#Are you still using paper business cards?

[lockefanfic]

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Part One of Three. 12k words.

---

The day before the trip, you’re turning a corner at the office and she’s spilling an iced caramel macchiato - extra whipped cream, extra caramel drizzle - onto your clothes.

“Oh my god-” she spits, mouth frozen open as the reality of what she’d just done dawns on you both. She sees the suit, sees the ID card dangling on a lanyard from your neck, sees the Director title on it - and freezes.

After you both overcome your momentary shock, she steps close, producing napkins from her blazer’s inside pocket and using it to wipe uselessly at the whipped cream and caffeinated sugar-water soaking into your jacket.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” you say, genuinely. You were late to a meeting, and it was probably your fault for turning the corner too quickly without looking. You notice the equally wet patch on her own blazer, and notice her napkins quickly shredding into wet pieces as they try and fail to absorb the rogue caffeine stain. You reach into your pocket for your handkerchief and offer it to her.

“I- shit, I’ll, uh,” she stammers, even as she takes your handkerchief.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, slipping the jacket off, offering a crooked smile. For the first time you look up at her. She’s an unfamiliar face, and her ID card isn’t immediately visible. She’s slim, with dark hair, and beneath the awkward, worried look on her features is the kind of face that belongs on a magazine. You smile sheepishly.

“I’m so fucking sorry, I’ll get it cleaned, oh my god-”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it,” you say, already heading down the hall. “Late to a meeting. See you around!”

She watches you leave, still a little frozen in shock. She clutches what’s left of her macchiato in one hand, your handkerchief in the other.

She sighs.

---

“Seoul. Tokyo. Two weeks each. You leave tomorrow.” Taeyeon slides a tablet across her desk, just past the Vice President, Strategy name plate. On it are graphs and spreadsheets, numbers generally in green and arrows pointing generally upward. She spares a glance at the clearly dripping blazer folded over the back of your chair, and the corresponding damp spot on your chest, before leaning forward and threading her fingers atop her desk.

“Seoul is doing fine. Tokyo needs to pick it up a little,” she continues, tone sharp and direct, business persona fully on and engaged. “Either way, the CEO wants a status report on both offices by end-of-month so he can decide whether to expand ops in either country. We already have the hard data we need for a business case - we just need someone on the ground to confirm the numbers. Meet with the directors of each office, let them wine and dine you, take a tour of the facilities and offices, slap together a report for me to hand to the boss when you get back. Piece of cake.”

“Sounds like a month-long vacation,” you reply, relaxing a little further into the leather chair opposite her desk.

“Consider it a thank you for the good work you did on the Hirai deal,” Taeyeon says with a shrug, taking a sip from her mug - double-shot Americano, black, extra hot. You smirk as you recall the details of the deal, which took every ounce of your attention and time for a couple of months. There were too many long nights spent in this very office, the two of you working away at this document or that. “And you’re too busy?” Taeyeon glares, but there’s no heat in the frown on her lips. “I’m going to London to check up on the office there. I’d spend too much time in Seoul fielding ‘why aren’t you married to a chaebol heir and popping out kids yet’ questions from the family.”

“Coward. Come to Seoul with me. I’ll play the handsome foreign fiance in front of your parents. Maybe we tell them there’s a bun in the oven. Maybe in the hotel room-”

Taeyeon throws a paper clip at you. Her faux-serious frown becomes a reluctant smile to mirror the one on your own. Thankfully, her promotion to a VP position a year ago didn’t change the close relationship you’d forged over almost a decade of working together, especially now that you technically reported to her. HR would’ve had a field day with the things said and done in this twentieth-floor corner office, had even a fraction of it somehow leaked beyond its walls. 

“You had your shot with me,” she says, mostly-jokingly, under her breath. You don’t miss the wistfulness in the corners of her eyes as she crosses her arms and makes a playful show of looking out of her office’s floor-to-ceiling windows at Vancouver’s dark, cloudy afternoon. “I’ve moved on.”

Silence reigns for a moment that felt longer than it actually was. The I haven’t on your lips dies there, unspoken.

“Anyway, you’ll need a translator,” Taeyeon continues, eager to change the subject before it drowned you both in memories of years past. She shuffles a few papers around randomly on her desk in an attempt to alleviate the sudden tension in the air. When she looks up at you, the wistfulness isn’t entirely gone - just pushed down by the professionalism she wore like armor. “Her file’s on the tablet. Some new kid from Marketing.”

Your eyes linger on Taeyeon’s for a moment longer before you pick up the tablet. There is something behind her eyes in that split-second - thoughts she perhaps wants to turn into words. But the moment passes as quickly as it comes. She turns her eyes to her laptop, and you return yours to the tablet.

A swipe left reveals a resume and an unfamiliar name.

“Ryujin Shin.”

“Brand new to the company - only been with us less than a year, but apparently she’s already a bit of a rock star. Got promoted to Marketing Lead in six months. Her manager says she volunteered for this assignment. She was pretty insistent that she get it, apparently. Maybe she thinks overseas experience will be good for her career.”

“Hmm,” you muse, as you review Ryujin’s resume. Degree with honors, top of her training cohort, gleaming reference letters. 

“She’s fluent in both Korean and Japanese,” Tayeon continues, “so make sure you get your translations directly from her. CEO wants real shit in the report, not a sugarcoated version from the local translators.”

You place the tablet back on her desk as you rise. “I’ll get it done, ma’am,” you state, before straightening up and giving her an exaggerated military salute. 

Taeyeon returns the salute with one of her own, a soft smile perking up the corners of her lips. For a moment she’s twenty-six again, bright-eyed, greeting you with a smile at the company orientation that she was in charge of organizing. You feel something stir in your chest, somewhere deep down where the past still lingered.

“Dismissed, Director,” she answers.

Her smile follows you out the door. It lingers even after you leave, but tinged with a sadness that she’d fought to keep hidden while you were in the room.

---

Ryujin Shin was late.

You weren’t exactly sure what to expect - her profile didn’t include a photo or even so much as a birthdate, so you treated every female that approached within twenty feet as potentially being your translator and guide for the next month. This resulted in some awkward eye contact and equally awkward smiles with random female travellers making their way through Vancouver International Airport’s departures terminal.

You’re directing one such awkward smile toward a middle-aged woman when the actual Ryujin Shin approaches. “Director?”

You turn your head to the sound and there she is - the girl from the morning prior. The one that had left half her drink on your suit jacket.

“...Ryujin Shin?”

“That’s me,” she says, shyly. She fidgets with the slim silver chain around her wrist. She’s dressed casually, in an oversized navy cardigan and wide cut jeans, but looks just as fitting for a magazine cover as she did when she was spilling iced caffeine on you the day before.  “Shall we get going?”

---

The thirteen hours over the Pacific are relatively uneventful - hours of movies on your iPad, a microwaved but surprisingly edible bibimbap, and dying more than you’d like in the latest Souls-like to test your blood pressure. Ryujin spent most of it asleep, snoring softly in the seat next to you.

It’s near midnight when the two of you arrive in South Korea’s capital city. The bright neon lights of downtown Seoul paint Ryujin’s soft features in bright blues and pastel pinks as she stares out the taxi windows with wonder, awe, and nostalgia clashing on her soft features. The taxi pulls up in front of a high-end boutique hotel that your assistant had insisted was popular with travel influencers.

Ryujin slipped into her translator duties early, helping the two of you check in to your rooms. You don’t miss the blush on her cheeks and the embarrassed wave of her hands when the desk clerk sheepishly asks her a question in Korean before shooting you a glance heavy with implication. Eventually, Ryujin receives two key cards from the clerk and hands one of them to you as you both make your way to the elevator.

“She thought we were married,” she admits, shyly, as she pushes the up arrow button on the wall. “Thought we were here for our wedding or something.”

“Cute,” you say, shooting her a smile. The blush lingers.

The elevator dings on the 10th floor, and the doors open. Ryujin heads out first, but when you make to follow her, she stops you with a raised hand.

“Company got you a suite. You’re on the 14th floor. Room 1421.”

“Oh,” you admit. “Got it.”

“Don’t forget - first meeting tomorrow is at 9am. See you in the lobby at 8?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good night, Director,” she says with a slim smile, before disappearing behind the closing elevator doors, leaving you still a little unsure as to what to make of her.

--

Your first day in the Seoul office is filled with introductions and greetings - it wasn’t your first time in the city and you were used to the overly formal introductions, but it didn’t make things any less awkward. The day starts with a meeting with the office’s leadership, each of whom rise from their seats in turn and provide you with their name, title, and what you assume to be the usual corporate platitudes and greetings.

At your shoulder, Ryujin translates.

“...Shin Yuna, Marketing Lead. She’s looking forward to working with you. Lee Chaeryeong, Operations Lead. She’s looking forward to working with you. Hwang Yeji, Legal Counsel. She’s looking forward to working with you. Choi Jisu, HR Head. She’s looking forward to-”

You turn your head to Ryujin and give her a smile. She looks sharp in a white blouse, navy blazer, and charcoal pencil skirt, hair pulled up into a professional bun atop her head. 

“I get it,” you whisper, softly, with a small smile. “They’re looking forward to working with me.”

Ryujin nods. Her cheeks blush slightly and there’s the ghost of a smile on her lips, but she otherwise returns to translating as the office director begins his opening speech.

---

“...profitability is up eighteen point nine five percent - primarily driven by… logistics improvements- no, a better word would be enhancements… that allow for faster- actually, no, I mean smoother transport of goods up from the port of Busan to manufacturing and distribution facilities in Seoul,” Ryujin says, softly but clearly. At the head of the room, the Operations Lead continues her presentation in rapid-fire Korean, gesturing to a bar graph that emphasizes the eighteen point nine five percent increase in large green numbers.

“Ask her to elaborate on what she means by ‘logistics enhancements,’” you ask Ryujin, turning your head to speak softly to her. You watch as Ryujin nods and frantically jots down notes in a messy looking notebook.

Ryujin raises her hand, interrupting the presentation, and asks your question in Korean. She corrects herself with a couple of her word choices, as though a better word had come to her just as the previous one had left her mouth. The Operations Lead takes a moment to consider her response before answering. “She says they found a way to… get better pricing agreements- no, contracts- from their suppliers - no, I mean, she used the term suppliers, but I think she means shipping specialists. The big difference that resulted in the increase was how they went from relying on trucks -I mean, truckload shipping, to high-speed rail to send goods from the Port of Busan to Seoul. The costs for shipping via trains are lesser than shipping via trucks due to-”

“They went from trucks to trains, got it,” you say, with a grin.

Ryujin nods. “Yeah,” she agrees, with a flustered smile.

“Thank her, and ask her to continue.”

The smile lingers on Ryujin’s lips as she asks the Operations Lead to continue. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as she scribbles “trucks to trains” in her notebook.

---

The setting sun is painting Seoul in gold and amber by the time the day’s meetings have wrapped up. You were used to the long working hours involved with working in Asian offices, but the jetlag made the first afternoon especially draining.

Next to you, Ryujin stifles a yawn as you both step out into the early summer evening. 

“Jetlag?” you ask as you both head towards the street and the taxis waiting there.

“Jetlag,” she repeats. She fidgets with the silver chain bracelet again, fingers tracing the delicate links - a habit of hers, you’d noticed. She flags down a waiting taxi, and you follow her into the cab as she gives the driver the address of the hotel and the car pulls away from the curb.

“Dinner plans tonight?” you ask as you watch Seoul’s downtown whiz by in a blur of concrete and glass.

There is a moment of silence. When Ryujin doesn’t answer, you give her a glance to find her eyes already on yours. She looks away shyly, fingers playing with the glimmering silver wrapped around her wrist.

“Uh, probably just going to grab something from the convenience store,” she says. “Kinda tired.”

“Gotcha. I suppose I’ll do the same and call it a night early,” you admit. “Jetlag’s a bitch.”

There is an awkward, uncomfortable silence for a few more blocks. At a red light, you watch as the neon sign above a fried chicken and beer restaurant beckons weary office workers into its doors. On the outdoor tables, tired-looking office employees tuck into delicious looking chicken wings and frosted mugs of beer.

“I wouldn’t mind some of that right now,” you say, hoping to break the tension.

Silence for a few more seconds. You watch as Ryujin peers out your window and notices the sign. Her lips curl up into a small, cautious smile.

She asks the driver to pull over.

---

The fried chicken and beer restaurant is busy but comfortable, the kind of neighborhood place that catered mostly to local employees from the surrounding corporate towers grabbing a bite and a drink on their way home. Ryujin orders in Korean, and soon enough you find yourselves presented with that heavenly combination of fried chicken and light beer. A side of fries and mozzarella sticks accompany the main course at Ryujin’s insistence.

The conversation is light and casual, mostly about the day’s meetings. It’s towards the end of the meal that you muster the courage to broach the topic that had been weighing on your mind for the whole trip.

“Hey, Ryujin,” you begin. “Are we… cool? I dunno, just wanted to make sure you didn’t secretly hate me or something.”

Ryujin takes a sip of beer, likely to buy time for her to form a response. She places her mug back on the table and examines the half-eaten piece of chicken thigh on her plate for a few seconds, as though she could find the right answer to your question somewhere amidst the delicious breaded and fried poultry on her plate.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asks, cautiously.

You smile to yourself as you take a sip of your own beer.

“Hmm,” you begin, feigning ignorance. “I don’t think we’ve met prior to this trip. Your file says you’ve been with the company a year or so?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmmmmm,” you continue, tapping a finger on your lips for emphasis. “No, I think I’d remember if I bumped into someone like you. So no, I don’t remember. But my suit jacket might.”

A moment passes before Ryujin’s lips break into a tentative smile.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she says, covering her face shyly with her hands. “I felt so bad.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, happy to have lightened the mood somewhat. “I didn’t really like that jacket anyway.”

“I could pay to have it cleaned?”

“Naw,” you assure. “It wasn’t as bad as it looked. It was due for a visit to the dry cleaners, anyway. Dropped it off on my way to the airport.”

Ryujin nods, returning to pushing the chicken thigh around on her plate. “Alright,” she says, “but drinks after this are on me. Least I could do for leaving half a macchiato on your jacket.”

“Sure,” you agree, excited at the prospect of getting to know her better over drinks. You take your corporate credit card out of your wallet and place it on the table before excusing yourself from the table to hit the washroom.

The waiter comes by and Ryujin uses your card to pay for the meal. She gathers her things and waits for you outside the restaurant.

Outside, she lets a long, sad sigh escape her throat, wishing you had a better memory.

---

“I was born here,” Ryujin begins as she pours you a shot of soju from the second bottle the two of you were working on. “Family moved to Vancouver when I was six, so I essentially grew up there - but somehow, coming back always feels like coming home.”

“Ahh,” you say, taking the small shot glass and tapping it to hers before downing the shot. The soju here is harder and less sweet - unlike the overly sugary versions back home. You pick at the seafood pancake on the table with your chopsticks, chasing the burn of the alcohol with the grease of fried batter. “So - what brought you to the company?”

Ryujin takes her own bite of the pancake before refilling your glasses with another shot. She takes a moment to swirl the alcohol around in the glass, not quite bringing it to her lips just yet.

“It’s the biggest game in town,” she begins. “Wanted to work with the best.”

“Fair enough. How has the first year been?”

Ryujin’s eyes leave yours for a moment, drifting to the space between you.

“Good,” she begins, the word leaving her mouth in a measured, careful way. “The orientation week in particular was… fun.”

You perk up at the mention of orientation week. The company had a mentorship program wherein every new employee was matched with a senior leader for a week during their company orientation  - one of Taeyeon’s ideas. It was during the inaugural orientation week, almost a decade ago, that you and Taeyeon had begun your friendship. You’d since taken over leadership of the program following her promotion to VP a year ago.

“That’s good to hear,” you begin. “I really enjoyed my own orientation week, and I really wanted to make sure new employees get the same experience. I’m glad yours went well.”

Ryujin nods, a soft smile perking up the corners of her mouth. The sight of it stirs you, because you’re convinced it’s the first genuine smile you’ve seen on her lips.

“It was great,” she says, eyes suddenly bright, smile a little more authentic, a little more real - as though she were waiting the whole trip to bring up this topic. “I really liked getting to know-”

Your phone, on the table between you, vibrates. The message preview on your lock screen shows a message from Taeyeon, asking if the weather in Seoul is as good as it is in London. Attached to it is a selfie - her in front of Big Ben, half a world away.

“Sorry,” you say, grabbing the phone and putting it on Do Not Disturb before replacing it face down on the table.

“It’s fine,” Ryujin says, not having missed the brief message preview or the attached photo. She downs her shot of soju - without tapping her glass to yours. “It’s getting late, and we’ve got meetings tomorrow. Shall we?”

---

“That was fun,” you say as the two of you wait for the elevators back at the hotel. “Thanks for translating those menus for me. Would’ve been microwaved rice and a can of tuna for me otherwise.” Ryujin smiles, but even the blush of alcohol on her cheeks fails to hide the awkwardness that is still lingering somewhere behind the curve of her lips.

“No worries,” she says, as the two of you step into the elevator and she hits the button for her floor. “Thanks for the food.”

“Thank the company card, not me,” you say with a grin.

She smiles back, politely, but doesn’t say anything more. The elevator doors open to her floor, and she steps out.

“First meeting’s at 9-”

“-see you at 8,” you finish.

She smiles a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. You wave good night. As the elevator door closes again, the forced smile leaves her face, replaced quickly with a frown - just a moment too soon, just long enough for you to see. 

The elevator rises to your floor, leaving you no closer to figuring out Ryujin Shin than you were the day before.

---

“Director!” Shin Yuna exclaims, the title overly sweet and saccharine, almost sing-song in its delivery. “Do you… want to drink? With us?”

The Marketing Lead is standing a few steps apart from a dozen or so members of the Seoul office that are seemingly debating which dinner and drinks spot to hit first. Yuna - bright, cheery, and a little too handsy - skips over to you, wrapping her forearm around yours.

“Team bonding,” she says, her accent giving the English words a pleasant lilt. Her smile is wide and cheerful, and for a moment you lose yourself in the fact that an attractive young woman is asking you to join her for drinks.

“Uh-” you stammer, even as Yuna forcefully drags you towards the rest of the team, who have begun to wander towards the first destination of the night. 

“What’s wrong?” Yuna asks, lower lip extended in an exaggerated pout.

“Nothing, Yuna - it’s just-”

“Ah, I see,” she says, turning back towards where Ryujin is just appearing from the revolving door entrance to the office, eyes glued to her phone. “You need her. To… translate.”

Ryujin looks up from her phone to see you, Yuna’s arm hooked in yours.

“Ryujin-ssi!” Yuna exclaims, waving at Ryujin with her free hand more frantically than was actually necessary. “Come join us!”

Ryujin’s eyes flit to you, then at Yuna’s arm around yours, then back to your eyes.

“Sure,” she says, before moving toward you.

---

It’s somewhere between the second and third stops of the night that you finally find yourself alone with Ryujin. She is trailing just behind the crowd as it sings off-tune k-pop ballads into the warm Seoul evening. Yuna is at their head, leading them to the bright red pocha tents like a conductor leading an inebriated orchestra.

“Having fun?” you ask.

“Yeah,” she answers, turning to you with a smile that betrays the lie.

Silence for another few steps.

“Hey,” you start, stopping in place. “Ryujin,” you add, when she continues without you.

“Yeah?”

The questions come to your lips - What’s wrong? What’s your problem? Did I do something? Is this going to be the month-long business trip from hell with a translator that hates me?

“Can we talk?” you manage.

Ryujin glances over at the crowd of your colleagues as they disappear into one of the pocha tents.

“Sure,” she says, stepping towards a different one.

---

The soju arrives quickly. She hadn’t bothered to ask you what you wanted before ordering it. The bottle hasn’t been on the table for a second before Ryujin picks it up, twists the cap, and pours you both a shot. Neither of you move to take it.

“Ryujin,” you begin, cautious, wary of your word choice. “I… I’m a little confused,” you admit, honestly. “I thought things were cool between us after dinner last night. I liked… getting to know you.”

Ryujin can’t hide the small quirk in her lip, as though what you’d just said had physically hurt her.

“I-” you begin, “I feel like maybe there’s something you’re not telling me? Or something I’m missing? Because after we had drinks you seemed kind of… upset. We’re going to be working together for a month, and-”

“-and you don’t want things to be awkward,” she finishes. Her eyes finally find yours, an unreadable, blank expression on her face.

“Yeah,” you admit. “Did I fuck something up? Say something that upset you? Is this about the drink you spilled on my suit? Because I’m trying to remember if I-”

“No,” she interrupts. She takes a sip from her soju glass, but her eyes don’t raise from the table between you.

“Then what is it?” Your glass of soju sits on the table, untouched.

Silence for a few more seconds, each one far longer than it had any right to be.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, eyes rolling, before finally settling on you. “You really don’t remember me.”

“What? I just said I did. You spilled your drink on my jacket and-”

“I’ll see you at the office tomorrow,” she states, before she stands, her plastic chair scraping loudly against the concrete. She steps out of the pocha and raises her hand to flag a nearby taxi.

The silver chain on her wrist catches the fading Seoul sunset.

And you remember.

---

“My mother gave it to me,” she says, eyes dropping to the delicate silver on her wrist. “When I graduated. First one in the family to get a degree! She wanted to commemorate it somehow. It means a lot.”

“That’s awesome,” you reply, watching her fingers play with the glimmering links. “I bet she’s real proud of you.”

“She is,” she replies, eyes forlorn for a moment. You sense that she wants to tell you more, that there are thoughts right there on her lips that she debates turning into words.

She wants to tell you how much she’s looked forward to your one-on-one meetings, how she’s laid in bed at night going over everything you said and did that day with a smile on her lips. She wants to tell you about how she’s memorized the flex in your forearms as you point something out on your laptop, the way you tie your tie, the scent of your cologne. She wants to tell you that the way she bumped her knees against yours under the table “accidentally” that morning wasn’t really accidental at all. 

But she settles for something less. Something more professional, more fitting for an orientation week spent with a senior leader she only just met a few days ago.

“Anyway - you were telling me about our distribution channels in Korea?”

“Right,” you say, glancing back at the PowerPoint in full screen on your laptop. “Our manufacturing happens all over the world, but our main distribution centre is in Seoul. Goods come up from Busan…”

---

“Ryujin!” you say, throwing some cash on the table before leaving the pocha tent and catching up with her on the curb. “Ryujin. I remember.”

She turns to face you, arms crossed, upset.

“Do you?” she asks, unconvinced.

“Orientation week,” you blurt, ashamed. “We were matched up.”

Relief and disappointment war on Ryujin’s features. When she speaks, the words leave her mouth with intent, as though she’d been waiting to say them for a while. “I couldn’t give less of a shit about that corporate bullshit,” she spits. “And I get that people like you are too busy to give a fuck about lowly Marketing drones. What I care about is-”

A vehicle pulls up to the curb. The door opens. A taxi.

“-when people break their promises,” she finishes, her tone suddenly sadder. “Or forget they made them in the first place.”

She gets into the taxi alone, and it pulls away from the curb. For a second, you catch the way Seoul’s streetlights make her eyes glisten.

---

“I had a great week, Director,” she says, hands clasping her tablet to her chest like it were some sort of life preserver. “Thanks for… taking me seriously.”

“Pleasure was all mine. You’re gonna kill it in Marketing. Your comments on the Hirai marketing campaign materials were visionary - I’ve forwarded them to your boss and he’s pretty impressed. I think they’ll make a difference when it comes to the bargaining phase. And please, drop the title. I have a first name like anyone else.”

She smiles, a hint of a blush on her cheeks. She says your name out loud, as though she were testing the way it sounded. You feel something stir inside you at the sound of your name, and the smile it leaves behind on her lips.

You want to tell her that the week flew by, and that you’d wished you’d had more scheduled one-on-ones with her to look forward to next week, where you’d start discussing market demographics and somehow end up discussing which of the Sailor Scouts was your favorite. You want to tell her you are a little in love with the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, or the cute burrow in her brow when she’s concentrating on logistics figures and graphs. You want to tell her that you’ll miss her perfume - something between caramel and vanilla? - and the way she laughs at your terrible puns. You want to ask her if she’ll have lunch with you next Tuesday - and maybe dinner the Friday after that.

But you settle for something less - something more fitting of a leader during a brief, HR-mandated mentorship with a new recruit.

“Anyway,” you continue, eager to make sure she doesn’t catch on to your sudden nervousness. “Tip #2,391 before you go: the ramen place a block away from here has a pretty great tonkotsu.”

“Ooooh,” she coos. “My favorite.” She plays with the bracelet on her wrist, fingers pinching the silver links as though she could squeeze the courage she needed from them. “...I don’t suppose you’d want to join me tonight after work-”

A woman approaches - Ryujin recognizes her from the executive introductions earlier in the week; the new VP of Strategy, Taeyeon Kim. She’s all poise and professionalism, corporate success in a tailored black pantsuit. She gives Ryujin a brief nod and a token smile before turning to you.

“Budget meeting for the Hirai deal in five,” she says to you, before heading off towards the meeting rooms.

“Duty calls,” you state to Ryujin. “Ramen sounds good, though. See you at six?”

“It’s a date,” she says, smile bright.

The Hirai deal budget meeting takes all night. Ryujin eats alone.

---

It takes three knocks for her to open the door.

“Yes, Director?” she asks, arms crossed, frosty emphasis on your title. Gone are the crisp pale blue blouse and heather grey pencil skirt, replaced with a navy blue oversized hoodie and strawberry-print pajama shorts. Her hair, released from the corporate bun she wore during the day, falls in dark waves around her face.

“The ramen date. I remember. I’m sorry. I was in a meeting that day that-”

“It’s not that that fucking matters,” she interrupts, the curse word somehow sounding sharper than you’d expected coming from her. “It’s the ghosting afterward. I wasn’t expecting a Director to give two shits about a lowly newbie in Marketing, but an apology would’ve been nice.”

“That deal took every ounce of my attention for a few months,” you protest. “I’m sorry, Ryujin. I really am.”

She seems only slightly placated by your apology. Her crossed arms tighten around her small torso, as though tightening her plates of armor. “And you just totally forgot about me afterward, huh? Even after I spilled a drink on your chest accidentally-on-purpose? Even after I volunteered for this assignment, hoping you’d remember me when saw my name on the brief?”

You frown, unsure of what else to do or say.

“Do you know how it makes me feel to have someone I was into ask me who the fuck I am? Twice?” she continues. “Make me feel like I’m top of the world one moment, then forget I exist the next? No one I’ve ever known has made me feel… seen like you did - and then you went and forgot all about me the second your precious VP smiled at you.”

There is silence for a moment. She was into you? A hand uncrosses itself from her chest and moves to her mouth, as though she regretted saying the words. 

“Ryujin, I… I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say,” you manage. You look up at her and she’s covering her face with her hand now, brow furrowed, as though she were suddenly fighting a headache.

“You don’t have to say anything, Director,” she says, arms crossing again. “I’m used to not expecting anything from you.”

More silence. Her words hit you with the force of a punch to the gut. She lingers there for a moment, as though gauging your response and finding none. She moves to close the door.

“I… I’ll see you at the office tomorrow,” she says, defeat and disappointment in every syllable.

Your hand, operating out of instinct, holds the door open with your palm. She looks up at you, surprised. Your feet carry you forward until you’re standing in front of the door frame.

“I’m here now, Ryujin,” you say. “I see you.”

“Do you?” she hisses. “Did you ever? Or was I just-”

You step forward, and you kiss her.

Your hands drift to her sides, holding her close. After a moment, her hands find their way to your chest, and you fear that she’s about to push you away - but instead they wind around your neck, fingers sliding into your hairline. She kisses you back, and your tongues find each other.

You pull away first. “Fuck, Ryujin, I’m sorry. That was-”

“Stop fucking apologizing,” she spits, and then she’s kissing you again, leaving one hand around your neck to pull you into her hotel room and using the other to shut the door behind her. You both stumble backward, lips locked, until her butt brushes up against her room’s desk.

You break the kiss. You look into her eyes and find them half-lidded, full of need. You smile, and she returns it, before she leans to kiss you again.

Your hands find their way under her hoodie. You grasp its hem, testing the waters and her reaction.

“Quickly,” she says, taking the hoodie by the hem and peeling it off her body herself, “before I realize how monumentally stupid this is.”

You smirk as your mouth finds her neck and she leans her head backward to allow you better access. A soft gasp leaves her lips as you find a warm point on her neck, kissing and suckling, leaving a mark on her.

She’s topless - not having worn a bra beneath her hoodie - and you want more of her, want to taste her on your tongue. Your hands find their way beneath her butt and you lift her onto the desk, depositing her on it with a soft thud. She yelps - and you silence her with a kiss before bending to kiss a trail down her neck and to her heaving chest. Your hands snake up her sides, cupping her small, round breasts, teasing but not touching her nipples.

“Fuck, just-” she begins, the words turning into a wordless gasp as you capture one of her nipples in your mouth, tongue slick and wet and licking a flat stripe across it. You close your lips around the bud, swirling the tip of your tongue around it, feeling it tighten quickly with arousal. Her hands snake into your hair, her back arching as she offers more of her body to you.

You switch, suckling her other nipple, closing your lips around it and sucking hard. Your free hand reaches up to tease and pinch her saliva-coated breast, not leaving it unattended.

“Oh god,” she gasps, “like that, like that.” She says your name and it’s breathless and airy, the best possible iteration of it you’d ever heard.

She’s writhing now, a mess of sighs and gasps atop the hotel desk. You could’ve stayed there all night, suckling from her small, cute little breasts and the tight nipples atop them - but she has other ideas, other needs. Her hands find themselves flat against your chest and with a regretful sigh she finally pushes you away from her chest. She hops off the desk, pushing you back against the bed.

Ryujin straddles you as you sit atop it, and you’re kissing again - passionate, intense, wild. She breaks the kiss first - and when you angle your neck to resume it, she smiles and steps off the bed, standing between your spread legs.

“Off,” she hisses, bending to help you get your pants and boxers off your legs after you undo the belt buckle and zipper. You take the opportunity to rid yourself of your button-up while she lets her shorts slide down her legs to pool at her feet - and you’re both naked. She’s so slim and small and tight, her tiny waist and the fullness in her hips and thighs forming a perfect hourglass in the dim light of her hotel room.

She’s straddling you again - naked, this time, and you both let a deep sigh escape your lips as the heat between her legs makes contact with your stiffened shaft. Almost immediately she begins to gyrate and writhe in your lap, hips sliding her slick heat against your hips and cock.

“Fuck,” she hisses from behind gritted teeth, between frenzied, urgent kisses. “Fuck, I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Me too, Ryujin. Fucking need to be inside you-”

“Now,” she snaps. “Fuck me now.”

“Condom,” you say, almost regretfully. “My jacket pocket.”

Ryujin lets out a sigh, hopping off your lap for a moment to retrieve your jacket for you. You fish it out of the wrapper, placing it on your tip - and you sigh, softly, as Ryujin straddles you again and rolls it down your shaft. You gasp as her slim fingers wrap themselves around you, giving you a small squeeze.

“Fuck me,” Ryujin hisses into your ear.

Your arms wrap around her and you turn her over on the bed so you’re on top. Your hand reaches between you, placing your tip at her opening. Even through the latex you can feel the heat of her, almost feel the slickness of her body as your tip divides her lips.

Your eyes find hers. She tells you without words what she wants.

You slide inside her, and she’s tight and hot, the thin barrier of latex doing little to dampen the sensations of her body wrapping itself around your shaft. You give her a moment to adjust to the stretch, the fullness - before you’re pulling out slowly, leaving just the tip inside her, and sliding back in, filling her again.

“Fuck, fuck yes,” she’s hissing into your ear, arms wrapping around your neck, thighs parting and lower legs pulling against your butt. There’s a hint of relief in the words and sighs spilling softly from her mouth, as though she were finally receiving something she’d wanted and waited for for so long. “Yes, yes, you’e stretching me out, fuck--”

Ryujin’s voice is like silk, smooth and light, and you find it difficult to reconcile the filth leaving her lips with the perfect, business-like translations she whispered in your ear from earlier in the day. To hear that voice now, urging you, begging you to fuck her harder, faster - it drove you insane.

“Harder, please, harder.”

You comply, and soon you're thrusting in and out of her cunt at a firm but consistent pace, her tight walls squeezing around you on each entry and only reluctantly letting you go on the backstroke. You kiss her again and it’s frantic, fevered. When your lips part your eyes remain locked on each other, inches apart.

“So… fucking tight, Ryujin.”

“Mmmmph,” is the only reply, at least initially - a soft, wordless moan after a particularly deep thrust that leaves her eyes rolling back into her skull for a moment. Her eyes close shut, her head tilted back to reveal the pale column of her throat. She lets a long, languid moan leave her lips when you place yours on her neck.

Your pace continues - in, out, in, out - each thrust sending another spike of pleasure up your spines. She brings her mouth close to your ear.

“I’m gonna cum soon,” she hisses. “Gonna cum on your cock, Daddy-”

The word unmakes you - ignites something dark and primal inside you that sends a jolt of sheer pleasure up your spine and into your brain. You increase your pace, her voice and the words they form giving you a high you want to chase. She moans louder, sighs louder, curses sweet words into your ear. Her walls tighten around you, pulsating; her legs lock themselves around your hips; her nails dig sharp furrows into your scalp.

“Fuck, Daddy, fuck--”

“Cum for me, baby,” reply, bringing your own lips to her ear - your turn to torture her with words. “Cum on my cock, Ryujin. Cum on my cock like a good little girl.”

Calling her that must have similarly ignited something dark and primal inside her, because almost as soon as the words leave your mouth, she cums. Her entire body spasms, her back arching off the now-sweaty mattress, her cunt pulsating and tightening exponentially around your shaft as you fuck her through the orgasm coursing through her veins.

The moan of pleasure that leaves her mouth is unholy - a wordless sound of uncontrolled pleasure tumbling wildly from her lips and into your ear. 

Your pace slows, eventually, probably for the better as a few more moments of thrusting inside Ryujin’s pulsating, vice-tight cunt probably would have undone you. She comes down from her high, aftershocks still sending involuntary spasms through her limbs. Her eyes, shut throughout her orgasm, eventually open to find yours. 

She pulls your head to her lips and you kiss, her tongue finding yours quickly and resuming the duel it had been waging for the past half hour. 

“Fuck, Daddy,” she begins, the use of that word sending a little tremor of pleasure straight to your groin. “Fuck, that felt so good.”

“You feel even better, baby girl,” you reply, burying yourself into her neck again and planting small kisses onto the side of her neck.

“Did you--?” she asks.

“No, not yet,” you reply, emphasizing your response with a twist of your hips that sends another soft moan tumbling from her lips.

“Mmmmm,” she sighs. “We better fix that.”

Her palms find your chest and she gently pushes you away. You get the hint and slowly ease yourself out of her, sitting back on your haunches. You watch, in awe, as Ryujin turns onto her hands and knees.

“Fuck me like this, Daddy.”

You want to savor the sight of her - on all fours, that round, full ass of hers presented to you, the slick, dripping cunt between her thighs begging to be filled again. You last only a second before your urges overcome your self-control. Before you know it you’re positioning yourself behind her, hands giving her firm cheeks and a soft spank that wrests a yelp of surprise from her. She looks over her shoulder back at you and the image of her - naked, back glistening with sweat, eyes half-lidded with want - is one you want to remember forever.

You bring your tip to her opening - only to find her easing away from you. Puzzled, you find her eyes still locked on you.

“Not like that, Daddy.”

“What do you mean, baby?”

Her lower lip curls under a tooth for a moment before she licks her lips - another small, lustful gesture that drives you insane. 

“I… I want-” she begins. “I want it. You. I want to feel you.”

You catch on to what she means, and know what she wants you to do, but you want to hear it from her. Want to hear that voice - the same one whispering business and corporate in your ear during the day - to say it.

“Tell me what you want, Ryujin. Use your words, baby girl.”

Ryujin’s lips curl into a wry smile, her tooth biting into her lip again. Her back arches, like a cat stretching. She pushes her dripping, slick cunt back toward your latex-covered cock, capturing your shaft between the cheeks of her ass and gyrating against it. You moan - long, low - as she grinds against you. She’s hot and slick against the underside of your shaft and you find yourself groaning at the feel of her grinding away against you.

She straightens up, presses her sweat-slick back against your chest. You reach around and wrap your arms around her torso on instinct, your hands finding and cradling her soft, small breasts, capturing and teasing her nipples between your thumbs and index fingers.

“Ryujin-” you begin, a token protest, as you place kisses on her neck and shoulder. Even though you can’t see it, you know she’s smiling. She lets a hand drift back between your bodies, cradling your trembling, covered cock.

“Daddy, please,” she says, half-gasp, half-demand. Her fingers curl around your cock. “I want to feel you inside me. Raw. Fuck me raw, Daddy.”

You tremble. Your cock twitches in her grasp.

“Fuck, Ryujin-”

“Take it off, Daddy. Let me feel you. Let me feel you cum inside me. Don’t you want to…”

“I do, Ryujin, fuck-”

“Do it, Daddy. Cum inside me. Breed me.”

That’s what undoes you. Your fingers work quickly, peeling the condom off your needy, trembling cock. 

You push her back down onto the mattress, and she lets a soft, playful little yelp out at the sudden forcefulness. Her back arches. Her eyes find yours over her shoulder.

“Daddy, please-”

You slide your bare cock inside her. She’s sublime - tight, hot, so very wet. Your hands find her hips, and you’re fucking her again. 

“Fuck!” she spits, as you fill her to the hilt for the first time - raw, uncovered - the new angle allowing you deeper inside her than you were when you were on top of her. “Yes, fuck me!”

You comply, your hands anchoring yourself on her hips as you begin to thrust in and out of her tight, slick cunt. You want to pace yourself, want to relish every entry and exit, but the tightness, the wetness, everything about Ryujin Shin is too much, too much to handle. Before long she’s throwing her hips back against you, firmly but steadily, matching you thrust for thrust.

You watch her, burn every inch of her body into your memory - the arch of her back, the sweat dripping down the column of her spine, the way the neon of Seoul’s skyline is striping her skin in alternating lines of shadow and pastel blue. You relish the feel of her body, the tightness of her velvet cunt wrapped around you, the softness of her hips, the moans and sighs that continue to spill wildly from her lips.

For a few minutes you fuck her. Minutes that feel like hours, your pleasure-addled brain suddenly unable to parse the passing of time. The sounds of your bodies meeting, her moans and your grunts, the ridiculous, sublime sight of her bent over, taking your cock - it’s all overwhelming, a heady mix of heat and wetness and pleasure that drives you insane, pulls you into a glorious high that you never want to come down from. 

For a few brilliant minutes all that exists is Ryujin Shin’s body. Not the consequences of raw sex, not the complications of your work relationship, not the obstacles in your personal relationship that you’d both have to hurdle once the high of sex has worn off - none of that exists, right here, in this moment. She’s it, she’s all.

Your hands wander her body - gripping her hips and pulling them back toward you, or placing a palm flat on her lower back, or reaching forward with one hand and grasping one of her trembling shoulders - but they settle on her wide, firm hips. Your fingers dig deeper into her skin, surely leaving bruises she’ll feel in the morning. She takes it as the sign of your impending orgasm that it almost certainly is.

“Are you- are you close, Daddy? Fuck, you’re gonna… gonna make me cum again. Don’t stop, please.”

You grit your teeth. There was no denying the pleasure quickly building to a boiling point between your legs.

“Fuck, yeah, baby girl. Getting close. Where-”

“You know where, Daddy,” she hisses, hair whipping around her as she turns her head to look over her shoulder at you. Her eyes bore into yours with an intensity that makes you tremble, her gaze holding firm on you even as her body is rocked back and forth with each thrust you make into her cunt. 

“Ryujin-”

“Cum inside me, Daddy. Breed me.”

“Fuck-”

“Daddy, please - breed me, breed this cunt, cum inside me please, fuck I’m gonna cum too cum with me please, breed me-”

Ryujin cums - and you do too. Her body spasms, quivers, turns into a tight, wet, slick vice around your cock and all you can do is bury yourself as deeply as you can inside her before you let go. 

Your cock pulsates as it sends thick, warm ropes of semen into Ryujin’s cunt - each one drawing a soft gasp from her, each one sending a jolt of pleasure up her spine that heightens her own orgasm. Your mind blanks, and nothing else exists aside from the pleasure coursing through your body.

When your eyes finally open some indeterminate amount of time later you look down to find another one of the many sights you wanted to burn into your memory - Ryujin bent over on the bed, chest and head pressed to the mattress. Between the reddened cheeks of her ass, your cock slowly withdraws, slick and wet and glistening. The well-used lips of her cunt grip your cock tightly, as though not wanting to let you go just yet.

When your tip finally slips from between her lips it’s quickly followed by a rush of warm, thick cum, dripping freely from her cunt and onto the pristine sheets below her.

Ryujin finally falls onto her side. You fall onto yours beside her. Your eyes find each other. Her hand comes up to your cheek, cradles the side of your face with a tenderness that surprises the both of you.

There is a warm smile on her lips. Her eyes glisten for a moment in the low light of the bedroom before she brings her body close to yours, tucking her head beneath your chin as your arms wrap around each other.

There are words to be said, conversations to be had. But all that matters now is the warmth of her body against yours, and the feel of her breath against your chest. Everything else can wait, and so it will.

“Stay,” she says into your chest, and so you do.

---

“I’m on the pill,” she says, on the taxi ride to the Seoul office. The morning after was awkward in some parts, sweet in others; after an uneasy parting so you could go back to your room to shower and change, you’d both met again in the lobby - both a little unsure how to navigate the uncharted waters, but knowing only that things had changed for the better between you.

“Would’ve been nice to know that before I went in raw,” you say, in English - sparing the driver an awkward few blocks of Seoul rush hour traffic.

Ryujin smiles, slyly. “Sure, but it was hot not knowing, wasn’t it? Knowing you could have bred me last night?”

She leans in closer to whisper into your ear - the way she whispered business translations, the way she whispered how close she was to orgasm.

“...knowing you could have put a baby in me?”

She leans back in her seat, giving you one last look before turning her attention to the buildings of downtown Seoul.

Your pinky fingers brush against each other on the seat. You hook yours in hers, and she doesn’t pull away.

---

To her credit, Ryujin was professional and effective with her translation duties throughout the day - mostly. It’s during a presentation by the Seoul office’s Legal lead that her facade cracks.

“...There have been some issues related to IP that they’ve had to deal with,” she says softly in your ear. “But they’ve been dealt with- …fuck.”

You turn to face her. There’s a small grimace on her face. She adjusts the way she’s sitting on her chair, her legs crossing and uncrossing beneath her pencil skirt.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, bringing her lips close to your ear as if to continue translating whatever the Legal lead was droning on about. “But every time I move, a bit of you leaks out of me. Gonna need to clean up in the washroom after this meeting.”

You’re speechless. The smirk on her lips is a victorious one.

“Anyway,” she continues, “the other thing they’ve had to deal with is patent trolls…”

The rest of the meeting goes in your ear and out the other, every small movement Ryujin makes in her seat stealing all of your attention. When the presentation ends Ryujin stands, gingerly, and excuses herself to the washroom. You watch her leave the room with a slightly awkward gait.

Across the room, Yuna catches your eye. She flashes you a knowing smile.

---

The work day ends, eventually - not that you got any work done at all. 

After work, Ryujin is waiting for you in the lobby, scrolling her phone. As you approach she holds it out to you - on it is a Google search listing of several nearby restaurants. 

“Feeling like burgers? Or more Korean food? It’s Friday night, so it’s gonna be busy, but there’s a place nearby-”

“No,” you answer, firmly, already walking past her and out the door.

“But dinner--?”

“Room service,” you answer. “Hotel, now.”

A devilish smile pulls at the corners of Ryujin’s lips as she hails a taxi.

In the hotel elevator, you don’t bother pushing the button for her floor.

---

You’re on each other from the moment you cross the threshold of your suite - lips crashing against each other, hands wandering, undressing. You only get as far as her blazer before she’s pushing you down onto the chair facing the floor-to-ceiling window that makes up one side of your suite. 

She stands in front of you, silhouetted by Seoul’s glass and concrete skyline, and undresses.

The tight white button-up first, each button revealing a little more perfect vanilla skin, marred only by the marks your lips and teeth left the night before. Soon it’s a pool of white cotton on the floor, joined quickly by her white lace bra. Her small, perky round breasts tremble slightly under your gaze, her nipples already taut and tight.

She turns to face away from you, topless, exposing herself to the city - as she undoes the zipper holding her pencil skirt tight around her wide hips. She takes her time, making you watch, making you want, as the skirt finds its way onto the floor. 

When Ryujin faces you again she’s naked save for lace panties that have been tormenting her all day with their damp stickiness. Eyes locked on you the whole while, she hooks her thumbs into the thin lace and slides them down her full, round thighs, then past her knees, until they pool on the floor and she is naked, with only Seoul’s fluorescent and neon lights to clothe her.

She steps toward you, straddles you in the chair. Your hands find her hips, soothing the bruises your grip had left there hours before.

Her hand drifts between her spread thighs. You watch, enraptured, as her middle and ring fingers slide inside her cunt for a moment. Her eyes shut, her head tilts back as she touches herself. 

When her fingers emerge, they glisten.

“Look what you did to me,” she says, softly. “I’ve been dripping you all day, Daddy. But now… now I’m empty. Need you to fill me up again.”

“Ryujin. Fuck,” you stammer, because it’s all you can say, all your brain can muster for a response.

She smiles, your weakness giving her confidence. Her hands work quickly at your belt and slacks, and soon she reveals your cock, already stiff and weeping pre-cum. You groan at the feel of her soft fingers around your shaft as she strokes you softly, timing each movement of her wrist to the sultry words leaving her lips.

“Want you to fuck me again, Daddy, and raw and deep and hard. But first…”

She bends to kiss you - only to ignore your lips entirely, as she slinks down off the chair and onto her knees.

“-first, I want to taste you.”

She licks a long, slow stripe from your base to your tip, her tongue flat and tight against your cock. 

“Wanted that for so long, Daddy. During orientation. Watching you in the office. Been dreaming about what you’d taste like-”

“Do I taste like you dreamed, Ryujin?”

“Fuck, yes, Daddy,” she says, after another long, slow lick. “Even better.”

“Suck my cock then, baby girl. Show me how much you wanted this.”

The words spur her, challenge her - and soon she’s taking your cock into her mouth. It’s all you can do to lean back in the chair and sigh as she works between your spread legs, taking you in and out of her wet, slick mouth with an enthusiasm that had been boiling over months of want and need.

When you open your eyes again it’s to look out at Seoul’s skyline. You watch as cars move on distant roads, as signs for restaurants and stores light up, as people on faraway sidewalks make their way home. You do anything but look down at Ryujin, knowing that the sight of her combined with the pleasure she is conjuring between your legs would be too much to handle, all at once.

You sigh. This was messy. Complicated. Might end up ruining one or both of your lives. But fuck if it mattered at all, right here, right now - with your cock in her mouth and a soft sigh escaping her lips as you finally look down and watch as she begins to finger herself.

She lets your cock slip from her lips after one last, slow suckle. Her tongue flicks around your tip one last time. Then she stands, eyes half-lidded, filled with want and need. She straddles you again and lowers herself onto your cock.

You think of bending to suckle from one of her soft, perky little breasts as they bounce up and down, inches from your face. You want to reach a hand up to that pale, thin throat of hers and squeeze with just enough pressure to make her gasp for her next breath. You want to reach down with both palms and squeeze her ass, thrusting up with your hips each time she impales herself on you - but you do none of those things. 

You watch. Watch as she rides you, takes you in and out of her dripping, pulsing cunt. Watch as Seoul paints her slim, tight body in gold and shadow. Watch as she ruins herself, ruins you with something that is reckless, stupid, and utterly irresistible, all at the same time.

Her hands aren’t idle, like yours are. They fondle her own breasts, pinch her own nipples. They reach forward and anchor herself on your shoulders, or dig furrows into your hair when she brings you close and increases her pace. They lie flat, palm against your chest, feeling your heart hammer a wild beat as she slows down again, bringing her face in front of yours so your noses touch, fucking herself slowly, passionately on your cock, making you feel everything. 

You wanted to talk to her, wanted to discuss this idiotic thing that you were both giving in to. You want to have a conversation about what it would mean for your professional and personal relationship. You want to ask her if this was a stupid fling borne out of a stupid week of meetings that happened a year ago. You want to ask her if this was just sex or-

“Fuck, Daddy, I’m gonna-”

Her voice - her perfect fucking voice - shatters any thought you might have had that wasn’t focused on the pleasure she was creating for the both of you with every movement of her body.

“Me too, Ryujin, fuck, you’re too-”

“Daddy, breed me, give me a baby-”

A lie, a pretend act - but no less arousing. No less utterly devastating to what remained of your self-control.

“Gonna cum, Ryujin. Ryujin--”

“Daddy--!”

She cums. You spasm beneath her as your cock fills her up. Afterward, when you’ve both stopped trembling, you feel your cum drip from her stuffed cunt, down your balls, and onto the leather of the couch.

She slides off you - and you both watch as her cunt drips more of your cum onto the couch and the slacks that you never bothered to remove. She takes you by the hand and leads you into the bedroom, into another terrible mistake, another act you will probably both regret later, when sanity somehow finds its way back into your lust-addled minds.

You follow her willingly into ruin.

---

It’s not until the next morning, as you wander a morning market together after breakfast, when you finally have your talk.

“Ryujin,” you begin, as the two of you walk down the street, past stalls selling vegetables, treats, and souvenirs. “We should talk. About this. About us.”

She sighs, takes a sip from her caramel macchiato - extra whipped cream, extra caramel drizzle - as though the caffeine and sugar would fortify her for what was about to be said.

“I want you,” she says, confidently, as though it were a phrase she’d rehearsed with her eyes closed as she lay in bed alone, dreaming of a moment like this. “I’ve wanted you since the second you walked into that meeting room in that stupid-hot suit on my first day and said your name. I’ve wanted you every second since. I want to be with you.”

You take a moment. Your heart leaps, but your brain fears.

“I want you too,” you admit, the words leaving your mouth quickly, even before you knew you were speaking them - your heart outpacing your brain, as it had gained the habit of doing around her. “But-”

“-we work together,” she interrupts. Another sip of her caffeine. Her eyes remain locked on the stalls hawking hotteok and japchae. “You’re a Director in Strategy, I’m just some newbie in Marketing. You’re older than me. Your boss is holding a torch for you, and she’s fucking perfect - ‘girlboss’ in all caps. HR will have a fit. Our colleagues will whisper; say you’re taking advantage of a younger girl, or that I’m sleeping my way into a promotion. And maybe one day we’ll end up hurting each other, and ruin one or both of our careers and/or lives in the process.”

You don’t reply. The list is long. Daunting.

Finally, she turns to you. There is a faint smile on her lips. “Did I miss anything?”

You return her smile with a slim one of your own. “No,” you admit.

“Are you for real, or do you just need a fucktoy to keep your cock warm while you’re working overseas for a month?”

Her question stuns you, catches you unprepared. But it takes you only a moment of consideration before you answer.

“I’m not sure yet,” you answer, honestly. “But I want to find out.”

Something between a smile and a frown forms her lips as she casts her eyes downward for a moment.

“That’s good enough for me,” she says. “Because that’s what I want too.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“But I want you, and you want me.”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s it,” she states, eyes forward, as though the future of your relationship existed somewhere amidst the winding lanes of the bustling market. “That’s all that matters.”

After a few more steps, your hand finds hers. Your fingers intertwine.

“That’s all that matters,” you repeat. “We’ll figure this out.”

She turns to look at you as you walk through the market. She smiles and says nothing further, because nothing further needed to be said.

---

A week and a half pass quickly. Meetings, meals, sex - it all passes in a long, hazy blur. There are candlelit dinners at Michelin-starred restaurants by the Han River, and there are nights having instant noodles outside convenience stores at 2am because you were both too lazy to have or make anything else. There is slow love making, hard, fast fucking, and everything inbetween.

The two of you navigate that first week together with the kind of eagerness and enthusiasm that is in great supply at the start of a relationship. In some ways it is like every other first week of every other relationship you’d ever been in - sweet, hot, exciting in a way that nothing else can be. In some ways it is completely different, completely unique. 

Ryujin was not like any other girl. She was professional and proper during the day and wild and needy at night - and you saw it all, every moment, a gradual transformation over the course of the day from dedicated and thorough businesswoman to the barely controlled wantonness of the night. Throughout it all she is confident, self-assured, assertive. 

But she was also sweet, caring, and thoughtful in her own unique way. She knew you, already. She asked questions during presentations even before you voiced them to her, because she knew they were questions you would ask. Without telling you, she bought you a spare charger for your phone when yours broke five days into the trip - and made sure a charged power bank was packed in your suitcase when you left the hotel room in the morning. She showed genuine interest in you - your childhood, your family, your quirky hobbies, as though she were writing a book on you and wanted to know every single detail, every single story you had to tell.

“I want you,” she said once, sometime during the second week of this ridiculous, dangerous, stupid thing you were both undertaking. Her head was on your chest as you lie together in bed atop a mattress soaked with evidence of recent lovemaking, her finger tracing random patterns on your skin above your heart. “And that includes figuring out what you keep in here.”

Neither of you knew what this was, where it would go, even how long it would last - whether the other was a terrible mistake, the love of your life, or something inbetween. You only knew you wanted to find out together, one day at a time.

It’s not until your last day in Seoul, when the two of you attend an industry gala, that Ryujin Shin inched a little more towards the ‘love of your life’ end of the scale.

---

The elevator door opens - she insisted you meet in the lobby, as she needed a few more minutes to get ready - and there she is, in a little black dress that steals the breath from your lungs. Simple, demure, utterly captivating. You realize that the ‘few more minutes to work on her hair’ was an excuse, and she just wanted to make an entrance.

The smile on her lips is confident, assured, as is every click-clack of her heels on the marble of the hotel foyer as she walks up to you, takes your hand, and leads you out to the waiting taxi - all without saying a word. 

The gala, held in an outdoor venue with plenty of string lights and stand-up tables, is busier than you’d expected. Colleagues from the Seoul office are in attendance, including Yuna in a bold red dress that’s one inch off the hemline away from sparking multiple emails to HR - if it hadn’t already. She comes close to the two of you and says she’s happy for you, shooting you both a wink as she saunters off to chat up a group of investors that spend the rest of the evening vying for her attention.

For most of the evening your mind is elsewhere - on Ryujin’s dress, and what it will look like hiked up around her hips or on the floor of your suite. Your thoughts drift to the trip to Japan, and the two weeks to follow. A new country to explore with her by your side.

You’re mid-conversation with a couple of staff from the Seoul office, and about ready to lean over to Ryujin and ask if she’s ready to head back to the hotel, when a commotion at the entrance to the venue steals your attention for a moment.

Yuna and a couple of the other leads are huddled in a crowd around a figure that has emerged from a sleek black sedan. They chat excitedly, as though they were meeting a celebrity for the first time.

“Go see who it is,” Ryujin urges. “I’ll get us a drink for the road, then we can hit it.”

You excuse yourself from the conversation to join Yuna and the others. The crowd parts, and she emerges.

“Sorry I’m late,” Taeyeon says, smile beaming. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

At the bar, Ryujin turns, drinks in hand, just in time to watch Taeyeon embrace you.

---

Author’s Note: Whelp that pretty much wrote itself. Ryujin best girl. 

Get ready for more “Business Trip but with Ryujin lmao” no but fr this will only be 3 parts max I promise <3

[hyuneflix]

THE CURE • Bang Chan

sex therapist!chan x client!reader after years of unhappy endings, your friend suggests a trip to sydney's most up and coming sex therapist. you hadn't expected much, least of all to discover the cure you'd been looking for all this time was your therapist himself.

word count: 11k << back to dash // next episode >>

CONTENT WARNINGS

𐙚 - female masturbation, mutual masturbation, vibrator use, phone sex, guided masturbation, dirty talk, use of "slut" and similar terms, chan is called sir, lowkey orgasm denial, sub!reader, soft dom!chan slightly possessive chan, some mentions of a corruption kink.

! - inappropriate relationship dynamic (chan is her sex therapist), reader is written to be neurodivergent though it isn't explicitly stated, mention of dissociation and depersonalisation, brief descriptions of a dissociative episode, non-descript mentions of trauma around sex, therapy talk/setting. everything is intentionally vague but be careful nonetheless.

episode one - a cure for unhappy endings

Never in a million years had you ever expected you’d be sat in the plush, sleek office of one of Sydney’s most esteemed sex therapists.

You weren’t quite sure how your close friend had managed to convince you to make an appointment, her perky voice insisting it would magic away all of your problems while sliding an equally polished business card toward you. Perhaps it had been the conviction and openness with which she told you it saved her marriage that had you contemplating it in earnest. Alternatively it could’ve been her manner of being–the cheery disposition which led her to float into every room with a wide smile–one that made you sure she was doing something right. Whatever the reason you were here.

The waiting room looked akin to a modern showroom, the walls a crisp white save for a wide strip of matte black that accented one side of the room. Lounge chairs dotted the sizable space, the light grey of the velvety fabric contrasting against the one black wall. The greyscale of the room’s aesthetic was broken up by pops of green and gold, present in the flourishing of tall house plants that scattered the room beside towering, pale yellow-lit lamps. The floor looked to be a marbled stone material, perhaps a dark porcelain sleet or purbeck, partially hidden beneath a single rug that housed the centre of the room. Atop the geometric carpet a glass coffee table sat littered with pamphlets and magazines, a bouquet of white lilies placed in the very middle. The dreary silence of the near-empty space was compromised by the whirl of the air conditioning accompanied only by the occasional taps of keys echoing from behind the receptionist's desk. 

You tapped your foot soundlessly as you awaited your appointment, fingers curled tightly around a paper cup. The cardboard was hot beneath your already too-warm palms, the container half-filled with a surprisingly expensive tasting coffee. Perhaps you shouldn’t be surprised that Sydney’s most up and coming sex therapist spared no expense when it came to their guests, though knowing so little about the person you were due to meet, your expectations were caught in a chaotic flurry of uncertainty and nervousness. You tried to still your restless limbs, planting your foot firmly against the solid ground as if the feeling of the floor beneath your shoes would heighten your senses, stilling your mind. Attempting, instead, to focus solely on the white noise that exhaled from the AC vent. You couldn’t, though. You never could. That was why you were here after all. You were so entirely unable to relax–to calm your nerves and quiet your mind–that even a climax was too far from reach. Your leg bounced anxiously at this, a huff of air from your parted lips sending strands of hair catching in the soft breeze it created. 

Your eyes lifted to the clock above the reception, brows scrunching as the hand ticked slowly passed 3:15pm. Fifteen minutes behind schedule. It wasn’t the lateness that had your eyebrows furrowing in slight annoyance, it was the minutes more you’d have to spend in the presence of your own nervous thoughts. Swallowing down some more of your coffee you placed the paper cup on the small side table beside you, freeing up your hands as you dug around the contents of your tote for your phone. The aged white fabric, its front decorated with a bright sun and array of technicoloured pastel flowers, rarely left your side. It was a comforting piece of familiarity in the otherwise chaotic and ever-changing ambience of Australia’s once largest city. The external screen of your mobile lit up the moment it was freed from the shadowed confines of the multi-coloured canvas, revealing a few messages from the very friend who had placed you here on this day. 

[ from: Matilda ♥️]

2:32pm: don’t forget ur apt ik what ur like 😉

2:55pm: istg if ur still asleep ?? i juss knew going out last night was a mistake smh

3:01pm: k i see how it is ,, enjoy being pent up for the rest of ur life cunt ❤️

You snickered at her quick descent into petty remarks, fingers tugging at the folded screen until it opened. Tapping in your passcode you responded, letting her know you hadn’t missed your appointment despite the simmering of an ache in your temple. She wasn’t wrong, going out last night wasn’t the smartest idea but you’d insisted it would help you get out some of that nervous energy that threatened to spill over in instances like this one. You theorised that with a pounding head and an undercurrent of nausea your racing thoughts would have something else to fixate on. Imagine your surprise when you awoke in near good health. It was only natural that the one time you didn’t mind feeling a little worse for wear you felt on cloud nine. You were cursed, that was the only explanation; one that felt even more true given your current occupancy in the waiting room of a sex therapist.

The creek of a door drew your attention away from your phone, a deep voice calling your name despite the absence of other customers situated in the expanse he’d entered. Your gaze fixed on the figure half-hidden by the door frame, eyes widening when you took in the details of the person a few feet from you. It suddenly became abundantly clear why the man before you was so successful in his attempts to fix his clients sex lives; he was exceptionally handsome. Attractive in a quiet and unconventional way but undeniably so all the same. His dark gaze was soft despite the all-consuming black holes his deep brown eyes became. They sucked you in without warning, swallowing you whole the longer you held his stare. It wasn’t just his enthralling pair of aphotic orbs that had the breath catching in your throat, everything about him seemed crafted by an artist so proficient in their technique you failed to scrutinise a single flaw. 

You managed a smile as you grabbed for your coffee, swallowing down the last of the cooling liquid to discard in the metallic bin on your journey toward the magnetic man; the muted thud when it hit the bottom going unacknowledged as you passed. Your tote hung from your shoulder lazily as you followed him into his office, watching the way his upper back and arms flexed beneath his too-tight charcoal dress shirt. The silk-cotton sleeves, despite the slightly ill fit, remained rolled up mid-way; veiny arms on full display as he directed you toward another set of lounge chairs. You’d hoped to feel better once your appointment began–you usually did–but having laid eyes upon the man you were expected to speak openly with regarding such intimate details, you only felt worse. His pink, plump lips widened in a large smile as he motioned you toward one of the chairs. You complied, bag slipping from your shoulder as you lowered yourself into the comfortable leather.

“Sorry for the late start; had a meeting overrun.” He spoke with emphatic sincerity, dimples pressing indentations against his pale cheeks. You could only nod, mind preoccupied by the tufts of dark curls caught in the artificial breeze that pulsed throughout the space. The office was a little larger than the last room, the aesthetics similar save the large windows on one side of it; their transparency enveloping the area in a warm glow of natural light. The beating sun against the crystal clear glass contradicted the chill of the aircon, balancing the room’s temperature to near perfection. Yet, despite this, you felt far too hot with your flushed cheeks and sweaty palms. A symptom, no doubt, of the man sat across from you.

“That’s okay, I get it.” You murmured back, fingers toying with the hem of your checkered summer dress, the soft cotton providing your anxious energy with some relief. The man in front of you seemed to take note of your nervous fussing, eyes falling to your bare thighs momentarily to fix on the opening and closing of your fists around the hem. His tongue darted across his bottom lip adding a glossy sheen to his already enticing smile; deep brown pools still drinking in your itching fingers with an unreadable expression. 

“I know you must be feeling nervous–that’s normal–but you don’t have to worry about diverging anything until you’re ready.” His smile widened, reaching beside him to grab a large ipad from a short table, action in tandem with the raising of his gaze. “Why don’t we start with introductions and then we can go over some basics; try and set a baseline for what you’re comfortable discussing?” You nodded at this, words failing you for a moment. 

“That works for me.” Your mouth caught up with your brain, offering him a smile of your own. 

“Good, well I’m Chan; Bang Chan. My friends call me Chris though, so you’re welcome to call me that.” His disarming nature was impossible to ignore, the tone of his voice paired with his approachable expression relaxing your shoulders. It had been hard to imagine that a man with such stature and poise could be so easy-going, but the moment a smile tugged at his lips it was as if his entire being beamed with it.

“I’ve never heard the name Chan before, I like it.” You thought aloud, earning a wide-eyed grin from the man in front of you. It was hard not to allow yourself to stray when a sparkle lit up his gaze; the soft glimmer of something unknown swimming in its brown depths. Its mere presence making it near impossible to cling to your inhibitions, to remain anything but comfortable beneath his stare. 

“Thank you, umm, that’s the first time anyone’s ever told me that.” He practically radiated with warmth–giving the sun beyond the glass a run for its money–now shy gaze lowering to the device in his lap. Your confidence grew at this, the power balance between you shifting in your favour for just a moment. 

“Well, most people are dumb I've learned.” Chan stifled a laugh at this, looking up at you through his lashes in brief acknowledgment before the dull tap of his purposeful actions against his ipad screen stole his attention near instantaneously. 

“Hopefully I can be an exception to that rule.” He quipped back, earning a soft chuckle from you. “So your name is y/f/n, right?” 

“Oh, yeah, sorry, that’s me.” You exhaled a soft breath. Your newfound comfort was enough to simmer your busy brain, but your body had other ideas, hands fiddling with the decorative string of your pastel summer dress while the conversation flowed between you. 

“No, that’s okay. Always better to make sure in case another y/n somehow wandered in.” It was his turn to offer a laugh, the contagious noise a chortle cut off by the push of air from his lungs. Breathy and short-lived, but genuine nonetheless.

“Now that would be a crazy twist of fate.” You humoured him, smile widening with every moment spent in his company. It was inexplicable the manner with which the air around you had changed–as if something magnetic and charged hung within its formless presence. You couldn’t see it, just as you couldn’t see the crisp air expelled from the AC, nor the humid warmth that radiated from the sun, but you could feel it. 

“Truly, stranger things have happened though.” Chan looked up from his ipad, seemingly finished with whatever had occupied his attention. You figured it had been the documents you’d been asked to fill out before your session, pages upon pages of personal information and sexual history now ingrained in the confines of his mind. That was an odd thought to say the least. 

“Ain’t that a fact–did you ever hear about that dude Mike Madman Marcum?” You distracted yourself from the rising discomfort, brain making leaps and bounds toward a vaguely relevant subject in its attempt to retreat. 

“Mike Madman Marcum?” Another exhaled laugh from his nose followed his words, lips parted in a grin that showed his pearly teeth and a glimpse of pink gum. Again the craters grew in the soft dough of his cheeks, expression transformed from unreadable–nearly disinterested–to warm and inviting. 

“Yeah, bro literally invented some sort of black hole, time travel portal shit and then mysteriously disappeared, like what?” You kept talking, brows raised in disbelief as if you hadn’t heard the story spilling from your lips until now.

“That sounds fake.” He shook his head, tipping it to the side afterward in interest. 

“You’d think so but it's true.” You shrugged, ghost of a smile still present. It felt impossible not to have even a slight upturn of your lips around him; about as implausible as a rainy day during an Aus summer. 

“How can you know that?” His laugh grew beyond the point of breathy displays of amusement to a noticeable chuckle.

“It’s a long story but there’s a police report about him and his time machine, bro got run out of his hometown and everything ‘cause of his antics. Then he makes the machine again somewhere else and ends up missing. It’s crazy, truly insane.” You filled him in, fingers still picking at the hem of your dress, out of habit more than nerves now. 

“... You gotta send me that article ‘cause I’m curious not gonna lie.” His response had you tipping your head back in silent laughter, not expecting his genuine interest. 

“Yeah? I’ll email you the podcast I listened to.” You nodded.

“You better ‘cause I'll lose sleep wondering about Mike Madman Marcum otherwise.” Sharing a laugh at his words, you couldn’t help but notice how melodic the different tones sounded together. Almost as if you were harmonising one another’s merriment. It charged the air with a new kind of unseen feeling, almost as if giving what had once been there more fuel.

“Oh, I will. First thing I’ll do when I get back home.” You promised, bottom lip enclosed by your teeth while you fought back your widest grin yet. Was it too much to call that sensibility between you chemistry? Were you the only one aware of the electric buzz that emanated through the air, feeling most active in the space that kept you from one another. 

“Thanks, much appreciated. We should probably get back on track though, don’t wanna waste your money talking about time travel.” He maintained a smile, eyes leaving yours to trail across the brightly lit screen once more. 

“Yeah, sorry, that’s my bad.” You apologised, fingers intertwining with one another to refrain from picking at the stray threads of your dress any longer.

“Don’t even mention it. Are wandering thoughts something that you get often?” He voiced aloud his observation, your shoulders rising slightly as the atmosphere around you changed again. Only, instead of the impalpable gravity that drew you to him, you felt something indiscernible push you backward. 

“All the time.” You admitted, answer short.

“Do you feel that it encroaches on your sex life too?” He cut straight to the chase, your eyes blinking wide as your shoulders grew tense.

“Probably.” You retorted, shifting in your seat.

“Well, let me ask you this then–have you orgasmed before? Either from sex or masturbation?” He sounded so calm despite the words that left his plump lips, meanwhile your heart hammered in your chest, a contrast that felt improper, misplaced even. 

“Oh boy, straight to the big questions… I don’t know. I’m not sure. I don’t think so.” You countered. You’d already given him a list of answers to these questions, and you’d hoped at the time you’d forgo the awkwardness of the current topic as a result. It was clear you weren’t that fortunate, but when had you ever been? 

“What makes you uncertain?” The soft brevardo of his voice kissed the shells of your ears, so gentle and genuine in its delivery that it had you melting all over again.

“I wish I knew. I guess, when I’m having sex, at least, I don’t think I ever have. It’s like I automatically check out and leave my body. When it comes to… myself, I don’t know, that’s more of an unknown. It’s like I feel something but then right as the build comes I just can’t reach the end.” You said, as honest as you could be given the circumstances. Your cheeks were ablaze, heart nearly deafening in its antiphon.

“Okay, well there’s a couple of things to unpack there.” Chan nodded half heartedly, the thin apple pen pressed against the pout of his mouth in thought; eyes trained on the screen where a set of scribbles that made up his short-hand observations lay. 

“Probably above your pay grade.” You joked, though a hint of sincerity simmered beneath the chime of your tone. 

“Nothing is above my pay grade, don't you worry about that.” He offered you a reassuring smile, tongue darting out to wet his lips once more. It distracted you again, forcing you to once more confront the attractiveness of the man supposedly holding all the answers to your problems. “Let’s start with this, have you been to any form of therapy before?”

“Only when I was younger.” You blinked, willing your brain to focus on his words rather than the formation of his mouth as he spoke them.

“What was that for?” He queried, thick accent pulling at the syllables as they left his parted lips.

“My mental health among other things.” You retorted ambiguously, not wanting to ignite that storm within your consciousness. 

“Okay, we don’t have to get into the specifics, that's fine; did you find it helpful?” Chan seemed to pick up on this, you weren’t surprised, of course he would. 

“No, I’m not great with talking about my feelings–I don’t feel like it helps.” You admitted, shoulders slouching and rising in slight discomfort. You felt your foot shift restlessly, suddenly hyper-aware of every movement you made in the leather confines of your prison. 

“So what was your motivation for coming here?” The curious man inquired, no amount of austerity present in his tone. 

“My friend said I should try it, apparently you saved her marriage. She’s the most stubborn person I know so if she can do it I’m guessing I can too.” You were back to making light of the situation, hoping to pull another bright smile from the seriousness that clouded his expression. 

“Glad to hear she found it so beneficial.” You’d been unsuccessful, managing only to ignite a momentary spark within his dark gaze before he was back to scrutinising you, gently still, but profoundly all the same. “So what I’m getting from this is that talking to you about the root cause of things isn’t going to be the most helpful approach for you?” 

“Maybe, I don’t know.” Your voice came out sheepish, body almost crumpling in on itself. You wished you had the answers, wanted nothing more than to be the perfect patient just as he had been the perfect therapist thus far. 

“Well we can always try and go from there? We take a holistic approach to therapy so if one thing isn’t working we’ll switch it up, okay?” The man kept his eyes trained on you, flickering from corner to corner, taking in every nook and cranny of your features until they settled back on your uncertain eyes.

“Sounds good.” You forced a smile, the room around you shrinking in size in anticipation of what was to come. You could feel your mind failing you, the interior of the room transforming into a twisted, swirling haze of unfamiliarity. Of course, you didn’t know the place well, but all at once it didn’t feel as if you knew it at all. Like you’d never been here, like you didn’t remember coming here. As if you weren’t really here at all. 

“The other reason I asked about your history with therapy is that you mentioned leaving your body when you’re engaging in sex with someone–did you ever discuss dissociation or depersonalisation with a therapist in the past?” His voice felt foreign all of a sudden, as if he’d been replaced by someone who looked like him, felt like him, should be him, but wasn’t. 

“I did not.” You murmured, blinking in the hopes you’d return to your prior state of being. 

“This is a little more of a personal question: have you experienced a traumatic event associated with sex or intimacy?” His voice rang in your mind, sounding almost like a bell as it echoed within the confines of your skull. You’d heard what he’d said, but it hadn’t settled enough to register. Instead it kept repeating, your brain trying to make sense of the words strung together, just enough to elicit a response from your parted lips, but not enough to make you remember. 

“Uhh.” You felt like you’d been gawking for an hour, mouth opening and closing as you felt yourself move further and further from you body. 

“Are you okay?” His voice pulled your gaze from the floor to his own pointed stare, those all-consuming pools of dark brown just enough to settle your momentarily. 

“Yeah sorry, this- this is why I don’t find talking very helpful. It's like my brain just shuts down when shit gets real.” You stumbled over your words, fingers pressing against your temple in an attempt to coax your soul–or whatever it was that was retreating in haste–back to your body.

“Don’t apologise for that, you’re okay to react whichever way you need to.” He assured you, your heart dancing to the melodic tune his soft affirmations took on. “It sounds like what you’re experiencing are episodes of dissociation, and, while I can’t diagnose anything, or say for certain that’s what it is, it certainly appears that way. It’s common for people who have difficulties in this area to have a dissociative disorder or experience episodes of dissociation when they’re faced with a trigger.” 

“So my trigger is sex?” You queried, words coming a little easier now. It was as if this feeling, the one he’d named dissociation, came over you in waves. You’d felt choked up, near to the point of drowning, mere moments ago. Now it felt like ripples more than strong currents. 

“Maybe, that’s what we’re going to get to the bottom of. It could also be intimacy, your attachment to others or your own body. There are so many reasons why people feel they can’t cope with a situation, and their brain instinctually shuts itself down.” 

“Okay, I guess it's reassuring knowing my body isn’t broken.” You muttered back, feeling rather deflated by now. The air felt sucked from your lungs, replaced by the salt water of your apparently dissociative episode. It made it hard to breathe, only managing laboured, reluctant breaths as if expecting another wave. 

“Absolutely not, nothing about you is broken, not your body or your brain. Dissociation is a fear, stress or anxiety response; the same as fight or flight. It’s perfectly normal, your brain is just trying to protect itself as it's designed to do.” His smile was back, eyes forming crescents that threatened to conceal his caliginous orbs all together. 

“So, like self-preservation?” You attempted to piece together the sentiments that fell from his lips so easily. Perhaps he really did hold all the answers, and that gave you a sense of belief, or attachment, that suddenly wanted him nearer to you. 

“Exactly!” He beamed, fingers tapping mindlessly atop his meaty thigh. “What I want to start out doing over the next few sessions, however, is to focus on you and your relationship with your body. You should be able to pleasure yourself and know your body well before you trust someone else with that task, right?” 

“That seems okay.” You nodded.

“Right, well we won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with, but we’ll start you right from the beginning and we can skip ahead if needs be.” He continued, shifting easily back into the pensive professionalism that hid away his affectionate smiles.

“Alrighty.” Your foot bounced.

“Do you know where the pleasure points are on your body?” His eyes flickered from the ipad in his lap toward your furrowed features.

“I think so.” Your leg joined in the restless dance.

“Go ahead.” He urged, eyes tracing your figure in what you could only assume was acknowledgement of your nervous mannerisms. 

“Oh you want me to- okay- there’s the clit, umm, there’s the nipples and somewhere there’s a g-spot.” You tried to act like the mature, confident adult you surely should be when discussing this topic at your age.

“Yeah, those are the main one’s sure. There’s also your inner thighs, your neck, your lips; some people find the bottom of their feet to be pleasurable, their ears, lower back, armpits–”

“Armpits? That’s a new one.” You cut him off with a surprised laugh, hand coming to cover your mouth as if to emphasise your bewilderment.

“Yeah there’s a lot.” He chuckled, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek “I noticed you said ‘somewhere’ when mentioning your g-spot. Have you ever found it yourself?” Chan asked, eyes darkening as he did so, an outcome you didn’t think possible until now. 

“No, umm, my fingers aren’t very good at all that.” You shifted in your seat, pulling the hem of your dress further down your bare thighs, nails grazing your clammy flesh. 

“Okay, have you used toys?” His voice had dropped an octave, a sound that had the air instantaneously charged again. It was as if the pull was back, but not without the push; both worlds colliding in one disorientating, magnetic combustion. 

“I don’t even know where to start with all that.” You shrugged dismissively. 

“So how do you usually masturbate?” Your mouth grew dry at his words, the hypnotic buzz that seemed to exude from him almost impossible to ignore now. How were you supposed to take his words so lightly? So entirely void of all subtexts and implications when he was staring at you with such heated scrutiny.

“I just… you know… my clit.” It was a miracle he had heard you, you were almost sure you’d been whispering. In the back of your mind you could hear a white noise that sounded like the crashing of waves, almost as if threatening another trip beneath the surface of reality.

“Okay, and does that make you climax?” You focused carefully on his words, using the image of his mouth as it curled around each syllable to guide you from the deep end. That tongue of his, a threat in itself, traced the seam of his bottom lip once more, lingering for a moment too long. 

“I get close but err, I don’t know, I can never get all the way my mind wanders.” Distracting yourself from his plump mouth, you moved your own until a riposte drew from it. 

“Okay, have you tried watching porn to focus your mind?” His response was near immediate, chin balanced on an open palm now as he leaned back in his chair, legs parting, elbow pressing deeper into the armrest.

“No actually, I haven’t.” You retorted, watching him nod gently as if contemplating his next words, long, pretty fingers clutching the pen as it moved across the screen. His hand moved from his chin to his throat, the back and forth motion as his reflexive state persisted an image that would surely haunt you. You’d never noticed that a person’s hands held their own beauty until now, each digit perfect in length and adorned with ridged veins. 

“Alright, well then I think you have your first piece of homework.” He concluded, snapping you out of your day dream and forcing you to draw your eyes away from the sight. You managed a smile, waiting for him to continue. “I’m going to give you a starter toy, then I want you to go home. If you get in the mood, open up a porn site and type in solo female. Find a video that you think is going to be the most relevant to you and then, using your fingers or the toy, follow what the actress is doing in the video.” 

“Right, okay.” You nodded along, thankful that your first session was drawing to an end. However, the prospect of an at-home-assignment was one that brought a new wave of uncertainty. 

“Don’t be nervous, it’s just you and the video. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work and that’s okay.” His smile was back, stature adjusting as he placed the ipad aside, both palms planting themselves atop his thighs. 

“Uh huh.” You were distracted, but you’d heard him, contemplating his words with a degree of skepticism. 

“What’s making you anxious?” He asked, and on one hand you wanted to blurt out ‘you’. It truly was a challenge all in itself to hear him speak about such a personal topic while he unconsciously made every action attractive and impassioned. From the flicker of his brow, to the rise and fall of his chest, you’d gone from hyper-aware of yourself to hopelessly unable to pull your eyes from his motions. 

“I don’t know, guess I’m just not good at trying new things when it comes to this–I feel like I’m setting myself up for failure.” You admitted, the rise of his brows enough to have you wishing you’d kept it to yourself. That thought didn’t last though, not when the words that followed lulled your anxiety in a way never knew it could be. 

“Failure doesn’t exist in this sphere, you cannot fail, only try and then if you want to, try again.” He leaned forward in his chair, less relaxed in his posture as he grinned at you encouragingly. 

“Right, yeah. I don’t know. I feel like your positivity is so infectious but the moment I get home I’ll just be stuck overthinking again.” You chuckled, an undercurrent of nervousness pulling the whimsy from your tone. 

“Well, why don’t I give you my work number and if you get nervous and need me to talk you down you can call me, yeah?” His assurances continued, palm reaching into the pocket of his cropped suit trousers. 

“Are you sure?” You blinked at him, leaning down to pry at the strap of your trusty tote bag.

“Of course, whatever you need–I’m here.” He gleamed, and with the way he was looking at you so intently, you could tell he meant it. 

The moment you’d gotten home you’d done as promised, sending the podcast via email before opening pornhub preemptively to get ahead of your ‘homework’. It was intimidating to say the least, even more so when the toy Chan had given you sat beside your laptop caught your gaze. The box called it a G-Spot Vibrator, at one time concealing the long, slightly curved pink device from view. Now the vibrator led there, taunting you with its unfamiliarity as your gaze shifted to and from the screen of the laptop. Eventually you chucked in your desk drawer defiantly, fixing your attention on the brightly lit screen to begin scrolling through the wealth of videos. You couldn’t decide on one, none of them seemed to match your skill level; their wrists expertly shiting fancy looking toys in a thrusting motion while their bodies shook and convulsed with over exaggerated pleasure. It was off putting, almost taunting the manner with which they played up every action and sound.

It didn’t take long for you to lose interest, opting to go about your evening as normal instead. Easily the events of the day became background noise as you took care of the needs you struggled with far less than. By the time you’d finished your skincare you were crashing down in front of the couch, mind wandering back to the soft spoken man who’d assigned you such vexatious and troublesome homework. A drama played on low volume in the backdrop of your thoughts, your mind's eye picturing the way your therapist's tongue had travelled across his plump bottom lip. It was miraculous how you’d so easily managed to commit every part of him to memory. You could see him as clearly as the ceiling above you, his veiny hands tightening around his thighs while his dark eyes both provoked and lulled your anxiety. You didn’t realise the extent of his intoxicating stare until you were without it, nor the heat with which it took in every detail of your face as you did his.

Before you knew what you were doing your fingers had begun shifting toward your already hard nipples, one hand covering your t-shirt clad breast. You squeezed softly, head falling further back against the sofa with your eyes now tightly shut. Your free hand skimmed lower, tugging the hem of your oversized shirt to cup your bare flesh. The action of your open palm squeezing against your clit and dampening hole was enough to have your thrusting gently upwards. What a dilemma that the very person who was supposed to be helping you pleasure yourself had become the object of it. The mere thought had you huffing in disbelief–just your luck. 

Deciding to distract yourself you seized the opportunity to do the homework you’d been assigned. Getting up, you trudged the short distance to your desk, grabbing your laptop and the vibrator before returning to the sofa in haste. Your fingers continued tugging at your nipple, electric sparks travelling straight to your core. You kept the drone of the tv on as you clicked play on one of the videos, muting the sound to focus on the girl's actions. That earlier worked up feeling died down somewhat as you mimicked her movements. Taking the vibrator in your mouth you sucked on it stiffly, allowing your tongue to press against the base of it as you wet the velvet soft device. You should’ve known better though, then to think your mind could focus just because you willed it to. Instead, you began to wonder, deliberating whether Chan’s hard cock would feel this heavy between your lips; the thought drawing a hum from your stuffed mouth as you tried to concentrate on the video.

You felt yourself grow soaked at the image of your sex therapist pushing his member further past your lips, the tip of it entering your throat while he exhaled grunts. You thanked the heavens when the actress removed the toy from her mouth, switching the vibration on to press it against her clit. You did the same, body jolting at the unfamiliar feeling. You tried to keep up with her motions, alternating between teasing your soaked entrance with the toy and rubbing it against your clit. Your pleasure came and went as you did so, your clumsy movements trying to keep up with her own. You felt yourself grow frustrated as you did so, mind aching to return to the image of Chan using your mouth. 

Your head lulled back at the thought of his hand clutching your hair with those big, veiny fingers, pushing your head down against his cock until your nose met his muscular flesh. Your eyes glazed over, the video no longer in focus as you fixated on the memory of his slender digits. They were so long and shaped in such a way that you were certain, in your imagination at least, they’d have no problem fucking you open. Neither an issue finding your g-spot; bringing you to a satisfying climax again and again until your body begged him to give you a moment to recover. You could picture it now: his large body hovering above you, one hand pushing you against the mattress to keep you still while the other pistoned his skilled fingers in and out of your gushing pussy. You knew you’d surely be convulsing like the girls in porn did, hips unable to keep still despite his heavy palm.

The movie playing behind your closed lids was enough to have you more worked up than you’d ever been before. You pressed the vibrator into your entrance letting it linger before you thrust it past your walls, leaving yourself no time to prep like the man in your imagination refused to. He touched you with an air of impatience, desperation even, as if he’d deprived himself of you for too long; torturing himself with the thought of how you’d feel constricting around his rock hard length. You marvelled at the way his cock would feel spreading you open deliciously. You imagined his member to be as veiny as his arms, the ridges pushing against your spongy walls sending a new type of wave throughout your body. No disconnection, no retreating. Just the crashing of ecstasy that was building up with every desperate push of the vibrator. Moans fell from your lips as you thrust the toy in and out, the length of it brushing blissfully against your clit every few motions. You pictured the push of his hips against yours, the feeling of his breath against your clammy skin and the melodic muse of his groans. You just knew your moans would sound perfect together; as harmonious as your chorused laughter.

It felt so fucking sinful fucking yourself with the toy he’d given you, imagining him in place of it. The revelation had your high approaching and your walls tightening as you tried to push yourself over the finish line. It felt like a knot, or a rubber band, constricting and pulling until it threatened to snap. You tried to imagine him circling your clit with his soaked fingers, his teeth latching at your throat as he painted plum coloured hues against your skin. You kept your frenzied motions up–thrusting and rubbing in desperation to cum–but the band never snapped. The knot coming undone as your stamina reached its limit. You felt overstimulated, but without the post-orgasm floods of pleasure that should surely be wracking your body. Instead, you just felt tired, defeated even. 

You’d usually give up, the magic of the moment gone with the disappointment that overtook it. This time around, though, you were still endlessly frustrated. You wanted release so badly. Your hand pushed the toy back into your needy pussy as you let your mind wander back to the therapist clouding your mind with lust. This time, he coaxed you through it sweetly, whispering reassuring words in your ear as he took his time thrusting his fingers in and out of your hole. That dark gaze captivated you again. You imagined the way it would scrutinise you once more, peering up at your spent form as he trailed kisses down the valley of your plump breasts; close to where his busy fingers worked you open. Your imagination had you near sweet release again, the image of his plump lips latching at your clit was enough to have your back arching as you tried desperately to cum. 

Cruelly, despite your best efforts, the blissful feeling died out like the embers of a long forgotten fire. The feeling becoming duller and duller till the pleasurable light flickered out for the last time. You let out a whine of defeat, chest heaving as you caught your breath before trying again. You tried, and you tried, but no matter how many times you thrust the vibrating device in and out of your puffy cunt you ended up exhausted and disappointed. Realising it wasn’t going to happen, you got up with glossy eyes, tears lining their brim as you wobbled over to the desk. You found your phone discarded by the vibrators packaging, the sudden igniting of the screen reminding you of its presence. Reminding you of your plan b. 

You didn’t expect him to pick up, thumb between your lips as you chewed anxiously at your nail. By the third ring he did, though, your eyes widening not only at his quick response, but how real the situation suddenly felt. What were you doing? Had you actually called him? You had. That became abundantly clear the moment his voice filled the silence the call tone had left behind. “Hello?” The octave sounded a little rougher than it had during your appointment, leaving you suddenly panicked that you might’ve woken him up. Your eyes darted towards the time on your laptop’s screensaver 8:12pm visible in big letters.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, did I wake you up?” You quickly blurted out, back straightening in anticipation of his response.

“Oh hey, no you didn’t don’t worry. I was just listening to that podcast actually.” The strain in his voice dissipated, replaced instead by an enthusiastic tone. 

“Really?” Your hesitance was gone, the swirling of something close to affection beginning to churn in the pit of your stomach. It reminded you of that prior unseen tension between you, the kind that felt like a perfect storm; a destiny playing out in a beautiful collision.  

“Yeah, shit’s insane…” He trailed off, the muted clattering of background noise leaving you no clues as to what he could be up to. You wondered briefly how he spent his time when he wasn’t cooped up in his office. Did he frequent a bar? Maybe the gym? Did he have a favourite takeout spot? Or did he have a book of recipes he flicked through every night? Maybe he spent his time much the same way you did, curled up on the sofa with a show you only half-paid attention to. 

“I know right, it’s wild.” You agreed, pushing the far-too-domestic thoughts out of your mind. 

“Right? He just disappeared off the face of the earth.” Chan exclaimed, the distant, indistinguishable noises fading to a settled silence. “So, are you okay? Did your homework go okay?”

“Actually, that’s why I’m calling.” You admitted, growing a little sheepish at the turn in conversation. You couldn’t tell if you were flustered because of the subject matter, or because your cunt still throbbed and ached in desperate anticipation of something that would seemingly never come. 

“Sure, what’s the matter?” He spoke, voice level as always.

“I tried to do the porn thing but I don’t know, I just felt way too uncoordinated and ended up getting distracted. But, like, this time it was a good kind of distraction and I got close so many times but I just couldn’t cum.” The recollection of your disappointing evening had you shuffling in your seat, the friction of your bare clit against the couch setting your over-sensitive body alight. You got a bit more comfortable, squeezing your legs together in the hopes the pressure would lull the ache. It didn’t, it seemed nothing would. Nothing except an outcome that you couldn’t attain. 

“Okay, well that’s a positive development, right? You tried something new, it didn’t work but you gave it a really good go, yeah? You should feel proud.” His positive disposition had once filled you with so much assurance, but right now, it did nothing but taunt you. No shit it didn’t work, you were practically throbbing with desire, desperate for release. 

“Right, yeah, I guess so.” You muttered.

“Did you try the toy?” At the mention of the vibrator–still close to you on the sofa–you felt a knot form in the pit of your stomach. You weren’t sure how, in your frantic mind, you’d figured that having a sexually-charged conversation with your very attractive sex therapist was going to help your situation. Right now, it only worsened it tenfold. 

“I did.” You retorted shortly. 

“Did it feel good?” You felt like your ears were playing tricks on you. Could’ve sworn his usually balanced voice wavered with something unknown. You wanted to call it restraint, but you knew that was surely your desires playing out in your mind; your current disposition plaguing all reason. He was good at that–consuming every part of you–and you were starting to think that was exactly what you needed. To be consumed. To not be able to have a single sense focused on anything but him. 

“Uh, umm, yeah.” You felt your situation growing exponentially worse, body shifting again in a fruitless attempt at distracting yourself from the heavy throb between your thighs. You hadn’t even realised you’d managed a response, not until he was talking again, offering that same assurance that still held little weight. 

“That’s another positive step, maybe we can give you more toys to try out to see if there’s one that can help you finish.” 

“Uh huh.” You hummed, head pressing against the sofa, free hand skimming your bare thighs. You knew you couldn’t do anything about your situation, not with Chan on the phone, but frustratingly, you knew you couldn’t do anything about it without him either. It was a cruel catch 22; sit here and squirm beneath the mundane distraction his sentiments provided, or try and get yourself off again and again to the image of him in your head. 

“Are you okay?” He seemed to pick up on your absentminded demeanour, pitch raising in slight concern.

“Just… frustrated. I’m open to trying more things but, like, I’m just… what about now?” You admitted, perhaps if you were honest about his situation he’d know the right thing to say. The perfect affirmation that would finally have you climaxing after years of pent up frustration.

“Oh… right. So when you say frustrated…?” He attempted to connect the dots, your eyes squeezing shut as you released a huff.

“I’m really fucking desperate to cum.” You spoke bluntly, the hand that sat at your thigh itching to circle your clit. The thought alone had your hips rising in ecstasy, eyes rolling back as you imagined your fingers strumming your sensitive nub in a frenzied attempt to cum. You’d have to keep quiet, you wouldn’t want your sex therapist to know you were trying to orgasm to the sound of his perfectly innocent intimate questions “Chan?” You questioned, when silence followed.

“Yeah, sorry, umm, just thinking.” He seemed distant now, and you suddenly regretted being so honest. Had you crossed a line? Well of course you had, many in fact. You hated that justifications followed suit; so surely you can cross one more, right? To give your clit that attention it so desperately wanted.

“Am I hopeless? Is there nothing I can do right now?” You asked in defeat, the ache almost painful beneath your continued resistance. 

“You’re not hopeless, no– okay…” He started to speak, still sounding much different than he had moments ago. “I don’t usually do this, I’m not supposed to do this, but, if you want I can, umm, I can help you?” There was hesitance in his tone, uncertainty wrapped up in every syllable; leaking through each word the same way your cunt gushed at the prospect of his statement.

“Help me?” You uttered, not daring to believe he could mean what you thought he did. 

“Like guide you.” Oh, you thought. So he meant exactly that. The man of your prior fantasies wanted to talk you through your masturbation. If you thought your desperation had reached maximum capacity before, then you were certain you were at the breaking point now. Your pussy clenched around nothing, whole body suddenly heavy with thick hot lust as you managed a response.

“O-Okay.”

“Yeah, you want that?” He was back to sounding level again, and how he could be in this situation you didn’t know. You didn’t care, though, not when your deprived cunt was about to get abused once again.

“Yeah, so bad.” Your voice no longer hid your frantic state, hips rising from the sofa, hand reaching between your thighs to ghost over your sensitive clit in an attempt to feel any relief.

“Mm fuck, okay.” Whatever professionalism he’d mustered up had quickly faltered, something close to a groan falling from his lips. “We can stop whenever you want to, I only wanna help you with this if you’re comfortable with it.” Before you could register his new state, however, the collected therapist was back. You questioned your sanity, were you hearing things now? Your mind conjuring mirages of your hot therapist moaning in your ear as he got you off. Fuck you wanted to touch yourself so bad.

“I want your help, Chan.” You confirmed, gnawing at your bottom lip as you ran a finger through your soaked folds, digit quickly growing sticky, body jolting from the small amount of contact.

“You sound so strained, gonna help you okay?” His voice held promise, and your eyes practically rolled into the back of your head at the prospect of finally cumming. 

“Please.” You begged, restraint completely vanished along with any shame you might’ve felt about sounding so unbelievably desperate.

“You still wearing that pretty little dress?” His voice dropped an octave, his ability to stay unphased broken up by bouts of what you could only surmise was his body betraying him. 

“No, just a t-shirt” You responded, mewls falling from your lips at the prospect of him being affected by your insatiable lust.

“Nothing else?” Chan questioned.

“Just the shirt.” You confirmed, finger circling your gushing hole as you awaited your sign to begin pleasuring yourself properly. 

“Take it off for me, drag the fabric against your skin nice and slow. You doing that for me?” To your dismay, he had other plans, his request to take your time sending every one of your nerves into overdrive. You did as you were told, though, too turned on by the current events playing out to rush through it.

“Yeah.”

“Good, give your breasts special attention; squeeze them together, let the rough part of the fabric stimulate your nipples.” You followed his commands, putting your phone on loud speaker by your head to squeeze your breasts together; the fabric against your sensitive nipples sending waves of pleasure straight to your desperate pussy. 

“When your shirt is off, bring your fingers to your mouth and get them nice and wet. You doing it baby?” Behind closed lids your senses were heightened, the sound of his voice from the speaker–so close to your ear–jolting your forward. Leaving your breasts alone for the moment, you removed the thin clothing, the air of your cool apartment stimulating your bare skin in a way that had your head spinning. 

“Mhm.” You moaned loudly at the nickname, mouth stuffed with your fingers as you sucked on them. You were reminded of your earlier imaginings, the thought of his cock between your lips instead of your fingers pulling another pitchy groan from you.

“You like it when I call you that?” He asked, not waiting for a response before he continued. “Good, such a good girl, so responsive. Suck on your fingers till they’re nice and coated then I want you to play with your nipples okay?” You were frustrated at the pace he’d set, brows furrowed as you let strings of spit coat your fingers, hips continuously jolting as if trying to beg for your attention. 

You couldn’t help the moans that spilled from your lips at the state you were in, cool air stimulating your already needy clit as you rubbed your soaked digits over your nipples. You played with them harshly, almost annoyed at the pent up feeling that grew and grew. With each pinch your pussy clenched around nothing, the emptiness reminding you of what you wanted there most; his cock. 

“You sound so good, fuck, doing so well.” His resolve crumbled again, a huff of air the only release he could manage. “Take your time with yourself, okay?” Chan sounded strained now, the level part of him gone, replaced only by a man pushing his patience to unseen limits.

“It’s too much, wanna touch myself properly.” You whined, wetting your fingers some more to continue playing with your breasts. 

“You’ll get there baby, don’t worry, not gonna leave your pretty pussy neglected.” Another desperate moan fell from your lips, noises carelessly flowing from you with complete disregard for your neighbours let alone the man on the other end of the phone. “You like that? Like me calling your pussy pretty? Mmm, I bet it is. I know it is.” 

“Hmpf, Chan, please.”

“Ohmygod.” His ability to maintain level-headedness was slipping with every sound that fell from your lips. You sounded incredible, mind racing with vivid images of your legs spread, pretty fingers prying feverishly at your swollen nipples. “How does it feel baby?” He questioned, feeding his own thoughts more than yours with this request.

“Good but not enough, want more.” Your hips rose and fell, so unable to continue just playing with your plump tits when your aching, needy cunt was pleading with you to touch it.

“Okay baby, go slow, leave one hand playing with your nipples and let the other one start trailing down your body. Make sure you give every part of yourself attention, squeeze at your thighs, graze your tummy with your nails; do whatever feels best.” You released a sigh of relief, glad to finally be moving on from your top half. 

“I’m doing it.” You murmured, trying to follow his direction as best you could. However, your hand skimmed your flesh clumsily, hurriedly, squeezing at your thighs to keep them pressed against the couch.

“Good girl, brush over your clit when you get there, okay? use your finger to push through your folds and spread your juices over your clit.” You did exactly that, digits instantly drenched in the sticky, wet mess soaking the sofa beneath you. Your entire body moved in haste, pushing your fingers between your pussy lips and up to your clit over and over, hips thrusting with them. 

“Ah, fuck, that feels so good Chan!” You couldn’t control yourself anymore, moan after moan spilling from your gaping mouth as you repeated the motion.

“Yeah? fucking hell– sound so pretty, darling. Start circling your clit when you’re nice and soaked and make sure to give your entrance some attention too, okay?” 

“Yeah, okay, god so good.” You mewled when the tips of your fingers prodded teasingly at your clenching hole. With every tightening of your pussy a new stream of sticky cum would gush onto your fingers, coating them deliciously for your sensitive clit’s unquenchable thirst for more.

“You doing that?”

“I think so.” You whined, near sobbing by now. 

“Describe it for me.” He insisted, tone low with a growing impatience.

“I’m rubbing my clit with two fingers, now I’m moving them down and pushing the tips in.” You recited your motions, repeating each step with a thrust of your hips and a squirm of your limbs.

“Good, that’s good. Keep doing that for me until you’re ready and then I want you to get the toy I gave you.” His commands continued, the only thing keeping you grounded in this moment of uncontrollable, desperation for release. 

“Alright. I already f-feel close.” You moaned, that tight feeling growing expanding, filling the empty place you wanted Chan to most.

“Drag it out baby, take your time.” His words drew a frustrated sob from you, eyes screwing even tighter shut as you circled your clit furiously. 

“I wanna cum so bad though.” You cried, tears streaking your cheeks as your hips moved at their own accord.

“You’re gonna cum, baby, i’m gonna make you cum– fuck.” At his promise, you reluctantly pulled your hand away, blindly reaching for the vibrator. The moan that punctuated his sentence had a wave of arousal washing over you again. 

“Are you touching yourself too?” You asked, the mere thought causing your cunt to clench in a way it never had. You bet he looked incredible with his fist wrapped around his cock, fucking his closed hand with the same amount of disregard you showed your sensitive nub.

“No. This is about you.” He broke your illusion, a whine falling from you lips. 

“I’m getting the toy, what should I do with it, sir?” You clutched the vibrator, pressing it against your clit in anticipation of his next request. “Chan?” You spoke after a beat in time. 

“Uh huh, yeah, fuck, sorry I’m still here.” Whatever thread of resolve he’d been clinging onto desperately was audibly gone. He sounded like a man starved. As if he himself was beginning to understand the torture you must be feeling to be deprived of sweet release the way he currently was. 

“You sound good when you moan, can you do it again?” You pleaded, using the toy to circle your clit as you waited for him to comply.

“Mhm, yeah like this baby?” Chan didn’t disappoint, the sounds spilling from his lips sending jolt after jolt of mind-numbing pleasure straight to your core. “You like that, huh?”

“Yeah so much.” You moaned, rubbing the toy up and down your soaked folds; punishing your neglected hole with the velvety tip.

“God, so fucking hot, bet you look so good right now.” Chan seemed on a not-so-slow descent into madness, his palms no doubt twitching in place as yours had earlier, wanting nothing more than to palm his hard cock through his clothes. “Turn the vibrator on and do the same as earlier; give your clit and your hole special attention.” 

“I’m so close, sir” You moaned, fingers fumbling with the button until the default vibration setting turned on. “Please can I fuck myself with it? Feel so empty clenching around nothing.” 

“Fucking hell, your tight little pussy wants to get fucked so bad, yeah?” He moaned, so loudly that it almost felt like he was right there in the room with you.

“More than anything, please.” You pleaded, hips back to moving at their own accord as you circled your entrance with the vibrating toy.

“You sound fucking incredible begging for me like this baby–such a good little slut–so obedient.” his growls filled the air around you, cunt clenching at the image of his gritted teeth and clenched jaw. Gone was the pretty smile and the dimpled cheeks, no doubt replaced by a solemn expression and distant stare as his own mind busied itself with visuals of your submissive form.

“If I keep being good will you touch yourself with me?” You pleaded, tone wavering beneath the chorus of moans that flew from your lips with every exhale of breath.

“A-are you sure?” He stuttered, caught off guard by your comment. If you’d asked him to do this at the start of your call, he’d give you a categorical no. Now, though, beneath the heavy haze of lust, and battling with the feeling of painfully stiff cock confined beneath his work clothes, he could only comply eagerly. 

“Yeah, please, wanna hear you moan some more.” Your voice was starting to break now, tip of the vibrator pushing further and further past your walls with every flick of your hand. You pictured how he must look, strong hand clasping desperately at his poor neglected cock; not even bothering to remove his clothes entirely before he was circling the base with his first.

“Fuck this is so wrong. God if only you could see what you’re doing to me.” Chan sounded like heaven, puffs of air exhaling from his lips as small grunts filled the room. He was no longer moaning for your entertainment alone, no, instead the noises were accompanied by the wet sounds of his fist stroking his length feverishly.

“Mmm I wish, wish it was you fucking me right now.” Not a lie, either. Your head couldn’t settle on one script to stick to: him jerking off uncontrollably or you bouncing on his cock. The latter would be quite the scene, pussy gushing around his pulsing member as you rode him with haste. His hands planted firmly at your hips to spur you on. You imagined it must feel blissful to feel his palms clasping at your body, keeping you grounded, reminding you the best things weren’t hiding in the corners of your mind but right here in reality. 

“Baby, fuck, don’t say that.” Chan grunted again, sounds broken up by moans and curse words. “You fucking yourself nice and slow, yeah?” 

“Yeah, not enough.” You sobbed, drying tear tracks repainted with fresh salty tears.

“So greedy, such a spoiled little pussy, does it wanna be fucked hard and rough?” His voice couldn’t find an octave, one moment it was deep, controlling almost in its approach to commanding your every move. The next it reached new heights, pitchy moans interjecting each breathless word. You liked this, felt like you were adding new polaroid pictures to a scrapbook keep-sake. Finding new things to add to a growing collection of moments you’d replay over and over again in your mind. You were good at that, fixating on one situation good or bad, thinking about it from every angle until the edges of it became frayed and aged. Until it lost all meaning; all feeling.

“Want you to ruin it.” You could barely form words by now, you wanted nothing more than to quicken your pace. You wouldn’t though, not without his word. There was something so hot about doing what your therapist told you to, even if he couldn’t see you, nor hold you accountable if you misbehaved. You wanted to be his good girl, his favourite patient; the only one who could corrupt him into breaking every rule he swore he’d keep. Maybe it was the power in an otherwise powerless dynamic that had you so hot on bothered, but really, truly, that didn’t feel like the perfect fit. 

There was something about him, you couldn’t describe it. You could only remember how electric the air around you had felt, how badly you wanted to let yourself be pulled into his orbit, to centre him in every aspect of your life until he was the only thing that remained. All consumed, entirely taken up by him. Every crack in your broken mind filled with him, and his voice, and his promises to fix you. It was so undeniably unethical, let alone wishful thinking. You knew you were latching onto him, your next fixation, your special interest.

“Shit, you know I can’t do that, gonna have to learn to do it yourself.” His words reminded you just how hopeless your new infatuation was. Lust and affection were two different things, not mutually exclusive, in fact rarely hand-in-hand. Chan was trying to help, he took pity on you, right? Sure, somewhere along the way his cock had ended up in his fist, moans spilling from him like a pot left to boil too far too long. But that was a happy accident, an inevitability when you were moaning like a pornstar in his ear. 

You were losing focus again. God, who knew your distraction would become a distraction from himself. But just as you’d begun to run out of momentum, mind conjuring up anxious thoughts and momentary bouts of shame intermingled with embarrassment, his voice sliced through the noise. “Pick up the pace for me, keep going, keep fucking yourself like a slut if that’s what baby girl wants.”  

“So close. I-I’m fuck, fuck, so close.” You clenched around the vibrating device, the loud groans emanating from your phone’s speaker pushing you closer and closer to the edge. An edge… now that was new. Usually you felt a tightening in the pit of your stomach, an indescribable pressure that wanted to be released. But this felt more like a building of something that was destined to end in you reaching an undiscovered depth; the deepest darkest part of an ocean you’d yet to explore. 

“Yeah? You sound so fucking hot baby, you gonna cum for me? gonna cum for sir like an obedient little whore?” The filth that was spewing from his lips so easily had your mind racing in an entirely new way. You couldn’t keep up with your body anymore, vibrator plunging in and out of your abused hole as if running on a motor. The space around you smelled like sweat paired with the sweet scent of your cum; the sounds of your wet pussy battling to be heard above your shrill moans.

“Want you to cum with me, you gonna cum with me sir?” You spoke between pants.

“I’ll cum with you, yeah, that’s so hot– I can hear how soaked you are, bet you’re making such a mess baby.” His groans did indeed sound perfect in harmony with your own, you’d been right about that. 

“Would feel so good creaming your cock with my cum.” you murmured, biting down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from screaming. 

“Ahhh, fuck, fucking hell I’m gonna cum.” He stammered and you could hear so clearly the sounds of skin slapping against skin. You could tell, even through the phone that his release was already leaking from the top of his angry head, every thrust of his fist wet. You could practically taste the salt of his cum on your tongue, the image of him dumping its entirety in your wide, eager mouth enough to have your hips spasming uncontrollably. 

“Yeah? Me too, please, please.” You felt your body teeter so close to the edge you almost lost the ability to thrust the vibrator in and out of your desperate hole.

“That’s it, good girl– fuck– fuck yourself so good like you know I would.” It would appear that in his near-climax haze Chan had given up on the idea of not buying into your fantasy of fucking him. You liked to think he’d reached the point of complete inhibition, no longer able to keep up the facade. That perhaps he wanted your cunt just as badly as you wanted to feel his cock rammed deep inside you, tip prodding against your cervix with every well-timed thrust. “Would treat that pussy so well, yeah, would fuck you so well baby, fuck.” He was babbling now, barely indistinguishable beneath the sounds of wet fist fucking.

“Please, please.” Was all the words you could muster, so close now that you felt yourself being pushed from the edge you’d been almost afraid to fall from, vibrator hitting your spongy walls at just the right angle to have your toes curling and your body heaving. 

“Keep going baby, keep going. Imagine it's me, yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” Chan kept talking, seemingly unable to keep his desires pent up any longer as he too reached the edge. “Bet you’d love it, fuck such a good girl, taking my cock so well–you’d feel so good, tight cunt wrapped around me.” He was relentless now, words sending jolts of hot pleasure straight to your already overstimulated pussy. 

“Be the only man to make you cum, you know I can.” He continued, barely able to get the words out between broken moans, each one louder than the next. “Gonna make your cunt mine baby, yeah, you want that don’t you? I’ll treat you so good don’t worry; i’ll take good care of your desperate little pussy.” The possessive growl he let out, paired with the absolutely sinful rambles he couldn’t seem to stop from spilling out of him, was more than enough to send you tumbling from the edge. You were rendered near immobile, white light breaking through the darkness behind your closed lids. Your hips shook, every limb twitching and seizing until all feeling returned. 

You hadn’t even noticed you’d been moaning his name, over and over until your voice was hoarse and your throat felt raw. You could feel every part of you grow stiff, chest heaving as you tried to make sense of what had just happened. One second you were pushing the toy in and out of your clenching hole, the next you lost all control of your body. It was easy to see why they called it little death, that feeling of going into a place filled with light, a place that threatened no return. No way to flee back to the safety of normalcy. It was a contrast to his dark gaze, the one that consumed you in the same way. It was like fire and ice, light and dark, yin and yang. So entirely wrong but right.

“Ah, you came, fuck, yeah, you’re so– god, I’m cumming too, fuck.” You realised then, as you caught your breath, listening to the sounds of his own release play through the speaker, that you didn’t want to return to normalcy at all. You wanted the light, you wanted the dark, you wanted both of them at once. No, not want; need. 

You needed the dark to find the light. You needed him. 

<< back to dash // next episode >>

taglist: @mangojellyyy • @diekleinesuesse

A/N: this was made to celebrate the 100 followers milestone so thank you so much to everyone who has been a part of that. this one's for yous <3

hope you enjoyed my first written fic! this was semi-unedited so if there are any major errors let me know. haven't done smut in a long time so fingers crossed it was okay lmao. there will be another episode but not any time soon, please see "genre" for more details.

[seumyo]

BAKUGOU KATSUKI ✰ BIRTHDAY BOY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Bakugou used to love birthdays.

He’d be the center of attention. With every year being bigger than the last (because, honestly, did you expect his well-off parents to hold back on their only son?). Cameras clicked, kids shouted his name, and adults smiled in awe. He never cared if they liked him or feared him—he was admired.

And for a time, that was enough.

But somewhere along the line, the spark in those birthday candles started to feel dull.

His parents still celebrated, of course, usually with a home-cooked meal, a cake from his favorite bakery, and a gift he pretended not to like but secretly adored. His grandparents would always show up with noisy hugs and poorly wrapped presents, and his mother still made him wear a stupid little birthday crown at the table.

It was embarrassing, but it was also safe.

Familiar.

Then came UA.

By high school, the world cracked open in ways he hadn’t expected.

Everyone was strong.

Everyone had dreams.

He wasn’t the only one aiming for the top, and it was maddening—but also, for the first time, grounding. And he got friends—real ones. Not sycophants or kids scared of his quirk to say anything—so they just stay behind him, but people who challenged him through his shouting, his pride, and his anger.

Shitty Hair was the first to barge into his dorm room on his birthday with a lopsided grin and a poorly wrapped gift. “It’s a protein bar sampler! Thought you’d wanna see which one you could crush with one hand!”

After that, it became a tradition. Racoon Eyes brought handmade cards with glittery explosions. Soy Face made crown cut-outs from construction paper that Bakugou refused to wear but never threw away. Dunce Face bought the same grocery store cake every year with a new dumb nickname written in icing (he gets more creative each year—it’s starting to piss Bakugou off).

It was stupid. It was chaotic. It was good.

It became his day again.

And now—now he was 23.

The world around him had changed again.

He was a pro now. He had his own agency, his own patrols, and his own damn business cards that got passed around in hero circles and used to shut down villains on sight. Dynamight—no, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, they called him, like he was some unstoppable force (and an unstoppable force for a long-ass hero name). Which he was, most of the time.

But today?

Today, he just wanted to come home.

The celebration at the agency had been loud, grand, and grating. His staff meant well. Hell, even his sidekick (wow, surprising, he only had one because he was the only kid with the balls to directly say to Bakugou that he’ll surpass him during a personal interview) had pooled money to get him a custom gauntlet case with engraved initials.

There were banners (too flashy), snacks (pretty good), an off-key song, and a gaudy cake that someone ordered with indoor-safe sparklers instead of candles. He’d smiled (barely), given a thank-you speech that was short and gruff but genuine, and then dipped out the first moment he could without looking like a total ass. Bakugou knew exactly where he wanted to be.

Home.

You were waiting for him there.

Because you are his home.

He inhaled and instantly recognized the scent of soy, garlic, and ginger—it hit like a nostalgic punch straight to his gut. Home cooking. His home. You.

You peeked your head out from the kitchen and grinned. “Took you long enough, birthday boy.”

He let out a long breath, shoulders dropping, mouth tugging into a real smile as he kicked off his boots and unzipped his jacket, haphazardly draping it on the coat rack. “You been cooking this whole time?” he asked, padding toward the kitchen, hands already aching to hug you.

“I had to start late since someone had a fancy party,” you teased, arching a brow.

He caught your waist and pulled you in, burying his face into your shoulder. You were warm. Always warm. Always his to come home to. “Smelled it from the driveway. Thought I was gonna cry.”

You laughed, carding your fingers through his hair. It’s soft. It’s real. It’s what Bakugou, for the longest time of his life, thought he didn’t deserve.

“Well don’t cry. You’ll ruin your grumpy old man image.”

“You keep sayin’ old like I’m ancient,” he grumbled, voice muffled against you.

“You are! Twenty-three? That’s basically the beginning of the end.”

Bakugou snorted, lifting his head just enough to kiss your cheek. “Then I guess you better start takin’ care of me, huh?” he murmured, giving you another kiss on the cheek—and he’s tempted to bite into those round cheeks of yours, but he holds back; maybe later, he thinks. “Gonna live up to your promise?”

“I already do,” you said, smug.

Dinner was spread out in neat portions on your little dining table—fried karaage, miso soup, tamagoyaki, mapo tofu (yes, you finally lived up to surpassing Fuyumi’s recipe), Japanese curry, and a bowl of white rice shaped into a neat little mountain with a pickled plum on top. Comfort food. His favorites.

You even laid out a folded napkin at his seat and put a can of his favorite cold tea beside it.

But it was the bento cake in the center that made him pause. It was small—round and modest, clearly homemade. The white frosting was a little uneven, and there were three stubby candles jammed into the top in a crooked triangle. The frosting on top attempted an explosion shape but looked more like a flower in bloom. He loved it.

“You made that?” he asked, lowering into the seat and staring at it like it was some rare artifact.

“Baked and frosted. Don’t look too close, or you’ll see my fingerprints in it,” you said, sitting across from him. “And before you ask—no, I didn’t buy it from some store. I wanted to make it for you. Even if it’s ugly.”

“It’s not ugly.”

“Liars go to hell.”

He huffs. “Well, I think it’s fuckin’ adorable.”

You two ate slowly. Bakugou didn’t scarf it down like he did in the breakroom or during hero meetings. He savored each bite as you two shared a warm conversation over dinner. You told him how a kid at daycare tried to make you a birthday card to give to him but ended up scribbling dinosaurs fighting a volcano instead. You showed him a crayon drawing folded in your bag. It said, “Happpy Brithdai KATSOOKY.”

He laughed so hard he snorted.

After dinner, you two sat at the table for a while, talking about nothing, hands brushing occasionally, until you leaned forward and lit the candles. When you’re close like this, Bakugou could clearly remember every feature on your face—it’s something he wants to commit to memory every night.

“Make a wish.”

“Hm,” he hummed in thought.

“Make a wish quickly before the fire alarm sets off, dummy,” you smiled, joking.

He looked at you through the candlelight—lips slightly parted, eyes soft and loving. Yeah, he wants your face engraved in the deepest corners of his brain.

Bakugou made a wish. Then blew them out.

“What’d you wish for?” you asked.

He got up, walked around the table, and pulled you to your feet. “You.”

“You already have me,” you tilted your head to the side.

“Then I wished for more of you,” he replied, pressing your foreheads together.

“You’re sappy when you’re full,” you murmured, brushing your thumb across his jaw.

“I’m sappy when you bake me cake and feed me curry.”

You fed each other bites of the bento cake, poking fun at how sweet it was, until he dabbed a bit of icing on your nose. You retaliated by smearing it across his cheek. It turned into a mini war. Hands, faces, even his shirt took frosting damage. He scooped some off his collar and flicked it at you.

“I surrender! Oh my god, we’re a mess.”

“We can always take a shower later,” he says.

...

“Is that a suggestion or a promise?”

“You’re fuckin’ shameless,” he taunted, though showering together after isn’t that far off from what he was thinking.

“Uh huh. And who’s now old?”

“Still not me,” he said, wiping his face clean with a napkin. “And even if I was—if I hit fifty and go bald and need reading glasses and fall asleep at 9PM—if you’re still here with me, I’ll be fine.”

You paused.

“Yeah?”

He nodded.

“Even if I go gray first?” you asked.

“I’ll dye it with you.”

“What if I need a cane?”

“I’ll get one with spikes, and we’ll match.”

You laughed so hard you almost fell onto him. And when you looked up again, your eyes were glassy with affection.

“Happy birthday, Katsuki.”

He cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your skin with care he rarely showed anyone else.

“Best one yet.”

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[booksinmythorax]

Some tips from a librarian for today and the future:

Go to the library. Get a card. Borrow things. Buying books is neat, but the books the fascists want to ban are still there, on the shelf, at your local library, and if they aren't, you can request them. While book bans can happen and are happening in public libraries, the vast majority of "successful" challenges are happening in school libraries. You can still get books from your public library, and getting the books from the library tells your library they should keep them on the shelf. Borrowing anything, walking in the door, and/or attending programs all help get your library more funding. Fighting censorship in this way is effective and costs you $0.

Pay attention to local government. Read your local newspaper, or the local-est paper you can find. (You wanna know who can probably help you read your local paper for free? Your local library.) Look up your representatives in your state and local governments, not just federal. Read their biographies online. Find out what they stand for.

When something divisive is happening in your local community (a book ban, a school board ruling on bathrooms or sports, a change in curriculum), show up. No, literally. Show up to the school board meeting, the library board meeting, the county commission meeting. If you can't show up, make a phone call. If you can't make a phone call, write an email. Your voice has the most effect on the local and state level.

Now, counterintuitively, is a really good time to get to know your neighbors. Do not self isolate out of suspicion. We are stronger together. If you need suggestions for ways to get to know those neighbors, your local library probably has groups you can join, or will start them if you ask nicely and promise to show up. Hand to the gods, a once-monthly book club or gardening club or crochet circle might be your difference between total despair and feeling maybe pretty okay.

Only talk about your personal identities and experiences if you think you will be physically safe doing so. Consider limiting your social media posting. Buy a paper diary. Talk to people in person or via secure direct message if you really want to grow relationships and make an impact. Educating others is great and important. It's also most effective when you have an existing personal relationship with the person involved in the conversation with you. Consider starting new accounts without your face or name if you choose to continue using social media.

Avoid talking about others' personal identities and experiences, particularly without their consent. Your friends, family members, children, and partners are not tools you should use to win an argument. Point to the lives of writers, activists, educators, and artists who are out if you need an illustrative example in a teaching moment with someone you know. Others' religious beliefs, immigration statuses, queer identities, and pregnancy statuses are nobody's fucking business but their own, unless they choose to tell others for their own reasons.

[honeyslibrary]

Rookie Card | Jack Hughes

Pairing; Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Fluff, established relationship, little to no knowledge of Costco (I've never been lol), edited once, that's it I think!

Summary; Jack finds out that reader keeps a certain card in her wallet

Word Count; 3.1k

Authors Note: I feel like if this happened IRL he'd be such a little shit about it and would not stop teasing 😭 Also I don't have a Costco membership idk what they sell there and I did not look it up to be accurate 🥴 -Honey

You knew this Costco trip was a mistake the moment Jack grabbed the cart.

"I'm driving," he'd announced with that lopsided grin that still made your stomach flutter after eight months together. That grin had gotten you into this relationship in the first place. The same one he'd flashed at you across the bar the night you met, when your friend had elbowed you and whispered, "Holy shit, that's Jack Hughes," and you'd pretended not to know exactly who he was.

Now that same grin was steering an overloaded shopping cart through the warehouse chaos of Costco on a Sunday afternoon, which felt considerably less charming.

"Slow down," you call out as he narrowly avoids clipping an elderly woman examining a stack of discounted bestsellers. "This isn't the ice, Hughes."

Jack shoots you a look over his shoulder. "I'm being careful! Besides, we need to beat the sample rush. Those little pizza bagel things go fast."

You roll your eyes but can't help cracking a smile. For a professional hockey player who regularly gets body-checked into boards, Jack has an almost childlike enthusiasm for the free samples at Costco. It's endearing, even if his cart navigation skills leave much to be desired.

Two hours later, the cart is piled dangerously high with everything from the mundane essentials you actually came for (paper towels, coffee beans, that specific brand of Greek yogurt Jack insists is the only acceptable post-workout snack) to the impulse purchases that somehow found their way in when you weren't looking (a 2.5lb bag of dried mango slices, a folding camp chair, and what appears to be an industrial-sized container of protein powder).

"Do we really need all this?" you ask, eyeing the mountain of products as you approach the checkout area.

Jack looks genuinely confused. "Which part don't we need?"

"I don't know, maybe the trashcan sized candle?"

"You said your apartment always smells like hockey gear!"

"I meant you should do laundry more often, not turn the place into a Yankee Candle outlet."

He shrugs, unrepentant. "Trust me, I'm doing us both a favor."

As you approach the front of the store, Jack steers the cart toward the self-checkout area.

"The regular lines aren't that long." you comment, glancing at the regular checkout lanes where actual employees could help with the small mountain of purchases you've accumulated.

Jack scoffs. "Self-checkout is way faster. Plus, I'm basically a professional at scanning."

"Since when?"

"I did a grocery store commercial last season, remember? Spent like three hours scanning the same box of cereal from different angles."

You bite back a smile. "I'm pretty sure that doesn't translate to actual scanning skills."

"I forgot you were the expert," he rolls his eyes, smiling as he maneuvers the cart into the self-checkout lane.

The Costco self-checkout is already chaos. The cart is overloaded, the scanner next to yours keeps yelling "place item in the bagging area," and Jack is too busy pretending the jumbo box of Goldfish is a dumbbell to be remotely helpful.

"Four pounds of pure cracker power," he announces, curling the box in perfect form. "Could be a new workout trend. Snackercise."

An exasperated mother with twin toddlers shoots him a look that's half annoyance, half recognition. You've gotten used to the double takes, the whispers, the occasional autograph requests. Jack handles them with ease, always friendly, always gracious, never making it weird. It's one of the things you admire about him, even if you're still adjusting to dating someone whose face is plastered around the city.

Today, thankfully, the mother is too focused on keeping her children from dismantling the candy display to approach. Jack sets down the Goldfish box with a mock grunt of exertion and turns his attention back to you.

"Want me to scan stuff?" he offers, reaching for the box of protein bars you're holding.

"I've got it," you say quickly, having witnessed his "scanning skills" on previous shopping trips. The last time you let him take over at Target, you'd ended up with three accidental duplicates and one item that never made it into the system at all.

You're juggling a case of sparkling water and trying to scan your membership barcode from the app when you groan.

"It's not loading," you mutter, tapping frantically at your phone screen where the Costco app has frozen on a loading icon. "Can you just get my wallet? It's in the pink one, middle pocket of my bag."

Jack perks up like you just asked him to defuse a bomb. "On it," he says, already elbow deep in your tote. "Why do you carry so much stuff in here? Are you secretly a suburban mom?"

"Just grab the wallet," you sigh, shifting the sparkling water to your other arm. The self-checkout machine beeps impatiently, its screen flashing a demand for your membership ID.

"I'm exploring uncharted territory here," Jack narrates, rummaging dramatically. "I may need supplies. Possibly a headlamp."

The employee monitoring the area, a tall guy appearing about your age, wearing a faded Yankees cap, glances over with amusement. You feel a flash of self-consciousness, aware of how you and Jack must look: bickering over a shopping cart like you've been married for decades rather than dating for months. It's comfortable, though. That's what surprised you most about being with Jack, how quickly the comfort came, how easily you fell into each other's rhythms.

Jack pulls out a crushed receipt, a Tide pen, and a tampon like he's on Let's Make a Deal. "Is this a snack bar? Why do you have a Canadian penny in here? What year even is this?"

"Jack." Your patience is wearing thin. The case of water is getting heavier by the second, and the lady behind you is starting to make pointed throat-clearing noises.

"Okay, okay," he says, finally fishing out your wallet and flipping it open. "Looking for the ol' Costco membership—" He hands you the card, "wait a sec."

You pause mid-scan, turning slowly at the change in his tone. "What?"

He's gone still. Smirking.

"No way." His voice cracks slightly as he pulls out a small, glossy rectangle. "Is this? Babe, is this my rookie card?"

Your stomach drops. "Oh my God, Jack. Give me that."

The blood rushes to your face so quickly you feel light-headed. Of all the things he could have found: the ancient gum wrapper you keep forgetting to throw away, the fortune cookie paper with the embarrassingly accurate prediction about meeting a handsome stranger, even the crumpled CVS receipt from when you panic bought three different pregnancy tests after a condom mishap last month (all negative, thankfully), he had to find THAT.

"You carry this around?" he laughs, holding it up like he's found hidden treasure. "In your wallet. Next to your license. And your credit card. I’m literally next to your driver’s license.”

You lunge for it, nearly dropping the sparkling water. "I forgot it was even in there!"

It's a lie and you both know it. The card is in pristine condition, carefully tucked into one of the clear plastic sleeves in your wallet where most people would keep photos of loved ones or emergency contact information. You'd bought it four years ago, back when Jack was just starting to make headlines, back when you would never have dreamed you'd one day be sharing takeout on his couch while he complained about his coach's defensive strategy.

He dodges you like a child on a sugar high, rookie card still in hand. "You've been walking around with literal 18-year-old me in your purse this whole time?" He holds it toward you, pointing at his face. "Look at this haircut! I look like I was just let out of a Boy Scout meeting."

"Stop talking," you hiss, your face fully on fire as the self-checkout voice robotically reminds you to please place item in the bagging area.

The employee at the front is now openly watching your exchange, a slow smile of recognition spreading across his face as he realizes exactly who Jack is, and exactly which card Jack is holding. Great. Just what you need: a witness to your humiliation.

"Oh, this is rich," Jack says, shaking his head. "You, giving me crap about being cocky, but meanwhile? You've got a personal Jack Hughes shrine in your wallet."

You glare at him, wishing desperately for a sinkhole to open beneath your feet. "Do you want me to put that card in the trash right now?"

He snorts, finally slipping it back into its slot with fake reverence. "Absolutely not. That thing's probably worth, like, eight bucks."

"Try a couple hundred," the employee chimes in helpfully, then immediately holds up his hands in surrender when you shoot him a death glare. "Sorry. Just saying."

"See?" Jack grins. "You're carrying around, what, Nathaniel's monthly rent in your wallet? That's dedication." He gestures to the Rangers fan, who apparently is named Nathaniel and who apparently needs to mind his own business.

You snatch the wallet out of Jack's hands, cheeks still burning, and you return to scanning items with aggressive efficiency.

"So," Jack says, leaning against the bagging area with his arms crossed, watching you work with infuriating amusement. "When exactly were you planning to tell me you were a fan?"

"I wasn't hiding it," you mutter, scanning a jar of almond butter with unnecessary force. "I told you I watched hockey."

"Yeah, but you never mentioned having a collection of hockey cards. Of me, specifically."

"It's not a collection. It's one card."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "Mm-hmm. And are there others at home? Like, do you have a special album or something? Holy shit, do you have posters?"

"No," you say, a beat too quickly.

The truth, which you would rather die than admit right now, is that you do own exactly one poster. It's from a sports magazine spread three years ago, and it's been carefully rolled up and stashed in the back of your closet since your third date with Jack, when things started to feel serious enough that you realized having his face on your wall would be deeply weird.

"You hesitated," Jack says triumphantly. "There are posters."

"There are no posters," you insist, though your traitorous complexion is probably giving you away. You've always been a terrible liar, a fact Jack discovered during your first attempt at playing poker together, when he cleaned you out of chocolate-covered almonds (your chosen betting currency) within twenty minutes.

"You know," he says, taking pity on you and beginning to bag some of the scanned items, "it's kind of cute."

"It's embarrassing," you correct him, focusing intently on scanning a pack of chicken breasts.

"Why? You're a hockey fan who happened to start dating a hockey player. That's not weird."

"It's weird if I was specifically a fan of you before we met."

"Were you?" he asks, and there's a note of genuine curiosity beneath the teasing now.

You sigh, pausing your scanning marathon. "I watched your games sometimes. I thought you were good." You look up at him, considering how much to reveal. "I liked how you played, like you were actually having fun, not just doing a job. It was... I don't know. It made the game more exciting."

Jack's expression softens, the teasing glint fading into something warmer. "That's... actually really nice."

"Don't let it go to your head," you warn, but you're smiling despite yourself.

"Too late," he says, tapping his temple. "Already filed under 'Evidence My Girlfriend Thinks I'm Amazing.'"

The self-checkout machine beeps demandingly, reminding you that you've paused too long between scans. You return to the task at hand, but the tension has dissipated, replaced by a comfortable rhythm as Jack bags while you scan.

"You know," he says after a moment, carefully arranging a tub of laundry detergent next to the candles, "I have some of your work saved on my phone."

You look up, surprised. "What?"

"Those illustrations you did for that children's book about the penguin? I downloaded them. They're in a special album." He shrugs like it's no big deal, but there's a hint of vulnerability in the admission. "I show them to the guys sometimes. Demko's kid loves the one with the penguin on the skateboard."

"You... show my work to your teammates?" The thought of Jack's hockey buddies, men whose names appear on jerseys and in ESPN headlines, looking at your penguin drawings is surreal.

"Yeah. I'm a fan." He says it simply, without the teasing edge from before.

You don't know what to say to that, so you just keep scanning, but something warm unfurls in your chest. It's been like this since the beginning, moments of revelation that catch you off guard. Reminders that beneath the public persona and the franchise player status, Jack is just... Jack. A guy who gets excited about Costco samples and saves your artwork on his phone.

Jack leans in, way too pleased with himself, as you scan the last few items. "I'm starting to think you were a fan before you were my girlfriend."

"I hate you," you say, but there's no heat in it.

"No you don't."

You glance at him. He's grinning like an idiot, casually bagging your industrial-size trail mix like this isn't the most embarrassing moment of your life.

"Okay, maybe I don't," you mutter, swiping your credit card.

He bumps your shoulder. "It's okay, babe. I'd carry your rookie card around too. If you had one."

"What would a children's book illustrator's rookie card even look like?" you wonder, punching in your PIN.

"First professional doodle," Jack says thoughtfully. "Maybe that red panda you showed me, the one you drew for your niece's birthday card."

"That was awful. I gave him six toes."

"It had character," Jack insists. "Very avant-garde."

You roll your eyes so hard it's a miracle they stay in your head. "Let's go before you start reciting your career stats to the family behind us."

"Oh, I would never—" He pauses, then turns to the man waiting in line. "Did you know she keeps my rookie card in her wallet?"

"JACK."

He laughs, loud and unrestrained, as you grab his arm and drag him away from the checkout area, your face flaming all over again.

"You're the worst," you inform him as you navigate toward the exit, receipt clutched in your hand.

"And yet, you keep my rookie card with you at all times," he counters, skillfully steering the cart around a display of seasonal patio furniture. "Makes a guy wonder what else you might be hiding."

"My deep regret about agreeing to date you?"

"Nah, that's written all over your face." He grins. "I'm thinking more like, do you have a scrapbook? Did you write my name with hearts around it in your diary? Ooh, did you have one of those fathead wall decals?"

You stop walking, fixing him with your most serious expression. "Jack. If you ever want me to sleep over at your place again, you will drop this immediately."

He considers this for a moment, then mimes zipping his lips. "Dropped."

"Thank you."

You resume walking, pushing through the exit doors into the parking lot. The late afternoon sun hits your face, warm against the crisp autumn air. Jack moves ahead to guide the cart, his shoulders relaxed under his faded blue henley, hair slightly mussed from where he ran his hands through it while deliberating between two different coffee brands for twenty minutes.

"I forgot to ask," he says as you reach the car, "are you coming to the game on Thursday?"

"I have that deadline for the fox book illustrations," you remind him, helping to load bags into the trunk of his SUV. "But I could come to Saturday's game maybe?"

Jack nods, lifting the case of water with ease. "Saturday works. Oh, don't forget, there's that charity thing on Sunday."

"Gala thingy?"

"Yeah." He slams the trunk closed. "Bring your wallet though."

You narrow your eyes, pausing with the shopping cart halfway to the return corral. "Why?"

"In case anyone asks for your autograph," he says with exaggerated seriousness. "After, you can show them my rookie card, tell them you knew me when."

You groan, abandoning the cart to march back to him. "I swear to God, Hughes—"

But before you can finish your threat, he catches you around the waist, pulling you against him. "You're cute when you're mortified," he murmurs, and then he's kissing you, right there in the Costco parking lot, with the orange glow of sunset painting everything gold.

When he pulls back, you keep your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm. "I'm never taking you shopping again," you inform him.

"Yes you are," he says confidently. "You need someone to reach the top shelves."

"I can bring a stepladder."

"A stepladder won't tell you interesting facts about protein powder or help you pick out deli meat."

"Those are selling points?"

He kisses you again, quickly this time. "Admit it. Shopping with me is an adventure."

"A nightmare," you correct him, but you're smiling. "A recurring nightmare where I'm trapped in Costco forever with a hockey player who thinks jumbo sized everything is a personality trait."

Jack laughs, releasing you to retrieve the abandoned shopping cart. "Come on, nightmare's over for today. Let's go home and figure out where we're going to put that giant candle in your apartment."

"Your apartment," you counter. "You bought it, you store it."

"Fine, but you have to remind me to burn it. And not burn the apartment down."

You watch him return the cart, the easy grace in his movements, the way he nods politely to an older couple walking past. When he returns, he slides into the driver's seat beside you, immediately reaching for your hand across the console.

"So," he says as he starts the engine, "should I be concerned about any other professional athletes you might have rookie cards of? Am I competing with, like, the entire NHL draft class of 2019?"

You squeeze his hand, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "And here I thought you'd dropped it."

"I'm just saying, I should know if I'm in an open relationship with you and a wallet full of hockey cards."

"Just drive, Hughes."

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[twicecorner]

Teacher's Assistant - Professor Im Nayeon

Twice Nayeon x Male Reader

3,422 words; smut

A/N: i’m back! long time no see lol life has been crazy but finally found a time to write. I had this in the drafts.. the long awaited next part of Teacher’s Assistant! hope u guys enjoy ;) lmk how you like it given that i haven’t written in a min LOL

*Ding ding ding* The alarm set on the stage buzzes as everyone's attention moves to it. Twelve-noon sharp. The assistants in the room spring to their feet and call out for the next group of participants. 

“Profesor Im Nayeon’s 12 o’clock please come forward!” One yells.

You hastily move from where you were and get through the small crowd to the assistant. You were quite literally shaking in your boots. You didn’t know what to wear, so you had on some business casual attire. Brown dress shoes, navy trousers, and a white button-up. You gulped down the last of your water from the small paper cup and crushed it before throwing it into the recycling bin on your way out.

“Please follow me.” The assistant said to you. It felt surreal, this didn’t have the same vibe as any other job or school interviews you’ve ever done before, you didn’t know what to expect. You didn’t even see the other students who were in the interviews before you left. The assistant walks you down the hallway and up the elevator to the 9th floor. You notice that in order to have access to that floor, a card key was used. He pressed his card against the reader and as it flashed green, he pressed the button. The button was even in the shape of a heart to emphasize that it was the Love Lab floor. 

He leads you through the floor, a pinkish-red hue of LED strips dimly lights the hallways. You see some questionable things in some of the lab windows and think to ask, but keep it to yourself as you can feel the tension rising. Finally, you get to her office. Plastered on the door in big letters it reads, “PROFESSOR IM NAYEON - Love Lab no. 1” The assistant knocks on the door and waits for a response. He tells you to wait outside before entering. He goes in and exchanges a few words with Prof. Im before returning to the hallway and letting you in. “Good luck. She’s a tough one” He whispers to you.

You walk in to see that the room is also dimly lit with similar led lights. Her office is tidy and she’s sitting behind her desk. There’s a couch and a few bookshelves lining the walls. “Take a seat.” She scans over the paper in front of her. “Participant 021. We don’t use names here quite yet during this phase in order to keep a sense of… anonymity if you will.” You nod in response as you take a seat on the couch. “Since I’m your first interview, I’ll explain to you how this all goes down. Prepare yourself. If at any point you would like to stop, say the word ‘candy’. This will be for you to use in all of the interviews. If you choose to stop, your application will be terminated immediately and you will still be sworn to secrecy no matter what. These interviews are much different than any other type out there. As you know, this is the Love Lab. Many different things consist within the word Love, these interviews, or tests will show if you are able to fulfill those things, those needs. Does that make sense?” She squints her eyes and lowers her glasses to her bridge while looking at you. You nod and you get the feeling you know what she means.

She continues, “Each professor is known for a different study on Love, meaning to say different tasks and such that you and the other participants will need to pass in order to work for us. I see you’ve signed your consent form and you have passed the needed medical, fitness, and mental wellness exams. Your application was one of the only standouts we saw this year. Congratulations. We have high hopes for you number 021.” You feel a great sense of relief and proudness as you look down and give yourself a small smile. “Right, let’s not waste any time. Let’s begin.” You nod once again and watch as she gets up from her seat. You notice her legs are a little shaky when she stands. You wonder what happened in this room before you got there. She slides a bookshelf to the side revealing a small hidden room. It’s lined floor-to-ceiling with red plush. In the middle is a single chair. Along the walls, there are shelves and hooks, something straight out of 50 Shades of Grey, toys, and accessories galore, things you didn’t know the use of. In the middle of the room was a red bed in the shape of a heart with the headboard lining the top curved parts of the heart. Damn, they really keep a grip on the whole love thing. You thought to yourself.

Prof. Im takes a seat on the edge of the bed. You walk in and some sort of spark of bravery overcomes you for a moment. “What would you like me to do, Professor Im?” You ask. 

“I want you to please me. Ruin me. Break me. You have 3 hours to do so. The last participant wasn’t so lucky, he barely made it through half of the time before I told him to get out of my sight. But you, I already like the look of you.” She scans you up and down before beginning to unbutton her shirt. 

“I can use anything in here?” You ask looking around the room, starting to walk along the walls and examine things more closely. 

“Yes, providing you know how to use it. I’m not asking you to kill me, I’m not an easy woman to please, you see. And I like things rough.” She winks and slightly nods towards the extensive wall of flogs, whips, paddles, and such. To be honest, you’ve only dabbled with BDSM mildly in your life, a few spanks here and there, maybe some tying up of the hands, but nothing like this. As your mind begins to drift into thinking of all of the possibilities, Prof. Im snaps you out of your haze. She stands up, now topless, and gestures for you to join her on the bed. You join her, sitting on the edge of the bed, and take your shirt off as well. She seems to admire you and your body for a moment before climbing on top of you.

She looks you in the eyes, hers are already filled with lust. Prof. Im crashes her lips onto yours. A steamy make-out session ensues, Quickly, your hands find themselves exploring her back and waist. Her hands knot up in your hair and you pull her harder against you, she gets the hint and starts grinding into you. It doesn’t take long for a large bulge to form in your pants. Your tongues fight for dominance and you moan at the skin-to-skin contact when your chests touch.

Remembering that this is still an interview and that you need to pass, you take your time, also noting the 3-hour time limit. You need to be able to keep the heat up for 3 hours, you can’t bore her or finish too soon. Somewhat meticulously, you plan out the next 3 hours, trying to focus on kissing her while noting your next moves. Your hands roam up and down her back before sliding your hand to the base of where her hairline meets the back of her neck, you yank her head back by her hair and move down to kiss and lick along the side of her neck. You earn a gasp and some light moans from Prof. Im. 

“Mmm yes… remember… no marks” she reminds you and you nibble and kiss her neck.

Feeling the pressure build in your crotch, you hook your hands around her ass and under her thighs and quickly lift her up before spinning and tossing her lightly onto the bed. She gasps at your strength and confidence. “Eager are we? Already starting off better than the last participant” Prof Im smirks and bites her finger. “Now what’re you going to do to me?”

You kneel on the bed in front of her and hastily take off your belt. A move you admit you’ve done before, you grab her hands as she sits up and use the belt as makeshift handcuffs. “I’ll use this for now. I don’t want to waste my time going to grab the cuffs” You say nodding towards a far wall. “Mmm I like this” She purrs. As you finish quickly tying her up you hold her two hands above her head while your other hand undoes the button and zipper of your trousers before pulling out your hard length.

“Oh fuck.. So big..” Prof Im moans seeing your hard cock in front of her face, she licks her lips.

“Take it.” You demand, holding your cock, you bring it to her mouth, still holding her hands above her head, you take them and hold them against your chest. She understands, clawing her fingers into your chest as her head moves to the tip of your length. She parts her lips and you push in fully. She said she likes it rough anyways. Her eyes widen in shock and you feel immense pleasure as her throat takes your length down its tight wet walls. After staying still for a moment, you start to pull out and begin thrusting in and out of her mouth. She moans as you fuck her mouth, spit starting to drip down the corners of her lips. You pull out your cock fully as she sticks her tongue out and circles your tip with it. “Good isn’t it?” You ask her.

“Mhm.. I’m excited for the next few hours number 021.” She looks up at you.

For the first hour the two of you fuck like animals, you indulge yourself first eating her out and tasting her sweet juices and fucking in 3 or 4 different positions on the bed. The first stage of your plan was going smoothly. You had yet to use the various toys on the wall, but you glance at the clock every now and then to gauge your time. You’d plan to use those during the last 2 hours. The second hour for rough playtime, then treating the last as the final push to edge both of you until max capacity. You wanted to drive her crazy. Now understanding how the rest of these trials were going to go, you had to work up your stamina. In 3 hours you could probably finish twice, but your goal was to make her finish as much as you could, at least once per hour.

As the first hour was nearing its end, you decided to grab a toy. As Prof. Im, now untied, hair disheveled and body sweaty, lays on the bed recovering from your fierce pounding you get up and look at the wall of dildos. You choose one similar to your size and walk back to her. “Finally.. As much as I loved your cock pounding me I was wondering when you’d start making use of the stuff in here.” She says breathing heavily. “Oh trust me, I’m just getting started.” you respond. 

You spread her legs and make your way between them. You bring the dildo to her mouth, “Suck it.” she does so making eye contact with you as she takes the toy down her throat before spitting on her hand and stroking the toy. You smile and take it down between her leg, moving it between her wet lower lips. She moans at the sight. You shove it into her and start pumping it before bringing your head down to eat her out at the same time. “Oh FUCK!” she moans, having 2 of the most pleasurable feelings at once. “Mmm fuck that feels so good” 

Almost on instinct, she grabs her legs and holds them up and apart for you, wanting more. You bring your other hand up and grab onto her chest, playing with her nipple and massaging her tit. You simultaneously bring her pleasure and she starts getting close to the edge. “D-don’t stop… fuck yes oh my god” she moans, her hips now shaking and moving on their own accord to get more. Your spit mixed with her own juices make the toy easy to fuck her with and your mouth moves furiously on her clit. You can feel her start to tighten and push the toy, signalling her orgasm. You ramp it up thrusting harder and faster, sucking more on her clit and clawing at her tits. “I-I’m gonna c-cum!!” She yells out. You take your mouth off her for a moment, “Cum for me Professor Im… Cum all over me” One of her hands goes to grip your hair and push you back to her clit and holds you there before she yells out and her body spasms, her hole pushes the toy out and you continue to lick and suck her pussy as her juices flow. 

You pull away once she releases your head. “How was that?” You ask smirking at your work, the sheets now even wetter, her chest heaving for air and your cock leaking precum. “Holy shit…” She says between breaths, “I might just already pass you.” You smile as you hear that. “We didn’t even get to use all these fun toys” You tease back, “And I haven’t even finished yet” You say looking down your cock, now pulsing with need to finish. “Usually I’m not this worn out so fast, but something about you…” She says looking at you up and down. “I’ll give you the next 30 minutes to make us both finish. If you do so, you pass.” she smirks.

“Challenge accepted.” You say catching your breath and wiping the sweat from your brow. “Have you done anal before Prof Im?” You ask shyly, not sure if it’s appropriate to ask. “Mmm.. once, but it took me a little bit to like it… I haven’t tried since… of course the last time I did it, he wasn’t as good as you.” You knew the sure fire way to make you both finish was her ass. The pristine tight starfish coupled with her dripping pussy.

You flip her onto her stomach and turn her around, so she’s facing the mirror on the opposite wall. You bring her up onto all fours before bending down to spread her cheeks and expose her tightest hole. You lick from her clit up to her starfish and dip your tongue in, she moans at the contact and she starts to loosen up. You dip from her ass into her pussy and back, stimulating both holes. You pull back and slide your index finger into her ass to allow her to adjust and she easily takes it in. You give her a few pumps before going back to licking and wetting it. You go back and forth like this for a few minutes until she's prepped. To get your length wet, you push it into her pussy and give her a few good strokes, she moans with every pass and clenches her walls onto it. “God, your cock feels so good in my pussy.” She moans. “Just wait until it fills your ass” You moan in return.

You do a few more thrusts into her pussy before your length is coated in her juices. You spit onto her tight hole one more time before you press your tip against it, “You ready? Let me know if you want me to stop” You tell her before you slowly ease your way in. “OH! Fuck oh my god yes.. Oh fuck its so full…” she moans out your length only half way in. You push more till your cock is sheathed in her ass, the whole process filled the room with a cacophony of her moans and yelps of pleasure at being completely filled. “It’s so fucking tight… it feels so good Professor Im” 

‘“Oh for fucks sake.. Fuck me already and call me Nayeon” she demands. Your face fills with shock at this. But you can’t process it till later, right now you have a job to do. You start to thrust into her ass slowly, feeling her walls squeeze against your length already bringing you closer to the edge. You hold back and start to thrust faster, gripping into her hips. “Fuck Nayeon your ass feels so fucking good…” You moan, thrusting harder and faster into her, your balls slapping against her still wet pussy. Suddenly an idea pops into your head. You reach for the dildo on the bed next to you, “Should we try something new Nayeon?” You ask. “Mmm shit I don’t care I just need you to fuck me” She desperately says looking back at you through the mirror. You pull out of her ass and take the toy and slip it into her pussy, you hold it there with your hand and push your cock back into her ass. “OH FUCK” She yells out, now feeling truly filled. The pressure from the toy makes her ass even tighter and you moan out too.

You resume fucking her ass, now your balls slapping the base of the toy allowing it to slip in and out of her pussy at the same pace as you. “Oh- oh my god fuck… oh shit” Nayeon’s a mess in ecstacy. She’s never felt so much pleasure and so full before. You slap her ass then grab onto the back of her head and bring it up to look at the two of you in the mirror. “Cum with me Nayeon. Squirt all over me while I cum in your ass” You growl. She watches as you fuck her harder, her pussy now even wetter and pulsing harder squeezes the toy out and you bring a hand down to furiously rub at her clit. She squeezes her ass even harder on your cock. “I-I’m gonna cum Nayeon.. Fuck I’m gonna fill your ass…” You moan loudly, fucking her even harder and faster, your length moving in and out of her gripping hole. 

“I-im cumming again!!” Nayeon moans, she falls forward as her body convulses in orgasmic pleasure and she squirts all over your balls and thighs, as her body tightens like an anaconda around your length until you reach your limit. You explode ropes of hot semen into her deepest parts, you grunt as you shallowly thrust into her, painting her walls. You both come down from your extreme orgasms and you pull out, you watch as she pushes your cum from her ass, you bring a finger to it and run it from her ass to her pussy, smearing your cum all over holes and clit.

“Oh my god..” Nayeon collapses onto the bed and you lay down next to her, your warm sweaty bodies tangled together. “You… pass” She says before her eyes close. You hold her in your arms as you too feel your eyes get heavier. You wake up to a jolt a bit later to Nayeon stirring awake, “Good morning” You say jokingly. “Mmm I haven’t passed out like that from a session in a long time” She says. “I think you’ll do just fine throughout these trials. I’ll be sure to let the other professors know.”

“Thank you.” you say getting up and grabbing a bottle of water while starting to get dressed. “So what next?” You ask as she does the same. “I see you have Professor Minatozaki next… You’ll have the session with her at 7pm so you have some time to clean up and rest before that. I suggest you rest up for her, I don’t think she’ll let up as easy as I did for you. Come back around 6:45 to check in. If you get past her, you’ll have Professor Myoi tomorrow and Professor Park the day after. Good luck number 021. I sure hope you make it through. I would like to see you again” Nayeon smirks before she pulls you in for another kiss and grabs at your now clothed crotch.

You exit the room and an assistant brings you out, handing you a reminder slip to come back at 6:45 and stamps your card “passed” next to Professor Im’s name. Now that you know what these trials are, you head back to your room to freshen up and get ready for Professor Minatozaki Sana.

[starkeymeow]

plot ── after you undergo a procedure to erase rafe from your memory, rafe, devastated by the realization, decides to do the same, only to find himself fighting to hold onto the love you shared, proving that some connections can never truly be forgotten.

content ── another fucking mini series bc i cant stop, rafes perspective, memory loss, emotional distress & heartbreak obvi, dysfunctional relationships, existential themes

authors note ── sorry guys ive been so busy w my new life that i have NOT touched tumblr in a good while. plus this semester is more demanding in terms of my workload ugh so im never writing anym its so lame

main masterlist | next

rafe stares at the card, his fingers gripping the edges so tightly the paper starts to bend. his breath is slow, shallow, like his body is forgetting how to function properly. the words blur together, but it doesn’t matter. he’s already memorized them.

he lifts his gaze to his father. ward stands stiff, arms crossed, staring down at his shoes like he’s the one who’s been blindsided. like he’s the one who just had his entire world gutted out of him in a single fucking sentence.

there’s guilt in the way he exhales through his nose, in the way his jaw slides ever so slightly, but rafe doesn’t give him the chance to speak.

“this is real?” his voice comes out rough, barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loud will make it more true.

ward hesitates, then nods.

rafe lets out a short, breathless laugh, his chest rising sharply before sinking under the weight of it all. he shakes his head, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he looks down at the card again, like maybe this time the words will rearrange themselves into something less impossible.

“so, what?” he scoffs, wetness pricking at his eyes. “they just . . . deleted me? like a fucking file on a computer?”

ward sighs. long, slow, through his nose. he knew this would be hard to explain.

“how many?” rafe asks. how many memories are gone now?

his father doesn’t answer right away. his jaw shifts, gaze dropping to the floor like he doesn’t want to say it. or maybe he’s just trying to soften the blow of something that can’t be softened.

when he finally speaks, his voice is careful. deliberate. “all of ‘em, bud.”

rafe scoffs again, but it’s weaker this time, like his body is struggling to keep up with his disbelief. he smiles, but it’s the kind that only comes when someone is trying not to fall apart.

“no . . . no. she didn’t. she wouldn’t do that.” he shakes his head again, faster this time. “that’s not even a fucking thing— i mean, erasing someone from your mind? since when did we have the tech for that bullshit? that didn’t happen.”

he throws the card onto the table like it burns to hold it any longer. gets up so fast his chair scrapes loudly against the floor. his chest is rising and falling too quickly, hands threading behind his head as he paces across the kitchen, back and forth, back and forth, his fingers digging into his scalp.

ward doesn’t stop him. he just watches, his own grief settling deep in his expression. and maybe it’s not the same kind of grief. maybe it’s not the gut-wrenching, all-consuming, ‘i’ve lost the love of my life kind’, but it’s still there.

because he’s seen lucuna inc. before, out near the edge of the island, where no one really looks unless they’re desperate enough to. he’s seen it and he’s hoped no one he loves would ever consider walking through its doors.

but you did. a girl who once sat at his dinner table, who used to laugh with his family, who was supposed to be his daughter-in-law one day.

was rafe really that bad? bad enough to make you want to erase him?

rafe stops pacing so suddenly it’s like something clicks into place inside him. he turns, slipping out of the kitchen without another word. his father calls after him, but he doesn’t listen. his hands move on their own, grabbing his keys from the hook by the front door, pushing outside, stepping into the thick outer banks air like he’s coming up for air after drowning.

he doesn’t know where he’s going.

apparently, he can’t go to you.

but he’ll do something.

a/n: just the short little prologue so def let me know if ud like to be tagged for this one!

[woso-dreamzzz]

Miracle IV

Aitana Bonmatí x Teen!Reader

Summary: You're up late

You're up in the attic when Aitana gets home.

That usually isn't a problem.

It's where you usually retreat to after school. You come in, say good afternoon to Aitana if she's in, eat a snack and immediately go up into the attic.

You've become a bit more sullen now that your friends are busy.

Conejita has entered the work force now, working at some florist in town, a few hours away from the little house Aitana bought so you rarely see Marta and Caro's daughter during the week.

Skatt is studying at some top rated school in Norway, drowning herself in her studies of bugs while Ingrid and Mapi fight to get her to go outside and see the sun.

You're still in school though. In all advanced classes, of course, but still school aged and catching the bus to the fancy school that Aitana is paying an extortionate fee to send you to.

You've withdrawn a little now that it's just you and her, disappearing up into the attic to study your star charts and maps and wait long enough for the sun to dip in the sky so you can use the telescope you spent all of last year saving up to buy.

Aitana doesn't have a problem with that.

You're a certified genius and sometimes you need alone time.

What she has a problem with is you being stuck up in the attic when she gets home from an event at gone three in the morning.

The ladder creaks under her feet as she hauls herself up through the hole in the ceiling, head popping up to see you sitting at the desk, documents in hand with your telescope set up through the skylight.

"It's late."

You jolt, dropping the papers in your hand and covering them with your star maps.

You spin in your chair, clutching at your chest.

"Mama," You say," You scared me."

"You should be in bed," Aitana continues, coming to stand in front of you," You've got school tomorrow."

You look away from her with an eye roll.

"We both know I don't need much sleep for school. You always say I'm intelligent."

You've been told you're intelligent for most of your life, a clear superstar in academics since your first year of school and you could already read and write and do simple multiplication and division.

You'd been streamlined into the most academic of classes and if it wasn't for Aitana insisting that you stay with your year group, you'd already be away at university.

"You still need rest," Aitana reminds you," And to rest your brain."

She cards her fingers through the loose strands of hair framing your face.

You're her mirror image in every way, the same eyes and nose and hair.

Aitana wonders briefly if she was ever this aloof with her own parents at your age and if she owes them apologies for it.

"Go to sleep, estrella," She says," We can talk more tomorrow."

You huff, pulling out of her grip and turning back to your maps.

They cover all the walls in the attic, completed and signed at the bottom with your name.

Aitana looks down at the ones on your desk, the ones not yet completed or not yet perfect enough for you to display on the walls of your little sanctuary.

Something peaks out from under one of them and she frowns.

She's already pulled it out before you've even noticed.

"Where did you get this?"

Aitana's voice is stern, one that you're not all too familiar.

You freeze, eyes wide in alarm.

You reach for the documents. Aitana holds them away from you.

"Where did you get this?" She demands again and you scoff.

"In the safe. Under your bed."

"You broke into the safe?!"

You roll your eyes. "It's not the most secure of passwords. Our birthdays? Please, it was easy."

"Drop the attitude!" Aitana snaps," Why were you rummaging around in there?!"

You stand up from your desk.

Neither of you are overwhelmingly tall but even at sixteen, you meet her height so you're eye to eye.

"They're mine!" You say and Aitana laughs.

"I think you'll find they're mine," She says," You certainly didn't sign them."

"Well they're my adoption papers! I deserved to see what they say!"

Aitana sighs, rubbing her temples. "Then you come to me! You don't go snooping around in my bedroom."

You huff, finally breaking eye contact to stare out of the skylight. "As if you'd tell me anything." You shove past Aitana, barging her shoulder on your way to the ladder," You never want to talk about them."

"Well, forgive me for not wanting to talk about my dead friends."

"Forgive me for waiting to know about my dead parents."

Aitana holds your gaze for a moment.

You're already halfway down the ladder, staring back at her with identical eyes.

The wound is still raw even though it happened sixteen years ago. The loss of her friends still weighs heavy. Aitana doesn't even know if she could look at you if you held even one feature of your parents.

"Estrella-"

"I'm going to bed," You cut her off," We'll talk in the morning."

[noirscript]

filial son

Pairing: Yandere Boyfriend × Reader Description: You thought Iori’s love was safe—until you tried to leave and realized you were never free to begin with. Warnings: Yandere | Psychological Horror | Manipulation | Isolation | Coercion | Gaslighting | Power Imbalance | Stalking | Obsessive Behavior | Emotional Manipulation | Mild Threats | Intimidation | Implied Non-Con/Dub-Con | Unreliable Narrator Note: This one's been sitting in my drafts since last December. Was planning to release it before New Year but... hehe... anyway, didn’t remove my OG note. 🤣 ALSO! I'm not busy yet so, hello! Hahahahaha! ENJOY!

(note: happy new year, everyone! thanks for hanging around despite my inactivity most of the time. enjoy!)

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Iori Ishimoto was your boyfriend.

The perfect one, at first.

A man so impossibly kind, so utterly devoted, that it seemed like the universe had crafted him just for you. He was attentive in ways no one else had ever been, watching you with a quiet, unwavering focus that made you feel seen. Cherished. Safe.

At least, that’s what you had believed.

You used to think his devotion was something tender, something precious—how he memorized your coffee order after the first date, how he always pulled you closer on crowded sidewalks, how he texted good morning and good night without fail. He paid attention. To the little things, the fleeting moments. If you sighed after a long day, he already knew what to say to make you smile. If you shivered, his jacket was already around your shoulders before you could even register the cold.

At first, it had been sweet. Then, it became inescapable.

Three months into the relationship, the world around you began to shrink.

At first, it was just your friends cancelling on plans—apologies sent in rushed texts, one after the other, until it became a pattern too obvious to ignore. Then, it was Iori’s misfortunes, so conveniently timed. He would get injured, sick, called away for an emergency right when you were supposed to meet someone.

At first, you dismissed it as coincidence.

But coincidences don’t happen every time.

And so, you tested it.

You didn’t tell him about the next meetup.

Left your phone at home, used cash instead of your card, picked a small café off the beaten path—one he’d never taken you to, one you’d never mentioned before.

And for the first time in months, you felt free.

The café was quiet, filled with the rich aroma of coffee and warm pastries, the soft hum of conversations blending into the background. The familiarity of your friends’ faces brought a deep, forgotten sense of normalcy, of comfort.

But that comfort lasted only a few fleeting minutes.

Something was off.

You noticed it in the way your friends hugged you—warm, but stiff, their hands lingering on your shoulders a second too long, as if checking for something. Their smiles didn’t reach their eyes. They kept glancing at each other, communicating in small, unspoken gestures, their voices light but their shoulders tense.

Then there was Gio.

He sat beside you, close, but not in the way a friend usually would. It was protective. Guarded. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for his glass of iced tea, his other hand sliding under the table.

A crumpled napkin pressed into your palm.

Confused, you smoothed it out beneath the table.

Your breath caught.

"Don't look behind you. He's in the café."

A chill crawled up your spine.

You swallowed hard, hands suddenly clammy against the paper.

The urge to turn around was overwhelming. The weight of unseen eyes pressed against your back, an unnatural heaviness in the air making it hard to breathe.

Your grip on the napkin tightened.

He was here.

He had always been here.

Gio’s voice was barely a whisper, drowned out by the forced conversation around you. "Are you sure about staying with him?"

Your fingers curled tighter around the napkin.

Iori was kind to you. Gentle. He had never raised his voice, never hurt you. But still, something dark and nameless slithered beneath your skin, something that had been growing for months but had never fully taken shape until now.

"You don't have to stay," Gio murmured. "If things ever—" He exhaled sharply. "If things ever get bad, call me. Call any of us. We'll come for you."

The words should have comforted you.

But instead, they felt like a warning.

And then—

A hand brushed against your shoulder.

You flinched.

One of your friends laughed, the sound loud, abrupt—too forced. A distraction. A diversion. You knew it before you even heard his voice.

"Hey," Iori greeted warmly.

The world around you dimmed.

Slowly, carefully, you turned.

He was smiling.

Calm. Casual. Like this was any other day, like he had just happened to find you here by chance. His dark eyes met yours, unreadable, unwavering.

"I thought you were home today," he said softly.

Your pulse was a deafening roar in your ears.

"I—" The lie caught in your throat, sticky and suffocating.

Iori tilted his head, expression unreadable. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached out and plucked the napkin from your hands.

Unfolded it.

Read it.

The smile never left his face.

But his fingers curled slowly around the paper, crumpling it again.

For a moment, everything was too quiet.

Then he chuckled. "You always were easily spooked."

The tension shattered with the ease of his voice, like glass breaking in slow motion.

And just like that, the moment passed.

Your friends forced laughter. Someone made a joke. You smiled, pretended.

And yet, when Iori placed a hand on your back, guiding you out of the café, you didn’t resist.

Didn’t even try.

Because somehow, you knew—

It was already too late.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

You shouldn't have lied when he asked about your day.

Iori had already known. He had always known.

The last thing you remembered was dinner—the soft clink of silverware, the rich taste of wine, the warmth spreading through your body.

Then—nothing.

When you woke, everything was soft. The sheets smelled of fresh linen, the room quiet, dimly lit.

But your body ached.

A deep, lingering soreness, as if you hadn’t moved in days.

Iori sat beside you, fingers idly threading through your hair.

"The pests wouldn’t stop calling," he murmured, his voice light, casual. "So I had to block them all."

Your throat was dry.

He turned your phone over in his palm, watching you. "Oh, and your mother called. She was surprised to hear about me."

The words sent a deep, suffocating dread curling around your ribs.

"You never mentioned me to them." His fingers smoothed over your cheek, deceptively tender. "Are you ashamed of me?"

You swallowed.

"Or..." His grip tightened, fingers curling into your hair.

A sharp pull.

Your gasp barely escaped before his hand yanked your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Are you afraid of me?"

Your breath shuddered out. His eyes searched yours, waiting. Watching.

Then, after a long moment, he released you.

"I’ll let this pass," he murmured, smoothing your hair back into place. "This time."

Your entire body trembled.

"But there won’t be a next time."

You nodded frantically, a pathetic, desperate movement.

Iori smiled.

"We're visiting your family this weekend," he continued, as if nothing had happened. "I’ll prepare everything for you. As usual."

And deep down, you knew—

You would never truly leave him again.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

The drive to your family home was quiet.

Too quiet.

Iori’s hands rested easily on the steering wheel, his posture relaxed as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t drugged you. As if he hadn’t pulled your hair back so hard you had to check for bruising at the base of your skull.

He hummed softly, the tune familiar but distant, like something you’d once heard in a dream. The world outside the window blurred past—gray skies, passing cars, the skeletal remains of trees shedding their leaves in the cold.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

But every now and then, his fingers reached across the console to brush against yours.

A gentle, lingering touch.

A reminder.

Your stomach twisted, nausea curling deep in your gut.

You had considered running.

Last night, when he finally fell asleep beside you, you had shifted your aching body to the edge of the bed, inch by inch. His breath had been slow and steady, his warmth suffocating against your side. If you could just make it to the door—

But then his hand had curled around your wrist, fingers tightening.

Even in his sleep, he didn’t let you go.

And in that moment, you had known.

There was no escaping him.

Not now.

Not ever.

The car slowed as he turned onto the familiar street of your childhood home. The sight of it—warm light spilling through the windows, the faint outline of your mother in the kitchen—should have comforted you.

Instead, it made the air in your lungs feel like lead.

Iori parked the car, put it in park, and turned to you. His dark eyes softened, his lips curving into something affectionate.

"Ready, sweetheart?"

You forced a nod.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin.

"Good girl."

The words made your stomach churn.

You stepped out of the car, legs stiff, body tense.

The moment the front door opened, your mother beamed, wiping her hands on her apron before pulling you into a tight hug. "Oh, sweetie! It’s been so long!"

Her embrace should have felt safe. Should have felt like home.

But all you could feel was Iori’s presence behind you.

Standing close. Watching.

His hand found the small of your back, warm and claiming.

Your mother’s attention shifted, her eyes lighting up as she turned to him. "And this must be Iori!"

He smiled—charming, polite, the perfect son-in-law.

"Thank you for having me, ma’am," he said smoothly, bowing his head slightly. "It’s an honor to finally meet you."

Your mother practically swooned. "Oh, you’re just lovely! Come in, come in! I was just finishing up in the kitchen. Your father is in the living room."

She ushered you both inside, the scent of roasted meat and warm spices thick in the air.

Iori's fingers never left your back.

You could feel them through the fabric of your sweater, tracing slow, absent patterns.

Possessive.

The living room was warm and familiar—framed family photos lining the walls, the soft hum of classical music playing from the radio. Your father sat in his usual chair, newspaper in hand.

He looked up, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in Iori. A brief pause. Then, with a small nod, he stood, extending a hand.

"You must be the boyfriend," he said gruffly.

Iori shook his hand, his grip firm but respectful. "It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir."

Your father grunted in approval before turning back to his paper.

Your mother, already smitten, pulled Iori toward the kitchen, gushing over how "handsome" he was and asking if he wanted tea.

You stayed in the doorway, fingers digging into the sleeves of your sweater.

Your father glanced at you over his paper, his brow furrowing slightly. "You okay, kid?"

The words nearly cracked something inside you.

Your lips parted. The truth sat heavy on your tongue, a leaden weight pressing against your ribs.

No.

I'm not okay.

Help me. Please, help me.

But then—

A shadow shifted in the corner of your vision.

You turned your head just enough to see Iori in the kitchen, talking with your mother, his posture relaxed.

And yet—

His gaze flicked to you.

Just for a second.

A brief, fleeting glance.

But it was enough.

Your throat closed.

Your fingers clenched tighter in your sleeves.

And the words never left your lips.

Instead, you forced a smile. "Yeah. Just tired from the drive."

Your father grunted again, already losing interest.

And just like that, the moment passed.

Dinner was a blur of laughter and conversation, your mother practically feeding Iori herself, gushing over how wonderful he was, how lucky you were to have found such a devoted man.

Iori played the part effortlessly.

He smiled at your mother’s jokes, answered your father’s questions with perfect humility, refilled your drink before you even realized it was empty.

And through it all, his hand never left yours.

Lacing your fingers together beneath the table.

Tight.

Restraining.

A reminder.

By the time dinner ended, the air felt thick, suffocating.

Your mother clapped her hands together, eyes twinkling. "Why don’t you show Iori your room while we clean up?"

The words sent a spike of cold terror through your spine.

Iori turned to you, his smile soft, expectant.

You forced a laugh. "Oh, that’s—uh—probably not necessary. Iori’s probably tired from the drive—"

"Nonsense," your mother said, waving a hand. "We wouldn’t want to overwhelm our guest!"

Your stomach churned.

Iori’s grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly.

"Come on, sweetheart," he murmured.

Your mother beamed.

And just like that, you knew.

There was no getting out of this.

Your legs felt heavy as you led him down the hallway, past framed childhood photos, past the memories of a life before him.

You opened the door to your room, stepping inside.

The second the door shut behind you—

His hands were on your hips.

His breath warm against your ear.

"You almost slipped," he murmured, voice light, teasing.

Your pulse pounded in your throat.

"I—"

His fingers trailed up your spine, slow, deliberate.

"But you didn’t," he praised, pressing a soft kiss just beneath your jaw. "Good girl."

Your stomach twisted violently.

His arms circled around you, pulling you against him, his chin resting atop your head.

"You belong with me," he whispered. "You know that, don’t you?"

You swallowed thickly.

He exhaled, content.

"Now," he murmured, "let’s practice what you’re going to say when they ask about us."

Your heart sank.

Because you already knew—

By the end of this night, whatever pieces of yourself you had left wouldn’t be yours anymore.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

You didn’t sleep that night.

The bed beneath you felt foreign, the childhood blankets that once brought you comfort now stifling, tangled around your legs like shackles. Iori’s warmth pressed against your back, his arm draped over your waist, his breath steady, unbothered.

You stayed still.

Motionless.

Even though every nerve in your body screamed at you to move.

Your parents were just down the hall. A locked door was the only thing keeping them from seeing what was really happening. You could run. You could scream.

But Iori’s fingers rested just over your ribs, his grip lax but ever-present. Even in sleep, he held on.

You had tried once before, after all.

The weight of that failure still ached in your bones.

The night stretched on, the darkness thick and suffocating. The faint glow from the streetlights cast long shadows against the walls, distorting the familiar childhood posters, twisting them into something sinister.

Time crawled.

You counted the hours by the distant chime of the grandfather clock downstairs. The whisper of wind against the window. The soft creak of the house settling.

Then—

A shift.

Iori’s fingers twitched against your side. His breath, once even, stuttered slightly before resuming its slow, measured pace.

Awake.

You knew it before he even moved.

His grip on your waist tightened—just enough for you to notice, just enough to remind you he knew you hadn’t slept either.

"Still awake, sweetheart?" His voice was soft, thick with sleep, his lips brushing against the back of your neck.

You swallowed hard.

A long pause. Then—

"I don’t blame you."

His fingers traced idle patterns against your stomach, slow, languid movements that sent a shudder crawling down your spine.

"It must be overwhelming, right?" His voice was gentle, affectionate. "Being back home. Seeing everyone."

His arm curled tighter around you, drawing you impossibly closer.

"But you’re not really home anymore, are you?"

Your body stiffened.

His lips pressed against your temple, slow, deliberate. "Your home is with me now."

Something cracked deep inside you.

And you hated that part of you that almost wanted to believe him.

The next morning was suffocating.

Your mother’s warmth, once comforting, now felt like a trap. She smiled so easily, beaming as she served breakfast, blissfully unaware of the noose tightening around your neck.

"Iori, dear, you have to try this!" She placed a plate in front of him, her eyes practically twinkling with delight. "This was always her favorite growing up!"

Iori chuckled, the sound light, natural. "Well, if it’s her favorite, then I’m sure I’ll love it."

Your stomach twisted.

Your mother wasn’t just charmed by him—she adored him. Every word from his lips was met with praise, every small courtesy met with gushing appreciation.

She had no idea.

No idea what he was.

No idea that you weren’t eating because of nausea, because the mere act of swallowing felt impossible under his watchful gaze.

"You two are just so adorable," your mother continued, pouring more tea into Iori’s cup. "I can tell how much he loves you."

The words sank into your skin like knives.

Iori turned to you then, his dark eyes soft, filled with something gentle—something manufactured.

"Of course I love her."

His hand found yours beneath the table, lacing his fingers through yours.

You couldn’t pull away.

Not here.

Not now.

He squeezed lightly, an encouragement.

Go on.

Say it back.

Your throat closed.

"She’s always been independent," your mother mused. "I worried she’d never find someone who truly understood her."

Iori’s smile didn’t waver. "She doesn’t have to do everything alone anymore."

There it was.

The final thread being cut.

Your mother—sweet, oblivious—nodded approvingly.

And just like that, you knew.

No one was coming to save you.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

The drive home stretched on, the silence between you thick and pressing, a weight that sat heavy on your chest. The hum of the engine was steady, unbroken, but each passing mile felt like another nail being driven into the coffin of your freedom.

Iori’s hand rested on your thigh, a steady presence, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. He hadn’t spoken in a while, but he didn’t need to. His silence was calculated, deliberate—a leash wrapped around your throat, tightened just enough to remind you it was there.

Your family was behind you now. The warmth of your childhood home, the smell of your mother’s cooking, the feeling of safety that had once existed there—it was all gone. Or maybe it had never truly been there at all.

Because no one had seen it.

Not your mother, who had beamed at Iori like he was the best thing to ever happen to you. Not your father, whose watchful gaze had lingered, suspicious, but not enough to say anything. Not your friends, who had tried—who had warned you—but were now little more than distant voices blocked from your phone.

They had all let you leave with him.

And now, here you were, returning to the place you had once thought of as yours.

You swallowed hard, keeping your gaze fixed out the window, watching as the familiar city streets blurred past. The closer you got, the harder it became to breathe. The walls of your apartment—his apartment—were waiting for you. The locked doors. The carefully controlled world he had built around you, where every choice was his to make, every movement his to dictate.

"You did well today," Iori said suddenly, his voice smooth, warm, like the words were meant to soothe.

A chill crawled up your spine.

"You played your part beautifully," he continued, his fingers pressing just a little firmer against your thigh. "Your mother adores me now." A soft chuckle. "Not that I ever doubted she would."

You kept your mouth shut.

His thumb stroked your skin absently, a quiet, rhythmic motion. "And your father… well. He’s still watching, isn’t he?" Another laugh, quiet, amused. "But that’s alright. He’ll stop, eventually. They always do."

A lump formed in your throat.

You wanted to tell him he was wrong.

That your father wouldn’t stop watching. That he had seen something, even if he hadn’t said it aloud. That maybe—maybe—this wasn’t over yet.

But you knew better than to hope.

Iori never let anything slip from his control.

And if there was even the slightest chance of a problem—he would take care of it.

The realization settled in your bones, cold and heavy.

"You almost slipped up," he murmured, so casual, so easy, like he was commenting on the weather.

Your breath caught.

"You thought about saying something, didn’t you?"

The streetlights flickered through the windshield, painting his face in sharp shadows. You couldn’t see his expression fully, but you didn’t need to. You felt it.

Felt the weight of his eyes on you, waiting.

Judging.

Your stomach twisted, nausea curling in the back of your throat.

"I—I wasn’t going to," you managed, your voice hoarse.

Iori hummed, tilting his head slightly. "Mmm." A sound of consideration. Thoughtful. "You’re lying."

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

The fingers on your thigh tightened.

Just enough to make you flinch.

The car slowed slightly, a deliberate action, as if he was giving you time to think.

"You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?"

There was no malice in his tone. No anger. Just soft, patient expectation.

A choice—one that wasn’t really a choice at all.

Your nails dug into your palms.

"No," you whispered.

The car accelerated again.

His grip on your thigh loosened, returning to slow, gentle strokes.

"That’s my girl."

The city grew closer, buildings towering, the streets narrowing as he turned onto the familiar road leading home.

Home.

The word felt foreign now.

The apartment complex loomed ahead, its windows dark and reflective, revealing nothing beyond the tinted glass. You used to find comfort in the sleek, modern structure, in the quiet anonymity of the place.

Now, it felt like a mausoleum.

Iori pulled into the garage, the overhead lights flickering as the car came to a smooth stop. He shifted into park, then turned to you fully, his gaze steady.

"We won’t be doing this again."

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t a warning.

It was a fact.

His fingers reached for your chin, tilting your face toward him. His touch was deceptively gentle, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, a ghost of a smile tugging at his own.

"Tell me you understand."

The breath in your lungs felt too thick. Your skin burned where he touched it, every fiber of your being screaming at you to run—fight—do something.

But you didn’t.

You nodded.

"I understand."

His lips curled, satisfied.

"Good girl."

A quiet click.

The car doors unlocked.

And somehow—

That sound was more terrifying than anything he had said.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz

[rememberwren]

A Complete Set (Whatever That Means) || 1

This is a direct sequel to Skin Deep which can be read here. From now on I'm splitting up any one shot that is longer than 10k. So here is part one of this sequel. 6k.

Johnny pierces fem!reader’s nipples.

About this: at least five nipples in this one, an altogether questionable use for a sequel, nipple play, graphic depiction of nipple piercings, alcohol, jealous!soap, spoilers in the 'about this' section, iffy writing. Reader has enough hair to “hold back” and height difference necessitates that she “looks up” to speak to Simon.

-

Thirty minutes waiting for Green Jade Chinese takeout when you’re only a block from the restaurant is a crime. It’s even more of a crime when it’s thirty minutes spent away from Ghost—whose name you have learned is Simon. Laying on the sofa in Skin Deep, your stomach gives another shameful growl. You glance at the clock on your phone, hoping he hasn’t run into trouble…though you’re not sure there’s much in the way of trouble that Simon couldn’t handle. 

The bell over the door rings, and you sit up, smile blooming in anticipation. 

“Hey youuu–fuck!” you nearly shriek. 

Standing in the doorway is a man who is decidedly not Simon, though there are similarities. They are both tall (though Simon must stand a hand taller), and broad (this bloke’s biceps are threatening the sleeves of his t-shirt as he crosses his arms across his chest), but that is where the similarities end. Where Simon is pale and blond, this man is tan and brunet, his hair a cropped mohawk that looks soft to brush one's fingers through. 

Looking over his shoulder is a beautiful woman with braids that drip down to her shoulder blades. 

“I tend to have that effect on women,” he says, glancing back at her. 

“I can imagine,” she says, no small hint of flirtation in her voice.

“Um. Sorry, but there aren’t any walk-ins,” you remind them. The sign had been right bloody there. Could they not read? A more important question: were they murderers looking for their next victim? In the city, one could never know if a person was malevolent or just stupid. 

“Where’s the big guy?” the man asks. He holds up a hand a few inches above his head. “Tall. Devastatingly handsome. Monosyllabic.” 

“He should be back any minute.” That’s what you’re supposed to say, right? You always let the murderers know that time is not on their side; no inconvenient prey here. Try again elsewhere. “Maybe you two could wait outside.” 

The man does a neat little trick with his tongue, flashing a silver barbell piercing at you like a calling card. “I’m the piercer, lass. I own forty-nine percent of the business. Let Ghost know I’m back with a client, alright? Nice meetin’ you.” 

The two of them disappear together behind the curtain at the back of the shop, leaving you hoping that a small hole will open up directly beneath your coordinates and swallow you whole. Hopefully it will leave the shop intact. Maybe you had the time to let Simon know not to look for your body—

The bell rings again, and this time it is Simon, his mask still pulled up over his nose and mouth, one paper bag of fragrant Chinese food tucked under his arm. He takes in the sight of you with your head in your hands, elbows on your knees and approaches with caution. 

“What’s this?” he wonders out loud. He sets down the bag and tears it open: egg drop soup, pork fried rice, crab rangoon. All your favorite goodies. A feminine giggle is heard from the back of the shop and he sighs, eyes rolling toward the ceiling.“Soap. What’d he say to you?” 

“Nothing. I just put my foot in my mouth.” 

“Yer a flexible one, aren’t you.”

“Just in that one, very specific way, trust me,” you say, accepting the disposable chopsticks he hands you. You break them apart and go looking amongst the packages of food for your rice. “I mistook him for a client and asked him to wait outside.” 

Simon sucks on his teeth, a sure-fire sign that he is trying not to laugh. 

You launch a chopstick at him, scoffing when he catches it nimbly out of the air and offers it back to you. 

“Careful with that,” he says solemnly. “Could have taken my fuckin’ eye out.” 

In the back, a scream rings out. You jerk, nearly upending the rice in your lap. Under his breath, Simon mutters: “Always Soap with the screamers.” 

-

That night, the two of you fuck at his flat. He puts you on top of him, where you can control how deep the penetration is, and it gives you a chance to explore the angles that you never really had a chance to explore with other partners. With others, it had been a race: rushing toward some blissful edge, hurrying to get them (and if you were lucky, yourself) off as quickly as possible. With Simon, you were just discovering that sex could be fun; sex could be slow; sex could end with no one orgasming and it could still change your life. 

He is an excellent sport while you ride him, his eyes quiet and soft in a way they aren’t when you’re outside of his flat together, when the mask is on and pulled up into place. If he weren’t so fucking put together, you might say that he were pussy drunk. As it is, he stays still, hands kneading your thighs until you nearly get a cramp in your hip and then he sits up, guiding you off of him and back into the bedsheets, laying face to face to fuck you in a way that is so painfully intimate it makes you want to shut your eyes. 

Afterwards, you curl up against his side and find yourself playing with his nipple piercing. He’s got cute nipples: small and pink as his mouth. The barbell is black, a nice contrast to his skin tone. He watches you sometimes, other times letting his eyes fall shut. 

“Did this hurt?” you ask him, tugging on the barbell a little. 

“Yes,” he says in that dry way that lets you know your question has amused him. 

“You know what I mean. You’ve gotten tattoos and had your ears pierced. What’s the worst pain?” 

 He shifts to touch a spot on his inner arm where a black and white skull rests. The skin is delightfully soft and thin. “This part nearly had me in tears. Barely felt the nipple, in comparison.” 

Your mouth says it before your brain comprehends it: “Maybe I should get mine done.” 

He stares at you, eyes briefly falling to your breasts. He reaches down and skims his fingers along the curve of one, his fingertips calloused but his touch so very soft. He says: “Soap did this, didn’t he?” 

“What do you mean?”

“You’re alone with Soap for sixty seconds and now you want your tits pierced. Are you saying that’s a coincidence?” 

You frown. “I don’t know. I mean, maybe he influenced me, subconsciously?”

“He didn’t ask you?” 

“No! He had a client with him.” 

Simon hums. His face is closed off, expression unreadable. You can sense there is more that he holds back the same way you can sense a body of water is deep, but he doesn’t share and you don’t push him, not sure if you’re ready to take that plunge yourself. 

“It was a silly idea,” you backpedal. “Forget I said anything.” 

“It’s your body,” Simon says, ignoring your words. “You should do whatever you want with it.”

“Yeah? You’d be surprised how rarely anybody ever says that to a woman.”

“Most people are cunts.” 

“True.” You reach out and thumb at his nipple again, just to satisfy the urge in your own tiny, one track brain. He takes a measured breath—for Simon, that’s as good as a moan. Your eyes flicker down, but his cock is hidden somewhere beneath the sheets. “Want to go again?”

He guides your hand down to wrap around his cock which is like hard steel wrapped in smooth velvet. 

You roll on top of him. The cramp in your thigh has faded by now. Reaching up, you palm your breasts, briefly playing with your nipples. You’ve never considered yourself to be particularly sexy, but the way he looks at you makes you feel powerful, like the sun lives just underneath your skin.

“I think I do want them done,” you say, watching the hungry way he watches your fingers. He sits up, tugging you onto your knees so he can take one nipple into his mouth and tease it with the sharp line of his teeth. 

You figure that’s as good a blessing as any. 

-

Simon tends to spring things on you. Texts are usually last minute and painfully succinct: dinner? or my place? He is prone to just showing up out of the blue, unafraid (and unoffended) to take no for an answer when you’re busy. 

One sunny fall afternoon, the thing he springs on you is Soap. Simon brings you to the shop, telling you that he needs to meet with a client. You’ve never tagged along to something like this before, but you’re beginning to think that there are few places Simon could go where you wouldn’t want to follow. Convinced you will be hiding in the back of the shop without a word to alert either of them to your presence, you agree easily enough. 

But when you arrive, that client is Soap, and instead of letting you hide in the back, Simon picks up a chair with one hand, hauling it across the room so that you both sit flanking Soap on either side while he’s in the tattoo chair getting some fancy, winged symbol just over his pec. 

“We’ve got a spectator? A voyeur?” Soap asks, rubbing his hands together. “Oh you know all my seedy kinks, Ghost.” 

“I can leave, really,” you offer, already moving to stand.

“Sit,” Simon says. 

You sit. Johnny sheds his shirt with obvious relish, and you find the artwork on the wall just over his shoulder to be incredibly interesting all of the sudden. 

Soap extends a hand to you. “The big guy still hasn’t introduced us. Some call me Soap, but beautiful women are allowed to call me Johnny.” 

You shake his warm hand to be friendly and make the mistake of meeting his eyes. They are very blue, framed by dark lashes and expressive eyebrows. He flashes his tongue piercing at you again and you jerk your hand back like you’ve been burned. He laughs. 

“You’re playing a dangerous game, MacTavish,” Simon murmurs, putting a gloved hand flat on his chest to force him back against the chair. You see then that Johnny has both his nipples pierced: little golden rings that compliment his tanned skin. 

He’s fit, unfortunately.

You look back at the picture on the wall while Simon grabs the razor to shave Johnny’s pec. You learn that there’s no such thing as silence when Johnny is in the room. He keeps up a consistent chatter of conversation while Simon preps his body and lays the stencil, and it goes a long way to putting you at ease. 

“Would you hold my hand, lass?” Johnny asks, eyes big and guileless. “I’m scared of needles.”

Simon rolls his eyes, tugs his mask into place, and starts the gun without waiting for your response. The buzzing causes a visceral reaction in you, reminding you of your own tattoo that you had received from Simon only weeks ago. A craving rises up in you, tangible in your throat (and between your legs). You shift on the chair Simon brought over for you, eyes drawn to his hands to watch him work. 

Johnny wiggles his fingers at you, palm up. 

Your chair legs screech against the floor as you scoot in bursts towards him and take his hand. You haven’t even held hands with Simon yet, and here you are holding hands with his best friend. Suddenly regret has you wishing you could draw your hand back and wipe the touch away on your leggings. Unaware of your turmoil, Johnny heaves a sigh, giving you a smile that is painfully handsome. “There. Now I feel safe.” 

“You shouldn’t,” Simon reminds him. 

“Ready to tell me where your newfound generosity has come from?” Johnny asks, straining his neck to glance down at Simon’s work. “What happened to never tattooing friends for free?”

“I want you to owe me,” Simon says, voice quiet and distracted as he traces the line work. 

“You need a favor,” Johnny guesses.

“Something like that.”

“Well don’t leave me in suspense.”

“She wants her nipples done.” 

Simon lifts the gun away from his skin just in time for Johnny to jerk in the chair, head swiveling to look at you. Your own head has swiveled to look at Simon, who holds both hands up innocuously, looking not at all apologetic or regretful. 

“You want me to cop a feel of your girlfriend’s tits?”

“Don’t say it like that!” you squawk. 

“It’s true. We get very close and personal during a piercing, lass—“

“There’s a fundamental difference between copping a feel and touching my breast—“ You realize that you are still holding Johnny’s hand and you practically toss it away. 

“I’m not laying a finger on her,” Johnny says firmly, speaking only to Simon now (likely considering you a lost cause). “Period. Out of the question.” 

“I’m not letting her go to a stranger,” says Simon, brows drawn down low on his forehead. “So get over your own bullshit and pierce her, Johnny. It’s fine.” 

Johnny’s mouth shuts with such force that his teeth click together. He turns his eyes on you and stares. You feel like you’ve already taken your top off even though you’ve done no such thing. Shyly, you cross your arms in front of your breasts, giving him your best glare. It has the opposite of intended effect; Johnny’s gaze softens a little, turns pitying. 

“Alright,” he says. “Consider my bullshit over with.” 

Simon inclines his head in gratitude. He picks back up the tattoo gun.

-

“What’s the story with you and Johnny anyway?” you ask Simon over dinner. He rarely takes you out, more content to spend time alone in private rather than in public. His eyes can’t stop scanning the few people in the restaurant. Sometimes his hand reaches for his mask, instinct urging him to draw it back over his mouth and nose, but he doesn’t. 

“We met in the SAS, been friends ever since,” he says succinctly. 

“How’d you two go into business together?” 

“I was doing stick ‘n pokes for anyone who would sit still. He was piercing soldier’s ears in exchange for cigarettes. We both decided we’d rather live to see thirty, so when our time was up, we didn’t re-enlist, pooled our money, bought a location and never looked back.” 

You frown. “I didn’t know you were in the military.” 

He nods, sipping at a water (he’d refused your offer to share a pint together). You’re aware suddenly of how much there is about Simon that you don’t know. 

“Was Johnny the one to pierce your nipple?”

Simon stills for a moment, considering the question. At length he sets his glass down and says slowly: “Yes.”

“Why do I sense there’s a story there?”

“Because there is. I’m sure Soap will be thrilled to tell it with as many details as possible.” 

“Shouldn’t you tell me first, to control the narrative?”

Simon’s mouth twitches, lips quirking upwards at the edges. Coaxing one of his rare smiles from him never failed to make you feel like you were walking on clouds. He says: “You’re clever.”

“High praise.” 

“Does that do something for you?”

“What?”

“Being praised.”

You sputter a little, flustered. But then it occurs to you: “Are you changing the subject?” 

This time he grins, full and beautiful. You think about Soap calling him ‘devastatingly handsome’, and while there was a part of you that was sure the masses would not agree with your assessment of him, you couldn’t help but find Simon striking. Looking at his smile makes you smile, an unconscious mimicry. 

He catches the waitress as she comes by and asks for the check. 

-

“You look frightened,” Johnny says when he spots you as you come into Skin Deep. He’s seated on the couch where you and Simon had sex, texting on his phone. How he knows you look frightened, you couldn’t say; he hasn’t even looked up to greet you. 

“What gave me away?” you ask, feeling queasy. You’d spent half the night awake watching videos on reddit of people getting their nipples pierced feeling increasingly panicked. It looked brutal. It made no sense to stick a needle through one of the most sensitive parts of your body. But it hadn’t made sense to be stabbed a hundred thousand times by microneedles either—and you’d done that. Eagerly, even. 

“That look on your face that says you’re about to be sick,” Simon says from behind you. 

You turn and give him a tepid glare. It’s all you can muster.

Johnny leads you back through the curtain, which you cross with a muted giddiness (your first time in the back of the shop!). It leads to a narrow hallway with a few frosted doors. One is clearly marked as a bathroom. One isn’t marked at all. The last has the light on inside, turning the frosted glass a golden yellow. The writing on the glass says SOAP’S ARTISAN PIERCINGS. He opens the door and ushers you both in. 

The room is small, with a chair similar to Simon’s except for performing piercings. One wall is dominated by cabinets and drawers and mirrors, a small porcelain sink. A table holds a photobook which you make the mistake of skimming through—it’s full of clits, labias, penises, and nipples, all with a variety of gruesome appearing jewelry. 

“Ow,” you mutter, shutting the book.

“Getting ideas for your next piercing?” Johnny asks over his shoulder, washing his hands at the sink. He soaps himself up to the elbows, like a surgeon preparing to root around in your open chest. 

“No,” you say. “Definitely not.” 

Simon has seated himself in one of the chairs in the corner, his legs looking obscenely long with the way they are folded. He leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, watching you closely. You pull a face at him just to watch the way his eyes roll. 

“Everything off from the waist up,” Soap says, tugging gloves into place. “Any allergies? Latex, dyes?”

He is much more abrupt today than he had been yesterday. You’re almost moved enough to ask him if he’s upset, but perhaps this is just his professionalism. Regardless, you miss the easy-going nature that had gone so far to put you at ease yesterday. 

“No,” you say, shrugging out of your shirt. It is warm in the room but goosebumps still bloom along your arms and chest. God, are you really doing this? Are you really exposing yourself to Simon’s best friend? You glance back over your shoulder, but Simon’s face gives no indication of what you should do. The message is clear: you have to choose. Taking a deep breath, you slide the straps of your bra down your arms and reach around back to undo the clasp, folding everything nice and neatly into a pile on the chair beside you. Your nipples immediately pucker, whether from nerves or some unwilling arousal, you couldn’t say. 

Johnny isn’t even looking at you. He’s opening up packages of frightening looking tools: scissors with clamps on the end, needles, toothpicks? “Had any caffeine today?”

“No. Wait, yes. A tea.”

“Goddamnit, Ghost. You and yer bloody teas.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, not really,” Johnny says. “I’d prefer if you hadn’t drunk it, but what’s done is done. Makes the blood thinner though, you know.”

“Didn’t know that. I thought that was just alcohol.”

“Alcohol is worse,” he agrees. He glances over his shoulder, but towards Simon whose dark figure is haunting the corner of the room. His expression is sly. “Ghost knows all about that, aye?”

You latch on to this news eagerly. “Are you talking about when you pierced his nipple?”

Johnny’s brows lift in obvious surprise. “He told you about that?”

You hear the creak of the chair behind you as Simon shifts but you don’t turn to look at him. “He told me some of it?” you say, voice pitching upward at the end in question. 

“Which parts, exactly?”

“Just that you were the one who had done it.” 

“Left out all the tastiest bits,” Johnny says. “I bet he does that a lot when talking about his days with the 1-4-1.”

Your stomach dips. 

“That’ll do,” Simon says sternly from the corner. 

Johnny scoffs a little, muttering something under his breath as he arranges the tools to his liking. The silence that lingers is thick and awkward. Eager to break it, he turns to you and your tits. “Alright then. Let’s see what we’re working with.” 

You want to cross your arms more than you want to take your next breath, but you don’t. You don’t breathe either, really. Johnny stares at your breasts and then asks you to stand and come closer. Knees knocking together, you do, until you are close enough to smell his cologne or aftershave—whichever you aren’t sure. 

“Biggest question here,” he says, glancing back toward your eyes. “Are we doing one today or both?”

“Uh—both?”

“Let me bring this to your consideration,” Johnny says. “If you can’t go without playing with them, I recommend just doing one at a time. Because once I pierce it, it’s hands off for six months. No touching, no twiddling, no teasing, no twisting, definitely no tasting, I’m talking to you, Ghost—“

“Fuck off.”

“—so if that’s a dealbreaker, I recommend leaving one to play with. Stagger them. Mitigates the loss a little.”

You glance back at Ghost. On the one hand, nipple play is a favorite of yours. On the other hand, if you don’t do both today, you might chicken out and never come back. In the end, you decide: “Let’s start with one and see how I do.” 

“Yer the boss, hen,” Johnny says solemnly. He tears open a tiny package, the bitter scent of antiseptic stinging at your nose. “Any preference on left or right? Do yeh have a favorite?”

“A favorite?” 

He snorts. “Alright—which side do you sleep on?”

You say your left, so he takes the antiseptic wipe to the right breast and warns you with a brief, It’s chilly, before swiping it across your nipple. You hate every moment of it, mostly because the stimulation feels good in a distant, muted way. Teeth gritting, you wait for him to be done, even though he is a consummate professional and going as fast as he can. 

Next he takes one of the toothpicks, dips it in ink, and marks a spot on either side of your nipple where the needle will pierce. It’s more on the areola itself; you can’t decide if that makes it more or less tolerable.

“Go check the placement in the mirror, let me know if you’re level,” says Johnny, tossing away the toothpick. 

You turn to Ghost instead. “Will you be my mirror?” you whisper. 

The corners of his eyes crinkle behind his mask. He beckons you closer with two fingers, and you walk to him on unsteady legs. His hand cups your breast, careful not to touch any part that Johnny has sanitized as he looks you over thoroughly. 

“Perfect,” he mutters, almost like a curse. 

“Hey! No touching!” Johnny calls, crumpling a piece of trash noisily in his fist. He sounds irritated. “Don’t you make me sanitize her again!”

When you and Simon have finished, Johnny adjusts the chair until it is laying flat and helps you up onto it. 

“Normally I freehand most piercings,” he says. “But since this is your first, I’m going to use a hemostat clamp. Looks like this—“ He shows you the device which looks like scissors but with clamps instead of blades, holes strategically placed for the needle to be pushed through. “—and I’ve been told it hurts more than the piercing itself, so be warned.”

“I’m warned,” you whisper weakly. 

“Arm up, over your head lass.” 

He scoots his chair beside you and then gently touches your breast, the latex warm from his body heat. He adjusts the clamp and then grips down tightly, ensuring that the marked spots of ink are within the holes. It does hurt, but not as badly as you imagined. You let out a breath. You can do this. 

“Ready for the needle?”

Yeah, you can’t do this. Your other hand reaches out blindly towards Simon. After a moment, you feel his touch: hand warm and solid where he laces your fingers together awkwardly. Neither of you have had much practice in the way of hand holding—and none at all with each other—but you feel his touch all the way in your toes, and you think that’s a pretty good sign. 

“Make all the sound you want,” Johnny mutters, breath fanning across your outstretched arm. “It helps, trust me. On three. One—“

He pierces you. You suck in a breath through your teeth. “You bastard, that hurt way more than the clamp!”

“Yeah,” says Johnny, guiding the jewelry through your nipple. He looks down at you with a sad, strange smile. “I’m a liar.” 

-

You shower together that night. The shower is small for a man of Simon’s stature. Add you into the mix and it’s positively tiny, but that just means you both have to stand close together, bodies brushing against each other with each movement. He puts his hands on your shoulders and turns you to the spray to let the water run across your sore breast, thumbs kneading at the tense muscles of your shoulder blades. 

You relax back against him, feeling his hard cock against the small of your back. He doesn’t do anything about it, so you don’t either. 

“What’s the verdict?” you ask him. “Do you like it?” 

“Is it important to you that I like it?” he asks, voice rumbling against your back. 

You think. 

“Yes,” you say. 

His hand comes down to ghost over your unpierced breast, cupping it in his huge palm. Your hard nipple rasps against the calluses on his hand making you shiver even in the heat of the shower. He squeezes softly, pulling a sound from the back of your throat that is lost thanks to the roar of the water against the tiles. 

His mouth brushes against your ear, lips damp: “I like it.” 

You twist in his arms, his cock dragging against your slick body, and look up at him. His hair is plastered to his forehead, a shade darker than usual. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

You guide his hand to your hair. “Hold this for me.” 

You slip down onto your knees.

-

How’s the piercing healing? Simon messages you one afternoon. Soap won’t shut up asking me about it. 

Give him my number, you suggest. 

After a lengthy silence, Simon texts: He says he doesn’t want it.

And just what the fuck is that supposed to mean? Maybe it was some weird piercer/client boundary he didn’t want to cross, but Ghost had come across more stringent (in just about every aspect of life) and he had had no problem crossing the tattoo artist/client boundary to text you mock ups of your tattoo. Something in your gut goes sour. Something sows itself in the soil of your heart, something thorny and unpleasant, and you don’t like it one bit. 

It’s fine, you tell him. I’m taking care of it. 

Okay, he says. And that is the end of that. 

-

The next time you see Johnny, it is Simon’s birthday. True to form, he does not make a big fuss of it, though it’s clear that this is the first birthday he has shared with a romantic partner perhaps ever. 

He genuinely seems to appreciate the Bluetooth stencil printer you bought him as a gift (he’d looked at the wrapped present like he didn’t know what to do with it, unwrapped it with the same enthusiasm as a man walking to the gallows, but when he’d seen it, he’d given one of those slow, rare grins; the crooked ones thanks to the scar across his mouth), and you silently congratulated yourself on getting him something practical over something sentimental. 

“The boys want to get together,” he says that afternoon. “I want you to come, too.” 

How could you say no to that? 

So you doll yourself up, wearing your nicest pair of skinny jeans and a sweater to keep away the autumn chill. You are giddy at the thought of meeting Simon’s other friends, so much so that you cleanly overlook Johnny’s hot and cold act. At least there will be others there to act as buffers between the two of you. 

The pub itself is more crowded than Simon would like. He won’t even take his mask off, keeping his back against the wall and eyes on the door. Not for the first time, you wonder if he doesn’t have some sort of PTSD, something leftover from his time in the service. It would make a lot of things make a lot more sense. 

You meet Kyle, who clasps your hand with both of his own, grinning so fetchingly. “Nice to meet you,” he shouts over the sounds of the pub. “Simon’s never brought a woman around before. You must be special.” 

“That means be on your best behavior, Garrick,” Simon says dryly, shifting his mask to sip at a beer—the first you’ve ever seen him drink.

“Yes, sir.” 

John arrives next. He’s older than the others, though there’s not yet any hint of silver in his facial hair. He smiles, eyes twinkling, and shares Kyle’s sentiments. It shouldn’t make you feel as special as it does, knowing that Simon hasn’t brought a woman to meet his friends before. But it does. It means something. The two of you still haven’t discussed exactly what your relationship is, but it seems clear in the eyes of everyone around you, which makes you feel a little more like you’re standing on solid ground. 

Johnny arrives last. His easy grin falters at the sight of you. He slips into the other side of the circular booth beside John and barely greets you, barely even meets your eyes. You don’t shrink, necessarily—you’re aware that you belong here, celebrating Simon, just as much as Johnny does—but you do grow quiet, your arms crossed in your lap, leaning into the warm comfort that Simon’s body beside you provides. 

The group together are downright boisterous. Even Simon comes out of his shell some as the drinks come and go, eventually tugging the mask down to rest beneath his chin. They tell stories that make you laugh, make you tear up, make you cringe, make you groan. It eases some anxious part of your heart to hear these uncensored stories, to learn more about Simon’s past straight from the sources.

It’s clear that their time spent serving together has made a brotherhood of them, and while a small part of you feels estranged as the outsider amongst this group, the larger part thinks it’s beautiful to see. 

Simon deserves this, you think, as the group gets up: some to go to the bathroom, others to the bar, others to smoke. He deserves to be surrounded by people that love him. 

You realize right there in that cracked leather booth of the bar that you are included in that.

 You’re in love with him. 

“Oh God,” you mutter, pressing your hands to your cheeks. Suddenly your head is spinning from the few shots you had shared with the others. Air. You need air. 

Not spying Simon anywhere near the bar, you take your chances of running into him outside and step out of the pub onto the cool street. There is a bitter wind blowing that has you wrapping your arms around your middle, wishing you had worn a jacket over your sweater. Resting your back against the brick wall, you stare up at the moon and think. Nothing has changed between now and five minutes ago, except that now you are a little wiser to your own feelings. A little more aware of how invested you are in this undefined relationship. You don’t need to freak out.

You just need to talk to him and figure out where you both stand with each other. It is the only—

“You followin’ me?” You jerk, startled. Johnny stands there, having come around out of the alley, crushing the remnants of a cigarette beneath his boot. His cheeks are red from the cold, hands jammed deep into his pockets. 

“What? Of course not!” 

“Alright,” he says, his agreement sounding a lot like skepticism. He moves past you toward the pub doors. 

You know that you shouldn’t. You know that for some inexplicable reason, Johnny doesn’t like you, and that you should take this at face value and leave well enough alone. But instead it makes something inside you feel needy and desperate, desperate for this closest friend of Simon’s to like you, desperate to fit it to Simon’s old life. 

“Hey,” you say, catching his wrist. “We should plan my next piercing while you’re here.” 

He visibly shakes off your touch. His eyes look back toward the pub longingly. “Yeah. Look, not much to plan, really, is there? Just let Simon know when you’re ready and he’ll text me.” 

He opens the door. For a moment, the sounds and smells of the pub spill out onto the sidewalk, but then the door shuts and it is quiet and you are alone. 

-

“Johnny doesn’t like me much,” you say to Simon on the way home. You’re driving—three beers in total had managed to make him tipsier than you thought possible for a man of his stature.

He snorts. “Soap loves everybody, and everybody loves Soap.” 

You take your eyes off the road briefly. Simon’s figure is illuminated by a passing streetlamp, turning his silhouette into something gilded where he is slumped over in the passenger seat resting his temple against the cool glass of the window. “I don’t love him,” you say, hoping you don’t overemphasize any certain word. 

Simon looks to you. You can feel his eyes on the side of your face. Not even being drunk affects the intensity of his gaze, the way it penetrates you, turns you see-through. Whatever he sees in your face must not be enough, because his head thuds as it hits the window again. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time that a girl who was supposed to be mine ended up being for Soap.” 

You suck in a breath, heart clenching painfully. Taking one hand off the wheel, you search for his thigh—find his knee and settle for it, stroking softly with your thumb. 

“I’m not Soap’s, baby,” you say. 

“No?” 

You shake your head. 

“Whose are you?” 

“Come on, Simon,” you mutter, face hot. “You already know.” 

“Are you mine?” 

You nod.

“Don’t say it.” 

You blink, glancing over to him. He’s watching you, eyes heavy-lidded and pitch-black in the darkness of the cab. “Why not?” 

“Because I’ll make have to you pull over.” 

-

Instead he makes you wait until he’s inside you, still feeling the rasp of his stubble against your thighs from where he had eaten you out. Then, his hands shaking, he asks you again, Whose are you? just to hear the way you chant over and over again: Yours, Yours, Yours. 

[theavantgardette]

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ Fire-Breathing Luck | Fred Weasley

SYN: Fred's girl knows how to handle business better than he does. At least that's what he thinks. He doesn't really care otherwise. He thinks she's the dopest of the ropest, she thinks he's the funniest bloke there ever was. It just works.

— A mailbox request by @drkaysapothecary

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

"Freddie," she tugged on the hem of his work pants.

Her red-haired lover hummed in acknowledgement, his brown eyes lighting up like lanterns on the sight of her. He restocked piles of new products on the very top shelf quicker than before, his stature providing a great amount of aid to prevent himself from toppling over had he instructed the other employees to do so. His lover stood by him giddily, herself as involved in the business as he was, moreso ever since he and his twin made a deal to give more than 15% of their shares of income for whichever "lucky ladies" were designated to date them.

Corny as it was, she never once doubted his devotion to her. A day after they announced the deal, she joined their Muggle Arts class with other, fellow Ravenclaws. Safe to say, her works enamored him to no end; her arrow-sharp wit dazzling him quicker than he could begin to say 'hello.'

And here they were, an evening at the busiest market in all of the English Wizarding World — having each other, their own little family in the strange circumstances of the war impending on every witch and wizard's lives at the time.

Fred looked below through the box of stocks he was holding, "Just put them on the carrier, love."

"What, these?" she replied, meeting his eyes as she held onto the carrier full of joke candies designed to incite incessant drooling to whoever ate them. She carded along the packages of them, packed in papers dyed in green and blue.

"Oi, you lovers," George emerged from upstairs of the joke shop and swung his jacket around his shoulder, "clocking out in a bit."

Fred tossed him a smirk, "Off to steal a bit of thunder?"

George responded with giving him air kisses, freeing himself from his brother's teasing towards the streets outside. The shop bell rang as he walked out.

"Strange," Fred came down the ladder, handing the empty box to her, "it's the only time I've no idea where my brother's off to."

"He's seeing a girl," she replied in nonchalance, rechecking the shop's list of income, "do you reckon we'll get more check next month?"

Fred frowned in thought, "We're already good as we are. Need for more?"

She shrugged, putting the paper on the counter and began scribbling with her pocket quill. Fred peeked over, only to see her planning for better prospects; budgeting fees, advertising money. Fred thought he and his brother had nerve; he just hadn't expected his woman to have one tenfold.

Fred kissed her cheek softly, just the way she liked. She chuckled ticklishly, wiping it away in good nature.

"Bugger off me, will you?" she chastised, but pulled him nearer by his collar.

"Feisty woman," he muttered, still close to her.

She resumed her drafting, glancing over to the entrance to check if any customers required their attention. It had turned to evening already, and most who visited Diagon Alley had gone home.

He then slid his arm around her shoulder, his chin on top of her head. Even then, he still had to slouch quite a bit. She stifled a grin, abandoning her writing to kiss the hand dangling above her collarbone. He nuzzled her hair, closing his eyes as they began to sway. There was no music, no tune playing but from the ballerina-bear music boxes sitting by the display upfront.

Us two; he thought, that's all there ever was. Nothing else. Nothing happening. Just us.

George could take his luck for all he cared. Fred knew he had his own down pat, and she sure wasn't going away any time sooner.

. . . .

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

A/N: comment to be put on my HP taglist!!!!

[leodette]

"In Sickness And In Health..." | LN4

(part of "In Sickness And In Health" series)

fandom: Formula 1

pairing: Lando Norris x OC

names/faceclaims: -

type: Instagram SMAU

summary: The Papaya Prince surprises the world with his marital status...

warning: timing doesn't make sense, please ignore that fact xD

**********

liked by thebride, mclaren, oscarpiastri and 3,001,457 others landonorris did a little thing 💍 (tagged thebride)

↪︎ user u kiddin right? i mean, april fools day was in, well, april

↪︎ user what is this?

↪︎ thebride love you Mr Norris ❤️🧡 liked by the author ↪︎ landonorris ❤️ U ➡️ 🌝 & 🔙 ↪︎ user okay this is super cute

↪︎ mclaren congratulations to the happy couple! (pr management asks for a little heads up next time) liked by the author ↪︎ thebride no need, there'll be no next time ↪︎ landonorris there better not be

↪︎ user Lando Norris, THE Lando Norris, is married? ↪︎ user they were even engaged?! ↪︎ landonorris yes, we got hitched, and no, we weren't engaged ↪︎ user u wanna tell us this was a split-of-a-second decision?! ↪︎ thebride more like split of an afternoon. needed my girls to get ready after all ❤️

↪︎ maxverstappen1 one would say simply lovely liked by the author ↪︎ landonorris we had g&t as well, i mean... ↪︎ maxverstappen1 and fight daniel over marriage certificate? no thank you ↪︎ danielricciardo HEY! ↪︎ maxverstappen1 but anyway, congratulations you two, get ready for the ride ↪︎ thebride thank you, Mr 4WC 💙 ↪︎ landonorris that heart is supposed to be papaya, my love ↪︎ thebride but he deserves it! he won! 🥺 ↪︎ maxverstappen1 that's okay, but thank you

↪︎ angryginge13 crazy little thing called love huh ❤️ liked by the author ↪︎ landonorris u have no idea mate

↪︎ danielricciardo still can't believe i had to do rock paper scissors with Piastri and Fewtrell about who's going to sign the marriage licence as your witness liked by the author ↪︎ oscarpiastri kinda want to say u cheated ↪︎ danielricciardo me? cheated? never! ↪︎ maxfewtrell agree with oscar here, it was supposed to go on shoot not on three ↪︎ landonorris does it matter? it is signed! ↪︎ thebride also, it was kinda amusing for the bride ↪︎ oscarpiastri if it amused the bride, than it was the job well done

↪︎ georgerussell63 U DID WHAT?! WHY WAS I NOT THERE?! liked by the author ↪︎ landonorris u were too busy getting drunk after p1. congrats btw! ↪︎ georgerussell63 man what do you mean that i got drunk while you got married?! ↪︎ landonorris that i got married while you got drunk? ↪︎ thebride that makes me wonder... carmenmmundt? ↪︎ carmenmmundt georgerussell63 👀 ↪︎ georgerussell63 George Russell left the chat

↪︎ adam-norris_pure_electric ❤️❤️❤️ liked by the author ↪︎ user dad approves! ↪︎ user of course he does, he and thebride are a staple duo of the mclaren garage!

↪︎ flonorris1 my sis-in-law is prettier than yours! liked by the author ↪︎ thebride hah, MY sister-in-law is prettier than yours! ↪︎ flonorris1 😘 ↪︎ thebride 🥰 ↪︎ landonorris is this how it feels to have your new wife stolen from u by ur own flesh and blood? ↪︎ ciscanorris1 took u long enough

↪︎ user just out of interest, how drunk were u? ↪︎ maxfewtrell he wasn't. crazy, right? ↪︎ landonorris wanted to remember every single second okay?

liked by landonorris, pietra.pilao, keeganpalmer and 846,268 others thebride we do. we did. we eloped. (tagged landonorris)

↪︎ landonorris love u mrs norris ❤️‍🔥 liked by the author ↪︎ thebride 🤭

↪︎ user didn't have that on my bingo card

↪︎ bridessister U REALLY DID IT! mom will kill you! ↪︎ thebride no she'll not cause she already knew! 😂 ↪︎ bridessister 🤯😠🤬

↪︎ maxfewtrell good luck girl, he's your responsibility now liked by the author

↪︎ lilyzneimer 🥰💐 liked by the author ↪︎ thebride my sweet girl 💖

↪︎ bridesbff when u said to me that u r going to marry this guy, i didn't expect u to do it literally a week later! liked by the author ↪︎ thebride oopsie daisy, guilty as charged ↪︎ thebride although not sorry at all

↪︎ f12wags mkay but everything aside, u both look gorg!

liked by heidiberger_, pierregasly, thebride and 1.267.534 others danielricciardo someone please bleach my eyes. jokes aside, it was a great honor to be one of the chosen few to watch this wedding happen. proud of you landonorris for growing up from that little kiddo to the man you are now. and thebride good luck with him, don't forget that people who love you both are just a phonecall away if you need help. congratulations! (tagged landonorris, thebride)

↪︎ thebride thank you for all this Danny, we love you and are very happy for you to be there with us ❤️ liked by the author ↪︎ danielricciardo it was my pleasure! ↪︎ thebride btw you just made lando cried, that's why he's not answering the phone ↪︎ danielricciardo SIMP he is!

↪︎ heidiberger_ the best evening! ↪︎ thebride it was! can't wait for yours! ↪︎ danielricciardo ehmmm hello? ↪︎ heidiberger_ 😇

↪︎ user okay but the cake?!

↪︎ user pizza in bed. if there was an epitome of LN wedding it would be this

↪︎ maxfewtrell and i still think u cheated with that rock paper scissors

liked by landonorris, pietra.pilao, thebride and 193.258 others maxfewtrell when Bob got hitched at Vegas (tagged thebride, landonorris)

↪︎ landonorris u make it shound like a title of some bad romance novel u muppet ↪︎ maxfewtrell oh I WISH it was that ↪︎ landonorris 🖕

↪︎ thebride what a lovely photo Max, thank you! liked by the author ↪︎ maxfewtrell my pleasure ma'am ↪︎ landonorris stop flirtin w/ my wife ↪︎ maxfewtrell then get out of my comments

liked by mclaren, logansargeant, landonorris and 1.298.953 others oscarpiastri that paper is a) Lando's contract extension or b) a menu he stole from a restaurant that didn't have any fish on it or c) a marriage licence (tagged landonorris, thebride)

↪︎ landonorris there was no need to call me out like that mate ↪︎ oscarpiastri says who? ↪︎ landonorris ...me? ↪︎ oscarpiastri wrong answer, please try again ↪︎ user i love how unserious they're

↪︎ user the fact that there wasn't carlos or max v but oscar and daniel speaks of itself ↪︎ oscarpiastri i just tagged with lily tbh she was the one invited

liked by maxfewtrell, heidiberger_, thebride and 35.311 others pietra.pilao the girl of the hour and her gang 🔥👰‍♀️ (tagged thebride, lilyzneimer, heidiberger_, bridessister)

↪︎ thebride couldn't wish for a better bridal party! love you my maid of honor!

↪︎ lilyzneimer 🥰👰‍♀️

↪︎ heidiberger_ that was fun! who's next?

↪︎ bridessister and here i thought that skipping vegas race wouldn't do much harm

↪︎ maxfewtrell now i get why that room was off limits... too much female energy!

*

time jump

liked by thebride, ciscanorris1, hellomag and 24.846 others wedding-planner Today landonorris and thebride celebrated their Las Vegas elopement with their families and friends in a laid-back garden party at Somerset. The buffet included multiple summer barbeque party staples like marinated ribs, steaks and burgers, together with an assortment of sweets and refreshments. Evening arrived with a self-served pizza and ramen noodle bar. Guests were entertained by live dj as well as pre-prepared playlists, and could enjoy many classic party games, including bouncing castle.

(comments have been limited)

↪︎ thebride the best wedding party we could ask for! thank you so much! liked by the author

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri, f1 and 756.498 others mclaren Celebratory champagne pop, officially not only for the podiums. Congratulations to Mr & Mrs Norris! (tagged landonorris, thebride)

↪︎ redbullracing sending congratulations to the happy couple! waiting to see more of you in the paddock soon!

↪︎ scuderiaferrari Congratulazioni!

↪︎ mercedesamgf1 the biggest congratulations to our fellow driver and his new wife! We wish you many happy moments together!

↪︎ haasf1team Congratulations to the newlyweds!

↪︎ williamsracing heard that papaya fits quite nicely with Williams blue... anyway, the best wishes to both landonorris and thebride!

↪︎ astonmartinf1 Nothing brings the grid together like babies and weddings! Congrats to the bride and groom on their earlier nuptials as well as the after-wedding celebration!

↪︎ stakef1team Admin is trying very hard not to get emotional, so let's just say: We as a team wish the newlyweds the best! See you soon!

↪︎ alpinef1team 🩷🧡

↪︎ visacashapprb Congratulations!

↪︎ landonorris thank you papaya team 🧡

liked by thebride, ruthbuscombe, danielricciardo and 2.125.872 others landonorris hello mrs norris ❤️ (tagged thebride)

↪︎ thebride hello mr norris 🧡 liked by the author

↪︎ riabish this is the sweetest thing we'll see this week ↪︎ landonorris not used to see the sweet side of me or what? ↪︎ riabish oh you're plenty of sweet, but your WIFE makes it even sweeter! ↪︎ thebride that's my girl! love you babe! ↪︎ landonorris oh thatnk you darling! ↪︎ thebride I meant Ria ↪︎ riabish HA! ↪︎ landonorris attacked in my own comments. when does it end?

↪︎ user who would've thought that Lando had it in him

↪︎ bridesbff she's a catch ↪︎ landonorris that she is!

↪︎ user when little Landor Norris bagged the best woman in a very wide radius

↪︎ fifakill_ Lando Norris, husband. that sounds weird ↪︎ landonorris i'll give you weird! ↪︎ fifakill_ for now! i meant for now it sounds weird! i'm sure soon it'll be absolutely normal thing!

liked by revolve, landonorris, lilyzneimer and 35.068 others thebride the dream come true to celebrate a change of a surname with the full family-friends gang. thank you revolve for the perfect dress to party in all night. off to the end of our lives and beyond, hubby landonorris ❤️

↪︎ landonorris 🤩😍🥵 liked by the author

↪︎ landonorris THAT'S MY HOT WIFEY EVERYBODY! liked by the author ↪︎ thebride oh shush you muppet, not on main! 🤭 ↪︎ landonorris yes on main! not ashamed of the fact that my woman is so hot!

↪︎ user okay but can we please talk about how perfect this dress is? not too casual so she wouldn't get lost in between her guests, still makes her stand out as the bride, but isn't too ostentations or lavish to forbid her from enjoying her own celebration! liked by the author ↪︎ thebride can confirm that this was EXACTLY the reason why I chose it! appreciate your thought about it! nothing beats practicality while still making it feel special! ↪︎ user OMG HELLO BEAUTIFUL YOU LOOKED ABSOLUTELY STUNNING! ↪︎ thebride hehe hello 🥰 and thank you!

↪︎ lilyzneimer 🥰👗💃 liked by the author ↪︎ thebride will never forget us dancing until the sunrise ❤️ ↪︎ oscarpiastri so that's where she was all night! ↪︎ thebride yes, because your woman likes to dance! ↪︎ oscarpiastri touché! ↪︎ lilyzneimer 🤭 ↪︎ thebride don't worry Lily darlin', we'll go dancing soon enough! and no oscarpiastri and landonorris you're not invited, that is a girls night! ↪︎ landonorris u had to open that big mouth of urs right? oscarpiastri ↪︎ oscarpiastri sorry? we can always play some video games while these two're getting sloshed somewhere? ↪︎ landonorris u got urself a deal

↪︎ revolve It was our pleasure to provide this beautiful dress for the beautiful bride! Congratulations from the whole Revolve team! liked by the author

liked by landonorris, maxfewtrell, _aarava and 55.553 others keeganpalmer how to turn bunch of grown ups into children again? give them a bouncing castle! (tagged landonorris, thebride, bridessister, olivernorris1, lilymhe, lilyzneimer)

↪︎ landonorris wow what an observation!

↪︎ maxfewtrell at least you took off your shoes ↪︎ keeganpalmer had to otherwise they wouldn't let me on! ↪︎ thebride well if the bride and groom had to take their shoes off as well...? ↪︎ keeganpalmer no longer complaining! did anyone hear anything? ↪︎ maxfewtrell how did you do that? ↪︎ thebride did what? ↪︎ maxfewtrell shut keegan up! ↪︎ thebride ...

↪︎ user not Keegan tagging both Lilys' there!

↪︎ bridessister showoff ↪︎ keeganpalmer will happily accept that one! especially from you 😉 ↪︎ thebride hands off palmer! ↪︎ bridessister ignore her. you were sayin? ↪︎ thebride THE NERVE ↪︎ bridessister did you watch too much of rocketpoweredmohawk? ↪︎ thebride who? ↪︎ landonorris u don't wanna know, trust me

liked by bridesmom, thebride, riabish and 3.912 others bridessister side by side or miles apart, sisters will always be connected by the heart. until one of them falls from a chair during her own wedding celebration. (tagged thebride)

↪︎ thebride except i didn't fall down? ↪︎ bridessister almost. it's the effort that counts! ↪︎ thebride doesn't matter. love ya sis ↪︎ bridessister love u right back ❤️

↪︎ keeganpalmer ❤️‍🔥 ↪︎ thebride no ↪︎ keeganpalmer 🥲 ↪︎ bridessister LEAVE HIM BE

↪︎ bridesmom my two girls ❤️ ↪︎ bridessister 🥰 ↪︎ thebride 🥰

liked by georgerussell63, logansargeant, lilymhe and 549.853 others alex_albon CORNHOLE!! much love to Lando and thebride for their Vegas nuptials, and thanks for including me and Lily in your celebration! (tagged landonorris, thebride)

↪︎ landonorris thanks mate for ur presence and for the great gift ↪︎ user okay now we need to know what that gift was ↪︎ landonorris no u don't it's a secret

↪︎ georgerussell63 should I mention that I absolutely destroyed you in that round? ↪︎ alex_albon oh and should we mention that there is one person whose job is to put a bag (or a ball) into a hole? NO DOUBLE MEANING I MEAN lilymhe ↪︎ lilymhe 🤔 ↪︎ georgerussell63 oh this is great fun ↪︎ carmenmmundt popcorn? 🍿 ↪︎ georgerussell63 please! ↪︎ alex_albon THAT STILL DOESN'T CHANGE THE FACT THAT LILY DESTORYED ALL OF US?!

liked by kellypiquet, pierregasly, landonorris and 1.219.673 others maxverstappen1 he won in Miami, he won at Zaandvort, he won in Singapore, he won in Abu Dhabi, he won in life. congrats landonorris and thebride for this huge step, and thank you for allowing me to be a part of this special celebration.

↪︎ thebride the pleasure was all ours Max! thank you for being here for both of us! liked by the author ↪︎ maxverstappen1 any time (or as long as it stays off track!) ↪︎ landonorris no promises! 😂

↪︎ kellypiquet such a lovely celebration! congratulations to landonorris and thebride and wishing you only happiness and health in the future! ↪︎ thebride thank you so much Kelly! it was extremely special to enjoy the time with you and Max and P! ↪︎ landonorris thank you Kelly!

↪︎ landonorris here, we can calm the internet speculations that we're enemies! trust me, would never invite an enemy to my wedding party! ↪︎ maxverstappen1 not sure how to feel about that one, but thank you!

↪︎ user not the whole grid throwing Lando in the air like he just won the championship ↪︎ landonorris they're practicing for the real deal 😉 ↪︎ maxverstappen1 let's calm down a bit, shall we?

liked by landonorris, scuderiaferrari, maxverstappen1 and 1.351.185 others carlosainz55 Lando Nowins no more, Lando Norizz no more. Te amo amigo. Felicidades!

↪︎ scuderiaferrari one big F1 family, right mclaren? ↪︎ mclaren wouldn't be the proper celebration without a bit of red 😉 ↪︎ danielricciardo we talking about wine? i can offer some red! ↪︎ mclaren well played Mr Ricciardo, well played 🤠

↪︎ landonorris gracias amigo for being the best surrogate big brother i could ask for! ur turn next! ↪︎ iamrebeccad something i should know about! ↪︎ carlossainz55 you see what you caused?! iamrebeccad let's talk about it first, okay? ↪︎ iamrebeccad call. now. ↪︎ charles_leclerc someone is in trouble! ↪︎ landonorris 'm so sorry! it was just an innocent question! ↪︎ carlossainz55 there was nothing innocent about it you ass!

↪︎ maxverstappen1 who'd have thought that little Lando Norris would be the first of this generation to tie the knot ↪︎ charles_leclerc definitely not me ↪︎ pierregasly nor me ↪︎ oscarpiastri safe to say no one thought that

↪︎ user Carlando will always be real and in the front liked by the author ↪︎ carlossainz55 couldn't be more true!

liked by thebride, savnorris, bridesmom and 5.298 others bridesbff ma b*tch got hitched! now i have to change your contact info, do u know how weird that is?! (tagged thebride, landonorris)

↪︎ thebride not weirder than changing my passport. the new signature is a weird thing to perform liked by the author ↪︎ bridesbff has a nice ring to it thought, right? ↪︎ thebride 🤭

↪︎ savnorris the best of the best! liked by the author

↪︎ bridesmom Should I find that photo of you two from your first day at nursery? ↪︎ thebride MOM ↪︎ bridesbff I'd say some things are better to stay hidden ↪︎ landonorris I WANNA SEE IT! ↪︎ bridesmom Don't worry Lando, it will be ready next time you two come for a visit! ↪︎ thebride bridesbff you need to destroy it!

liked by thebride, landonorris, bridessister and 1.206 others bridesmom my little girl is a married woman! landonorris it's your turn to take care of her now (tagged thebride)

↪︎ thebride awww mama i'll always be your little girl! liked by the author ↪︎ bridesmom ❤️

↪︎ landonorris i promise ma'am 🫡 liked by the author

↪︎ bridessister who would've thought that the family general has a soft side! ↪︎ thebride oh c'mon sis don't be mean ↪︎ bridessister sorry mama bear, you're the best in the whole world and we love you so much ❤️

↪︎ momsfriend1 where is the little girl who was chasing animals around the fields and jumping in puddles? why do they grow up so fast? liked by the author

↪︎ momsfriend2 the prettiest girl 😍💐 liked by the author

liked by flonorris1, savnorris, natalie_pinkham and 34.137 others adam_norris_pure_electric Congratulations landonorris and thebride

↪︎ user adam and cisca beat every single "evil in-laws" stereotype ever

↪︎ olivernorris1 I'm not cleaning that pool, just so we're clear. They jumped in it, they can clean it. ↪︎ landonorris boooo no fun with u ↪︎ olivernorris1 do you consider jumping in a pool while wearing your wedding attire a fun?! ↪︎ flonorris1 don't pretend like you didn't jump straight behind him! ↪︎ adam_norris_pure_electric you all are cleaning that pool ↪︎ thebride even me? 🥺 ↪︎ adam_norris_pure_electric not you, my dear, but if you could help cisca and sav with lunch? ↪︎ thebride absolutely! ↪︎ landonorris okay i get who's the favorite now ↪︎ olivernorris1 ^^ ↪︎ ciscanorris1 ^^ ↪︎ flonorris1 ^^

↪︎ user jumping into a pool at the end of the wedding party - nothing screams Norris more than that

liked by riabish, thebride, mattyp1 and 74.295 others quadrant when boss gets married, it means one thing. IT'S NEW MERCH TIME! 'Happily Ever After' is set to drop this Friday at 10.00am GMT, don't forget to put your alarm clocks on! (tagged landonorris, thebride)

↪︎ user the speed i put my alarm on

↪︎ user like i'd ever miss quadrant merch

↪︎ user getting married in two months, guess what will be a late-night party attire?!

liked by landonorris, lewishamilton, parishilton and 447.259 others thebride sorry it's not that new headset you wanted. hope this wedding gift works as well. welcome home, Fergus Bobby Norris (tagged landonorris)

↪︎ landonorris don't u dare to compare Fergie to a headset! he's the best gift i could ever receive. thank you for him, my love 🧡 liked by the author ↪︎ maxfewtrell jesus calm down man, it's a dog not a baby ↪︎ landonorris he is our baby! for now 😏 ↪︎ thebride 👀 ↪︎ maxfewtrell TMI! TMI!

↪︎ mclaren welcome to the family little guy! we'll make sure the factory is puppy-proofed before you come back from your honeymoon! liked by the author ↪︎ thebride 🧡🧡🧡

↪︎ oscarpiastri does that officially make me a dog uncle? liked by the author ↪︎ thebride of course! ↪︎ landonorris i guess so ↪︎ charles_leclerc but, but, what about leo?! ↪︎ oscarpiastri leo is my brother, not my nephew ↪︎ alex_albon this family tree's starting to be a bit complicated ↪︎ georgerussell63 no shit sherlock!

↪︎ alexandrasaintmleux playdate when? francisca.cgomes roscoelovescoco liked by the author ↪︎ thebride does AD work? ↪︎ francisca.cgomes works for me ↪︎ roscoelovescoco can't wait's for all the fun's!

↪︎ user OMG WE'LL GET A WHOLE PADDOCK DOG GANG TOGETHER! ↪︎ thebride shhh don't scream please, Fergie's sleeping 🤫 ↪︎ user ups, sorry my queen 🫡

[wendichester]

hello, i don't know if you take requests but I saw a tik tok where a teacher was getting ready for firefighter day at the school and I immediately imagined teacher reader and firefighter dean winchester

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMBsQnGn4/

I'm sorry for my english

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ stop, drop... and flirt,

summary. firefighter day but this year's edition features a calendar-worthy firefighter

pairing. firefighter!dean winchester x teacher!reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 542

notes / warnings. just shameless flirting

You don’t usually get flustered. You run a class of twenty-five chaos gremlins on sugar highs and zero impulse control. You handle scraped knees, forgotten lunchboxes, and glitter explosions like a seasoned general.

But today?

Today, Dean Winchester walks into your classroom in a firefighter uniform—and your brain promptly short-circuits.

You were told someone from the station would come talk to the kids about fire safety, give the ol’ “stop, drop, and roll” speech, let them play with the siren. You were expecting someone older. Possibly balding.

You were not expecting six feet of flirty smirk and forearms that could carry you like a sack of flour.

Dean tugs off his helmet as he steps in, raking a hand through messy hair. “Hope I’m not too early.”

You manage a blink. A nod. A sound that might be a word. “You’re… just on time.”

He flashes you a smile that should be illegal in a school zone. “You the teacher?”

You almost say, I can be whatever you want, but somehow swallow it down in time.

“Yes. I’m Ms. Y/L/N. And you’re…?”

“Dean. Station 34. I usually don’t do these things, but my buddy was out sick, so…” He shrugs, then adds, “Figured I’d come hang with the cool kids.”

“Right,” you say, doing your best to focus. “Fire safety. Stop, drop, and roll.”

“Yep,” he grins. “Though I gotta say, I might need a refresher on the ‘stop’ part. Not when you’re lookin’ like that.”

Your eyebrows shoot up.

“Excuse me?”

He steps closer. Just enough to feel the heat of him.

“So,” he says, voice lower now. “I know I’m supposed to teach kids about fire safety, but you?”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

“You’re kinda making me forget all the rules.”

You bite your lip, heart hammering. “That a line you use often?”

“Only when I mean it.”

You’re definitely blushing now. “Uh-huh. You gonna charm the kids like that too?”

“I dunno,” he teases. “Think they’ll appreciate a ‘damn, teach’ moment?”

You try—really try—not to laugh. You fail.

The kids love him, of course. He talks about fire drills and escape plans and even lets them sit in the driver’s seat of the truck out front. They cheer. They squeal. He winks at you at least three times, and each time it knocks a year off your life expectancy.

By the end, when your classroom is empty and the chaos has cleared, you find him lingering at the door, helmet back under his arm.

“Thanks for coming,” you say, arms folded, leaning against a desk.

He grins. “Thanks for not calling HR on me.”

“I thought about it.”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Hands it to you.

It’s a business card.

You raise a brow. “Calling in a fire?”

He shrugs. “Or dinner. Whichever comes first.”

You smile despite yourself. “You really don’t quit, huh?”

Dean winks. “You’ll get used to it.”

And just like that, he’s gone—leaving behind the faint smell of smoke, engine grease, and whatever cologne should be bottled and sold under the name trouble.

You glance down at the card, still warm in your hand.

Looks like Firefighter Day might become your new favorite school holiday.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[flemingology]

christmas request - you get sexy christmas lingerie and surprise leah with a lapdance (which inevitably leads to smut)

unwrapping you ─ leah williamson x reader

part of my christmas series. full masterlist here!

in which: you leave leah's best surprise for last

warnings: implied smut (18+), lap dance, language but also a whole load of fluff

wc: 3.9k

a/n: most unrealistic part in this fic is chicken soup and sandwiches being one of leah fav foods (god forbid that woman eats something colored). in other words... how does one write a lap dance????? this is not full-blown smut. i didn't really feel like including that in this series, but i hope i still did your request justice. <3

Your first Christmas with Leah had been perfect.

Your lover woke you up this morning to breakfast in bed, Leah wanting to make use of the fact she finally perfected the one recipe she knew – fluffy pancakes. You thanked her accordingly with a couple fierce kisses that soon turned into way more than either of you had planned, the two of you finally rolling out of bed a good two hours later, messy hair and flushed cheeks a testament to what you had been up to in bed.

You took a warm shower together, and then set foot outside for a light Sunday morning stroll through London's Christmas markets. You walked side by side, one hand occupied with holding Leah's, other hand nursing a hot chocolate. You took your time on each stall, admiring all the handmade ornaments, pieces of clothing and so many other things that were up for sale. You managed not to spend too much, not getting anything more than a small extra present for your sister and a cute little ornament you would add to your table decoration for the team dinner on New Year's Day.

Back home, you made a quick lunch. You heated up some leftovers from the night before, when you made chicken soup and some sandwiches, one of Leah's self-proclaimed favorite dishes that you made. You spent the rest of the afternoon lounging about, gliding from one Friends episode into the other, drifting in and out of sleep in each other's arms on the couch.

It wasn't until evening came around though, that the best part of the day took place. You had kept the best for last; the presents. Normally you weren't one to wait for the evening, but Leah claimed that it would be cozier, and you had to agree. Your apartment was coated in a warm glow from the mood lighting all around, a couple vanilla-scented candles adding to the cozy atmosphere, you and your blonde lover cuddled up on the couch, a pile of unopened presents ready to be attacked on your coffee table.

As promise to one another, neither of you went overboard. Leah had quite the tendency to spoil you, but you wanted none of that. And to your surprise, she actually stuck to her promise. There were 5 presents on the coffee table; 2 for your girlfriend and 3 for you. Unbeknownst to Leah, though, her 3rd and arguably best present of the night, was already unpacked and waiting for her under your layer of clothes.

A couple days ago, while Leah was at training, you ventured out into the busy streets of London for a final surprise for your girlfriend. You were more than happy with the two presents you had at hand, but you couldn't shake the thought in your mind that had been there for the past couple of weeks, to buy a new set of red, lace lingerie – one that you knew would drive her completely nuts.

So with that secret in mind, you and Leah started opening your presents. She insisted you opened the first one.

"For you, my love," she said, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as she handed you the first of her presents, the smallest one. You inspected the envelope, not able to make much from it on first glance. It looked elegant, though, a golden glow coming from the paper. You carefully opened the envelope, revealing a light green card with pastel accents. You couldn't really figure out what it was just yet, but with a little nudging from your girlfriend in the right direction, your eyes lit up as it dawned on you. "You booked us a weekend away?"

Leah nodded, a soft hum leaving her lips. "I know you've been wanting to get away for a little while," she started, taking one of your hands in hers. "I've been busy. You've been busy. But we can take a couple days for ourselves and for us. It'll be nice." Leah had a tentative look on her face, her eyes scanning yours, as if she was gauging whether you were actually happy with this.

Leah was right. The two of you had been extremely busy lately – your girlfriend's football schedule ramping up, and it seemed like the winter months had brought an influx of people wanting to buy estate, leaving you with a tremendous amount of work that you more often than not also took home.

You quickly gave Leah a fierce nod after you realized you got caught up in your thoughts, leaning towards her and pressing a soft kiss against her lips. "Thank you, I love this. I love you. We need it. It'll be good," you mumbled against her lips, your hand cupping her cheek and giving her another peck before you pulled away.

"My turn," you said excitedly. You grabbed the smallest one, a square box delicately wrapped in an elegant-looking black wrapping paper with silver accents. "This looks neat," Leah chuckled, and you bit your lip in apprehension as you handed her your first present. Unlike you, Leah wasn't so delicate with unwrapping presents. She was all ripping and tearing, nothing graceful about her movements. She'd never been a patient one when it came to things like these, and in all fairness, you couldn't blame her. Forever a kid at heart, Leah loved presents.

You got pulled out of your thoughts when you heard a faint gasp escaping your lover's throat. You searched Leah's eyes for any emotion but you couldn't read it, your heart starting to beat a little faster. "Babe, this is...," Leah inspected her present a little closer, "this is gorgeous." She carefully lifted the golden watch out of it's holder and held it in the light, the timepiece brightly reflecting the cozy hue in your apartment.

You'd first gotten the idea when you noticed Leah was online shopping the other day, looking for a new watch. You knew she liked to have a couple, alternating between them based on what outfit she'd wear. She'd been speaking about a new golden one for a while now, the one she had had lasted its time and she wanted a new one. Ever the observer, you'd made a mental note. A perfect Christmas gift.

Leah sported a bright smile, her gaze now pointed towards you. "Thank you, I've been looking at getting a new one, this is perfect," Leah took your hand in hers and gave it an appreciative squeeze, putting the watch back in it's holder and carefully placing the box back on the coffee table. "You could wear it with the black suit you have for New Year's Eve, it'd look really good," you said softly, Leah replying with nothing more than a suggestive wink.

Your blonde lover reached back over to the presents, grabbing a little silver bag and handing it to you. "We're staying in theme," Leah chuckled. You raised your eyebrows at her before your fingers made quick work of untying the knot, revealing a fine, silver necklace with a little L on. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips as you took in your present, admiring the way it glistened. "I know this seems like I'm basically claiming you, but I wouldn't have bought you this if you hadn't told me about a million times that you wanted one of these."

You let out a breathy laugh, throwing your head back against the couch. "Just for the record, I have no problem with you claiming me." You locked eyes with your girlfriend and saw a little twinkle in hers, to which you surged forward and pressed a firm kiss against her lips. "Thank you. You wanna help putting it on?" Leah nodded eagerly and twisted her body towards yours, clasping the necklace around your neck. Her fingers ghosted over the L that now hung between your collarbones. She kissed your lips once more, lingering a little before she pulled away again and sat upright.

Your next present for Leah was something you knew she'd be over the moon with. Arsenal through and through, your girlfriend had been collecting vintage Arsenal kits ever since you remember. Signed, worn, match kits, training kits, your wardrobe was full with her Arsenal memorabilia. There was one missing though, Arsenal's home shirt from the 2005/06 season, their last year at Highbury. You stumbled across it on Vinted a couple months ago and couldn't believe that it hadn't been picked up yet. The shirt was in perfect state, Thierry Henry's name and number splayed out on the back of it. You paid no mind to the price and ordered it immediately, knowing just how happy your girlfriend would be with it.

You passed her your second present. She felt around a little. "It's definitely clothing." She fumbled around a bit longer with the wrapping paper, before you interrupted. "Le, baby, how about you just open it and see what's inside instead of guessing." Her cheeks blushed a faint red but she complied nonetheless, once again very ungracefully tearing away at the wrapping paper.

Leah's eyes widened and her jaw dropped as she took sight of the burgundy shirt. You couldn't really tell with the lack of proper lighting in the room, but you swear you saw a couple unshed tears in her eyes. She quickly made work of the plastic layer around the shirt, holding it up in front of her. "Check the back," you said softly, reaching out towards your girlfriend and resting your hand on her leg that was slightly bouncing, testament to her excitement.

Leah turned the shirt around and you saw her smile growing impossibly bigger. "Babe, genuinely, what the fuck." You chuckled and shuffled closer to her, leaning your head on her shoulder and admiring the shirt along with her. "Nice one, eh?" Leah turned her face towards you and she cocked an eyebrow. "Nice? This isn't just 'nice', this is incredible," Leah scoffed. She turned the shirt back around, feeling the fabric, checking the label, as if she was still not sure whether this was real. "God, you've outdone yourself, y/n. I can't top this."

A smile tugged on the corners of your lips, pressing a soft kiss against Leah's cheek. "I knew you'd love it." Leah folded the shirt neatly and put it down on the coffee table next to the watch, turning her body towards yours. She cupped your cheeks and pressed a tender kiss against your lips, saying so much more than words could grasp. "You're amazing. I love you so much."

Leah pecked your lips another couple times before she retreated and set back against the armrest of the couch. "If I knew an Arsenal shirt was all it would take for you to be so expressive with you love, I wouldn't have waited this long," you said teasingly, earning a grunt and a playful swat at your thigh from your lover. "I am expressive with my love. Don't start on me!" A light giggle fell from your lips and waved away any further protest by grabbing Leah's hand and pressing a soft kiss against her palm. "You've got one more from me," Leah announced giddily, removing her hand from yours and grabbing the final present from the table. "This one's a bit more... sentimental."

You raised your eyebrows at your girlfriend, trying to read anything into her expression, but failing. "Sentimental...," you pried. "Yeah. Just open it. You'll see." You took the present from Leah's hands, the package laying relatively heavy in your hands. You carefully unwrapped it, each tear of the paper revealing a little more of Leah's final present. Eventually, you realized what it was. A handmade book of the last three years of your relationship. The book was littered with polaroids, screenshots of messages, souvenirs from places you went together, movie tickets, little notes you left for her to find on days you were out the country, and so many more. You could feel a stray tear making its way down your cheek as you scrolled your way through the book, catching it as quick as possible before it could fall on the paper and ruin anything. "Gosh, Leah,..." you mumbled, "sentimental is one way to put it, yeah," you said, muttering out the words past the obvious lump in your throat, sniffling a couple times as the memories unfolded underneath your fingers.

"You like it?" Leah's voice sounded small, and it almost agitated you, because you didn't even know how to begin voicing to her how much this meant to you. Leah wasn't one for the big romantic gestures, nor was she very showy with her affection, so for her to do something like this, to put so much time and effort into handcrafting this, it meant the world to you. You lifted your head and locked your gaze with your girlfriend's, a small frown etched between your eyebrows. "Le, please,..." you breathed, "do I like it?" You scoffed, and shook your head lightly at how ridiculous you found the question. "This means so much to me, Leah, you know that." You felt the blonde nudge a little closer to you, resting her head on your shoulder and looking at the polaroid your fingers seemed to linger on. "Remember that night?" she said softly, pressing a soft kiss against your shoulder.

"Of course I do," you said matter-of-factly. It was a polaroid you'd taken on the first time Leah slept over at your apartment. You'd been over at hers plenty of times, but somehow her sleeping over at yours felt like a step up. She'd come over and brought your favorite Italian take-away. Initially you both insisted on cooking together, but a long day at respectively football and work lulled you both into the comfort of having a meal prepared for you. You lounged on the sofa for what felt like hours, talking about everything and nothing until you settled for watching a film wrapped in each other's embrace. Somewhere during the night, though, you felt like the air had shifted a little. Touches lingered a little longer, kisses were a little sloppier, leading to the first time you made love to one another later that night. It was messy, clumsy and very nervous, but it was perfect. Perfect, because it was yours.

The memories flooded your mind and you couldn't help the jolt of arousal that coursed through your body upon remembering the events of that night. You leaned your head against Leah's, pressing a kiss against her temple. "As much as I would love to look through all of this right now, I've got one last present for you," you said softly, coaxing her head off your shoulder, carefully closing the handmade book and placing it on the coffee table. You tried to ignore the little insecurity that crept underneath your skin when you thought about Leah's final present. Deep down, you knew she'd love it, but you always felt a little apprehensive about things like this. The lingerie was one thing, the lap dance you were planning on giving her a whole other. "Another one? But it's not on the table?" Leah's eyes scanned around the room, clearly confused as to where you could've hidden another present. "It's not there, Le," you chuckled at the expression on her face. "It's upstairs. You stay here, I'll be right back," you put a hand on her chest and gave her lips a chaste kiss, standing up from the couch and making your way up the stairs before she could quip back a response.

You thanked your former self for having already put on the lingerie before Leah came home this afternoon, one less thing to worry about now in your nervous state. You slipped off Leah's your hoodie and sweatpants you'd been wearing, your girlfriend insisting that she wanted you to spend tonight in cozy clothing. You braved a look at yourself in the full-length mirror in your bedroom, and you felt some of the insecurities melt away. You looked good. The lingerie hugged your body in all the right places, accentuating all the curves you knew Leah loved so much. The longline bra was snug around your waist, the lace perfectly outlining the curve of your breasts. The thin red bottoms left little to the imagination, the waistband – accentuated with a little ribbon – just underneath your belly button. They gave prominence to your strong, tanned legs, likely your favorite thing about this set. You gave yourself an appreciative nod and pulled a robe out of your shared wardrobe, draping it over your half-naked body, giving Leah an extra layer to take off. You quickly decided to also pull a pair of red heels out of your wardrobe, putting them on and making your way out of the bedroom before you could doubt your choice of footwear. You stood at the edge of the stairs and took a steadying breath before you started making your way down. The clicking of your heels alerted Leah immediately, not able to delay her seeing you until you were downstairs.

Her eyes widened in surprise as she took in your outfit, and she put her phone down that she was mindlessly scrolling on to pass some time while you were upstairs. You could see a little glint in her eyes as you took the final step of the stairs, making your way back over to the couch at a tantalizingly slow pace. The air had most definitely shifted, Leah's intense gaze locking with yours as you slowed to a stop right in front of her. A smile tugged at your lips and you grabbed Leah's chin between your thumb and index finger, coaxing her face up towards yours and pressing a dizzying kiss against her lips. "I told you I had one final present," you mumbled against her mouth. "Why don't you discover what's underneath this robe?" You softly bit Leah's bottom lip as you let go of her lips, a lust-filled haze now clouding her eyes as she thought about what could be underneath the robe.

Leah's fingers made quick work of the knot tied around your waist, leaving the piece of clothing to fall to the ground, revealing your lingerie. "Oh," Leah's breath hitched in her throat and you would've grown insecure about her reaction if you hadn't seen the twinkle in her eyes. You were hit by a flurry of confidence and you twirled around, shaking your ass a little while your back was facing her before you turned back to face her. "Fuck, babe, this is..." Your girlfriend's words got caught in her throat as she let her eyes rake over your body once more, making sure she wasn't dreaming. You'd worn lingerie for her a couple times, after she had voiced how much she'd love it if you tried a couple sets. But never had it been a thing outside of the bedroom. You'd worn lingerie sets, worn sets underneath robes for her to discover, but it always happened in the comfort of your own bed. This, though, was a next step. A slight blush coated your cheeks as you felt Leah's intense gaze on you. She reached out one of her hands and looked up to you apprehensively, "Can I?" A smile tugged at your lips and you let out a light chuckle. "I'm all yours."

Leah's hands roamed all over your body, from your waist, to your thighs, to your lace-covered breasts, your calves, your ass, your girlfriend didn't leave a spot untouched. It wasn't long before her touches grew needy, and you put a hand against her chest to stop her, not wanting the rest of her surprise to get lost in her own excitement. "Le, wait," you said. Her eyes flicked up to yours, and you noticed how wide her pupils had gotten. A smirk made its way onto your face as to what would happen next. "You've been so good to me. Let me do this for you, okay?" You didn't await Leah's response. Instead you pulled Leah forward a little, and turned your body around, spreading your legs sitting yourself down on her lap. You couldn't ignore the doubts that crept in your mind about what you were doing, because you had never done anything like this. You'd sat on Leah's lap, plenty of times, but you'd never given her a lap dance. You did your research, naturally, you even watched a couple videos – although you had to click those off due to the abundance of secondhand embarrassment you experienced. Either way, you tried to calm your nerves by thinking how much Leah would love this, no matter how good you were at it. She never failed to voice her love for your bum.

Pulling yourself out of your thoughts, you leaned your back against Leah's chest and gave a tentative roll of your hips against her lap. The slight hitch of your girlfriend's breath didn't go unnoticed to you and it gave you the fire in your belly to continue your ministrations. You started grinding your hips against hers in a steady but slow rhythm. You alternated between moves, gently bouncing up and down Leah's lap or popping your hips every now and then, every reaction you pulled out of your girlfriend fueling your confidence. You could sense Leah was a bit unsure as to what to do with her hands, but as the time went on and she felt herself getting more and more aroused, she started guiding your body along with her hands. She aided your movements, pushing you down against her hips, loving the way your behind brushed her core with every gyration of your hips.

A couple moments passed and an idea popped into your mind. You leaned back into your girlfriend, your head resting on her shoulder as you looked up towards her and your gazes locked, a small frown etched on your face that was driving Leah wild. You locked lips with her and you couldn't hold back the breathy moan that escaped your lips at the feeling of her mouth against yours. The kiss was messy, all tongue and teeth, and it perfectly encapsulated the building pressure between the both of you. You tried moving your hips in an eight-figure, which pulled a groan from your girlfriend. "You're driving me crazy," Leah whispered into your ear, softly nipping at your earlobe as she kept her hands firmly on your waist.

You let out a breathy laugh that soon turned into a whimper as Leah's hands moved up towards your breasts, palming them and placing kisses against your back as you rolled your hips back into hers. One of your arms was placed on Leah's thighs, holding yourself up, and you threw the other around your girlfriend's neck, letting your nails rake over the skin on the back of her neck. Your moves grew frantic as you felt arousal building in your core, your gyrations less measured and less precise, the more Leah's hands started to wander all over your body. Any remnants of your earlier insecurity long washed away, you were more than pleased with how your final present for your girlfriend turned out. "God, Le, you feel so good," you breathed out as you let your head fall to her shoulder once again, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. A particularly harsh thrust of your hips against hers caused Leah to groan again, digging her fingers into your sides as she whispered in your ear.

"Bedroom. Now."

[paucubarsisimp]

MASON REQUEST!!!

Could you write one where him and y/n get caught or overheard if u know what I mean

thin walls

pairing: mason mount x reader

summary: in which the villa you’re sharing with declan and lauren has very thin walls

warnings: VERY suggestive and almost smut

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, lmk if you want to be added!

a/n: not my best work :/ sorry love

the first thing you registered was the sunlight creeping through the thin curtains. the second was the ache in your legs.

the third… was laughter. loud, unfiltered, and far too smug for 8:00 a.m.

you groaned, rolling over to press your face into mason’s bare shoulder. he hummed sleepily and tugged you closer.

“they’re already up,” you mumbled.

“yeah,” he said, his voice still thick with sleep. “and judging by that laugh, they definitely heard.”

you froze for a second, heart sinking. “…you don’t think—”

“babe.” mason cracked one eye open, his hair a soft mess and his face still warm with sleep. “you literally said my name. like… screamed it.”

you flopped back onto your pillow, covering your face with both hands. “i want to die.”

“same,” he muttered, dragging a pillow over his face. “declan’s never gonna let me live this down.”

before either of you could spiral further, a knock landed on the door.

“mornin’, lovers,” declan’s voice rang out, far too cheerful for someone who had definitely just spent the night on the other side of a paper-thin wall. “hope you two got some rest… though, from the sound of it…”

mason let out a muffled groan from under the pillow.

you reached for the sheets, pulling them higher like they could protect you from the sheer embarrassment.

“you alright in there?” lauren’s voice chimed in next, teasing and sweet. “do we need to bring breakfast to you? or are your legs still working?”

you buried your face in mason’s chest and whispered, “i hate them.”

“same,” he whispered back, wrapping his arms around you. “but also… kinda proud of myself.”

you rolled your eyes, laughing against his skin. “of course you are.”

at breakfast

the kitchen was cozy and sunlit, the smell of toast and coffee filling the air. but none of that warmth compared to the heat on your cheeks as soon as you walked in.

declan was already grinning. lauren tried to keep a straight face, but one look at you and mason, and she burst out laughing again.

“good of you to join us,” declan said, leaning back in his chair with a smug tilt to his mouth. “we were starting to worry. didn’t know if you’d, y’know… be able to walk.”

mason didn’t say anything. just sat down across from him with a murderous glare and reached for the coffee like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

you slid into the seat next to him and tried to pretend the table wasn’t radiating secondhand embarrassment.

“look,” lauren said, still grinning, “all i’m saying is—thin walls. very thin.”

“traumatising,” declan added. “i had to hold lauren back from knocking on the wall.”

“declan!” you groaned, hiding your face in your hands again.

mason just muttered, “i need new friends.”

“you say that,” declan said, smirking as he took a sip of orange juice, “but you’re clearly too busy with her to go friend shopping.”

even mason couldn’t hold back the laugh that time.

you gave him a look. “don’t encourage him.”

“sorry,” he said, still smiling. “but that was kinda funny.”

later that evening

you were curled up on the couch in the living room, blanket over your legs and mason’s arm draped around your shoulders. declan and lauren were playing cards at the dining table, still giggling every so often like children with a secret.

“we need revenge,” you whispered.

“i know,” mason said. “i’m already working on it.”

you tilted your head. “oh yeah?”

he looked down at you with that familiar glint in his eyes. “next time they’re staying at ours… i’m buying a bluetooth speaker.”

you laughed. “you’re evil.”

he kissed your temple. “you love it.”

bonus:

friday – 11:48 p.m.

you knew the second mason mouthed “come here” from the bathroom doorway, shirtless and towel slung low around his hips, that sleep wasn’t happening anytime soon.

“mase,” you said, already breathless as he pulled you into him, “they’re literally down the hall.”

“then you’ll have to be quiet, yeah?” he murmured, hand slipping beneath the hem of your sleep shirt — his, obviously — as his lips brushed your neck. “we wouldn’t want them hearing how good i make you feel.”

you bit your lip, trying not to shiver as his fingers skimmed the inside of your thigh. “you’re such a menace.”

he smiled against your skin. “and yet, you keep coming back.”

you barely made it to the bed before he had you tangled in sheets, one hand pinning yours above your head, the other slipping under your waistband with the kind of slow confidence that comes with years of knowing exactly how to unravel you.

his voice was low, deep in your ear — “this all for me, baby?” — and you didn’t even try to keep the sound from your throat as his fingers traced just right.

he kissed you quiet. you wrapped your legs around his waist.

somewhere in the haze, he growled, “you’re not gonna last five minutes.”

you almost proved him wrong.

almost.

until—

creak.

click.

“hey, have either of you seen my—OH MY FUCKING GOD—”

you both froze.

mason’s head whipped around. you grabbed the sheet like your life depended on it.

“DEC?!” mason barked, half-naked, very much still inside your personal space.

“I DIDN’T KNOW—I—WHY ARE YOU—THE SHEET WAS MOVING—I NEED HOLY WATER—”

“GET OUT!” you and mason screamed in unison.

the door slammed. you heard a bang (probably his head hitting the wall in blind panic).

then dead silence.

you stared at the ceiling, mortified, chest still heaving from not the walk-in.

mason let out a shaky laugh. “we’re gonna have to burn this house down.”

you buried your face in his shoulder. “we can never show our faces again.”

“…was still kind of hot though.”

“mason!”

saturday – 9:30 a.m. – the kitchen

declan sat nursing his tea like it was medicinal.

you and mason strolled in like nothing happened. you in a smug hoodie and absolutely no shame. mason in sweats, shirtless, hair still messy.

“morning,” he said, biting into toast.

declan didn’t look up. “you two are demons.”

“why were you even up?” mason asked, innocent.

“i was looking for my charger,” he said, haunted. “and now i need a new set of eyeballs. and a therapist.”

lauren walked in and clocked the vibe immediately. “he walked in, didn’t he?”

you just nodded, sipping your coffee.

“oh, dec,” lauren sighed. “you never open their door. they’re feral.”

“i saw movement,” he said, staring into the distance. “her legs. his hand. the noises. the way he looked at me like I was the intruder.”

mason grinned. “you were.”

you leaned into the counter, stretching slightly — and yes, his eyes definitely dropped to the strip of skin at your hip. subtle. but there.

declan clocked it. “you’re doing it again. right in front of me.”

“what?” mason said innocently, licking a bit of jam off his thumb. “we’re just affectionate.”

“you were inside her less than twelve hours ago.”

“that’s love, mate,” mason said with a wink.

you raised your mug in cheers. “deep, committed love.”

declan stood up. “i’m gonna go walk into traffic.”

bonus 2:

two days later, a package arrived at your flat.

a note inside read:

*“here’s something to stop future trauma. love, your *scarred* best friend.”*

inside was a heavy-duty door lock and a white noise machine.

you sent back a voice note: “we’ll still be loud. x”

declan hasn’t responded since.

[bi-writes]

bestfriend!rooommate!simon finds out you've been lying.

more bff!roommate!simon (part 8/?)

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, mean!simon (verbally), size kink (simon can move the reader easily, described as much bigger), praise kink, the mask doesn't come off, oral (m!receiving), fem!receiving touching, cumplay, soft!dom!simon, reader uses simon to get herself off (because there is no universe in which simon doesn't return his girl's favor), pet names (including pet and kitty)

you lied.

if simon had his gloves off, his knuckles would be stark white from how hard he was gripping the mail in his hands.

neither of you had checked your mailbox in a while--simon had only returned a few days ago from the harsh winter of northern russia after weeks away, and you seemingly had been busy with work. so busy, simon noticed very quickly, that you spent morning to late at night in your red and white uniform, coming home in the dead of night just to crash and do it all again the next morning.

now he held all the letters in his hand. stacks of them, with angry red stamps bleeding into the white of the envelopes.

NOTICE

WARNING

PAST DUE

LAST NOTICE

he stopped breathing for a moment. he spread the letters out on the table, flipping through each of them. he didn't open them, of course but these were all your bills. cell phone, last month's half of the rent, credit cards, your name written on the back and ugly red warnings pasted over it.

simon had spoken to you while he was gone. he had called you once, twice at least, and all he remembered was your soft voice telling him you missed him, to be careful, that you screwed up a new cookie recipe that you promised you would perfect before he got home.

you hadn't said a thing. your voice had been even and gentle as always. your voice had been comforting, saying only encouraging words. if simon was honest, your voice put him at ease; you always told him something to calm him, something to uplift him.

"i'm so proud of you, simon."

"i hate that you're gone, but there's no one else that could do what you do."

"um...hah...love you. be careful."

you hadn't said a word. your voice didn't reveal an ounce of the stress and the weight that must've been hanging over your head. there was no falter in your words, no strain as you spoke. just pretty, perfect, beautiful you, easing simon's demons while you battled some of your own.

simon crumpled one of the envelopes in his hands. it was thick with papers, but he still forced it into a ball, tossing it back onto the table angrily. he gripped the edge of the table, white knuckling it until he heard the key in the lock.

it was quiet as you came inside. you shut the door and locked it behind you, setting down your bag and taking off your jacket. it was morning; you had worked the night shift. your eyes were drawn low, tired and a dull. you said nothing as you toed off your shoes, letting your sneakers settle under the table. it was then that you noticed simon just sitting there, still, with his hands folded in front of him.

and all of your bills scattered around him.

you sucked in a shaky breath, looking up into his eyes. they were trained low, on the letters surrounding him, but he glared, boring a whole through them. he didn't know where to focus his anger; you were precious, you could do no wrong, you were soft and warm and his, and it wasn't your fault that everything was so expensive, that you were struggling.

but it was your fault that you hadn't said a thing--that you hadn't asked for help.

"simon, i...i-i can explain."

"no. y'r not gonna talk, luv." you had never heard his voice this way. so low and gravelly, an eerie lilt to it that reeked of disappointment and somehow betrayal. "y'r gonna sit down. now."

simon roughly pulled the chair from beside him out, an unspoken command for you to take a seat. your bottom lip trembled as you slumped into the chair, watery eyes avoiding his.

"how long?"

"simon--"

you jumped as he slammed a hand down on the table. the entirety of it shook, the papers ruffling and the dishes clattering loudly.

"a few months! a-a few months, just--"

"no!" simon snapped. "y'lied to me. y'lied to me! i asked! how many times have i asked?! how many times have i looked you in the fuckin' eye and asked you if everythin' was in order, how many fuckin' times?!"

you couldn't keep it in. the tears were hot, running down your cheeks and putting salt on your lips and a dryness in your throat. you were embarrassed. embarrassed that you needed help, ashamed that you were being scolded like a child, afraid of his loud voice and his terrible anger and the way he looked at you. when you decided to live together, you weren't meant to be his burden. you didn't intend to be his problem.

"i-i'm sorry, simon--i'm sorry..." you met his eyes. "i'm taking extra shifts. i-i'm gonna pay the bills, i-i'm gonna make it right, i-i swear--"

"is that what you think this is?"

he narrowed his eyes at you, two dark slits, and then as if a switch flipped, it was gone. his face softened, his eyes widening, and the tension seemed to dissipate just enough to let you breathe a little easier. you couldn't decipher this change, and you couldn't read what was in his eyes, not this time. all you could was sit there and try not to let your cries make any sound.

"do y'think i'm angry because y'didn't pay? is that what y'think?"

you shook your head, shrugging, not understanding his question.

"what...what other reason is there, s-simon?" you hiccuped. "i screwed..." more tears, they wouldn't stop falling, "i-i screwed up, simon, i-i'm so sorry, i-i--"

you jumped when his chair screeched against the floor. he stood up fast, taking a step to round the table to crouch beside your chair. he looked up at you, making himself smaller, and you looked down.

"simon, i'm sorry--"

"stop! stop fuckin' apologizing, fuck," simon interrupted you. his voice was gentle, trying not to scare you, and you closed your mouth, taking in deep, shaking breaths to try and center yourself. "'m angry because you didn't talk to me, luv--" your face fell when he reached up, two gloved hands cupping your puffy cheeks, "--why didn't you say anything? why didn't you tell me? why didn't you ask me for help?"

you sniffled, reaching up and caressing his wrists gently. you played with the edges of his gloves, your fingers skimming the hem of his sleeves and just barely teasing the bare skin under it.

"simon...how could i?" you asked, as if it was obvious. "after everything that's happened...after everything we've been through...h-how could i ask that of you?" "how could you not?" simon spit back, and when you tried to pull away, he tightened his grip on your cheeks. "no, no--look at me--" he rose up on his knees, pressing your forehead to his, "look at me."

your expression was pained, struggling to do as he asked, but eventually your eyes fluttered, meeting his own, and he grunted as he gripped the back of your neck and held you there.

nowhere to go. nowhere to run. no one else.

"y'r not my problem. not my burden," he muttered. "y'r m'responsibility. mine to take care of."

"i-i don't want you to have to do that--"

"what the fuck do y'think this is?" he breathed. "what we have, what this is, this is forever, has that not gotten through y'r bloody head?" you whimpered when he shook you a little, his hand in your hair as he pulled it tight. "y'r as good as mine. not up for discussion."

you swallowed hard as his hands came down, wiping the tears off your face. he brushed your hair back and away, so he could see you, and you smiled at him sadly, eyes glossy and bright.

"'m gonna take care of the flat from now on, yeah?" simon murmured. "'m gonna take care of everything."

your body visibly relaxed. your shoulders fell, your body sinking a little more into the chair, and there was something sweet in your eyes--something hopeful. simon's tone was definite, and there was no room for arguing. you nodded finally, leaning in slowly, pressing a delicate kiss to where his lips would be under the mask. his thumb swiped over your cheek, falling to trace the line of your jaw, and then you both closed your eyes at the same time.

there was an understanding here. it was as if simon was washing you clean--something refreshing and warm and gentle running down the length of you, rinsing whatever was hurting you right down some sort of sickening void that had gripped you so tightly. and he did it so easily--he did it without even blinking.

and it was easy. simon never hesitated with you. his money rotted in an account anyways--it sat and stared at him, reminding him of the kind of hell he had gone through just to get it. it reminded him of the half of him that was someone, the half of him that he hated, the half of his being that came from a wretched, horrid, terrifying thing that manifested itself somewhere in his blood.

simon was half of something foul, and maybe he couldn't make up for the part of him that he didn't think was human, but he could make up for this, make up for you, make up for whatever half of you had left you here. because that was what you deserved--you deserved to be taken care of, you deserved not to worry, you deserved to sleep in soft sheets and eat until your belly was full and smile so much that your cheeks ached, and if simon had to become someone else just to give it to you, if simon had to die and come back again, then that was exactly what he would do.

simon had died once already. simon had seen it--seen how empty and unfulfilling and quiet it had been. simon had seen another side, and you didn't belong there. you belonged somewhere warm. somewhere a little noisy, a little bright, familiar.

it hadn't always been this way. when simon first met you, it hadn't been a good day--simon wore bruises, and you wore blood, and it was in that instant moment of understanding that made it clear you would be bound forever.

something invisible threaded you together. and simon had pulled himself out of his early grave, and after he had done it, you were the only thing that remained. and he hated himself--he hated himself for thanking some unspoken thing, because his entire family was gone, but you weren't gone, you were still here, there was still sunlight in your eyes and laughter in your voice and you were still warm.

it should've tasted sour to be grateful for it. he wanted to hate himself for this feeling. he deserved to die again and not return, but then he wouldn't get to see you anymore, and the selfish part of him, the other half of him, would never give you up willingly.

this love was visceral. this love was going to kill him. he was going to die with you on his mind, but maybe that would be the only thing worth really dying for.

because there you are. big, pretty eyes gazing up at him--fuck, why does she look at me like that?

why does she look at me like i mean something?

why isn't she afraid?

why can't i push her away?

what the fuck is wrong with me?

his beautiful girl. his pretty little roommate. the woman with flowers for eyes and silk as skin and a mind filled with starlight. the sweetheart pushing him to sit, forcing him backwards, getting on her knees in between his legs. and then her hands were on his thighs, sliding up against the rough denim as she laid one side of her face against it, those petals in her eyes trained on the way that his pants seemed to get tighter with every drag of her delicate fingers up his thighs.

and then she was pushing up his hoodie, exposing the relaxed muscle of his stomach, and then she was kissing it. soft lips warming the solid middle of him, a knowing smile growing on her face as she felt him twitch and jump and grunt. and then those beautiful eyes were looking back up at him, her neck tilted back as she undid his jeans and nestled the hem of them just low enough for her to reach in and fuck--

you knew simon was beautiful everywhere. you knew that there was no part of him that wasn't perfect. you couldn't remember being particularly religious, but kneeling in front of him felt like devotion--and you had much to confess.

he was thick, heavy, a weight in your hand that had you drooling without so much as seeing him. you were looking at the red tip of him with eyes half-lidded, and it took everything in you not to take him all at once. but this was simon, this was your version of perfect, and you needed to show simon how much you felt because words were not enough.

words would never be enough.

you started slow. you dipped your head, your eyes flicking up to watch him as you caressed the base of him with a wet kiss. you squeezed your legs together when you noticed his dark eyes roll back into his head for a second, a pained, pleasured reaction, and then you did it again.

a soft lick, the edge of your tongue sliding over a protruding vein on the underside of his length, and you closed your own eyes for a moment to revel in the deep groan that simon uttered. you sighed deeply, keeping your thighs squeezed together to relieve the sudden ache between them, before flattening your tongue and guiding it up his length. simon cursed under his breath, his hands gripping his thighs tight--but one of his hands flew to the back of your head when your greedy little mouth sucked the tip of him into your mouth.

you moaned softly, tasting the edge of him, something so simon and pleasant. a little precum, warm, flowing onto your tongue. you whimpered when you felt his fingers tangle into your hair, gripping you for stability as you sucked him in.

"christ, luv--" just the sound of him so pleased was enough to have you dripping, "fuck--'s so good, 's perfect--"

she was so beautiful. she was perfect. of course she would be good at sucking him off, of course she would have the prettiest tongue and the warmest mouth, and of course she would have one hand wrapping around the base of him as the other slipped between her legs--

"fuck--y'r gettin' off on this, yeah?" he grunted, his eyes flashing with something dark. "'f course you are, such a good girl--"

good girl, good girl, i'm a good girl--

just as slow as it began, as quick as you became. one moment you were cool, composed, watching simon's eyes and listening to his voice as you tried to memorize what pleasure sounded like when it came from him, and the next moment you were sliding him further into your mouth, drool dripping down your jaw as precum spread across your teeth. he was so big--so much to take, but the strain in your jaw tomorrow would have to be a welcome side effect to making lieutenant simon riley cum down your throat.

so sloppy, what a mess you were making. simon's hand now cupped the side of your head, your hair in some makeshift updo as he guided you along his length. the sounds were filthy--soft, slobbering noises as you took simon just a little further down your throat, your tongue being careful to tease the slit of him, slipping between the fold of it to illicit the most gorgeous of moans out of him.

"fuckin' hell--the mouth of a fuckin' angel--"

"such a pretty girl...such a pretty sight...makin' such a mess, sweetheart..."

"y'like it, yeah? y'like it...y'r so pretty...s'pretty, luv, nnngh--th's it, just like that--"

and now you were bouncing pathetically onto your hand. you pressed your hand into the floor, trapping your thighs over it as you tried desperately to grind down on something as you sucked warmly on simon's length. just as you let out a frustrated whine, simon's boot knocked your hand out of the way, slipping the steel toe of it right there, right--oh!

you cried out as the tip of his boot pushed right up against your cunt. the perfect spot, right against your aching clit, because simon never missed--simon always hit his target, whether it was between the eyes of some muppet who had his gun aimed at johnny or exactly where to touch his girl to make her drool. and drool she did--with her mouth stuffed full of him, with her slick wetting her thighs, with that look in her eyes that could make any man lose his fucking mind.

and simon was losing it, he was crazy. he soothed the back of your neck, grunting and hissing and wetting the fabric of his mask with the way he spat and cursed for you. but how could he help himself? the most beautiful girl in the world was on her knees, looking at him like she was at the alter. confessing her sins, receiving her absolution, taking every bit of it like the good girl she was, is.

he was so pretty. he tasted so good. you could only see his eyes, but it was more than enough, you didn't need anything more. the way he scrunched them open and shut, the low drawl of his voice as he said your name--he was perfect. his cock filled your mouth so nicely; he was using you, but you didn't feel used.

you wanted this. you wanted him. you wanted him to put you between his legs, wanted him to finally feel something other than that sick, twisted ache in his bones.

you lifted your hand, the one that had been buried between your thighs, and you cupped the underside of him with them. the wet, sticky warmth of your fingers had simon choking on a breath, hissing when you began to work the length of him that you couldn't fit in your mouth.

"jesus fuckin' christ--!"

his chest was heaving, rising up and down as he scratched at your scalp and cupped the underside of your jaw. then he bent low, smoothing a gloved hand down your throat, needing to feel the way it constricted, the way you swallowed, the feel of your skin and the vibrations as you whimpered and moaned around the thick of him.

you were suckling so sweetly, letting pools of drool and precum slip past your lips and drip along your chin, your hands, against his boot. simon was getting close--you could tell by the way he tugged on your hair and the faltering of his breaths. and he was talking--talking so much, blubbering.

"aye, sweetheart--th's it..."

"fuckin' hell...nnnghh...feel like bloody heaven..."

"...see you in m'dreams, luv...aghh! fuck--fuck, fuck, fuck--"

you didn't think there was anything more attractive than watching simon lose control. but you weren't doing much better. as you sucked the salt from his cock, you slid your hips over his boot to relieve the ache between your thighs even just a little. you thought maybe it was a pathetic sight, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. you fit your cunt right up against him, nestling the tip of his toes against your clit so you could rock back and forth, soaking the leather with you.

simon grunted, chuckling a bit to himself as you watched you suck a little harder, a little sloppier, move your hips a little messier. you were like a sweet, doe-eyed puppy--all big eyes and soft mewls and nothing inside your head except suck, suck, suck--

you whined when he came into your mouth. you held out your tongue, massaging the middle of his cock as he dripped along your mouth, your lips, under your tongue, against your chin. and like the messy little girl you were, you kept suckling on the tip until simon gripped you by the back of the head and lifted you up off the ground, grunting as he roughly manhandled you into his lap.

"little kitty can't help herself...what a fuckin' mouth on ya..."

and then his fingers were gathering the cum on your face and slipping it back into your mouth--just as the fingers on his other hand plunged inside of you.

he was deep, thick gloved fingers taking up even more space, stretching your pulsing, gummy cunt as you gripped his shoulders and cried. little tears coming down your face as you chased that blissful high, begging simon to give it, give it, you need it.

it didn't take much. just a few rough touches of your puffy clit, and you were soaking his gloves, whining as you pressed your cheek to his and mumbled how good he felt, how everything hurt so nice.

a pounding, aching thing that was gone in a matter of seconds, throwing you in a pleasure-drunk mood, with your head rest against his shoulder and your breaths coming out heavy and languid.

your eyes fluttered, but your vision was just clear enough that you could see simon lift the front of his mask. you caught the line of deep scar, something a healed and vicious against his pretty face. then it was gone, replaced by the sight of him slipping his gloved fingers into his mouth and sucking on them, pink tongue coming out to taste them as he slurped at the gooey mess you made on them.

you saw the slightest hint of a smirk before the fabric came back down again.

"'s alright, pet--" simon's voice was low, a drawl to it that made his accent a bit more pronounced. and just as your eyes fluttered shut completely--

"'m right here, kitty."