherly advice you gained was how to seduce a man and how to keep your tits perky.
The bar was more full than it usually was. Sweaty bodies stood, all facing the same direction. A poker game was at play. By the looks of the chips stacked in the center, it looked rather intense. Your feet began to move faster as a small anxious feeling nipped at your stomach. Shoving arms and legs, you squeeze into the front of the table.
Two men were sitting at opposite ends of the table. The left side of the table was far more crowded than the right. Women were draped over the man who was seated. A hand covered the majority of his face so all that was in view were his eyes. Dark green eyes shined brightly, even though the mess of dark hair was in front of it.
‘He looked focused’ you thought. He stared ahead, not giving any attention to the women around him. You could see why they were all interested in him. Physically, he was very attractive. His legs were spread out under the table, arms crossed and sat straight. His shirt fit on his body like a glove. His shoulders, chest, and even the muscles on his torso were visible through the cloth.
Before you could notice anything a familiar voice caught your attention. At the other end of the table, you see a familiar ratted navy coat. With a far lonelier crowd, your father was squinting at the four cards in his palm.
“All in” he shouted as he pushed all his chips closer to the dark-haired man.
“Dad!” you jumped to him, clasping your hand on his wrist. As you opened your mouth to protest, a deep voice intercepted.
“Sorry, cap.” was all the man said as he displayed his cards. The faces and noise around you felt dull. Muffled voices and blurry vision were all you had as you watched your father’s cards get trumped by a royal flush.
“How much money did you bet, Dad?” The urgency in your voice was a cover for the panic. He had no money. Whatever money he did earn at his sales job was put towards the tavern and prostitutes. Whatever was left was the sum you had earned at the library.
“Sweet pea, I-I messed up,” there was a shake in your father's voice. One that you had never heard before. “It wasn’t money. Gu- I need to get”
You couldn't understand the slurred speech your father spewed.
“Gu? What are you saying, Dad?” you held your father steady near the back entrance of the building.
“Guns” your body jumped at the sound of another voice joining your conversation. You spun around to be faced with familiar eyes. They look much darker at night. The only thing illuminating the scene was a candle hanging beside the door in between you two.
“He didn’t bet money. Your father owes me guns.”
Your eyebrows pinched together in confusion.
He must be confused with someone else.
In an effort to clear your father's name you turn to him for reassurance, but all you are met with is disappointment.
“Mmm sorry. I sold the guns and I didn’t have anything else to give” Your father's voice fell flat.
“Dad, What are you talking about? Why do you have guns? What are you in?” your hands grasp his arms and shake his drunk body hoping to shake the truth out of him.”
“Your father works for my business. And he fucked up and sold my guns for bitch money.” the man said. His head tilted to the right, allowing for his face to be seen. The first thing you saw was a scar that ran through the right corner of his mouth. He was taller than you assumed he was. As he inched towards you his size grew.
“What do you want?” your voice dripped in fear.
“Well, your father here, he bet me something to act as a placeholder, till I get my guns.” he fished in his pockets as he spoke those chilling words. He retrieved a small syringe from his pocket.
Your worried eyes turned to your father but before you could protest, rough hands brushed your lips, pressing your mouth shut. You felt your skin break as a cool needle was stuck in your neck. Tears welled up in your eyes as your fear was confirmed.
You felt your own body turning into mush, your muscles stopped protesting the man's actions and started to skin into him. Your back hit his chest and your head rolled onto his shoulder. With what little power you had you flailed your limbs, but all of your efforts were met with failure.
You couldn't hear anymore, couldn't distinguish voices. Couldn't yell and scream at your father for pimping you like a whore to a beast. You didn't know whose voice it was but you were hoping their word was true, as those were the last words that you heard before you blacked out.
“I'll take care of you, I promise.”
[ jjk gen taglist: @meepmoop12w @thepsychicartist ]
#jjk series#jjk x reader#toji x reader#jujutsu kaisen fic#jujutsu kaisen toji#toji fushiguro x you#toji fushiguro x reader#toji fushiguro#fushiguro toji x reader#toji x you#toji x y/n#toji smut#toji fushiguro smut#jjk smut#jjk x y/n#toji angst#jujutsu toji#toji fushiguro angst#jjk toji#fushiguro toji#jjk angst#jjk.rot
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Savit-e
My host mother is a woman with long twirling hair and more floral-patterned sundresses than I’ve seen in my entire life. She throws open the closet each morning to flick each dress along its hanging rail, sharp squeaks. “What can I even wear?” The dresses sway like summer willows. I sneak in behind her and grab a t-shirt and jeans from my tiny pile at the bottom.
She loves earrings that swing and she loves stain-glass windchimes which clink and muse while she pours me the bitterest cup of tea I’ve ever had in my life. I fill it with sugar and she chides me. I remind her of all the spicy dishes I make that she cannot eat, and she says, “Okay, I’ll let it go this one time.” She sips her tea black. The birds titter at her joke. We’ll have the same conversation tomorrow.
My host mother is Jira and I wonder how closely we might be related every time I catch that glimmer in her eyes like my mothers’. Jira is too tall to be my mother and her hair is not quite dark enough, but I like to believe I see it. I like to believe Jira’s country and mine are related, that maybe her great-great-grandparents and mine were friends before the records were scorched and the lines were redrawn. Or maybe our countries bore no relation to each other. Maybe they were friends anyway. Maybe they were enemies. I’ve heard every opinion.
Jira has a worry-face like my mother, but she uses it for different things, like plum prices at the market and rain clouds blundering through like clumsy creatures. It used to surprise me, since my mother reserved her worry-face for only the dourest things in her mind. I saw more and more of it from my mother before I left. “Baby maybe you should spend the summer home. Maybe you can get your money back.” She said she’d been reading things in the news. I told her not to worry. I would be safe in my travels. I feel stares pressing into my back while Jira leans over the plums. I notice Jira receives the stares too.
She hums a tune and busies herself in the kitchen in a dress I’ve never seen. She’s been in a great mood since her daughter came home this morning. I didn’t get a good look at her daughter at first because Jira swallowed her right up in her arms. But I got to see her better when I helped bring her bags in. Savine is lithe, baby-faced and a head shorter than Jira, and her eyes carry the same arch and slope as Jira’s. She has the same dimples and she moves in the same way, tilted forward, as if to let gravity do the work of carrying her momentum.
Savine is napping from her trip, and Jira seems to have forgotten all the slow and patient syllables she usually saves for me. She speaks in her rapid pace and I jog to keep up. Too many words slip through my grasp. One in particular I hear too many times. Savit-e.
“Savit-e?” I ask.
Jira puckers her lips as if to think. Her eyes rove. Footsteps tap gently closer behind me, and Jira’s eyes light up as she looks past me.
“Savit-e!” she says, motioning forward as Savine rounds the counter and pulls her mom into another hug. Savine is only 10. She’s been away almost 6 months for school, according to Jira.
A nickname, I note. Savine wears earrings like windchimes as well.
…
Jira has offered to charge me no rent if I babysit Savine for the summer and cook dinner in the evenings. Savine’s summer classes are early and short, as are mine, so I pick Savine up every day at noon. “This is Reb. She’s my mom’s friend this summer,” Savine tells her school friends. I gather that Jira does something similar every year, taking in an au pair while she works the summer.
There is a park Savine likes in particular, with the tall slides and the cold water fountains and all her friends. It takes me a few days to realize her friends are new to even her. Any child at the park becomes her friend by nature of needing two to play the teeter-totter. I meet parents and I practice my clumsy language with them. They don’t stare strangely at me like the man in the plum aisle.
Three times over the summer, I hear a parent at the park ask me. “Who is Savit-e?” I point to Savine every time. I don’t think too much about it, because they always like the answer, nodding along. Savine’s friends do not use the nickname, but I experiment with it here and there. Savine lights up when I do. “Savit-e,” I call to her from the school lawn, and she squeals and bounds forward to wrap me in the kind of hug she gives her mother.
I pick up a copy of the newspaper from the corner store every day on my way to pick up Savine, and I read what I can of it at the park. The newspaper is not a person, and it does not stilt its vocabulary to be simple and clear the way people do when they notice me struggling with the tongue, so oftentimes I gather just the concepts from articles. It is my fourth week of doing this when one article stops me. I see the spelling of what Jira says out loud so often.
Savit-e.
The article is hard, but I recognize the word for murder, and the words for three men. Three men murdered, and Savit-e. I would ask Savine, but I’m afraid the article may be something upsetting.
I ask Jira that night, after Savine has gone to bed.
“A man killed three others,” Jira says, brow slightly scrunched as she skims the paper and distills its contents to simpler words I know. Her eye creases are deep by the evening lamplight. “He is not charged with a crime, because he was protecting his Savit-e.”
This sinks in slowly, and a red flush of embarrassment makes itself known on my cheeks.
“Savit-e… as in ‘daughter’?”
I use my own word for it, since I don’t know Jira’s word for daughter. Or at least, I did not know, until now.
Jira’s brow scrunch tightens, which she does whenever I’ve used one of my words she doesn’t know.
“Like Savine is to you. Savine is your daughter.”
At this, Jira nods slowly, then more quickly as she lets the meaning sink in. “Yes… Savine is my Savit-e… my daughter.”
I thank Jira for the explanation. I lie awake that night thinking too much about the parents at the park who think Savine is my Savit-e.
…
I start to dislike the newspaper. I’m not sure if it’s the summer heat sewing aggravation, or some deeper unrest, or maybe my own growing vocabulary, but more and more I notice articles that leave me unsettled. I read about the arrest of a man who looks like the man in the plum aisle. Maybe there’s no resemblance at all. Maybe any man with those piercing eyes in a mug shot feels like the man in the plum aisle. There are still many words I don’t know, but country and nation come up often. And Savit-e. More articles of someone acting in protection of their Savit-e.
My mother isn’t here to protect me. I walk more cautiously when I’m alone at night, as a woman, as a Savit-e with no parents here to protect me.
I’m in the kitchen with a knife shunking through the angled cuts of scallion. The pot for the noodles is boiling and I’ve halved the spices as I do every night for Jira and Savine. I don’t even hear the front door kick open.
I do hear Savine scream.
My heart is in my throat and my blood is cold, and I move, because in the moment I have forgotten I am a Savit-e far away from home. All that matters is Savine’s scream.
And my sockless feet are light as I snake through the dining room and round the corner to the living room, entering from the same door as the two men who now stand there, backs to me, both eagerly teasing the handles of a gun. One has Savine in a chokehold, and the men stare at Jira, pressed flat against the wall. I realize Jira does have a worry-face she reserves for the truly awful things.
And the men with their backs to me are plum-men, in ways I understand without knowing what fast and clipped words they’re shouting at Jira. The one holding Savine presses the barrel of his gun against her ear, and the windchime titter of her earrings is drowned under her scream of fear. The plum man barks a demand at Jira, and she watches with moon-plate eyes.
He barks it again.
Jira raises a trembling hand. And her digits curl, and her palm pulls inward, and her earrings clink with the slow stuttering shake of her head. She points her index finger firmly against her own heart, and she declares ‘Savit-e’.
Jira runs out through the second living room door.
“Mooooom! Savit-e!!” Savine screams, and her words choke, and she wriggles under the hold of the man. And suddenly sense returns to my body at the sound of Savine’s screams.
I am still holding the scallion knife.
I don’t remember what I do next, but the knife does.
…
There is a drawl of radio static that seems to dominate my ears. The sirens and flashing lights are background noise to me now. They’ve taken Savine away with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. They’ve assured me I’ll be able to see her, but later, once she’s been looked at, once she’s calmed down, once I’ve been spoken to.
“You are not in trouble,” the detective tells me in my own tongue with a slight accent rounding her words. She’s the only one who speaks my language. They called her in when it became clear I didn’t know enough of theirs to give a report. “You were protecting your Savit-e.”
I flinch, a little bit, somehow still capable of embarrassment with a mind that’s gone completely numb. “Savine isn’t my Savit-e.”
The woman detective frowns. I remember we’re in my own tongue.
“I mean, she’s not my daughter. She’s Jira’s daughter. She’s Jira’s Savit-e.”
The woman’s frown lessens some. “Your daughter, no. Your Savit-e, yes.”
I hold my hands near my face. They still smell of garlic and scallions. “The pot’s gonna boil over. I have to go turn off the stove,” I say, urgently, and unhelpfully, as the thought suddenly strikes and I push myself standing.
The woman’s hand is on my shoulder, and she presses me down. “The pot is not boil. The stove is off. It is okay. Who is Savit-e?”
And the question sits weird. I realize she asks it like those parents at the park.
I don’t answer. The detective chews her lip, and I see her eyes searching for a word she can’t find. “Who is your… The Most? Who is your The Above? Who is your The Most of All?”
“My most what?”
“Who is your Protect Over Everything?”
And from her face I can tell she is frustrated with her own words. There is more she is saying that I cannot know in my own language.
Protect Over Everything. I think about the scream that pulled me from the kitchen.
“I think… Savine… is my Protect Over Everything.”
And this satisfies the woman. And she nods the way the parents at the park do. “You are not in trouble. You always protect Savit-e. You must always. There is no trouble for what you did. Good job, that you protect your Savit-e. You will have her back soon.”
I go stiff.
“Jira needs her back, not me. I go home in a few weeks. I only started—” I falter. “Savine is Jira’s Savit-e.”
The detective shakes her head. “Jira is Jira’s Savit-e. Jira does not come back.”
…
I postpone my flight home. I tell my mother it’s because my studies are going long. I’ll tell her more, later, when I’m ready.
I pick up Savine every day from school as always. She doesn’t smile, and she pulls me into a hug that is too tight and lasts too long. She doesn’t want to go to the park. She comes grocery shopping with me, because it’s better than being left home alone. I look over my shoulder whenever I grab the plums.
I cook dinner and I eat with Savine, and we do this at the counter because when I sit us at the kitchen table, Savine looks too long at Jira’s empty place. I tried calling Jira once, after Savine went to bed. Her phone rang from the next room. I watched it ring until it cut to voicemail.
There’s an article about me in the paper. I can’t read most of it. Or maybe I just don’t try to. I see Jira’s name. I see the plum man words. I see Savit-e written 14 times.
I don’t know what happens to Savine if I leave. I’ve tried asking and I get too many words I do not know, and no one who can explain them better to me. But their expressions stay with me. Like the looks of plum-men and worry-faces and now this new look, which is rooted in something deeper about a country which I know too little about. It’s a sad look. It’s something I can maybe understand without the words attached. I tell my mom I might like to extend my study through the fall.
Savine has started calling me “Savit-e.”
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The reader looking so pretty at an event in the agency, co worker dazai can't help but stare at her :> make sum scenario :>
"I SEE YOUR PRETTY EYES AT MINE, MISTER~"
Sypnosis: Dazai just cant keep his eyes to himself when a colleuge of his is looking so darn pretty!
Dazai x fem! reader
Genre: suggestive, romance
Warnings: reader is sort of cheeky, suggestive as hell, implied alcoholism, author gave the reader on what attire shes wearing.
A/N FINALLY A REQUEST AFTER SO FUCKIN LONG
The agency had decided to hold another party in celebration of a huge deal which would help the agency .
And of course you were invited, almost everyone was. You decided to look extra pretty today because why not, not because of others but for yourself.
You had picked out a extravagant ebony coated frock which covered all the way up to your legs and ended with glistening white layers of laces.
The party was at 8 o clock, you had time plus what would you do getting there so early?
Gently tapping on the tubes of lipsticks you picked out a vermillion shade and smoothly applied the waxy substance on your lips. The colour suited the rose tied around your neck really well.
Finally adding some final touches you rushed out the door and walked along to the agency.
There were colourful lights and food everywhere, Atsushi teaching Kyouka how to make decorations, doctor Yosano taking a bit too much of wine, ranpo staring at powdered donuts... To think of it you remember him taking 5 of them sneakily one night and you wonder why hes so obsessed with them.
But one thing you could notice was a certain someones eyes on you... Dazai.
You walked up to atsushi and kyouka, talking to them and teaching them some tips and tricks to fit in with the agency.
You could feel at all times though, a certain pair of eyes glancing at you from time to time from the corner of the room.
"Excuse me, i will just fix my hair and come back" you politely end the conversation before walking towards the door and going outside.
Despite your heels clacking against the floor, you could feel another set of shoes following them.
"Dazai-san, may i know why i feel your eyes on my at all times?" you ask putting a perfect spot from the distance between your figure and the mans figure.
He chuckled.
"Bella, i must say your quite the smart one arent ya'?" osamu replies back with much cheekiness in his tone as yiu turned to him, he had a black tuxedo, a polished and refined one, it hugged his body quite tightly too.
You just sighed at his remark, he was a ladies man you knew but you have never seen the glint and love in his eyes on a girl ever before, it amde your stomach turn slightly in a good way, of course.
His teasing grin drops and turns into a more soothing smile as he walks over to you which makes you back towards the wall unsure whether to trsut him or not.
He lowers his head a bit to reach your face taking in all of it's features.
"Are you trying to woo me, dazai-san? It seems like it"
"Haaah, maybe. The thing is bella you just look so.." you expect him to give you some compliment like every boy does when they see a girl sitting pretty and all but instead he gently took a strand of your hair, took it to his lips and uttered every single quality and flaw about you, it was as if hes born to have a poets tongue with you being the muse.
"I just want to admire you all day, my darling. Its not lust nor a small crush, it isnt even close to love but something beyond the world and beyond the universe to attend to, i dont know i could drown in your eyes right now but i would prefer staring at them for an eternity as if its a gorgeous piece of art hung on a museum"
he said softly, oh god did this man made your heart drop down your stomach and melt into your intestines.
With each word he spoke through his charming voice, you could feel his breathe and hands going closer towards your sweating body and at last, he asked for your permission to which you only looked at him with a slight embroidery of embarrassment on your cheeks.
Dazai tenderly kissed your forehead but though it lasted short you wondered whether he tried to go for your lips instead because of the shift in his body.
"Oi, dazai and [Name] if your done with your cheesy af encounter than come back to the party! Presidents calling you two!"
Atlast after moments of intimate interaction which wasnt even intimate because of the silent yearn for something neither the two of you could preach. Both of you decided to go back to the party.
Later in the relationship you realised that your first kiss with this loverman was not the type of kiss those possessive men would do which would take your breathe away but more of a desperate one as if to reach out for something which one already got.
In the end nor dazai or you could just confess normally without making each other look like two pieces of magnificent artwork looking at each other.
A/N: i hate this more than dazai hates him self :(((((((( btw reader is wearing this dress
Divider crds! : @cafekitsune
Tags! : @inojuuy @silverbladexyz @atlasnessie @tsuunara @elizais @saelique @chuuyasboner @atzuhi @riiwrites @ruanais @biscuits-spooky-corner @rusmii
#sakira!#sakiras writing notebook!!!#bsd x reader#bungou gay dogs#bungou stray dogs#bsd#Bsd fanfic#Bsd drabble#Drabbles#dazai#dazai x reader#dazai osamu x reader#Osamu dazai#Bsd dazai#Spicy
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Just reread Room with a View and I loved it the second time just as much as the first. Just wanted to tell you ❤️. I've always wondered where/how Bucky and Steve find their assistant? And does she know that she's signing up for from the beginning? If you're feeling inspired, I'd love a drabble. If not, any fragmented thoughts?
Fringe Benefit
pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader x Steve Rogers
summary: Steve and Bucky wanted to start looking for an assistant right after their visit to Ari, but unexpected business complications limited their time to organize a search. Luckily, the opportunity presented itself to them on a silver platter… You presented yourself, begging to squeeze in a ten minutes meeting in their busy schedule
warnings: dark Steve Rogers dark Bucky Barnes; dub-con; manipulation; forced orgasm; blowjob; deepthroating; power imbalance; explicit sexual situations; praise kink; breeding kink;
You came to their building - a forefront to businesses that you know are more illegal and dangerous than exclusive properties they deal with - five times, before a stuffy desk clerk written down your name in the calendar.
A small window for a very short meeting, possibly a dismissal, two weeks in the waiting.
You were patient, but in this case time was sensitive. Because money was sensitive.
A part of you wanted to drop it, not clean your younger brother's messes once again. Sense of responsibility made you cave in. As well awareness that if Noah can't pay his debts the sharks would turn your way to settle it, anyway.
You preferred to get ahead of things. Maybe your readiness to cooperate and a solid plan you've made would help you save life.
Barnes and Rogers were businessmen. Lethal mob bosses, but that was a sort of business too. And you knew how to deal with difficult clients as well demanding bosses.
So you poised yourself in calm, controlled demeanor as you sat down on a leather chair in front of a huge desk, holding your head high as two pairs of blue eyes settled on you.
Those eyes were more lively than you expected. Instead of sleazy, older men you thought you'd see, stinking of cigars, with greasy stains on their chins; you faced two men in their prime.
Handsome, to express it chastely. Fucking hot, if you'd describe them to your friends.
In their late thirties, maybe early forties; one with neatly trimmed beard, the other with some scruff. Perfectly tailored suits on lean, muscled bodies. They both had blue eyes; one an icy shade that cut through you, the other the depths of ocean that swallowed you whole.
They were watchful. Assessing your every gesture and tick.
Predators in vigil.
It's been a long while since anyone studied you so intensely. It made you feel uneasy, but also sent a hot wave through your bloodstream.
For a second you dropped your gaze to the folder you held on your lap, your hands gently clasped over it. Somehow you managed not to shiver.
You lifted your head up, meeting their gazes evenly. You weren't dumb enough to throw them an open challenge, but you hoped to look confident.
You wanted to introduce yourself, but Mr Rogers was faster, greeting you in a way that suggested they already knew a lot about you. More than just your first and last name. Probably did a background check on you. For the meeting purposes, you assumed.
After taking an encouraging breath, you began presenting your idea for a solution regarding your brother's debt.
All summed up and divided into regular payments, with extra interest included of course. And a big deposit right away, all your savings ready to give to them.
"You're very thorough." Mr Barnes commented, taking the folder from you when you pushed it forward, but not opening it.
"Indeed, she is." Mr Rogers nodded, rubbing his lip in thought. "A dedicated, hardworking girl, aren't you, doll?"
You frowned at the sweet, condescending nickname. You considered reminding him you had a name, but letting it go was a small price for leaving this meeting victorious.
"It's a good proposition," Rogers continued, "but has a few disadvantages. The main one is that there's a small chance your brother finds a job with decent salary to match yours, so you can pay us in the time you promise."
"Shitty brother at that," joined Barnes, "to burden his sister with this kind of debt. You sure want to take it up on yourself?"
He didn't sound as if he was only mocking Noah. No, there was an undertone of displeasure and annoyance, like he truly couldn't imagine causing a sister any grief or trouble.
"Me not taking it won't change the fact it falls on me anyway if Noah fails to deliver."
You weren't naive to think their wrath would skip Noah's family, if he failed. Or that you could go to the police with it. You were quite sure they had many high-ups on their payroll.
Rogers and Barnes exchanged looks. Something passed between them, though you weren't sure what they debated on silently.
"Since you have the spine and honor to come to us on your own and propose something actually smart," Rogers opened a drawer and pulled out a printed document, "we want to give you a counter-offer."
"Which is?" You narrowed your eyes as he slid papers across the desk towards you.
"As it happens, we have an open spot for a personal assistant. For us." Barnes smiled. It was as charming, as lethal.
"Long hours, including after hours if we wish. But we'd pay you double what you earn now. Also provide paid vacation and sick days, medical care. Bonuses of various kinds." Rogers' smooth voice tempted to trust their offer.
"That- that makes no sense." You shook your head, trying (and failing) to take your eyes away from his.
"You'd be paying me and I would be paying it back to you as compensation for my brother's debt. Your own money returning to you. Where's the gain?"
"Oh, doll," Barnes licked his lips as he leaned forward, "we will reap many benefits from your service."
"Benefits?" You swallowed hard, trying not to react impulsively to the implication behind his words.
Your mind instantly flashed with sinful images; indecent demands and harassment that should outrage you.
But then you reminded yourself that these men probably had stunning girlfriends, or even had a different beauty in their beds every weekend. They could afford the most exclusive escorts, if they wanted to. They wouldn't hire an assistant just to fuck her dumb.
Instead, you thought of all the other ways businessmen and businesswomen benefited from having a personal assistant. You vaguely remembered that from the time you worked as one right after college - not only assisting in the business area, but picking up laundry, buying coffee, buying gifts for girlfriends because they forgot to.
"Yes." Rogers smiled for the first time. "We'll make certain what you do for us is worth every penny of your brother's debt."
They allowed you twenty four hours to think on their offer.
Considering what you would gain, not only in your own payment, but with their proposed salary your brother's debt could be payed much much sooner, lifting the heavy burden from your shoulders.
Money wise, it was a gift like a star from the sky.
You feared participating in the other side of their business, but you told yourself they wouldn't take a meager assistant to a crime scene.
Though maybe you'll have to wash the blood off their shirts. That you could do, you supposed.
So you agreed.
In the first few days your work passed just as you predicted - long hours of trotting between their office and various places they sent you on errands.
But you were a quick learner and memorized their coffee and snack choices after three days; as well the fact Mr Barnes liked to sit in the armchair after a tougher negotiation and listen to music, and Mr Rogers went to the old boxing gym that was rarely frequented by anyone.
You ordered lunch for them if they were in the office. Twice they came back from whatever business they've been dealing with in the field, with pastries for you. Which was thoughtful and sweet, you thought.
Yes, the work was tiring and sometimes hectic (keeping up with their long strides proved to be a little difficult for you), but not as awful or blood-filled as you feared at first.
It was after about two weeks when you entered their office, pen and pad in hand, ready to take more requests for the rest of the day.
"Anything particular for lunch that you wish?" You asked, walking right into the center of the room.
You smiled - not only a false, practiced grimace, but their handsome faces and the crinkles in the corners of their eyes when they smiled in return always made you content.
Focused on Mr Barnes leaning against the desk watching you like a hawk, you didn't notice Mr Rogers closing the door behind you and locking it.
"As a matter of fact, I've been craving something for many days now." Barnes said, curling a finger at you and motioning for you to step closer.
You felt a rush of heat wash over you. His words, spoken in that low, seductive voice, and his beckoning weren't that subtle.
"Um," you bit your lip, feeling your cheeks flush. But you made little steps forward. "I- I can order anything you wish, Mr Barnes."
"No," he chuckled and suddenly grabbed you by the hips, pulling you close. "We will be ordering. Anything we wish."
"That's inappropriate, sir." You laughed nervously and tried to step away, though your resistance wasn't as fierce as it should.
"If you consider that inappropriate," Rogers' voice resounded in your ear as he slid behind you, caging you between the two of them-
"I wonder what you'll think of all the things we're going to do to you."
"S-sir," you trembled as Barnes traced your lips with his finger, as Rogers' tongue flicked your earlobe. "You shouldn't- I shouldn't-"
You shouldn't want it.
A part of you didn't, the scared part that feared awful things being done to you. Those two men killed without blinking, they made people disappear and suffer. They could break you.
The rest of you roused with thrill and anticipation. Your skin pebbling with goosebumps where their hands started roaming.
"You can use our first names, doll. And may I remind you of paragraph seven, point five of our contract." Rogers whispered, rolling the fabric of your pencil skirt up.
"Assistant will also fulfill requests and see to the well being of employers in matters regarding health and body."
"But-" a gasp interrupted your own words when Steve sucked on your earlobe at the same time that Bucky slid a finger past your lips.
"And our bodies really need your assistance right now." Bucky chuckled, slowly pulling his finger from your mouth.
He replaced it with his own lips. Soft, but demanding. A kiss that went deeper and rougher than you ever experienced before.
Then Steve's mouth was on your neck, licking and biting. And they both chuckled when you made a helpless sound as they began pulling your panties down your legs.
Everything was a haze of sensations and chaos of adrenaline buzzing through you. The world slipped from your grasp, as did your control over yourself. Your body was pliant in their hold. You wouldn't stand a chance even if you tried to fight them off, they were much stronger. Bigger. Dangerous.
And for some insane reason it made you wetter.
They pushed you onto your knees. Cold floor harsh under your knees, pressed suit pants and shiny shoes appearing in your vision.
Steve forced your legs to part wider and slipped his hand up your thigh, right over to your slick folds. He had his other hand weaved into your hair, holding a fistful in a strong grip.
Bucky's fingers were in your hair, too. Only slightly gentler in their hold.
They both moved your head back and forth over Bucky's cock.
"For someone who says they shouldn't do it, you enjoy it a lot, doll." Steve laughed cruelly, pushing two fingers into you.
Your whine resonated on Bucky's dick, a pleasant groan falling from his lips at the sensation.
Your hands clawed at Bucky's thighs, nails scratching his skin, but he didn't seem to mind it.
"And you look like you're loving every second of it, too." He patted your cheek.
Your started tearing up - from gagging every time Bucky pushed deeper and deeper into your mouth, and from the growing tension Steve's ministrations provoked.
His fingers inside you curled and his thumb rubbed merciless circles over your clit, pushing you steadily toward the precipice.
"That's it," Steve rasped in your ear. "You're going to cum with a cock down your throat."
Your moan sounded gargled as you choked on Bucky's dick when the head of it bumped the back of your throat. Tears streamed down your cheeks, smudging your make up.
"You'll learn to love it, dollface." Bucky cooed at you, pushing right back in after giving you a second to catch your breath.
"Learn to associate having our cocks in your mouth with ultimate pleasure." Steve mouthed on your shoulder, his fingers never ceasing in their torment.
And he was driving you towards climax expertly.
Your sounds pitched higher, your body shaking as you felt tension coiling in your belly. Steve kept urging you on, murmuring dark, filthy promises of breaking you.
Bucky slowed his movements, but each time he drove his hips into your face, forcing his cock down your throat.
He withdrew partly, keeping his dick on your tongue as he held your head in place, when Steve growled - "She's gonna cum now."
You don't know if it was his command, or maybe you really were right on the edge, but you shattered right after he spoke those words. A loud, pitiful keen, partially muffled by the dick in your mouth; tears falling freely.
Your body seized, but Steve quickly let go of your hair and wrapped a strong arm around you, holding you to him. His fingers were still buried in your soaked cunt, thumb giving your pulsing clit some reprieve.
Your head throbbed with white noise, your lungs burned. Everything slowly settled down, your consciousness falling back into your body.
Before you had a chance to calm down fully, Steve's thumb on your clit started moving again. In wicked eights this time.
"N-no-" your weak objection was cut short by a cock pushing back into your throat.
Bucky gripped the sides of your head harsher, pushing his hips forward. He forced you to swallow him to the root, his balls slapping your chin.
He didn't withdraw fully now, only rocked against your face, keeping himself at the back of your mouth. Each push forced strings of saliva to dribble out of your lips and down your chin, smearing on his sack.
Steve set a different rhythm on your clit now, somehow managing to arouse it all anew.
One of your hands tried to blindly grab his wrist when he thrust a third finger inside you.
"Take it, doll." He ordered, moving his digits ruthlessly despite your attempts to stop him.
"It's only three fingers. My cock will stretch you wider when I take your tight cunt."
You didn't know if Bucky finished first and that's what set you off again, soundlessly screaming as he spilled down your throat; or if Steve pushed you over the edge and your helpless, choking sounds made Bucky burst.
He groaned loudly, rutting his hips against your face as he came. Then withdrew slightly, keeping his still spurting cock on your tongue.
His icy gaze turned warmer as he watched you from above, admiring your ruined state and the pool of white cum sliding down the back of your tongue.
Steve pulled his fingers out of your sopping pussy at the same time that Bucky finally eased out of your mouth completely. The squelching sound of your cunt flushed you with embarrassment.
"Kiss the tip," Bucky's voice was soft, but you knew it was an order nonetheless.
You hesitated only a second, mostly due to tiredness. Steve slapped your puffed pussy in reprimand, causing you to squeak and lean forward instantly, placing a kiss on the head of Bucky's softening cock.
"Good girl." Their praise made your head swim. Or maybe it was the post-orgasmic exhaustion.
"You're perfect." Steve kissed your temple.
He was surprisingly gentle as he helped you up. Your legs slightly wobbled as you straightened and Steve quickly slipped an arm under your knees, picking you up bridal style.
You snuggled to him as he moved around the room. You heard some shuffling, items being moved away.
Then you were being lowered down, cool, solid surface beneath your back. A sound of chair being moved and a telling jangle of buckle belt being undone.
Steve's face appeared above you as you blinked your eyes open. He tapped your cheek a few times, rousing you back to consciousness.
Someone's hands moved up your legs - Bucky, you realized. He spread your thighs open, his hot breath puffing over your swollen, wet folds.
Steve gripped under your chin and forced you to tilt your head back.
"Ask me to fuck your mouth." His fingers wrapped around your throat.
He didn't clench them; his hold merely a reminder of who was in charge, and how easily he could hurt you.
"P-please, Steve, fuck my mouth." Your voice cracked.
You weren't sure there was enough air in your lugs left to survive another cock down your throat.
"More." Steve demanded. "I know you can beg prettily, doll."
Bucky nipped on the sensitive skin of your folds, making you yelp.
Seemed one would always punish you, if you didn't obey the other one.
"Please!" You babbled. "Please, Steve, feed me your cock. Fuck my mouth and fill my belly with your cum."
"Oh, we will." There was a dark undertone to Steve's chuckle as he guided the tip of his dick toward your parted lips. "We'll fill your belly plenty, little doll."
You thought he meant coming down your throat.
He did. But he also meant more.
Soon you'd find out.
#bucky barnes x steve rogers x reader#bucky barnes x reader x steve rogers#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x female reader#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers x female reader#stucky x reader#stucky x female reader#steve rogers smut#bucky barnes smut#sebastian stan smut#chris evans smut#fringe benefit
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in return for the fic recs i got last month, here are a few fics i read recently that i want to absolutely yell about from the rooftops:
Iron, Fire, Mirror-Glass by PurpleSoot: an early batman days AU where, while slowly healing from a spine-shattering injury, bruce finds an old book about the fae. in a fit of desperation he attempts a Summoning to try to heal his spine. enter: robin.
this story is fantastic—the kind of longfic with a plot so good and satisfying that finishing it leaves you on a reading high for at least a week. one of the best early days bruce fics i’ve ever read, with honorable mentions to excellent alfred and clark and jim and selina characterizations—but robin (dick) really takes the cake here. the balance of chilling, otherworldly, not-quite-human vs. playful, earnest, Still Just a Child…chef’s kiss. the way robin’s character arc drags bruce kicking and screaming through his own emotional growth is so well-paced and well-wrought that i already want to reread just so i can experience it again. this is one of those god-tier longfics that i can’t believe i got to read for free on the internet.
mid-reading testimonial:
The Lone Ranger Never Had to Deal with Bruce Wayne by @theskeptileptic: a tim-joins-the-family-early fic in which tim decides to do everyone (his parents) a solid by faking his own death and running away to canada, except his weirdo neighbor bruce wayne keeps butting in and messing up his plans.
this is one of the rare stories where tim doesn’t know batman’s identity yet, and even rarer stories where that somehow makes the whole thing even more compelling. this fic has two of my favorite things: small, lonely, moderately unhinged tim drake pov, and really good pangs—pangs that are expertly teased out through flashbacks that add context to the present action at exactly the right moments. also, a very fun cameo near the end. i had a blast reading this one, physically clutched my chest more than once, and am already looking forward to rereading.
mid-reading testimonial (feat. @cairoscene):
equivalent exchange by scribblemetimbers (wip): an au set during tim’s robin days in which tim discovers 1) crossroads demons are a thing and 2) people can make deals with them. deals that include bringing people back from the dead, so long as you’re willing to pay the price with your own life.
this fic is so…🤌‼️ it feels like everything i want in a fic so far, down to two incredibly specific concepts i love (bruce, in his grief, saying something harsh to robin!tim with disastrous consequences later + tim making a big secret sacrifice gambit) which are both done so so well, within a larger plot that is also done so so well. the way this fic cuts in and out of scenes at the exact right moments for max tension feels like a masterclass in causing me to tear my hair out (in the best way), and instead of assorted pangs reading it is just one big Pang. it currently leaves off on an agonizing cliffhanger but, again, in the best way. highly recommend. (thank you again @owlbats for the rec!)
exchange between me and my friend after i sent the link, which about sums it up:
and to cut this angst with some humor:
IRIS Log #1548 by @deadchannelradio: a night on patrol as recorded by the bats’ audio logs, centering around red hood getting flung into a ditch and everyone, eventually, getting home safe.
one of the top ten funniest things i’ve ever read—spiritually up there with send to all (and if you’ve seen my fic rec tag you’ll know what a compliment that is). this makes use of the audio log format SO well. the dialogue shines, the jokes land with excellent timing, and it moves at such a clip that it’s pretty much impossible to stop reading once you’ve started. every character shines in this, and i’ve randomly choked on laughter remembering the phrase ‘good god he got thrown like a corn hole beanbag’ like twenty times in the past few weeks.
mid-reading testimonial:
#every time i sit down to do a general reclist it gets so long and i get overwhelmed because i want to write an essay for each one#i had a rec thread going on twitter for a while and it was also getting so long even though i stopped months ago#i should do these monthly. there are so many fics i would love to yell from the rooftops about#anyway these rock!! happy reading!!!#batfam#fic rec
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saint may i trouble u for somethin quick rough and nasty idc which ghouls or how or what or why their fuxkin but im obsessed w ur writing please and thank u 🙏
Dew can't breathe. There's no hand on his throat, no palm covering his mouth, but his knees are folded up to his ears and Ifrit is an imposing, impossible figure above him, pressing in and knocking the air from his lungs with every thrust. Mouth parted, looking dazed. Intense and relentless is a nice look on him, even if that's the only nice thing about him for the time being.
Dew has some hair sticking to the corner of his mouth, his sweaty forehead. His nerves feel oversensitive, his body aches already, and he isn't sure what he says please for. Not sure what he's asking, but it feels correct to say, a soft puff of air knocked from him with a particularly nasty roll of Ifrit's hips. His hands press ineffectively against Ifrit's broad chest, clawing at him as the angle lets him drill against a sensitive spot inside. It's so good and Ifrit won't let him forget it. The irritation from that will be a problem for future him, and he'll roll his eyes and play stupid when Ifrit dares to call him out later, telling him he knows he's the best he's had and that it's so obvious he needs it again. Needs to be put in his place, because the others are too nice to him. Too kind, too loving. The others don't understand the ways in which Dew needs to be fucked brainless.
"Please?" Ifrit mocks. "What more could you want?"
Ifrit buries himself deep, holds himself in, leans in further and Dew's sure he can feel him in his throat. Arms bracketing him, boxing him in. Not that he has any leverage like this, but even if he wasn't folded up to be used, ankles over his shoulders, he still wouldn't be able to wriggle away if Ifrit's on him. He's possessed, thoroughly and inescapably, and he'll have the bite marks and bruises to show for it when he's finally finished using him. He will ache, he will wince, and nothing will ever feel as good as when Ifrit uses him like an object.
"Please," Dew wheezes again, and knows his cock is leaking a spot of pre onto his belly. Knows that each thrust he gets is moving him, smearing the wet spot around his skin, cock trapped between their stomachs. He can finish from this. It's barely enough friction on his dick, but it's enough with how keyed up he is, which how perfectly Ifrit nudges inside him right there. The sum of it all is enough, the helplessness, the cruelty. "Use- me, make me, c'mon, make me cum."
Ifrit adjusts enough to where he can lean all his weight onto one arm, freeing the other to grab Dew's face. Thumb digging into one cheek, fingertips into the other, forceful and aggressive and squeezing, squishing his face. Reflexively, Dew's hands fly to his arm, though not to pull it away. To anchor. Ifrit's eyes burn into his, brow knit together, staring at him like he can see more than anyone else. Something secret and shamefully weak.
"I'm fucking you until I'm done," Ifrit warns, voice dark and low. "You don't want to cum early." Dew nods, eyes wide, and Ifrit drags out slow and then slams back in. Fucks a pathetic whimper out of him. Repeats. The hand on his face is painful. He has to look stupid. "Yeah? You wouldn't want to take my cock all sensitive like that, would you?" Each snap of his hips makes Dew's eyes struggle to focus, little toes curling. "That'd be awful for you," Ifrit grunts, throbbing hard when he pauses before drawing out again. "All used up and cryin' for me. Be a fucked up thing for you to want."
Dew nods again as best he can with his face being gripped the way it is.
"Please," he says again, weak.
#st-speaks#ghost#the band ghost#nameless ghouls#dewdrop ghoul#sodo ghoul#dew ghoul#ifrit ghoul#dewdrop/ifrit#fire ghoul#ifrit/sodo#ifrit/dew#ifrit x dewdrop#ifrit x sodo#ghost headcanons#ghost fic#ghost fanfiction
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☆ My Next-Door Neighbor is an Annoying Older Woman Who Constantly Bothers Me
☆ between: college au!scaramouche x milf!reader
☆ synopsis: scaramouche insists he doesn’t want to fuck the milf living next door, but all his friends think he doth protest too much.
☆ word count: 10.5K words
☆ a/n: like with my venti x milf!reader fic over on ao3, this is supposed to give a sort of doujinshi vibe, hence the embarrassing title and the lunacy of some ideas like milf!reader going outside in a super sheer shirt. hopefully you feel the doujinshi vibe i was going for as i have a lot of fun trying to replicate the style, themes, and flow of doujinshis using only text!
☆ contents: fem + plus-sized reader (reader is explicitly described as chubby, busty, and taller than scaramouche), age gap obviously; scaramouche is a senior in college and reader is in her early 40s, degradation, a couple insults (such as scaramouche calling you a hag/loose/etc.), degradation, exhibitionism (scaramouche fucks you in front of a glass sliding door), sexual frustration, and unprotected sex + scaramouche pulls out
also posted to ao3 with the same title and under the same username!
Scaramouche has a problem.
Well, a problem slightly more irritating than the approximately nine hundred other problems he deals with on a daily basis. These issues include, but are not limited to, the consistent problems he has with the hot water heater in his apartment, his obnoxious group project teammate Ajax who insisted upon being the group’s leader despite his complete and utter lack of intellect, his annoying circle of friends that always seem to find ways to poke their noses into Scaramouche’s business, his frustratingly-dull history professor that always goes off on tangents completely unrelated to the class’ subject matter… and so on and so forth. It’s one issue after another; there’s always something when it comes to Scaramouche.
A matter more pressing than all of those other nine hundred issues put together, however, comes in the form of his next-door neighbor— you.
You’re a divorced woman in your early forties who lives by herself, works during the daytime while Scaramouche is on campus, and always seems to leave and return home at the same times he does. He moved in next door to you a few months ago at the start of his junior year, but you’ve never really gotten the chance to get to know him beyond the curt responses he gives you when you ask how he’s doing or what he did over the weekend. His coldness towards you doesn’t make too much sense— have you somehow offended him without knowing? You like to consider yourself a good neighbor: you don’t party (like a woman your age would ever do such a thing), you don’t blast loud music long into the night (or at all), you take good care of your things and avoid causing trouble for Scaramouche or your other neighbors, and you’re very, very tidy. When you’re in the mood to brag a little, you’ll say that you have the nicest balcony in the entire apartment complex.
…Avoid causing trouble for Scaramouche, huh? He’d beg to differ.
If Scaramouche has nine hundred problems in his life, then maybe it’d be more accurate to claim that you’re the cause of at least seven hundred of those problems rather than claiming that you’re one single, self-contained issue separate from all of those other problems. Maybe it’s the way you insist upon butting your way into his life and, in what must be your way of expressing it, “taking care” of him that irritates him more than anything else. Really, if he had to sum up your advances in one word, he’d have to go with aggravating.
At first, he bitterly wondered if you’re just some senile old hag using him as a replacement for your son, who’s surely moved out by now given your age. All you are is a woman looking to cure her empty nest syndrome by doting on someone her son’s age according to Scaramouche— he viewed your kindness as underhanded and delusional because he can take care of himself, you know. He’s an adult man living on his own; he knows how to navigate the trials and tribulations of young adulthood without some old lady insisting upon knocking on his door and gifting him home-cooked meals, bringing up his mail from the first-floor mailroom, or helping him with chores where you can. It’s not like Scaramouche would ever let you into his apartment, but that hasn’t stopped you from finding ways to help outside by sweeping outside his front door or washing the outside of his front window while he’s not home.
Okay, maybe it’s a little creepy to wash your neighbor’s windows without him asking you to help out, but it’s not like he’s going to do it. You would know— you had once waited a week to see if he’d clean up a spilled drink stain on the walkway in front of his door. As you expected, he never got around to it, so you happily cleaned it up on his behalf. Cleaning up for him doesn’t really put you out of your way either— whenever you sweep his doorway, it’s because you were already outside tidying up in front of your place; why not help out your neighbor in the process?
When you bring him meals you prepared yourself, it’s out of the goodness of your heart and because you can’t help but worry about a college boy’s diet— fast food, pizza, frozen microwave meals, and instant ramen don’t have all the nutrients a hardworking man needs. When you bring him his mail, it’s because he has a tendency to forget about it until his mailbox is, quite literally, overflowing. Whereas you check your mailbox every single day, Scaramouche seems to forget about his until the end of the week, which is certainly no way to live— what if he misses an important bill or notice? As a result, you took it upon yourself to check his mailbox for him whenever you go to retrieve your own mail.
Again, maybe it’s a little creepy to gather your neighbor’s mail, but it’s not like you’re hurting anyone, right? You certainly don’t root through his mail or open any of it. Even though Scaramouche rolls his eyes and mumbles a halfhearted little “thanks” every time you hand him his mail, he doesn’t really seem to mind. Despite his initial reluctance to accept any of it, he still eats the food you prepare for him if the empty containers he returns to you a few days later are any indication of that fact. You figure maybe he’s just a little shy or tired from his long day on campus— it does your heart well to know that he’s working so very hard.
On the flip side of things, Scaramouche considers your… activities a total inconvenience. He’ll admit that your meals taste very good— though he’d never say it to your face— but he doesn’t like feeling indebted to you or thinking that he owes you something even though you’ve told him multiple times that your favors don’t need any payback. You’re just happy to cook for someone other than yourself, you had told him once, confirming Scaramouche’s suspicion that you live alone. It’s not his fault you’re bored enough to make food for someone you barely know, so do you have to rope him into your wiles? He already has groceries and though he doesn’t really know how to cook, what’s wrong with having a bowl of cereal for dinner? It’s none of your business, is it?
Between your constant insistence on involving yourself in his life and the fact that he’s never seen anyone else leaving or entering your apartment, Scaramouche was able to correctly guess that you live alone… a realization that can’t help but annoy him. He figures that if you had someone, anyone else in your life like a spouse or another child living with you, you’d stop pestering him and stick to involving yourself in the lives of your family instead of your neighbor.
Would a pet do? Should he find some stray kitten and leave it on your doorstep? Is that what it’d take to make you mind your own business?
“Hey, Kuni, tell me about your little neighbor lady again,” Venti coos, accidentally knocking over his—thankfully— empty beer bottle when he leans forward to grab his phone. He’s drunk, but that barely makes a difference; he’d still make this request sober.
Glowering around the mouth of his own bottle, Scaramouche rolls his eyes in Venti’s general direction. “Why? If you want to know that hag so badly, go talk to her yourself.”
Venti busts out laughing, an action that his drunken body clearly can’t handle seeing as he falls sideways into Aether’s shoulder, making the latter grimace in response. Venti’s already a handful sober, but when he drinks… it takes the entire friend group to get him home and/or in bed safely. “Don’t threaten me with that, ‘cuz I really will do it— I’ll go steal your hot older girlfriend.”
Glaring up at him from his spot on the rug, Scaramouche has half a mind to shove that empty beer bottle into Venti’s eye for suggesting such a thing. Hey, wait a minute— why is Scaramouche the one sitting on the floor when this is his damn apartment?
“She’s not my fucking girlfriend,” he barks, turning to direct his glare at Kazuha too when he hears him chuckle.
“The more you deny it, the less convincing you are— you talk about her all the time, so I’m inclined to believe you really are dating,” Venti chirps, reaching for a bottle of beer that is most certainly not his.
“That’s mine,” Aether protests, watching as Venti takes a sip from his bottle anyways.
“Oops, my bad.” He doesn’t sound sincere.
“Well… get me another whenever you stand up.”
Venti waves his hand dismissively before redirecting his attention back to the more important matter at hand— Scaramouche’s complete and utter inability to just admit that he has the hots for his hot MILF of a neighbor and that any protest otherwise is a feeble attempt at hiding the truth.
“They say you’re attracted to things that make you mad,” Venti says. “…Cuteness aggression. Yeah. I saw a video about it once.”
“That’s not what cuteness aggression is, and ‘they’ say that you attract the things you fear,” Kazuha corrects him from his spot in the nearby armchair— again, why is Scaramouche the one sitting on the floor?— before he goes to take another hit off his blunt.
Venti repeats what Kazuha said in a nasally voice in an attempt to mock him, but the gesture only makes Kazuha chuckle again. It’ll be hard to draw any response more eloquent than a single laugh or a sigh out of him for the rest of the night— it’s a very, very stark difference from how he usually is.
“Why the fuck do I ever invite any of you over here?” Scaramouche sighs, taking a long swig from his own bottle. He doesn’t even really like the taste; it’s something Venti found on sale and decided to bring over, but Scaramouche has decided it’s better than spending his Friday night sober. Besides, it’ll take at least four more of these to deal with the impending conversation that he’s been trying so hard to pivot away from since Venti first brought it up.
“Because we’re best friends forever, next question. Why do you deny how much you wanna fuck your sexy neighbor, Kuni?” Venti asks again, pouting when Aether snatches the bottle Venti stole from him. “It’s super obvious. Xiao and Heizou agree with me, and I’m not just saying that because they’re not here tonight and can’t contest me on it. It’s true.”
Kazuha nods, and Aether simply shrugs. Christ alive, do they all think the same thing?
“And why on Earth do I— in theory— want to fuck her? She’s probably loose or something,” Scaramouche argues.
Venti busts out laughing again.
“It’s the opposite, really,” he starts, glancing between Aether and Kazuha when neither of them laugh along with him. “What, have you guys seriously never been with an older lady? They’re the best; the reason I know Kuni wants to get with that lady next door is because I got with the lady next door to me a couple months ago. It takes one to know one, or something. Trust me, Kuni, I know what you’re going through and we are seriously gonna get through this together.” Why is he making it sound like a relative died or something?
“They’re experienced,” Venti sighs longingly, blindly reaching out again for the bottle Aether’s holding, who moves it further away and out of Venti’s reach. “They feel really, really good. They actually know what they’re doing… sometimes the girls—and guys, mind you, I’ve gotten with plenty of both— our age clearly don’t know they’re supposed to be doing, but getting with somebody’s mom…”
“You’re gross!” Aether gasps, though his pink cheeks tell a different story.
“Not as gross as the guy who’s told us the same story about seeing his neighbor lady braless like four times now,” Venti replies, glancing over at Scaramouche with a grin. “Really left an impression on you, huh, Kuni?”
Just like that, Scaramouche finds himself instantly reminded of, well, the time he saw you braless first thing in the morning. A few months ago on some random Saturday morning, Scaramouche was out smoking a cigarette on his porch when you stepped outside to water the plants you keep on your balcony. There were so many of them: a small tomato plant, a pot overflowing with basil that you took to trimming after you finished watering everything, a couple of hanging baskets field with flowers, and a few other vegetable plants and potted succulents. More glaringly obvious than the abundance of plants occupying your balcony was your complete and utter shamelessness— even a quick glance in your direction was enough to draw Scaramouche’s attention to the distractingly sheer fabric of your white camisole.
It’s not like Scaramouche was actively staring at your tits— really, he wasn’t, he swears— because anyone would notice something that egregious. The low, low sweep of your camisole around your ample bust, your nipples beading up against the thin fabric, the constant fucking movement of the top as you shifted and bent over to water the plants sitting on the ground, moved, and walked, all of it. He complained to his friends about your complete and utter shamelessness— What kind of woman steps outside practically naked? he spat, much to the amusement of Venti, who had said that wearing a thin shirt does not, in fact, make one naked.
Worst of all, you had actually fucking caught Scaramouche staring, an action that made you grin wickedly and run your hands down the sides of your soft, plump body as if to try and draw his eyes down along with your hands. Instead, Scaramouche had only whipped his head to the other side, busying himself with tapping the ash off his cigarette as if it were the most important task he’d ever complete in his life. Jesus Christ, he was only staring because he couldn’t believe you’d be so shameless as to wear something like that outside, not because he was genuinely aroused by how low your camisole sat on your chest, how big your tits are, how soft they look…
He thinks he shuddered then, and he insisted to his friends that it was because of a sudden chilly breeze and absolutely nothing more. It was either that or because he was just so shocked by your display that a shiver went down his spine— he can’t even remember the exact reason he gave anymore.
Either way, none of them really believed him.
“Ah, he seems distracted,” Kazuha notes simply, raising a hand to point at Scaramouche before grinning. His words pull Scaramouche from his little daydream, and he groans at the realization that, yes, he spaced out remembering yet another instance of your abhorrent shamelessness and perversion.
“Spaced out thinking about cute MILF boobs, I get it,” Venti affirms, nodding. “Nobody gets that more than me. Not only that, but you’ve also, uh, ‘complained’ to us about seeing her in her swimsuit. Really, Kuni, it’s like you’re biding your time and waiting for her to take her clothes off so you can tell us about it.”
…That’s a story for another time. Scaramouche has had enough of thinking about you for one day; it’s bad enough that you brought him his mail today just mere moments before Venti, Kazuha, and Aether arrived to hang out— what if they saw you?— but to be reminded of the image of your tits underneath that pathetic excuse for a top…
He shakes his head and takes a long, long sip from his bottle.
“And they’re so soft, Kuni,” Venti says, slumping over further into Aether for support. “They feel like absolutely nothing else. I feel like firmness or perkiness or whatever is really, really overrated— the softness of a cute MILF’s boobs is unrivaled!”
“Can you not say things like that right into my ear?” Aether mumbles bashfully, making Venti laugh.
“Why? Am I gonna put the mental image of MILF boobs in your brain, too? Are we gonna become an entire friend group full of MILF chasers? That’d be hilarous. I already know about Xiao’s little crush on his English professor.”
Jesus, Scaramouche has got to steer this conversation somewhere else or he’ll go mad. “Anyways,” he beings, “Where is that pizza you ordered ages ago?”
“I thought Kazuha was taking care of it,” Aether remarks, glancing over at him. Kazuha goes to reply, but nothing comes out— yep, he’s gone for the night. He won’t be able to get out any more than four words max until morning.
As if the universe heard their request, the doorbell rings to signify the arrival of dinner. Before Scaramouche can go to pull himself up off the floor—he really should make Venti move; it’s his couch in his apartment— Venti’s already in the process of skipping towards the door. Aether takes the opportunity to kick his feet up over the other couch cushion, making Scaramouche wonder if the three of them formed some secret pact to ensure that he stays on the floor the entire evening.
However, what stands on the other side of the door is not, in fact, the pizza delivery boy. It’s you, aluminum foil-covered glass casserole dish in hand, leading Scaramouche to believe that while the universe did hear their request for food, the devil answered by sending you to his doorstep while he has three of his friends over.
“Oh! You’re not the pizza guy,” Venti beams, putting on his best ‘polite’ voice possible. Scaramouche groans and looks over towards his other two friends just so he doesn’t accidentally make eye contact with you, but neither Aether nor Kazuha look back at him. They’re looking at you.
Christ, he’ll never live this down. Not only do they know who you are, they now know what you look like.
“I’m not,” you giggle. “I live next door; I bring food to Scaramouche sometimes whenever I get a little too excited in the kitchen and make too much. I can’t eat the leftovers fast enough before they go bad, and I would hate to waste food, you know?”
“You can call him Kuni,” Venti offers. “We all do. It’s less of a mouthful, don’t you think?”
Scaramouche decides that Venti will be leaving his apartment in a body bag tonight.
His cheeks burn with equal parts humiliation and anger, and the realization that his friends’ teasing is only about to get worse now that they know who you are and what you look like more than motivates Scaramouche to devise a plot to kill the three of them.
After introducing yourself to Venti, he smiles and replies that “the pleasure is all his” when you tell him it’s nice to meet some of Scaramouche’s friends. Venti has half a mind to invite you inside for a moment, but he decides that’d be unnecessary— he figures he’s already done more than enough to inspire Scaramouche into action. If Scaramouche won’t act on his feelings himself, then maybe a little shove from his friends will help him along.
“That’s sweet of you!” Venti praises, taking the dish from your hands. “I’m glad Kuni’s eating properly these days. One time, he told us that the only thing he survived off of during finals week was a sleeve of Saltines and some peanut butter. You’re so kind, miss.”
You giggle sheepishly, a sound that Scaramouche would like to claim grates his ears. Miss? Can’t Venti see that you’re, well, old? “Well, I’m glad that he has such kind friends to support him. You all take care, okay? You too, Scara— Kuni!” You call out past Venti’s shoulder, making both Aether and Kazuha chuckle.
After bidding farewell to the four in what has to be the most mortifying moment of Scaramouche’s entire life, you leave, allowing Venti to close the door behind you and make his way back to the others. “Those boobs are huge,” he sighs dreamily, looking up at the ceiling. “If I got suffocated between those, I would die a fully satisfied man.”
“Then go die,” Scaramouche mutters in agreement, cheeks still burning with humiliation. Why does the universe insist upon tormenting him so?
Eyeing the dish in Venti’s hands, Aether pipes up too “She cooks for you? Kuni, you have it so good.”
Scaramouche is amazed that, after all this time, his friends still find it in them to be jealous of him despite all of his attempts at framing you as annoying, invasive, and overbearing. Can’t they see that you’re doing this on purpose?! Scaramouche has half a mind to wonder if you’re psychic— what other explanation is there for your obnoxiously perfect timing? He asks about food and suddenly you appear on his doorstep, dish in hand as if you had heard him through the walls. There’s no way they’re that thin, are they?
Venti moves to set the dish down on the kitchen countertop before turning around to look Scaramouche square in the eye. “Kuni, I’m saying this because I respect you as my longtime friend,” he asserts, tone and gaze both deathly serious in a way that’s genuinely almost out of character for someone as flippant and carefree as Venti. “But you better fuck that lady the first chance you get because, if you don’t, I’m taking her for myself.” That should do it.
Scowling in response, Scaramouche crosses his arms over his chest and sighs bitterly. “Why would I stop you? I don’t care what you do with her. For the last fucking time, I’m not into her.” Despite his words, Scaramouche can’t deny that there’s something… unsettling about the idea of Venti getting with you. Does he really want to watch his friend take four A.M. booty calls in order to fuck the woman living right next door to him? Can Scaramouche truly stomach the idea of his friend fucking the brains out of someone just a few walls away from where he lives? It’s hard to put his finger on why, but something about Venti getting with Scaramouche’s neighbor, despite his insistence that there truly is nothing between the two of them, really, really irks him.
Well, it’s probably just because a lot of Venti’s behavior tends to irritate Scaramouche in the first place, right? Yeah, it’s probably just that. He doesn’t need to hear every last gritty detail of his friend’s sexual trysts.
That characteristically smug grin of his finds its way back to Venti’s face as he reaches over Aether’s shoulder and snatches his beer bottle again. “Fine, I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. How about we forget the pizza and eat what she brought over?”
“Oh, I see now,” Kazuha interjects after having been silent for the past twenty minutes. He turns his phone around to show Scaramouche, Venti, and Aether the check-out screen on the pizza chain’s website. “It seems I failed actually submit the order; it was still waiting for me to pay.”
Scaramouche doesn’t have a hangover the next morning, a blessing he owes to the fact that he only ended up drinking two beers last night. He probably would’ve consumed more if he had the chance to, but Venti blew through the rest of the box quicker than the other three could try to stop him. It took both Kazuha and Aether supporting Venti’s hardly-conscious body to get him down the stairs to the parking lot so they can drive him home— there’s no way Venti would be able to safely get himself home amidst such an awful hangover.
As he pokes through his apartment scooping up empty beer bottles and stained paper plates to toss into a trash bag, the glass casserole dish sitting out on the kitchen counter catches Scaramouche’s eye. Save for a few scraps shoved into the rounded corners of the pan, it’s practically been picked clean— the four boys tore through it easily with Venti, Kazuha, and Aether all fawning over just how good a home-cooked meal tastes after months of campus cafeteria food, fast food, and instant ramen. Venti mentioned that there’s just something about a MILF’s cooking that makes it so much better, leading to a conversation about how, in Venti’s educated opinion, older women just do everything better: sex, cooking, cleaning, caretaking, all of it.
Scaramouche scoffs at the memory. “She’s nothing special,” he mutters to himself, still failing to understand Venti’s obsession with somebody he’s never even met until last night. Scaramouche is the one who’s actually been living next door to her for months now— as his friends know by now, he has plenty more to say about her than Venti does.
Shouldn’t he be the one to comment on things like the size of your bust, the softness of your legs, the plumpness of your ass and belly, and the flavor of your cooking? He’s the one who’s actually seen you lounging in tiny string bikinis by the apartment complex’s pool, watering the plants out on your balcony in a pair of shorts that certainly break publicly decency laws, and retrieving your mail in a shirt so thin he can make out the little bumps of your nipples up against the fabric.
“Christ, what am I thinking?” Scaramouche stops himself and second-guesses whether or not he’s actually hungover. There’s no way his sober mind would drift to thoughts of you, right? Clearly something must be wrong with him— he blames Venti for putting all these thoughts in his head with his never-ending discussion of what makes older women so utterly sexy.
He’s then reminded of what Venti told him right before they all sat down to eat your cooking: that if Scaramouche won’t hurry up and fuck his neighbor, Venti will do it for him. Even now, the idea still bothers him for reasons he just can’t quite put his finger on— Venti’s been with tons and tons of people; why does he want Scaramouche’s neighbor too? Can’t Venti see how awkward that would be?
Setting the trash bag down on the floor, Scaramouche takes to the sink to wash out the casserole dish you brought over for them last night. His mind concocts disgustingly vivid images of you as he scrubs at a particularly stubborn piece of dried cheese, and maybe he’d be shocked by how little effort he’s putting into warding those thoughts away if he weren’t so utterly immersed in them. His mind conjures up the image of you in that tiny black bikini he saw you wearing by the pool while he was out smoking on his balcony— he remembers the little number being so small that you had to readjust it every single time you simply sat up or lied down because every last motion was enough to threaten a nipslip. It makes him wonder if you dress like that on purpose or because you’ve deluded yourself into thinking that clothes and swimsuits you used to wear still fit you despite clear evidence otherwise— are you actively vying for the attention of any man who’ll give it to you, or are you brainless enough to throw something on without caring about how poorly or not it fits?
It’s probably a mix of both; you’re just that shameless.
Scaramouche grits his teeth at the mental image of you straddling him while adorned in that tiny little bikini that seems to only get tinier and tinier the longer he allows his imagination to run wild. Of all the fucking things to imagine you doing…
He pictures what you’d look like with your thick, plump thighs enveloping either side of his hips as you run your hands up and down your ample chest and soft stomach. God, he can see it all now: the little bumps of your nipples beading up against the thin fabric of your swimsuit, the soft hang of your tummy spilling over the tiny, flimsy string keeping your bottoms secured around your wide hips, the way your tits would bounce as you ride him…
“Something’s wrong with me,” he grumbles, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. The clump of cheese he’d been scraping at finally separates from the pan, and he realizes that if he wants to rid you from his mind for good, he should take matters into his own hands before Venti does.
No, wait, this has nothing to do with Venti— this isn’t about staking claim over you before any of his friends can, this is solely about him finding ways to release the grip you have on him as if you’re some kind of wicked succubus. Scaramouche glances downwards after setting the dish aside to dry and, much to his chagrin, finds that the mere thought of you was enough to fucking get him hard. The eager press of his cock against the confines of his briefs moritifies him solely because of the very reason why he’s like this in the first place; how the fuck did the thought of you in a bikini so tiny your areolas peek around the sides reduce him to such a state? He’d like to believe that he’s only this hard because it’s been a while since he’s jerked off, but that would be an excuse less believable than any of the ones he’s ever given his friends.
He knows that he’s too dignified to jerk off to the thought of you— if he’s feeling horny, then surely he can find things more deserving of his attention than some hag next door. He refuses to give you that kind of satisfaction (despite the fact that you’d never even know unless he told you, so how could you be smug about it?), so he decides that an ice-cold shower is in order before venturing out to settle things with you.
After a shower so cold Scaramouche swears he saw his fingers begin to turn purple, he dries off, gets dressed in something other than the clothes he fell asleep in last night, grabs your clean casserole dish, and leaves to go to the one place he wouldn’t have ever imagined himself stepping foot in— your apartment. If this is what it takes to sever the connection between you and his mind…
God, this is going to be annoying, Scaramouche thinks as he knocks on your door using his foot, casserole dish supported safely by both of his hands. He feels the need to steel himself because he just knows you’ll answer the door in something sheer, skimpy, or some combination of the two and he needs to be ready for that.
Why? Are you hoping for that to happen, Kuni? Venti’s voice whispers from the back of Scaramouche’s mind.
He really is losing it.
“Good morning— oh, Kuni! This is a surprise,” you greet him upon opening the door, flashing him a smile so bright it nearly makes him cringe. Can you spare him the pleasantries so he can just get to the point?
Fucking Venti— why teach her that nickname? Turning his head to look at a faraway bird instead of you, Scaramouche scoffs. “I need to talk to you.” Straight to the point, emotionless, and rude, it’s all so in-character for your neighbor that you can’t help but giggle.
You grin wider. “Of course. Come in; I’ll put a pot of coffee on.”
Scaramouche waits until you’re a good few steps ahead of him before following you inside, glancing around the living room of your apartment as he makes his way to the kitchen table. Your apartment’s clean, impeccably so at that— every book on your bookshelf faces the same direction, the blanket draped over the back of your couch doesn’t have a single crease, and he can’t see even an ounce of dust on any inch of your tables and countertops.
He snorts a little. Rather than viewing the cleanliness as impressive or inspiring, he bitterly interprets it as a testament to your overabundance of free time and lack of other hobbies or pastimes.
“I’m not sure how strong you like your coffee, so I’ll just make it how I normally do,” you pipe up from the kitchen, pulling Scaramouche away from scrutinizing the titles of the books on your shelf. Restless Summer Nights? The Devil’s Mistress? They all sound like bargain bin erotica novels.
It was a mistake to direct his attention away from your novels and to you instead, he figures, because only now does he get a look at what you’re wearing— if one could even call that clothing. You’re dressed in something he wants to call a workout outfit, but anyone leaving the house in an outfit like that surely has goals other than simply exercising— they want to attract attention. A sports bra that sits so low on your chest that a single bounce on an exercise ball would expose you combines with a pair of spandex leggings so tight they reveal the lines of your panties to comprise your “workout outfit,” and to say that Scaramouche is mortified would be an understatement. He can’t help but find the combination of your manner of dress and your collection of novels completely pathetic.
And despite his apparent disgust… he’s been staring at you long enough to pick up the most minute details about your outfit. The indifferent passerby likely wouldn’t notice your pantylines— a certain amount of staring is required to actually notice them; they’re really not obvious from a quick glance. Actually, why can’t he stop looking at you? He writes it off as a simple morbid curiosity at how someone can be so completely and utterly shameless— one could almost liken his sick, cynical fascination with your ample curves and soft body to rubbernecking.
Scaramouche instead stares down into the cup of coffee you’ve set in front of him like it’s the most fascinating object in the entire world. He’s half-inclined to just close his eyes entirely, seeing as the slightest glimpse of your bust still occupies the uppermost part of his peripheral eyesight when you sit down in the chair opposite of him.
“So,” you start, sliding a porcelain dish with a small bowl of sugar cubes and a saucer of creamer his way. “What can I help you with? It’s rare for you to talk to me first, Kuni.”
He adds “drop that nickname” to his mental list of topics to bring up with you. Scaramouche plucks a few sugar cubes from the bowl before him and drops them into his coffee before absentmindedly stirring the liquid with a serving spoon.
“Last night,” He clears his throat. “Why did you come over to talk to V— to my friends?” Why are you always in my business? he really wants to ask, but he feels like you’ll start crying if he presses you too firmly.
And that’d just be obnoxious.
You giggle. “That makes it sound like I came over on purpose because I knew you had people over, and that’s not true. Haven’t we been in the habit of food delivery and acceptance for months now?” Scaramouche’s eyes follow yours to the squeaky-clean casserole dish he placed on your counter.
“I’m glad your friends seemed to enjoy the food just as much as you do,” you add sweetly, pursing your lips and blowing on your coffee to help it cool down.
“It was humiliating,” Scaramouche counters, a statement that prompts you to look up from your coffee and make eye contact with him. “They wouldn’t— they wouldn’t stop fucking talking about you after you left.”
Wait, that’s not the point here, is it? Surely Scaramouche’s main complaint isn’t that Venti practically sweet-talked you right into his bed, it’s that Scaramouche is tired of you invading his business and his space, right? He doesn’t care about Venti’s comments about your soft tits or your wide hips, he doesn’t care about Aether’s bashful confession that he exclusively jerks off to older women, he doesn’t care that he has competition because there’s nothing to compete over and he’s really, actually, truly angry that you always find a way to worm your way into his days and his mind and his free time and his wet dreams and his—
“Oh, I’m flattered,” you reply simply, sipping your coffee and smiling around the rim of the cup. “They’re such nice boys. I’m glad you have such sweet friends, dear.”
What’s warmer: the tips of Scaramouche’s ears or his untouched cup of coffee?
“That’s not— what? That’s not the point I’m making and you know that,” he grimaces, clearing his throat again. “My friends shouldn’t have to put up with a shameless old hag the way I have to.”
You set your cup down. “That’s not very nice. I look good for my age— that charming boy down at the corner mart always asks for my ID whenever I pick up some wine!”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “That’s his job. Anyways, I’m telling you to mind your own business.”
“Oh, is that all? Of course I can do that for you.” Your reply comes without a single skipped beat.
“I mean it, that means don’t touch my mail and— what?” Wait, there’s no way you’re making this this easy. A shameless, conniving, lustful, lewd seductress of a woman like you agreeing to just… fuck off at the first request? Scaramouche doesn’t buy it— this is just another phase of your plan to throw him off guard and pull the rug out from under him so you can sink your claws deeper and deeper into him.
“I like cooking for you and cleaning for you, and I was very happy to meet your friends yesterday, but if you want me to stop, of course I will,” you explain. “I wonder who’ll help me eat my leftovers now… your friend from last night gave me his phone number; does he like potato soup? I’m making that tonight.”
Scaramouche almost, almost feels a shiver tear down his spine. He’s starting to believe that Venti’s just as much an antagonist in this situation as you are.
“Why the fuck did you accept his number? Delete it,” he grumbles, crossing his arms and glaring over at you. His coffee’s surely gone cold by now, but that’s alright— he was never much of a coffee drinker anyways.
You shrug, a sly smile forming on your lips. “Oh, I don’t know. He was so sweet I didn’t want to say no… it’d give me someone new to talk to, if nothing else.” Why do you need to talk to Venti when he barely knows you and I’m right fucking here?
“It’s not like you talk to me much despite all my best efforts, Kuni,” you offer him the subtlest of pouts, an action that would look out of place on the face of a woman your age if you weren’t so… if you weren’t so…
Forget it, he’s not saying anything about you that could be interpreted as a compliment. “…Especially now that you and I have agreed to leave each other alone.”
Oh, Scaramouche doesn’t like this feeling. He hates feeling like a situation has spun out of his control, and that’s, unfortunately, exactly what he feels is happening here. You’ve agreed to his terms and you’ve promised to stay out of his way, so why does he feel so… angry?
Yeah, you must have some underhanded motive here. Why else would you be making this so… easy? That’s not like you at all— he was expecting you to fan your eyelashes, pout your lips, push your tits forward, and whimper that you’re sorry and that you’d love to keep talking to him, so will he please give you a second chance?
I’ll do anything, he was sure you’d say.
You clear your throat. “Well, is there anything else you’d like to discuss now? If not, I’ll get back to my yoga. It’s good to be active, right?”
What the hell? You’re ending the conversation? No way, no how— this ends on Scaramouche’s terms, not yours. Who do you think you are?
“No, that’s not it, actually,” he blurts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Staying out of my business means staying away from Venti— from any of my friends. Don’t talk to them, don’t text them, don’t— I don’t know. Don’t be around them.”
You smile a little wider. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound jealous, Kuni.”
He scoffs, staring you directly in the eye as if to challenge you. “Seriously? Shit joke.”
Of all the adjectives you could have picked to describe him… “It’s just that the thought of you getting with Venti is nauseating, alright?”
You hum. “And why him specifically, hm? You had other friends over last night— are they single?” Jesus Christ, what is this, an interrogation? And where the hell are these sorts of questions coming from— did you already send Venti an invitation to hook up?
Sneering so hard his nose scrunches up, Scaramouche can’t help but feel appalled. “Did you decide I’m not good enough or something? Who do you think you are?”
You go silent.
Scaramouche, somehow, goes even quieter than silent when the weight of his words finally sets in. There it is— the culmination of your grand plan to humiliate, embarrass, and utterly demean him in your own home. You had this outcome planned from the start, didn’t you?
“I didn’t say that,” you stammer, attempting to correct yourself. “Why do you think I’ve been vying for your attention all this time? Of course I like you, Kuni.”
God, how you piss him off. Who do you think you are— some bashful schoolgirl confessing to her first crush?
“I know that I’m just an old woman and that you could certainly find a cute, young, perky college girl whenever you’d like to, but if you’d ever like me…”
Of course Scaramouche could get someone his age from one of his classes— he doesn’t need to settle for some loose old hag— and yet… the thought of you getting with anyone else, Venti or not, pisses him off in a way he can’t quite describe. Maybe he views himself as some kind of hero protecting everyone else from your shamelessness, maybe he views himself as the only one worthy of your attention as the one who has to put up with you the most, maybe he views you as someone actually, genuinely worth being with…
He sits up a little straighter. “You have no idea how obnoxious you are,” he mutters. “Taking up my time and attention even when you’re not around.”
“What a forked tongue,” you reply, leaning forward and, much to Scaramouche’s chagrin, pushing your breasts together with your hands. “You know that’s why I like you, right? Mean boys have always been my favorite— ever since high school.”
“You’re not worth the time,” he spits. So fucking annoying. So fucking shameless. What kind of woman your age behaves this way, anyway? So obnoxious, so pathetic, so intoxicating, so impossible-to-keep-out-of-his-mind—
“Venti sure seems to think I am,” you offer with a smug, self-satisfied smile as you rise from your seat. Hooking your thumbs up under the straps of your sports bra, you quickly snap the elastic fabric back against your shoulders to give your tits a little bounce, an action that, of course, does not go unnoticed. Slapping his hands down flat against the perfectly-ironed lacy tablecloth covering your dining room table and standing up so quickly he nearly knocks his knees against the table’s hardwood underside, Scaramouche laughs.
What a time to finally, finally accept that he has the hots for his neighbor— the same neighbor who’s supposedly the cause of so many of his bad days and sour moods. You’ve prompted many a disdainful mutter from Scaramouche after catching a glimpse of you through your drawn curtains, you’ve been the subject of many a snide comment made in the presence of his friends, and, most frustratingly of all, you’ve inspired countless, countless inappropriate thoughts that he cannot believe you’ve been the subject of.
And all it took was one of his friends hitting on you for him to realize that.
“Constantly flaunting a body like this,” he chides in a way that he wants to come off as insulting and condescending rather than sadistically flattering, but the little grin you offer in response gives him reason to believe you interpreted it as the latter. Seriously?
“Other boys your age seem to enjoy the flaunting,” you counter, slipping your thumbs into the waistband of your spandex leggings. As if to tease the act of pulling them all the way down your legs, you flip the fabric of your waistband over its seam to expose the majority of your soft lower belly.
Anger burns hot behind his pale cheeks. “Is this some kind of pathetic hobby of yours? Fucking guys half your age?”
“I like to consider it a lifestyle,” you reply, shimmying your leggings further and further down your thick thighs until your thong’s completely exposed. A black lace thong— how becoming of a nymphomanic like yourself. “I’m fine with trading experience for virility and stamina; do you know how many men my age finish in thirty seconds and call it there because they’re ‘just so tired’? College boys either go until they can’t hold themselves upright or until they have nothing left to pump into me.”
There’s that vulgar nature that’s both irritated and (subconciously) aroused him for months. He wants to believe that your disgusting nature doesn’t make his cock twitch, but the time for pretending has clearly passed. You don’t believe he finds you ugly or unappealing and neither does he anymore.
“And do you find this… lifestyle fulfilling?” Scaramouche challenges, grimacing at the pressure building in the frontside of his tight jeans.
You laugh. “Is that your way of saying you don’t? Are you a virgin, sweetheart?”
“Of course not. Just because some of us don’t fuck everything with two legs and a pulse doesn’t mean we’re virgins.” His clumsy escapades are none of your business— his high school girlfriend and that guy from the concert Venti dragged him to over the summer don’t concern you.
Bending forward to push your leggings down to your knees, you gaze up at Scaramouche through your eyelashes and giggle. “Don’t make it sound like I don’t savor every last cock or strap I ride. You could put every last one of them in front of me and I’d be able to tell you who they belong to with my eyes shut.”
Venti mentioned something about experience, didn’t he? What a sanitized way of calling older women complete and total whores.
The inferiority complex in Scaramouche wants to prove that he’s the best thing a whore like you will ever experience, that he can make you feel better than any of the other bumbling college morons he probably knows can, and that you’ll give up your ways of fucking everyone that looks at you in order to devote yourself to him and him alone. That’d be some nice payback for all the pain and humiliation you’ve subjected him to these past couple of months, right?
No, he has a better idea.
“If you want to show yourself off that badly,” Scaramouche huffs, doing his damndest to ignore the nearly-painful throbbing in his jeans. “Then I’m sure you’d be fine with doing it in front of that glass door, right?”
With your hands still bunched in the fabric of your leggings, you look back at the glass sliding door that leads to your balcony and bite your lip. It’s not likely anyone would actually see you— you and Scaramouche live on the third floor— but it’s still a possibility and an exciting thought nonetheless. Maybe you could give that nice redheaded quarterback boy you fucked a few months ago a nice show; he lives just across the parking lot in the building parallel to yours.
“Now who’s the deviant one? I’ve never fucked anywhere more public than a nightclub’s bathroom stall,” you tease, finally pushing your leggings all the way down and off your legs. He doesn’t believe you, but Christ, those thighs of yours look soft…
You accept his offer nonetheless and make your way over to the balcony door, your thong riding high on your wide hips and your hardened nipples pressing into the flimsy fabric of your pathetic excuse of a sports bra. “You’re helping me wipe off all the fingerprints afterwards,” you scold, inviting him over with a wiggle of your hips and a glance back over your shoulder.
Now, rationally, Scaramouche would never propose the idea of fucking in a place as public as right in front of an apartment complex parking lot. He’s never considered himself an exhbitionist and he’s always been somewhat obsessed with his image, and people who care about their image generally don’t have sex in the potential presence of others. Additionally, there’s probably something to be said about him potentially getting caught fucking the same woman he’s spent the better half of this past year complaining about, but the current irrational, horny, angry Scaramouche wouldn’t listen to better judgement or rationality anyways.
The relief that comes with unbuttoning his jeans and giving his almost painfully-hard cock room to breathe is so euphoric he can’t help but sigh, the throbbing in his crotch more aggravating than any pounding headache he’s ever experienced after an evening drinking with his friends.
“I can’t fucking believe it,” he laughs, incredulous. “To think the hag living next door to me is the reason I’m like this.” Jamming the weight of his bulge into the plumpness of your soft ass, Scaramouche seizes hold of your hips in both of his hands and gives the fat of your love handles a painful squeeze just to hear you suck the air in through your teeth.
“I thought you’d never come around, you know,” you breathe, beyond eager at the prospect of finally, finally getting to fuck the neighbor boy you’ve been actively working at breaking for months upon months now. A guy this mean, this arrogant, and this demeaning doesn’t come around that often, especially when so many of the guys you get with take the polite route by calling you “ma’am” and complimenting you over and over again— which certainly isn’t a bad thing, but cruel has always satisfied you in ways that kind cannot.
The height difference between the two of you means that Scaramouche has to stand up a little straighter than he normally does in order to press his hips against yours, a realization that’s only slightly humiliating. Granted, it could never compare to how humiliating it was for you to show up at his apartment in front of all his friends.
God, does it feel good to put you in your place.
“Spread,” Scaramouche mutters, knocking one of his feet against both of your ankles. He doesn’t tell you that he needs you to spread your legs so your hips will lower a bit, allowing him to reach them a little more easily since you’re a bit taller than he is.
You would tease him for skipping the foreplay and just jamming himself right into you, but you know that you’ve been plenty wet enough ever since your discussion with him first wandered to sex and masturbation. Well, that, and if you had to wait another minute to get the cock you’ve been so desperate for for so long now, you very well may go crazy. It’s taken months, but you can already tell that it was all so, so worth it.
Running his knuckles down the center of your thong, Scaramouche relishes in the smug satisfaction that comes with realizing that you’re wet. It’s equal parts arousing and equal parts pathetic— just how desperate are you for any cock you can get your hands on?
“You’ve already kept me waiting for months,” you say with a pout cast back at him from over your shoulder. “Why make me wait even longer when I’m right here?”
“Shameless and impatient,” he remarks with a frustrated huff. “Can’t you do something good with your life or yourself for once and just be quiet?”
As tempting as it is to make a teasing quip in return to only further rile up your angsty neighbor boy, a frenzied giggle is the only sound you can muster up when you feel the firm press of a cock against your clothed pussy. Even through your flimsy thong, you can tell that he’s hard, which is a reward in its own right. It’s what you’ve wanted to achieve since the very first time he caught you half-naked watering plants on your balcony— is it so wrong for you to want to rile up the cutie next door?
Scaramouche roughly yanks your thong down to hang around your lower thighs, leaving you entirely on display for him when you follow suit by tugging your sports bra up to your collarbone. The cool, smooth glass against your bare tits is an unfamiliar sensation, but it’s certainly not an unwelcome one— especially when you remember that anyone could look up from across the parking lot and get an eyeful of your bare tits squished up against the glass door.
“I wish I could watch you sink it in for the first time,” you hum, reaching down between your legs to part the outer lips of your cunt for him a little wider. “In front of a mirror or something maybe. Wouldn’t that be romantic?”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because you’re the spitting image of the romantic type.” There’s no way you consider him the romantic type, is there? He’s not going to hold your hands and whisper in your ear about how cute you are, you know.
Damn it, you’ve got him actually wanting you more than he’s ever wanted you before— this makes all his filthy fantasies about taking you bent over your kitchen counter or being underneath you while you ride him into oblivion look like a cheap, budget porno from a video rental store. His desire has always been real—albeit subconscious, sure—but it feels so much more genuine now that it’s been realized.
“Don’t say a word about this to anyone,” he mumbles in a brief moment of humiliation, biting into his bottom lip as he finally, finally sinks the full length of his cock into you.
Jesus Christ, if there’s anything Venti’s ever been right about, it’s how good a mature pussy feels. You’re soaked all the way down to your inner thighs, you’re so warm Scaramouche nearly feels his knees give out from underneath him, and you squeeze him so well he can feel your pussy gripping the sensitive underside of his tip.
“Why not? I can invite your friend next time,” you propose, squealing with delight when Scaramouche slaps a hand down against the side of your ass. “Venti, right? It’d feel so good to have my ass used while you—“
“Just shut up,” he hisses bitterly, glaring at you hard enough to give himself a stress headache. “Don’t talk about other guys right now. Especially not ones I know.”
“You’re right, it’s rude to talk about other men when I have such a good one right here with me already,” you feign sympathy, pushing your hips back flat against the front of his thighs. “Oh, Kuni.”
There’s that damn nickname again. As much as he hates the idea of you using it to tease him or fluster him, he can’t deny the way his dick twitches whenever you coo it in that soft, sultry tone of yours. It’s like you were custom-made to gobble men up or something— just how many of his classmates have you fucked?
Oh, it doesn’t matter. Not when he knows he can establish himself as the best of the whole damn lot of them. Not when he knows that he gets the privilege of seeing you every single day and nobody, nobody else does. Not when he’s seen your cute nipples peeking at him through that tiny, flimsy pajama top he caught you in all those months ago. Not when he gets to peruse on over to your apartment whenever he wants because you’re right fucking there and nobody, nobody is physically closer to you than he is.
Jesus, this is all starting to sound like some kind of crush.
“How’s that?” Scaramouche taunts, slapping his hips against you so wildly the sound of skin smacking on skin almost drowns out his voice. He’d like to claim that this sort of pace is supposed to be punishing, and he’d be right if he were to say that, but he wants it hard and rough just as much as you surely do. He couldn’t stop his hips even if he wanted to because he knows there’s nothing he’s wanted to do more than fuck your brains out for months upon months now.
You don’t answer him, too preoccupied with relishing in the feeling of his cock pounding into you with everything he’s got. How befitting of Scaramouche to fuck you like he’s angry at you— if he could even claim to be mad anymore. The combined sensations of his hips hammering against yours, his fingernails digging into your soft, plump love handles, and his balls slapping against your ass on each thrust are all far too overwhelming to even attempt a reply.
“Seriously? You run your mouth for ages and now you shut up when I ask you a question?” You’re doing this on purpose— Jesus, you’re insatiable.
Your back arches when Scaramouche digs the tip of his cock into a particularly sensitive spot inside of you, a broken whine leaving your lips instead when you attempt to reply with a dirty quip. He laughs when he realizes what’s just happened— that’s certainly one way to get you to shut that filthy mouth of yours.
“I hope somebody’s watching you, actually,” he admits despite all the jealousy even a single mention of his friend stirred up in him. “That way they can see you’re not worth their time because you don’t value yourself whatsoever. Why would anyone want someone who’s happy to just give themselves away like this and get fucked in a place so public?”
Maybe that’s just a weird, roundabout way of saying I want someone to watch me fuck you so they know a whore like you has been whipped into shape and that you only want me now. Who’s to say?
“You don’t care about getting caught yourself?” You finally pipe up with a grin.
Scaramouche snorts. “Getting caught with the likes of you? I’d transfer universities.”
You pout. “Would I still get to see you?”
For whatever reason, the question catches him off guard. How many times does he need to remind you that you’re not his girlfriend, that you’re not some sweetheart with an innocent crush, that you’re just his fucking neighbor who just so happens to have a hot body and just so happens to feel so, so good around him like this and just so happens to be the subject of his wet dreams and fantasies and—
He’s only able to spit out one word. “Obnoxious.”
His hands reclaim a firm grasp on your ample hips before he takes to fucking into you at a whole new angle— one that’ll surely hit that spot that got you to shut the fuck up moments ago. Your hands clamor for anything you could possibly grab onto to steel yourself, but there’s nothing except for the cool, flat glass beneath your palms.
“Kuni,” you rasp in a broken voice, beyond impressed with his ability to have found your most sensitive spot and target it specially. Call it sheer dumb luck or a testament to how perfectly compatible your bodies are, it doesn’t matter. He won’t let up on it until you’ve collapsed— maybe it’ll be a nice change of pace from your partners being the ones to collapse after an evening with you.
With the task of finding something to hold onto having proven fruitless, you instead slip a hand back between your legs to rub at your clit. Scaramouche snickers at your apparent desperation to orgasm, but he’s not letting you off that easily.
“What a pathetic display,” he remarks, pounding into you so quickly you can barely register the full length of his cock before he’s pulling it all the way out of you again. With your legs trembling and your knees buckling, the possibility of actually collapsing underneath him is becoming increasingly likely— these wild, frenzied thrusts of his prove exactly why you’re so into college guys.
Looking down from the fuzzy reflection of your face in the glass, Scaramouche watches each sink of his cock into your tight, dripping cunt with all the intensity and attention of a virgin. It may as well be his first time— you feel so fucking good he’s starting to lose his train of thought. You take him all the way to the hilt on each thrust so easily that he’d absolutely call you a common whore if he were able to form even a single word.
Despite his inability to form a coherent sentence, Scaramouche finds that he has just enough rationality left to pull out mere seconds before coming all over the swell of your ass, his cock twitching in his hand as he bites back moans. Here he is, coming all over the soft ass of his obnoxious older neighbor lady after spending so many months convincing his friends that he does not, in fact, want to fuck her.
You laugh breathlessly, the hand between your legs still rubbing frantic circles over your clit as you attempt to reach your own orgasm as well. “What’s wrong with coming inside? I’m hurt.”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes. That’d be irresponsible.
“Well, that’s alright,” you chirp, standing upright and turning around to face him. “I can always wring it out of you myself, right?”
“You’re insatiable,” he replies, inching backwards towards the couch as you step forward in time with his footsteps.
“Pot, kettle. You’re still hard, Kuni.”
With the realization that he’ll need some kind of excuse to offer his friends when he inevitably returns to a slew of unread messages a few hours from now, he falls backwards onto the couch just before you make yourself comfortable in his lap.
Well, not that any of them have ever believed any vague, half-baked excuse Scaramouche gives.
#hiiiii#juju bakery#scaramouche smut#scaramouche x reader#genshin smut#genshin impact smut#genshin x reader#genshin impact x reader#kunikuzushi x reader#scaramouche x y/n#kunikuzushi smut#fem reader
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Feel free to ignore this request if you want! But basically Adam and reader being pretty good friends who are casual with each other, have a similar sense of humor and personality, reader is a older sibling figure to many of the other angels, and him just beginning to actually gain feelings for them
Eeee I'm so excited!! Thank you for requesting!!
Adam x reader
"Can't believe I'm falling in love with such a cocky bitch"
You and Adam knew eachother since the beginning of time, and having known eachother that long you started to rub off on eachother. You both had similar humor and jokes the only difference was, was that you knew how to act politely, Adam did not.
You worked as a welcoming angel for new souls and angels of the like, showing them around and getting them set up in a home was just one of your many jobs. You worked closely with percious but you didn't like him, he was kind of a cunt when he wasn't around other people. You were on your lunch break sitting at a high table on a chair swinging your legs happily, you had gotten a milkshake and some fries. Adam snuck up behind you grabbing your sides suddenly, "hah! gotcha bitch!" Adam laughed. You had went to hit him at first but started laughing with him when you realized who it was, "adam!! You bitch come sit! I haven't seen you all week bro" you pointed to the seat across from you.
You couldn't even remember who had started the tradition of sneaking up on each other, but it just stuck, and Adam never failed to sneak up on you. Adam and you talked about your week together making small jokes as you ended up sharing your fries and milkshake with him. "And then she's over here hitting on the drummer, like, you think you want drummer dick? Nah, do you know who I am? I'm fucking Adam, I'm the original dick!" Adam recited the story to you as you started snort laughing. "Well it can't be that good if she wanted drummer dick!" You said between laughing as you hit your thigh loosing your shit over your own joke. "Hey!! My dick is fine thank you very much!" Adam huffed defensively before joining in your laughter. It took you both forever to catch your breath and stop.
Adam grabbed the last fry and ate it "Alright sugartits I've gotta go danger tits is waiting for me, but hey! I'll swing by your place with some Chinese food. Sound good?" Adam looked at you with hopeful eyes. You chuckled "sure thing dickmaster I'll see ya then" you said playfully giving him a sweet smile. Adam went to get you a hug but paused and patted you on the head awkwardly instead before speeding off to go find lute.
You were a bit confused but expected it from Adam, well atleast you were learning to Adam had been acting weird.. you thought that it would be all fixed up after mating week, but he was still just as weird as before.
You ended up getting an early day off since Emily took over welcoming souls for a bit to help. "Calm her energy down." In Sera's words, at least. You picked up your place, finally dishes and other chores you were behind on. You got a movie picked for tonight and some beer and sodas for you and Adam.
Adam finally came by your place after dark with a bag of Chinese food and a bag of clothes for him to change into assuming he was staying over. Adam knocked on the door rhythmically as he waited, you opened the door after a moment or so in some sleep shorts and one of Adam's band t-shirts(I keep forgetting Adam has a band bro).
"Woah, is that Adam without lute on his shoulder like a little parrot?" You teased letting the man in. Adam took his helmet off and rolled his eyes, "I'm not bringing my second in command to your house to hang out." Now that that was weird, Adam never responded that way to that joke, "bro, you good? What happened that got you all pissy? Are you on your man period or sum?" You asked concerned but still trying to make it a joke. Adam sighed "nah just a lot on my mind. There's this chick -" "ooooo does the Adam have a crush?" Who's the lucky bitch huh? " You cut him off plopping on your couch and turning your head so Adam could change(like you weren't just watching him in the reflection of the tv). Adam sighed and got changed into comfy clothes, "yea it's fucking weird though I mean she wouldn't leave my mind during mating week and ugh I get so awkward around her" Adam groaned laying on the couch with his head in you thighs. "Shit Adam do you actually like this chick? Or do you just wanna fuck her? Orrrr was the pussy that good that you want more?" You teased playing with Adam's hair carefully. Adam shook his head "I think I like her I mean I've known her for awhile and she just gets me yknow?" Adam said tilting his head a bit to look at you before changing his mind and grabbing the remote looking through Aisney(angel disney) and putting on the live action of "the jungle dude" (the jungle book).
You took a moment to think, it hurt, the thought of Adam falling in love with someone else after sharing so much. "Just think about your heart before you brain Adam, think about your feelings, maybe you should tell her I mean it can't hurt too bad, and I mean if your friends I'm sure she feels the same... and you guys can just be together, yknow.." You slowly got quieter and quieter, feeling like if you were any louder, you were gonna cry your eyes out.
Adam nodded a bit. "What would you do in my situation?" Adam asked under his breath, yet you still heard him. You took a deep breath "Adam I...." Your words got caught in your throat as you looked down at him looking guilty. Adam tilted his head to look at you confused at the look. "What's with the look sugar tits? You look like I'm about to cry, did I say sum?" Adam asked genuinely concerned for you. It made your heart melt knowing he cared for you so much, it made your heart melt so much in fact that before your brain registered what you were doing you had leaned down and trapped his lips in a kiss. The angle wasn't comfortable, and your spine was bent weird, but God was it worth it, feeling how soft his lips were. Adam froze for a moment before melting into it, licking along your bottom lip, teasing you a bit. After a moment of you both continuing to kiss each other, you both pulled away for air a small string of salive connecting you and breaking after you moved too far away. You were panting a bit but didn't go too far from his face. "That's what I'd do.. " you whispered softly, your lips barely brushing against Adam's. Adam reached up and put a had on your cheek "you wanna know something sugar tits? I think I would do the same.." Adam smiled as he locked your lips together in a passionate kiss pulling away after a few moments.
Adam smiled and sat up next to you , allowing you to straighten your back properly. Adam chuckled " awwe you hunched just to kiss me sugar tits? I'm honored" Adam joked. You rolled your eyes "yea yea whatever dickmaster now do you wanna cuddle up and eat while we watch a movie or do we wanna talk about what well we are first?" You tilted you head a bit. Adam was already reaching for the bag when you brought it up. "What do you mean what we are? I thought that kiss established it, I'm yours and your mine" Adam spoke almost boredly. You could feel the blush creep up on your face " your gonna be one heck of a boyfriend " you laughed.
The rest of the evening was relaxed as you cuddled and ate together. Before falling asleep together on your couch, hoping everything would be perfect with you both together
#hazbin hotel adam#x reader#hazbin adam#adam x reader#hazbin hotel#confession#adam x reader confession#jaded works🪶
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a place in this world - ch1
a dream come true. you, a race engineer in formula one, having built your way up through the ranks. sure, the 2020 season hadn’t exactly gone the way that everyone had expected, but this was your chance, your moment to prove to the world of racing what you and your driver, carlos, were made of. but carlos isn’t staying at mclaren forever, and eventually, you’ll have a decision to make…
pairing: carlos sainz x f! reader. slow burn colleagues to friends to lovers (please, from my own experience, don’t follow this pipeline)
info: reader lives in the uk due to working at mclaren, and is somewhat implied to be british. it is also implied that they listen to bbc radio 2 and support leicester city football club. this may or may not be because these things are true of me and I wasn’t planning on publishing this, sorry!
warnings: cursing, a lil’ bit of angst, very infrequent use of y/n, one (1) google translated spanish sentence, a dry british writing style xoxo
a/n: hello! welcome to a little passion project I never thought I’d share with the internet. this will eventually become a sort of ‘choose your own adventure’ type series, where you can make decisions about your career that can eventually lead you to different teams and drivers. will be posting a masterlist soon with more info so bare with me! any feedback / comments are always welcome
Masterlist | chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4
Chapter One: … Ready for It?
it had started out like any other wednesday. except it hadn’t, not really. the nature of your job meant that there was no ‘any other wednesday’. most wednesdays meant that you were jetting off to some new country, your wide eyed face in the window seat, reflecting back off the pane of glass separating you from the dancing lights of some exciting new city, 5,000 feet below. race engineer to mclaren-renault formula one driver number 55, carlos sainz, wasn’t exactly what you had listed as what you wanted to be when you grew up, but you were far from disappointed that that’s what your linkedin profile now read, a metaphorical middle finger to everyone who’d said you’d never amount to anything in motorsports.
but by all accounts it had been a relatively uneventful wednesday in your life, in fact even more so than usual compared to the early morning check ins at Stansted airport that you’d grown accustomed to. this week was silverstone, your home race, if race engineers could call it that, and that meant no early mornings, no check ins, no flights, no decanting your liquids into tiny bottles and zipping them into a plastic bag to take through security. this wednesday was a stop at sainsburys to fill up the tank of your vw polo with petrol, and an 80 mile drive west towards silverstone circuit. the most exciting part of your morning was getting stuck in half an hour of traffic on the m25; you didn’t even need the dulcet tones of Richie Anderson on radio 2 to tell you there’d be traffic at Potters Bar. as a native southerner, you could just feel it in your bones.
still, only fifteen minutes late to track wasn’t too bad, considering your lengthy journey, and you were by far the last member of the team to arrive. you would’ve been even less late, but for the fact that you’d sat for the best part of five minutes in your car, engine off, staring at the notification on your phone. there were so many questions running around in your head, first and foremost of which was why on earth did dan from engineering have your number? but the second question, which was possibly the more important one, was why did carlos ask him for it? he said that it ‘might be useful to contact each other.’ if the current expression on your face could be summed up in a noise, it would be a very confused and very emphatic ‘huh?’.
sure, you and carlos interacted a lot during race weekends, that much was a given. you were forever catching up to discuss data, strategies, the car setup, the sandwich options at the hospitality, why the leicester city football team would beat real madrid in a fist fight. so okay, your conversations weren’t allstrictly work related, and you could’t deny that the two of you got on well and seemed to really understand each other, but that was all part of being a driver and race engineer duo; you had to be on the same wavelength. it was non-negotiable. but swapping phone numbers? you couldn’t imagine why the two of you would need to text or call each outside of work hours, and you had work phones for that. which led you to your third and fourth questions: number three, why did you suddenly feel so nervous and giddy with excitement when you re-read his message for the seventh time? (question three point five was why did you re-read his message seven times?) and number four, what the hell were you supposed to message back in reply?
you typed in a thumbs up emoji and then immediately deleted it. how fucking old were you, 65? what next, start talking to him about the cold war? no, you had to keep it fun and casual, not too overfamiliar but not too weirdly distant and cold. god, why was this so difficult? you felt like a schoolgirl with a teenage crush, constantly typing various replies and deleting them again, letter by letter. eventually you settled on a cool, calm and collected response, typing it out and shoving your phone into your pocket before you had time to overanalyse what you’d just sent. quickly gathering up your stuff from the boot of your car, you spammed the lock button on your car keys, just in case the first five times didn’t stick, and trotted off towards the entrance to the paddock.
as it was approaching the hour mark since he’d sent his text, carlos had been starting to worry that he’d overstepped an unwritten boundary. why had he even asked dan from engineering for her number in the first place? it just felt like something that he should have. lando had will’s number, he’d already asked him that. but once he’d sent the message he realised that he couldn’t really come up with an excuse as to why he’d needed it, why he couldn’t have waited until he’d seen her this weekend and ask for her number from herself. like a normal person. deep down he knew why, though he was in some sort of state of denial about it, and it was the same reason that he hadn’t asked for her number two weeks ago in Hungary, or at the previous race in Austria, or when he’d first met her at the start of the season.
he breathed a sigh of relief when her reply came through, 57 minutes after he’d sent his message. well, the first one that is. the second message came two minutes after the first; god, he couldn’t believe he’d been stupid enough to forget to include who he was at the end of the text the first time around.
but it didn’t matter now, because she’d replied, and her words on the screen made him smile to himself, her voice in his head as he read them through three, now four times over. his fingers hovered over the keypad, contemplating a reply. he checked the time - it wouldn’t be long until she arrived at track anyway and they could chat in person, so he closed the messages app on his phone and tucked it away in his pocket, deciding against committing any words to the everlasting aether which was the iPhone messages app.
it was nearing the end of a lengthy strategy department meeting when your phone went off, a few pair of eyes glancing your way as you apologised profusely, eyes scanning over the text before sheepishly putting your phone on do not disturb and placing it back on the table face down. shit, this meeting wouldn’t be finished for another ten minutes at least, and by that time all the bacon and brie toasties would be gone (everyone knew they were the best lunch option). worse still, you hated the fact that you had to leave carlos hanging; pausing the strategy meeting to send off a quick text was equivalent to a cardinal sin, even if it was to carlos sainz. your eyes were flicking increasingly often down to the time on your laptop, the seconds crawling by as the time approached one o’clock. it felt like whichever godlike entity governed the laws of time was toying with you; surely it wasn’t possible for time to move this slowly? the head of strategy wrapped the meeting at 13:04, and you were out of your seat like a rocket.
amy, one of the strategists, fell into step beside you as you paced it down the corridor.
“you’ve heard about the brie and bacon being back on?” she asked; you only had to reply with a grin to give her the answer that she needed. she eyed you up, as much as anyone power walking down a busy corridor could whilst still maintaining maximum straight line speed.
“everyone from strategy and engineering has been in meetings. so who’s your source?” came her second question. you picked up your pace, under the guise of trying to get to the canteen quicker.
she had a habit of taking just enough time to respond to carlos’ messages to keep him guessing whether she actually would respond at all. it wasn’t entirely her fault, carlos realised; she’d apologised for earlier, explaining that she was busy driving. of course she was, how could he be such an idiot? maybe a part of him was hoping that she’d been acting coy, teasing him by waiting, purposefully trying to keep him on the edge of his seat.
carlos saw her enter the canteen, watched with a small, self satisfied smirk as her face fell, the rattan shelf where the brie and bacon toasties had been, now depressingly empty. he left it just long enough so that she was forced to consider which disappointing option to go for instead, before finally calling her over.
“Y/N!” carlos called, watching as her head whipped round, and he had to stifle a laugh at her confusion. he waved her over.
“sorry, I was stuck in a meeting.” she sighed, her voice slightly breathless. had she ran here? he fought back the urge to tease her about it, shaking his head slightly.
“don’t worry about it.” he replied, gesturing to the seat beside him as he spoke. her eyes lit up when her gaze fell on the plate on the table, in just the way he’d pictured in his head. god, he’d never get over the way the simple things pleased her, and he didn’t mean that in a bad way. over the past couple of months that he’d known her, carlos had learned that the little things really mattered, in a way that was almost rare in this environment. she looked upon a brie and bacon sandwich like it was the sun that shined, and if she’d have looked up at carlos in that moment, she’d have seen that he was looking at her in the exact same way.
“is that for me?”
“no.” carlos replied, deadpan. she shot him a look, her face screwed up in a pout that he’d grown more accustomed to the more he teased her like this. eventually he let out a soft chuckle, as a way to say I’m only joking, of course it’s for you, and she sat down in the seat next to him with a playful scowl, which only caused him to laugh more.
“thanks, carlos. you’re the best.” she told him through a mouthful of brie, bacon and toasted bread.
“I know.” he replied, a cheeky grin dancing across his face. “it was the last one as well.”
“amy’s gonna be pissed.” she giggled, glancing over her shoulder to watch as her colleague was forced to settle for regular ham and cheese.
a podium finish to p13. was it worse to fail because of your own shortcomings or because of something that was out of your control? if you’d asked carlos sainz right now, he would think about it for a moment, and then tell you to vete a la mierda.*
his phone screen lighting up in the darkness was the only thing that brought his attention to how dark it had become in his hotel room. christ, how long had he been sat there, staring at the wall, trying to process how frustrated and angry and upset he was? he’d put his phone on silent, tired of all the commiseratory messages that had been coming through, but apparently his bedtime reminder didn’t obey the laws of do not disturb. sighing, he unlocked the device, and quickly scanned down the many notifications he had been ignoring for the past few hours. one stood out above all the rest, because of course it did. he felt guilt clutch him as he noticed the message from well over an hour ago. from her.not only guilty at the fact that he’d not seen her message, but for some reason guilty for perceiving that he’d let her down at her home race. it was stupid, he knew, to feel that way - it wasn’t his fault that his tyre had blown out with just a few laps to go, but he knew how excited she’d been for her first ever british gp, and it had all ended in disappointment. his fingers hovered over the keyboard at the bottom of his phone for a moment, a million different emotions whizzing round in his head, bouncing off the sides like a demented pinball machine. no wonder he had a headache. he drew in a sharp breath before typing out his reply.
*I’m hoping this means somewhat akin to ‘fuck off’
you’d almost forgotten that you’d sent carlos sainz a message of commiseration, which was shocking considering how long you’d been deliberating over it only a mere hour ago. you were back in your own bed in your hometown, seeing no need to stick around seeing as there would be no celebrations this weekend, and carlos had disappeared as soon as the team debrief had ended, making it very clear that he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. which made it all the more surprising when you leaned over to your bedside table, bleary eyes blinking back sleep as your vision adjusted to the pitch black of your room, to pick up the phone which had woken you from your sleep.
your eyes blinked again against the harsh light of the phone, taking a moment to focus on the big bold numbers on your lockscreen. 01:03? who was texting you at this time? eyebrows knitted together in an increasingly deep frown, you scanned carlos’ message. as was becoming customary, you read it several times over, this time to check whether you’d read it right. why would he want to ring you, at this time of night as well? your mind started to reach for wild possibilities - was he in trouble? hurt? worse?
before he changed his mind, carlos hit the telephone symbol next to her contact details.
“Carlos, are you okay?” her voice came through almost immediately, sounding equal parts panicked yet somehow sleepy. shit, not only had he caused her to worry, he’d probably just woken her up in the middle of the night as well. what kind of dickhead rings a colleague that he’s only known for a few months at 1am? he cleared his throat.
“fuck, sorry, I woke you up.”
“don’t worry about it, I was awake.” she replied. a blatant lie, but carlos appreciated the attempt to make him feel better.
“can I help you with something?” she continued, still sounding concerned. he shook his head even though she couldn’t see.
“yes, no. fuck, I don’t know.” he growled at himself for being so confused, so confusing, for not even really knowing why he’d called her. was he going insane, or did he just hear a soft sigh on the other end of the line? he squeezed his eyes shut, collecting himself to try again, but she beat him to it.
“I’m sorry about today, carlos, it must be tough to deal with.”
sometimes it felt like she knew him better than he knew himself. he dragged a hand down his face.
“yeah, I’m- it’s not great.” he stumbled over his words slightly, his voice catching in his throat. usually he’d be reluctant to show this vulnerability, embarrassed even, but something about the late hour combined with how oh-so-soft her voice was… it made him forget his pride for just that moment.
“I can’t stop thinking about it.” he admitted, feeling a ramble coming on but equally feeling powerless to stop it. “I know that it was a problem with the tyre, I know that it wasn’t my fault, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating. and then there’s always a part of me that wonders whether there was anything that I could’ve done. like, maybe if I’d driven less aggressively or something, or changed the way I braked around a certain corner. I still feel like I’ve let myself down, let the team down, let you dow-“
“you didn’t let me down, carlos.” her abrupt reply broke him from his monologue, stopping him in his tracks and allowing him to fill his lungs with air, not realising how out of breath he was becoming with his run-on sentences.
“what?” came his soft reply. he’d heard perfectly clearly what she’d said the first time. but a part of him needed to hear it again.
“you didn’t let me down, carlos.” she repeated, with the same clarity, the same sincerity, the same low tone that he’d never heard from her before that made her sound so wise beyond her years.
“you didn’t let anyone down. this wasn’t your fault. I know it doesn’t make it any less frustrating or easier to deal with - there’s nothing I can say that will change that. but please, please don’t blame yourself for any part of it.”
there was silence on both ends for a moment, before carlos let out a long sigh.
“I- yeah, I guess you’re right.” there was something still on his mind, something that one am carlosknew that one pm carlos would never want to talk about, least of all burden his race engineer with it. but that was all the more reason to say it now.
“I just feel so much pressure to perform, now that I have the ferrari contract.” his voice dropped even lower as he spoke, as if whispering it quietly enough could make it not be true. “I feel like I have to earn my place there, you know?”
“carlos, you were P-fucking-3.”
something about the way she stressed the syllables made carlos chuckle despite himself, and from the way she let out a small giggle on the other end of the phone, he guessed that that had been her intention all along.
“anyone can see that you’ve earned that seat at ferrari. you’ve proved that time and time again already. this isn’t about anyone else, this is about you, and what you believe you deserve. the only person you need to convince is yourself.”
carlos chuckled again, feeling some sort of playful nature already coming back to him. maybe he’d finally figured out why he wanted to call her in the middle of the night, maybe it was even the reason he wanted her number in the first place. maybe it was because he knew that no matter how crappy he was feeling, talking to her always seemed to turn the day around. she always seemed to make him smile.
“very inspirational.” he replied, his tone almost teasing over her ‘believing in yourself’ speech. the corners of his lips curved upwards as he could practically hear her rolling her eyes on the other end.
“this is what I get for trying to be nice.” she muttered, but her tone was light, reciprocating the teasing. carlos smiled, his first genuine smile in several hours. probably since the last time he’d seen her.
“thank you, really. talking to you it… it always puts me in a better mood.” carlos confessed, glad that this was a phone call so she couldn’t see the way his cheeks lit up a soft shade of pink.
“anytime, carlos.”
when they eventually hung up the call, carlos felt lighter than he had in weeks, like she’d melted all his problems away with her soft voice and warm heart. he slept easy that night. meanwhile, she was now wide awake.
you groaned when the sound of your phone pinging dragged you from your admittedly tumultuous sleep. it had been difficult to drift off again after that call with carlos, a million thoughts buzzing around your brain like a swarm of bees on cocaine. you felt bad for carlos, sure, but that wasn’t enough to keep you awake on its own. there was another feeling there; if you were to flip through an oxford english dictionary until you found a word that summed it up you might settle for ‘intrigued’.
you were intrigued that carlos that had decided to ring you of all people last night; surely he had family, or at the very least close friends, that he would rather turn to? but you were also intrigued by your own reaction - why were you feeling so warm and fuzzy that carlos had chosen you, the knowledge that when he was feeling low you were the one he wanted to hear on the other end of the line creating some sort of feeling in your heart, like someone was squeezing it not-quite-too tightly?
it was these questions, and an incessant amount of bin lorries driving past at 5am, that kept you from falling back asleep, and were the reason that you were grumbling now, as you reached over to pick up your phone. the grumbling ceased the moment you read the message and saw who it was from, replaced by a softly murmured ‘oh’, and that strange feeling in your chest again.
as always feedback and comments are welcomed with massive appreciation and open arms! a second part is written and will be out soonish! much love, Katie x
#f1 x reader#f1 x you#f1 x y/n#f1 x female reader#carlos sainz#carlos sainz x reader#carlos sainz x you#carlos sainz x y/n#f1 fic#f1 imagine
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Reading Mordecai Heller as a repressed gay man
The tragic attraction
This is a full post based on my response to a great analysis by @sedgewick-gayble
Let me start by saying that if you read Mordecai as being totally asexual/aromantic and any affection he has for other characters to be entirely platonic that is entirely valid and I respect that
However as this response by Tracy makes clear on the topic of fans reading Mordecai as gay there is an intentional ambiguity about it. Being 28 at the time of the main story his "lifestyle is certainly asexual" up to this point, yet "being ace and being gay are not mutually exclusive things" and people sometimes "don't know themselves or understand their own motivations all that well"
This leaves the possibility open that Mordecai is actively repressing his natural desires and feelings
Mordecai's early life didn't exactly provide much time or opportunity for "self discovery", even by the usual standards of the less than tolerant and understanding world of the early 20th century
Being born into an impoverished family and having his father die very early in his life leaving him and his Mother and two younger sisters in dire straits, Mordecai had to get to work and assume adult responsibilities pretty damn early.
As Tracy says "selling newspapers wasn't going to cut it" and so using his natural talent with numbers Mordecai starts bookkeeping for the mob. Is it any wonder someone with that background would develop such a serious and rigidly buttoned up demeanour?
Since being forced to abandon his mother and two sisters at the start of the 1920s and flee New York, being picked up by Atlas's due to his habit of collecting useful strays, Mordecai had very few people he was close to in St Louis. With his generally anti-social personality and not only lack of interest but discomfort with any sort of flirting or romantic entanglements, that would be unlikely to change
Side note: Probaby coincidence but
There are only two people who seem to make it onto that exclusive list of people that "count" for Mordecai, who he cares about and are able to bring things to the surface he would normally keep hidden
Atlas to Mordecai is not just an employer, he is the man who saved his life, the man who moulded a desperate fearful shabby young stray into the sharp professional he is today, who took him under his wing and made him his protege. Filling the empty space his father left in his life. His grief and desperate hunt for those responsible for his death are his big motivation (the strain of which is slowly tearing him apart)
That connection is undertsandable
Much more surprising on the surface is the bond with the partner Atlas teamed him up with soon after his arrival, Viktor Vasko.
The assumption at the start would have been that while their skill sets might compliment each other in the field there would have been no warmth in their dynamic.
Certainly not on Mordecai's part as Viktor appears to be a sum total of many things Mordecai hates. Viktor is unshaven, relatively casual in his attire, speaks a broken English, and hates people chattering or “noise, noise, noise” as he calls it. Clashing hard with his obsession with good grooming, high quality tailoring, correct grammar etc. Indeed Mordecai doesn't hesitate to nag/criticize Viktor for these things
Yet at the same time Mordecai has far better chemistry with Viktor than with anyone else, able to banter and bicker with him in a way you rarely if ever see with others
Its why when he gets tailored clothes for the first time Viktor is the first person he wants to show off too. Its why the one time he is intoxicated Viktor (and his large physique) are his chosen topic of converation. Its why at Christmas/Hanuhhah he gives him the gift of a tie while claiming its just because of the big guys poor fashion sense and that its "embarassing to be seen with him" (even that justification makes him sound like a nagging girlfriend)
A smaller detail is that during their iconic chess playing in the side content, set during their days staking out the remote town of Defiance, Viktor is shown very casually winning the game much to Mordecai's visible distress
This is hilarious but could also be taken as a metaphor for Viktor (possibly without even realizing it) breaking through his defensive emotional barriers
Something Mordecai doesn't know how to handle or respond to
The animated short only adds fuel to the fire
During their dispute over strategy Mordecai moves his face so close to Viktors that he almost knocks his cap off his head. His eyes at one point even dart down towards his mouth
Sharp eyed Vikdecai fans have also noted that Mordecai seems on some level to want the two of them to match
The tie being the same colour could simpy be Mordecai giving Viktor one of his own ties because its a joke gift and he just grabbed it on a whim to tease Viktor about his poor fashion choices
But think about the matching suits at the New Years party for 1926
I mean, seriously, not only is it the exact same style of suit in the same blue-grey colour distinct from everyone else, but they are standing in the perfect spots to be symmetrical to each other. Something that we all know means a lot to this compulsive man
Mordecai must have known there was going to be a big group photo ahead of time and then carefully planned this
Got matching suits made to his and Viktors measurements
Then most impressively convinced/nagged Viktor into cooperating (he may have taken off the tie and rolled up the sleeves but hey him playing along at all is quite a compromise from Viktor "I hate dressing up" Vasko)
Mordecai is intent on making Viktor retire and get out of danger, and avoid a situation where he gets sent to kill him by Marigold because he knows he could NOT do it, and his cover and investigation into Atlas's death would be over
He is horrified that Viktor is still working at Lackadaisy (though he again has to hide how much he cares) and that he has gotten not only hurt again but hurt by Mordecai again (albeit this time indirectly by stealing the guns)
Can this be read as simply platonic comradere? Absolutely
But there is something so *intense* in the fact he was willing to resort to kneecapping him. Its an extreme and desperate act that could only result from intense emotions, seemingly out of character for someone who tries very hard to appear logical and controlled.
While Vikdecai is a very fun ship when imagining them as an actual bickering married couple, I have often said that a tragic one-sided on Mordecai's part version of Vikdecai is the one that fits closest and surprisingly well into the canon.
His nagging and complaining about Viktor in that context take on a Tsundere aspect, both to protect himself from being found out and maybe even try and convince himself the uncomfortable alien feelings aren't there. He not only doesn't want others looking too hard at his feeling he doesn't want to examine them himself all that much
There is a heartbreaking but appealing angst to the idea of this extremely repressed man having such feelings for the first time in his life for his straight best friend and NOT knowing how to handle that. Having to perform the balancing act of being around him so much as his partner but being painfully aware that he can't let anyone catch on, especially not Viktor himself, as it would likely destroy his bond with the only person in town other than Atlas he is close to.
Though tragically he did that anyway later via the kneecapping, which while about trying to keep Viktor safe, he may now looking back try and tell himself its actually somehow "better" for Viktor to hate him for that
Because the big guy now wrongly thinks the feeling is mutual and that Mordecai never really cared about him, which may be better than (what Mordecai assumes would be) disgust at his partners doomed more than platonic feelings
Because he sees those feelings and his situation as a sad perfectly structured joke life has played on him
#lackadaisy#tracy j butler#lackadaisycats#mordecai heller#viktor vasko#vikdecai#repressed#gay#asexual#ace#comic#pilot#cats#gangsters#one sided love#one sided crush#one sided attraction#internalized homophobia
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Akira Toriyama (1955-2024)
I wouldn't say I'm feeling better today, but I'm feeling less bad than yesterday. So let's see if I can put some words together.
In case anyone still hasn't heard, Dragon Ball creator Akira Toriyama passed away on March 1, 2024. This news was made public on March 7 or 8. I woke up early on Friday morning and found out while I was checking Twitter. I had a long, busy day at work, and I kept getting on my phone to scroll through fan reactions and tributes.
I think that, more than anything, is what's gotten me so worked up about his death. My Twitter timeline and my tumblr dashboard were just chock full of touching message and images about how Akira Toriyama's work has changed their lives. I wanted to write my own tribute, but I'm not sure what else I can say that hasn't already been expressed by Archie Comics, professional wrestling trio The New Day, and the Republic of El Salvador.
There's this immense, global community of fans, and it's easy to lose sight of just how big it is. It's easy to get bogged down in the infighting and petty squabbles. I saw one tweet responding to the criticism of Dragon Ball not being like this "entry level" franchise compared to other, more high brow anime and manga. It's popular with so many people, that critics will assume it's designed to appeal to the lowest-common-denominator. But the opposite is true! Dragon Ball is accessible, which is how so many people from so many different places and walks of life can get into it. The guy telling the story was such a master storyteller that he could grab an audience's attention and make it look easy. So easy that the haters would start to think that it was a trick, and he must be overrated.
Let me talk about this panel for a minute.
Last night I started going through the original manga, looking for panels to screencap. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do, but I thought maybe a selection of panels that really stood out for me might be worth posting. I'll probably still do that one of these days, but I got to this one, where Gohan tells Chi-Chi about Goku's death, and it hit me like a ton of bricks.
This was a powerful scene in the anime, of course, but in the comic it's even more profound. It's just one panel, no dialogue, because the reader already knows what's happening here. We know Gohan is telling his mother that Goku died in the Cell Games, and that he refuses to be wished back, because he thinks his presence on Earth will attract new enemies. It was hard enough to hear when Goku said it to Gohan and the others, and now Gohan has to relay that message to Goku's wife. All she can do is lie prostate on the floor and weep.
And look at the composition. She's surrounded by all that negative space. Gohan's there for her, but she still feels so alone, surrounded by her husband's absence. Pots of flour for food he'll never eat. An empty chair he might have sat in. Their son, who will have to grow up without him.
I saw this, as though for the first time, and it was so gut-wrenching that I had to post it by itself. I felt like it summed up my feelings better than any words could. We're all Chi-Chi in this panel, reacting to Akira Toriyama's death. And we're all Gohan too, each of us consoling one another with our own thoughts and tributes.
So what did Akira Toriyama mean to us all? Lots of people have answered this in a lot of different ways. Obviously his art, storytelling and cultural impact speak for themselves. I've seen people compare him to other luminaries like Jack Kirby and Osamu Tezuka. I'll try to add my own two cents with this:
I wrote a post about "Dragon Ball Daima" back when it was first announced, and I led off with this image of a note from Akira Toriyama. I guess this was from some big fancy presentation about Daima at a convention. I forget which one. In particular, I was skeptical that the Daima rumors were even true, and if they were, the whole idea seemed half-baked to me. Turning Goku into a kid had been done before, and it wasn't exactly successful the first time.
But this note from Toriyama was very reassuring to me. More than the trailer clips and character designs, this was what got me interested in the show. That's because he took the time to not only hype up the show, but also to explain what's going on behind the premise. He took the time to tell everyone that he's working on this show, and what "Daima" means, and why all the characters get turned into kids. It's "due to a conspiracy", and the good guys will have to "fix things". In short, he established a plot, conflict, and resolution to the story. He didn't just slap this together to sell new merch. I'm sure that was part of the motivation to make Daima, but there's more to it than that.
I think that's the loss I feel with Toriyama's passing. It's not that there won't be new Dragon Ball stories in the future. I'm sure others will continue telling their own versions long after I'm gone. I'm not that worried about the fate of Daima. I'm sure they'll figure something out, whether it's delayed, rewritten, or canceled. But we'll never see another message from Toriyama to promote a new project, and that's what I'll miss. From here on, his credit will just be an acknowledgement of his past contributions.
There's this great credibility with Akira Toriyama's name. Fans will argue about how involved he was in a project as a way of establishing how good or bad it was. Dragon Ball GT has his name on the credits, and he provided some designs and artwork early on, and for some fans that proves the series has his endorsement. For others, the sole problem with the show is that he wasn't directly writing the script. There's similar debates over Dragon Ball Super, where he was involved, but only writing those mysterious "notes". So if a fan doesn't like something in DBS, who do they blame? Did Toriyama lose his touch, or did his co-creators fumble the ball? Dragon Ball Evolution basically ignored all of Toriyama's advice and bombed, while Battle of Gods, Resurrection F, Broly, and Super Hero all put Toriyama's writing credits up at the very beginning, and each film made plenty of money. I read his comments on the Daima confirmation, and immediately thought "Okay, this should be pretty good. Akira Toriyama knows what's up."
That's gone now. I mean, there's still a lot of talent out there, but we'll never again have the little gas mask-wearing robot telling us that this story will be good because he worked on making it good. I don't think I really appreciated how much I trusted that guy until now. I still can't believe he's really gone.
I'll probably have more to say about this in the coming days, but I'll stop here for now. Thanks for letting me ramble a bit on this.
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송은석 : Tell the cameraman there’s no good side, they’re both attractive.
❝ your ace, your king, your double diamond. your jack of all trades, your 100 and one shades.
ᴘᴀʀɪɴɢ: actor! song eunseok × actress f!reader.
ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: romance. on set / gambling undertones as far as the film storyline goes. w.c 5k
two actors fatally ‘meet’ at a ‘casino.’ with the narrative centering round the ‘value of the moment,’ as the story advances, the ‘love on set’ becomes more evident thru the cameras. as the director realizes this early on, all of his retakes serve as both the actors’ main obstacle and unifying force in achieving their individual & character’s goals.
ᴛᴀɢꜱ: slight mutual pinning (?) both are kinda confused; mixed signals, ofc flirting. makeout :) i had MMA Eunseok on mind while writing this... the gloves and all.
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: why i feel like everyones on sum Eunseok current rn? as if we re collectively riding that wave? am i not right? am i not!? it’s like homeboy was only getting comfortable up until now. or elsee y are his contents as of lately sooo attacking? idk why, but i feel like this type of situation goes so well w him?
this goes back and forth between the film’s plot and the real* on set setting. hope it’s not confusing
It feels like you’re wearing your seductive velvet dress just to let him down one more time. The never-ending takes of filming this movie and wearing the same clothes don’t help Eunseok at all; in fact, your attire has made him even more confused and hell crazed.
Drama, slash thriller, slash…
“Romance is for the weak,”
reads one of the script’s lines. Of course, there is nothing romantic about the way he has to portray the charismatic rival who must rob the same kingpin as you. You both need to be like loaded guns to figure out who will outsmart who. Without a doubt, this isn’t a game for the weak of heart.
Side from the fact that long shoots and endless days blur together, his constant presence both on and off set also distorts your perception and wounds your judgment. Though you know for a fact that it’s a waste of your time to catch vibes.
As you’re getting started & Eunseok is an A-list hitter, it is also completely out of the question. Moreover, even now, you find it surprising how you were cast for this role, but that was exactly what spurred you on to continue & demonstrate your abilities.
Though the weeks of filming went smoothly, as you 2 approach ‘a’ scene, tension is mounting.
But, now that you’re here, you’re reshooting and pacing around the same set of scenes, over and over. There is a clear build-up in tension and skin ship as the film goes. The way his hands would sometimes tighten around your waist, it seems like an old game. Practically, it’s the same same daily.
It’s as if you have been thrown into a loop for a week. Monday through Saturday, which seems excessively intense because you have to look into his big eyes and act unaffected, just like your character. To pretend that you’re razor-sharp when you two touch and to act as though nothing is happening.
The latest take you took was three hours ago, before your lunch. Venue: the casino.
The casino set is unique in that it has distinct widths and depths, & it’s a character unto itself.
You’re shooting at a real place—a candid gambling place with walls painted in every hue imaginable, which is the main ‘bait’ factor. Nevertheless, the place’s real undercurrent is that it has the power to literally tear apart a person. Here, time and space are merely ideas, and much like love, everyone in the plot keeps playing in the hopes of hitting a jackpot.
On the periphery are the people who have come here to escape reality, vibrant lights, music, drinks, and all things magnetic.
However, the more people indulge in these casino games, the more they immerse themselves in sin. The games have a concentric hierarchy, and the degree of wickedness increases gradually until it reaches the heart of the casino, where the money is kept in bondage and bound with a bloody ribbon.
In essence, the characters you and Eunseok play dance and mingle in the depths of hell.
As you both keep colliding in the games you play, what begins as an individual hunt becomes more focused. It’s the way that your objective in this round is to win jointly by lying. Still, at some point in the round, Eunseok’s character betrays you, but that is currently irrelevant, as you’re currently sitting on his lap.
And doing so, you scan the players in front of you. There are eight of them in total, some of whom have girls sitting on their laps as well. Some kiss, some clink their glasses, and some flirt with the person across. A ton of chips, cards, and cash are spread out across the poker table.
Your character remains silent, just like Eunseok’s does. Distraction is something that neither of you wants. However, the fact that you’re sitting on his lap makes this already a deranged situation.
Players sling remarks about your character around the table in an attempt to break Eunseok’s character’s nerve.
“When will it be our turn to have our round with her, at last, exactly when?” Gesturing you both, one of the group members says, perched on the edge of the poker table. “Hm? We may need to take some action because you don’t really share your food here. We may need to bring bad luck to attract her.” The actor laughs narratively, but there is seriousness in the corners of his bright eyes that makes it seem like he is really after you, and there is nothing Eunseok can do about that. It is an amazing acting delivery from him.
And while his remarks are only meant to irritate Eunseok’s character, why does it feel like they also irritate the real Eunseok? Because his leg begins to twitch uncontrollably under you.
In order to stop letting his emotions show and to keep his mind to the job in hand, he needs to snap back into character quickly. He remains to cage you in a respectful manner, though, as his arms aren’t in contact with you because they’re both on the table.
So you have no choice but to put up with the sensation of his breath tickling the back of your neck, and the heat that seeps from his thighs and settles into you.
You feel imprisoned in his cage... On this set.
And, you start to appreciate the little things, like the thicker material covering your flesh, since it seems like your skin is getting uncomfortably slippery under your dress.
Your back is glued to his chest, and his calm demeanor calms you down from the words and deeds of everyone around you—including the real extras from the close-up tables that swarm the set, adding realism to the scene and heightening the atmosphere.
You feel him place his hand on your thigh, something he has never done in previous takes of the scene, but he immediately lifts it. And as he moves his hand, the smooth surface of your dress wrinkles at the drag, making your heart want to leap out of your rib cage.
You lean forward until your elbows rest on the table in an attempt to escape the heat transfer that is becoming too strong between your bodies. More than that, there seems to be an off-energy between you two today that you can’t quite put your finger on. In either case, you’re unable to escape as his hand wraps around your waist and draws you back toward him. Simultaneously, it feels like his cold breath is making love to your throat as it swoops around your neck.
And so, you stay like this… in his arm... until he decides it’s enough, but Eunseok isn’t one to give up easily, so things continue this way. You simply can’t protest because that would ruin the scene.
However, even after going over the same scene several times, it didn’t stick, so the director agreed to let you unwind for the next few hours so that you could focus on the following scene.
And as absurd as it sounds, you might need to expend all of your energy on the next scene. You’ve become tired not just from your long work hours and endlessly repeated dialog lines, but also from being in too much close contact with him. And not to mention that the scene that follows is—
A loud “Action!” comes from somewhere across the room, past the cameras. You’re even deprived of the opportunity to summon all your bravery and take a deep breath. There is nothing you can do about the scene that is already in motion except follow your sync with Eunseok wherever it leads.
This time, the location is a 2nd floor room inside the casino with a glassed view of the floor below where all the ‘magic’ happens. In technical terms, the space you’re in right now is referred to as a ‘control room.’
Control…..
With just the two yellow-toned lamps—one in the corner and one on the metal desk—the room is completely soundproof and somewhat dim. Additionally, the window glass also only sees out but not in, which promises that all intimacy will be trapped inside and not let out.
…. If only you were allowed the right amount of privacy,
but this is a film set, so naturally there are people inside who practically monitor every move you and Eunseok make in great detail.
They… Control…..
His suit jacket, which he had on earlier in the casino, is now draped across the brown leather couch, giving you more intimate time together and expanding his range of motion. And it’s all done purposefully. Everything is a part of the plan, as he’s deliciously in tune with your dress, too.
His glistening velvet suit with diamond motifs fits the ‘rival notion,’ making him an ideal opponent—a fierce equal match for you. This is also reflected in the movie’s concept, which is to give the impression that this is a ‘pair game’ in which both of you are lying in order to get to the big ‘price.’
And all it takes to get there is for you to hurt each other in the process. There are jokes exchanged, teasing remarks, some lighter, some harsher, some even more vulgar, and swear words are thrown around, but neither of your characters ever lets up their confident façade. For they would be falling behind and losing the game if that were to occur.
As you gaze out the window, Eunseok is leisurely leaning against the desk, moving a silver-foil Ace of Hearts card between his black leather-gloved fingers and watching you.
The games themselves give an adrenaline rush, and the lavish, spacious hall downstairs draws in gamblers, but the whole point of the script for him is that you’re a thrill sight and his object of desire. For someone made of steel, your whole sense of appeal lies in the fact that you steal his breath.
The sleek black strapless velvet dress you’re wearing seems to be romanticized by the fake diamonds around the base of your neck. Your smoked eyes and glossed lips are your core points. You don’t long to impress. Your power lies in your strength and independence, but it’s also in elegance, solace, and trance. Another line says, ‘Simplicity is a killer,’ and you certainly are.
However, beneath it all, only you’re aware of how much of a mess you are because he is currently examining you.
... Still, it’s only acting. Eunseok is merely performing in his role as an actor. And, when acting, one can’t really let one’s true self show. As a result, cameras won’t be able to capture how hot you really feel inside or how confused; all you can hope for is that you don’t mess up your next set of lines.
And it’s that scene in the script where everything has built to a climax, and nothing is held back!
When neither of you can decide what brought you together—your shared dislike or your shared goal—and neither of you can explain the bad cues and inexplicable tension.
Where your personal schemes about who will get the ‘shiny stones’ first are screwed by your shared greed and cynicism.
When you two almost simultaneously blow up each other’s plans.
And wherein, in order to make this work for at least one of you, you have selected a room to talk about the remaining options. In this case, the smarter one will really only be the meaner one.
This finally concludes the exchange of hurtful comments; there will be no more!
The door is the most attractive option, and the room is perfectly silent. However, it simply indicates that the first person out has raised the white flag and signed their lost. It’s impossible for either of you to succumb so easily.
Simultaneously, your character is the first to break the dense silence.
“Do you know where we’re going?”
With a rephrased and pointed question, “Where are you going with this?,” you look up at him then, looking a little disappointed and angry at the same time.
Coolly, Eunseok teases, “I’m trying to figure out if I should call it quits.”
As an actor would, his hair is styled to perfection, and the two hair strands that fall into his eyes and give him a luscious appearance are actually just the result of the tireless efforts of the hair and makeup artists who never stop running after him.
You find yourself ‘out of set’ for a split second, wondering what he’s like by himself. How he appears when he wakes up in the morning, how his hair looks after taking a shower, and how his body is dressed in a baggy, worn-out shirt rather than rich pajamas. However, that’s rather a ‘faraway’ Eunseok.
But the present, Eunseok, does he read you?
“You’re only saying that. But I won’t take the bait from you.” Your character is merely attempting to remind his of how he deceived you during the previous poker round. “In fact, I wish you saw you from my view. You ain’t all that, you know?”
Eunseok’s cool and calm demeanor remains unshaken. In fact, he just keeps on getting cocky. Given that you’re affecting him in ways he doesn’t understand, it’s in his character's self-defense mechanism as a means of continuing to taunt your character.
“Really,” he responds, crossing his gloved hands. His vest lifts at his tiny waist, and he tilts his head to one side in a seductive manner. The tone of his voice has been pre-calculated; every syllable has been worked on in detail. His precision in looking at you, moving, and facial expressions is unparalleled.
“See, I’m good for the ego,” his words come across as too sultry, even though he’s the most soft-spoken he has ever been, “but I’m bad for the soul.”
If you two weren’t in front of the cameras, you’d have closed your eyes and allowed his words to give you goosebumps all over your body, but now isn’t the time to do that.
Not that they aren’t doing it already, either...
They’re actually doing that in real time. His voice, his eyes, and his tongue that digs and crawls at the inside of his cheek.
Just a cold-blooded actor. With every take, this terrifyingly skilled individual sends chills down your spine. You almost get the impression that he’s seriously flirting with you because of how excellently he is delivering his role. Nevertheless, the line is exceedingly thin, and the narrative is already in the script. Is it not?
You protest, looking frustrated, saying, “Your games are endless,” yet still simultaneously approaching him more closely to show that you aren’t afraid of him.
Actually, you and him are on the same level. And to add spice to the situation, you say, “However, this time, we both know that you’re going to lose.”
Waving the metallic Ace of Hearts card in your face, his quick silver tongue catches your attention as it runs along his lips. In an attempt to look impressive and put an end to the questions, Eunseok nonchalantly admits, “I like the games I play.”
Although you must maintain your image and stay in character, all you really want is for all of this to end. You can’t take this and him anymore, like the weeks of filming together have reached a breaking point. You want to scream, ‘Cut!’ to put an end to this suffering, but you can’t fail your dream or let your character down either.
It’s as though you’re developing feelings for someone who isn’t even real. As though you are losing all feeling of reality as you observe him from up close. And because you know what is coming up next, you’re damn sure that Eunseok will take a piece of you with him when the lights go out and the cameras stop rolling, and everything is said and done.
Trouble…
It’s in his perfectly lethal-hued dark eyes. In the way the lamp light hits his eyes that makes him look so enticing, like a glass of whiskey on a thirsty day of never being enough. Intoxicating. Mysterious. Dangerous. A glass of trouble, really, and you’re fastly becoming a growing alcoholic.
The narrative he tells you hurts as his words continuously fall from his gorgeous lips and seep into your thoughts and emotions like melted wax.
“The truth is, you can’t get enough of me.” Eunseok’s same eye-level with you decreases as he straightens up from the desk and now gazes a little down at you, imposing a slight dominance. He lifts his gloves, causing some veins in his arms to bulge between where the gloves end and his white rolled dress shirt begins.
Without consent, his gloved fingers begin to crawl upward the inside part of your naked arm, waking goosebumps on their way. The trace is slow and faint, but that is exactly what he wants—for you to disintegrate bit by bit.
“Admit it,” he prompts.
He’s being pretty sadistic and adamant by insisting that you know that he knows how you feel about him; which is precisely the situation, and it leaves you feeling so exposed.
And it’s as if his proximity, presence, and dominance have completely eroded you, your character ‘breaks character’ as it succumbs to his dark charms.
You two are so close that you can understand each other perfectly, even in whispers right now. So you fire back in a private voice, “If I cared more about the truth,” miserable and defeated, “I’d be too aware of who was using who.”
In response, all he does is smirk,
and after making his way to your shoulders, he subtly brushes his thumb along your collarbone. Heat is generated by the tiny friction, and much like a fire match is struck, it ignites sparks in the air.
His hand then moves to brush some hairs away from your face and tuck them behind your ear. The black leather of his glove begins to skim first, then caress your delicate skin and the left side of your face.
His eyes pierce your soul like a knife, so you look from them to his lips, breaking eye-contact. They lust for touch and have a unique, attractive shape.
“Stop!” You voice out in shock at what he’s doing, but do nothing. His gloved fingertips continue to graze your face.
“Wonderfull,” he comments silently.
Your brain is fried...
And while in a daze, you notice that his tie is a little loose around his collar.
For some reason, this makes you feel compelled to tighten it, sealing the last bit of separation between the two of you. Eunseok’s brows furrow in concern as he realizes that this isn’t at all included in the script. Although this is blatant improvisation, the performance must continue as long as the director doesn’t yell cut.
You can understand why his free hand, which lends on your waist, is gripping you so tightly and nervously. He kind of breaks his neck shyly smiling away from you before turning back to face you...
Again, something the scene steps don’t cover.
“It was out of pl—”
‘ace,’ it’s what you attempt to offer as an explanation while the camera is rolling, but you don’t finish saying it... Your mouth stays agape in contrast.
You opened it with an intention, got distracted, and now you hold it open with a fresh thought.
...Him.
Your lip gloss is a mirror of his tiny diamond-studded vest’s sparkle, as are his eyes, which reflect your phoney diamond necklace.
‘How’d you get so pretty?’ Your mind stutters and your body shudders, yet the line is plain to see as it’s painted on your lips—ready to perform, ready to be spoken. How do you allow yourself to say it, though?
But for real, when did his lips become this pretty?
It’s challenging to discern which aspect of yourself feels and which acts. There is a messed-up intersection where your character throbs with the need to kiss his character, and you throb with the need to kiss him.
Can he feel it? Are you obvious? Does anyone in the room have the ability to see right through you, as though you’re a transparent bottle filled with all these bottled wicked wants and needs?
Under the necklace, the skin on your neck contracts, relaxes, and contracts once more.
Your lips begin to quiver as the cold leather finally slides beneath your chin. Lifting it, your eyes are drawn back to meet his. You’re painfully aware that it’ll only take a single kiss to weaken a million truths.
“Fuck,” he utters as he begins to brush your lips, causing the leather to become sticky from the shiny gloss.
Taking back his hand, he starts to rub and then separate his thumb and index finger, examining the degree of stickiness between them. He sighs, “You’re making me want to suggest that we steal those stones together.”
“I’m not stealing any stones with y—”
“I know, I know,” he says, interrupting. “But almost…”
Eunseok looks directly at you and presses his tacky gloved thumb to his lips.....
The flawless pair of strands that get in the way of his eyes symbolize his seriousness while his tongue begins to pick up and taste any bits of whatever is still on his lips…
The intimacy is revolting, but you aren’t even given a chance to die from all the obscenities he’s doing as he continues.
“You are,” his voice becomes quieter as he speaks, “almost making me want to do it.”
His lips draw nearer. His breath is what you inhale.
“Almo—”
As soon as his lips touch yours, the rest of the sentence disappears. Just as your glittery, dark eyeshadow is captured in perfect detail on camera, his splattered letters perfectly entangle in your mouth.
Unsurprisingly, he gives you a desperate kiss with hands that dig into your waist.
The greatest corruption imaginable is a kiss that says, “If you aren’t mine, then I’m making you mine!” A kiss that puts your life and breath in danger. A kiss that tears through the façade and the acting mask, growing ever more dangerously real.
What’s worse is that having spent so much time with him, it’s so evident when he’s unable to pretend. And currently, he surely cannot!
He cannot act as though his lips aren’t needy or that his skin isn’t becoming hotter. Or that when he pulls your body more into his and presses his tongue deeper inside your mouth, his body isn’t trembling just a little bit.
Your hands slip off his shoulders and latch onto this vest, tugging on it just a little bit, even hanging on to it desperately for the life he’s stealing from you.
His heart is pounding beneath your hand, which is hard to comprehend considering that an actor with his level of training shouldn’t even flinch when filming a kissing scene. More so than anyone else, Eunseok exudes an air of magnetism despite being largely composed of steel. The fact that you’re seeing him partially fall apart for the first time is mind-boggling.
It’s truly insane what only a kiss can reveal. And of anything, it isn’t fast. For this is something that you should feel, just as the audience should when it’s their turn.
You whine his character’s name in between kisses, only slightly conscious that you’re still in the heat of filming this scene. However, he just hushes you, nuzzles your nose gently against his, and continues. His low, pretty pants and foul moans layer at your throat, just as yours in his.
Given how far out of script you two are at this point, you’re certain the director has had enough by now and will call it quits at any moment, but that never happens.
It’s gross how much of Eunseok’s tongue encircles yours while his cute nose wrinkles and brushes against yours. It all makes you want him even more. For the worst part, he smiles through it. It’s quite vile since he knows exactly what he’s doing.
You can feel his lips burn from the constant, wild collisions. And his scent seeps into your nostrils. That much is certain: it’ll be difficult to forget this—to forget him.
“Do you—Do you?” he stammers, pressing his lips to yours as he breathes heavily and squeezes your waist so forcefully that you fear his hands will split you in two.
Since it’s an entirely improvised line, he eventually comes up with the right combination of words. “Have you indulged in this fantasy before? Have you—Have you ever thought about kissing me?”
Even though Eunseok’s words are already weighing heavily on your heart and lips, he adds even more bitterness by saying, “You definitely have.” He answers his own question by not even giving you an opportunity to respond.
But then, is it untrue?
Of course not, as you feel the weakness in your knees. You find it somewhat unfair that he has granted himself a space where he’s fusing reality and fiction.
You fight, “It’s—” while making an effort to escape and resist his lips, “It’s just this time,” but it’s mediocre at best.
As you step back away from him, his hands hopelessly slip off your waist and slide back to his side. They appear empty-looking, as though they don’t own anything of value, like something was snatched from their possession.
Now, empty handed, Eunseok is back gripping the metal of the desk. It isn’t like it’s just you who is feeling the effects of those frenzied kisses; he has definitely lost his breath too. His lips are pretty roused and ‘used-looking’, much like after an intense makeout, while the tips of his ears throb as they peek out from under his dark hair.
He somewhat manages to come up with another line even though his fairly strong defensive system is down.
“Then perhaps it’s just been my imagination all those times I thought I felt you thinking about me.”
Your mouth drops open at the same time as the director cries out,
“CUT! Beautiful! Beautiful!” He waves his hands in all directions proudly. “That take was spot-on perfect; we’re done here. I got everything I want here”, he says, tapping the big camera that some other guy is holding, and also exclaiming, “One take. It only took one take!” with excitement. “Excellent improvisation! Reshooting would only sour the spark.” He then successfully clasps his hands and says, “That’s a wrap, everyone!”
You’re left standing in front of Eunseok, glassy-eyed, quite sensitive, and shocked, but optimistic that what the two of you just did is still partially justified by your acting profession.
It looks like he’s blinking more than normal; and blinking is undoubtedly one of the patterns Eunseok exhibits when he’s nervous, which you’ve noticed throughout the months that you’ve been working with him. He also seems to be in denial, with confused lines painted on his temple.
Both him and you stay motionless while looking at each other as the director talks about the scene with a different staff member, his voice only sounding faint and far away in your ear.
“I like a good chase in a scene. To me, that’s everything. The actors must have a compelling chemistry and be aware of their roles. They must have trust in each other and their actions, because making a film is similar to a construction site, it must be built. It’s more than a camera, lights, and action.” Taking off his baseball cap, he gives himself a head stretch. “Trust me… what these two have is lethal.”
The longer the director keeps making observations, the more of the ‘real’ Eunseok is in your presence. Adorable, nervous smiles, head turns, and motions; knitted brows that enlarge his eyes even more. It’s as if he has softened his human side, opened his heart, and ‘thrown his metallic armour away.’
Finally, after hearing the comments, he sort of hisses with a ‘Really?’ while tilting his head to the side and putting on a cute, sarcastic look of suspicion.
“Are you okay?” You ask him in a gentle tone, concerned because it appears he’s thinking through and repeating every step of the scene.
He nods, but his face still wears that expression of shock mixed with denial, and a slight, but still noticeable, shy spark in the far back of his ever so silver persona. It seems like he’s coming to terms with everything that just happened, and he’s still quite riding out the wave.
Now that he has had a taste of how you kiss, it’s quite impeccable how you can bite down like an enemy and later be tender to all of those marks like a friend.
You’re high-key giving him so much more to think about—so many more thoughts to deal with than what the sight of you in your dress had already done for him up to this point.
‘Romance’ slash ‘No Control’ slash ‘Trouble!’
So many twists and turns until the conclusion, but the scene is now over.
The drama is done. The ‘acting’?
Done!
You’ll be taking off your makeup and dressing down, but the characters you just played will still exist within the both of you. That despite the fact that it seems like you two will be avoiding dealing with this for the time being, you’re both actors, and currently, the cost of your acting is your sanity.
Starting today, heartthrob actor Eunseok won’t only continue to cause headaches to the millions of girlies who have his posters hung above their beds, but to you as well.
‘.....Nice.’
© 𝟭-𝟰𝟵. do not copy, translate, repost, and modify my works.
#riize#eunseok#song eunseok#riize scenarios#riize fanfic#riize imagines#riize x reader#riize fic#riize x y/n#riize fluff#riize suggestive#eunseok x reader#eunseok scenarios#eunseok imagines#eunseok fluff#eunseok fanfic#song eunseok fanfic#riize oneshots
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The Evolution of an Echo
Okay well I wasn't planning on doing this now but I decided to strike while the iron is hot and have now started writing a full on character essay at *checks watch* 22:06
But despite his limited screen time, I really love how Echo has been portrayed this season and I really want to have a look at his character evolution over the course of The Bad Batch and how he compares now to who we were first introduced to in The Clone Wars.
Steph waffle about Echo coming up down below! 🧇
@saturn-sends-hugs @inkstainedhandswithrings
So I feel like the main thing we see with Echo is that he generally has more confidence now than he did before. Don't get me wrong, he still had confidence in a combat situation and was not afraid to throw himself into the action if it meant he could help people (self-preservation who?), but he seems to have become more comfortable with being himself, like he's properly found his own identity.
And I think that that is interesting considering what Echo has gone through. Personality-wise (and looks-wise), he is very different to who he once was but he still feels like Echo. We haven't lost him, he's just become more aware of what makes Echo Echo. Because when he was first given the name, he hated it. He didn't like being called that because it stemmed from people teasing him about his habit of repeating orders. While there wasn't any true malicious intent (the Dominoes were his brothers after all), Echo ended up being the target of "bullying" during his early years in the GAR. He was a rule follower and believed that things had to be done by the book for a reason. But that resulted in him getting teased a lot and I don't think he ever truly built up the same level of confidence as some of his other batchmates. And for him, that name probably suggested that everything that made up his identity, everything that made him him, was that name and how it stemmed from his belief that rules were made to be followed. His identity was in some way intrinsically tied to his name.
However, over time we saw that he came to fully embrace the name ("is there and Echo in here?") and over the course of the last couple of seasons, have really begun to see Echo fully living up to his potential, no longer tying himself to the "rule-follower" identity that he had carried with him for so long. Because what happened to him on Skako Minor fundamentally changed who he was: not just physically, but personally as well. He had to navigate being a new person and that meant finding himself again, even if the person he found was not the one he was expecting. And remember that at this point, all of his batchmates are gone; the people who gave him the name that summed up his personality are gone. The Batch don't know the old Echo and in some ways that probably helped him find himself. There was no expectation from them for him to go back to who he was before because they don't know that side of him. It gave Echo the space to breath and I feel like in some ways there was less of a pressure for him to try and go back to who he was.
Now that's not to say that the old Echo isn't still there in some ways. When he first ran with the Batch, he didn't quite have the same level of chaos as them, didn't really have the same way of going about things. And that never fully went away. Look at the way he challenged Hunter in season 2: he didn't instantly fall into doing things that Batch's way, but still held onto his own beliefs. But that confrontation did show a build in confidence. Echo became much more confident in standing up for himself, for doing what he believed even if that wasn't how everyone else wanted to do it. And so much of that stems from what he went through. Echo has been through hell, and if he can prevent that from happening to other people, then he will, even if it means disagreeing with his brothers.
One thing that has stood out to me is how Echo has begun to accept that where he belongs isn't always in one spot. And I imagine that this was something that had never really occurred to him much until this point because he'd only ever really been in one place: with his batch. I mean, they spent rotation after rotation after rotation together on the Rishi Moon. Echo never really had to deal with change until his brothers died. Then he found the 501st and that's when Echo began to adapt to shifts. He was in new places, with new jobs, but he always had one constant: Fives. And yet, following his rescue, that constant was gone. The place that had once felt like home to Echo now didn't feel like that anymore because it wasn't what he remembered. It's why he went with the Batch.
And I think this change was crucial in building the Echo we see today. It was a point in which he learned that home didn't mean one place. And sometimes it didn't even mean the same people. Home is simply where one feels like they belong, and for Echo that isn't always the same spot. It's where he feels like he can truly be himself and for him that means being in a position where he can help people. Whether that be with the 501st, or the Batch, or the Rebellion, Echo has learned to find a place in wherever he feels he needs to be. And that's why he's become so confident: because he has found where he belongs and what truly makes Echo Echo.
So we can look at Echo now and see the change. But we can still see the old him there - the drive to do the right thing, the protectiveness he holds for those he cares about, and the incredibly stressful habit of always putting himself in harms way in order to get things done - but he's embraced it more than ever before. While his screen time has been short this season, what we've seen from Echo is the perfect demonstration of why he was made an ARC and why he has always been so amazing. He is an incredibly talented soldier and now that he's found his calling, he's flourishing. He's embracing the change and he's taking everything in his stride. He's a good leader, a competent soldier, an incredible tactician, and a genuinely nice person who cares about the wellbeing of the people around him. Echo has come out of his shell and truly flourished and it's amazing to see.
And his humour has come back as well! One of the things that was often pointed out was how Echo's jokey side had kind of faded while he was with the Batch and yet over the last season it's come out in full force. Echo finding his confidence has also made him snarkier and bitchier in the best way possible. He knows what he wants and he isn't going to put up with anyone's bs. And what I love even more is how much the Batch have embraced him. They trust him now more than ever; he's their brother and they respect his drive and support him, even if it isn't the path they wanted to take themselves.
Now Echo still has his struggles, he isn't perfect. He can still be overly blunt sometimes, and he still has his vulnerabilities ("I don't enjoy solitude") but they don't make him weak. In fact Echo is stronger than ever and embracing who he is even more. And we can see where his growth has been influenced by those around him; the soft side that has become stronger after caring for Omega and the complete and utter chaos stemming from Fives and the Batch for example.
And you know what, Echo is a fitting name. Not because he repeated orders, but because in everything he does, and everything he proves himself to be, you can see the echoes of his past, who he was, who he's known and who he grew to be.
#it's now 22:58#and I should probably go to sleep#but I will always gush about echo#so enjoy the waffle#the bad batch#the bad batch spoilers#tbb spoilers#arc trooper echo#tbb echo#star wars
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CAN YOU PLEASEEEE WRITE A MATT BOLDY X READER?? theres not enough and i don’t have any ideas to write my own 😭 if it helps, maybe a team usa boldy x reader he was so sweet and super humble then. he really felt like he didn’t fit in because everyone was so good and he always felt overshadowed by the other boys even tho he’s prob better than many of them now 😭
Good Enough - Matt Boldy
Just a short baby
Thank you for the request babe. I charged it a bit but I love it
More to come shortly
enjoy. wc: 840 (credit to gif maker) (don’t steal my work)
“Bolds, you’re gonna be late,” you glance at your phone screen, the screen showing that if he doesn’t leave-well didn’t leave five minutes ago, he’s not going to make his meeting on time.
He simply ignores you.
You wait one minute, then another, and finally turn over in the bed to look at him. His face is barely visible in the early morning hours, but you can make out the just of it. He’s staring, rather blankly, at the ceiling.
“Matty?” You try again.
Finally, he turns to face you, softly sighing and giving you a look that causes your heart to crack a bit. He looks sad, almost dejected, and you can’t fathom why. The night before, he’d been himself, and now the man in front of your eyes has none of the sparkle you’re used too.
“What's wrong, Matty, talk to me.”
You reach out to gently brush his cheek, hoping to entice him to lay out the thought playing his mind. You watch as he ponders, his gears turning, and then, after a moment, he finally speaks.
“I don’t honestly know what’s going on. I just woke up with a horrible feeling. One I haven’t had in a while.”
He tightens his lips after he speaks, almost as if he hates admitting any type of feeling out loud.
You go over what he says In your mind, and then you counter him, shuffling a bit closer to him.
“What feeling?”
As you ask it, you begin gently tracing your hands on his chest. You know he always relaxes when you do this, and once you start, you visibly see the tension in his face lessen.
“I feel like I’m not good enough like I don’t deserve to be here. I feel like I’m not a good fit, just like at juniors.“
His voice catches a bit, and you cuddle even closer to your boyfriend. You hate that he’s feeling this way. What he is saying couldn’t be less true, but Bolds is his own greatest enemy. He beats himself up like this, and it kills you when he does. You’ve never met anyone like him, someone so sweet, kind, and humble to a fault.
“Matthew,” you gently tap his chin, forcing him to meet your eyes. “We all get bad days. We all have bad thoughts, too. But please, baby, never think you’re not good enough to be where you are. You’re such an amazing player and an even better person. No one in this world deserves you, and no team does either. Minnesota is lucky they have you here.”
He stay quiet for a minute, and you would pay any sum of money to hear his thoughts. Instead of speaking, he pulls you in closer, hugging you as tightly as possible and molding your bodies together. He holds you so tight, almost too tight, but you find yourself gently rubbing his back anyway. A few minutes into his hold, he speaks again.
“You’re wrong, though.”
You’re about to fight him. Beat it into him that he is literally everything, but he interrupts you before you can start.
“You deserve me.” He kisses your forehead. “Actually, it’s more like I don’t deserve you, but I happened to get lucky coming here.”
You smile into him, tugging him impossibly closer and giving him a light kiss on his lips. You stay that way for a bit longer, and you can feel his tension leaving him as the minutes tick by.
Eventually, Matthew moves from your embrace and grabs his phone, tapping at it. He finishes, tosses it far away from the two of you, and slithers back into your arms.
“Your meeting?” You question, eyebrow raised.
He gives you a small smirk and then gives a small kiss to your jaw.
“Didn’t you know? I’m sick.” He fake coughs, and feels his forehead. “I let the GM know I need a personal day.
You roll your eyes at the boy in front of you but nonetheless pull him back into your hold deeper. It isn’t usual that you both get a day like this, so you’ll embrace sitting here and being with him for as long as you can. You have a few ideas of what you can do to let the day pass, and that includes movies, food, and reminding him as much as you can that he’s the best man you know.
#hockey#hockey boys#imagine#nhl imagine#hockey fic#hockey imagine#hockey x reader#nhl hockey#nhl x reader#matt boldy#minnesota wild#hockey blurbs#hockey blurb#wild hockey#nhl blurb#nhl24#nhl fic#nhl fanfiction#nhl players#nhl#matt boldy x reader#matt boldy imagine
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