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xndrpndr · 2 months ago

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The Final Mix

A/N: Written for a prompt by @woollypoison. Much love for hosting! This is also my first time officially writing smut. Enjoy!

Karina & Hyeri x Male Reader Smut

5.7k words

Now here’s the thing about Lee Hyeri:

She gets it.

She’s loud, she’s lazy, and she’s casually filthy, sure. But she doesn’t pretend this is about attachment or romance or whatever else people try to slap onto a good fuck. She moans like a banshee, curses like she’s getting paid by the word, and she’ll laugh in your face if you try to call this passion.

It's not passion. It's Tuesday.

You like her for that. That, and the fact that she squirts like a pornstar and doesn’t mind doing it on company time.

Desk, floor, couch, conference table—pick your battlefield. She’ll bring the war. (And open the floodgates.)

Today’s bout happens to be in your vocal booth.

Or, happened, rather.

“Don’t fall asleep in here,” you remind her, yanking your pants up. “You drool on anything expensive and the label’s gonna think I adopted a stray.”

“Hah,” she laughs dryly. “You owe me lunch, for that one. Or, I dunno, a lozenge. I can’t feel my throat.”

You snort, still half-naked, still sweating—absolutely not in a position to debate sexual reparations.

Meanwhile, Hyeri’s lying across the vocal booth bench like it’s a fucking chaise lounge, panties twirling in her fingers, skirt still hiked up, and blouse open like the concept of modesty just doesn’t apply after three orgasms.

Which, it doesn’t, so you’ll give her that one.

There’s sweat on her chest and something else between her thighs—it yours, obviously—and she’s tracing lazy circles around her navel with one red-tipped nail. “I really think I hit that harmony this time,” she muses. “Like... actually nailed it.” She is, of course, referring to the song you’re supposed to be recording and not the chorus of moans she let out as she came all over you.

You shoot her a sceptical look, shoving a cable out of your way with your foot, hunting for wherever your belt got thrown off to. “You moaned through half of it.”

“Artistic expression,” she shrugs, reaching for a tissue. “Adds texture.”

“It adds me spending an hour editing out your sex noises,” you grimace, pulling your belt out from where she's hidden it under her. “That or we schedule another day to record.”

“Oh no,” she mocks, wiping your cum from between her thighs. “Not post-production work—y’know, the thing you’re paid to do. But,” she’s thinking now, tapping her chin with a finger, “you would like another day with me all to yourself, now wouldn’t you?”

You flick her the bird as you slip back into your button-up. She smiles like she’s won something. She has, technically. Three times, in fact. The first when you ate her out on the bench. The second when she rode you on said bench. And the third against the booth wall, displacing soundproofing with a leg around your waist, your cock in her cunt, and a finger in her ass for good measure.

But unlike your little sexcapade with Hyeri, this was supposed to be quick.

Track the bridge, tweak her verse, maybe do a dry run of the group chorus. Nothing that warranted sweat-slick skin and a room that smells more potent than a fish market. But with Hyeri, quick is theoretical. She’s chaos and lust wrapped in short skirts and high heels—all while masquerading as the Nation's Little Goody-two-shoes.

And then, like the universe itself is showing its disapproval for your pseudo-professionalism, your phone buzzes.

12:15 PM – Karina | Vocal Tracking

“Shit.”

You have exactly thirteen minutes to unfuck the studio.

Hyeri doesn’t look up, popping a mint and digging in her bag for lipstick. “What now?”

“Karina’s coming.”

She looks up. There’s a beat. Then she laughs—not shy, not sorry.

Delighted.

“Did you schedule us back-to-back, again?” she asks, sitting up, buttoning her blouse like it’s a suggestion and not an obligation. “Jesus, you’re bold.”

“I forgot,” you admit, which is true. Sort of.

You remembered the moment Hyeri finished singing the bridge. But when the Nation’s Little Sister is in your vocal booth moaning into the mic and flashing her tits, your list of priorities gets jumbled just a teensy bit.

She cackles, sliding off the bench and onto the floor like this is all the setup to a really good punchline. “Wow. Can’t wait for her to sing backup on the chorus while standing in a puddle of my cu—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

Hyeri holds her hands up. “What? It’s a collab.”

Right. The collab. Two idols, one producer, and a track about heartbreak or temptation or something equally ironic. Not to toot your own horn or anything but the beat’s good. An obvious hit.

What makes no sense is the lineup.

Hyeri—basically retired idol turned variety darling turned actress. 90% charm. 100% chaos.

Karina—hot as all fuck, a pillar of fourth-gen K-pop, and somehow still the weirdest girl in the room. ‘A loser in a goddess’s body’ as the internet puts it.

There’s absolutely no correlation between the two other than industry and that they’re both drop-dead gorgeous. It’s like some wacky higherup wanted the most oddball idol pairings possible. And for some reason, you’re the glue holding it all together.

The calendar notification flashes up at you again, sending you hurtling into action. “Fuck, I really thought it was just you today,” you scramble, grabbing the tissue box and frantically wiping off the bench drenched in her sweat and fluids. “Are you gonna help?”

Hyeri just shrugs. “I had bridge duty,” she begins, ignoring your pleas entirely. “And Karina’s laying down the second verse, right?”

“Yeah,” you reply, dejected and slightly annoyed. She’s not doing shit. “Just…” you begin, like this makes up for anything,”— don’t leave your bra again.”

She pauses, looking down at her chest like she only just remembered she owns one. “Shit—did I?”

You both spot it at the same time in the far corner of the room. Lace, red, costs three figures. Definitely hers. You snatch it like it’s a grenade and shove it into her tote without ceremony.

Hyeri simply grins. “Oops.”

“Can’t believe you left it in the booth last week,” you hiss. “Karina walked in and asked if you were doing your laundry in here.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That you got hot.”

“That’s not even a good lie,” she replies, quite obviously amused by the whole fiasco. “You should’ve said I was doing vocals in lingerie—very French. Very sexy.”

“Very suspension-of-contract,” you mutter.

“Barely noticed it was gone, to be honest. Was it the black one?”

“...Yes.”

“Mm,” she nods. “Thought so. I’ve been wondering.”

“For a week?”

“I’m not particularly sentimental about bras,” she says, like it’s a flex.

You shake your head. “Do you want it back?”

“Nope. Keep it,” Hyeri zips her tote with a smile, “as a memento.”

You shrug. Can’t argue with that.

With one last wipe you finish scrubbing down the vocal booth like it’s a crime scene clean-up, which, given your contractual obligations such as: Don’t Fuck The Talent, might actually be.

Three sprays of some bergamot mist tries to mask the smell of sex, sweat, and the lastest in your long line of poor decisions. It doesn’t. At best, now it smells like bergamot and sex.

But it’ll have to do.

Hyeri simply watches from her place on the floor. She’s mostly dressed now—blouse crumpled but closed, lipstick redrawn, auburn hair finger-combed into something that says either sexually satisfied or hungover. Almost normal is how you’d describe her—the faint marks just visible above her collar put an emphasis on the almost.

With a couple more sprays of the citrus you and Hyeri are out of the booth, but you’re desk is a mess too: A tangle of wires, half drunk coffee and—

The recording light is still on.

The waveform’s still rolling.

The track: armed. The booth: live.

You lunge for the keyboard.

Stop recording.

Three peaks. Clear as day.

You don’t need audio engineering school to know what they are. You’re staring at the literal shape of her orgasms.

“Wow,” she says, squinting beside you. “It’s like… orgasmic morse code.”

You glance at her. “The fuck does that even mean?”

“Dunno,” she shrugs. “Sounded smarter in my head.”

You look back at the waveform, playing one of the peaks.

No vocals. No takes. Just moans. Whines. Wet, slick sounds. You. Her. You in her. And then:

“Oh my fucking Gggggggod,” she moans through the monitors.

Hyeri watches your face. Smiles.

“I should delete it,” you say looking back.

“But you won’t.”

“But I should.”

“But you won’t.”

She’s right. You won’t.

Instead:

Export > Documents > Private > ALT_Hyeri_Vocals.wav

“Ooooh,” she sings, nudging you with her shoulder, a little too pleased. “Wait, alt vocals? Not even a cute name? Not even ‘HyeriMOANS_FinalVII_REALFINAL_usethisone.wav’?”

“It’s for the back-up vocals,” you lie as naturally as you breathe.

“It’s for your spank bank,” she retorts.

You don’t answer. Partly because she’s right and mostly because you’re red from realizing how much you moaned, too. Not your finest hour, you’ll admit.

“Shouldn't you be going?” You finally ask her.

“Fine, fine.”

With one last devious smile, Hyeri pulls on her tote, checks her reflection in the black of the studio glass, and re-combs her hair. “Well,” she says, turning to leave, “have fun explaining our completely professional relationship to Karina.”

“What? Why would I ever—”

“Oh come on,” she cuts in, laughing. “These fourth-gen girls? You think they’ve never walked into a studio that smells like cum and perfume? Please. I’d seriously be surprised if she hasn’t picked up on it by now.”

“Hyeri.”

“I’m serious. She’d have to be Mother Teresa to not know what’s going on in here.”

You’re mortified. Full-body cringe—It’s delicious to her. “So, unless she’s got a cross under her clothes, you’re not fooling anyone.”

You go pale. She beams.

“You couldn’t have told me this earlier?”

She pretends to think for a second before landing on a simple:

“Nope.”

At the door, she turns, planting a kiss on your cheek—sweet, sinful, smug. “Good luck,” she sings. “See you next week.”

And just like that she's gone.

You’re completely frozen. Save for the moment you spray the bergamot again.

Five times this time.

Spoiler alert:

It doesn’t help.

Karina arrives at 12:16.

Which is a little late. But when your producer’s secretly been balls-deep in your sexy co-worker, and your body has curves that put cue balls to shame, a little late is just fine.

She pokes her head in, hair in a low ponytail, gray hoodie and sweatpants on, face bare save for chapstick and what you hope is not suspicions of contract violations.

“Hey,” she chirps, offering a small smile. One of those slow, polite things that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Traffic was a nightmare. Did I miss anything?”

Only a live porno starring your dick and Hyeri’s everything.

“Nope,” you lie, voice almost cracking. “Perfect timing.”

She steps inside like she owns the place, which is fair, considering her vocals are probably worth half your paycheck this quarter. Then, she gives you a quick once-over—nothing obvious, but her eyes pause on your sloppy collar, then your flushed ears. You sit up straighter. Try not to look like you’ve just been reverse-exorcised by a woman with zero gag reflex.

Then Karina sniffs.

“New room spray?” she asks, nose wrinkling.

“Uh, yeah. Some limited edition one, I think. Intern picked it up for shits and giggles.”

“Huh.”

You try to make yourself look busy, turning away and absentmindedly double-clicking shit on your desktop, minimising and maximising random windows just to make your screen flash. You wish you could minimize yourself while you’re at it.

“You, uh… just finished with Hyeri?” she asks, looking over.

There it is.

You nod. Neutral. Casual. “Yeah. She was recording the bridge.”

“Mm.”

Just a sound, not even a word. And yet you can practically hear the subtext screaming: Bridge, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?

You shouldn’t be scared of her. Of all people, Karina is the probably least intimidating idol you’ve ever worked with—soft-spoken, professionally polite and always just a little behind the tempo of group conversations.

So then why the fuck does she manage to hit the nail on the head with every word out of that gorgeous mouth?

“I could tell,” she shrugs. “Smells like her.”

You cough so hard you hit a new vocal register.

But Karina doesn’t say anything. Just makes her way to the booth.

You’re about to ask if she wants water—anything to offset the tension and your crippling anxiety—when she peels off her hoodie.

And fuck you.

It’s not even that it’s scandalous. It’s a black sports bra. Basic. Functional. Nothing that should bring a grown man to his metaphorical and literal knees. It’s gym attire. But it’s her gym attire, and that makes a world of difference.

The bra doesn’t so much as hide her tits but politely suggest they quiet the fuck down, doing a noble yet futile job of containing what you really wish wasn’t. Because God damn if her breasts aren’t full, shapely—obscene in their perfection, indecent in their splendour. And if that weren't enough for you, right below her stomach tapers in, all sharp lines and lean muscle, just begging for you to run your hands and tongue along.

Karina tosses her hoodie onto the vocal booth bench—the same one you railed Hyeri on half an hour ago. She stretches, arms up, spine arched, that long line of torso on blatant, mouth-watering display. You pretend you’re checking the input levels, but your gaze keeps slingshotting back to her like it’s tied on elastic.

She catches you.

Which, yeah, you’re about as subtle as a cymbal crash.

“It’s really…  stuffy in here,” she remarks as she meets your staring gaze, fanning her face with one hand. “Something must have happened in here.”

Well, if she didn’t know earlier, then she definitely knows now. And she’s fucking with you to boot.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Your throat works around a lie. Futile, probably. Any moment now she could report your horny ass to a higher-up and have you on the street within minutes. But she hasn’t. So either she’s getting off fucking with you, or she wants something in return for keeping hush. Either one isn’t particularly ideal.

“A‑ah, yeah,” you stammer. Smooth start. “HVAC’s acting up. I’ll put in a ticket.” You flick a random knob that does absolutely nothing, praying she’ll drop it. “Let’s get your tracking done before the air gets worse, yeah?”

Karina nods. Noncommittal. Disbelieving.

Man, you’re so fucked.

Karina nails the verse on the first pass—pitch perfect, emotion dialled, consonants crisp enough to slice butter. And for a little while, you forget about her standing in a room soaked in Hyeri’s cum.

Second pass? Even better. Third? Pure polish. By the time you hit stop for real, you're covered in goosebumps and it has nothing to do with the prospect of losing everything.

Karina’s simply that good.

You press the talk‑back. “That’s the one. Seriously, Karina—gold. Take five?”

She lifts one ear‑cup and flashes a grin. “Sure.”

You breathe a sigh of relief when the conversation ends there. Maybe… just maybe… you’ve dodged a bullet.

You lean back, arms stretching over your head, casual as you can fake it. The worst is over. You’re in the clear. She probably bought the ventilation excuse. Probably thinks nothing of the citrus-and-sex sauna she walked into.

Professional crisis: averted.

Thank fuck.

Perhaps Hyeri’s wrong. Perhaps Karina’s a little too sweet, a little too spaced-out, a little too fourth-gen golden girl to know what a post-sex room smells like.

Karina hums a little under her breath, fiddling with her phone. She looks harmless. Normal.

Just a girl in a sports bra and sweats, checking her messages, laughing at a reel.

But then you let your gaze skate over her bare stomach again. Then those magnificent tits.

And you wonder how that would be possible.

You shake your head. Refocus.

“Seriously, you crushed it,” you say, half to fill the air, half to genuinely compliment. “Some of your best work, period.”

Karina beams, cheeks flushing pink. And for another second, it’s easy to forget the whole ticking-time-bomb nature of this room. To forget Hyeri’s cum still somewhere deep in the booth fibers. To forget everything except how fucking pretty she looks smiling at you.

You even start mentally scheduling next week’s sessions—like you’re gonna get away clean.

You’re an idiot.

Because then she ruins your fucking life.

“So,” Karina starts, tilting her head just slightly, “how long have you been fucking Hyeri?”

You choke on absolutely nothing. Do a spit-take with no drink.

She says it like it’s a joke. Like she’s asking if you’re out of oat milk.

Except she’s not joking.

Not even a little.

“I—I—what?”

“I mean, I’m assuming it’s Hyeri,” she muses, tapping a finger to her chin. "She did look pretty worn when I passed her in the lobby.”

You wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole. You wish you could eject yourself into the sun.

You wish she hadn’t said it with that much fucking glee.

“Don’t worry,” she says in a half-shrug. “I’m not gonna tell anyone if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Thank fuck.

“There is just one thing though…”

Oh fuck.

"I don’t really like being left out."

What the fuck?

"I want in."

What the fuck.

You stand up, pace around the room. Try to gather your thoughts, try to process what exactly she’s proposing here.

Karina wants to fuck you.

You won’t pretend you haven’t thought about it. That you’re some righteous saint without the need for fantasy.

But this is Karina you’re talking about.

It’s one thing for you to be caught with Hyeri, but Karina? Pillar of a whole generation? If the two of you were caught it’d be—

“—A PR nightmare?” she supplies. “A scandal? Headline of the century?”

You nod so fast you almost give yourself whiplash.

She just shrugs again, careless, reckless, hot as sin. "Don't care."

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. "You—you have no idea what you're asking—"

"I do," she interrupts, stepping closer, breath frosting the booth window. Her voice is silk now. A trap you’re already caught in. "I know exactly what I’m asking."

She walks back to the bench, hands bracing behind her, legs spreading just enough to hint at what’s awaiting you.

“I want you like she has you.”

You’re not strong enough.

You’re not stupid enough to pretend you are.

But even if you managed to steel your resolve, Karina bites her bottom lip. Runs a hand along her crotch.

"I’ve wanted you since the demo."

And you’re moving before you even register it.

You’ve soaked in some legendary sights on the label’s dime.

Dawn over the Han River from sixty stories up, neon Tokyo streets glitter‑wet after midnight rain, front-row seats to an Eiffel Tower light show in a suite. Gorgeous, all of them. Low-end bucket‑list kinda stuff.

But this view might just take the cake.

Sweat slicks Karina’s collarbones, soaks the carelessly lifted sports bra, gathers at the dip between her breasts, slides down to where your hands own her hips. Every grind turns your spine to liquid. Every thrust drives you deeper. And every bounce sends those perfect tits—shape and size defying God and physics—swinging in hypnotic rhythm.

“You fill me so good,” she pants, words cutting the hush of the booth, dirty and devotional at once. “Knew you'd feel this good—just knew it." She braces one palm against the glass, the other yanking her own hair into a makeshift ponytail, dragging it off her glowing face. The move juts her chest higher—an unspoken invitation, one you answer with your mouth. You latch on to the reddened mark just above her nipple, tongue finding its way around the sensitive circumference.

She whines.

You suck harder.

She tightens.

And you’re gone.

You should be thinking your job, about morality, about the very real possibility that a lone intern could wander past and see silhouettes doing something distinctly un‑PG behind the frosted glass. Instead, you’re cataloguing micro‑details: the faint scent of her shampoo under the musk of sweat, the tremor in her thigh when she sinks too deep, the almost reverent way her eyes lock on-to you when you hit that spot.

“Been wanting this for so long,” she reiterates, rolling her hips in a tighter circle. “Wanted your cock buried so deep I can’t hit a high note without it in me.”

The image alone nearly finishes you. You grit your teeth, hold your release back with sheer will and bruising fingers at her waist.

“Fuck, Karina—”

Karina leans in, panting against your mouth, grinding harder and harder, chasing her high and yours without a single shred of shame.

“Wanted you so bad,” she whines, breath hot against your ear, “thought about this every time you said my name—every fucking time—”

Your head falls back against the booth wall with a thunk.

You’re losing it.

She feels it—smiles a broken, wicked smile. “Already that close? Poor producer.” She makes a teasing cluck of the tongue, a soft caress to your cheek, then she slams down hard enough to shatter the bench. “Then give it to me,” she growls. “ Give me everything.”

You can’t not obey.

Pressure builds and so does your pace. Driving into her with a fury you didn’t know you had in you. Karina’s moaning openly now, every last shred of composure thrown to the wind.

Pressure builds then detonates.

Heat floods every nerve.

You break.

She follows.

And it’s bliss.

Her cry is earth-shattering, torn from somewhere deep as she clamps down hard around you, milking you for everything you’ve got. Her thighs lock, her body seizes. She’s trembling, gasping, riding wave after wave like she doesn’t know how to stop.

Her nails rake your back, half for balance, half to brand you, and you let her. Let her take. Let her have you. Her breath stutters against your mouth as you kiss through the fallout—sloppy, greedy. A thank-you and a promise and a question all at once.

Aftershocks hit her in uneven jolts, and you revel in the way she twitches around you with each one. You’re still inside her. Still hard. Still pulsing. Still drowning in her.

KArina collapses forward, full-body flush against yours, forehead pressed to your collarbone. Her heartbeat drums against your ribs. You’re shaking. So is she.

For a long, breathless moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your combined panting, then, your lips colliding.

You’re engrossed. And so is she. So much so that you both miss the sound of the booth door opening.

“And here I thought I came too early,” a voice says from the doorway.

You don’t look right away. You don’t have the mental bandwidth for anything beyond Karina’s skin and the twitch in your cock.

And besides, you already know exactly what you’ll see.

Your head finally turns toward the door.

Hyeri’s grinning. “You two certainly wasted no time.”

“Hyeri,” you begin, less surprised, more irritated, “ what the fuck are you—”

“Save it,” she interrupts. “You’ll ruin the mood.”

“What fucking moo—”

In an instant Hyeri’s blouse is open again, revealing an absence of fabric over her tits.

You feel Karina tighten.

“Room for one more?” she asks with a sly grin.

You look at Karina.

Karina looks at you.

And Karina—God bless her, damn her, ruin you for life—grins.

"Yeah," she says, voice high and sweet and so very, very gone. "Okay."

"You good with it, Producer-nim?" she teases.

You are not good.

You are very, very bad.

But Karina’s hips are still pressed against you, and Hyeri’s smile is so knowing, and your cock—traitorous, eager—twitches inside the girl already dripping down your thighs.

You’re fucked.

Yet you nod.

Reluctantly. Helplessly.

(Gratefully.)

Hyeri claps, wickedly pleased. “God, I love consent.”

Then she drops to her knees.

You’ve soaked in some legendary sights on the label’s dime.

Dawn over the Han River from sixty stories up, neon Tokyo streets glitter‑wet after midnight rain, Karina, sweat-slick, tits swinging and your name on her breath as she rides you into the Earth’s core.

But this view might just take the cake.

Which is ironic, because there’s no view at all.

Because Karina’s sitting on your face.

Full weight, full warmth, full heaven and hell combined.

Her meaty thighs clamp around your head, her cunt pressed flush against your mouth, slick and perfect and utterly suffocating. Her ass—round, shameless and the urban dictionary definition of fuck you—is covering everything else.

You couldn’t open your eyes even if you wanted to.

And you don’t want to.

Because the raw sensation—the taste of her dripping down your tongue, the way she grinds against your mouth with broken little whimpers—is worth more than any skyline on Earth.

You’re drowning in her.

And if that wasn’t enough?

Hyeri’s riding you at the same time.

Usually, you’d feel her braced against your chest, feel the needy, desperate grip of her hands as she takes everything you have and begs for more with every bounce.

But you suspect her hands are elsewhere: fondling Karina’s bare tits, holding her throat as they duel with their tongues. Either or works.

Because God if that mental image isn’t Louvre material.

A lick to the clit softens Karina’s grip around your ears and you settle for sound instead.

Wet, filthy kisses sound somewhere above you. Giddy little gasps. The faint slap of a palm against skin. Karina moans into Hyeri’s mouth—or maybe it’s Hyeri moaning into hers—you can’t tell, you don’t care.

“Fuck, you’re cute,” Hyeri purrs against her, the smacking of lips resuming instantly.

You feel the words vibrate through Karina’s body, then feel her clench around your tongue.

“Sensitive too,” Hyeri adds. “You like it when I touch you here?” Karina gasps, the result of having her pussy licked and her tits caressed.

Karina tries to answer, but it comes out as a high-pitched whimper instead.

Hyeri laughs softly—not cruel, but giddy, drunk on the power she holds.

You hear the slick sound of their mouths meeting again. The sticky, obscene sound of a kiss that isn’t meant for cameras or fans or anything else where clean and polished is the expectation.

Just raw, messy and private.

Karina breaks away from it first, panting hard, lifting her hips just enough that a thin string of slick snaps between your mouth and her pussy.

You catch a glimpse of her when you blink up—face flushed, eyes glassy, lips and nipples swollen from Hyeri’s assault.

You’d worship her if you could breathe.

But Hyeri’s hand is curling into Karina’s hair, tugging her up—gentle but insistent—and she moans like she’s been waiting for it.

"On your hands and knees, baby," Hyeri coos through another kiss, brushing the hair out of Karina’s sweaty face. "Be a good girl for us."

Karina whimpers, flushed and dazed, but obeys without hesitation, scrambling off your mouth and onto the bench, ass high, head low, presenting herself so shamelessly it’s enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

The second she’s steady, Hyeri slinks in front of her—legs spread, pussy slick and glistening, thighs trembling from earlier—and cups Karina’s flushed cheeks in her hands.

"You know what to do.”

Karina doesn’t hesitate.

She dives in, mouth open, tongue flat against Hyeri’s cunt, licking her like she’s starving for it. Like she needs it more than air.

Hyeri gasps, hips twitching, hand fisting tight in Karina’s hair. She catches your eye over Karina’s bowed back, grinning like a cat who got the cream.

“Well?” Hyeri says to you, mid-moan. “You just gonna sit there and look pretty?”

You don’t need more encouragement.

You’re behind Karina in an instant, hands gripping her hips—tight, possessive—and line yourself up.

One push. Slow? Yes. Deep? All the fucking way.

Karina cries out into Hyeri’s pussy, body arching towards the flat of the bench. Hyeri laughs, breathlessly. Her hand strokes Karina’s cheek almost tenderly, but her words are anything but.

“Fuck, you’re loud,” she teases. "Who knew you were such a slutty girl?"

You thrust into Karina again, harder this time, savoring the ripple of her ass you do, the obscene wet sounds filling the booth as she tries—and fails—to keep up with both of you.

"He was like this with me, too," Hyeri purrs, hips rolling against Karina’s mouth in lazy, devastating circles. "First time he fucked me? Thought I was gonna cum at the first thrust.”

You’re turned on by the memory, driving yourself intoKarina harder.

Karina whines around Hyeri’s clit, her thighs shaking, her slick dripping down your cock every time you bottom out inside her.

Hyeri threads her fingers tighter in Karina’s hair, guiding her movements now, rocking her face exactly where she wants it.

“She’s a natural, isn’t she?” Hyeri croons, locking eyes with you again. “Makes the prettiest fucking sounds.”

You can’t do anything but nod, the tightness and sight stealing your breath.

Karina's arms tremble where she braces against Hyeri’s thighs. Her moans are constant now—muffled against Hyeri’s.

And you’re so close you can taste it.

Hyeri gasps, grinding down against Karina’s mouth with reckless, frantic need.

"You close?" she teases, voice shaky but still smug. "Gonna fill her up while she makes me cum?"

“Fuck yeah,” you manage to get out.

Your hand finds its way to Karina’s clit: extra stimulation to make her tighten, to get her closer to her own release, to motivate her to suck Hyeri even harder.

Your strategy works like a charm, and you’re graced with the sight of Hyeri’s head’s rolling back, a sharp cry escaping her as she cums all over Karina’s face. “Fuuuuuuck me,” she exclaims, thighs clenching around Karina’s head, hands yanking her closer like she never wants her to stop.

Karina whimpers too, grinding her ass back against you in frantic, desperate little jerks, her own orgasm building with nowhere to go.

And then you snap.

You grab Karina’s hips, pull her flush against you, and empty yourself inside her with a strangled groan, spilling deep into her own trembling body.

Karina falls apart between you both—moaning and sobbing and soaking the bench with her release.

The three of you collapse together, sticky and shuddering and utterly spent.

And despite being suffocated and impaled at the same time, Karina perks up again. She’s still panting, still catching up on oxygen, but that doesn't stop her from asking:

“Now who’s ready for round two?”

The booth door swings open.

Hyeri’s hair is a disaster, Karina’s everything is either red, swollen, glistening or all three, and you’re pretty sure you’ve left fingerprints in places you’re contractually forbidden to even think about.

(And probably teeth marks, if Hyeri’s wincing is anything to go by.)

And yet, somehow, you’re all laughing.

Half-dressed, fully wrecked, riding the tail-end high of the worst—and best—decision you’ve made in years, but still: laughing.

Karina tugs the hem of her hoodie down like it might erase the obvious evidence of a threesome. Meanwhile, Hyeri buttons maybe one button of her blouse and calls it a day and you’re wiping sweat off your forehead with the sleeve of your shirt when you notice it.

The recording light is still on.

The waveform’s still rolling.

The track: armed. The booth: live.

You lunge for the keyboard.

Again.

Stop recording.

There are fourteen peaks this time.

You know exactly what they are before Karina even asks, hobbling over as she pulls her sports bra back over her tits.

“What are those?” she asks, peering at the screen with curious eyes.

Hyeri’s already smiling, smugness just emanating from her. “Our orgasms,” she says proudly, like they’re her children.

“Wait, it was recording? The whole time?”

“Courtesy of me,” Hyeri says, with an even bigger smile now. “Turned it on while you two were getting busy. “

“Surprised you’re smart enough to know how,” you tease. And she hits you right back, literally.

“Ow!”

“Gonna fap to this one too, are ya?” she cackles.

“He’s gonna what?” Karina squeaks, slightly turned on.

You barely make it three seconds into the collective laughter before Hyeri steamrolls right through it.

“That’s it!” she exclaims, snapping her fingers. “This could totally work!”

"Work?" you echo. "What do you—?"

“We use this,” she begins with manic glee, dragging the track into the main sequence, “in the final mix.”

Karina’s eyes light up. "Wait, that’s genius!”

You’re frozen. Horrified. Horny.

“We could layer it in,” Karina continues. “Just subtle. Like an Easter egg.”

“A very hot Easter egg,” Hyeri adds, giving you a wicked eyebrow waggle.

You can barely think up a response. Between the countless hours today you’ve spent having sex, agonising about losing your job, and simply dealing with the pair of women before you, the amount of fucks you can currently give is strewn remarkably thin.

Not thin enough, though.

“This,” you say, pointing to the screen,“is a horrible idea.”

It’s Hyeri’s turn for her eye’s to light up.

“Hear that Karina?” She steps closer to you, hand going to your exposed cock. “Sounds like he needs some convincing.”

“Mm,” Karina hums in agreement, fingers making their way up your chest. “Definitely does.”

You groan, running a hand down your face.

You’ve already lost.

“...We’ll put it in the song.”

“Yay!” they both squeal at once, pressing quick, sticky kisses to either side of your cheeks.

You sigh, sitting back at the console, exhaustion setting into your bones.

But you’re already thinking about it.

You’re thinking about how those breathy, desperate little sounds could melt into the track.

How no one would ever know except the three of you.

How every time the song plays, it’ll remind you of the heavenly feeling of Karina’s pussy on your tongue and Hyeri’s cunt on your cock.

You sigh.

You’re weak.

But with the two of them broaching yet another round, who could possibly blame you?

Your hand finds the mouse.

Export > Documents > Private > Vocals — The Final Mix.wav

What a fuckin’ Tuesday, huh?

#karina smut #karina x male reader #hyeri smut #hyeri x male reader #aespa smut #girls day smut #karina #aespa karina #lee hyeri #hyeri

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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 months ago

Text

Why I don’t like AI art

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in CHICAGO with PETER SAGAL on Apr 2, and in BLOOMINGTON at MORGENSTERN BOOKS on Apr 4. More tour dates here.

A law professor friend tells me that LLMs have completely transformed the way she relates to grad students and post-docs – for the worse. And no, it's not that they're cheating on their homework or using LLMs to write briefs full of hallucinated cases.

The thing that LLMs have changed in my friend's law school is letters of reference. Historically, students would only ask a prof for a letter of reference if they knew the prof really rated them. Writing a good reference is a ton of work, and that's rather the point: the mere fact that a law prof was willing to write one for you represents a signal about how highly they value you. It's a form of proof of work.

But then came the chatbots and with them, the knowledge that a reference letter could be generated by feeding three bullet points to a chatbot and having it generate five paragraphs of florid nonsense based on those three short sentences. Suddenly, profs were expected to write letters for many, many students – not just the top performers.

Of course, this was also happening at other universities, meaning that when my friend's school opened up for postdocs, they were inundated with letters of reference from profs elsewhere. Naturally, they handled this flood by feeding each letter back into an LLM and asking it to boil it down to three bullet points. No one thinks that these are identical to the three bullet points that were used to generate the letters, but it's close enough, right?

Obviously, this is terrible. At this point, letters of reference might as well consist solely of three bullet-points on letterhead. After all, the entire communicative intent in a chatbot-generated letter is just those three bullets. Everything else is padding, and all it does is dilute the communicative intent of the work. No matter how grammatically correct or even stylistically interesting the AI generated sentences are, they have less communicative freight than the three original bullet points. After all, the AI doesn't know anything about the grad student, so anything it adds to those three bullet points are, by definition, irrelevant to the question of whether they're well suited for a postdoc.

Which brings me to art. As a working artist in his third decade of professional life, I've concluded that the point of art is to take a big, numinous, irreducible feeling that fills the artist's mind, and attempt to infuse that feeling into some artistic vessel – a book, a painting, a song, a dance, a sculpture, etc – in the hopes that this work will cause a loose facsimile of that numinous, irreducible feeling to manifest in someone else's mind.

Art, in other words, is an act of communication – and there you have the problem with AI art. As a writer, when I write a novel, I make tens – if not hundreds – of thousands of tiny decisions that are in service to this business of causing my big, irreducible, numinous feeling to materialize in your mind. Most of those decisions aren't even conscious, but they are definitely decisions, and I don't make them solely on the basis of probabilistic autocomplete. One of my novels may be good and it may be bad, but one thing is definitely is is rich in communicative intent. Every one of those microdecisions is an expression of artistic intent.

Now, I'm not much of a visual artist. I can't draw, though I really enjoy creating collages, which you can see here:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/albums/72177720316719208

I can tell you that every time I move a layer, change the color balance, or use the lasso tool to nip a few pixels out of a 19th century editorial cartoon that I'm matting into a modern backdrop, I'm making a communicative decision. The goal isn't "perfection" or "photorealism." I'm not trying to spin around really quick in order to get a look at the stuff behind me in Plato's cave. I am making communicative choices.

What's more: working with that lasso tool on a 10,000 pixel-wide Library of Congress scan of a painting from the cover of Puck magazine or a 15,000 pixel wide scan of Hieronymus Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights means that I'm touching the smallest individual contours of each brushstroke. This is quite a meditative experience – but it's also quite a communicative one. Tracing the smallest irregularities in a brushstroke definitely materializes a theory of mind for me, in which I can feel the artist reaching out across time to convey something to me via the tiny microdecisions I'm going over with my cursor.

Herein lies the problem with AI art. Just like with a law school letter of reference generated from three bullet points, the prompt given to an AI to produce creative writing or an image is the sum total of the communicative intent infused into the work. The prompter has a big, numinous, irreducible feeling and they want to infuse it into a work in order to materialize versions of that feeling in your mind and mine. When they deliver a single line's worth of description into the prompt box, then – by definition – that's the only part that carries any communicative freight. The AI has taken one sentence's worth of actual communication intended to convey the big, numinous, irreducible feeling and diluted it amongst a thousand brushtrokes or 10,000 words. I think this is what we mean when we say AI art is soul-less and sterile. Like the five paragraphs of nonsense generated from three bullet points from a law prof, the AI is padding out the part that makes this art – the microdecisions intended to convey the big, numinous, irreducible feeling – with a bunch of stuff that has no communicative intent and therefore can't be art.

If my thesis is right, then the more you work with the AI, the more art-like its output becomes. If the AI generates 50 variations from your prompt and you choose one, that's one more microdecision infused into the work. If you re-prompt and re-re-prompt the AI to generate refinements, then each of those prompts is a new payload of microdecisions that the AI can spread out across all the words of pixels, increasing the amount of communicative intent in each one.

Finally: not all art is verbose. Marcel Duchamp's "Fountain" – a urinal signed "R. Mutt" – has very few communicative choices. Duchamp chose the urinal, chose the paint, painted the signature, came up with a title (probably some other choices went into it, too). It's a significant work of art. I know because when I look at it I feel a big, numinous irreducible feeling that Duchamp infused in the work so that I could experience a facsimile of Duchamp's artistic impulse.

There are individual sentences, brushstrokes, single dance-steps that initiate the upload of the creator's numinous, irreducible feeling directly into my brain. It's possible that a single very good prompt could produce text or an image that had artistic meaning. But it's not likely, in just the same way that scribbling three words on a sheet of paper or painting a single brushstroke will produce a meaningful work of art. Most art is somewhat verbose (but not all of it).

So there you have it: the reason I don't like AI art. It's not that AI artists lack for the big, numinous irreducible feelings. I firmly believe we all have those. The problem is that an AI prompt has very little communicative intent and nearly all (but not every) good piece of art has more communicative intent than fits into an AI prompt.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/25/communicative-intent/#diluted

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #ai #art #uncanniness #eerieness #communicative intent #gen ai #generative ai #image generators #artificial intelligence #generative artificial intelligence #gen artificial intelligence #l

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thistle-wrote · 1 month ago

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Tattoo Artist

CW: oral sex, small descriptors used for reader when I felt it necessary i.e. the tattoo artist having tattoos. reader is referred to by a nickname. Authors note: And before you ask, no I do not condone the tattoos price has on the homecoming skin, as an American traditional tattoo GIRLY those are simply an insult to tattoos.

The song I was listing to whilst writing this

Despite what most think, John has tattoos. Mostly hidden in places you can’t easily see. Truthfully, he probably would have had far fewer had it not been for Little Petal.

It’s just when John’s dad died he wanted a tattoo to commemorate his life, you know how middle age men get when their fathers pass. So he booked a session with a local artist, the shop had great reviews; it was clean and busy, and he figured now was as good a time as any.

Never in the entirety of John’s life has he been so instantly captivated by a woman. Covered in tattoos and piercings, she was gorgeous and immediately incredibly friendly. He learned she owned the shop and had gone to art school. For what it was worth she absolutely knew what she was doing.

All in all, it took her barely an hour to draw his tattoo, make his stencil, and have it permanently etched into his muscular thigh. I mean how long could two dates possibly take anyway? And that’s really how it started. Before he even knew what he was doing, he was booking another appointment a few months out, with the promise of allowing her to actually draw him something this time. He could have taken her right there, just seeing the way her face lit up at the prospect of mild creative freedom.

When he returned for his next appointment, this time with a brand new scar and an embarrassing amount of excitement for a grown man, he settled in her chair. She flipped through drawings she’d made for him, drawings she thought would “fit your vibe” all traditional style but not the kind that bored; a street lamp with moths circling it was the one he ultimately decided on.

John was a very tough man. Hell, the man gets shot at for a living, but he didn’t expect the little petal to be able to inflict so much pain. Of course, he was tough about it, barely flinching.

“Does it hurt, then?” She asked him amidst her stabbing color into his side.

“Not bad.” He remembered murmuring to her as her needles dragged across his skin.

“Doesn’t hurt me one bit.” He chuckled at her cheesy joke, but the little smile on her face was enough to make his thoughts go awry.

It wasn’t long before he wasn’t just tattooed, but was one of her regulars. After a few years, his entire left leg was mostly covered. Apparently, when you become good enough friends with your tattoo artist, she starts to tell you things like, “I’m not doing that, John, that’s ugly.” And “No, that fits better over here.”

At some point, he also started receiving unexpected and sporadic text messages from her. Texts like, “I saw this cute cigar shop in London, made me think of you.” Or “I drew you this, thought it would fit perfectly on your knee.”

John has had his fair share of women in his life, he wasn’t exactly sure just why he was so into her. Maybe it’s the sweet, soft way she spoke. Maybe it was how she was so passionate about her work. Maybe the way she joked and teased him, or possibly it was just simply how incredibly herself she was.

John made his way into her shop one Saturday afternoon, the door chiming as he stepped through the threshold. The scent of patchouli filled his nose. She was an eccentric little woman, from the black walls to the leopard print furniture.

He stepped up to the front desk, eyeing the little trinkets she had sat atop it, listening for the soft patter of her platforms against the hardwood. When she poked her head from the back room, she offered a sweet smile.

“Hi, hon.”

“Hi, petal.”

They’d done this dance time and time again, proper etiquette and professionalism were long gone. He watched as she turned back into the room, a wordless request for him to follow. He did, his boots clattering on the floor as he made his way through the shop. He immediately sat in the corner chair, watching the bird flit through her stack of drawings.

“Okay listen,” She began, holding out a hand to silence him as if he’d been about to interrupt, which he hadn’t.

“You don’t have to get it if you hate it but, I drew this pinup.” She pulled out a white sheet of paper and held it out to him. John reached for the sheet, looking it over. He wondered for a brief moment if she’d done it on purpose, if she’d even realized exactly how much the cartoon woman on the page looked like her.

“It’s great, love,” He hums, still looking it over but letting his eyes meet hers for a moment. No, there was no way she’d done it intentionally, she wasn’t the egotistical type to brand someone with a picture of herself.

“Cool,” she mused, already planning. “thinking on your inner thigh. We can do it high enough that people won’t see her when you’re in shorts.” That girl was always thinking ahead. She has a real knack for this, not just the drawing or design process but the placement too.

“Yeah, okay, pretty,” John said simply, leaning back further into the chair. He let her run around the shop, scanning her drawing, then printing and cutting out the stencil. When she returned, stencil in hand, she looked at him with that cute little frown she sometimes got.

“Take your pants off, John.”

God, she didn’t have to tell him twice.

“Right to the point, huh?” He chuckled. She'd always taken his jokes well, so he felt no need to apologize for the comment.

She gave him an eye roll, one more of amusement than anything. He unbuckled his belt, pulled off his boots followed by his jeans, setting them on the chair. He plopped himself onto the table, and she, completely comfortable by this point, started pulling him into the position she wanted, moving his leg to her desired spot.

John liked his tattoos, he really did. But in that moment, he was instantly reminded why he kept coming back. It was the way she pushed the leg of his underwear farther up his thigh, making marks on his skin to correctly line up his stencil, or her casually commenting “You’re so hairy,” as she ran the pink disposable razor over his inner thigh.

“I’m a grown man, petal,” he responded, with a small chuckle.

This tattoo, the one she seemingly didn’t realize she’d drawn of herself, the one he was allowing her to permanently mark on his skin. This might be the worst decision of his life, he suddenly realized, not because it looked like her, or because he’d regret it; he’d learned over his almost forty years of life that regrets were worthless.

No, it might be the worst decision simply because he hadn’t thought about how high up it was, how close her hands and her face would be to his crotch, and how he was absolutely going to get hard whether he meant to or not.

After she’d shaved his thigh, applied the stencil, and properly sanitized his skin, she began to tattoo. She chattered away as she always did, John nodded along, trying to listen. But the man might as well have been fighting demons, not because it hurt, either.

John just hoped she wouldn’t mention the bulge in his underwear, or better yet, maybe she was too busy to notice. After she’d finished the outline, she stopped her machine, moving to change needles and pour her caps of color when she spoke.

“Got a pain kink, John?”

He was momentarily stunned by the way her eyes gestured to his cock. He would never have expected a joke like that from her; sure she teased him but this was a first. He laughed.

John had half a mind to tell her to go screw herself, or sarcastically agree. But he figured if she could say something that should be considered inappropriate for a professional, he could say something incredibly inappropriate for a client.

“No, bird, got a pretty girl's face inches from my dick kink.”

She smiled. No way she thought that was genuinely flattering. She had to trust him more than he’d realized not to immediately get upset. So, like the civilized adult man he wasn’t, he kept going.

“Got a thing for their mouths round it too.”

At that, she didn’t squirm, flinch. Or even make a grossed out face. She laughed, the kind of laugh a girl gives when she knows she’s about to get some.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

John thinks he must have, at some point, been some kind of saint in a past life, because that is the only way he could possibly imagine something so great happening to him: his tattoo artist stopping mid tattoo to wrap her lips around his cock.

The entire afternoon was a haze. When his tattoo was done, her breath now smelling faintly like cum, he let out a satisfied sigh, admiring his fresh ink in the mirror.

“Looks like you, ya know.” He mused, meeting her gaze. She looked momentarily shocked, as if she seriously had not intended that.

“Good,” she replied with a smirk finding its way to her lips. “Marking my territory.” Oh, she had no idea how right she was.

My irl CoD Trad tat

CoD Masterlist

#captain john price x reader #cod x reader #john price #john price x reader #john price x you #price x reader #price x you #price/reader #cod #captain john price #captain john price x you #captain price #captain price x reader #captian john price #cod smut #call of duty

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lorelune · 3 months ago

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(kaiser x reader // minors dni // soulmate AU, references to physical abuse, smidge of yan kaiser)

kaiser doesn't want a soulmate.

his father burned off his soulmate mark with the butt of a cigarette before kaiser knew how to spell his own name. it was beat into his head that he was so much less than human, and why would such a thing need a soulmate?

his exterior puts people off once they actually talk to him. he inherited his mother's looks, and his father's heart, and any ideas of romance or deep companionship aren't really something he entertains. there's a wisp of a thought, once in a while, when he sees a mother kneel down to wipe the tears of their child or when he watches one of his teammates share an embrace with a partner following a game. there's a sliver of something there that kaiser sees, that is vulnerable and lovely and part of him aches for it in a way that's damning.

it's very easy for him to reject the feeling.

he doesn't seek his soulmate. he doesn't attempt to restore that mark that was burned away on the back of his hand. he covers it with a tattoo instead. in interviews, when pressed about his relationship status, his soulmate status, he's honest and callous— he doesn't fucking care. it's a pathetic thing to want and he won't indulge it.

it's easy to ignore. to focus on playing and crushing what he can, and not focus on the potentiality of a soulmate.

it's very easy until he meets you.

michael kaiser knows the moment he meets your gaze that you're his soulmate.

it's just like how everyone describes it to be. you look each other in the eyes and it's like... oh, he's home, isn't he? it's safety, it's peace, it's security that michael kaiser has never once felt before in his life. whatever he managed to craft through his own violence doesn't hold a candle to the way just looking at you makes him feel.

your breath catches, you hover just in front him.

(you're— just some stupid makeup artist, assigned to this photo shoot—)

"get the fuck away from me—" he spits.

you say in tandem. "— i need to use the restroom."

you bolt. the crew for the shoot isn't very large and everyone notices the palpable change in the air. kaiser white-knuckles the arms of his chair so hard that he can't be sure he would break the wood of it.

he excuses himself. tells ness to fuck off and leave him alone too when the other tries to follow him.

he splashes water on his face, tugs on his hair, even punches himself in the cheek in the bathroom. his heart won't stop pounding. the urge to find you, seek you is so strong, makes him feel physically ill.

the makeup you'd just applied to his face runs down his cheeks. even the red under his eyes is smearing.

kaiser isn't going to be able to collect himself enough to be professional, that's fine. he doesn't need to be. he'll request a new mua and tell your team that you said something off-color to him. maybe get you'll get fired and it will be that much easier to never see you again.

it's very unfortunate that fate tends to weave soulmates together, again and again. yarn spun with two different color fibers, unable to be separated once intertwined together.

you're collapsed again the wall, just outside the bathrooms. kaiser can see you shaking, can see how quickly your chest is rising and falling. you're alone too—

(he did this.)

he doesn't feel guilty. he doesn't feel fucking guilty. why would he?

you shoot to your feet. "hey, um— we should—"

"god," he clicks his tongue, crossing his arms. "following me to the bathroom of all places?"

"what?" you tilt your head. "i wasn't following you, i just needed some air. regardless, we should talk—"

"pathetic and perverse," kaiser sizes you up, leaning down to look at you. he hopes you feel as small and stupid as you are. "what horrible traits for a soulmate to have."

you still, meet his gaze again. the same warm, wanting feeling returns to kaiser, so unignorable it makes him feel ill. he'd vomit on you if that wasn't more than you deserve.

"god, you're awful, aren't you?" you scoff and cross your arms over your chest. "i was warned you'd be, but you really are a piece of work."

it's weird, how you calling him awful makes some part of him feel so desperately bad. it's a little part of him, bruised up and small but loud. he grits his teeth and ignores it.

"i don't need you." he reminds you, reminds himself. "i have no interest in a soulmate."

meeting you doesn't change that.

"oh, good. we're on the same page then." you shoot back, a conviction in your voice. "neither do i."

... what?

you're his soulmate. if there was anyone in the world who was supposed to want him, it was you. the stars crossed upon your births just so you could want him, that you'd need him, that you'd think well of him— right? that's what his teammates talked about, the few that had met theirs. that's what all the movies he'd watched from his cardboard cot in his father's home had said. and more convincingly, that's what michael kaiser knew in the broken, unsound thing that is his soul to be true.

you are supposed to want him.

"what?" he finds himself asking, venom in his voice. "why don't you elaborate on that?'

you flinch with it, rolling your eyes. your deflections seem effortless. "i don't care about having a soulmate, regardless of if its you or not. i wanted to make sure that you got that.it would be best if we forget that... this ever happened, yeah?"

oh, no, no, no— you don't get to run away from him. that can't happen. kaiser doesn't even realize he'd backed you into a wall until you physically hit it. it startles you; kaiser thinks you didn't notice either.

"works for me." kaiser tells you. "i'm glad that you can understand that i'd never want you."

he, in that moment, believes it too. kaiser fully believes that he will let you walk out of Bastard München's training facility and never see or think of you again. he will cut you from his mind, shed that which inhibits him.

(even if that feels... impossible. but, it's just another impossibility for him to overcome, yes? that's doable. understandable.)

it looks like you've been slapped when he says it. you rub over your soulmate mark. it's in the same spot on your left hand as his once was. (kaiser just read an psychology article about how this is a common self-soothing behavior. especially in those who have experienced some sort of attachment trauma—)

he sneers.

"go cry about it later. you're on the clock aren't you?"

"i'm not crying about it." you aren't but the way you get defensive and weird about his words lights in a fire in him that feels... dangerous to let continue to burn. "and aren't you working too?"

"i'm the talent." he smiles. you frown.

"oh my god," you duck away from him, back to him. "i'm so glad neither of us want each other because you're fucking insufferable already."

it feels. bad for him to hear. and yet kaiser wants to hear more of it. he wants to hear all about how you don't want him, why you don't want, and he wants to make so, so sure that you know that he doesn't need you either.

"i'll put in a complaint," he hums, matching your strides and speeding up just enough to take the lead. you're walking the same way after all. "i'll get you reassigned. i could get you fired."

"that's— taking it a bit far, isn't it?"

"i don't think it's taking it far enough." kaiser stops, whips around, and god knows that threads of fate possess him but he leers down and brackets you against large, circular column. the air is still and quiet, and he can hear the way your breath catches as he invades your space. he hopes you can feel the heat of his breath as he speaks, nearly nose-to-nose with you. "i'll pay your way to move out of the country, even. i would put you on the other side of the world."

"is it just your soulmate that you're rejecting, or love in general?" you laugh. "because no one will want you if that's the way you speak to someone you're supposed to love."

"i'm supposed to be tethered to you," he reminds you. "love is taking it a bit far. seems like you're attached already."

"you're the one who is looking at me like you want to eat me."

(doesn't he want to devour you?)

kaiser barely stops himself from spitting on you as he recoils. noa will only tolerate so much of his attitude.

you walk in silence back to the photo shoot, the room clearly away something is wrong with him. and you. but mostly him because he refuses to have you work on him further and instead makes himself a problem for the other three makeup artists available.

that night, he returns home alone. he stalks your employer's website, finds you, and finds everything about you. what you do, how long you've been doing it for, your education, your friends, your family, what you like— who you are.

he hates every bit of it. he hates how he can't stop himself.

there's another photo shoot next week, promotional materials for the new season. he has solo shots to take. and it only takes a few texts to make sure that only makeup artist there will be you. he can corner you again, probably, make your life worse so you know what an absolute mistake your making in not wanting him.

kaiser smiles to himself as he makes his arrangements. he delights in the sour expressions that he's certain you'll make when you see him again.

it's not that he cares about, he doesn't, he really doesn't. but... isn't there a particular type of pleasure to be reaped from making you, his soulmate of all people, squirm from discomfort? from his research on you, he's getting ideas, angles to force you into it.

it's enticing. it's enthralling.

and it has absolutely nothing to do with the specter of warmth that you could potentially provide him.

nothing at all.

and if it is— he'll make sure you never know, anyway.

#lore writes #the elaboration of today's earlier post #he is so hard to write #slippery mf #ENJOY!!!#kaiser x reader #michael kaiser x reader #drabbles

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rainydaygotham · 5 months ago

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THAT’S NOT A PART OF YOUR ASSIGNMENT

Dick Grayson x art student!reader gn || 1.6k words

Warnings: smut, naked cuddling, blow job, slight exhibitionism but not quite

Summary: You have an assignment for figure drawing and thankfully have a willing model (along with yourself). Time to take some reference photos. Unfortunately for one horny boy, this means he can’t move. lol poor guy.

a/n: goddd i’m a senior so i’ve spent a bajillion hours in figure by now oof. so here, let me indulge my fantasies. need me a muse like Dick Grayson… well, maybe it’s for the best, since this fic shows how i wouldnt be getting anything done with him around agdjhsajhfk

“Hey, Dickie, can you come in here for a second?” you called and instantly you heard the sock feet of your fiancé come padding towards you.

“Do you need me for something, Baby?”

You were too distracted with the task at hand to pick up on his flirting, “Yeah, just come lay on the bed for a bit.”

“Oooh. Of course~” Dick grinned as he eyed the camera you were adjusting on its tripod before he flopped down onto the bed, “any particular pose?”

“Nah I’m just fixing it right now, you can do whatever as long as you stay on the bed,”

You had meant, like, maybe he could scroll on his phone while you worked. But he took that as ‘whatever sexy pose you want, Babe’ and began showing off his lithe body. Little distracting, but you were used to him enough to successfully ignore it. But damn, was it hard. Especially when he turned around so you could get a nice view of his ass.

“So, we shooting sex tapes or what?”

You rolled your eyes, “No, we’re not shooting sex tapes. I need references for a piece for Figure. We’re supposed to be focusing on the ways the human body will fit together, so we need at least two models,”

“Sound’s intimate,” he schmoozed.

You sighed, “Yeah, that’s why I thought I should just draw us. I like the intimacy of the way we fit together—“

“So we are making sex tapes,”

“No. We are going to just be cuddling, I'm not going up in front of my class to present an explicit piece of us fucking, thank you.”

“But we are going to be naked?”

You sighed even more dramatically this time, “Yes, Dick, we are going to be naked. I have to ‘show off the beauty of the human form’…”

He raised his eyebrows at you suggestively, you shook your head, “and I'll admit, I wanted it to be a little sensual, okay, but it's not like that,"

You went back to fiddling with the camera, ignoring his childish snickering. You positioned it perfectly, able to capture Dick's full body but not too much background with it. Hopefully cramming yourself in there too wont crop anything weird.

Humming to yourself, you grabbed the tiny remote for the tripod and tested it to make sure it was working. Doing so, you accidentally got a shot of Dick taking off his shirt. The way his stomach and chest were flexed as he lifted the shirt over his head was beautiful. Just what you wanted, art. You didn’t delete this test shot like you would’ve done on any other day. Don’t tell Dick.

“Little eager there, Babe?” you flirted.

He had already moved on to stripping off his sweatpants. As he threw the garment across the room you noticed he uh, had a little problem growing. Ah..

“The faster we get these pictures the faster I can convince you to “take a nap” before patrol tonight,” he slipped his boxers off as he talked to you.

“Uh. Yeah. Um,” you started unbuttoning your shirt, “Let’s get this done, yeah…”

Great, now you’re flustered. You’d think you’d learn your lesson by now, to not use your own boyfriend as a model. But he was so pretty, it was always so tempting. If you had your way, all you’d ever draw were portraits of Dick. If you did that, though, you’d quickly get known as “that guy/girl/kid who only draws local celebrity Dick Grayson” around your university, which would most likely get shortened to just “Dick Guy/Girl/Kid”, and you did not need that kind of bullying in your life right now. You’re a professional studio artist now, goddamnit.

You heard the springs of the bed as Dick laid back down, “So what were you thinking?”

“…” man what were you thinking again? Oh, “I wanted to start with a shot of us spooning. You know, how the legs fit together, how a face fits into the crook of a neck,”

He smiled, “Do I get to be the big spoon?”

“I guess,” you teased.

You took off your own pants and underwear and gave your hair a good finger comb through before laying down on the bed with Dick. He smirked as you cozied up to him. He placed his hand on your hip as he repositioned himself.

“So you want my leg like—”

“Uh huh,” you felt the heat of his bare body melting into yours. And his errection nestling into your ass. Geez…

“And my face—“

He nuzzled into the side of your neck, brushing against the sensitive artery there. Hoo boy, perhaps this is a bad idea. Dick hummed against your throat as he began peppering the area with light kisses.

Mmm, perhaps it’s a really good idea.

“Dick, pose,”

He stopped his onslaught on your neck for a moment, keeping still as you pressed the button on the remote to take a few shots.

“Thank you,” you shuffled over to check the photos, much to Dick’s disappointment at you leaving his embrace, “these are good, next pose,”

“What now,”

You adjusted the angle on the camera, “okay now sit up, on your knees,”

He did as you told him and you crawled back over.

“Uh, sorry, I promise I’m trying to keep professional thoughts right now,” he gestured to his now very prominent boner.

“That’s fine, Baby,” you snickered as you started straddling him, “they’re not gonna be able to see it. This one’s about how legs perfectly bracket a waist,”

“Hands?”

“On my chest, with your fingers in between the ribs,”

Dick was a little confused on what you meant there for a moment but he found it. You were right, his fingers did perfectly slot in between the bones of your ribcage.

Took everything in him to not start running his hands up and down your sides, feeling more of you beneath his fingertips. The gentle way your skin was always soft, no matter where he touched you drove him wild.

And it’s like you knew, the way you grinned and shook your head.

“Here,” you dipped your face towards him and he greedily took the kiss you offered.

It was just a chaste thing, when he tried to deepen it you pulled away. Dick had to fight back the whine in his throat.

“Forehead to mine pleas—“ he gingerly complied, “there we go,”

Dick’s eyelids were pressed tightly shut, but he heard the click of the shutter go off a few times. You then disentangled yourself from him to go check the photos. He missed you immediately, even though you were just right over there.

Damn. This was horrible. Torture. His punishment from the gods like Tantalus’s fruit. He’d rather clean the Batmobile with a toothbrush than have you naked in his lap and not be able to do anything about it.

Okay so maybe he was being a little overdramatic. Can you blame him, though? He can’t just hold his everything in his hands and not make love to them. It feels irreverent.

“Okay, last one”

Thank fucking god. He could feel his cock throbbing and it was starting to get painful.

“Come get close to the camera, this one doesn’t need to be fullbody,”

He crawled closer as you adjusted it once again, “what’s up with this one?”

“How hands were made to cup our curves. I’ll need you to hold my chin in your hands,”

Done. You don’t have to ask him twice. But damn, as you positioned yourself to how you wanted, was it hard to not just start kissing you.

He gazed lovingly at you as he gently played his part, holding you for the camera (and a bunch of students, apparently) to see. He hoped he was doing you justice in this, in all of these. Although, a part of him didn’t want them to be good, didn’t want other people to see how beautiful you could be for him. Your home was his own private little gallery with you as the star and maybe he didn’t want to share.

Gatekeeping art. Tsk…

The shutter clicked and flashed but you didn’t really care anymore. That was the last picture, after all, and Dick was looking at you like he was about to devour you.

And you were right, as he realized he had a greenlight and dove right in.

Dick wasted no time in shoving his tongue into your mouth this time, lapping at your molars. Two can play at that game, so you licked into his mouth as well, only for him to fight dirty running his tongue along the roof of your mouth in flicks. A shiver ran down your spine as Dick pulled your face, still cupped in his hands, further into his. He moaned with the action, and damn, he really was trying to devour you.

He continued his attack on your mouth, sliding his tongue along yours in the most delicious way. You felt the vibrations of another groan as you let your hands start to wander down his body. His trapeze artist tits pecs.. his grabbable hips… his very hard cock weeping precum onto your hand as you fisted it. He pulled out of your mouth with a jolt, panting for air.

“Please—“ he was cut off by a surprisingly high-pitched noise breaking out his throat as you went down, wasting no time in taking him into your mouth.

You took him as far as you could, the head hitting the back of your throat. You pressed your tongue flat into the underside of his cock, slowly dragging it along his tender shaft before pulling off of him again. He made a strangled noise as you looked up at him.

“What?” why’d you stop before you even started?

“Well look,” you placed your tongue back into the divet where his tip met his shaft, “it’s like my tongue was made to be there. Fits together perfectly,”

God, you were going to be the death of him.

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