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capslocked · 8 months

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DIPLOMACY

male reader x kim minju

7k words

For those not paying attention - of which there seems to be an increasing number - it’s not that she doesn’t have the pedigree. But just shy of getting into that storied history or into the nitty-gritty of her curriculum vitae, the only thing that really matters is:

"This all seems a little beneath me."

It’s another day of this. Of you, of her, of trying to gather the mien of someone who isn’t utterly disarmed by Minju’s usual, beautiful, challenging self. Which, let’s be honest, is always an uphill battle.

Minju nearly pouts, flipping through a copy of the dossier idly from the other side of the desk in a gesture that reads both bored and dismissive and every little thing it needs to annoy you.

"Look," you offer up, graciously diplomatic all things considered, "it's about finding the right springboard, to something else more… substantial."

"Or to something else, you know, beneath me." Her red lips turn down ever so slightly. She doesn't seem so interested in playing ball on this one. And, for you, amounts to something of a huge problem.

See, Minju doesn't quite understand how the working world really, actually works. That the carrot that's dangled in front of her is your carrot just as much as it is hers - that you stand to lose out just as badly. That it's both of your asses on the line if things fall apart and Minju's shortsighted insistence to only work those certain roles befitting a name like hers puts that all at risk.

"Maybe you can tell me something,” you start, coming across more curt than you possibly intended - but not by much, “how many of your former cohorts have had their career aspirations line up with reality, Miss Kim?"

“I’m picky, not naive,” she sighs, not missing a beat, and you watch her dark hair cascade gently down her shoulder when she reaches a hand back to unfix her loose ponytail from its hair clip.

“You might see how I can get the two confused.”

“Then spare me the lecture,” says Minju.

Though she says nothing else, an unspoken you already get paid too much for that hangs in the air.

The tricky part is that no matter what else Minju does, her contract has some non-negotiable clauses to them that no talent has before, or will likely get afterwards. Things that cannot be broken. Like the requirement of her making x number of media appearances, and she gets to approve all of them.

Or that her agent's take home comes from a fixed fifteen percent of her gross earnings, with further incentives when her roles hit specific milestones. But with her refusing projects like the ones in the dossier before you, it leaves you in the unenviable position of losing out on your guaranteed fixed income or trying to convince your diva talent to do what it is she ought to be doing.

The truth is that there’s quite a long list of things no one has had the guts to say ‘no’ to yet.

And, well, it's rather simple and obvious when you look at her:

Minju is that particular blend of A-lister gorgeous. The special look that’s all kinds of mesmerizing and magnetizing, in full bloom - that makes you feel like you're suffocating in beauty. Like if she said come here, you would go; the type where a single look is all it takes and then - just like that - she's got your number forever.

Because everything about her is tailored - from her clothes to her perfect porcelain features. And they made her that way for a purpose: to sell records. (Which, that's exactly what they did.) You can hardly blame the people in power over there, wanting what's best, in a position where everyone would kill for a taste, or even just a glimmer of possibility.

"I don't suppose the part of the governor’s neglected wife is capturing your imagination.” You push the dossier closer, and she doesn’t so much as look at it. “It’s this year’s big budget political thriller, a shoo-in for awards.”

“You mean the one who ends up in a lot of very steamy shots on the apartment’s rooftop pool. Maybe I’m mistaken, but you can’t really unshow your tits.”

"This isn't about being above, Miss Kim, it's about being well regarded; it’s about proving you’re easy to work with,” you argue. “We could-"

"Find a better use of my time?" she cuts in, closing the dossier shut. There's a long moment in which she's looking you over, her gaze sizing up every little inch.

"Your big break won't happen just because you ask for it." You grimace a bit, hating to tell it like it is, but not really wanting to just coddle her either. "But listen - we work together, one project at a time - we can build up to it."

Minju crosses her arms with a loud hmph. "And what are you going to do if I decide not to accept these projects?"

There’s enough edge in her voice that it gives you pause.

"If," she says again pointedly, a teasing little grin tugging at her lips.

So - actually, another thing: when you start digging into the details, there’s more problems than just what can be seen at the surface. Which perhaps it’s too reductive, but essentially everything between you and the talent sitting on the other side of your desk is not quite so straightforward. It was never about Minju doing the best she could for either of your careers; it was about Minju making sure her needs were taken care of, no matter what.

Months ago, thanks in part to the way Minju filled out this tiny black excuse of a cocktail dress, and as a compromise of sorts, there’s an uncharacteristic mistake you ended up making. Or two or maybe a couple.

Because there’d been the perfect backdrop - an end of year party, beautiful dresses and suits, lots and lots of champagne, the kind of jovial mood that inspired one drink too many - and then you and her, taking off down one of the hallways, towards the exit.

Of course, you ended up exactly where neither of you should have ever been - where the snow was falling gracefully and melting into the pavement, behind a private accessway at the back of the venue, somewhere dark and dingy and dripping with a smell reminiscent of garbage; somewhere your hands had gripped firm fistfuls of Minju’s waist before you shoved her up against the back of the building.

In short:

You remember how she gasped when her palms hit the brickwork, how you figured you may as well give her everything she wants.

(So what, it was one time, you hear yourself explaining, mildly repentant, and to say that it’s complicated the matter is a massive fucking understatement.)

In the interest of full disclosure, you tell her, “what exactly did you have in mind?”

"That maybe," she hums, tongue flicking out over her lips before she purses them thoughtfully. "You should persuade me a little better."

"And let’s suppose, I don’t do any of that," you persist.

"It'd be a shame, wouldn't it, having such a promising future cut short so early? If word got out. From such a respectable agency too, of all places. Couldn't live with yourself," Minju remarks, leaning forward on her elbows until her eyes are level with your own. “Come to think of it, it’s the kind of thing that could totally, like, end your career.”

But as she sits there, arching that perfect brow again, you don't feel so good about the whole thing. You take another look at her - which, your mistakes start there, if nowhere else - at the girl that is somehow not the airheaded starlet she’s supposed to be. No, she’s calculating. A rarity, though you do know the type: here’s a girl who just happened to take her brains for granted in the years she was pampered by the industry - the same one that fattened on her only to later spit her out. And that thought, the look of cold intellect in her eyes and the slight upward curl at the corner of her mouth, has you frozen just a bit stiff.

She takes a key card from her clutch, and throws it onto the desk in front of you.

“Minju,” you caution, and there’s a taste of danger on each syllable of her name - more of a warning for yourself than you can conceive of it ever being for her.

"I'm only suggesting" - she’s watching you nearly fucking choke, amused - "what's best."

And when the lines get muddied between the two of you, that's exactly the issue. What's best. As though this was always Minju's aim. Maybe you've read it wrong, maybe you've gotten too lost in your own delusions, maybe - maybe, it doesn’t matter -

"For work," she adds, at which point her knee bumps yours playfully beneath the desk, leaving the suggestion open, and the implication unmistakable. "Whatever's required."

Here, you should definitely tell Minju no. Say no. Say: you're a professional, and getting involved with her, romantically, officially, personally - whatever - would lead to nothing but disaster. That’d be the responsible thing probably. It’d be generous to say you end up getting even halfway there:

"There's rules against this, you know."

Minju tips her head. “Why ever would there be rules in place against doing your job?”

She thinks that if she feigns being clueless, you'll bite, which -

“Against me folding you over this desk and fucking you until your forget your name.”

"My apologies," she practically coos, knowing that she’s not only made progress, but that she’s wrapping you around her finger. She is a bright girl after all. “You might see how I can get the two confused.”

At that, you figure, the only real move, to be perfectly blunt, is to play Minju at her own game -

To convince her to bend, just a little. To persuade her. So you lean closer, you start to promise, with your face just next to hers:

"You want me to show you how I might handle an uncooperative talent? Would that do it for you, huh?"

And now if that isn’t enough to earn you a whole look, one that’s equally a challenge and a triumph; you watch as she bites the inside of her cheek, not that she can help the smirk creeping across her pretty mouth, a grin full of want and need and all those dangerous, thrilling thoughts that're probably too predictable given your unique sliver of history you’ve already carved out.

She arches that perfect brow of hers once more, toying with the corner of her lip between her teeth.

You navigate around your desk to hand her your pen, with instructions that are perfectly clear: "then for once in your life, be useful, and sign on the fucking dotted line."

And her whole act falls apart just like that.

She’s humming almost pleasantly to herself as you settle in flush behind her, sinking into you just a little when your hand arrives at her waist, another carding through her hair. “Here,” you point out, watching her name materialize in ink on the document - pressing your lips to the nape of her neck each time she finishes penning out an exaggerated curl of a u.

“And here.”

“And here."

She signs again - and again - and that merits a reward; she’s good when she wants to be. Persuasive when she needs to be.

You can hear her murmur your name when your mouth slips just beneath her jaw, when you mark your next path across the bare skin of her shoulder and when she gets started on the last page of the documents, it happens just like this -

The pen drops from her fingers at some point, tumbling onto the desktop with a clack that might as well be a round leaving the chamber of a starting pistol. The office door isn't even locked and you have half a mind to check on the blinds, but the idea of some desperate executive running face first into this scene - where you’re smoothing your hands down the fabric of Minju’s top, down the rise of her jeans, fiddling slowly with the button at her waist - it holds an unfortunate sort of appeal; those blinds, they're mostly closed anyway. And at this hour of the afternoon, well - maybe it’s a little more clear why Minju asked to reschedule this meeting in the first place.

At first, it’s just a few of your fingers dipping under the waistband of her pants, following the curve of her hip, her thigh, then inward, and when you reach down to find her already burning up in anticipation, she inhales sharp, a noise that makes you groan in turn, low, right into the hollow behind her ear. Minju, to her credit, is absolutely willing, so very helpful and - as you pinch the soft, tender skin at her hip, she's saying something but you haven't quite paid it a moment's mind.

Her head turns, eyes looking up at you ever-so-slightly-more-vulnerable than their usual mischief and calculation, and there’s a hint of a demand dancing on her tongue, ready and waiting; she moves her leg upwards just a few inches, settling to rest her knee on top of the tabletop, a calculated little pose, angling her hips so you can sink your hand lower, closer, press your fingers into the lace over her hot cunt even deeper.

Here you figure you're probably ruining the fabric, drenching it in her own slick as you work two, then three fingertips in tight circles. You’ll ruin it, and you’ll ruin more - ruin everything and take what you're owed. As her breath hitches again, in some way that makes your senses come to life: you can feel her skin become taut and tense, gooseflesh rising when your hand untangles from her hair and slides up under her shirt, can hear the steady rush of blood in your ears, her pulse quickening, the heart in her chest beating rapid -

(She can pretend all she wants that this was an attempt at extortion. She can pretend she’s not an easy read; that she doesn’t like being easy for you, when she’s hot and whimpering and aching so wet, creaming on your fingers when you haven’t even gotten her pants off.)

- as if every part of her wasn't made for this, as you lay out your first real proposal:

“Do you remember what I asked you? The first time, right after you signed on, when you were so good for me up against the bricks in the alley?”

Minju chokes out an affirmative when you toy with her pussy where she’s craving the shape of anything, but, boy, are the rough pads of your fingers more than up to the task.

"I remember you almost couldn't answer, you didn't dare want to admit that it's what you needed - isn't that right?"

She moans with a voice thick as honey when a couple more fingers brush up against her wet lips and fuck, she does look breathtakingly good; she's exquisite, she's irresistible - the image of a living wet dream.

"Say it, baby," you croon, her voice beginning to melt a bit at the edges, her own heat burning her resolve up from the bottom up as you tug sharply at a string on her lace.

Minju sighs. Arches into your touch.

Because you’re settling into this torturous pattern, where you draw inwards, closer, so close to the little bundle of nerves, her cunt flexing and rippling hungrily when your fingers flick once or twice around it, only for her to wince just slightly as your fingers trace down towards her entrance to start all over again -

Minju steels herself, drawing in a heavy breath past her teeth. “You asked how rough you could be.”

There's something so painfully wicked, how her voice falters there - but then your own voice is rasping right back in a similar caliber of depravity.

“Hm. That’s pretty close to how I remember it.” After all, you are always taking care of Minju - her concerns, her contracts, her needs. So if she was interested, why the fuck would you hold back on providing exactly what she wants. “But help me out, what did you tell me?”

Another twist - another catch. Another push - another pull. She's going to break so sweetly if you're patient - and, ahh, patience - she's shuddering underneath your touch, squirming against you so nicely that you've already gotten away with a bit too much, this much, these fingers and you and Minju's breathy gasps.

"M-that you could be. That you could-" she stutters, all as you feel her folds start to swell, then quiver, as your thumb drags painfully over her clit again -

And in that moment Minju starts to consider if this were a good idea or not, but her back is already arching against your chest. She's gripping your arm to get you right where she wants you, and the reality of this hits her - a rush of cold clarity through her head just as everything else threatens to spiral into something else, something frantic, something hot and animal and making the muscles at her core begin to clench up.

But you just ease out of her completely, a whine coming out from the back of Minju's throat - her thighs parting further in desperation.

And oh, the disappointment, the sound, it’s incredible - a high pitch - almost a sob -

You slide your other hand in her hair to make sure she's got an earful of your words:

"What was it you said, hm?" you whisper, nipping at the skin on her neck, the side of her jaw - she's shuddering with it when your mouth lingers so close -

“As rough as you fucking want.”

God, the little things that her voice does to you. “Exactly, sweetheart.”

And how's that boundary supposed to hold up and remain uncrossed then, really, if you just give her whatever the fuck she asks for - especially if you have your mouth working it's way around her pulse-point, toying with her as she starts to tense and soften all at once.

In fact, Minju can only stutter out an okay or two as you grind forward, the hard suggestion of your cock nestling up against her rear, just shy of the perfect spot between her legs, and even with still a few layers of clothes between you, the feeling - fuck, the friction, the sight - it’s enough to get you grinning.

Enough to form this near-half-coherent thought: that it’s what's always had you on edge with this girl. She is absolutely every bit your type. Everything about her, right down to the way that she was put together.

All her hard edges and soft curves that should've never really been yours to covet and now, somehow, have become exactly that. Oh, she's the kind of temptation that's better suited for the life of glitz and glamor and the time it requires for indulging in it. You never thought that you would actually ever get here, even as the years have begun to stack up and time starts to grind everything in the back of your head and turn it all over into something like resentment.

If only Minju weren't so good at making you a sucker for those pouty lips and big doe eyes.

Particularly when she's turned around - face to face now - she's the epitome of gorgeous, equal parts aphrodite and adonis; a fucking knockout, her body sculpted and lithe and athletic. Those lines curving out and away like they might tell time, like her thighs could count the minutes and seconds until she's straddling you in your lap with her ankles locked in at the small of your back and you're rutting up into her without reservation, without doubt.

(So what, really, is your goddamned excuse? Your pride? The nature of the beast in you that demands that you must have some degree of control over yourself? The power that your position, here, now, provides? But you can hardly be blamed, even when it's wrong and filthy and so fucking good.)

"You’re stalling." Minju’s leaning back against the desk, tilting her chin up, blinking lazily, and there’s a bit of bite in her voice again.

It takes a minute for it to dawn on you that it must be intentional, trying to get a further rise out of you, the same way your hands have risen up to trace the dips and elevations of her spine, her every vertebra, your fingertips mapping the hollows and rounds of her back. To learn the geography of her shoulders and where, and when, and how to get her breath catching in her lungs, each labored intake of air a little harsher, hastier, hotter than the last.

"You know," you start, spreading your palm across a soft plane of denim, fingers pulling onto the cheek of her ass, dragging her even tighter against you, "I always figured your reputation was a little overdramatized. Most everyone's bound to have a story or two."

She laughs, full of mirth. When the mood strikes, she's the picture of perfection, and she knows it. "Well? Were you disappointed?"

As she coils an arm around your waist to slide your shirt free from the confines of your pants, and as a deft hand slips its way in, you stop asking yourself about right or wrong, good or bad, or about the kisses that land playfully at the corner of your mouth - until you hold her tight and seize her lips, hard, like you mean it - it isn't long before she's fumbling and scrambling with the zipper at your waist.

"That depends," you’re pulling yourself away long enough to say.

"I think I know the answer."

And by the way she shivers a little when you shove up the bottom of her top, the way she's melting into your mouth and demanding more and more and more, Minju does. You think she probably has since the first night that your threads got all tangled up. Especially when she slides off her top - her bra - her jeans - leaving them in a pile that lasts barely a second where it started once you sweep everything off of your desk in one broad, efficient gesture -

There's a thud when a pair of binders and a couple of books hit the floor. Someone exclaiming in recognition, the muffled noise drifting through the office door, and, oh, this would probably be the best moment to remember how painfully thin the walls are; you consider whether to walk over and lock the office door, and when Minju’s fingers run up your sides, you decide you won’t.

Too little too late, you figure.

And before you can take a second to give it the more congruent thought it deserves, Minju opens her mouth: "which, in your professional opinion," a hum and a slur as her nails find their way to your collar, "is well, that the thing I should take," she gets out, unbuttoning you at the cuffs, loosening the last of your shirt, "really," her hands palming over the fabric on either side of the lapels, working their way downwards, "how - how do you think this goes?"

“Oh, Minju.” She’s all but begging you to fuck her and still has the wherewithal to be asking for terms.

Like her fingers aren’t completely down your pants, locking around your hard cock - pumping you with soft, lazy strokes - not too different from how you have her chewing on her lip every time your fingers circle over the entrance to her cunt, tenting the last of her lace all slow and careful.

It’s driving her crazy. She just bites into the edge of her thumb in response.

"Fine. Alright. Let me explain it clearly." You dip a finger into her cunt; the whimper is short-lived when she tightens around you and it hits home, the pressure so delicious that she can barely stutter to keep up.

“A negotiation, of sorts-”

“Yeah, sure, we can call it that.”

The mental picture you have of your length outlined against Minju's tiny fist - as she works it into her hand, steady - it's all almost more than you can possibly bear: the way her long legs stretch out so pretty in front of you, the way her wrist twists with each pass and every bump at the veins of her forearm that is such a damn perfect shade of porcelain white in the dim glow of the desk lamp.

This girl with her pert pink mouth and those lips, the ones that aren't quite touching yours but rather smirking the whole time. (If only you were to make her scream loud enough, because you know she could be so much prettier.)

The thought flits through your brain, unbidden and treacherous -

"Think, fuck - think of this, as a one-way track into your career. Think of me, a guiding hand - if you want to. The key to all this," you continue, spacing the words carefully so you don't falter under the pace Minju is picking up, "is that you're going to need to be compliant. Easy."

"Mm. And in exchange?" she bites, choking down an embarrassing moan.

"Here's the basics." And there, there's no fucking reason for you not to dip the tips of your fingers right on downwards, tap into her soft heat until her hips are arching away from the flat of the desk, searching for more. “Whenever you need me to take care of you, I’m there, however you need it: on my fingers, my tongue, my cock - I’ll make you fucking cum over and over.”

"That sounds," she gasps, losing track of the end of her sentence, rolling herself along the pads of your fingers, taking them deeper into her, "very-very-oh fuck-”

Her grip around your cock releases, arms throwing themselves around your shoulders, holding on tight as she starts to trust you implicitly - to give her exactly what she wants, what she needs - and give herself over to you, to your fingers, circling and circling and circling.

“See, tomorrow,” you start, “there’s an audition,” and when you pull your finger out of her cunt, Minju lets out this sound that’s between a whimper and a whine. Her pretty mouth has dropped open, like she's all out of words, lost somewhere, chasing this. Getting dire.

“It’s this teen soap; they need someone young, someone pretty, do you think you can do that for me?”

She doesn’t answer so much as grab and tug and pull you even closer as the heel of your hand pushes and presses over her clit, just about enough force behind it that, eventually, you begin to feel a certain rigidity through her limbs, how the lines of her face and her faultless features grow more and more focused, fixed and concentrated; her voice reduced to the high-pitched huffs and half-formed syllables of pure and utter desperation.

I can, I can - she’s murmuring - please, yes, I will - putting herself right into your capable hands.

When you feel Minju tightening, flexing around nothing, then seizing and shivering, her pussy throbbing hot and wet and clenching around your finger as it again works deeper inside her, an anguished groan finds its way out from her throat.

And from yours, well -

"Show up," you command, giving her another knuckle, curling it just right - watching as her expression contorts and twists up for all her worth. "Make a good impression. Don't make me fucking beg. Show up, Unreserved. Understood?"

And if her body wasn't making her pleas utterly transparent, she's screaming in agreement. It takes you barely a couple seconds, working up inside her cunt until she's all full-body, fully, blissfully spent. She starts to nod, needy, eyes screwing shut.

“And let’s say, something else pops up. A little racy, a little more gravure, just the right amount scandalous, I need you to keep an open mind.”

When it sinks in what you've said, Minju gives this wail, low and perfect - her cunt throbbing over the pulse at your palm - inches away from cumming and shaking and creaming on your hand. You could ask for anything, you think, and she’d give it to you -

“My PR team,” she gasps out, the consonants of her words fraying at the seams, “it’s up to my PR team.”

“Minju,” you say, priming a loaded question and a half. “Do you trust me?”

She nods, expression readable and open like a book. It starts to set in just about then, how you’re going to fucking ruin this girl.

Your breath runs hot, right against her temple, and you whisper the slightest affirmation, “good girl, I’ll take care of it.”

Because to be fair, you’ve not made it this long in your career without learning how to pull a string - how you might pull up on the sensitive skin straddling Minju’s clit and get her reeling; her pussy flutters in the tight, wet heat, muscles clamping, demanding as you work yourself in deeper and then, when the timing's right, pull out to slide a second finger past the slip of lace she has covering her cunt.

She's this tight, dripping, overwhelming fit - even more than you have yet to discover, to tease and then take, the heel of your wrist landing on her clit in a heavy pattern, circles - circles - circles -

- so you figure: fuck the PR team.

If only they knew how well and thorough you were going to fuck the rules right out of Minju.

That you were going to remind her who's the one in the driver’s seat of her life, of her career, that you would make sure she stays in her lane - the proper lane - that this, you think to yourself, might become a recurring sort of negotiation, the kind she's so shockingly eager to accept.

You'd be doing her a favor, fucking a couple good lines into her head, into her skin, into her cunt.

And soon, before long -

She's gritting her teeth around the shape of your name and giving one last heave against the hard wood of the desk underneath her. It's almost beautiful to watch how Minju crumbles into herself; the way she grinds back onto the digits in her cunt. How you’re dragging her underwear down her thigh, pulling your cock into your fist and twisting her leg around your waist until finally, you press yourself right up against the heat radiating from her cunt.

“I’m going to take good care of you, Minju, don’t worry, I’ll fuck this pussy of yours just right. I'm going to make you shake and cum all over me.”

“Please.” Fuck, she looks at you sincerely - no games, no bullshit - pupils so very blown out with want, with need. You watch her adorable mouth uptick into this faint lazy smile as she tilts her head into your collarbone, lips parting slightly to remind you: “as rough as you fucking want-”

And you sink right in.

It’s all skin-on-skin as Minju practically collapses in your arms; pushing deep past her soaking entrance - your hips slotting together just so, cock engulfed by her tight heat. Minju fucking wails when you drag back from her cunt, slow - so, so agonizingly slow.

You let her recover just a bit, watching her breathing quicken and shallow.

And the word on her lips becomes something reverent, the most indecent prayer, pleading please, please, please let me have it, please fuck me with your cock-

You brace yourself, thrusting back in, and she doesn't wince this time, holding fast to you like you aren’t the one fucking her open and taking her apart.

“God, I - look, this perfect little fucking cunt, look at how you’re stretching around me, Minju,” you’re telling her - promising her really - all of which doesn't count for shit when, once, and then again, and a couple more times after that, your hips meet hers and she starts to break just so slightly around you. “I can’t believe - it’s like you were fucking made for my cock, baby, you’re taking me so fucking well.”

"Now, show me why - why the fuck everyone wants you - wants you to be their-" she's trying, in a fashion all to her credit and her fault. She should probably care more about that raw, unhinged noise you’re making right into the crook of her neck when you bury yourself deeper into her pussy. But in the next moment, with another wild crash of your hips, the tables start to turn.

Slowly at first, and then all at once.

Because the sound you’re ripping from her chest when you start fucking her - truly fucking her - becomes far, far filthier than anything you've ever heard a girl like her make. All of it coaxed out from you working the edge of her pussy open, stretching her, hitting each and every sensitive spot inside her.

Minju tips her head back to stare at the popcorn ceiling and fluorescent lights, brow creasing in the middle, mouth gaping open. You find you might have missed something, when she moves to hold you down, hold you in place with an insistent leg, the back of her heel digging into your ass. As though there were somewhere you might possibly want to go.

It all comes down to something she's murmuring, quietly, harboring this smug lilt like you aren’t fucking her raw and senseless: how maybe the key to unlocking the rest of her potential isn’t all that dissimilar, not as off-brand as you may have been initially worried about. And the notion that both of you might actually be profiting off of this - how it shouldn’t sound as incredible as it does - is doing absolutely fucking nothing to slow the brutal pace you fall into.

"Fuck, just like that," and she's smiling, grinning really, nails biting into your nape - your name and curses and a fuck you or two falling out of her mouth as you pound each short breath right out of her chest.

"The only talent I'm gonna need to show," she manages, dizzy, and with one arm hooking around your waist, she pulls the two of you close, right up against each other. The sound your skin makes, clapping against hers - her cunt tight, pulsing, quivering around you - "is my, my, my-"

Your thumb should have never left her clit, you realize, pressing down on where your cock is disappearing between her legs, pushing up against that bundle of nerves that can get her screaming. That’s how you’ll punctuate your end of the bargain, how you’ll make her cum and cum and cum -

"-talent for being such a-"

There's something ungovernable in you, something fumbling, as you find yourself drawn to her lips like a magnet - claiming them in a kiss that has you both growling with all the intensity you can muster, groaning as her jaw goes slack, surrendering to the fucking. To this hard, solid snap of your hips, a raw fuck forward that pushes Minju against the edge of the tabletop.

It doesn’t matter what she had wanted to say, though it must be evident how easy she can wind you up, and you do your best not to be too gentle. Pushing into her so rough that her breasts, oh-so-delicate, bounce up and down along her chest, nipples tight and rosy, begging to be tasted and played with.

You’re pressing your mouth on hers hard, fucking her harder - fingers digging into the flesh around her thighs and leaving marks and memories, all these reminders you’ll be sure to come back to.

But the fact is that this is your girl in so many ways: needy and a dream in all her curves, and how her waist rocks back, her body fitting so perfectly against yours - you're hooked on all of it. On her - she is temptation made real, in blood and bone and soft, supple skin, so exquisitely touchable, just like the sound that she makes, high and tittering when your thumb starts to work her clit over; each swirl and figure eight sending a jolt through her nerves and straight back into your own spine. It's difficult - hard to focus, you find - when all her exposed skin has these drops of sweat standing in saltwater relief, how it rolls down the plane of her chest and disappears where her waist flares wide.

Minju turns her cheek, mouthing falling open, and asks with a certain helpless pleading, “yes, can you-”

she sighs,

“right there,”

she hiccups,

“please, again,”

she begs,

“again, harder, i’m so close-”

Not before long, the desk is scraping loudly across the carpet, moving right into the next office over, all from where you have your hand trapping her voice back in her throat, palm over where she’s practically sobbing for you to let her cum.

From where you’ve got her locked in tight, lifting her up into your arms, into some perverse, unspoken promise to carry her the rest of the way. To do with her whatever you want.

"I'm going to show you," you're gritting out, "exactly how a professional handles their star, the girl at the center of it all, their top draw - and it's so easy, isn't it? This is - fuck, sweetheart - you're nothing more than a - just a desperate little cockslut who's aching to cum, and it's good - oh so, fucking-"

When that next shiver courses down the length of her perfect form, it's entirely because of you, when her legs are still locked and clamped over you like this, as she sputters and babbles, totally cock-addled and barely managing a coherent thought. “Please, sir, please, fuck-”

And then a keening, sounding low, lost.

“Sir. Please, sir, please just - I just wanna-" Her lips are shaping all these words that never quite materialize - because her cunt is slick, the whole of it hotter and softer than anything else in this goddamn room. Maybe anything else in this whole building. Or in the entire world. It makes her whimper and ache, her voice rising and rising, belting out, need it, need it, please let me cum -

Which -

Minju, oh god, Minju cums, and you are fucked sideways to hell and beyond when her whole body convulses, shakes, every single part of her contracting, contracting - all at once - the way her hands claw desperately onto the blades of your shoulders as the room gets taken up with the scent of her; the sounds she's making are fucked and filthy. She starts to become undone as you double your pace, aiming true - thrusting, pounding, nailing Minju right into the finish.

“Minju, sweetheart, I’m going to cum in you,” you tell her, and it’s not even a question, or a concern. You’re dictating, not negotiating when you say it to her again, when you tell her you’re going to fill her perfect pussy so full with your cum, she'll be hung up on it for weeks.

One long, stretched out moan is all it could ever take; a split second, where everything runs blindingly hot, and you bury yourself as deep into her pussy as you possibly can.

Cumming so much, spilling out deep inside - this heavy flood of cum that pools warmly at the back of her cunt and fills every corner of Minju - she whines and sobs and tells you it's too much, please, all this hot and thick white cum pumping right into her -

As you throb into her, she's having a hard time saying anything beyond your name, actually, because if anyone can, if anyone would, if Minju can trust anyone and anything in this world more, it would be you.

Her chest shudders and shudders, and she kisses you in a vain effort to quiet her own body, to quiet yours. She has all this faith she's pouring right down your throat as you rock the last of your orgasm into her twitching heat, spilling and spilling and spilling, not caring about the wetness leaking onto the carpet. Not bothering to mask the obscene slickness, how everything gets completely fucking sopping between the two of you.

When she's practically drooling over you, eyelids growing heavy and fluttering, Minju sags heavily into the bend of your arms. In that shallow heaving and gasping for air that bathes the both of you - blissed the hell out, a lazy tangle of limbs - and without warning she turns to speak into your neck, her breath cooling, like a whisper of a dream:

“Okay, and already… I guess this isn’t entirely-”

“Completely terrible,” you offer after you swallow the dryness in your mouth.

Minju smiles into your shoulder. “And sir, in the spirit of honesty and transparency, I think I - I think I really did want - this - you - the entire thing…”

You stop her there, right in the middle of that particular train wreck. A drop in your voice, and the message is clear, when your mouth works its way to hers.

(No more of her talking like that.

Besides, she looks even better on your lips like this, and fuck, doesn’t Minju taste like you will have to remember, like a little bit like desperation, but only in the way that it has you both completely hopeless, hanging on to every whimper as your cock slides lazily about her well-fucked pussy, a bit deeper, a bit further.)

Like there is something far beyond professionalism guiding the hand with which you hold her hip and let her ass spill through the gaps of your fingers.

It’s all mixed up, how in this exact moment you figure this is a terrible, terrible idea, the worst kind of agreement, this pact - because no one could look at you, could look at either of you and have any doubts in mind now. But you can see it, how you’ll both wear this little agreement like the most beautiful stain in your histories. Even though it might, conceivably, cost one or both of you dearly at some point in time.

And yet, still.

"Will you - can I - can you..."

She's clinging onto you with all her remaining energy, like she wants to see it through.

But her eyes - the poor thing - her expression is melting into this haze, her face contorted in something like pain and something else entirely: a different kind of satisfied glimmer. It's almost unreadable how that sharp mouth softens at the edges as her cunt gives this small flutter over the head of your cock, as you pump her so full, threatening to overflow.

And in your ear, you catch this little whisper. It says, “please, let me show you,” she's practically purring, “let me, let me - I'm gonna clean you up now, lick my cum right off you.”

It's true. Minju can act and perform and pose and make faces, for a shit ton of people - but she’ll play-act any facade you might ask her to, and she'll do it for you - because, this time around, all you ask her is this:

To be yours.

To be a good girl for you, an obedient little thing, in your private audience, away from the cameras and the lights, away from everyone.

When her knees hit the carpet, she is perfectly between your legs, palms on your hips and fingers splaying out against you.

And when she tries her damnedest like this, no one should bother ever pretending to think differently - least of all, you - and certainly, not while your cock is hardening again in the wet heat of her mouth, under the curl of her tongue, the gentle touches of her fingers -

How can anyone ever bring themselves to tell her that she isn't completely, indisputably the greatest.

(The very, fucking best.

And in every other way: the woman of your dreams. A woman, you realize, you ought to endeavor to keep, in all manners, and forever.

Minju, who could probably do anything, and you, who just might be able to give it to her.)

#minju smut #izone smut #kpop smut #male reader #kpop fanfic #male reader smut #izone minju smut

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keyotos · 7 months

Text

"you know, if being cute was a crime, you'd be guilty as charged!"

you have been at this for hours (it has only been a few minutes) now. wriothesley, who has been idly sipping his tea with a straight face, has not yet wavered at your terrible pick-up lines.

"that one was bad," he sips. you roll your eyes.

you clear your throat, "if fine was a felony, you'd be on death row," you give wriothesley an exaggerated wink.

he gives you a disconcerted look.

you pout, "okay, c'mon! that one was good!"

wriothesley puts his teacup on the table and moves his chair closer to yours, "i don't think death row should be associated with romance," he shakes his head, "that may have been the worse one today."

"i think that was, 'are you a crime? because i'll do you anyday!'" you laugh and grab wriothesley's teacup, taking a drink out of it so ordinarily.

wriothesley basks in this. tonight is a quiet night: the inmates aren't awake, sigewinne has clocked out for the day, and you are here. it's strange how you are one of the loudest people wriothesley knows of, yet you make the world sound so quiet when you're around. whatever your magic is, wriothesley isn't opposed to it.

everything about this scene reads domesticity, even though the two of you have been together for a couple of months. spending late nights together, sleeping in the same bed, drinking out of the same teacup? if someone had told wriothesley a few months ago that he would be doing these things (nevertheless with you), he would have called them mad. but here he is, sitting in his office doing nothing but drinking tea, while hearing you recite horrible pick-up lines.

"wouldn't it be the perfect crime if i stole your heart and you stole mine?" you push the teacup towards you boyfriend.

wriothesley winces, "maybe that was the worse one today."

"what?! i thought that one wasn't bad."

your boyfriend looks to the side, "it was really cheesy."

"clearly, you missed the point of pick-up lines," you lay your head down on the desk, "i'd like to see you come up with one."

wriothesley chuckles. you relish in the fact that you are one of the only people that have ever heard him laugh. it's an unexpected sound, and it always comes out more lighter than most people would think. but it's endearing, just like him; you always think that a light chortle from him would paint your dark skies to a clear blue.

"i'm saving myself from the embarrassment," wriothesley sips out of the teacup, on the same side you drank of, you might add.

"boring," you draw out the syllables of the word.

"what? did you run out of lines?" wriothesley teased you, taking another drink out of the teacup to hide his smile. he watched as your face morphed into a light grimace.

"i did not, actually," you raise your head off the desk, "in fact, i'm thinking of one right now."

"oh no..." wriothesley shivers. you shoot him a petulant look. he backs down.

when you think, you have this habit of sticking your tongue out of your lips, just ever-so slightly. your eyebrows crease just a little bit, not enough to be furrowed, but enough to not be at resting position. your eyes don't narrow, they widen. wriothesley thinks that if someone caught you like this on a kamara, your photos would go down in history.

finally, after what felt like years (it was one minute), you look back up at him. this time, however, your eyes are laced with uncertainty rather than flirtatiousness.

"if being in love is illegal, would you be my partner in crime?"

love. you guys haven't talked about it yet.

was that why your eyes were so full of nervousness? did you think he didn't love you back? if that was the case, then it'd be preposterous, for how can anyone look at you and not fall in love? although, wriothesley supposes that it's a good thing, because that means you're his to have.

one side of his brain is in doubt. it's just a joke, it says, they're not being truthful, it's just a pick-up line. but his heart says otherwise. if they were joking, then why do their eyes look like that? why are they fidgeting with their fingers? why are they gently tapping their foot on the ground?

love has never been a consideration for wriothesley. throughout his life, it has been abandonment and independence. there's only been room for one, not two. but you: you reconstructed his entire mind. so now, when he thinks about drinking tea, he doesn't drink alone anymore. when he's staying late to do paperwork, he doesn't have to be alone while doing so. when there was one, there is now two.

oh.

oh shit. your confession of love came from a pick-up line. and it actually worked on him, because he loves you back. he loves you back so much. wriothesley loves you back with his heart, his mind, his body, and possibly his soul. and he realized the extent of his love through a pick-up line. from you out of all people.

though, even though he's in love with you, he's not letting you get the satisfaction of your line working.

"i don't know. according to the my close friend, the duke of meropide, he says it's illegal to participate in criminal activities." wriothesley's tone is soft. his eyes are full of endearment. your eyebrows stop crinkling, and your eyes revert back to normal. you know. you know.

you give into an easy smile, "don't you think your friend, the duke, is a little too compliant to the law?"

"sorry, he's not changing his ways. but," wriothesley gets out of his chair and strides towards you. his hand meet your jawline, and his thumb traces the corner of your lip that's turned downwards due to your pout. with his thumb, he guides it upward, making it so you were smiling. he laughs slightly⎯twice tonight, which is something he did not expect to do⎯and moves his thumb to lightly caress your bottom lip.

he uses his hand to tilt your head up towards him. you know what's coming, and you excitedly lean in closer. wriothesley tilts his head down to meet your lips, carefully tracing every angle of your jaw as he does so. you meet him halfway, closing the gap between you two almost immediately. wriothesley can feel you happily grin into the kiss. you grab his shirt collar and pull him closer into you, and he obliges with no hesitation.

you are the first one to pull away, and it takes all of wriothesley's willpower to stop himself from pulling you back in.

"but?" you ask, chest heaving up and down. wriothesley, the bastard, is still breathing normally. "does the duke of meropide have any contentions?"

wriothesley shakes his head, "i think he could make some exceptions," he whispers, grinning while doing so.

he doesn't miss the beaming glow of your smile as leans in once more. and then, he knows that he'll be your partner in crime for a long time.

#tana writes (∗´ ᨔ `∗)#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x you #wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley x you #wriothesley x y/n #they r so sweet nothing by tswift coded #THIS WAS THE CUTEST THING I EVER WROTE

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moonstruckme · 3 months

Note

Glad your back love! I have a request if that’s alright. Remus and reader going on a bookstore date and lunch or something!! That would be so cute. Imagine how excited both of them would be picking out books and being affectionate. Just a lot of fluff and cuteness. Thanks sweetness hope you enjoyed your break!

Thanks for requesting sweetness!

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

You’re feeling a bit guilty about the teas you’ve snuck in, but if there are two people who can be trusted around books, it’s you and Remus. He takes a careful sip as he leans in to skim the titles, sticking one hand in the pocket of his pants.

“Island of Love,” he reads, amusement lilting his tone. “Original.”

“I think I’ve actually read some of that author’s stuff,” you say.

Remus quirks a brow at you interestedly, hand coming out of his pocket to pull the novel from the shelf. “Let’s see, a summer wedding, the groom’s brother and bride’s maid of honor hate each other, but—oh, he’s frustratingly attractive…and something about passionate summer heat.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Wonder what that could be alluding to.”

“Alright.” You steal the book from him, slotting back into its space. “I never said this stuff was, like, literature to be studied at Oxford. If you’re going to disrespect my section, run along to yours.”

“Fairly sure it’s considered rude to abandon your date,” he muses. “What’s my section, by the way?”

“Depressing stuff.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.” You take a sip of your own tea, trying not to fluster under his attention. You scan the shelves idly for a distraction. “It’s all rather doom and gloom. Very well-written doom and gloom, to be fair, but I’m not always looking to have my life changed. This stuff is fun, at least.”

“I see,” he hums. “Oh, this looks familiar.”

You turn to see him holding up the shiny new version of the worn and waterstained paperback that rests perpetually on your nightstand at home.

“How do you know about that?” you ask him.

Remus smiles. Your heart flutters. “It was on the coffee table when I was over last week. Are you rereading it?”

“Yeah.” You shrug, turning your eyes away from him. “I reread it a lot, it’s my favorite.”

“Mm, I noticed it looked fairly battered.”

“Well-loved,” you correct him.

He chuckles quietly, and you grin because you can’t help it. “Right, so sorry. My mistake.”

You brush a piece of hair out of your face, slotting it behind your ear. Watch Remus’ eyes track the movement. “So what’s your battered book?”

“Hm?”

“Your favorite,” you clarify. “The book that’s all war torn and full of nonsensical annotations.”

He thinks for a minute. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “I have a few I go back and forth between, but lately it’s been The Secret History.”

You have to cover your mouth with a hand to hide the full breadth of your smile, and Remus narrows his eyes at you.

“What?” he asks.

“That book is so depressing.” You shake your head, delighted at being so right. “I mean, it’s beautifully written,” you amend. “Really gorgeous. I’m just not sure I found the plot as compelling as the prose.”

His mouth actually drops open. You can’t tell how much of the shock is teasing and how much is real. “You thought that book had no plot?”

“No, I mean, plenty happened.” You turn to face him, forgetting about the books around you for a moment to focus on this one. “But I felt like it happened so slowly, and there was so much in between that was just tons of description. It was like they almost skimmed over the murder part! There were so many plotlines that were brought in and then just disappeared, though I guess I can respect the ways in which it reflected real life.”

You think for a second that Remus might argue with you (he should, really—it’s his favorite book and you’re slandering it), but he keeps his mouth shut, watching you interestedly.

“And don’t you think Richard was a bit passive? Henry and Bunny had so much going on, but the narrator could have literally been a fly on the wall the whole time. He kind of reminds me of Nick Carroway, you know?”

“From the Great Gastby?” He tilts his head, eyes squinting a bit (it’s devastatingly cute). “How’s that?”

“Just, they’re both such flat characters.” You frown. “I don’t really think either of them needed to be in the story at all. I mean, having a narrator that’s a character with no personality is effectively the same as having a non-omniscient third-person narrator, right?”

Remus is biting the inside corner of his lips like he’s trying not to smile. “Right.”

“What?”

“I’m just thinking that I need to get you talking about books more often,” he says. And that’s real affection in his eyes, mixed in with the humor.

You look down, grinning at the front of your shirt, but his little smile doesn’t waver.

“Shouldn’t be hard,” you say. An awkward, obvious sidestep of the compliment, but he lets you get away with it. “Your turn. Let’s go to your section.”

He shrugs. “If you think you can stand it,” he says, but starts moving in that direction. You notice he’s still holding the copy of your favorite book.

“Aren’t you going to put that back?”

“No.” He doesn’t need to look down to know what you’re talking about. “You’ve already torn one of my choice novels to shreds, now it’s my turn to read yours.”

A little bite of nervousness snips behind your belly button even as his sidelong look lets you know he’s only joking. “You could always borrow mine.”

Remus blinks. “I’m flattered that you’d trust me with it,” he says, and it almost has you blushing again, that he knows the significance of you offering him your copy, “but I think I’ll read the un-annotated version first. But if the offer still stands after I’m finished, I’d love to read your thoughts on it.”

He says it like it’s nothing. Like taking the time to read your favorite book twice, just so he can get to know you more thoroughly, isn’t the sweetest thing anyone’s ever so much as thought of doing for you. You worry that if you look down, your heart will be glowing right through your shirt.

“Alright.” You muster your courage, taking him by the hand. “But now we also have to find one to read together.”

Remus has looked down at your joined hands, something like shyness coloring his expression, but he looks up to quirk an eyebrow at you. “Are you so sure we’ll be able to find something we can agree upon?” “So long as it involves a main character that actually does something, I think we can manage.”

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autisticlancemcclain · 1 year

Text

Lance never shuts the fuck up.

Keith can’t get enough of it.

It’s been like that for as long as Keith can remember. Lance was the motormouth in, like, 6 of his classes; always had his hand up with a question or answer, and comments in between. Keith had been annoyed with it, that first year.

But then he’d shared classes with Lance again.

And again.

By then, they’d had their fair share of group projects together. Keith came to know that for all he was a rambling mess, Lance was really fucking smart, and funny besides. He was also endlessly kind and supportive, at least when he wasn’t egging on their rivalry that he’d invented (and that Keith hadn’t known they’d had — not that he wasn’t an active participant, once he knew. Riling Lance up was the most fun he’d had in ages).

Keith doesn’t remember exactly when he’d started smiling whenever Lance looked at him, feeling proud whenever Lance got a question right in class. Doesn’t remember when the mild annoyance turned to genuine appreciation. He does remember looking down at his notes one day, in Algebra II, only to discover a blank page, and realising that he’d spent the whole class just watching Lance talk. (He also remembers feeling pleased instead of the disappointment he should have felt, because he figured he’d have an excuse to hear Lance talk more if he asked him to help Keith catch up. He knew he was in quite the mess, then.)

Keith knew he had a crush on Lance, after that. And Keith was never one to sit idly — he’d asked Lance on a date right then and there. Lance had, for the first time in Keith’s working memory, gone speechless. (And quite the pretty shade of red.)

The speechlessness didn’t last long, that’s for damn certain. Keith took Lance to the Applebee’s at the plaza near his house that very night, because Shiro worked there and would give him a discount. Also, Lance had once mentioned he liked the lemonade there.

Keith met Lance there because neither of them had their full license yet. He doesn’t remember what exact table they sat at, only that they must have been near a window, because Keith remembers swooning over the sunlight warming Lance’s beautiful brown eyes no less than six times. They’d ordered, Keith some sort of fried dish and Lance — Lance had ordered a four-cheese fettuccine with a garden salad and, of course, a lemonade. Keith remembers so specifically because Lance spent the next thirty minutes excitedly telling him every piece of history surrounding the dish, down to the prehistoric origins of wheat-made pasta and the disturbing account of the first pink lemonade. He’d looked sheepish after looking at his watch and realising how long he’d been talking, and Keith hadn’t known how to assure him that Lance could narrate every detail of paint drying in a wall and Keith would swallow up every word.

(Later that night, Shiro sent him a picture he took while the both of them were distracted — Lance, animatedly waving a fork in the air as he lectured, and Keith, chin in his hands, meal forgotten, looking at Lance with a face more besotted than he knew he was even capable of making.

Keith sent the photo to Lance, asking him if he’d like to go out again, confessing that he enjoyed every second of Lance’s rambling.

Lance said yes. Very quickly.)

The rest, to a degree, had been history. They’d dated for the rest of high school, staying together even as they attended university and trade school on either side of the country. It was easy, really. Lance made sure they always had something to talk about. (Lance loved university. He was enamoured with every second of it, every niche interest of his getting its fill. He switched his major fourteen separate times, chasing every one of his ambitions, and Keith loved every story he heard. He also liked becoming an expert by proxy, because that was inevitable — you could only hear about the important of spiders in the ecosystem so many dozen times before the information was reflective whenever someone brought up the subject.)

As soon as Keith got his mechanic’s certificate — and he passed his exam in the highest percentile, meaning he could practice anywhere in the country, much to his pleasure and Lance’s overwhelming pride — he took off to California, his one and only thought being that he had to get to Lance. (Not that it had been impulsive — this was planned, something they’d been waiting for. Did Keith run over as soon as he could? Yeah, kinda. So maybe it was a little impulsive. But mostly it was planned.)

Not to sound like a Disney princess, but Keith really felt like their life began once they moved in together. Keith was able to find a job at a pretty decent garage, bring in money for them immediately. Lance had his library job until he graduated, and of course then he was snatched up by the nearest ecological restoration effort — he got to spend his days crawling through the forest, fawning over every tiny bug and critter. He is so fucking cute. Keith loves him more than anything in the world.

Lance’s constant lectures never stopped, either — any interest he picked up, he told Keith about it. From his knitting club to the new beetle species he’d found at work, Keith got the pleasure of hearing about it. And it truly was a pleasure. Keith had his fair share of time being a motormouth, too — he’d bought a project bike as soon as they’d saved enough, and spent a fair chunk of free time building it back up. (Lance helped, or at least as much as he could. Mostly he sat in their garage, handing Keith tools, and talking about anything he could think of. If Keith could go back and tell his ten year old self what his future would look like… God. Sometimes he can’t even believe how lucky he got.)

Keith has it made. He comes home from work every day to Lance’s beaming smile and gentle teasing about the grease on his clothes. He’s got everything he’s ever wanted. He’s happy. So fucking happy.

Except that things have been a little different, recently. For the past few weeks, he’s been coming home to his usual smile and kiss, but the idle chattering or excited rambles — Keith feels as if they’ve become a rarity. Their home used to be filled with the sound of Lance’s voice, silent only when he’s reading or focused intently on something, eyes narrowed and tongue peeking out of his mouth.

Lance still looks happy. He still curls up with Keith on the couch after dinner, socked feet in Keith’s lap and three million blankets over his shoulders. He still sends Keith a myriad of heart emojis on his lunch break. Their sex life has not suffered.

But the lectures. The constant infodumps of whatever passing thing has grabbed Lance’s attention. They’re gone. And Keith’s devastated about it.

He misses Lance’s voice.

———

Shiro is not getting it.

“It doesn’t sound like a big deal,” he says, voice staticky because signal at the shop is ass. “I mean, maybe you two are just growing up and settling down. How long have you guys been together, now? Seven years? Eight?”

“Almost ten,” Keith says quietly.

Ten years of the same thing. This change is new. It’s strange, and Shiro isn’t getting it at all.

“Exactly! Ten years! You guys were so young when you started dating, kiddo. Hell, Lance was still wearing braces, wasn’t he? I’m not shocked that he’s mellowed out a little.” He chuckles to himself. “Hell, maybe he’s finally just learnt every bit of knowledge he finally can.”

Keith frowns. “I dunno, Shiro. Sometimes I feel like he wants to say something, but he’s holding himself back. Why would he ever hold himself back from me? I don’t — I don’t want him to hold back from me. I like it when he talks.”

“Tell him that, then. The only way you’re going to get answers is if you ask him, you dork.”

“Some brother you are,” Keith mutters, pouting. “You’re supposed to solve things for me.”

“Hm. Pretty sure you’re a grown-ass man who’s capable of solving his own problems, bud.”

“Ugh. You’re horrible. I’m changing the Netflix password to kick you off.”

Shiro laughs. “Sure! No more Costco membership for you. Password sharing goes both ways, you little snot. Now hang up and call your man. I have to leave for work soon.”

Despite his ongoing frustration, Keith can’t help a smile at the familiar banter. “Yeah, yeah. Enjoy your upcoming fourteen hour shift of hell.”

“Go fuck yourself! Love you!”

“Love you too. Bye.”

It shouldn’t really surprise him that Shiro’s no help. As much as he pesters his brother as often as possible and generally finds joy in making himself into a nuisance, they haven’t seen each other face-to-face since Christmas. They’ve lived in different states for years.

But, still. There’s some part of Keith that will always think of his big brother first when he has a problem. And that part of him had the right ideas, because Shiro is unfortunately right — he really does just need to talk to Lance. There’s not much else he can do.

He spends the rest of his shift wondering how he’s going to bring it up. He has his own motormouth moments, sure, but realistically? Keith doesn’t talk all the much. He’s more of an action person. How the hell is he supposed to breach the subject? ‘Hey, Lance. I’ve noticed that you are talking less. This change has consumed my every thought. I miss the sound of your voice. How come you don’t talk to me about your life anymore?’

Yeah, no. It sounds ridiculous even in his own head. He’ll have to — plan it out, maybe. He’s not sure. He’s never had to worry about making Lance talk more before.

He’s so distracted that he nearly burns off his eyeballs, forgetting to put on his welding mask before trying to make a part he couldn’t source for an older car. His boss sends him home early, worried he might accidentally leave a blowtorch by an air compressor or something and send the whole place up in smoke. Keith tries to take it as a blessing — maybe he’ll ride around on his bike for a while and clear his head. A way to bring it up might come to him naturally.

It doesn’t. He spends the whole ride just stressing himself out. He does drive by a flower stand, and turns around to pick up some poppies and peonies — Lance’s favourite. It won’t breach the subject, or anything, but it’ll make Lance smile. Hell, maybe he’ll start talking to Keith about all the different pollinators that made this bouquet possible. That would be a dream come true.

He hasn’t come up with any new ideas by the time he makes his way home, but he’s less stressed. He sets the flowers on the counter and takes a quick shower. Maybe he’ll start some dinner? Surprise Lance, for a change. Yeah. That won’t solve the problem, but it’ll be nice anyway.

He starts making four-cheese fettuccine and pink lemonade, because he is a sappy loser.

By the time he hears Lance’s key in the lock, he’s got the table set and the food is done. He keeps it heated on the stove, ducking into the bathroom to check his reflection as Lance steps into the apartment.

No grease smudges on his face. His hair is braided, the way that always makes Lance all blushy. He’s wearing the v-neck, too-tight black sweater that Lance likes, too. He’s got this. He doesn’t have a solid plan, or anything, but he thinks maybe if he turns up the romance then Lance will just spill whatever’s wrong. That works in the movies.

“Keith, baby? You home?”

“You have leaves in your hair,” Keith says, stepping out to meet Lance by the door. Lance smiles immediately, laughing to himself as he cards his fingers through his hair in an attempt to find them. Keith takes pity on him after a few seconds of fruitless searching, reaching forward and running gentle hands through the curly mess of his boyfriend’s hair, half to get out the leaves and half just to touch.

“Yeah — climbed a tree to check out a new weaver ant colony. Watched ‘em for hours — pretty boring, I’m sure you don’t want to hear it.”

I want to hear about it, Keith thinks mournfully. Please, please tell me about it.

“I made pasta,” Keith says quietly, when it’s clear that no more details are forthcoming. “And, uh, got you some flowers.” He tugs Lance gently towards the kitchen, placing the flowers in his hands.

“Oh, Keith, they’re gorgeous! Man, I love peonies. They looks like pink cabbages, it’s the best. And poppies —”

Yes, Keith thinks. Tell me about how California poppies were traditionally used as stress-relief medicine, but not like opioid red poppies. Tell me —

“I should put these in a vase,” Lance says instead of any of that. Keith feels like he could cry, honestly. Lance leans up and presses a kiss to his cheek, patting him on the chest. “You want to set the table while I do that? Or do you want to eat on the couch and watch a movie?”

“Table sounds good,” Keith says, because if they watch a movie then there’s no chance of Keith finding out what’s wrong.

“Okay! I’m going to get changed, too, I’ll meet you in ten.” Lance kisses him again and then rushes off. Keith waits until he’s disappeared into their bedroom to cover his face in his hands and scream silently.

Fuck! He just wants his Lance back. So badly. He wants to be woken up at strange hours of the night to hear about how trees communicate. He wants to get spam-texted as he’s trying to work, phone practically buzzing out of his pocket. He wants to hear about marketing strategies when they’re grocery shopping. He wants Lance to get distracted mid-sex by reading the back of the condom box, and then remarking with vague interest that they use the same dye in some cereals.

At the very least, he wants to know why Lance is acting so strange.

“So,” Lance says, once they’ve both settled down at the table and started to eat. “How come you’re home early?”

“Boss sent me home, I was distracted. I’m not mad, honestly. It’s been a while since I’ve done something special for you, which is a travesty.”

Lance smiles. “Dork. I appreciate it, though. Very sweet of you.” He shifts in his seat, tucking his legs up under him and leaning his head on his chin to look at Keith properly. “How come you were distracted?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Thinkin’ about this hot bod all day?”

Keith huffs a laugh. “Somethin’ like that.”

“Tell me! I’m curious now. I have to know or I’ll die.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Mhm. That’s not even the half of it, and you know it. If you don’t tell me right now I’ll just start listing the names of royals throughout European history and how freaky it is that most of them are directly related.”

Lance is teasing. His tone is light and playful; he’s obviously trying to goad Keith into playing along and groaning theatrically. A few weeks ago, Keith might have given in easily, and started ribbing him about why on Earth he has the names memorized in the first place.

But all Keith can think about is just how badly he would love to hear that.

“Promise?”

Keith’s voice comes out embarrassingly sincere. Soft and hopeful and dead-serious.

Lance’s hand stills, mid pasta-swirl.

“You…want me to? List names of inbred royals?”

Keith swallows. It’s as good of a segue as any, he supposes.

“Yeah.”

“…Why?”

“Because I — I miss your voice, I guess.”

“Keith, I talk all the time,” Lance says, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He snorts to himself. “One might even say it’s my defining quality.”

“You haven’t been. Not recently. You used to talk all the time, but now — I dunno. The house is quiet. I miss you talking about random things. I miss hearing about your day and the million creatures you met and the people you saw on the bus home and the weirdly-shaped stone you tripped over on the sidewalk. I miss you bazillion lunch-break texts. I miss your running commentary when we watch a movie, even though you miss important dialogue and have to rewind to hear it again. I dunno. I just miss you.”

Keith keeps his eyes downcast on his plate as he speaks, and keeps it there after he finishes. He’s finished his food, already, but he can’t bring himself to look at Lance’s face.

“Keith?”

There’s a strange quality to Lance’s voice, a sort of — bewildered breathlessness. Keith risks a glance, finding his boyfriend staring at him with a dropped jaw and wide brown eyes.

“You really — you miss my motormouth?”

Keith shrugs. “I fell in love with your motormouth. Of course I miss it.”

That makes Lance’s cheeks heat, and he glances down at his plate like they’re teenagers again and Keith told him he was cute for the first time.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Keith’s not sure what else to say. He doesn’t know how to express that there’s nothing that Lance does that he dislikes, not truly. Sure, it’s annoying when Lance leaves a million half-full cups of water around the apartment, and Keith is regularly tripping over the shoes that he never puts away for some reason, but there’s nothing — every part of him is precious to Keith. Everything he does and everything he is, Keith knows he can’t live without.

“I know you love me,” Lance whispers. He looks pointedly away from Keith, pushing a couple wayward noodles around on his plate. “I’ve never — I’ve never needed to doubt that.”

Keith swallows. “Good.”

“I — yeah. You show me all the time. And, I mean, look at today! You brought me flowers home just because. You do things like that for me regularly; I never forget that you care about me. But —”

One word. Three measly letters. But it’s enough to feel like a stone is dropping on Keith’s chest.

“— sometimes I feel like I’m too much? Like, I’m kind of intense. I know that. And I can’t always tell when I’m being weird or annoying. And you’d never — you’d never string me along, I know that. If you stopped loving me you’d tell me.”

“I would never stop loving you.” Keith can’t say the words fast enough. He wants to print them out and — tattoo them on his forehead. Melt them into gold and press them into Lance’s hands. Smash them to dust and sprinkle them in the air. Whatever — whatever it takes to prove to Lance that they’re true.

Lance bites his lip. His eyes are wet. “I — I don’t want us to —”

Keith doesn’t wait for the tears to fall. He stands and hurries the two feet over to Lance’s chair, carefully pulling him up and wrapping tight arms around his waist. Lance falls into him willingly, resting his forehead on Keith’s shoulder and leaning into him.

“Three of my coworkers think I’m annoying,” he whispers, long after the food’s gone cold and the light from the window has begun to dim. After Keith’s arms have gone a little numb and a wet spot has grown where Lance’s face is pressed into his shirt. “I just thought — I thought we were friends, but I heard them talking about how exhausting I am to be around. I don’t want — I don’t want you to get tired of me, too.”

Keith closes his eyes as he exhales in a shudder, firmly reminding himself that unfortunately, being a two-faced asshole is not illegal, and Keith has no defense for hunting those shitheads down and murdering them a little.

“They are not worth the ground you walk on,” Keith whispers, pressing a firm kiss to Lance’s hair. “You have more value in your toenail clippings than they do in their entire bodies.”

Lance giggles wetly. “Gross.”

”I mean it,” Keith says, smiling. “I love you, Lance. All of you. I never get tired of listening to you talk. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

———

It takes a while. Those asshole coworkers did a number on Lance’s self-esteem, because they’re horrible, and they deserve every horrible thing that happens to them. Honestly, Keith kind of hopes their cars break down and they have to spend ridiculous amounts of money getting them fixed by idiots, because Keith has quietly blacklisted them to every good mechanic in town. (Not that Lance knows. Lance is too nice to ask for something like that. Keith, however, is a bitch, and has no problem doing shady things to appease his own sense of justice.)

Eventually, though, the apartment stops being so silent. It starts with a shark documentary that takes them three hours to watch because Lance keeps pausing it to point out specific behaviours to Keith. And then they get kicked out of a casino they go to for shits and giggles, because Lance can’t contain himself and points out how the house is strategically winning all the card games they’re calling ‘luck-based’. And then grocery store trips start taking too long again, and Lance gets distracted mid-shower comparing the ingredients of shampoo and conditioner, and then they start a small fire in the apartment because he was explaining how broccoli evolved from mustard seed and burnt a whole pan of stir-fry to a crisp.

One day, seemingly out of the blue, Shiro sends him a picture of him and Lance, fifteen years old, at the shitty town Applebee’s.

I was looking at old pictures, the text reads. And you were right. It is strange that Lance was so quiet. I can’t imagine how that would feel. I’m glad you two worked things out.

Keith looks over at Lance, who’s singing a the periodic table song to himself as he washes the dishes for Keith to dry, and smiles.

He’s glad they worked it out, too.

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manicpixiefelix · 3 months

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Felix is definitely whiny and a big baby whenever he's sick so Reader is taking care of him and making him homemade soup.

(where do i keep finding these?? also warnings for Felix and Reader being cute and domestic while Felix has a cold, if that icks you)

"I'm going to make you sick," Felix mumbled as he gingerly held the bowl of soup you'd brought him in both hands. He had otherwise cocooned himself in every single blanket both he and you owned, so now you were sitting directly next to him, despite the awful cold that had befallen him. Your own bowl of soup cooling on his nightstand, you'd chosen instead to keep reading your book while letting it cool down.

"I'm going to make you sick," you mock in a high pitched tone without even looking up from your book, much to Felix's dismay.

"Hey!" But it doesn't sound quite right with his stuffy nose, "you're being mean to me, you're not allowed to be mean to me, I'm sick."

"Felix, I've caught every cold, flu, and stomach bug you've had since we started secondary school together," you look up, giving him an exasperated smile as you reminded him of your shared history in the matter, "and vice versa." Considering for a moment, Felix sulks defeatedly, blowing with only mild effectiveness, on his soup. After a moment, you go back to your reading.

"Did I give you mono in sixth form?"

"Farleigh gave me mono and I gave it to you," you corrected idly, to which Felix only had a noise of discomfort as his answer. "For the record, I never mind if you make me sick," voice going quiet and genuine for a moment, you feel Felix shift beside you, resting his head on your shoulder, "I'm just glad you let me take care of you, it's worth it to get a little sick, and I know you always take care of me when you're better."

"'course I do," Felix sniffles a little, and you automatically pause your reading. Putting your book down, you reach over to grab him a tissue, taking his bowl of soup in the trade so he didn't spill it as he blew his nose. Struggling to lean over you for a moment, he tosses the tissue in the bin by the bed before taking back the soup with thanks, "and I will," he only sounds marginally better for the moment, "promise I'll bring you so much soup." Despite his state, his voice is warm and fond, and for a moment, you lean in and steal a quick kiss from him with a grin.

"I'm so gross right now, and I'm going to get you so sick!" He protests, but the flush on his cheeks isn't all the illness's fault. Picking up your book, you shrug with a casual, teasing smile.

"I was gonna get sick anyways."

#saltburn x reader #saltburn imagine #felix catton x reader #felix catton imagine #felix catton x y/n #felix catton x you #head heart hand fic #it shouts back #manicpixieart

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 4 months

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MLK at 95.

January 15, 2024

ROBERT B. HUBBELL

Martin Luther King, Jr. was born 95 years ago on January 15, 1929. As a Baptist minister, he advocated non-violence while promoting civil rights. He spoke for the poor, the oppressed, and the disenfranchised. While he was imprisoned in a Birmingham jail for protesting segregation, he responded to eight white ministers who had criticized him for participating in protests that they described as “unwise and untimely.”

Dr. King’s famous reply to the white ministers explained why he traveled to Birmingham from Atlanta to protest:

I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in Birmingham. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly. Never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial outside agitator" idea. Anyone who lives inside the United States can never be considered an outsider.

While Dr. King was keenly aware of the racism that served as the understructure of the Christian church in the old South, he would be shocked by the virulent, mean-spirited, anti-Christian message that animates many (not all) evangelical congregations in America today. They form the backbone of Donald Trump's support in Iowa and beyond. They have adopted Trump's message that treats the poor, oppressed, and disenfranchised as “outsiders” and “others” who do not belong in America.

Over the last several days, we have learned that members of the Texas National Guard physically blocked federal Border Patrol agents from responding to reports of immigrants in distress in the Rio Grande. The bodies of a mother and two children were later recovered from the river in the area where immigrants were reported to be in distress.

Texas, of course, denies that its cruel actions caused the drownings—a denial that should be viewed skeptically from a state whose governor—Greg Abbott—recently commented Texas troopers could not shoot immigrants crossing the border because the troopers would be charged with murder by the Biden administration. Texas governor criticized after comment about shooting migrants | The Texas Tribune.

Similar animus underlies the recent comments of Mississippi Governor Tate Reeves, who withdrew Mississippi from a federal program to provide food to school children during summer breaks. Governor Reeves said Mississippi withdrew from the program to fight “attempts to expand the welfare state.”

Blocking efforts to rescue a drowning mother and her children? Regretting the inability to shoot immigrants because it would be murder? Denying food to poor children out of spite? Who are these people? How do they look at themselves in the mirror?

Ninety-five years after Dr. King’s birth and fifty-five years after his death, it is difficult to believe that people who identify as upstanding members of the Christian church can support such actions.

Another section from Dr. King’s Letter from a Birmingham Jail is relevant to this moment in our nation’s history:

But the judgment of God is upon the church as never before. If the church of today does not recapture the sacrificial spirit of the early church, it will lose its authentic ring, forfeit the loyalty of millions, and be dismissed as an irrelevant social club with no meaning for the twentieth century. I meet young people every day whose disappointment with the church has risen to outright disgust.

Dr. King’s words were prophetic. See Pew Research (10/17/19) In U.S., Decline of Christianity Continues at Rapid Pace.

And, of course, as Dr. King recognized, “there are some notable exceptions” among church leaders who supported his work—just as there are exceptions today. Several readers have recommended Faithful America as an antidote to Christian nationalism. The organization’s helpful FAQ page explains why “Christian nationalism” is not Christian. See Resisting Christian Nationalism: FAQ + Resources | Faithful America.

On this day commemorating Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s birth, we can see how far we have come—and how much further we must go. He didn’t despair. Neither should we.

Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter

#MLK #David Horsey #political cartoons #Martin Luther King Jr #justice #equality #economic equality #Robert B. Hubbell #Robert b. Hubbell newsletter

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theminecraftbee · 5 months

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Gem rocks back and forth on her heels, blood still pounding in her ears. It’s funny, because she’d sort of thought it would go away when the curse did, but nope! The bloodlust and hunger’s just part of being red, which is pretty neat. Gives her a good excuse for whatever she does next.

Impulse is humming something next to her. It’s a little annoying, but also really sweet. It’s very Impulse of him, right? And—

“You know, I’ve never done the whole ‘throwing my lot in with a red name’ thing before,” he says idly.

“Oh? What do you mean?” Gem asks.

“Well, see, Third Life, I was sort of—I mean, I wasn’t on any side to throw my lot into with, that time,” Impulse plainly lies, and Gem notes that in her head as another question to ask later. “But the red name I definitely wasn’t on a real side with. I was the traitor there, right? So that doesn’t count, and that’s when people were really doing this whole arrangement. In Last Life it wasn’t allowed, in Double Life most people largely stuck to their soulmates, and Limited Life was too chaotic to really feel like it was, you know, throwing your lot in with much other than death.”

“Oh, that sounds fun!” Gem says.

“You would say that,” Impulse says.

“Although, I wasn’t there for any of that! I didn’t know there was a history to sticking with red names, a history to bloodthirsty monsters. Thats so cool!”

Impulse’s face flickers through an expression Gem’s not sure she wants to read. “You phrase things so unsettlingly sometimes,” he says. “A history to bloodthirsty monsters?”

“I mean, why else would you choose to be on the killing team?” Gem asks.

“Love, Gem. And loyalty. And a lot of other things I’m really good at just not getting, apparently.”

Gem rocks back on her feet.

“Oh,” she says quietly. “I didn’t mean—Impulse—”

Impulse’s face softens. “I know. Just don’t be the one to kill me in the end, okay?” he says. “Don’t know how much more of that I can take.”

“Okay,” Gem says. “I haven’t—you know I haven’t done this before.”

“I know. You’re doing pretty good though,” Impulse says.

“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment.”

Impulse pats her arm and goes back to humming. Gem feels that fun bloodlust rushing in her ears and suddenly, with horrible clarity, knows it won’t be fun for much longer. She doesn’t know what to think about that.

#secret life smp #secret life spoilers #impulsesv #geminitay #a bee fic #don’t mind me just spinning some impulse character thoughts #as one does.#also a LOT of thoughts about how gem is good at the game and she’s NEW #and how that. might feel.

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radiance1 · 1 month

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Pariah watched as his vessel paced around the room, worried beyond belief by something that the king, personally, couldn't see as much importance. He jumped down from the couch, his far to small feet hitting the light thud muffled by the fluffy carpet and walked away.

He opened the fridge, squinting his eyes in distaste at his newfound shortness, and shuffled around for a moment before deciding to simply levitate to the top and swiped a popsicle.

Pineapple. It was no mint, but it would do.

He ripped off the wrapper with his teeth, chewing the material for a bit before swallowing and pushed off the fridge with a light kick of his legs and let the momentum carry him off from the kitchen.

He turned around in midair to stare at his vessel from upside down, lightly chewing on his treat.

The boy was still pacing around, muttering to himself as if something actually worrying was going to happen.

He bit off a piece of the treat, chewed, then swallowed. Did he want to get involved in whatever this was? Not really no, but it was annoying how his vessel kept at this habit for.... he took a quick glance at the clock (he idly entertained the thought of if Clockwork was watching. Knowing the ghost always was) and back at his vessel... A few hours at the least.

Pariah Dark sighed, took a hard chomp of his ice cream and then swallowed.

"Vessel," He called out, pointing his treat in said boy's direction. "Whatever causes you such worry? It is annoying."

Danny paused, muttering and all, before slowly turning to stare at Pariah Dark. Or, well, the small piece of him that for some reason bonded itself to him after he passed out. "Oh, it's nothing, just that the Justice League is going to pull up on my doorstep any second now." He shrugged, voice practically dripping with sarcasm as he leveled the fragment with a flat look. "Nothing much."

Pariah Dark let out a small, confused hum as he ate what was left of his ice cream -stick and all- and moved himself into a cross-legged sit, still upside down. "Then what ails you so?" He made a gesture at the imprints made from his relentless pacing on the carpet as an example, looking at him in curiosity.

Danny's turned blank for a moment, before remembering that Pariah didn't exactly have a proper gasp on what sarcasm was. He sighed, placing a hand on his head before sighing again. "It was sarcasm."

Pariah Dark watched as Danny went back to pacing, less than impressed at the rather blatant dismissal as if the worry over this situation was of actual importance. As far as he knew, this 'Justice League' were just a band of mortals who fought for peace, the good of others and were strong, yes.

But they were still mortal, nonetheless.

Even with one of their core members being a demi-goddess herself, and another of their members being a powerful vessel of the gods in his own right.

Danny was a vessel of the king, one of the most powerful ghosts across the Infinite Realms and its history. He knows the boy denied such a fact at first, but was he simply not as confident enough in his own strength as the king had thought?

He righted himself in the air, no longer upside down as he crossed his arms. "Vessel." The boy paused again, this time a bit more rigid as Pariah Dark, for the first time in a while, used the voice of a king. "Whatever worries you have for that band of mortals, put them aside. You are my vessel; you have defeated all of me in combat once before-"

He tactfully avoided mentioning that he had aid and was draining his lifeforce to do so.

"-so that is a full testament to your own strength. If you can fell me, then I believe you are fully capable of felling this so called 'Justice League' if the need ever arises."

Pariah Dark stared the boy hard in his eyes, reaching out in ghost speak to transmit his own confidence in his vessel while also smoothing said worries more than he ever could in words. Then snorted as the boy untensed and walked over to flop face first onto the couch.

He floated down to land on the boy's back gently. "If you so wish, I can even lead you a portion of my power." He let out an amused huff. "I cannot have you losing to the vessel of those arrogant gods after all."

Danny turned his head to stare at the ghost king and gave him a look. It was extremely hypocritical for him of all beings to call another arrogant, but you know what? He didn't care anymore. He turned his head back to sink his face into the cushions and let out a muffled "Fine."

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #dcxdp #dc x dp crossover #The Justice League ain't actually here but its whatever #Why is Danny worried about them?#I haven't come up with a reason #Vessel au #As in #Danny is a vessel to Pariah Dark #Or rather a piece of him #my writing

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reve-writes · 1 year

Text

—anger; kaz brekker.

ʚ kaz brekker x reader | grishaverse | 0,8k words. ʚ based off of this request. | kaz gets angry and finds comfort with the reader. ʚ established relationship; kaz is ok with being touched by reader. ʚ a/n i am a sucker for kaz being whipped. like this man is 100% the biggest softie for his s/o. we all remember the line from the book where he wanted to bottle inej's laugh and get drunk on it every night. if you have more kaz/grishaverse reqs my asks are open!

Kaz likes to think that he has somewhat of a good grasp of his emotions. He puts on masks like turning the back of his hand. His favourite one, though, is the one he wears the most. Cool and polished, unfeeling. Stoicity that demands respect and fear—that instills intimidation.

It's not so easy to slip on that mask when his entire body practically hums with anger, his fingers twitch underneath the gloves. The desire to fucking hit something burning under the leather.

The reason is clear, being whispered in both fearful hushes and celebratory gasps: Pekka Rollins has been released from Hellgate.

Life has a way on turning a good thing into something bad. Kaz is used to it. He has come to expect it. Hell, he expects the Dregs to eventually fall apart. Expects the Crows to eventually leave him. Expects you to get fed up with him and pack your things.

He doesn't expect Pekka Rollins to be released—after all he's done to make sure the bastard ends up where he deserves to.

“Kaz—” An unfortunate Dregs member speaks, perhaps wanting to relay the message or simply making formalities.

Kaz spins around. The desire to swing his cane in a bone-breaking arc is there. He doesn't.

“Not one word.”

That's all he says. The air in the Crow Club turns suffocating—all tension and no reprieve. Everything is still being conducted as normal: barkeeps are serving drinks, gamblers are opening tables and customers are drinking and carolling. To those who know Kaz well enough, know his tells and his history with the leader of the Dime Lions, it feels like walking across a glass bridge. Every step is followed by the anticipation of falling through.

Jesper turns to look at Wylan, who glances at Nina and Matthias. The couple turns to Inej. The Wraith stares at you. Unspoken words are exchanged from across the room, over rowdy drunkards and laughing gamblers.

The door to Kaz's office on the second floor slams shut. A tremble goes through the frame. It gets lost quickly, swallowed by the hustle bustle of the Barrell, but you notice. Of course, you do.

You stare at the rest of your friends and find them looking back at you expectantly. Jesper tilts his head towards the stairs.

You sigh, putting up a hand towards them—your first two fingers are crossed over each other. Then, you're already on the steps, knocking at the door gently.

“Kaz?”

You hear a loud sigh.

“Can I come in?”

“You'll barge in anyway.”

You let out a soft chuckle and push the door open. He sits on his desk, one leg stretching out to balance his body while the other is bent. He shakes his knee idly. Both of his hands grab the edge of the desk that over hangs, fingers tapping periodically.

He spares you a glance under the brim of his hat and relaxes slightly. Your presence alone melts the tautness in his shoulders. It always does.

“Are you alright?”

“Never been better.” Sarcasm laces each word.

You sigh, approaching him. He doesn't flinch away when you step into his personal space—something that has taken years to work towards and you're grateful for the point you've reached together.

“It's inevitable, you know?”

Your words cut but they're nothing short of the truth. Someone as powerful as Pekka Rollins will eventually get out—it isn't a reach to conclude. Deep down, Kaz knows as well. He just likes to think that he finally is able to lock away that part of his past and throw away the key, but it always comes crawling back. Meaner than ever.

“I know, schatje,” he says, defeated.

You step closer and pull the hat off of his head. Your hand runs through his scalp to smooth out the flattened hair, combing through smooth, dark strands. He leans into the touch. One of his hands go to your arm and brings the inside of your wrist to his lips.

“Everyone was scared of you,” you tease, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips. He raises an eyebrow. You add, “Well, more than usual.”

He lets out a huff—the beginning of a chuckle. “As they should be.”

“You are not-so-scary right now.”

He buries his face in the crook of your neck. “Only for you.”

“Ever the charmer.”

His arms come to rest around your waist, pulling you closer to him as he lets you soothe the anger—calm the storm inside him.

“We'll get him again, Kaz,” you say, pulling away slightly to look at him. “Together, okay? We've done it once. What's a second time?”

He hums. “You're right.”

“I often am.”

“Well, except for that time—”

“Kaz!”

It seems that you've successfully staved him off of being consumed by his anger, once again.

[ ]

#kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker x you #—ki writes 🍯

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furifurii · 8 months

Text

since you, the reader has school going for you, you rarely play honkai star rail.

the characters would always wonder where you went, or what you were doing outside of their world. they can still hear your voice, but very, very faintly. they would sometimes hear a name they would not recognize and idk, maybe just go:

"who the hell is diluc and why is he so hot??"

they would also listen in to your conversations whenever they would hear your voice. even if it's you talking to yourself about history, or you talking to your friends about things unrelated to their world. they wouldn't really mind. maybe just a little bit.

but when you go back to the game, the characters would be overjoyed and would try to make you stay there longer.

even going as far as to secretly double the stellar jades you would receive during quests or missions. and missing the excitement of pulling for new characters, you would gladly warp for the new characters on limited banners.

they would ask silver wolf to hack into the system to boost your chances of getting a character or the light cone you were pulling for. they would push each other aside just so they can appear on your screen for you to gush over how you got another copy of a character or celebrating when you got all of the eidolons of one character that you really liked.

just seeing you being happy just makes them want to spoil you even more, just so you will stay playing with them, forever.

but when you suddenly stopped playing the game while they were trying their hardest to give you what you wanted, you realised, oh, there's school tomorrow. so you decided to turn off the game for the time being and go to sleep.

but they couldn't let you go just like that! that would be ridiculous.

for a few days just before you played the game again, the cast begged for anyone who could take them to your world. just sitting idly on your device's screen and listen to your voice wasn't cutting it anymore.

they want to see— they needed to see you, to actually have an actual conversation with you and not just talk to you through this game's script. it wasn't enough for them to be living behind the screen for you to just watch, they wanted to show you that they are actual tangible beings that call you their "creator" .

the main character had begged herta to do something about this, and she complied without any argument, to their confusion. usually she would be saying stuff like how she would just 'give up in the middle of it' ,, but she.. didn't? nonetheless, they were grateful to have herta agree with creating a portal to your world.

as soon as the characters caught wind of this, they were ecstatic. they had left their duties just to hop on the astral express and to herta's space station, to finally see you, to meet you.

in herta's office, it was packed with all the playable characters, waiting. some patiently waiting, some, not so much.

to see opposing groups of people being in the same room and not being at each other's throats were such a random thing to see, but they didn't care about that, no no, they only cared about you.

you, their "creator".. how could they miss this opportunity to be meeting their own creator, the one who gave them life, something to live for.

as herta was finishing up some parts of the portal, you were sound asleep in your bed, snoring away in your weird sleeping position.

well, until you felt your blanket started to move with sudden gusts of wind. you heard a really loud thump, it didn't come from any rooms of your house, it didn't sound muffled when it happened. so it's,, in your room. but oh, would you look at that, your room is so dark you couldn't locate your phone which was usually near you to use it as a flashlight.

but what's that? you heard a voice , a very, very familiar voice.

———

yeah naur... i can't do this,, this sounds terrible i'm so sorry you had to read this sobsosb i am so soso sorryr

#honkai star rail #self aware honkai star rail #sahsrau #honkai star rail x you #help how do i tag this??#first post omgggg :wacky face emoji:#i wrote this when i was literally going cross-eyed trying to stay up #stan the jacket in the corner of my room as my motivation to stay up <33

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durnesque-esque · 6 months

Text

I have spent too much of my life studying the effects of silent bystanders to sit idly by now. The cost of silence is life.

Don't wait until the line of history is clear and wonder why you didn't leap to the right side of it. The best time for action was yesterday, the next best time is today.

#ceasefire #free palestine #free gaza

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syoddeye · 2 months

Text

siphon, part four

john price x f!reader part one | two | three | four ~2.3k words cw: kidnapping, implied stalking, dubcon/noncon oral, blood, violence, gore, death

An opportunity arises more than a month into your 'stay'.

"I'm takin' off for a few hours," John announces.

The dishes in the sink rattle beneath the dropped scrub brush. You tuck your chin to your shoulder and glance back. "Oh?"

He stands in the mouth of the hall in a jacket, thumbing through a keyring. "Got an errand."

The question forms instantly, but you hold it back for fear of appearing too eager. Returning to the dishes, you finish rinsing a plate and set it on the drying rack. Behind you, you listen to him putter between the den and the kitchen.

"I assume I'm staying here?"

John hasn't left you alone since you woke up in the backseat of his truck, head splitting. Since then, you've studied the cabin, inside and out. Wherever you are, the location is remote, thickly wooded, and mountainous. A minimum of an hour outside of the city. It's clear he took great pains to ensure you remain indoors. Although he's yet to employ the many security measures beyond the locks on doors and windows, you've observed an alarm panel. You've seen the gun. Then there is his favorite method of control - his sheer physicality. John's built, solid, and efficient. From the books on history, war, politics, and self-sufficiency, your working theory is he's former military. There is no need for a leash when he can outrun you.

He doesn't answer.

You turn to face him, untying the ridiculously frilly apron you might've thought was cute if a boyfriend had given it to you—not your kidnapper. Captivity has a way of killing romance.

His eyes fixate on your hands loosening the garment, and you watch as he selects two keys from the ring by feeling alone. The keys are simple brass, two different sizes. He plays with them idly, evidently lost in some sick domestic fantasy. You stare at them a moment longer – oh. You know where the keys go.

With his preternatural instincts, John returns to earth, raking his eyes from your form as you hang the apron. You cannot stem the burgeoning panic mounting in your chest.

"Sweetheart–"

"No."

As if you have a say.

John considers you, his gaze light and careful when he glances at the kitchen around you, but it settles heavily upon your person. He cracks his neck and pushes the key ring back into his pocket.

"Care to repeat yourself?" He echoes.

You inch to the right. Steps away, a pair of kitchen shears sits. Tonguing your lip, you reach for a reason—any reason—to let him hear reason. "I'll be good. Cuff me to the couch, lock me in the bathroom…Please. Don't put me back in there."

He tracks your movement. He tracks everything. "Not how it works, 'm afraid. C'mere."

This isn't how it is supposed to go. Maybe fucking John didn't grant you the access you thought it would, but it is supposed to make him believe you housebroken. Amicable to whatever plans he has for you, which, you know, he has. He's ruining your plans. Ruining everything.

"Please, I'll-"

"This is not a negotiation. Now come here." He beckons.

A petulant anger flares in your belly. Asking John into your body every night is supposed to mean something. If he puts you back in the kennel, it's all been for naught. He acts as if it's beyond his control, that he didn't contrive the entirety of this nightmare. It shatters something inside of you.

With the force you pull the shears out, the utensil holder cracks on the counter. John curses, closing the distance in three giant steps, and you fight a losing battle. He wrenches them out of your hand, tosses them, and drags you by the hair. You kick and slap with your free hand, but with a cruel rip of his hand, you feel hair come away.

He hauls you down the short corridor. Your breaths come in quick gasps as panic claws its way up your throat. You bark and fight like a stray dog on the business end of a catch-all. It's fruitless.

"Fuck you!"

"Later."

John fishes the keys out, unlocks the room, throws you into it, and slams the door behind him. You bolt into the corner. He ignores you while he opens the cage.

"Now," He points a finger at the entrance.

It isn't fair.

"I'm going to kill you." You blurt out.

John looks unimpressed, sighing. He advances slowly. There is no gentleness in his posture.

"Fuck you." You repeat in a hiss, tensing for the fight you know you'll lose.

His frustration laces with undisguised lust. "Say 'fuck you' again. It sounds like an invitation."

It's inexorable – he violently collects you as if for a dance in the kitchen. You glare through the bars, and he closes the padlock. You both breathe heavier. His hand lingers on the door, and you see the faint imprint of your teeth on the webbing.

"Let's see how much fight you've got left when I come back, hm?"

You lunge for his hand, eager for another bite.

He draws back in time, and his laughter cracks like a whip. "I love you, sweetheart. Nothing you do will change that." He brushes himself off and admires your sulking. "And I've got all the time in the world to change your mind. You'll love me.”

The cabin falls into silence with his departure. You hold yourself tight and take deep breaths. You need to focus. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You could've rolled over and let him lock you up for a couple of hours. But no, you flipped the chessboard like a fucking idiot.

A dripping noise coaxes your eyes to the water bottle. There's a crack in the plastic between the nozzle and the body. Probably broke when he threw you in here. You squeeze your eyes shut tight, reaching for the comfort of sleep. The REM cycle evades you most nights, what with the monster snoring in your ear over your shoulder.

Drip.

Water erodes even the most solid foundations, and you haven't had the luxury of stability in weeks. You grab the dispenser with both hands and pry it from its fastenings. It hurts your hands and takes more energy than you'd like, but it comes loose, and the plastic zip ties snap. Cursing the damned thing out, you hurl it awkwardly through the cage. It doesn't travel far. Doesn't feel as triumphant as you'd've hoped. A stream of water pools from its belly as it bleeds out on its side.

A despairing voice wishes it were you.

Your mouth is dry when he fetches you.

"I'm sorry."

John's grip is ironclad. His face pinches in mild confusion as he helps you from the kennel before a smug smile replaces it.

"What for?"

"Being difficult," You murmur, stretching your legs. "Breaking the water bottle"

"You're a fuckin' brat," He corrects, pointing to the plastic and metal and slurs into your temple. He reeks of whiskey. "Pick it up. Then do the dishes."

You follow him out into the kitchen and suppress a groan. Your stomach grumbles, smelling the late dinner he cooked for himself when he returned and before he let you out. Beside the sink, your destination sits a tin of tuna singled out from the others. You open and eat the bland fish before he changes his mind. You fill the sink with warm water and soap and start in on the chore.

John sits in the living room, well within view, smoking a cigar. The stink carries in your direction, cutting through the sterile scent of the dish soap.

For a few minutes, the silence sits like a third person in the room, occasionally interrupted by the clinking of a dish and the dipping of the brush in the water.

"I'm in a better mood," He starts out of nowhere.

You strain to listen, gauging whether it's a conversation or a soliloquy, and then dunk the cracked bottle, massaging the pliable material and working it under the suds.

"I grabbed a pint and told some folks about my woman troubles," he snorts, laughing at his own joke. I got some good advice."

The image of John holding court at some smoky bar comes uninvited. What lies did he tell his fellow patrons? That his 'girlfriend' threw a fit and stepped out of line?

Beneath the water, the plastic cracks within your tight grip. Your arm jerks, sloshing a smattering of bubbles onto the counter. You swiftly clean up after yourself and move on to drying.

"Leave 'em in the rack." John orders, rising from the armchair in the dark of the living room, leaving his cigar to burn out on the ashtray.

You fumble in surprise at his steps. Should be used to it by now. You hurry with the dish towel. "John, there's only–"

"Now."

His tone brooks no argument, not that you were in a position to dare. Swallowing thick, you abandon the chore half-complete and slink into his arms. John bullies you down the hall, grabbing handfuls of your ass. "Told me to be nice to you, eat your cunt a bit." He sighs into your hair, nudging the bedroom door open with a foot.

You don't fight him or gravity and fall back on the mattress.

John looms, eyeing you like a second dinner. Leaves the light on to see every gruesome detail. He makes short work of your jeans and rubs your calves appreciatively before discarding your underwear.

"So I'm giving you a freebie, just this once. I upset you," he explains and kisses your thighs. “You thought you were ready, but have you ever heard of the three-three-three rule, darling?"

"N-No," You stammer when he pinches for an answer.

"Three days, three weeks, three months. The three most important dates when bringing a dog into a home. Though, by my estimates, it's been working just as well for you."

John chuckles before delving into your heart. The lurch in your belly barely beats out nausea.

Three months. You'd rather die.

The sharp jab in your chest demands freedom.

You let him lose himself. It's easy. He's eaten you out for hours before. You carefully disguise your movements as enthusiasm. You shove your shirt up and over your bra, fondling yourself, discreetly withdrawing the nozzle you broke off of the water bottle in the sink.

Dread and anticipation mix, making you tremble and quake. John, of course, thinks it's all him. It is, in a way. You prop yourself up on your elbows, meeting his eyes briefly when he opens them to take in the parting of your lips.

"John, please," You beg, threading one hand through his short hair.

His eyes shut in focus, humming gleefully, and he doesn't see you coming on either front.

Swinging with everything left, you stab the sharp, concave end of the nozzle into his neck. It sinks in like his windpipe wants it. You both jerk, you with relief and him with a pained, wet scream. It's messy. Blood blooms around his fingers where he clutches the metal. You drag your jellied legs across the bed as he stands, stumbling forward to grab you with a desperate and angry hand.

At his peak, you cannot outrun him. Bleeding profusely from the neck? Tips the scales. You book it to the door and the hall, and he comes crashing after you. Adrenaline and pure fucking fear hurl you down to the kitchen. You skid to a halt on the linoleum and lunge for the drawers from which you've seen him draw knives.

John's steps are haphazard and clumsy, but the full weight of his body is behind each one. He thunders down the hall, slurring, trying to push out words. It all comes out in bellows. A dying animal. Seeing you grab a cook's knife, he stumbles, pausing at the threshold of the corridor. Locking eyes, he reaches for the metal tube stuck in his throat instead. He gurgles something that roughly sounds like you bitch.

"I wouldn't do that." You half-heartedly warn, brandishing the knife.

He wrenches it out anyway, hand slapping to the hole immediately after, but there's too much blood. It's too slick. Red sprays. More than you thought.

John makes it one step before he slowly slumps to the ground, and you stalk closer, giving a wide berth with the blade in hand. He sags back to the wall, feebly pressing thick fingers against the gaping wound in his neck. It's useless. You know it. He knows it.

You crouch, naked from the waist down. Even now, he ogles, the shitstain.

"Do you need help, John?"

His eyes narrow, struggling to focus. The blue looks flatter. Vacant.

A genuine smile splits your face.

"Why don't you just ask?"

The truck dies just off the forestry road. Of course. At least hell is in the rearview.

The sun is barely above the horizon, and John's phone still can't get a signal. Cursing him out, you slip the rucksack full of supplies you found while raiding the cabin. You could've grabbed more but couldn't stay there any longer. You pussyfooted over the gun, ultimately deciding it wasn't worth the energy to find the right key or pry the door open. Not for a weapon you've never used before. Finding your shoes was the best discovery apart from the truck keys and his phone. You'll need them for the walk.

It's almost an hour before you hear a car. You hook a thumb, walking forward, staring intently at the bend in the road ahead. Seconds later, an old, two-seater pick-up appears, and though it takes a moment for it to stop, they do.

You clamber towards the driver’s side window as it rolls down.

“Need a ride?”

“Yes, please. My truck died. Can I get a ride to town?”

“‘Course. What’s your name?”

Giddy and relieved, you give your name as you toss the bag into the open bed.

“What’s yours?” You ask, smoothing a hand over your forehead.

Your unwitting rescuer smiles. Jesus, he’s handsome.

“Kyle.”

#john price x f!reader #john price x reader #john price x you #price x f!reader #price x reader #price x you #cw violence #cw kidnapping #cw noncon #cw blood #cw death #darkfic #read the content warnings for the love of all things #got whatever that was out of my system

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