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daydreamingleclerc · 1 year

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playing cards // mason mount

in which; mason is a regular at the coffee shop you work in, and when he ends up taking you home after a boozy day out with your sister, things escalate.

includes; smut, oral (f, m rec), fingering, protected sex, dom!mason, sub!reader, daddy kink, restraints, choking, squirting, face fucking, swearing, begging, i think that's it.

this is the first bit of mason smut i've written in a long time so please be nice !! this is based on a dream i had, plus... coffee shop au’s are just the best au’s. also this is extremely long, in the ballpark of almost 7,000 words. so go grab a snack or a cuppa <3

mason was a common regular at your workplace. it wasn’t uncommon to see him or his friends coming in for coffee, it was close to their work and a quiet enough place for them to unwind. you always thought he was a very attractive man, although you were convinced, he was way out of your league. you had a bold stint one day not too long after a breakup and went over to ask for his name and in turn he’d asked for yours. you’d been building foundations ever since.

you admired him as best you could through your lashes as you prepared his drink. he kept flickering his eyes up to you whenever you looked away, and there was a thick tension among the two of you that seemed obvious to everyone else in the shop but you.

“how are you today?”

mason opened the conversation, resting his arms on the counter as he stretched out his calves. you smiled over at him, “i’m okay, mason. how are you?” he stood up straight and folded his arms over his torso, flexing the muscles under his shirt and you averted your eyes from him momentarily. he noticed, and cocked his head softly. “i don’t think that was the best thing for me to ask, was it? i saw that you guys got kicked out of the league last night, i'm sorry.”

he shrugged his shoulders and pushed his body closer to the counter to let a few people walk past him to the back of the shop, and he rested his elbow on the corner of the counter. he was so close you could smell his aftershave, and you tried to avoid your reaction at every price.

“it’s okay, these things can’t be helped,” he hummed, and then a cheeky smile came to his face, “i’ve been off sick for the last month, who knows. maybe i could’ve changed the result.”

you laughed, admiring his cheekiness, and silence fell among you as you continued to steam the milk for his drink. another set of regulars said hello to you as they walked past the counter, and you smiled over at them. mason watched as you did a beautiful rosetta on the top of his drink.

“i can’t believe you still want me to put chocolate powder on the top of all my beautiful artwork,” you frowned as you sprinkled an even layer of chocolate powder over his coffee, “it’s not even a cappuccino.”

you cleaned the remains of chocolate powder from the side of the cup and placed it on the counter for him with a teaspoon, “there you go,” you smiled, “i even gave you a spoon to swirl in all your chocolatey desires.”

he laughed and even though he’d had everything he’d ordered, he loitered around for a while longer. “you okay? did you order anything else, am i forgetting anything?”

“no,” he said nonchalantly, “i, uh, i forgot to say that i saw you out the other day, at coppa club.”

“oh yeah? on saturday?” you asked, and he nodded, “my sister’s getting married and saturday was a drunken brunch with the wedding party, whereabouts were you?”

“i was on the opposite side of the road, with my sister and her kids. i knew it was you instantly, i almost... uh, wait. that sounded so much better in my head,” he pinched the bridge of his nose and you laughed out loud, head tipping back. “i just wanted to tell you because i thought you looked very pretty.”

“do i not look pretty everyday, mason?”

he laughed, and opened his mouth to speak, but instead stuck his tongue into his cheek and looked at you with a cheeky smirk.

“so, when’s your sisters wedding?”

“july seventh,” you smiled, “why?”

“just curious,” he rocked back and forth on his feet, “do you have a date?”

“no,” you furrowed your eyebrows but then smiled, “why? are you offering?”

“maybe,” he shrugged, and took his drink by the handle, “i guess i'll just have to play all my cards right, won’t i?”

//////

you were the last person mason expected to notice in the ivy at four pm on a friday, but then again, he was the last person you expected to see. your sister was trying to milk every ounce of her engagement as she could, and so today was a day of shopping for her wedding lingerie and drinking before the big day in a month.

he was sat at an elongated table along the wall, and when he saw you he waved. you waved back, and a blush rose to your cheeks.

“who's he?” your sister asked, wiggling her eyebrows. she never missed a trick.

“who? oh.. nobody, he just comes into work sometimes.”

“he’s cute,” she swirled her straw around in her drink, “you should invite him to the wedding.”

“angelina,” you grumbled, rolling your eyes, “you don’t even know who he is.. i don’t even know who he is. not really. don’t tell me you want me inviting a stranger to your wedding.”

angelina shrugged, already half cut as she finished her drink. she pushed the glass to the edge of the table, and tapped on your glass to hurry you up. “anything's better than that muppet you used to date,” she admitted, “and, this one is actually cute.”

“angelina! will you stop?” you sucked your drink through the straw until you hit the bottom of the glass, and immediately the alcohol went to your head, “first you try and get me to invite a stranger to your wedding and then you insult my taste in men.”

“i didn’t insult your taste in men,” she rolled her eyes, and tapped her fingernails on the marble table. you watched as a waiter went up and spoke to mason, furrowing your eyebrows together when he pointed in your direction, “i just insulted your ex, plus, whoever this stranger is, he’s totally into you.”

“angelina, that’s enough!” you couldn’t help but laugh at your sisters stupid attempts at matchmaking. “he’s a customer at work. that's it, now leave it.”

the two of you continued your conversation, and you were relieved to witness the food arrive. angelina was deep in conversation about the wedding band when a bottle of champagne on ice arrived at the table.

“we didn’t order this.” you gestured to the bottle of champagne, and the waiter smiled.

“this is on the house, ma’am,” he lowered the bucket and pulled at the cork. angelina’s eyebrows wiggled ferociously as the young man filled the flutes and placed the bottle back into the ice bucket, “and this note is for you, looks like you’ve got a secret admirer.”

he handed you the card, with writing scribbled inside of it.

‘bottles on me, thanks for all the coffee. playing all my cards right, MM x’

you looked over at mason’s table and tried to hide the growing smile on your face as best you could. he was sat back on the chair, with one arm outstretched on the table and one lazily draped across the back of his chair. with the arm on the back of the chair, he wiggled his fingers and shot you a wink.

“are you sure he’s just a customer?” angelina asked when she nabbed the card from your hands, “because he seems like a man with raging hormones.”

you snatched the card back from your sister and raised your flute glass up in his direction. mason nodded his head and watched you with dark eyes as you took a sip. “i hope you’re gonna take him home with you tonight,” angelina muttered, “that’s if you make it out tonight.”

“lina! enough,” you took another sip of your champagne, “i’ll thank him once we’ve finished eating, okay?”

your sister nodded her head and the two of you got back to eating and enjoying your free champagne, which was going down very well. time passed, and mason was still sitting in his chair, and your lunch was long finished.

“fuck sake, y/n, why don’t you just suck the man off right here, you’re giving him the eyes.” angelina’s words attracted looks from people sitting around you and you kicked your sisters leg under the table. she laughed, pouring herself another glass of champagne from the ice cold bottle. you were anxious to stand up and walk over, two cocktails and two glasses of champagne down, you weren’t sure whether your legs would be able to hold your weight or if you’d wobble like jelly.

the place had begun to pack out now, and within the next half an hour, a few of angelina’s friends would be arriving before you all made your way to meet angelina’s fiance and his friends at one of the other local pubs. mason shifted when he saw you walking over to him, pushing himself forward and licking his lips eagerly.

“trying to get me drunk, mount?”

he took a sip of his drink. “that depends, y/n.”

“on what?”

“on if you’re actually drunk, sweetheart.”

you blushed heavily when he used the name, and he scooted over on his chair to let you perch so you didn’t get knocked over. your sister spun around in her chair and held the glass up to mason, and took a swig while she held up her thumb. he couldn’t help but laugh.

“i’m not, but my sister clearly is.”

when you turned back to mason after he’d waved back at your sister, he was looking directly at your bra, which was on full show underneath your mesh shirt, with ‘ANGEL’ written in diamante’s. he tried to avert his eyes before he was caught, but you were very quick and certainly not stupid.

“liking what you see?”

he laughed, and this time he was the one blushing.

“i always like what i see if it involves you,” his arm draped over the top of the chair again, and his fingertips skimmed your shoulder. when you tipped your head forward and giggled, his fingers tapped at your cheek softly, “what, darling?”

“you’re embarrassingly good with your words, y’know that?” mason laughed and soon, the pair of you felt like the only people in the room. your sisters friends had begun to join her at the table, and you felt a sense of relief. “do you wanna get out of here?”

mason admired your confidence, and it was then that you just happened to catch a glimpse of a familiar face walking past the table. “aren’t you here with your sister?”

“yeah, i am, but her friends are here now, and i've just seen my scumbag of an ex walk past this table,” your eyes followed him walking down the aisle to a table down the back of the room and his eyes locked on yours, “and i think you can play your cards right and take me home for a few more drinks.”

your confidence shone through, and mason wasn’t a stranger to sexual advances. he also knew that you were a confident lady, but he didn’t know you were this confident. he admired it though, and he’d always wanted the chance to shoot his shot, and now it seemed, you’d beat him to it. he had no choice but to oblige. he glanced over in the direction of your ex boyfriend, and pushed his lips up to your ear.

“go and tell your sister we’re leaving, and i'll take you wherever you want to go, sweetheart.”

//////////

your hands shook as you fumbled with the key to your flat, mason hot on your toes. he'd parked his car in the drive next to your complex – an expensive 22 plate mercedes that looked shiny and effortless next to your beat up 12 plate volkswagen polo.

you could feel his body heat radiating onto your back when you managed to push open the door, and relief flooded your face when you saw mason carrying your bags into the hallway.

he put the bags in the corner next to the shoerack, and your flat seemed eerily quiet. “jordan?” you yelled, hanging on a tense pause as you waited to hear a response from your flat mate. no response came and you breathed a sigh of relief when you realised she was at her girlfriends for the night; after you told her you were going out tonight, she probably knew it would be safer for her to be out of the flat so she couldn’t listen to any of your antics.

“you okay?” mason asked, raising an eyebrow, “who’s jordan?”

“my flat mate,” you replied, hopping up onto the counter. “i think she’s gone to her girlfriends for the night, probably for the best.”

“why’s that?”

mason’s eyebrows quirked up and his lips curled up into a smirk. you wanted to punch him in the face, but you also wanted to feel those lips all over your body.

“you’re here,” you pulled at his jacket’s lapels, and he didn’t stop you. his eyes trailed over your body, admiring your bright eyes and flushed cheeks before situating themselves on your chest, “and you can’t stop staring at my boobs.”

“as pretty as your tits are,” mason’s fingers ran over the sides of your body and up to your neck, where one hand gave a soft, experimental squeeze, “i can’t help but notice the word on your shirt.”

you looked down and remembered that the diamante’s spelled out the word ‘angel’. your eyebrows furrowed, feigning innocence.

“what about the shirt? what’s wrong, are some of the diamante’s missing?”

he squeezed your neck again. “it says you're an angel but judging by the state of the bra underneath and how hard your nipples are, i'd say you're more of a brat,” his thumb pushed at your chin until you looked at him, “does that sound like more of a legitimate scenario for you, princess?”

dryness formed in the back of your throat and all you could do was nod. mason tutted and pulled you closer, “oh, sweetheart. you’re not a very fast learner are you?” his thumb brushed your bottom lip, and you let out a held breath that fanned hot, sweet smelling air into his face, “i need you to use your words.”

you leaned in for a kiss but mason pulled away, waiting patiently for you to speak. you squeaked out a small ‘sorry, daddy’, but mason wasn’t satisfied. “what did you just say?”

“sorry, daddy.”

“you can do better than that,” he leaned in and kissed you. it was hot, tantalizing, everything you’d wanted since the very first time he walked into the café, but it was over far too quickly. “but i'll let you off, because you’re so eager to please.”

he leaned in again, and this time the kiss was perfection. his hand fell to your cheek and you wrapped your arms around his neck, allowing yourself to sink into it deeper. the rhythm was easy to flow with, and his tongue soon slipped past into your mouth, telling you he was just as eager as you were. when you bit down on his lip, he winced and squeezed your thigh with his wandering hand. you inadvertently spread your legs, and allowed his hand to wander to your inner thigh.

he touched you everywhere but the place you wanted, and every time he teased you by skimming his knuckles over your clit, he would bite down on your lip to keep your mewls from escaping.

“what’s up, darling? hm? what do you want?”

“your fingers,” you muttered, a soft pink blush coming to your cheeks. mason smirked and you frowned. “please, mason.”

“oh, good girl, you do know how to use your manners.”

without giving you a warning, he stuffed his hand down the waistband of your flared trousers and found your clit immediately. it was soaked, and if your flares weren’t black, the wet patch that had formed would’ve been insanely obvious. he laughed in pity of you.

“god, you're soaked,” his words drowned out your soft moans, “you’ve imagined this before, haven’t you?”

you were ashamed to admit that he was the only thought you needed to get yourself off.

“yes, mason – fuck, yes, right there!”

he swirled your clit between his thumb, letting his fingers explore your folds as much as he could with the lack of room he had due to your trousers. his slender fingers worked effortlessly to tease you, and you were being driven crazy when he circled your hole but didn’t insert them.

“need your fingers, mason,” you breathed, tugging at the hairs on his head.

“you’ve got my fingers, babygirl. you need to be more specific.”

you pouted and let out a pathetic excuse for a whine. mason laughed in pity again.

“need them – fuck – need them inside of me, daddy, please.”

mason's fingers dipped inside of you and curled in a come hither motion, but paused after one long curl. “like this?” he asked, knowing full well from the sound that escaped your lips that was exactly what you wanted. you nodded, and mason grumbled. “words, baby. words.”

“y-yes daddy,” you hummed, and when he curled them inside of you again you almost melted, “fuck, daddy. thank you daddy.”

“you’re welcome, sweetheart.”

mason's fingers were effortless. he had had so much practice, it could’ve killed you. you pushed yourself further to his fingers, leaving yourself dangling on the very edge of the counter, and your trousers must’ve caught on an uneven bit of side, and a snag had hit the bottom. mason saw this as his perfect opportunity, and continued to pull at the snag until it ripped a hole right across the middle of the crotch, and he smirked.

“mason!”

“i’ll buy you all the trousers in the world tomorrow, right now, please just let me focus on making you cum.”

now, with more space, mason used it to his advantage. he pushed you back so you laid flat on the counter, albeit uncomfortably, and his fingers pushed into you so much deeper, so much easier, stretching you out so deliciously you felt as if you were gonna scream.

he leaned down and flicked your clit with his tongue teasingly, which sent you into overdrive. you cried out, desperately begging him to make you cum. his tongue flicked your clit in tandem with his fingers inside of you, totalling three so far.

“your pussy feels so good clenching around my fingers, darling,” mason left kisses to your pubic bone, “imagine how its gonna feel clenching my dick.”

your orgasm was teetering on the edge, and you could feel yourself beginning to erupt. “mason, ‘m gonna... please.. please can i...”

he hummed against your clit and it triggered one of the biggest and best orgasms you’d ever had. you saw literal stars, and for a minute you feared that you weren’t going to stop seeing those stars. your hand came to mason’s hair and you tugged at it, pulling him off of your clit and bringing yourself back up to a sitting position.

mason’s lips locked on yours and you moaned when you tasted yourself on his tongue. his kiss was hot, effortless, and when you pushed the jacket from his shoulders, he didn’t stop you. his hands roamed across your body, fingers sending goosebumps across your torso as he ran them up under your shirt.

“can i...?” mason asked, fingertips tugging on the hem of the mesh shirt, and you nodded, holding your arms up for him to pull it off, but instead, he tugged at the mesh until it ripped. you let out an agitated groan.

“do you have a kink for ripping women’s clothes or something?”

mason laughed and slipped the broken mesh into the back of his trouser pocket. “the wording on that shirt was bullshit, princess, i was just doing you a favor.”

you wrapped your arms around his shoulders again as you sunk back into a kiss, the embarrassing wet patch underneath you beginning to grow again. mason's hands hoisted your legs onto his waist and when your legs crossed over his lower back, his palms splayed on your bum so he could lift you. lifting you was easy for him, and he never once showed that it wasn’t, and you couldn’t help but get even more turned on by his immense strength.

“where’s the bedroom?” he asked, lips moving from yours down to your neck. he sucked a small red mark onto the skin and when you didn’t answer, he stopped. “i’m talking to you, sweetheart.”

“uh, um.. it's down the hall on the left,” you mumbled, stretching your neck out so he could go back to licking and sucking a mark on the underside of your chin. “i’m not allowed these for work, mason.”

“and yet, you’re begging me for more,” mason kicked open your bedroom door with his foot and pushed you up against the wall where he could continue to suck at your skin, “i might as well write my fucking name on your skin.”

you couldn’t help but grind your crotch on the button of mason’s jeans. there were so many ridges and sensations that you were able to be provided, and you were already sensitive. plus, mason’s dick was hard and the idea of dry humping him in this position made you lose your mind. mason tutted, but didn’t stop you when you grinded down on the very top of his thigh.

“such a dirty fucking girl,” he taunted, “i’ve already given you an orgasm and you’re desperate for another one, hm?”

“y-yes, daddy,” you squeaked, hitting a particularly good spot. you knew you should’ve stopped, but you were so close to cumming again, you really didn’t want to. “please, don’t make me stop. please let me get myself off on you, daddy.”

“using me for your own sexual pleasure, darling,” he hummed, “that’s supposed to be what i was doing with you,” he cooed so effortlessly you were hardly focusing on his words, so caught up in chasing your close orgasm. mason tucked some hair behind your ear, “how can i ever say no when you look so pretty with your eyes rolling back, hm? such a bad little girl.”

mason's words sent shivers down your spine and you could feel the orgasm tinkering inside of you. “mason, please... please let me... ‘m gonna... fuck!” you couldn’t finish your sentence, and words turned into syllables and syllables turned into breaths as you cried out during your second orgasm. mason's hands eased you back to reality, and you unhooked your legs from his waist, standing down on your floor with wobbly thighs.

mason's dick was now rock hard, and he was fighting off every urge to fuck you then and there. you looked so dazed already, so fucked out and he’d hardly even touched you. it made him pity you again.

mason’s hand went to his crotch, and groped at his dick through the material, giving himself a very small moment of relief. you couldn’t help but admire him, and he in turn, adored the way you looked at him with innocent eyes, knowing full well the intentions behind them were anything but.

“gonna help me out here, princess?” mason’s fingers unhooked his button, and you nodded as you got to your knees, and he thought he was going to explode then and there. “this is your doing after all.”

you took over taking off his jeans, pulling them down his legs until they pooled at his feet. his dick looked freer now, springing up in his calvins and he let out a gentle breath of relief at the feeling of no more claustrophobia. mason pushed at the waistband of his boxers until he pushed them down just enough for his dick to spring out, and your eyes widened at the sight before you.

“liking what you see, darling?” he asked, a rather cocky question on his behalf. if you weren’t so desperate to choke on it, you’d have punched him in the face.

“yes,” was all you could say for the time being. it was bigger than you’d anticipated, but it turned you on to know he was packing all this heat.

“don’t keep me waiting, y/n,” mason said sternly, wrapping his fingers around his dick and jacking himself off for a few seconds to yield some relief. “show me what that pretty little mouth can do.”

you did as you were told, scooting closer until you were face to face with his dick, and when you held your tongue out to his head and let it rest there while your fingers wrapped daintily around the base, mason groaned. you never broke eye contact while you began to take him into your mouth, inch by inch.

mason's eyes almost rolled to the back of his head when your nose finally hit his skin. it took you a few attempts to get to this point, and it was slow, and it drove him crazy. his dick twitched as it sat down your throat and you made an inadvertent gagging noise, and as the muscles of your throat contracted around his flesh he groaned, his hands springing to your head to hold it there.

your hands braced around his knees to keep yourself steady, and when he let go of your head and you pulled away, a string of spit connected you to the head of his cock. you broke it off with your tongue and soon, the soft, slow burial of mason’s dick down your throat became faster, sloppy and wet. you got comfier on your knees and brought your hands up to help with what you couldn't fit in your mouth. spit trickled from your bottom lip every time you pulled off his dick and pooled at the spot on the floor between your bodies.

“fucking hell,” mason groaned, throwing his head back as you gave him arguably the sloppiest, best head of his life. “you’re such a good girl, hm? so eager to please.”

you nodded as best you could with his dick down your throat, and he groaned again at the garbled sounds that spilled from your mouth when you tried to speak, the vibrations sending shivers down his spine. he pulled at his shirt, tugging it up over his torso and pulling it off his body, and you watched as his muscles tightened and contracted.

the wet patch had returned, and you could feel your thighs slick with your own juices.

“stay still, babygirl,” mason groaned, bringing his hands to either side of your head, “your throat is so wet, and you look so beautiful with my dick down your throat, i've just got to fuck your face, just for a minute.”

a garbled ‘ok, daddy’ tumbled from your lips and mason groaned once again. his eyes landed on yours and he held eye contact with you as he began to fuck your throat, and the spluttering and spitting of your throat contracting around him at such a fast pace left him feral. he would be thinking of this moment for months to come.

“fucking hell, that’s it,” mason’s hips thrusted and he threw his head back, relishing in the feeling of your throat, “such a dirty fucking girl, aren’t you? letting me fuck your face like this. i bet you love it, don’t you, baby?”

you tried to answer, but the words only came out mashed and garbled around his dick. mason had to pull out before he came in your mouth, and so, reluctantly, he stopped.

“if you let me fuck your throat like a whore, i can’t imagine how you’re gonna let me fuck your pussy.”

mason pulled you up and you kissed his lips teasingly before bending over the bed and looking back at him over your shoulder.

“why don’t you come and find out, daddy.”

mason thought he was going to explode in that moment, having someone so eager and ready for him left his mind spinning. his whole body felt as though it were jelly in that moment, for some reason he was just itching for you, but he also wanted to take his sweet time.

he stepped out of his jeans and pushed your legs, so you were laying across the bed on your back. you looked ethereal, and he reached down around your back to unhook your bra; in hindsight, it would’ve been much easier for him to do this first, but he needed to see you fully naked, splayed out in front of him.

you pulled your bra off of your arms, and mason watched as he stared at your body in awe. he couldn’t help but suck a nipple into his mouth and draw out delicious sounding moans from your lips, which only spurred him on further.

“mason...” you whimpered, desperate for some sort of relief.

“yes, darling?”

“please,” you felt your throat drying up, “please can you fuck me?”

the pair of you were just as desperate for one another, and mason soon realised that trying to string along the inevitable for at least the first round was impossible. he admired your naked body for a few moments longer, and you in turn admired his naked one too.

“seeing as you asked so nicely,” mason teased, and fumbled with the back pocket of his jeans on the floor, and when he turned back around with the broken mesh in his hands, he smirked at you, “but only if you put your wrists together.”

you did as he asked, and he guided your arms up so they were high over your head and allowed you to spin around and get your head comfortable on the pillows. he tied a knot around your wrists with the mesh fabric and gave it an experimental tug to see if it would hold, which it did.

“do you have anything?” you asked him, and he shook his head. “i’ve got some in that top drawer, you’re gonna have to get them though.”

“probably should’ve asked me the question before i tied you up, sweetheart,” mason couldn’t help but laugh as he fumbled in the drawer for the condoms until he grabbed a few and scattered them across the bed, “ooh, flavoured? aren’t you adventurous.”

“fuck you,” you taunted, and mason leaned down to press his lips to yours, shutting you up.

“good job that’s exactly what i'm about to do, baby.”

he rolled the condom on with no problems and leaned down to press his lips to yours again, one hand on your wrists and another guiding himself to your entrance. you looked so beautiful that he couldn’t help but admire you one last time.

“let me know if it gets too much, okay?”

“okay,” you nodded, and with that, mason pushed his tip inside of you.

a shiver rolled down your spine at the feeling, and he couldn’t help but hold his eyes on yours to see the way they rolled back as he stretched you out. your eyes fluttered softly, and your pupils rolled around to the back of your head multiple times before you came to, and he wasn’t even all the way inside of you yet.

“jesus, you’re still so fucking tight,” mason couldn’t help the words falling from his lips, with every clench of your pussy around him. “even after everything i’ve given you.”

you nodded, unable to speak, and it made him laugh again. the speed of his hips began to increase, and soon you were arching your back and relishing in the feeling of mason’s dick inside of you. your hands were held firmly in place with one of his, it seemed he could sense that you would still try and touch even though they were tied. he was a smart man.

“need you to go faster mason, baby,” you fought for breath underneath him, “want you to go faster, daddy, please.”

his lips attached to your neck and he sucked another mark into the flesh and you arched right up into him as he did so. he loved the way you reacted to his touch, it only spurred him on more. with his free hand, mason hoisted your leg up onto his shoulder, so that not only was he going faster, he was going much deeper now too.

“like this, baby?”

“mhm, fuck,” the new angle had let the tingles swarm in your belly, “just like that daddy, fuck!”

“see, i knew that shirt was a lie, darling. angel's don’t beg for cock the way you do, do they?”

you shook your head, no, desperately clinging onto your orgasm which was fast approaching. mason's arms flexed as you fluttered your eyes open to see one tensed as he held your calve, and one tensed as he held your wrists. he looked so good, sweat had begun to form on his hairline and his tattoos glistened on his torso, it was enough to drive you wild.

his mouth leaned down to one of your nipples and when his teeth sunk into the sensitive flesh you yelped, but then the hand that was on your wrists travelled down to your clit and began to rub soft circles on the bud, and you were so close to cumming you could’ve screamed.

“mason... i... i can feel it,” you mumbled, “mason, please... please can i...”

“you need to ask properly, baby,” the sound of his words vibrated across your chest and ran right through your body. his thrusts were harsher now, his hips moving deeper with every thrust and you weren’t sure you could take anymore. “go on, ask me nicely.”

“please...” you had to compose yourself before asking, “please can i cum, daddy?”

mason grunted at your words and as you clenched around him for extra measure, he knew he couldn’t say no. “since you asked so nicely, little one.”

your orgasm hit quickly, slamming through your body and leaving you with convulsing ramifications. you were so overstimulated that you couldn’t control your body’s actions and when mason pulled out, a trickle of liquid followed. it was embarrassing, and you tried to hide your face but failed due to your tied wrists.

mason tore the condom off and shifted up the bed, so he was kneeling with his dick against your mouth. still laying down, you opened up and let him use your mouth the way he wanted.

“wetting the bed all because i fucked you so well, babygirl, hm? how sweet.”

he tapped your cheek and with every shallow thrust of his dick in your mouth, you gagged around him. he twitched on your tongue and you held it out for him to paint white. he came with a loud, gutteral groan of your name and his juices landed all across your chin and neck.

by the end, your arms were exhausted and you were in desperate need of a nap. mason untied your wrists and found some wipes on your desk and helped clean up your face, to which you thanked him with a kiss.

“can you stay?” you asked, after a long moment of silence. “as much as i've been trying to avoid it, i quite like you and i think it would benefit me if i asked you to stay.”

he smiled, a bright, beaming smile that made your heart flutter. “of course i can,” he lay flat on his back and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, encapsulating you in his warmth. “i quite like you too, y’know.”

“i know, you haven’t been very good at avoiding it,” you turned to look at him as he stared at the surroundings of your bedroom. “so, are you free july seventh?”

his lips upturned into a smile, “why? are you offering?”

“i guess you played your cards right after all.”

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tortillamastersblog · 7 days

Text

♕ No Matter What - Part 4 | Lena Luthor ♕

Pairing: Lena Luthor x reader

Warnings: mentions of death, minor injuries and anxiety attacks

Summary: Following the fight, you run away, your mind spiraling…

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 5 | Part 6

________________________________________________

In my blind haste to get away, I bump into people which results in them spilling their drinks and shouting at me.

It’s muffled though because my ears are ringing and I have to blink rapidly to prevent the room from drifting out of focus.

I can’t faint now. Not here.

I push through my dizziness and finally make it outside where I stumble to my car. I fumble with the keys, trying to unlock it so I can at least lay down in the backseat, but my hands are shaking too much.

With a whimper I give up, my knees buckling beneath me. I have just enough sense left in me to slide down the side of the car and lean against the tire, rather than letting myself fall forward.

Coward.

The man’s voice keeps replaying in my head until it slowly but surely turns into my dad’s.

I wince and hug my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth with my eyes squeezed shut. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Numb. It’s the only way I can describe how I’m feeling. It’s the only thing I felt for the last couple of days and now I’m at my parents’ front door.

My uniform feels tight and suffocating, and I have to clench my fist to prevent myself from tugging at my collar.

Harper is next to me and she isn’t looking to be doing much better. Her face is void of any emotion and she has the sunken eyes of someone who hasn’t slept all week.

Her blonde hair is slicked back beneath her cap and tied together in a regulatory braid and her uniform, not unlike mine, is crisp and clean.

“Good evening, Sir,” Sergeant Lane says once the door opens. The way he’s standing is shielding Harper and I from view, but when he steps aside, taking off his cap, my dad’s eyes land on us.

He freezes and his face falls. My mom appears a second later, taking in the scene with furrowed eyebrows.

“Y/N, Harper?” she says, her gaze—whether it’s consciously or not—darting to the empty space next to Heather. “What’s going on? Why are you home? Where’s Noah?”

The first tear rolls down my cheek and I wipe it away aggressively, but it’s only the first of many and a second later I’m sobbing. I clasp my hands over my mouth to muffle the sound and lean my head back against the tire.

“How could this happen?” my dad hollers, his voice cracking.

Harper and my mom are huddled up on the couch, crying.

I’m standing in front of the coffee table, my cap in hand, while my dad paces through the room.

“Dad, we did everything we could,” I choke out. I haven’t cried yet. I haven’t cried since I begged Noah to keep his eyes open. “I did everything I could.”

“No you didn’t!” My dad spins around and stares me down with so much hatred, I have to avert my tear-filled eyes. “You didn’t go after him, you—!“

“I couldn’t!” I interrupt with a pained cry. “We were under direct fire.”

My mom lets out a sob and buries her face in Harper’s shoulder.

“But you let him run off!” My dad fires back.

“I didn’t let him do anything,” I cry, “He disobeyed direct orders!”

“You were his superior officer!” My breath catches in my throat when I’m suddenly yanked forward by the collar of my uniform. “It was your job to keep him safe!”

I look up to find my dad baring his teeth, the vein in his forehead throbbing dangerously. When he speaks again, his voice is low and shaky. “He enlisted because he looked up to you. He did everything to impress you and get your approval, and now he’s dead because you did nothing.”

“Dad…” I whisper, the tears I’ve been holding back now dripping down my face.

My dad’s lip twitches and his grip on my collar tightens for a moment before he shoves me away. “Leave.”

Eyes widening, I straighten out my uniform and look at my mom for help, but she’s still crying into Harper’s shoulder. “Dad, please…”

“LEAVE! I DON’T EVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN,” he shouts, shoving me again.

I don’t fight back. I can’t. I look at my mom again and this time I can tell she’s purposefully not looking at me. Neither is Heather, I realize, which shatters my already broken heart.

They think it’s my fault, too.

I choke out a sob and run out of the room.

“You’re a coward, you hear me?” My dad shouts after me when I open the front door. “Coward!”

“Hey,” a soft voice rips me from the memory. My eyes snap open, and I scramble to get away, but then familiar green eyes find mine and I stop.

“It’s okay,” Lena says. She’s crouched down in front of me in her heels, a position I’m sure isn’t exactly comfortable. She reaches for my hand and I let her take it. “You’re okay.”

I gulp and clench my jaw, not attempting to hide the tears that are still running down my face. My heart is pounding in my chest and everything’s still a bit muffled, but I’m no longer on the brink of passing out.

Lena stays with me for what feels like hours, holding my hand in silence and running her thumb over my knuckles until the ringing in my ear finally stops and I feel like I can breathe normally again.

“Ms. Luthor,” I croak, my voice hoarse from crying. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I shouldn’t have—“

Lena squeezes my hand and shakes her head. “Don’t apologize. Let’s just go. I’m taking you back to my place. I can’t in good conscience leave you alone after what happened tonight.”

I want to protest, but the headache that is starting to form has me agreeing with a dejected sigh.

I pull myself up, my knees still a little weak, before helping Lena who’s struggling to get up herself because of her heels and her dress.

Without saying anything, she reaches forward and roams around in the pockets of my jacket until she finds my keys.

The proximity makes my ears tingle, but I ignore it as best as I can because it’s super inappropriate. Not only because of what just happened but because she’s my boss. My very attractive boss…Of course I’ve noticed, I’m not blind, but she’s off limits.

It’s clear that she intends on driving, so I get in the passenger seat, my body slumping against the door as soon as I’m done putting my seatbelt on.

“Wait, what about the others?” I ask when Lena starts driving. I lift my head off the window and look at her.

She glances at me for a second before focusing back on the road. “We split up to look for you when you ran off. I texted them as soon as I found you. They’re probably on their own way home.”

Relieved and, admittedly a little touched that they all went looking for me, I lean my head back against the window. My eyes however stay on Lena whose profile is on full display since her hair is in a high ponytail.

She really is beautiful, especially now because her guard is down. Her face is relaxed and so are her shoulders. Gone is the raised eyebrow and the clenched jaw.

She looks younger like this and it makes me realize just how much stress she’s under all the time.

When we come to a stop in front of her building she looks over, slightly startled that I’m already watching her.

“Are you alright?” she asks, a barely noticeable flush making its way to her cheeks.

I send her a tired smile and nod, too exhausted to respond verbally.

“Okay,” she mumbles, ducking her head shyly and opening her door.

I get out myself while she hands the keys to the building’s valet. She also slips him some money and says something which I don’t catch because I’m waiting by the door.

The elevator ride up to the apartment is silent and when we get inside I’m unsure what to do. Lena’s by my side though and leads me through her bedroom and into the bathroom where she guides me to sit on the edge of the bathtub.

I raise an eyebrow, not quite sure what she’s planning on doing but then she wets a small towel and gestures at my face. “May I?”

I look past her to see my reflection in the mirror and grimace. The blood that ran from my nose earlier is now dried and all over my mouth and chin. Some of it also got onto my shirt and jacket alongside the beer and liquor stains I acquired when I was bumping into people.

My eyes find Lena’s again and I nod, showing her that I’m okay with her cleaning my face.

She starts a little hesitant at first, but soon the hand that is not holding the towel is on my chin, directing my head every which way.

Again, the proximity is making me nervous, but I can’t help but watch her while she works. Her brows are furrowed in concentration and she bites her bottom lip every now and then.

I gulp when she wipes the last of the blood away, her face now merely a couple inches from mine because she leaned in to get a better look.

Her eyes dart up to mine and when she realized how close she is, she freezes. Her breath is shallow and her hand drops from my chin to my chest.

I don’t move. I can’t. Not when her eyes are taking in every detail of my face.

Then, as if on cue, there’s a knock at the front door.

Lena snaps out of her daze, panicking slightly, and rushes out of the room.

My shoulders fall and I take a deep breath. This has never happened before. Yes, we’ve shared some small talk and coffee here and there, but we’ve never been alone like this. We’ve never been this close.

Before my mind can go down a rabbit hole and dissect every interaction I’ve had with the young CEO, Lena returns with a plastic bag.

“What’s this?” I ask to break the tension that her return has inadvertently created.

Lena pulls what looks to be a plain grey sweatshirt and some sweatpants from the bag and hands them to me.

“I figured you wouldn’t want to be sleeping like this,” she gestured at my stained shirt which now that I’m thinking about it smells like booze.

I get up and shake my head, attempting to give the clothes back. “I really can’t take this, Ms. Luthor. You’ve done more than enough and I— I should probably go home.”

Lena looks almost disappointed, but it’s quickly replaced by determination. “No, I’m not letting you leave. I—“ she hesitates— “know what it’s like to be alone after something like tonight, so I’m not letting you go home. You can stay in my guest bedroom. ”

I really want to say no and just go home, but the pleading look she’s giving me convinces me to give in with a sigh. “Alright, thank you.”

Lena smiles softly and pushes the clothes back into my arms. “Don’t thank me. It’s the least I can do after the way you defended me tonight.”

This time it’s my turn to get all shy and squirmy. I feel my ears tingle and tighten my grip on the clothes. I could have just told the guy to keep it moving, but I did defend her to him and let’s just say that that is not something that falls within my job description.

“It was nothing,” I reply honestly.

“No,” Lena says lowly. “It was everything.”

I look up to meet her eyes again to find her already watching me with something I can’t quite place.

She takes a careful step forward, her eyes not leaving mine, and ends up placing her hand on my forearm after hesitating and not really knowing where to put it. My heartbeat soars at the contact and the skin on my arm where she’s touching me is heating up.

She squeezes softly and sends me one last smile before leaving me to change. “Good night, Y/N.”

“Good night, Ms. Luthor.”

________________________________________________

Again, not proofread yet but I wanted to get it out sooner rather than later.

I have an exam coming up, so I won’t be able to write as much, but I’ll try my best to keep updating this story.

Also, here you go @nuianced-tck-enby :)

#x reader #fluff #lena luthor x reader #lena luthor #dc universe #dcu #cw supergirl

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mae-gi-writes · 9 months

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Chef! Jay knows your order by heart by now. He sees you every morning in that pretty little attire of yours on the way to work, and doesn’t even bat an eye to start your morning coffee drink before you even have the chance to order.

“Thank you,” you’d say every single time, still surprised that he gets it right. And on time. Enough that you can make it to work without having to run like a madwoman.

Chef! Jay didn’t really care for you at first because he just lives in his own world; he cooks and people praise him, and that’s that. But everything changed when you stumbled into his restaurant one late evening, heartbroken and on the verge of tears, as you ordered yourself one of the ramen specials.

Chef! Jay’s been watching you since then. At first, out of pure worry because that evening you had cried and cried and cried until you’d passed out on the dinner table.

“Life is unfair.” You’d moan, “i want to die.”

Chef! Jay had to call a taxi to bring you home, with the help of a female employee in ensuring you got there safely. Chef! Jay, who would watch you from the corner of his eye every morning, who can’t meet your eye and thanks god that you don’t remember what happened that night because he himself feels embarrassed for you.

Chef! Jay, who finally musters up the courage to mutter a soft “hello” when he passes you your coffee one day, and blushes red to the tips of his ears when you greet him back shyly.

“You know my order.” You say.

He flushes, “I do.”

“What’s your name?”

Chef! Jay, who finds himself getting smitten with the way you hold your cup (with two hands) and the way you look at him (like he puts stars in your sky just because he remembers your order). Who tell you that the restaurant is “still open” despite the fact that it’s thirty minutes after closing time, who cooks your food with utmost care and can’t help but grin to himself when you seem to enjoy the food.

Chef! Jay, who slowly but surely handles your heart with the utmost care; on your bad days, on days where you feel excited to be alive, on days where living is just tough.

“You know chef Jay, I really should thank you for taking care of me so well.” You tell him one day after service as you watch him clean up his utensils, “and your food is amazing, as always. I’m surprised you haven’t found yourself a wife yet. Women fall at your feet, don’t they?”

“I’m not interested.”

“Oh?” You blink at him, “sorry, I didn’t know you batted for the other team—“

“No that’s not what I meant,” he looks at you then, piercing gaze and hard mouth, “I’m interested in someone else.”

Chef! Jay, who despite feeling embarrassed that night, decides to step up his game when he gets the hint that maybe you like him back, who grasps your hand just as youMre leaving the restaurant only to grin at the blush littering your cheeks.

Chef! Jay, who starts flirting with you when he’s off-service and who can’t help but flush red when he accidentally cages you against the kitchen counter one night. Chef! jay, who tries to search your face for any signs of discomfort only to be taken by surprise when you lean up to press a soft peck to his lips.

Chef! Jay, who decides that your lips taste the best when he cups your cheeks to kiss you one more time, savouring the heat and the taste of you upon his tongue and who shudders upon hearing you whine softly when he tugs your hips closer to him.

Chef! Jay, who realizes that he’s in a bit too deep when you agree to come back for an official date the next day.

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kermitkrqb · 1 year

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The Usual pt. 3 || Tyler Galpin x reader

A/N: I was going to release this part earlier but tumblr screwed me over and deleted my draft. I had to rewrite it all, fun times 😃. Also wanted to make you guys squirm a bit before I released it haha. ANYWAYS, this is the final part! 🥳

What to expect: Gender neutral reader, reader is a flirt, Tyler is so down bad, no spoilers!!!

Tyler had been anticipating closing time for the rest of his shift. In any other scenario he hated working the closing shift, usually due to the occasional straggler who would stumble in just before close and try to convince him to make them “just one drink” after he had already cleaned the machines. Tyler scoffed at the mere thought, he doesn’t get payed enough for that. With one final sweep of his broom, the brunette finished the last of his closing duties, sitting down in the booth with the two hot chocolates laid out on the table. As if on cue, you strolled through the door, offering the boy a small wave as you sat across from him. A warm smile spread across Tyler’s face, “You came.” You took a sip from the disposable cup, indulging in the flavour, “Of course. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” The coffee boy grinned tilting his head slightly, “Me or the hot chocolate?” You smirked playfully teasing, “The hot chocolate of course,” you held the cup in your hand examining it once more, “in all seriousness, how do you make these? They’re so good, it’s actually insane!”

Tyler smirked, “A barista never reveals his secrets! Besides, it gives you an excuse to see me.” Placing your cup on the table before you, you leaned in, “Oh please, like I need an excuse to see you.” Bringing the cup to your mouth you took another sip, admiring the richness of the chocolate you groaned, “God, I might have to start coming back to you everyday.” The curly haired boy grinned at your reaction, “Yeah? I have that effect on people.” You playfully gasped, “Get your mind out of the gutter, Galpin!” Tyler retorted, “Get my mind out of the gutter? How ‘bout you? We’re talking about hot chocolate obviously.” You played along rolling your eyes, “Obviously.” Tyler admired the smile that now adorned your face, and then decided to tease you more, “Careful now, wouldn’t want your eyes to pop out.” Grinning at him you joked, “Wouldn’t be the first time.” Tyler watched as you took another sip, deciding to fill in the silence, “I still don’t know your name y’know.” You smirked, a twinkle of mischief in your eyes, “Oh I know.”

The barista groaned at your response, his honey eyes stared into yours as he pleaded, “Please don’t leave me on another cliffhanger.” You held eye contact with the boy’s expectant eyes, “Don’t you worry. I’m not that mean,” you paused, “Y/n. Y/n L/n.” Tyler smiled softly, “Pretty. Now I can finally put a name to that face.” He looked down at the cup you held, “You really like hot chocolate, don’t you?” You tilted your head, sarcasm dripping from your voice, “However could you tell?” The brown eyed boy played along, “I had an inkling.” The two of you spent the next hour or so conversing in all sorts of random topics before you checked the time on your watch. You swore under your breath, “Shit. I’ve got to get back to my dorm before Thornhill starts getting suspicious,” you glanced at the Galpin boy before smirking, “This date was really nice. Yet again, I’d expect nothing less from my favourite coffee boy.” You threw the empty cup in the bin, waving once again at the pale boy before turning on your heel. Tyler stood up almost knocking the table over before he rushed to you, grabbing your hand as gently as he could in his state, “You have got to stop walking out on me,” he chuckled, “Can I at least get your number?”

Grinning sheepishly at his accusation, you moved your hand to summon the pen on the counter that was now in your reach. Gently turning over his hand you wrote your digits down careful not to smudge them. Turning once again you were about to leave the Weathervane, although, his sweet hand never left yours. Spinning you around, you tilted your head in confusion, “Wha-” He spoke in a hushed whisper, “You forgot something.” Cupping your face, Tyler leaned in silently waiting for your approval. Just as desperate, you nod, and the boy’s soft lips are on yours moving perfectly in sync. Your breath hitched as you clutched the collars of his uniform, pulling him impossibly closer as he kissed you like a starving man. To the honey eyed boy it felt electric, sparks filling his chest as he got lost in you. He wished for the moment to never end, scared that you would slip away through his fingers like sand but, he would be seeing more of you than he thought. Catching your breath you pulled away with slightly swollen lips and a flushed face, “See you again tomorrow, Tyler.”

A/N: Tyler finally unlocked first name privileges!! Go him! 🥳

#tyler galpin x reader #tyler galpin #wednesday netflix #wednesday fanfic #fanfiction #fluff #kermitkrqb

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jayteacups · 1 year

Note

Got me thinking of Levi going to get his wisdom teeth removed. Everyone is suuuper excited with phones at the ready because he’s no doubt going to say some weird ass shit. They gotta record him. 📸

Instead he’s super super normal and straight faced. Super tired 😪 It’s only once they put their phones away that he starts mumbling nonsense.

TAY i’m so sorry this has taken so long. I’m FINALLY clearing out my inbox and drafts folder and completely forgot that this has been sitting here for like... months. It’s been finished for ages, I just forgot to queue it up to post 😭😭 pls forgive me

Anyways enjoy these hcs. hope this isn’t too cringe

Levi getting his wisdom teeth removed

Now, he obviously did not want anybody other than you to know he was getting his wisdom teeth removed, clearly because he a) actually gets pretty nervous for any medical procedure, and b) does not want people to record him high on pain meds

Somehow, though, Hange finds out (because they always find out)

And they set up camp at your and Levi’s shared apartment to surprise you two when you drive him home from the appointment

You groan and sigh upon unlocking the door and just hearing many footsteps pattering towards the front door, and you instantly raise your eyebrows at the culprit. Hange just shrugs and says they had to be there

Connie’s struggling to contain his laughter as he and Sasha not-so-discreetly take their phones out and start recording him. You try and whack the phones away but Mikasa, with a straight face, pulls up her hand-held DS camera saying something about this going in the family home-made videos (because the Ackerman family--and by that I mean Kuchel because she’s alive and well in this universe--always makes home-made video compilations of the year), Historia high-fives Mikasa, and you sigh. To his credit Eren looks terrified that he even got roped into this at all, the poor boy is sweating like CRAZY. Jean’s not faring much better to be completely honest. Weirdly enough, Armin looks mildly entertained.

They’re expecting Levi to be super loopy and out of it, but other than feeling a little woozy and needing to put an arm around you so that he can stumble into the house without the risk of tripping, he seems perfectly lucid. More like he has a bad headache than being on pain meds.

Immediately upon seeing the audience, he gives them his trademark glare, swipes for Connie’s phone and successfully snatches it out of the boy’s hand, and gives it to you for safekeeping. He’s cussing them out as normal, telling them to ‘get out of [his] hair and leave him be’ without any actual bite to it, and even though there’s gauze in his mouth and his jaw is swollen he sounds relatively normal.

Sighing in disappointment everyone puts away their phones, which makes you sigh with relief as everybody skirts around you, letting you help Levi get settled on the sofa, even as he continues to protest that he can sit down and get cozy by his damn self, thank you very much.

Though they did initially show up in the hopes they’d catch him saying something stupid, the group is willing to help you take care of him (to which he protests that he doesn’t need half a dozen mother hens) so they stick around, make soup, clean up after the mess they made (because Sasha broke into the biscuit tins whilst they were waiting for you and Levi to come home)

All the while, you’re preparing an ice pack for his swollen face and constantly reciting to yourself the exact words the doctors told you about how long the bandages and gauze need to stay on etc. etc., and everybody is now so hyperfocused on making sure he’s comfortable that they almost miss it when Levi slowly shuffles up to you on the couch, swaddled in blankets, and mumbles ‘if i was a coffee order at starbucks, what would i be?’

Everyone who’s in earshot freezes. You stifle a laugh. ‘you don’t even drink coffee let alone like it, why’d you wanna know? besides, i’m sure there’s a buzzfeed quiz for that if you’re really curious.’

He’s shaking his head, mumbling something incoherently, and when you ask him to speak up, he says ‘I don’t trust buzzfeed’.

‘Why not?’

It goes onto a very strange tangent about a conspiracy theory that buzzfeed is one huge social experiment by some shady private corporation that keeps their identity a secret, then he talks a bunch about how he can hear the voices of all the flies and bugs he’s squished over his lifetime.

you usher everybody out before they can begin recording or witness him tearing up over all the bugs he’s killed, but then he turns around and says ‘but if I were a coffee i’d be black coffee. black like my soul’

This is the breaking point for you and you cackle. ‘sure,’ you’re getting out inbetween wheezes, ‘sure you are’. He’s immediately falling asleep afterwards leaving you to just sit there on the couch giggling.

You tell Levi everything he says when he’s lucid again and he vehemently denies everything. especially the part where he felt sorry about all the creepy crawlies he’d killed.

Levi x Reader Masterlist | AOT Masterlist

#levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi hcs #levi x you #levi x y/n #levi ackerman hcs #levi headcanons

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thegirlfromblackwater · 2 years

Text

If The Van der linde gang lived in a big house together (HC) PART 1

General:

- there is always noise and commotion throughout the house

- There is always someone home

- The house can become very messy from dishes to laundry

- The favorite room is the living room where the tv is.

- some members have to share a room like Tilly & Marybeth

- Others need their own rooms like Micah, Hosea, Dutch & Arthur

- The kitchen is usually a mess for someones always using the microwave

- some people are good at keeping up with chores like Abigail or Charles.

Dutch

- Believes he is in charge of the whole house despite that when an argument breaks out he ends up hiding in his room.

- thinks he always has a plan of how to get the gang out of the house for daily excursions though he will just end up leaving by himself.

- his room is on the second floor.

- a lot of times he has Molly tailgating him from room to room. This can get pretty annoying

- not really into grocery shopping but sends people out like Arthur or miss Grimshaw. His requests always includes mangoes.

- sits at the head of the dining table

- likes to watch tv after dinner as it relaxes him but it doesn’t take long for the sitting room to become very crowded.

Uncle

- doesn’t have a room rather he just finds a spot to sleep whether that’s the couch or the carpet.

- somedays he’ll wear his red long johns all day

- he’s not very fond of going out whether that’s to do shopping or just take a walk

- his request for shopping is always to get several packs of beer.

- the gang tries to persuade him to get off his lazy ass but then he’ll blame it on his lumbago.

- the gang tries to convince him to get some aspirin or something for his back but he insists that it’s terminal and it’s a slow and painful death.

- doesn’t help out with chores and doesn’t really know where all his clothes went

- is one of the bigger snorers of the gang. He can usually be found napping in the armchair.

Molly

- one of the those girls who takes forever to get ready and it takes three hours for her to put on makeup every morning

- Dutch gets impatient when the gang goes out to do different excursions and everyone has to wait on molly

- it usually gets to the point where they just leave her behind with Uncle

- as mentioned she likes to follow Dutch around and for she can’t keep her mouth shut.

Strauss

- he’s always in his office on his computer.

- spends most of his days calculating the gangs funds.

- has a whole system on Microsoft excel to keep track of overdue loans from fellow neighbors and clients

- doesn’t participate with the other members

- can be seen in the mornings in his bathrobe and nightcap carrying his morning coffee up to his office to start work

- when he does come down for dinner some nights he tries to talk about finance but everyone seems to have select hearing

- likes to sit and read the newspaper

Javier

- has a bad habit of practicing guitar during the night when people are trying to go to sleep. Usually, Hosea will pound on the door and tell him to “be quiet.” Abigail will say, “jacks trying to sleep!”

- usually is a go with flow type of guy. Likes to participate in excursions and activities with the gang.

- not the best shopper for he’ll end up buying whatever he wants rather than what everyone needs

- sometimes cooks Mexican food for the gang

Sadie

- Sadie is the loud one in the house

- comes home late a lot of nights as she likes to go have drinks with friends and usually she’ll bring Karen along.

- she likes to eat out too to avoid Pearsons cooking

- likes to order pizza but not the one to clean up for herself

- when picking movies for herself shes not afraid to say she hates it or she doesn’t want to watch it

- sometimes gets picked on by Micah but she defends herself by threatening him with the kitchen knife

- always enjoys a party

- likes to take drives around with Arthur.

- Dutch and Hosea don’t let her drive the gang to and from places for she has road rage. She once yelled at a man and drove straight through a busy intersection which almost gave Reverend Swanson a heart attack

#rdr2 fandom #rdr2 headcanons #modern au #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 community #van der linde gang #rdr2 #Arthur Morgan #uncle #sadie adler #Strauss #Dutch #javierescuella #headcanon #charles smith #rdr 2 #simon pearson #part 1 of many

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bittercandysweetrain · 10 months

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Tokyo revenger’s x reader with mental illness Mitsuya (pt1)

Illness - Bulimia Author's pov - In the future, Mitsuya achieved his dream of being a fashion artist he even shows off his work on his own body at times. he has worked with famous models and has made a name for himself as famous as Gucci or Versace. His work was extraordinary there were many pieces he has made especially for specific people many of his works was known as one of a kind. but working with him wasn't easy he was known to turn down high-paying models a rumor spread once he turned down Kendell Jenner. but that was mitsuya for you he needed a certain look for his clothes and if you didn't have it you weren't it. which is why (y/n) hardly doubted she would have been picked when it came to signing up to work alongside him she was a new model with only a year of experience but she was already known for one thing. that one thing was well she use to be part of a hardcore gang and she was covered in tattoos and had a rough look to her. but it was her face that pulled many companies towards her she was beautiful her eyes lips nose everything was perfect.

Mitsuya woke up early he had fallen asleep in his office and needed to move or he would be stuck with back spasms again. walking to the kitchen his maid already had coffee and breakfast ready "here is the new print of vogue" she said handing it to him Mitsuya. Mitsuya sipped his coffee pausing when he saw the front page "who is this person never seen her before?" he questioned the maid turned to see what he was talking about "Oh her, her name is (y/n) (l/n) she is a rising model plucked from the streets. her story is unique it's been said her manager had to pay a million to her former gang leader just to allow her to leave." the maid said "is that so?" he said "mhm they say she could be the next-" "don't even" mitsuya interrupted "I hate when people compare new actors, models, and shit to old ones, especially in modeling. Fashion is always changing looks are always changing. this girl isn't going to be the next Gigi or Kendell she is going make a name for herself bigger than them." he said smirking "seems like you found your muse?" The maid said, "I think I have." (y/n) stared at herself in the mirror as she rinsed her mouth out with minty mouthwash anything to cover up the bad taste in her mouth. Modeling had taken a toll on her body despite living healthy with diets and exorcise it wasn't enough and her mental state was heavily affected. there was a sudden knock on the bathroom door and (y/n) hurried to wash her hands and spray the air. "just a minute" she said cleaning herself up she walked out to see her manager and some random girl "uh?" "(y/n) I want you to mee, someone, this is Yuzuha Shiba she represents the one-percenters and well-known designer Takashi Mitsuya." (y/n) eyes widen "of course right um It's so nice to meet you. I wasn't aware we had a meeting would you like something to drink?" she asked, "No, no it's fine can we talk," Yuzuha asked "sure come this way." (y/n) lead Yuzuha and her manager to her dining room to talk "so um what is going on?" she asked "Takashi Mitsuya seen you on the cover of Vogue and I got a call 4 hours ago to get on a jet and see if you're interested in working with him. He will pay double for your contract and move you across the country. there is something about you that he likes and well as you know he has turned down many models the one-percenters are specially picked by mitsuya himself." she said Yuzuha pulled out a contract and check "The contract if a yearly one in case it is too much to work with him you can leave after the year is up. Mitsuya has special conditions for his models as well No dating within the company such as managers, designers, makeup artists, or other models. You will receive personal aid, lawyer, and doctor which you must comply with you may not release any photos of workspace or wearing any clothes made that have yet to be released. you may not talk to paparazzi, or any form of media outlet about any work you do or personal experience about your co-workers such as models, make-up artists, hair artists, or even mitsuya himself. it isn't as bad as you think its more of to keep drama out of the workplace and to keep it professional you can look over the contract the deadline for a decision is-" "I will sign it now I don't need to think it over this is Takashi mitsuya a one in a lifetime chance." (y/n) said Yuzuha smiled "well shall we celebrate." she said

#Tokyo Revengers #mitsuya takashi #x reader #mental illness

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indecentpause · 9 months

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Find the Word Tag

tagged by @oh-no-another-idea to find the words black, gauze, skin, paper, and fabric! thank!

from The Most Beautiful Puzzle:

black:

You tuck your cane under the table and let it rest between your knees as Josselin takes a sip of his coffee. When he asked them to leave half an inch, you thought it might be for cream, but it was definitely for sugar. “Blond guy in a black shirt and combat boots?” You nod. “Okay.” You go back to your drinks and just hang out for another few minutes. Then Josselin pulls out his phone, leans into the middle of the table, and, while holding up a peace sign, snaps a photo of himself and you. Your head jerks up in surprise. “Josselin, I don’t like having my–” “The guy inside,” Josselin says. “The blond guy. He looks familiar but I can’t place him. I took a photo over your shoulder for later.”

gauze bandage:

Josselin is good at a lot of things, and apparently, lockpicking is one of them. “It’s actually pretty easy if the lock has a normal key,” he explains in a whisper, as he fiddles with his tools at the office door. You stay standing, leaning against the wall as if you’re waiting for someone, watching out for anyone who might be coming. Bransom’s office hours are over for the day, but that doesn’t mean nobody’s staying late. And it is late. You both decided it would be best to go long after office hours, specifically so that won’t happen. You don’t have your boot. Your ankle is just carefully wrapped in an ace bandage to keep it from rolling over again, and your cane is back in the car. You’re both in solid colored t-shirts and jeans. Shoes that will be easy to ditch and change if you need to run and blend in somewhere. Boring blue and white surgical masks. A bucket of cleaning supplies in case some student comes by, to look like you belong here. Nitrile gloves. More ziploc bags. And Josselin fiddling with the lock by your hip.

skin:

“When we get out of the elevator, we act like we’re on a date. We went to dinner and a bad improv show. That’s all we talk about until we get the car back onto the street.” You nod. His forehead is warm against your mouth. Maybe, when your lives are both in a better place, you really can go out on a dinner date. But for now, it’s work, for now, it’s serious, and you have to focus. If you slip up you might get killed. The door opens with a soft ding! and you exit the elevator. “I can’t believe the sketch they did when they called on that woman,” Josselin says, as if you’ve been talking about this the whole time. “Who would have thought to come up with a skit with the keyword pineapple?” “Well, it wasn’t a very good skit,” you say, trying to force an amusement into your voice you very much do not feel. “None of it was very good, was it?” “Not really.” You laugh, but every nerve in your body is on edge. Your veins feel like hot wires under your skin. “Still, it’s admirable that they’d put themselves out there.”

paper:

[Josselin] approaches silently, and when he sees what you’ve found, his hand shoots to his mouth. “Take photos but don’t touch it,” he whispers. You nod and do just that. “What about the papers?” you ask. “We’ll take photos of them, too, so we can read them later. We don’t have time and if they go missing after that other envelope did, people are going to know someone’s on their trail. And with Combat Boots tracking us down, I feel like I know who they’d pursue first.”

fabric:

You hang up and fumble through your contacts. Who do you call? Josselin and Frankie are both aware of the situation. Josselin. You helped him so he’ll help you, because you’re friends, right? Right? You call him next. The phone rings a few times and you’re about to hang up when the sound of moving fabric bustles across the line, and then some soft voices and Josselin asking, “Meara?” “He was here,” you gasp. You can barely swallow. Your mouth is so dry you can hardly speak. “He was here. He found me. What do I do? Josselin, what–” “Do you want me to call Dona and have him send someone over? I can request for him to send specifically someone who is suited for the situation.” “I don’t, I don’t–” You don’t know, but you can’t get it out.

tagging @winterandwords @drippingmoon @idreamonpaper @vcaudley to find the words eat, lost, wait, and stress!

#my writing #writeblr #writeblr tag games #find the word tag #excerpt #the most beautiful puzzle #sheraton academy #sheraton academy au #josselin clearwater #meara ryanne

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ath1a · 3 months

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Espressos and Almond Lattes

I work in a cafe as a barista. My job isn’t particularly hard, I go through the days serving customers and cleaning tables. I find enjoyment in making drinks for people though, the cafe being a microcosm of everyone’s lives, put together in an amalgamation of different personalities, backgrounds and experiences. There is one customer in particular who caught my eye.

A man, who comes occasionally, entering for the first time after ‘noticing the signboard outside’. It was hard to understand him at first, his likes, dislikes and if he had any preferences for any drinks.

Usually he orders the first thing he sees on the menu boards, barely making eye contact, paying and walking away after getting his drink. But occasionally he orders one specific drink; a double espresso, no sugar. He orders the drink for small periods at a time, before going back to choosing random drinks.

A lot can be said about a customer, from the drink they choose, to the way they enter and leave, and even their reaction to a drink. You can tell whether they’re happy at their current point in their lives or if they’re experiencing a major event.

The man in particular is an interesting case. When he orders the double espresso for the first time in a while he seems to really crave the caffeine, understandably when you work long hours like I suspect he does - the bags under his eyes somewhat visible. But during these - espresso periods let’s call them - over the short time he’ll order them he starts to enjoy them less, sometimes commenting that its too bitter for him, and the caffeine is taking a toll on his body. Sometimes I mildly suggest he choose another drink instead, or maybe adding something extra for a change. The man insists he wants the espresso, but then a few days later he’ll order the triple shot mocha with cherry syrup or the pistachio cold brew with whipped cream. It’ll go on for a few weeks before he’s back to ordering the double espresso, no sugar.

And the cycle continues.

Until one day a few months down the line he comes in, leaving his bag at his usual chair before coming to me. Huh, that’s strange, he usually takes his drink first. I pay no attention until I realise he’s making direct eye contact with me, and not just for a few seconds. I wait expectantly for him to tell me his order, only for him to look at the menu board, falter and clear his throat, looking me in the eyes again.

He asks me to make something for him, a drink of my own choosing. Oh.

Oh.

Right, yes I need to make him…

An Almond Latte, I tell him. That’s what I’ll make for him.

You see almond lattes are my favourite drink. They’re very warm and inviting, the mildly bitter notes mixed with the subtle sweetness of the milk and the coffee blend. But they’re also the furthest thing from an espresso, not only in taste but also in appearance. almond lattes are a warm brown, compared to the dark almost inky black liquid of espressos.

They’re so different I doubt he would even like it.

I don’t usually make them for others, as a general rule for myself. The last time that happened it resulted in the customer never returning… I guess they really hated it, huh? Yet, somehow I’m now standing by the coffee maker, and the small jug of milk is in my hands, about to be frothed. I keep blanking out while somehow assembling the drink well enough to serve to the man, his sudden behaviour change at the forefront of my mind. By the time I’m done making it, he’s still there at the counter, ready to take the drink. I dust some cocoa powder on top and I gingerly place the drink on the counter, steadily awaiting his reaction.

Until I realise he’s smiling. He’s actually smiling - the corners of his mouth have tugged up into a faint smile, an expression I realise I’ve never actually seen before on him.

I want to see it more often.

The man tells me that next time I can bar the cocoa powder, but he wouldn’t mind any variation in the drink next time. Next time. He wants to order it again.

And he does, again and again, until it becomes his usual order. Over time I make slight changes, until I find the best combination for him. Over time his expressionless exterior breaks, the both of us sharing smiles from the cafe, even an inside joke or two about the other customers. Over time I realise my heart swells whenever I see him come through the door. Over time he starts leaving his coat with his bag, and his stays in the cafe get longer. Over time I see his gradual change through the months of ordering the almond lattes as he becomes less aloof, and more open.

I feel as if we have gotten incredibly close over time.

Until one day, he comes through the door, the winter chill cutting through the steamy warmth in the air and I can tell something’s up. He doesn’t meet my eye as he comes in, putting his bag down but not his coat, and for some reason I feel sick. Understandably I make mental excuses, maybe he’s in a rush, and can’t sit down for long today. Even though he’s made himself late for meetings by staying here before, he’s told me that himself. He doesn’t make eye contact with me as he comes up to the counter, and there’s a sinking feeling in my chest when I ask him for the usual-

No. He says. He still refuses to meet my eyes, the space around me apparently more compelling than I am. I ask him what he wants instead as I try and swallow the lump forming in my throat. I feel like I’m having to silently beg him to look at me. Why won’t he look at me?

He awkwardly clears his throat and asks for a double espresso, no sugar. Oh. Wait what?

I have to stop myself from asking him to repeat his request, I know I heard him loud and clear. I feel empty inside, but still, I go through the motions, making the drink for him. At one point I blankly stand by the coffee machine, the large mechanical box being the only visual barrier between me and him, while multiple questions cloud my mind.

Why the sudden change, what prompted it, did he not like the almond lattes? And if he didn’t, why did I keep making them for him?

I pour the dark liquid into a to-go cup, since he doesn’t seem to be sticking around today. I place it on the counter, and he gives a hard look at the cup, before looking back at me for the first time today. His eyes soften, and there’s almost a look of regret, but I blankly look back at him, my unwavering gaze showing no sign of any emotion. He looks back at the cup for a split second and grabs it, taking the cup. I nearly don’t hear the muttered apology as he leaves, taking his bag from his usual table and exiting.

The man’s trips suddenly become less frequent, only for a few minutes to grab his drink and leave. I’ve been sitting in the break room a lot these days, while I drink my almond lattes by myself. I prefer the solitude, that way I can enjoy them in peace, without the input of others.

Sometimes when the man comes in, he looks like he might order an almond latte, but the words double espresso, no sugar come out his mouth.

Anyways, I don’t think he’ll order an Almond Latte anytime soon, he likes Espressos too much to stop drinking them. It’s not my job as a barista to make him change his preferences either.

That’s up to him.

Funny how he made me think I could, though.

All works belong to @ath1a. Please do not repost without permission.

#short story #original post #original story #deepdownweknowthisisntaboutdrinks #Melancholy story #alegorical story #crush #romance #strangerstoloverstostrangers #sad stories

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misspetsyourcats · 9 months

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okay kittens! food review (it’s not a food this time)!

I am sadly no longer in a place with access to Interesting Foods so we are stuck with… whatever is close to hand that I haven’t had before. Isn’t it fun to try new things?

We start with the front.

It has condensation. This is not natural and is jn fact because it came from my fridge so does not count for or against, but is only because I like beverages cold. Looking at this thing we expect it to be super good for you, tart, and make you feel a bit like you just licked one of those “clean girl aesthetic” pictures and were told it was a meal. But I suck at drinking water, so we’re gonna try it.

And. Kittens. We were deceived. This is like sucking at the teat of a lemon that has been genetically modified for southern sweet tea, and already has diabetes type one and two. There is no actual lemon here, it is just candy water. This is what people drink who go to starbucks and order a milkshake with no coffee but they feel like water. I cannot finish this, I feel ill, all that healthy branding got me thinking I was drinking water no-sugar-added but I am a deer that has found not just a sugar lick but an entire sugar refinery and jumped into a pile of raw candyfloss to begin choking to death and leave a deer corpse bloated with sugar so sweet I will not dessicate but instead caramelize.

Let’s look at the ingredients.

WELL AT LEAST IT ONLY HAS ONE CARB.

I don’t know how they get away with saying zero sugar (I do— it’s the erythritol), this thing is more sugary than popping an entire handful of jelly beans into my mouth (trust me, I tried doing just that for comparison).

in sum, you are better off taking water shots rimmed with sugar and biting into a lemon after, you will get a more authentic experience.

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mattzerella-sticks · 2 years

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you don’t get to have what you want

M, 6.2k, Soldier Boy & Stan Edgar, queer longing, queer Soldier Boy, Period-Typical Prejudices

Toxic Masculinity is a burden to those who buckle under its yoke, forced to live up to excruciating standards that warp views and demand a happiness that might not fit them.

Soldier Boy not only promotes this life style, but also suffers from it. There are moments where he can sheds the prison of his own making for a few hours, to be someone whose comfortable in their skin, but he always returns and locks himself away.

Is this a healthy way to live? Or should he fully cast off this armor that he's worn for so long? When the opportunity arises, will he take it?

For Pridewrites Challenge 2022 #3 - queer longing

Soldier Boy sat slumped in his director’s chair after a long day on set. He cradled his coffee with both hands. He didn’t dare drink it. By the time they wrapped filming, all the ice melted and made craft services’ already suspect coffee taste even worse. It reminded him of the sludge they doled out during the war, when that was all they were given to keep from passing out in the trenches.

Except the trenches he slogged through these days were much more glamorous and luxurious than those forty years prior.

He shouldn’t have to put up with shitty coffee. He usually wouldn’t. Except Soldier Boy already made one production assistant cry today; another might give Vought cause to slap his wrists. Except Crimson Countess accosted him between the stage and his chair, yammering on about matters Soldier Boy didn’t particularly care to hear nor did he disguise that fact. Except any intention he may have had to hurl his lukewarm, watered-down mud at an expensive piece of equipment was derailed as his gaze caught them.

They were shameless.

Reckless, to do what they did in such a public space. But if he learned anything over the course of his career, it’s how the arts so easily attracted their type.

Those fucking fairy types.

He watched one of his solid gold dancers giggle and gingerly slap the chest of some no-name grip working on today’s crew. Except he didn’t immediately withdraw his hand. The dancer slowly trailed it lower, in some absurd caress, until his fingers played with the grip’s belt buckle. Even at a distance, he could see the blush rippling across his cheeks and his overinflated pupils like some coked-up whore. Worse, instead of reacting like any sane man and knocking the dancer with enough force to crack a brick wall, the grip leaned in. He curled his hand over the dancer’s on his belt buckle and said something else that stirred a second bout of laughter from the dancer.

Dancers were one thing; it was an open secret anyone willing to prance around in tights must cram as much dick in their mouths as possible. But this grip? He’s a certified pussy killer. Biceps toned from work, of constructing and deconstructing the complicated cameras surrounding them. A chiseled jawline that would put Rock Hudson to shame. Dark skin so dewy from sweat that it glistened under the stage lights.

All that and he proudly chased after this dancer whose asshole was so wide he could clean the set in five seconds just by sitting on it? What a waste…

Soldier Boy’s chest tightened. His vision tunneled, and Crimson Countess’s chatter was replaced by a low-pitch ringing that drove him crazier than the scene playing out before him. It contended with the nauseous warmth brewing below his stomach that oozed uncomfortably into other parts of his body. His lip began twitching like crazy the closer the two men became, enough that a simple tilt of the head would be enough to have them kissing. Kissing for everyone in the room. Kissing like it didn’t matter people would know they’re –

He spilt coffee all over himself. Soldier Boy effortlessly punctured the cheap Styrofoam shell; because of that tear Soldier Boy’s drink flooded his lap and brought him back from the edge.

It also got Crimson Countess to finally shut up about whatever she was blathering about. “Oh no, your suit!” Her hands hovered over his groin as she barked to the nearest gopher to grab napkins. Even then, she didn’t rush to take them from the gopher once he brought them a fistful.

“I’ll take it from here.” Soldier Boy exchanged his ruined coffee for the napkins, dabbing at his lap. No way in hell another man was getting that close to his junk in public. He glanced at Crimson Countess, who’s hands were still floating there doing nothing. She stared at his crotch while he cleaned. “What? You want me to drop trousers right here or something?”

“Are you okay?”

“Am I okay? Seriously, what the fuck kind of question is that.”

“You spilled coffee on yourself.”

“Yeah, that coffee couldn’t melt a popsicle stick let alone my pole.” Soldier Boy smirked, discarding the napkins to the side that someone else would deal with later. “Even if it were, a little hot coffee wouldn’t get in the way of my ability to… hoist a flag.” He grinned, stroking his groin again. Without the napkins, he was able to feel the stiffness of his dick that persisted despite the shock of getting wet. In truth, it made him harder than he was earlier. The damp fabric deliciously rubbed against him, made better because of his decision to forgo underwear that day, like every day. “Should we maybe find ourselves a closet somewhere for a quick fuck?”

Crimson Countess didn’t seem keen on his plan. “I’m don’t want a quick fuck, especially here,” she purred, tiptoeing her way up his arm. “Why don’t we get dinner once we we’ve wrapped for the night… go back to my place and, well, take advantage of the hot tub the cash my work with the chimps bought me?”

The hot tub was tempting. However, her plans involved a whole lot more time than Soldier Boy cared to spend in her presence.

Not to mention he already made plans for later in the evening.

“You know what?” Soldier Boy matched her grin as he casually brushed her hand off his shoulder. “I’m good.”

She hadn’t expected that, nor liked it. “What?”

“You got monkey splooge in your ears or something? I said I’m good. Totally cool.” Soldier Boy slid off his seat, saluting his teammate as he began stomping off. “I’m tired anyway.”

“Where are you going?”

“God, you’re awfully clingy today.” He spun on his heel to face her. “I’m done here, so I’m leaving.”

“But we have a whole skit to do.”

“What part of ‘I’m done’ are you having trouble getting?”

It was louder than he intended, though that worked to his favor. He shut her, and everyone in their vicinity, down with his outburst. Crimson Countess’s lips pursed as she adjusted herself in her seat, crossing her legs in a manner that meant she’d be even more annoying the next time he saw her. Camera operators stopped checking their lenses and executives paused their conversations on those big, cancerous cell phones to see what the fuss was about. He even caused the powder puffs some discomfort, both men at a more appropriate distance when he chanced a peek in their direction.

Good.

He caused enough of a scene that no one dared follow him towards his dressing room. For those that missed his little display, buzzing about like flies in his inner space, Soldier Boy swatted them away with a glare he perfected on the battlefield that made krauts piss themselves. The door slammed shut after the last overpaid assistant scurried out.

Secure in the emptiness of his dressing room, Soldier Boy deflated. He quickly cast off his helmet and tossed it onto the cheap couch production dragged in after he pitched a fit. Soldier Boy turned his attention to the vanity. He slammed his hands on the thin wood, causing all the grease paint and clown makeup they smothered in him to jump, scatter, and fall. A lone bottle rolled forward and tapped at his twitching fingers. Soldier Boy gazed at it, then excruciatingly dragged his eyes up to his reflection.

Most of the makeup from that morning had been sweated off. The mascara clumped on his eyelashes. Foundation streaks revealed the bags under his eyes and the crow’s feet cracking beside them. His tan glow dulled to a sickly pale.

He caught a glimpse of the man behind the mask, blown pupils and all. He hated what he saw.

The gloves kept his knuckles from being cut, after he smashed the mirror. It wasn’t the first one they’d replace.

Now, with no one watching, Soldier Boy began to shed his uniform. He started with the shield, always, dropping it in the most obscure corner of the room. It was surprisingly easy to trip over, and he stubbed many toes over the years because of it. The boots came off next, then the gloves. He unfastened the clips of his armor and belt which finally allowed Soldier Boy to peel off his costume. He dumped the carcass beneath the hanger wardrobe set aside for him.

Soldier Boy stood there for a moment, like Michelangelo’s David made flesh. Only his dick wasn’t that embarrassingly small.

It jutted out from his body, heavy and swinging since freed of his confining suit. Soldier Boy smiled, skimming its surface with his touch. His dick tensed at the contact. It seized once he grabbed it, pumping it slightly. Soldier Boy’s other hand tweaked his nipple. A drop of precome dribbled loose, that Soldier Boy caught with his thumb. He brought it to his lips and sucked his thumb dry.

He didn’t go further than that. Soldier Boy didn’t want to spoil his appetite.

He instead dragged a duffel he had hidden under the couch out and onto an accompanying table. Inside the non-descript khaki bag were the set of clothes he brought with him.

These were much easier to put on than his suit. No fancy clasps, and they didn’t require him to dip his whole body in lube to fit into them. Slacks. A plain white shirt. Denim jacket. Sneakers. Plus a hat and sunglasses, for anonymity.

Soldier Boy was officially gone for the meantime.

He slid the duffle back where it was and exited his dressing room. Soldier Boy didn’t leave from the same place he entered. His dressing room had a built-in exit outside the studio. It was written into all his contracts.

Soldier Boy skulked away from the studio with his shoulders hunched and the collar of his jacked pulled high, He tucked the baseball cap lower on his head as he bypassed security for the less frequented, less guarded gate nearer the back of the lot where they kept the rotting trash.

He’s made this trip countless times, though each escape carried that same nerve-wracking terror of being recognized Soldier Boy could only compare to being behind enemy lines during the Second World War with the lives of countless men on his shoulders as he led the charge.

Soldier Boy gasped once the gate creaked shut. He succeeded yet again.

From there, Soldier Boy stalked the familiar streets to the nearest subway line and descended into its depths. Along the way his defenses were kept on full alert in case someone looked a tad too long at him for his liking.

No one ever did. No one stopped him on the streets to ask if he was Soldier Boy. The clerk at the station didn’t ask how it felt to watch the life drain out of some Nazi scum as he paid for his token. The crowded train car didn’t gape nor treated him any differently than any other passenger. Someone stepped on his foot while they bounded off the train. Soldier Boy hadn’t snapped their neck for leaving without so much as an apology, for not realizing they disrespected the world’s greatest hero since whatever horny bastard invented the brothel.

He was too drunk on the novelty of being a stranger to care.

It reminded him of coming up for air after being stuck underwater for longer than your chest could hold air, whenever he slipped away from his duties and responsibilities; to be someone who didn’t have to care about his image for the next few hours.

The train arrived at his stop and Soldier Boy joined the flood of passengers leaving alongside him.

His destination was two blocks away. In a blink, he reached the end of his journey.

However, as he opened the door to the third-floor apartment, Soldier Boy’s unease refused to disappear. His hackles remained raised. Trusting his instincts, he scanned the apartment for any hint of danger. Nothing looked out of the ordinary from what was visible.

But that’s because this danger hid itself so perfectly.

Soldier Boy dropped into a fighting stance, once past his kitchen, as he caught sight of the unrecognizable figure on his leather recliner. He warily inched towards the entertainment unit, waiting for an opportunity where he might grab the knife stashed there for such an emergency.

The stranger seemed unbothered and, annoyingly, offended by Soldier Boy’s response. “I’m not here to harm you.”

Soldier Boy scoffed. “Yeah, and I’m Ron Jeremy’s fluffer.”

“Keep acting the way you are, and you won’t even be considered for the role of his fluffer’s understudy.”

The younger man remained where he sat, his legs crossed in a dainty way and hands folded atop the highest knee. His brown face was smoothed in disinterest and, though obviously an infant compared to him, Soldier Boy recognized the age hidden within his features. His big eyes loudly advertised how much he’d seen in the little he’s walked this Earth. Not as much as Soldier Boy, but enough to keep him on edge. In a few steps, he’d be at his knife and this uppity kid will be wishing he broke into the wrong apartment.

“We’ve already removed the knife there,” the stranger said, “Along with the other, various weapons you’ve had hidden here. I found the gun taped under the toilet tank cover quite ingenious, actually.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“The man with the ability to make your life much more difficult if you refuse to listen. Now?” He gestured at Soldier Boy’s sectional. “Have a seat.”

Soldier Boy sat only after checking the stranger’s claims. His stomach pitched as he felt around the entertainment unit, the hidden compartment where his knife hid torn out and missing. “I hate repeating myself,” he said, plopping onto the center of his sectional, “but who… the fuck… are you?”

“I’ll get to that. First I want to apologize that this is our introduction to one another. Not at all how I would have wanted it.” He offered his hand. Soldier Boy let it hang there. The stranger curled that hand into a fist and squeezed the rejection tight. “Very well… I’m Stanford Edgar. Recently, I was promoted to be the liaison between Vought International and its superhero division.”

“Liaison?”

Edgar smiled, its curl already testing the limits of Soldier Boy’s patience. “Think of me as a direct line to the decision makers. Everything that comes out of my mouth comes down from on high as if it were the word of God. Everything I do is an extension of their will.” He shifted, swapping legs so that the right knee was highest. He stretched his hands forward on the armchairs. “But a line can go two ways,” he added, “and I can be your representation for the Board, speak and – if able – fight for you, your interests…”

“Oh, really?”

“Of course, that all depends on how cooperative you are after today.”

Soldier Boy chuckled, relieved that Edgar finally finished peddling his bullshit and cut to why he was truly here. “Listen, Edgar… you ever been in a war?”

“I’ve never been particularly fond of the sight of blood or the sound of gunfire, so no.”

“Really? So you’ve never got into a brawl on the playground… at a bar… maybe on the street for looking at someone the wrong way?”

“…Just where is your line of questioning going?”

“I’ve been at war.” Soldier Boy rose. He lumbered over to where Edgar was. Edgar hadn’t flinched, even as he towered above the younger man. “I’ve been at war probably my whole life. Here and overseas. No matter what, I’ve always had to fight. I’ve never balked or backed down from a fight since I could throw my first punch. And you know what that’s gotten me?”

“What?”

“Respect.” Soldier Boy stamped his foot. Edgar remained stone-faced. He cursed the other man but kept powering ahead. “Enough respect that I was chosen – chosen from thousands upon thousands of no-name bums – to be the world’s first superhero. Respect to lead men through the rain and mud to fight for freedom. Respect deserving of more than a cheap ploy at intimidating me. I’ll say it once, and only once – I don’t need a babysitter. Especially from a pansy-ass suit like you who’s had everything handed to him.”

“Really?” Edgar interrupted, baring his teeth and sinking his claws into Soldier Boy’s leather chair. “Take a look in the mirror and then at me and say that again, that I’ve had everything handed to me.” He sneered, riling Soldier Boy further. “They said you were smart, but maybe countless years of partying killed what little brain cells you had to begin with.”

Soldier Boy dropped into a crouch, meeting Edgar at eye level and staring at him like he was any criminal he happened on in the streets. It wasn’t hard for him to imagine. “Be lucky I’m letting you walk out of here with your life. Not because I’m scared of what Vought might do, but because I’d rather not ruin my evening cleaning the stains your dead body would leave behind after I mutilated you. Test me again or breathe a word about this place to any member of the Board, and I’ll choke you with the very tie you’re wearing now.”

Soldier Boy knew crushing this corporate bug under his heel would take little effort, even without weapons. Edgar must be aware of this, too.

Still, Edgar maintained his cool. To Soldier Boy’s surprise, he seemed entertained by his performance.

“So you still haven’t put it together, have you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I meant what I said, before, about my role as your liaison. My decisions are their decisions… my words, their words… my actions, theirs…”

His meaning began to sink in. Soldier Boy folded once realizing the horrible conclusion Edgar presented. He collapsed on the sectional while Edgar continued on like he hadn’t seen.

“Did you really believe they were clueless regarding the secrets you kept from them?”

“I… I, uh –“

“I didn’t come here by choice,” he said, “I was sent here. Because they were finally tired of cleaning up your messes.”

Soldier Boy’s hearing wavered, switching between a terrifying ringing and deafening silence. He cleared his throat. “How’d they… how’d they even found out?”

Edgar convulsed as he rolled his eyes. “It’s not like financial crimes were ever your strong suit. Didn’t it ever occur to you we – the people who control your finances – would ever be curious of the small sum taken out every month? That we’d do background checks on the charity you made up to launder the money used for Nicholas Petrillo’s rent?” Soldier Boy snarled at the derision coating Edgar’s words. “We knew from the very beginning what this was.”

“Then why interfere now?”

“Because the risks outweigh the benefits. Naturally.” Edgar relaxed, his insipid smirk reappearing. “It was easier in the beginning. The parties you threw seemed like the perfect outlet for your wild and rebellious behavior. You performed better on the field, were more focused. Plus, we didn’t need to do much in the way of meddling. None of the freaks you partied with were a threat. No journalist would stake their career on some long-hair, unwashed hippie’s claim he smoked dope and dropped acid with America’s hero.”

Those were better, simpler times. Soldier Boy missed them, both the moments he remembered and the ones that were trapped behind a haze of drugs.

“Then the brightness of the 60s faded into the 70s, and while the unsanctioned parties thankfully stopped, you still came here from time to time for a random fuck. You are human after all. Our only concerns were making sure each partner signed a confidentiality waiver and keeping your girlfriend unaware of these infidelities. Annoying, but still manageable.”

“…So, what changed?”

“I think you know what.” Edgar broke the staring contest between them, glancing towards a nearby side table. He plucked the picture frame off it and studied it carefully. Heat uncomfortably pooled in Soldier Boy’s chest as sweat started pouring from him. “Be honest, is one man really worth all you’ve accomplished with Vought over the years?”

Soldier Boy’s lips twitched. He huffed, spreading his legs wide and sinking into the sofa. He digested the reality of the battle in front of him and debated his strategy. There wasn’t any more room to underestimate his opponent, not if he wanted to maintain control. Not if he wanted to win. “If you knew how well he ate ass, you’d understand.”

Apparently, Edgar didn’t find ass play rewarding like Soldier Boy did.

“I doubt his skills in bed is all there is to this.” He flipped the frame over, showing Soldier Boy a sight he was familiar with.

His eyes were drawn to the profile of the man next to him. How the sunset highlighted his strong features. How beams of light broke past the tightly packed coils atop his head and created a halo. How he happy he looked being next to the man and not Soldier Boy. It was the smoking gun that gave Vought enough reason to take action. He never bothered with mementos of his other conquests. Raul was different. Soldier Boy felt different when around him, and in his selfishness, he clung to the other man in such a despicable way.

It was a flaw he thought buried in the past.

“I’ll ask again, is he worth it?”

Soldier Boy should be stronger than this. Stronger than this sickness that plagued his heart. His answer proved how weak he truly was. “There’s no way to sweep this under the rug?”

“This is us sweeping it under the rug. Politely.”

“Why does the board think this is messy, anyway?”

“Because feelings are messy.” Edgar placed the photo back where it sat. “We should have been aware that this might happen when you failed to bring him back to your place that night months ago. However, we figured the next time you went cruising you’d move on. We didn’t expect you to see him again. We didn’t expect the deviation from your usual M.O. We didn’t expect for you, the most masculine, hard-ass man in America, to fall in love.”

That’s what it was. Soldier Boy ignored it until now. He couldn’t any longer. Not with Edgar and the full force of Vought’s board bearing down on him with the truth.

“A simple fuck is neater. No feelings. No ill will on being kept a secret, at being paid off. Both parties favor discretion, and one of you walks away richer after signing our NDA. This, on the other hand… if the Post or the New York Times catch a whiff of what you and your lover do when America isn’t watching, it’s over for you. Any such saccharine displays at courting do nothing but suggest Vought’s biggest asset has been a deviant homosexual all these years.”

“Hey! I’ve slept – and enjoyed – many a gal in my life.”

“That won’t matter to your base. Video of you holding hands with another man will cause your reputation to spin out. No amount of PR on our end would matter, and it’d have us operating at a loss to try and save your ungrateful ass. You’d be marked by this… permanently.”

He shouldn’t fight this hard. Why was he fighting so hard? Soldier Boy recalled the scene from earlier in the day, of the grip and the dancer flirting despite the risks of being publicly outed. It sparked an idea that leapt uncontrollably out of his mouth. “What if I choose to come out?”

It sucked that, when Soldier Boy finally caught Edgar off guard and ripped away his façade, he couldn’t revel in the satisfaction of how the mask of detached professionalism cracked. Instead it took all his will to appear completely normal with his suggestion; despite how massively scared saying it made him.

Edgar pinched the ridge of his nose, pushing his glasses far up his head. “You want to get ahead of this? Is that it?”

“It’s just an idea,” Soldier Boy explained, “I mean… isn’t that what we always want? To control the narrative? What if we – we clue Raul in as to who I am, get him prepped for interviews and all that other show pony stuff, then do a circuit. No, a blitz!”

“And how is revealing your homosexuality any better than someone else doing it?”

“Because people only care about things when they know they can take the piss out of someone.” Soldier Boy straightened, adopting his familiar confidence as he spoke. The idea came to him in a panic, but he believed in it more with each passing second. “If I show it doesn’t bother me, they’ll lose interest fast.”

Edgar steepled his fingers, considering his argument. It was his turn at playing defensive. “Everyday citizens are easy to convince with the right messaging, especially if we get ahead of it. What about the bigger names? The people in your social circles.”

“We all have our secrets.” Soldier Boy chuckled, “And the ones I don’t know I’m sure Vought’s collected for their own use. Hell with all the dirt on Reagan and his throat goat of a wife, I doubt America’s first family of homophobes would throw a fit over who I stick my dick in.”

“You mean he doesn’t stick it in you?”

“I’m not the chick in the relationship.” Soldier Boy sighed, “So? Does this seem like an idea worth bringing to the board, Mr. Liaison?”

“Your offer has legs,” he admitted, “however, I don’t see it getting very far.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your consistency in viewing things short-term is astounding, and probably why you hadn’t taken into account the long-term implications your coming out would impose on the business.” Edgar arched a brow, readying his offensive against Soldier Boy yet again. “Because this is a business at the end of the day, and while how you feel is one thing our bottom line is another. You say people will grow bored and tired of your homosexuality, yes? They won’t discuss it which, therefore, means they won’t discuss you. What was once a household name will become a pariah. It might not be a crash and burn but your brand will be slowly poisoned over time. I can already see your popularity in the Midwest and South, the bulk of your Q-score, disappearing within a year. It’ll take longer in metropolitan areas, though you never really shone there as much until we started booking you television gigs. Which, speaking of, you can kiss that goodbye along with all the campaigns and products tied to your brand. You’ll also notice the list of places where you’re welcome shrinking at the same rate your social circle diminishes because if you even if you can’t retaliate by speaking about someone, the next best thing is to shun them.”

“They can’t do that!”

Edgar steamrolled over him. “They absolutely can. Sure, they’ll say it’s not because you’re gay, scapegoat with some other reason; but talk amongst our peers is so rife with subterfuge and hidden intentions that the meaning behind the medium is plain.”

“But what –“

“But what about the wider homosexual community, you ask?” Edgar laughed, removing his glasses to wipe away an invisible smudge with his tie. “It’s not like we’ve never considered market testing with them. In their fetal state, though, they offer no reward in gearing advertisements about and for them. Still too bohemian and anti-capitalist… and afraid. Johnny Everyman might realize he likes men more than women, maybe sneak a Playgirl or attend a drag show, but will he risk outing himself by purchasing a roll of paper towels with your face on it? I don’t think so… Homosexuals have no true spending power at this stage, which makes them utterly worthless and unimportant in Vought’s eyes.”

Soldier Boy fumed. “So that’s how it would all go?”

Edgar stopped cleaning his glasses. He glanced up at Soldier Boy in such a condescending manner it curled his toes. “Well… ask yourself this. Would you act any differently in the situation?”

He hated how smug Edgar looked nearly as much as Soldier Boy hated that he couldn’t disagree. Since he couldn’t voice that, however, Soldier Boy let his silence answer for him.

“Exactly.” Edgar set his glasses back on his face. “Which is why you’d also understand why Vought would slowly wean you off of Payback until, when your popularity passes a certain number, you’re taken off the team to be a C or maybe D-list hero elsewhere if we don’t have you retire outright.”

Soldier Boy reclaimed his voice to better communicate his indignation. “You can’t kick me out of Payback. I am Payback!”

“Vought is Payback. You are an entity, trademarked and owned wholly by the company. If your value declines to the point we begin losing money on you, we’d be within our rights – and within our stockholder’s rights – to do what’s necessary to maintain our margin on profit. If this means replacing you with heroes more willing to walk the company line like, say… Black Noir, so be it.”

“Noir!” He jumped to his feet. “You’d let Noir lead my fucking team?”

“Of all the heroes in our portfolio, he has the second closest Q-score. He has great market potential. And, within Payback, he has the most experience in non-simulated combat.”

“That don’t mean he can lead.” His lips twitched again. “He can’t lead! He’s a –“

“I’d think very carefully what you say next,” Edgar warned, rising to Soldier Boy’s challenge. He crept closer, circling Soldier Boy, daring him to finish his thought despite the danger posed from him being a super. “Because there’s still a chance I stop being civil with you and take a more… nuclear route.”

Soldier Boy hated being backed into a corner. He stuck his chin out before slowly sinking back onto the sectional.

“Glad to see you still remember your place.”

He crossed his arms. “My place is as leader of Payback. America’s greatest hero. That’s who I am.”

“You are who we say you are.” Edgar stomped his foot for dramatics, hammering the point into Soldier Boy. “We created you from nothing! Built an image of you and protected it with our very lives. We crafted a myth of you for people to buy into, to believe, and it looks like you fell for it like the rest of the idiot public. You used it to your advantage. Now that you find it doesn’t suit your needs, you don’t get to shrug it off and keep the benefits. There are procedures you have to follow, and a culture – a culture you thrived in – that you must continue to emulate and promote!” He tugged on his suit jacket, then swept his hands across the breast to smooth imagined wrinkles. “So you can either have this,” he gestured to the apartment. Because of Edgar’s scrutiny, it suddenly felt too big, but also claustrophobic at the same time. “Or you can be… Soldier Boy.”

Edgar wrapped his pitch with a clap that echoed and rang in Soldier Boy’s ears while he mulled over everything they discussed these last few minutes. There was a lot Soldier Boy had to consider. And, as he checked the clock above the mantle, not much time to do it in.

Raul arrived in thirty minutes.

Of all he and Edgar clashed about, the crux of their issue rested on who Soldier Boy chose to be.

Did Soldier Boy walk away from his alter ego? Abandon this port in the storm of celebrity that he missed since his first injection of Compound V, and all that came with it? Would he trade the possibility of a meaningful relationship Soldier Boy’s so far cultivated with Raul for the shallow and vapid ones that crowd him day to day?

But on the flip side, if Soldier Boy owned up to the lie he advertised for decades and began speaking his truth, would that really change anything? Would he regret trading the fame, the money, and the power, if Edgar’s predictions proved true? Anonymity of civilian life was great in small doses, but could Soldier Boy handle being stuck in mediocrity forever? Would being treated like everyone else, like a nobody, drive him insane because he knew what it was to be special?

Worst of all, the doubts that ate at the back of his mind since he and Raul fell into their secluded dance returned and attacked with renewed strength. They questioned Raul’s intentions, whether he recognized him at some point or was still clueless as to who Soldier Boy was. If he’d stay once learning the truth or feel betrayed? If Soldier Boy’s fall from grace, when the story leaked, might drive them apart? Or would Soldier Boy do that himself? The bitterness that nestled itself in his heart from a young age, that he directed outwards on the daily, would focus on Raul until he pushed the man out of his life and truly left him with nothing. Raul did many things for him, but even he hadn’t been able to heal him of that toxicity.

No matter which angle he looked at it, there wasn’t any decision that didn’t cost him something.

So, naturally, he picked self-preservation.

“You made the smart choice.”

“Don’t you mean the right choice?”

“Right and wrong are subjective. In the grand scheme of life, they don’t matter.”

“Whatever…” Soldier Boy rocked forward, onto his feet beside Edgar. “What’s the plan now?”

Edgar gifted Soldier Boy with what he surmised was the younger man’s first genuine smile throughout their entire conversation. He produced a lighter and flicked it on. “We burn the evidence.”

“Burn the… you mean arson?”

“Of course.”

“What about the other people who live here?” Soldier Boy asked, “I thought doing this was all about reducing messes, not making more.”

“Already taken care of.” He flicked the lighter off and squeezed it against his palm. “Following your lead, we created a shell company and purchased the building from the previous owners for a generous sum. All former tenants were evicted last week, save one squatter – a Mr. Nicholas Petrillo – who tragically lost his life in the fire he set on accident.”

“Hell, you really do think of everything.”

“It takes a team of highly trained professionals to keep a superhero team running smoothly.” Edgar glanced about the living room space. “Gather whatever you wish to take with you. In a moment all you’ll have left of this place are your memories.”

Soldier Boy didn’t keep much at the apartment. The clothes and furniture were for show. His cupboards were bare. All he would’ve grabbed Edgar mentioned were removed before he stepped foot in the building. The only other thing he considered taking was the picture of him and Raul.

He reached for it. Soldier Boy brushed a thumb across Raul’s cheek, his gaze darting between him and his happier doppelganger. The fluttering feeling of love seeing Raul caused was immolated within the hardened fires of his anger of having such a dumb grin captured on film. This Soldier Boy bought into a lie, but not the one Edgar said. He committed the sin of thinking there was another way to be a man.

The real Soldier Boy, who held the picture with trembling hands, understood the truth of manhood.

Men were tough. Men sacrificed for the sake of others. They didn’t whine about their problems because they hadn’t the luxury to do so. Men controlled the destiny of the world and couldn’t lose their heads like dames always did because too much rested on men’s shoulders.

Only the strongest of men survived that crushing pressure. For too long Soldier Boy allowed his defenses to slip, to buckle under that weight. He lost his way because of the other man in the photograph.

Soldier Boy hurled the picture to the floor, the glass shattering on impact. He swiped at his very-clearly-dry-if-you-don’t-look-closely eyes and kicked the frame for good measure.

Edgar laid a hand on his shoulder. “Now there’s the belligerent hard-ass that fills our coffers.”

Soldier Boy shrugged his hand off and headed towards the door. “Get it over with already, will you?”

He heard the lighter click and the curtains go up in flames as he exited the apartment door.

Edgar trailed him down the stairs, neither man in a rush despite the building burning above them. They descended in the comfortable silence of being unafraid to exist in silence.

Though Soldier Boy felt there was one matter still unresolved before he might close the chapter on this part of his life. “You asked if he was worth it.”

“Come again?”

“Upstairs, you asked if Raul was worth not being Soldier Boy.” He tucked his hat tighter on his head and buried his hands deep in his pockets. “I’ve got an answer.”

“Which is?”

Soldier Boy sighed. “He is. But lucky for you… I’m not.”

Nicholas Petrillo died once they exited the building. He was remembered by no one. Mourned by no one, not even Soldier Boy.

How could he mourn someone who never truly existed anyway?

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film-in-my-soul · 2 years

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“I’m not drunk. Can a drunk person do this?” “You’re not doing anything.” “But… I sent you my love. Did you… did you not get it?”

Paring: Gahan

(Sometimes it's just nice to give Yo-han and Ga-on nice things.)

Something about accomplishing your years-long mission, killing the people who created some of the worst parts of your life, faking your own death, and then heading off to Switzerland with your niece and the love of your life (a few months too late and after one too many instances of beratement from said niece), makes having moments like the one Kang Yo-han is currently having worth the bloody struggle required to achieve them.

He and Ga-on are in the study, a much smaller space in comparison to the Kang mansion, sitting next to one another and drinking simply for the sake of loosening up after a long day.

The comfortable atmosphere reminds Yo-han of the first time Ga-on had seen the room. The younger man had said, only a few weeks ago now, as he paced around and traced the spines of Yo-han’s precious books with his fingertips, that it felt more intimate, less intimidating than its predecessor. Comfortable.

It had warmed Yo-han to have Ga-on say as much. For him, outside of the accessibility for Elijah’s wheelchair and eventual crutches, it had been the selling point of the home. When Yo-han had replied with that in-kind Ga-on had lit up so brightly it felt blinding. Then he’d been kissed by that same smiling mouth and Yo-han would have been perfectly fine never seeing again in exchange for it.

Apparently making it three tumblers into some of his best whiskey makes him sentimental, at least in the presence of the other man, but Yo-han can’t muster the energy to care all that much. He’s relaxed, the weight of Ga-on across his side a familiar tether as he lets his eyes close, nodding along softly to the record they have on.

He feels Ga-on shift against him and there’s the clinking of ice on crystal and a sloshing sound followed up by a surprised “oh…oops,” that has Yo-han letting his eyes crack open. He notices the liquor on the wood grain of the coffee table first and then follows the obvious path up Ga-on’s body to the glass, still dripping with spilled alcohol, pressed to his mouth as he takes a long drink. Yo-han watches in satisfaction as Ga-on’s already flushed cheeks grow pinker under the scrutiny of Yo-han’s raised brow, his silent question. Ga-on places the remainder of his drink down a little too quickly, whiskey threatening to climb over the edge, limbs clearly loose and uncoordinated.

“I’ll... uh, I’ll clean it up.” He looks a bit chastised and the whole effect of an obviously drunk (perhaps just on the far end of tipsy) Ga-on, pouting at the mess he’s made, is too precious not to chuckle over. When he goes to stand, he sways just a little, and Yo-han is quick to circle a hand around his arm and pull him back down. Ga-on falls gracelessly, and if it weren’t Yo-han’s own fault, he might be more upset over the elbow jammed harshly into his gut. Instead, he breathes through the jolt of pain with a laugh and tucks Ga-on against him.

“Don’t, you’re drunk and are just as likely to make a bigger mess.” Ga-on seems to pause, listening, before he struggles to get upright, glaring at Yo-han. He’s looking down at Yo-han from how he’s kneeling on the sofa while Yo-han himself is still draped, almost bonelessly against the backrest.

“‘M not drunk.” Yo-han can’t fight the disbelieving smirk from his lips, far too amused as, somehow, Ga-on’s pout and glare combination makes his heart feel ten times bigger, threatening to burst.

What had he ever done to deserve this kind of peace?

Yo-han’s brain doesn’t get to trail down that rabbit hole, wanting to bring up all the reasons he doesn’t deserve it, because Ga-on is suddenly leaning, precariously balanced, into his space. Not that Yo-han minds the proximity all that much.

“I’m not drunk.” A lie, but Yo-han can tell that Ga-on isn’t finished and doesn’t want to risk interrupting whatever is about to happen. “Can a drunk person do this?” He asks with a flourish, leaning back so quickly that a flash of fear zips down Yo-han’s spine. He reaches forward just in case Ga-on goes careening off the couch. Ga-on doesn’t. Instead, he’d apparently moved back so he could get one of his hands stretched out fully to press directly against Yo-han’s chest, fingers warm where they touch him. The v of Yo-han’s partially unbuttoned shirt exposes some of the skin, allowing him direct contact. Ga-on’s eyes shut so tight his face scrunches up.

Yo-han waits for a beat and then another, anticipating something more. When Ga-on does nothing else, just continues to press his palm over Yo-han’s heart, eyes closed, the older man coughs.

“Darling,” Ga-on winks open one eye, and Yo-han smiles as though he’s greeting him. “You’re not doing anything.”

Ga-on opens his other eye and blinks, alternating between looking at his hand where it’s laying against Yo-han’s chest and Yo-han’s face. He looks genuinely confused and it’s taking everything within Yo-han’s power not to laugh.

“But…” Ga-on seems to flounder, finally pulling his hand away to look at his fingers like they’ve betrayed him before looking back to Yo-han. “I sent you my love. Did you… did you not get it?” Yo-han has to swallow the honest-to-God giggle that wants to crawl out of his mouth, and it’s only because of the way Ga-on appears very upset at the notion he hadn’t, Yo-han manages.

“Ah,” Yo-han says, shifting up a little before taking Ga-on’s hand to place it back over his heart. “I wasn’t paying enough attention, try again?” He doesn’t know if a drunk Ga-on will humor him, but it seems the atmosphere is just right for this brand of ridiculous sentiment, because he presses his hand down and scrunches up his face again. Yo-han wants to play along as well and closes his eyes too.

Instinctually his focus hones in on the warm touch to his bared chest, Ga-on’s pulse under his fingertips, and he gets lost in that, the gentle ‘thump-thump-thump’ and the subtle twitching of his partner’s hand. It makes Yo-han smile because he can feel it, Ga-on’s love, in a simple gesture like this.

When he opens his eyes again Ga-on is looking down at him, his lips curled up in Yo-han’s favorite smile, one that he can’t help mirroring.

Yo-han uses his grip on Ga-on’s arm to tug him down until the younger man is sprawled over his lap, hand still firmly in place. Closer now, Yo-han takes the opportunity to kiss the remaining whiskey off of Ga-on’s lips and sighs just as Ga-on does, somehow relaxing even further into the gentle back and forth of this easy affection. There’s no heat, no need to deepen it to something more, and Yo-han lets Ga-on retreat for breath and curl up on top of him like Elijah’s damned cat (his cat really…).

Unconsciously, Yo-han brings his free hand up to Ga-on’s hair and strokes through the soft strands.

“I always feel your love Ga-on.” It’s sappy, ridiculous, something the Yo-han of a year ago would never think to utter out loud, but so fundamentally true. He feels the love Ga-on gives so easily in the meals he makes, in the way that the younger will set out clothes for him sometimes, or how when Yo-han falls asleep in his reading chair, will set his book aside, marking the page, before draping a blanket over his lap to keep him comfortable. Yo-han will always wake up with a crick in his neck and a grumble, but then Ga-on will kiss him gently and replace the learned discontent with something so gentle Yo-han feels like he could fall to his knees from the strength of the emotion that flows into him.

“I know,” Ga-on mumbles against his collar bone, and Yo-han doesn’t chastise him for being a brat, just hugs him a bit closer on the off chance Ga-on might miss him sending his own love in return.

Thank you for reading.

MASTERLIST

#gahan #lawful husbands #the devil judge #dialogue prompt #prompt film #kim gaon #kang yoohan #kdrama prompt

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