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kathaelipwse · 3 months ago

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The barista who stole his heart | K. Mingyu

TROPE: Idol x Non-Fan | Barista AU | Mingyu Falls First | Found Family | Heavy Insecurity to Full Acceptance | Protective Love WARNINGS: Mentions of past toxic relationships | body shaming | Public scrutiny | | mild social media hate | Lots of fluffy affection | soft romance | Mingyu being the ultimate green flag™ | NO PROOF READING WAS DONE WORDCOUNT: 5051 words {Reading time: 18mins} SYNOPSIS: You never expected a regular customer at your café to be a famous idol—especially not one as kind and ridiculously handsome as Kim Mingyu. What started as casual interactions turned into lingering glances, playful flirting, and a slow, inevitable fall. But when your past insecurities resurface and public attention turns critical, Mingyu makes one thing clear: he’s not going anywhere. AUTHOR'S NOTE: This one-shot is for anyone who’s ever doubted their worth because of society’s beauty standards. You are enough. You are beautiful. And if Mingyu were for us girlies, he would absolutely worship you. Enjoy this soft love story!

The café, a cozy haven nestled amidst the urban sprawl near the broadcasting station, hummed with a quiet, almost reverent energy. Its walls, painted in warm, inviting hues of cream and ochre, absorbed the city's relentless clamor, replacing it with the gentle whir of the espresso machine and the comforting aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. You, a silent guardian of this tranquil space, moved with a practiced grace, your movements fluid and efficient as you prepared orders. The late shift was your sanctuary, a time when the world outside faded into a distant murmur, allowing you to immerse yourself in the simple rhythm of your work.

The evening was drawing to a close, the last few stragglers trickling out into the cool night air, when the bell above the door chimed, announcing a late arrival. A figure stepped into the café, impossibly tall, his silhouette framed against the streetlights outside. He moved with a quiet weariness, his shoulders slumped, his steps measured. Yet, despite his exhaustion, there was an undeniable magnetism to his presence, a quiet intensity that filled the space.

As he approached the counter, you looked up, your gaze meeting his. His eyes, dark and deep, held a hint of fatigue, yet they sparkled with an inner warmth that caught you off guard. His face, sculpted with sharp angles and softened by a gentle curve to his lips, was undeniably handsome, a fact you acknowledged with a professional detachment.

"Americano, please," he requested, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that sent a subtle shiver down your spine. It was a voice that held a quiet authority, yet it was laced with a gentle politeness that was almost disarming. The way he looked at you, a quiet searching look, made you pause just a moment longer.

You nodded, maintaining your professional demeanor, your gaze unwavering. "Name?"

"Mingyu."

The name was simple, ordinary, yet it lingered in the air, a quiet echo in the stillness of the café. You scribbled it on the cup, your mind already moving to the next task, the familiar routine of grinding beans and steaming milk. A moment later, you placed the cup before him, the name scrawled on the side in your hurried handwriting: Minkoo.

He stared at the cup, a flicker of surprise, almost disbelief, crossing his features. He blinked, then looked back at you, a subtle question in his eyes. "It’s Mingyu."

"Mingyo?" you repeated, your brow furrowed slightly, as you tried to match the spoken word to the written one.

His jaw dropped, ever so slightly, a subtle disbelief etching on his usually composed face. He looked around the empty cafe, then back to you. “…She really doesn’t know me?” The thought was almost spoken aloud, a quiet, incredulous murmur that hung in the air.

For the first time in a long time, Kim Mingyu, the idol known for his charisma and widespread recognition, was caught completely off guard. He was accustomed to the whispers, the gasps, the immediate recognition that followed him like a shadow. He was used to the way people’s eyes widened when they saw him, the way their voices rose in excitement. But here, in this quiet café, under the soft glow of the overhead lights, he was just another customer, another name to be misspelled, another face in the crowd.

The lack of recognition was a strange, almost liberating experience. It was a novel sensation, a breath of fresh air in the midst of his carefully constructed public persona. He watched as you moved about the café, your movements unhurried, your focus unwavering, and he found himself intrigued. There was a quiet confidence in your demeanor, a self-assuredness that was both captivating and disarming.

He took his coffee, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary, a silent question hanging in the air. As he turned to leave, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this encounter, this simple misspelling, was the beginning of something unexpected, something that would disrupt the carefully orchestrated rhythm of his life.

The "Minkoo" incident, as Mingyu privately dubbed it, became a peculiar sort of lodestar, drawing him back to the café night after night. It wasn't just the coffee, though it was undeniably good; it was the quiet, almost surreal normalcy of the place, and most importantly, you. He found himself inexplicably drawn to your unpretentious demeanor, your calm efficiency, and the way you seemed utterly unfazed by his presence.

He started timing his visits, subtly adjusting his schedule to coincide with your shifts. He’d arrive just as the evening rush was dying down, the café bathed in the warm, golden glow of the setting sun. He'd sit at the counter, a quiet observer, watching you work your magic behind the espresso machine. He’d study the way your brow furrowed in concentration as you measured out coffee grounds, the gentle curve of your lips as you smiled at a customer, the soft sway of your hips as you moved around the small space.

His members, ever vigilant, noticed the pattern. "Look who it is, Mr. Americano," Seungkwan would tease, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "Back for more of that… Minkoo special?"

"What? Their coffee is good!" Mingyu would protest, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He'd try to sound casual, but the slight tremor in his voice betrayed his growing infatuation.

"So is every other café, but you don’t go to those, do you?" Hoshi would chime in, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "You only go when she’s working."

Mingyu would ignore them, his gaze drifting towards the counter, where you were engaged in a lively conversation with a customer. He was captivated by your laughter, a warm, melodic sound that filled the café. He was fascinated by the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you smiled, the way your hand gestures punctuated your words, the way you seemed so effortlessly you.

He started trying to engage you in conversation, asking about the daily specials, commenting on the weather, even attempting a few clumsy jokes. He’d try to flirt, subtly, with lingering eye contact, playful touches on the counter as he paid, and compliments slipped into casual conversation. "You have really nice eyes," he'd say, his voice low and sincere.

You, however, remained blissfully unaware of his growing infatuation, attributing his attention to his naturally friendly demeanor. You’d laugh at his jokes, offer him a friendly smile, and engage in polite conversation, but you never seemed to see him as anything more than a regular customer.

The moment it truly hit him, the moment he realized he was falling, was a simple, unassuming exchange. He’d made a joke about his clumsiness, a self-deprecating remark about his tendency to trip over his own feet, a habit that often became a source of amusement for his members. "I swear, I’m a hazard to myself," he’d said, shaking his head with a rueful smile.

Without hesitation, you’d said, "Well, I think it’s kinda endearing."

The words were simple, but their impact was profound. For the first time, someone hadn’t teased him, hadn’t made light of his insecurities. They’d found it endearing, a quality to be cherished, a quirk that made him unique. The sincerity in your voice, the gentle warmth in your eyes, it was like a balm to his soul.

And in that moment, his heart wasn’t just beating; it was sprinting, a frantic rhythm that echoed in his ears. He felt a strange mix of exhilaration and vulnerability, a raw, unfiltered emotion that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He wanted to know more about you, to unravel the mystery of your quiet confidence, to understand the depth of your kindness.

He wanted to erase the distance between idol and regular customer, to bridge the gap and see if there was something more, something real, something that could withstand the scrutiny of his public life. He wanted to be seen by you, not as Kim Mingyu the idol, but as just Mingyu, the man who found your simple kindness utterly captivating.

The café, usually a haven of quietude, was buzzing with an unusual energy that evening. A small group of young women, their faces flushed with excitement, had gathered near the counter, their eyes darting between you and a certain tall, handsome customer. You paid them little mind, focusing on the intricate latte art you were creating, the delicate swirls and patterns a testament to your practiced skill.

The illusion of anonymity, the comfortable bubble of normalcy that had enveloped Mingyu during his visits, shattered when one of the young women, her voice trembling with excitement, recognized him. Her eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat as she whispered to her friends, "Oh my god, you’re Kim Mingyu!"

The name hung in the air, a sudden, sharp intrusion into the quiet atmosphere of the café. The other women gasped, their eyes widening, their whispers escalating into excited murmurs. You paused, your hand still hovering over the latte, your brow furrowed slightly. You looked up, your gaze shifting from the excited fans to Mingyu, who stood near the counter, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

"Wait… you’re Kim Mingyu? Like, the Mingyu?" you asked, your voice laced with a playful skepticism. You'd seen the name before, heard the excited chatter from some customers, but you'd never put two and two together. It was just another name to you.

Mingyu braced himself for the inevitable wave of excitement, the squeals, the requests for autographs, the sudden shift in your demeanor. He was accustomed to the instantaneous recognition, the way people’s eyes lit up when they realized who he was. He watched you, a silent observer, wondering how you would react.

Instead of the expected fanfare, you just smirked, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you assessed him. "Damn, if I knew you were famous, I would’ve charged you more."

The unexpected response caught him off guard. A breathy laugh escaped his lips, a mix of relief and amusement. He watched as you returned to your latte art, your movements unhurried, your focus unwavering. There was no starstruck awe, no fawning admiration, just a playful jab and a return to your work.

The fans, initially taken aback by your nonchalant reaction, erupted in a flurry of questions and requests for autographs. Mingyu, however, found himself drawn to your quiet composure, your lack of pretense. You treated him like any other customer, a regular who happened to be famous, and he found it strangely refreshing.

He lingered at the counter, watching as you interacted with the fans, your smile genuine, your demeanor polite but firm. You politely declined requests for photos, explaining that you were working, but you offered to sign a napkin for them.

As the fans finally departed, their excited chatter fading into the night, Mingyu turned to you, a curious smile playing on his lips. "You’re not… impressed?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful challenge.

You shrugged, your eyes focused on cleaning the espresso machine. "Impressed by what? You’re a customer. A regular customer, in fact. And one who gets his name spelled wrong, apparently." You gestured to a stray coffee cup, a faded "Minkoo" still visible on the rim.

Mingyu chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "Right. Minkoo."

The air between them shifted, a subtle change in the dynamic. The anonymity was gone, the illusion shattered, but something new had taken its place. There was a spark of curiosity, a flicker of intrigue, a sense that this unexpected revelation was just the beginning of something more. He was no longer just a customer, and you were no longer just a barista. They were two people, their worlds colliding in the quiet intimacy of a late-night café, and the possibilities were endless.

As the days turned into weeks, a comfortable familiarity settled between you and Mingyu. The initial awkwardness of his revelation faded, replaced by a quiet intimacy that thrived in the late-night hours of the café. He’d linger after his orders, engaging in conversations that stretched into the quiet hours of closing, sharing stories and laughter that filled the empty space.

Yet, despite the growing closeness, Mingyu couldn’t ignore the subtle but persistent habit that lingered beneath your easygoing demeanor: the way you deflected every compliment, every word of praise, as if they were poisoned darts. It was a subtle flinch, a momentary tightening of your shoulders, a forced laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

"You look beautiful tonight," he’d say, his voice soft, his eyes tracing the delicate curve of your cheek, the way the soft light of the café illuminated your features.

"Pfft, yeah right," you’d reply, a dismissive wave of your hand, a self-deprecating chuckle that betrayed a deep-seated insecurity. "Don’t lie to me."

He watched you, his brow furrowed, a growing concern etching his features. He saw the way your smile faltered when he complimented your eyes, the way your gaze dropped when he praised your laugh. It was a subtle language, a silent conversation of self-doubt that whispered beneath the surface of your confident exterior.

One night, as he helped you close the café, the quiet intimacy of the empty space emboldening him, he decided to confront the unspoken pain that lingered between them. The last customer had left, the chairs were stacked, the counters wiped clean, and the only sound was the gentle hum of the refrigerator.

"Why do you do that?" he asked, his voice low and serious, his gaze unwavering.

You froze, your hands stilling on the cloth you were using to wipe down the counter. "Do what?"

"Act like I’m lying when I say you’re beautiful."

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the floor, your fingers tracing invisible patterns on the countertop. The silence stretched, a tense, fragile quiet that amplified the unspoken pain.

Finally, you sighed, a soft, resigned sound that spoke of years of ingrained self-doubt. "Because I don’t fit the standard, Mingyu. I never have. My exes made sure I knew that."

The words were barely a whisper, a fragile echo of past hurts, but their impact was profound. Mingyu’s heart clenched, a wave of protectiveness surging through him. He saw the vulnerability in your eyes, the raw honesty that trembled in your voice, and he wanted to erase the pain, to heal the wounds that had festered for so long.

His grip tightened on the counter, his knuckles white. "What did they say?"

"That I was too heavy. That I wasn’t what guys wanted. That I didn’t belong." Your voice was barely audible, a fragile confession that spoke of years of emotional scars. "They said I was too much, or not enough. That nobody would love me like this."

Mingyu’s expression darkened, a fierce protectiveness surging within him. If he could go back in time, he’d shake those men until they realized the magnitude of their foolishness, the precious gem they’d discarded. He’d make them see the beauty they’d overlooked, the strength they’d underestimated, the love they’d rejected.

Instead, he made a silent promise, a vow etched in his heart. He would rewrite your narrative, replacing the lies with truths, the pain with love. He would show you the beauty he saw, the strength he admired, the love he felt. He would make sure you never felt that way again.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek, his touch feather-light, reverent. "They were wrong," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "They were blind. You are beautiful, inside and out. You are strong, you are kind, you are worthy of love. And I… I see you. I see all of you, and I love every part of you."

His words hung in the air, a silent promise of unwavering support, a vow to heal the wounds that had been inflicted by others. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, that the years of ingrained self-doubt wouldn’t vanish overnight. But he was determined to be your anchor, your safe haven, your unwavering champion. He would show you, day by day, moment by moment, the truth of your worth.

From that night forward, Mingyu embarked on a quiet mission, a personal crusade to rewrite the narrative of your self-perception. He became your most ardent admirer, your fiercest champion, a constant source of unwavering affirmation. He showered you with compliments, not empty platitudes, but genuine expressions of the beauty he saw, both inside and out. He wanted to re-educate your heart.

He’d trace the gentle curves of your stomach, his touch light and reverent, whispering, "I love how soft your stomach is. It’s warm and inviting, perfect for cuddling." He’d kiss the soft skin of your inner thighs, his lips lingering, his voice husky as he murmured, "Your thighs drive me crazy, you know that? They’re strong and beautiful, and I could lose myself in them."

He’d hold you close, his arms wrapped around you, his chin resting on your shoulder, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "God, I could hold you all day and never get tired. You feel like home, like the safest place in the world."

And he did hold you, often. He’d lift you effortlessly, his strong arms cradling you, spinning you around just to hear your laughter, a melody that filled his soul with warmth. He’d pull you into his lap, his arms wrapped around your waist, his hands tracing the lines of your body, his touch a constant affirmation of your beauty.

"Mingyu! Put me down! I’m heavy!" you’d protest, a playful blush coloring your cheeks, a hint of lingering insecurity in your voice.

He’d just smirk, his eyes sparkling with mischief, his grip tightening. "No, you’re perfect. Every curve, every inch, every part of you is perfect."

He worshipped every inch of you, finding beauty in the places others had found flaws. He’d kiss the small scar on your knee, tracing its delicate line with his fingertip, whispering, "This tells a story, a story of strength and resilience. It’s beautiful."

His favorite things:

Kissing your neck, shoulders, and collarbone when you’re tired, his lips leaving a trail of warmth, a gentle reassurance that you were safe and cherished. He'd whisper soft praises against your skin, telling you how hard you worked, how beautiful you were when relaxed.

Back hugs while you cleaned, his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder, murmuring soft praises into your ear, his voice a soothing balm against the lingering insecurities. He’d tell you how much he admired your work ethic, your dedication, your quiet strength.

Tracing his fingers over your stomach folds, his touch light and reverent, grinning as he whispers, "So soft, I love this," his adoration palpable. He’d kiss the soft skin, his lips lingering, his touch a silent declaration of his love.

Resting his head on your thighs, looking up at you with pure adoration, his eyes filled with a love that transcended words. He’d tell you how much he admired your strength, your intelligence, your kindness.

Holding your hand while you walk, his grip strong and reassuring, a silent promise of unwavering support. He’d intertwine his fingers with yours, his touch a constant reminder that you were never alone.

Pulling you into his lap when you're sad, whispering sweet nothings until your tears cease. He'd hold you close, his arms wrapped around you, his touch a comforting presence.

Kissing the inside of your wrists, and the soft skin under your ears, his worshiping kisses a silent prayer of adoration. He’d linger over the delicate pulse points, his touch a reverent exploration of your skin.

Falling asleep with you in his arms, his hold tight but gentle, as if he's afraid you'll slip away. He'd hold you close, his breath warm against your hair, his presence a comforting weight.

Running his fingers through your hair, his touch soft and soothing, a silent lullaby that eased the tension from your shoulders.

Making you laugh until your sides hurt, his playful teasing a constant source of joy, a reminder that life was meant to be enjoyed.

Gaze at you while you work, his eyes filled with a soft adoration, a silent appreciation for your dedication and skill.

When he pulls you close, and kisses you deeply, a kiss that tells you how much he loves you, a passionate declaration of his unwavering devotion. He will sometimes pull back, and just stare at your lips, like he is memorizing every curve.

He wanted to rewrite the narrative of your self-perception, to replace the lies with truths, the pain with love. He wanted to show you the beauty he saw, the strength he admired, the love he felt. He wanted to create a safe haven within his arms, a place where you could finally believe in your own worth.

As your relationship with Mingyu deepened, the inevitable public scrutiny began to surface. Whispers turned into rumors, rumors into articles, and articles into a full-blown media frenzy. The internet, a double-edged sword, became a battleground of opinions, some supportive, many cruel.

When dating rumors surfaced, accompanied by candid photos of you and Mingyu sharing a quiet moment in the café, not all fans were kind. Some comments were venomous, laced with jealousy and prejudice, questioning why an idol, a figure of perfection in their eyes, would choose someone like you. They scrutinized your appearance, your background, your very existence, dissecting you with cruel precision.

The harsh words echoed the insecurities you’d carried for so long, a cruel reminder of past hurts. They whispered doubts you’d tried to bury, amplified the voices that had told you you weren’t enough. The online vitriol began to seep into your daily life, a constant barrage of negativity that threatened to erode the fragile confidence Mingyu had worked so hard to build.

Mingyu, however, didn’t stand for it. He was a force of nature, a shield against the storm of negativity. His response was swift, unwavering, a public declaration of love that sent shockwaves through the internet:

"If you can’t support the person I love, then you don’t support me either."

The statement was bold, a clear line drawn in the sand. He chose you, unequivocally, without hesitation. He chose love over the fickle adoration of those who couldn’t see beyond their own narrow perceptions. He made it clear, your happiness, and safety, were his priority.

Behind closed doors, in the quiet sanctuary of his apartment, he held you tighter than ever, his embrace a silent promise of protection. He ran his fingers through your hair, his touch soothing, his presence a comforting weight against the storm raging outside.

"Don’t listen to them, baby. They don’t know you," he’d whisper, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes filled with a fierce protectiveness. "They don’t see what I see. They don’t see your kindness, your strength, your beauty. They don’t see the way you light up a room, the way you make me laugh, the way you make me feel like I’m home."

"You belong here, with me," he’d murmur, his lips pressed against your hair, his breath warm against your skin. "You belong in my arms, in my life, in my heart."

He’d hold you close, his arms wrapped around you, his touch a constant reassurance that you weren’t alone. He’d kiss your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, his touch reverent, his lips a silent prayer.

He’d spend hours talking to you, reminding you of your worth, of your strength, of your beauty. He’d recount the moments that made him fall in love with you, the small gestures, the quiet kindnesses, the unwavering strength that shone through your vulnerability. He’d remind you of the way you laughed, of the way you smiled, of the way you made him feel like he was the only person in the world.

He’d cook for you, even though he was terrible at it, just to see the smile on your face. He’d play your favorite music, holding you close as you danced in the living room. He’d watch your favorite movies, even the cheesy ones, just to cuddle with you on the couch.

And slowly, little by little, the walls you’d built around your heart began to crumble. The doubts, the insecurities, the ingrained beliefs that you weren’t enough—they began to fade, replaced by the unwavering certainty of Mingyu’s love. He was your anchor, your safe haven, your unwavering champion, and he wouldn’t let anyone, not even the cruelest of online trolls, take that away from you. He made sure you knew, his love was a shield, and he would always protect you.

As the storm of public scrutiny subsided, a quiet peace settled between you and Mingyu. The initial intensity of his protective fervor mellowed into a gentle, unwavering love that permeated every aspect of your lives. You began to see yourself through his eyes, to embrace the beauty he saw, to believe in the worth he so tirelessly affirmed.

One day, Mingyu called you beautiful, his voice soft and sincere, his eyes filled with a quiet adoration. And for the first time, you didn’t deflect, didn’t dismiss, didn’t shrink away from the compliment. You simply smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that lit up your entire face, a smile that reflected the newfound confidence blooming within you.

And in that moment, he knew—this was love. Real, unwavering, unshakable love. A love that transcended superficialities, a love that embraced every imperfection, every vulnerability. A love that was built on a foundation of acceptance, respect, and unwavering support.

Their relationship blossomed, a quiet intimacy that thrived in the small, everyday moments. Late-night conversations over steaming mugs of coffee, stolen kisses in the quiet corners of the café, hand-holding during long walks through the city streets, shared laughter during mundane tasks. They found comfort in each other’s presence, a sanctuary in each other’s arms.

Mingyu loved to trace the lines of your body, his touch a gentle exploration, his lips whispering praises against your skin. He loved the way your laughter filled the room, a melodic sound that chased away the shadows of past insecurities. He loved the way your eyes sparkled when you were happy, a reflection of the joy he’d helped to cultivate. He loved the way your hand fit perfectly in his, a silent affirmation of their connection.

He’d bring you flowers, not just roses, but wildflowers, sunflowers, and other unusual blooms, each one handpicked and chosen because it reminded him of you. He’d leave small notes around the apartment, tucked into books, slipped into pockets, reminding you of your beauty, your strength, your worth. He’d cook for you, even though he was terrible at it, the burnt edges and lopsided dishes a testament to his love.

You, in turn, learned to appreciate his quirks, his clumsiness, his infectious laughter. You learned to see the quiet strength beneath his playful exterior, the unwavering loyalty that anchored his heart. You learned to trust his love, to believe in his words, to embrace the woman he saw within you.

Their love story was a quiet revolution, a testament to the power of acceptance, the beauty of vulnerability, and the unwavering strength of a love that defied all odds. It was a love that found comfort in imperfections, strength in vulnerability, and a forever in the quiet moments shared between two souls destined to find each other.

It was late, the café bathed in the soft glow of the streetlights outside. The last customer had long since departed, leaving behind a quiet stillness that hung in the air. Mingyu sat on the counter, his eyes fixed on you as you wiped down the espresso machine, his gaze filled with a quiet adoration that spoke of a love that had deepened and matured over time.

Then, without thinking, without hesitation, you turned around and said it. "I love you."

The words were simple, yet their impact was seismic, a ripple that spread through the quiet space, altering the very fabric of their world. Mingyu froze, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes widening with a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming joy.

Then, his knees buckled, a sharp exhale leaving his lips as he gripped the counter, his knuckles white, his gaze fixed on you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

"Say it again," he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion, a plea that trembled in the stillness.

You stepped closer, your heart pounding in your chest, your eyes filled with a love that mirrored his own. "Mingyu—"

His hands found your waist, gripping like he needed to ground himself, his touch both tender and desperate. His forehead pressed against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, his body trembling with an emotion too profound for words. "Say it again, please."

So you did, your voice soft but unwavering. "I love you."

Mingyu laughed—a breathless, disbelieving sound that echoed through the empty café. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, his lips curved into a smile that radiated pure, unadulterated joy.

"God, you just—" He shook his head, unable to articulate the depth of his emotion, before crashing his lips to yours, a desperate, passionate kiss that spoke of a love long held in check, a love that had finally found its voice.

When he pulled away, he cupped your face, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks, his eyes filled with a love that transcended words. "I love you more. So much more. So much, it actually hurts."

He showered you with kisses, his lips tracing a path across your forehead, your cheeks, your jaw, his touch reverent, worshipful. He kissed your eyelids, your nose, the soft skin beneath your ears, his touch a silent prayer of adoration.

He held you close, his arms wrapped around you, his body a warm, comforting presence. "I’m never letting you go," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You’re mine, forever."

And in that moment, in the quiet intimacy of the empty café, surrounded by the scent of coffee and the warmth of their love, they knew—their forever had begun.

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p0ckykiss · 6 months ago

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just a few kisses - jay

summary -> it turns out jay is an affectionate drunk (and a bit cheesy)

-> female reader x jay, fluff, established relationship, jay is obsessed with y/n's ass, suggestive, mentions of sexual activity

“can’t we leave already?” your friend complained trying to stretch her aching back. you and your friends (with your boyfriend jay) were at the new year’s after party, your friend group was huddled into a corner, too exhausted to mingle with the other guests.

“just half an hour more,” you tried to comfort your friend, while your eyes scanned the crowd. you hadn’t seen jay in a while, and you were starting to grow restless.

suddenly you felt a body come in contact with your back and a hot breath fanning over your neck. from the way your friend was jokingly rolling her eyes and turning her head away, you guessed the person behind you had to be jay. you were about to turn around to confirm this when jay opened his mouth.

“your ass looks so hot in this dress baby?” you spluttered and almost choked on the champagne you had been sipping for the past fifteen minutes. you coughed a few times before whipping around to stare at your boyfriend, scandalized. jay giggled at the look on your face and wrapped his hands around your waist, pulling you in.

“how much have you had to drink?” you questioned after getting over your initial shock. this was a side of jay you rarely got to see in public. sure, he was the cuddly when you were alone at your apartment, but whenever you were out and about, the pda was kept to the minimum.

“not that much, actually,” jay chuckled before surprising you even further and starting to pepper your face with soft kisses. a giggle bubbled up from between your lips.

“baby, there are people here!” you laughed and tried to push his face away. it took a few tries but eventually jay surrendered and settled for just looking at you, caressing your neck.

“well,” you mused after a while of just standing there with a small smile on your lips, tracing patterns onto jay's chest, “how are you feeling right now?”

jay slowly slided his hands down your backside, settling them on your ass. you looked up at him and raised your eyebrows.

“pretty amazing,” jay smirked and gave your ass a light squeeze. you snorted at that and slapped jay lightly on his arm. jay's smirk only widened as he leaned in closer to your ear.

“y/n,” he whispered, “i wanna eat you out.”

a shiver ran through you as you closed your eyes and bit your lip. you wouldn’t deny that the offer was very tempting, especially because lately your work schedules had been so hectic you used every bit of free time to just catch up on sleep, but nothing would change the fact that you were in public and leaving the party soon.

“jay, you know we can’t.”

jay whined and went back to nosing your jawline, stopping occasionally to press a small kiss to your face. you exhaled slowly, gathering all your willpower to push jay gently away from you. jay gave in and pulled his face away but tightened his grip around your waist.

“i didn’t even get my new year’s kiss yet, can i at least get that,” jay started pouting and tried to emphasize his unhappiness by stomping his foot, which only resulted in him losing his balance and almost falling and pulling you with him. you couldn’t help but grin at the sight. you glanced quickly at your friends over jay's shoulder. no one was paying you any attention.

“alright, just come with me”, you said in a hushed tone, grabbing jay's wrist from behind your back and starting to lead him through the crowds. jay didn’t question you, only followed you pliantly for a few minutes before you reached a secluded corridor. you quickly scanned your surroundings before turning to jay.

“just a few kisses, okay? we don’t have much time, we’re leaving soon,” you reminded jay while pulling him closer from the collar of his shirt. a sly smirk overtook jay's face.

“sure, baby,” he said before pressing you into the nearest wall. it became quite obvious to you in the next seconds that this was not about to be just a few kisses.

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sumluckr · 22 days ago

Text

What loyalty gets you

Pairing: Na Baek-jin x female reader x Geum Seong-je

Summary: After a brutal fight, Baek-jin rewards Seong-je’s loyalty by offering him the one thing he’s always wanted—his girl—for one night only.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, voyeurism, praise and degradation, power dynamics, possessiveness, jealousy, mentions of violence, mild emotional manipulation.

You swab gently at the gash on Baek-jin’s cheekbone, heart heavy with worry even as he sits still under your touch. The dim lamp in the corner of the apartment casts a low, golden glow over the cramped living room, illuminating the dried blood on his skin and the fresh bruises blooming along his jaw. It’s well past midnight by now, and the silence is thick—broken only by the quiet hiss of your breath and the occasional drip of antiseptic onto cotton. Each time you dab at his wound, his dark eyes stay trained on your face, unreadable but calm, as if your presence alone numbs the sting. You can feel the tension coiled in his muscles from the fight, see it in the rigid line of his shoulders, yet he softens just enough to let you tend to him. In this moment, he’s not the Union’s fearsome leader, he’s simply your Baek-jin, hurt and exhausted, leaning subtly into your careful touch.

Across the room, Seong-je lingers by the wall, watching in silence. You’re keenly aware of his presence—his heavy breaths still evening out from the adrenaline, the scrape of his shoe on the floor as he shifts his weight. He hasn’t said a word since the three of you staggered into the apartment after the brawl. He insisted that Baek-jin take the only armchair while you fetched the first-aid kit, and he’s been standing guard nearby as if the fight might burst through the door after you. You steal a glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s got a split lip and a darkening bruise under one eye; blood mats a portion of his dark hair to his temple. But he seems oblivious to his own injuries. Instead, his gaze is fixed on you and your lover with an intensity that makes your skin prickle with heat.

You know that look. That look—hungry, almost predatory, yet reined-in by deference. He isn’t even trying to hide it at this point; his eyes follow the movement of your hands as you tilt Baek-jin’s chin to dab at a cut on his lip. You catch the faintest twitch in his jaw, the way his battered hands clench and unclench at his sides. In the quiet, you can nearly hear how his breathing deepens whenever your body leans closer to your man, as if he’s imagining himself in his place, receiving your gentle care. It sends a subtle thrill through you—a mix of power and excitement that pools low in your belly.

It wasn’t always this way. There was a time he barely met your eyes at all, treating you with a polite distance as “Baek-jin’s girl.” But somewhere along the line, things changed.

⸻

You remember the first time you caught Seong-je staring at you like he wanted you—truly wanted you. It was a few months ago, on another long night much like this one. Baek-jin had called a small gathering of his most trusted at a secluded rooftop to strategize union business. You had accompanied him, as you often do, lingering at his side while he delegated tasks in his cool, measured tone. The summer air was sweltering, humidity sticking your blouse to your back. You recall fanning yourself with a file and noticing him leaning against the ledge, eyes fixed not on his leader as usual, but on you.

At first, you thought you were mistaken. Seong-je was known for his brutality in fights and his unwavering loyalty, not for openly ogling women—certainly not his boss’s girlfriend. But that evening, in the haze of neon city lights, his gaze had wandered. When Baek-jin shrugged off his school blazer and rolled up his sleeves mid-discussion, you stepped forward instinctively to take the discarded jacket from his hands. It was a simple, familiar gesture. He rewarded you with a small nod of thanks, and you couldn’t help a fond smile in return. That’s when you felt it: a prickling awareness along your spine. Seong-je’s eyes were on you, dark and intent.

You glanced over and caught him squarely in the act. He didn’t look away. For a heartbeat, he held your gaze, and the raw yearning in his expression made your breath catch. It was as if the mask had slipped from his face. His eyes dipped, almost of their own will, tracing the curve of that smile still on your lips, then lower to the line of your throat where a sheen of sweat clung, then lower still—to the light swell of your breasts beneath your thin summer blouse. The air felt charged, heavy between you. A slow, hot flush crept up your neck at being looked at like that—like you were something to devour. And oddly, you didn’t feel offended. If anything, you were intrigued, heart thumping faster with an excitement you pretended not to recognize.

Then Baek-jin spoke again, pulling everyone’s attention back, and Seong-je finally tore his gaze away, face hardening back into impassivity. But you had seen the crack in his armor, however brief. That night, as you and your boyfriend walked home, you found yourself replaying his expression in your mind—the dark heat in his eyes, the way his lips had parted slightly as he watched you. You wondered if Baek-jin had noticed it too.

He had.

Later that same night, curled up in his bed, you mustered the courage to mention it. “I think your right hand was staring at me earlier,” you murmured. Your head rested on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart.

His fingers paused their soothing stroke through your hair for just a moment. “Mm,” he acknowledged noncommittally. But you heard a hint of something in that sound—amusement, perhaps. As if he wasn’t surprised.

You lifted your chin to study his face in the dark. “You noticed?”

His arm around your bare waist tightened subtly, possessively. “Hard not to,” he replied, voice low. A sardonic half-smile curved his lips. “He looked like a dog eyeing a steak right off my plate.”

A startled laugh bubbled from you at his analogy. It was crude, but not wrong. You expected him to be angry, or at least annoyed at his friend’s lapse in discipline. But instead, he just shook his head, a soft snort leaving him. “I can’t exactly blame him.” With that, he rolled over swiftly and pinned you beneath him, stealing your breath with a sudden, fierce kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes gleamed with a mix of pride and hunger. “You’re exquisite,” he murmured, thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen bottom lip. “Any man with a pulse would look. Seong-je’s just particularly bad at hiding it.”

Heat flared in your cheeks. You arched a brow in playful challenge. “And you don’t mind? Should I start buttoning my blouses up to the neck around him?”

Baek-jin’s answering grin was sharp. “No. Let him look.” He lowered his head, teeth grazing your jaw as he growled, “He can look all he wants, as long as he knows you belong to me.” The claim in his voice sent a thrill through you. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and surrendered to the possessive press of his body. That night, he took you rougher than usual, spurred on, perhaps, by the memory of his right-hand man’s persistent stare. And to your secret delight, at one point he actually mentioned Seong-je. As he drove into you, hand in your hair, he hissed against your ear, “This what he was fantasizing about? Seeing you like this? Too bad for him—” His fingers tightened on your hips, “—you’re mine.”

From then on, it became a private game—one you and your boyfriend played without ever explicitly planning it. If Seong-je was going to silently yearn, then you would give him something to yearn for. At first it was little things: you’d wear a skirt that was just a touch shorter on days you knew he would be around, or casually apply lip balm during meetings, noting how his gaze darted to the shine on your lips. You weren’t bare enough to be disrespectful—just enough to make his eyes linger and his throat bob as he swallowed hard. The real kicker was that Baek-jin encouraged it in his own subtle ways. He’d smirk knowingly when he caught the other man staring, or drape an arm over your shoulder in front of him, fingers idly playing with the ends of your hair—flaunting what Seong-je couldn’t have. It was all done under the guise of normalcy, but each shared glance between you and him carried the electric crackle of conspiracy. And each time you saw his composure slip—just for a split second, a flash of desire quickly masked by a blank face—you felt a heady rush of power… and, yes, arousal.

Once, you even made him blush. It had been raining and the three of you ducked into Baek-jin’s car. Soaked to the bone, you complained about the cold and he immediately offered you his jacket. In the back seat, pressed between the two men, you shed your wet blouse right then and there to shrug into Baek-jin’s dry jacket. It wasn’t meant to be a show—at least not entirely—but out of the corner of your eye you saw Seong-je’s neck snap rigidly forward, his ears turning red as he fixed his stare on the dashboard. You could practically feel the heat radiating off him when your bare shoulder brushed his arm in the cramped space. Later, when you recounted in a whisper how poor Seong-je had gone mute and red as a beet, your lover had laughed under his breath. He traced his fingers along the curve of your shoulder and murmured, “Maybe I should really give him something to blush about next time.” The mischievous gleam in his eyes left you speechless—and aching for him.

At the time, you thought it was just dirty talk, a little fantasy fodder for the two of you to spice things up. The idea that Baek-jin would ever share you for real seemed far-fetched. He was possessive to the core; even the thought of another man kissing you would normally have him seething. But with Seong-je, it was different. Seong-je was loyal, practically a trained attack dog at Baek-jin’s command. Perhaps that’s why he never saw him as a threat, even as he noticed the way his eyes devoured you. In his mind, you suspected, Seong-je would never dare betray him or cross that line without permission. And he was right— the boy never so much as uttered a flirtation your way. He kept his yearning on a tight leash, thinking no one could see. But you both saw. And in the privacy of your love, you and Baek-jin toyed with that knowledge mercilessly.

⸻

Now here you are, months later, with that very tension thrumming in the air, stronger than ever. As you finish taping a bandage over your lover’s cheek, you chance another look at Seong-je. He’s standing rigid in his corner, one shoulder braced against the wall, his hands now shoved into the pockets of his blood-stained school uniform pants. The cut on his lip has dribbled a thin line of crimson down his chin, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. He’s too busy watching the delicate way you cradle Baek-jin’s face as you tend to him. There’s open longing there—raw and undisguised in this unguarded moment. Perhaps the exhaustion from the fight has lowered his defenses. Or perhaps he thinks neither of you can see him in the low light. Either way, his desire is plain as day to you.

And Baek-jin certainly notices too. A soft hum escapes his throat, drawing your focus. He’s been following your gaze; as you set aside the bloodied cotton, you see the hint of a smirk tug at his lips. His eyes flick past you toward his friend. Assessing. Even injured and tired, his mind is always working, plotting. You’ve learned to recognize that calculating spark in his expression—and it’s there now. He reaches up, capturing your wrist lightly before you can withdraw completely.

“You missed a spot,” he says, voice low and gentle. He guides your hand back to his mouth, to the cut on his lip. Obediently, you dab the last bit of dried blood from the corner of his mouth. His gaze remains locked on yours, but you know this performance is as much for Seong-je’s benefit as anything. Sure enough, from the corner of your eye you see Seong-je shift, taking half a step forward as if on impulse, maybe to offer help. He stops himself short. His hands jerk out of his pockets, then freeze at his sides, fingers flexing helplessly. The poor guy looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself—torn between duty and the ache drawing him toward you.

A sliver of compassion twists in your chest. He really gave everything tonight. The fight had been brutal—an ambush by a pack of some thugs intent on cornering Baek-jin. You remember the chaos: the flash of knives in the alley, the thunder of fists; your man and Seong-je back to back as dozens of them swarmed. Outnumbered, the two of them still fought like hell, protecting each other with near-suicidal resolve. If Seong-je hadn’t tackled that one guy who lunged at him with a steel pipe, his ribs might be shattered now… or worse. He took that blow instead, and many more. He’d bleed himself dry for Baek-jin’s sake—that much has always been clear.

You chew your lip, regarding Seong-je’s wounds again. The adrenaline of battle has long faded, and now he looks just tired and hurt, a man sagging on his feet. Under the smear of blood and dirt, his sharp features are drawn in fatigue. He catches you looking and quickly averts his eyes, as if embarrassed to be caught in weakness or in desire, you’re not sure which. Sympathy wins over your teasing impulses; you can’t in good conscience ignore him.

Gently, you extricate your wrist from Baek-jin’s hold and rise from your crouch at his feet. “Stay still, Jin,” you murmur to your boyfriend—using the tender nickname you’d never utter around others. Only Seong-je is here, and he’s family enough. “I’ll get you some water in a second.”

He tilts his head curiously as you stand. He doesn’t protest, simply leaning back in the armchair and watching as you cross the small space to where Seong-je stands.

He straightens up the instant you approach, eyes widening slightly. “You should sit,” you tell him softly. You nod toward the edge of the low coffee table. “Let me take a look at you.”

“I’m fine,” Seong-je rasps, his voice rough from hours of shouting and fighting. Up close, you can see the fine tremor in his arms from the comedown of adrenaline. His knuckles are split and raw, his white dress shirt spattered with blood—some his, some not. Stubborn as always, he insists, “It’s nothing. You don’t have to—”

“Sit,” you repeat firmly, placing a gentle hand on his forearm. His muscles tense under your touch, as if your fingertips sear him through the blood-soaked sleeve. For a second, he looks over your shoulder, toward Baek-jin, as if seeking permission. When Baek-jin gives a slight nod, he finally relents. He lowers himself onto the wooden table, wincing as he bends his bruised midsection.

“Good,” you say, offering an encouraging smile. You reach for the clean cloth in your hand, wet with antiseptic, and hold it up. “This might sting.”

His dark eyes flick to the cloth and then to your face. He swallows. “I’ve had worse,” he manages, attempting nonchalance. Yet when you step between his knees to get a better angle, he inhales sharply. You can tell it’s not pain that causes the reaction—it’s you, standing so close that your knees nearly brush against his thighs.

With a steadying breath, you take his chin in your free hand. His stubble scrapes your palm; he hasn’t had the chance to shave since yesterday. Tilting his face up towards the light, you inspect the damage. The cut on his bottom lip isn’t deep, but it’s still bleeding sluggishly. A purplish bruise is already swelling along his strong jawline. You gently dab at the blood on his lip, and he hisses softly through his teeth.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

He shakes his head minutely. “I’m okay.” But his voice comes out strained. His gaze darts upward, meeting yours. The air between you feels charged again, that familiar crackle intensifying with each brush of your hand. You clean the cut as best you can, conscious of how his breath is fanning warm across your wrist. He’s so close now; you can see a tiny faded scar across the bridge of his nose, catch the subtle scent of smoke and sweat clinging to him from the fight. His eyes are fixed on you unwaveringly, pupils dark and dilated.

You realize then that your positions have shifted the power dynamic, even if just for this moment. Here you are, standing over the gang’s most notorious enforcer, coaxing obedience out of him with a mere touch and a word, where others only get curt compliance through Baek-jin’s orders. His knees bracket your legs—whether intentionally or not, you’re effectively between his thighs. The proximity sends a flush through you. One of your hands rests on his chin, thumb just shy of his mouth; the other dabs at his lip carefully, slowly. It’s intimate, unmistakably so.

From behind you, you hear the soft creak of the armchair. Baek-jin shifts, but he doesn’t interfere. He simply watches. You can almost feel his gaze burning into your back. Is he amused? Protective? Or something else entirely? Your pulse quickens at the thought that this is turning him on—that seeing you tend to Seong-je, seeing him practically tremble under your gentle care, might be affecting Baek-jin in the same dark, twisted way it affects you.

“There,” you murmur as you finish cleaning his lip. It’s puffy and red, but at least no longer smeared with blood. Your hand lingers, fingertips unconsciously tracing the sharp line of his jaw where purple bruises bloom. “You should really put some ice on this.”

He doesn’t reply. He’s too busy searching your face, eyes roaming over every detail as if committing this rare closeness to memory. His chest rises and falls in shallow, controlled breaths. When your thumb sweeps lightly over his uninjured upper lip—wiping a last smudge of blood—his eyelids flutter, a tiny falter in composure that makes your stomach flip.

He wants to kiss you. The realization slams into you as powerfully as any fist from earlier tonight. You can see it in the way his gaze drops to your mouth, the way his tongue darts out just briefly to wet his own cracked lips. The tension between you spirals taut. For a crazy moment, you wonder what he’d do if you leaned in, closed that scant distance. Would he give in and press his lips to yours, damn the consequences? Would he finally take something for himself?

Your heart thuds. The mere thought of his mouth on yours sends a forbidden jolt of heat down your spine. You recall all the times you caught him staring, all the nights you imagined—privately, guiltily—what it would feel like if those intense eyes of his ever burned into you without restraint. Despite knowing it’s wrong, despite your unwavering devotion to your boyfriend , a part of you does wonder how Seong-je’s touch would feel. You’ve wondered ever since the teasing game began, and each time Baek-jin growled in your ear that you were his, some secret corner of your mind envisioned Seong-je roughly pinning you in some dark alcove, acting out those lustful looks in heated, stolen moments.

It was all fantasy, though. You never truly intended to cross that line. Neither did he—he wouldn’t dare betray Baek-jin. And Baek-jin… well, Baek-jin would never allow it.

Or so you thought.

You clear your throat, stepping back slightly to regain some equilibrium. His hands hover as if he had the urge to hold your hips when you were close but resisted. Now he settles for curling them into fists on his own thighs. “Thank you,” he mumbles, voice huskier than before.

You offer a small smile, trying to lighten the charged atmosphere. “We take care of each other, right?”

At that, his eyes flick past you again, toward where Baek-jin sits. “Of course,” he says quietly. “Of course we do.” There’s a world of promise in that simple statement. For both of you he would bleed himself dry, as he proved tonight.

Baek-jin’s voice cuts through the quiet, smooth and authoritative. “Seong-je.”

You both turn to look at him. He is leaning forward in the armchair now, forearms braced on his knees despite what must be sore ribs. His tie has been loosened, the first few buttons of his shirt undone where you had checked his chest for bruises. Even battered and bandaged, he exudes control. His eyes flick from Seong-je to you and back. In them, you detect not anger, but a contemplative darkness.

“You did well tonight,” he says. It’s simple praise, but in his world, such words are rare and precious. Seong-je straightens further, spine snapping taut with pride at his leader’s commendation. “You protected me without hesitation. Fought better than any ten of those bastards combined.” His lips curl faintly. “I owe you my life, perhaps.”

Seong-je immediately shakes his head, winces at the pain that movement causes, and bows it instead. “Just doing my job,” he grunts. “You know I’d do anything for you.” There’s a tremor of emotion in his voice—earnest, absolute truth. You believe it; your man believes it. Everyone knows his loyalty is ironclad.

Baek-jin regards his right-hand man for a long moment, fingers steepled as if considering something weighty. Then his gaze slides to you. A chill of anticipation skates over your skin at the look in his eyes. It’s the look of a man who has made a decision—a dangerous, irrevocable decision.

The next words that fall from his lips make your heart skip into your throat.

“I reward loyalty,” he says softly, leaning back. “And you’ve been nothing if not loyal.” He tilts his head, appraising the younger man before him. “You’ve bled for me. Time and again.” There’s an undercurrent to his tone that makes your pulse thrum. He is building up to something. You hold your breath without meaning to.

Seong-je frowns slightly, clearly unsure how to respond. “Seeing you safe is reward enough,” he says carefully. He means it too—ever the dutiful soldier.

Baek-jin chuckles—a low, dark sound. “Humility… fine. But I insist.” He pushes himself up from the armchair with a grunt, gingerly testing his balance. Immediately, you step forward on instinct to help, but he holds a hand up. He stands under his own power, if a bit stiffly. Even banged up, his presence looms large in the small living room. He’s only a couple of inches taller than the other man, but in this moment he seems to tower over both of you as he takes a few measured steps forward.

Your heart is hammering wildly now. Because you think you know what he’s about to say. You can sense it in the charged way his eyes meet yours—a silent question, a warning, and a promise all at once.

He stops in front of you and Seong-je. You realize you’re still standing between Seong-je’s knees, and he is facing the two of you like an appraising general. A mirthless smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “What kind of leader would I be,” he says lightly, “if I didn’t repay such devotion?”

Seong-je opens his mouth to protest that no reward is needed, but Baek-jin raises one finger, silencing him. The authoritative gesture makes him snap his jaw shut, obedient out of reflex.

A hot, nervous flush crawls over your skin. Is this really happening? Is he truly going to do what your gut says he will?

His hand reaches out and settles on your shoulder. His palm is warm and firm; the touch makes you realize how tense you’ve become. He gives the slightest squeeze, a reassurance and a claim all at once. Then, meeting your eyes, he speaks calmly, as if proposing something as simple as a change in plans. “Tonight… I’m giving you something special.” His gaze drifts from your face to Seong-je’s wide, disbelieving eyes. “You’ve been watching her for a long time, haven’t you?”

The air in the room evaporates. All the color drains from Seong-je’s face even as his cheeks flare red. “B-Baek-jin—” he starts, the stutter of panic and guilt obvious. His eyes dart to you in horror, then back to Baek-jin. “I— I never—”

“Don’t lie.” His voice is dangerously soft. He slides his hand from your shoulder to the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair. The gesture is protective, possessive. You feel a faint shiver go through you at the show of dominance. “We’ve both seen it. The way you look at my girl.”

Seong-je’s throat works. He looks as though he might leap up and throw himself at Baek-jin’s feet in apology. “Respectfully.” he croaks, anguish threading through his tone. “I would never lay a hand on her—”

Baek-jin hushes him with a simple sound, a “tsk” of his tongue. “I know you wouldn’t. You’re far too loyal for that,” he says. Then, in a shocking turn, his lips curl into a true smirk. “But you forget—I don’t blame you for wanting to.” His hand on your neck slides around to cup your jaw, tilting your face upward. He leans in and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your forehead. The tenderness of it makes your chest ache even through the storm of anxiety and excitement swirling inside you.

He pulls back slightly, his face now close to yours. “Beautiful, isn’t she?” he murmurs, almost in reverence, though the words are directed at Seong-je. You realize your entire body is trembling subtly beneath Baek-jin’s touch. Every nerve stands on edge.

Behind you, Seong-je releases a shaky breath. He doesn’t answer out loud, but the answer is plain in his eyes. He’s staring at you as if transfixed, the conflict on his face stark—guilt warring with desire and disbelief.

Your lover’s thumb strokes your cheek absently. You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze, silently asking if he’s truly sure about this. In response, he gives you an almost imperceptible nod. His eyes search yours, checking—always checking—that you trust him, that you’re okay. And God help you, you are. You are terrified and thrilled all at once. Your heart feels like it might burst out of your chest, but underneath the nerves, molten arousal is already unfurling. This is a line you never thought you’d cross in reality, but here you are, toes on the precipice, with Baek-jin himself offering to push you over.

His voice drops, thick with authority and something darker. “Tonight,” he declares, “Seong-je gets what he’s been craving.” He holds your chin firmly, eyes blazing into yours. “Tonight, I’m letting him have you.”

A soft gasp escapes your lips. Even knowing it was coming, hearing it said so bluntly is electrifying. You feel Seong-je jerk behind you as if struck. The silence that follows is thunderous.

He is first to break it, stumbling over his words. “Baek-jin… what are you—?” He looks at you, frantic and unsure, then back at his boss as if searching for any sign that this is a cruel joke or a test of loyalty.

He merely raises an eyebrow. “You heard me.” His tone is calm but carries an edge that says he won’t repeat himself. “One night. Just this once.” His fingers flex against your jaw, tilting your face slightly from side to side as if showing you off. “I’m feeling generous.”

Seong-je’s breathing has gone ragged. You glance at him over your shoulder; he’s shaking his head, eyes wide with disbelief and—yes—pure hunger that he’s struggling mightily to contain. “I can’t,” he rasps. Yet even as he says it, you notice his gaze dropping to your lips, your neck, the slope of your shoulders, like he can’t help himself. “She’s yours, I— I can’t…”

Baek-jin lets out a low laugh. “You can,” he corrects, almost cheerfully. “Because I’m telling you to. Consider it a reward. For everything.” His smile fades, replaced by a fierce seriousness. “Take it, or are you refusing my gift?” There’s a subtle challenge there.

“No, I—” Seong-je swallows hard. “I would never refuse you. I just… are you really ok with this?” His voice cracks on the last word, sounding so painfully vulnerable that your heart squeezes. He’s caught between loyalty and longing, afraid one will betray the other.

Baek-jin’s expression softens a fraction. He slides his hand from your jaw to the back of your neck again, then down along your spine in a slow caress. You unconsciously arch into his touch, your body responding to him automatically. He notices—of course he does—and his eyes darken with approval. He speaks, addressing Seong-je but also reminding you both who orchestrates this. “It’s okay. I’m in control.” A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Your knees nearly buckle at his words. I’m in control. Yes, he is—and paradoxically, that’s what makes you feel safe enough to go through with this insanity. You trust him with your life, with your heart, with your body. If he says this is okay, if he wants this to happen, then you will obey. Not just for him, but because deep down, beyond the layers of taboo and nerves, you want this too. The truth crashes over you with sudden clarity: you want to feel Seong-je’s touch, want to taste the forbidden desire you’ve stoked for months. And you want to see Baek-jin’s face as it happens, to know that he’s watching every second of it, owning it, owning you, even in this.

Heat floods between your thighs at the thought. You bite your lower lip, eyes flicking from your partner to his right hand. Both men are looking at you now—their attention combined is almost overwhelming, like standing in the center of a raging fire.

Baek-jin’s hand comes up to your chin, gently freeing your captured lip from your teeth. He runs his thumb over it, soothing the bite mark. “Baby,” he says softly, only for you to hear. The pet name sends warmth through you; he rarely uses such endearments, and when he does, it melts you. “Do you want this?” He searches your face intently. Even now, even holding all the power, he seeks your true consent.

Your throat is dry. Desire wars with anxiety inside you, but desire is winning by a landslide. You could say no—he would drop the idea in an instant if you showed the slightest discomfort. But you don’t want to say no. The aching dampness in your panties is evidence enough of your arousal, and the thrill pounding through your veins is unlike anything you’ve ever felt. Still, your voice comes out a trembling whisper, laced with honesty, “I… I do. If you’re sure, Jin, I— I want it.”

He exhales, and you see something flicker in his eyes—a mix of pride and arousal and possessive satisfaction at your answer. “Good girl,” he praises quietly, the words rolling over you like honey. You nearly preen at the affirmation, cheeks heating.

Seong-je makes a strained noise, somewhere between a groan and a sigh, as if hearing Baek-jin call you that affected him too. You glance back at him; his face is flushed, chest rising and falling in quick pants now. He looks at you with open wonder, as though he can’t believe you agreed, can’t believe this is about to be reality.

Baek-jin steps aside, creating a space directly in front of Seong-je—and guiding you subtly into it. You turn fully to face him, your knees nearly brushing his again. He’s still seated on the low table, which positions you standing between his spread legs. The height is perfect—your hips level with his. Your heart leaps into your throat as you truly take in his expression: he looks like a man on the verge of madness, holding himself rigid to keep from reaching for you. There’s fear in his eyes—fear that one wrong move might shatter Baek-jin’s permission and end this before it starts.

Behind you, Baek-jin’s presence is a reassuring shadow. He hasn’t moved far; he’s just off to your right, close enough that you feel the heat radiating from him. You’re hyper-aware of every detail—the soft swish of his slacks as he shifts, the ragged way Seong-je exhales, the roaring in your own ears.

“Relax” Baek-jin says, almost kindly. He places a firm hand on your lower back, nudging you another half-step toward the trembling man on the table. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Seong-je’s eyes flick up to yours, tortured. “I never— I didn’t mean to—”

“Shh.” You surprise even yourself by raising your hand to press a finger against Seong-je’s lips, halting his faltering apology. His lips are warm and slightly chapped under your touch. He freezes, shocked into silence, eyes widening at your boldness. It’s the first time you’ve willingly touched his mouth—something deeply intimate about that realization sends a thrill along your arm. “We know,” you whisper, giving him a gentle smile. “We know.” That simple assurance holds volumes: we know how you feel, we’re okay with it, you’re not doing anything wrong now.

Slowly, you remove your finger from his lips. Seong-je’s breathing is shallow and fast; you can see the rapid thrum of his pulse at his throat. His hands hover uncertainly in the air near your hips, as if he wants to grab you but doesn’t dare.

You decide to make the first move. After all, Baek-jin’s given the green light, and he clearly needs another push to believe this isn’t some cruel mirage. You reach down and take one of his hands in yours. He inhales sharply, eyes darting to where your fingers entwine with his. His hand is larger, rough and calloused from countless fights, but it trembles in your gentler grasp.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, guiding his hand upward. You flatten his palm against your waist, just above the curve of your hip. His fingers twitch, then curl, gingerly holding you. Even through the fabric of your thin tank top, his touch feels hot, searing into your skin. “You can touch me.” The permission leaves your lips in a sultry murmur you barely recognize as your own voice.

He makes a strangled sound deep in his throat. He splays his other hand at your opposite hip, still moving as if any second he expects to be rebuked. When no rebuke comes—when instead Baek-jin hums in approval behind you—his grip firms, pulling you closer between his thighs.

The first press of his body against yours is exhilarating in its newness. Where Baek-jin is all coiled restraint and calculated strength, Seong-je feels like a barely contained storm—every muscle in him taut, trembling with need he’s denied himself for so long. He’s warm and solid and alive against you.

Your hands find his broad shoulders to steady yourself. “Hi,” you manage to tease breathlessly, a faint smile on your lips to ease his nerves.

A short, incredulous huff of laughter escapes him. “Hi,” he echoes, voice wrecked and disbelieving. His eyes roam your face like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time.

Baek-jin’s hand on your back slides up to the nape of your neck, fingers curling possessively around it. You feel him step closer, his chest almost touching your shoulder. When he speaks, his voice is liquid fire: commanding and dark. “Kiss her, Seong-je.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. The last thread of hesitation snaps. He surges forward, capturing your lips with a needy groan, years of pent-up desire pouring into that first kiss.

The force of it sends you stumbling back a half-step, but Baek-jin’s hand on your neck holds you steady, even as Seong-je’s hands now grip your hips tight. He kisses you like he’s starving, mouth hot and desperate against yours. The coppery tang of his cut lip mixes with the taste of him—smoke and spearmint gum and something distinctly him that makes your head spin. You gasp against his mouth at the sheer intensity. His tongue skims your lower lip, seeking entrance, and you part for him, a soft moan escaping as he delves inside, licking deep with a fervor that leaves you dizzy.

It’s not a refined kiss by any means—he’s clumsy with urgency, teeth clicking against yours briefly, breath ragged—but it’s so damned genuine it makes your knees weak. You feel his reverence in the way one of his hands slides up your back, bunching your shirt as if to pull you closer still, and in the almost broken whimper that vibrates in his throat when you tentatively suck on his tongue in welcome.

Behind you, Baek-jin’s fingers tighten on your neck. “That’s it…” he murmurs approvingly, his breath ghosting hot at your ear. He hasn’t touched him, but his presence is all around, an unseen puppeteer guiding the strings of this encounter. “How does she taste, Seong-je?”

He tears his mouth from yours at the question, panting. His eyes flutter open, glazed with lust. For a moment he looks embarrassed, but then, locking eyes with Baek-jin over your shoulder, he answers in a voice hoarse with honesty, “Sweet… fuck, she tastes so sweet.” His fingers flex at your waist as if emphasizing the point.

A dark, pleased chuckle rumbles from Baek-jin. “Good.” He brushes your hair aside and, to your surprise, presses a kiss just below your ear. You shiver, caught between two flames now—the heat of Seong-je’s desire and the simmering dominance of your boyfriend at your back. “Don’t be gentle,” he purrs, though who he’s talking to, you’re not certain. Maybe both of you. “She likes it rough.”

A whimper escapes your throat at his lewd encouragement. He isn’t wrong—you do like it rough, a fact Baek-jin has taken full advantage of in your personal life. But hearing him tell Seong-je that, essentially giving Seong-je permission to unleash himself on you, sends a bolt of raw lust straight between your legs.

Seong-je’s eyes search yours at Baek-jin’s words, as if seeking confirmation. His face is still mere inches from yours, his lips red and slick from your kiss. You nod almost imperceptibly, voice trembling but sure: “It’s okay. I… I won’t break.” A teasing glint sparks in your eye despite the shakiness in your limbs. “Don’t hold back.”

Something primal flashes across his face. He grits his teeth, and for a beat you think he might actually cry from sheer relief and desire. Instead, with a low growl, he swoops in to claim your mouth again—this time even more ferocious. You gasp into the kiss as he stands from the table in one fluid motion, arms banding around you. The sudden movement startles you, but Jin’s hand stays firm on your nape, keeping you grounded.

Now Seong-je is towering over you, one arm around your lower back pressing you flush to his front. You feel every hard line of him: the ridges of muscle beneath his battered shirt, the pounding of his heart, and lower—oh. Oh. A thick bulge straining against his pants, grinding against your stomach as he pulls you into his hips. The realization of how aroused he is sends a hot flood of moisture to your core. You can’t help it; you roll your body subtly against that hardness, a tiny mewl muffled by his lips.

“Fuck,” Seong-je hisses at the friction. He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. Without warning, he ducks his head and latches his mouth onto your neck, sucking and biting with an unrestrained hunger. You cry out, head tipping back. Pain sparks where he nips at your sensitive skin, but it only fuels your desire. He soothes each bite with his tongue, then moves to mark a new spot, clearly intent on leaving evidence of himself on you.

Your eyes flutter open in the haze of sensation—and meet Baek-jin’s steady gaze inches away. He hasn’t moved from your side. If anything, he’s drawn closer. You’re effectively sandwiched: Seong-je’s broad form in front of you, Baek-jin’s solid presence to your right, curving slightly behind. His hand on your neck tilts your head his way, exposing more of your throat to Seong-je’s ravenous mouth. But Baek-jin’s eyes remain locked on yours. They are dark, nearly black with arousal. Yet beneath that, you see a flicker of emotion—control, possession, and a flicker of pride. Pride at how you moan, at how Seong-je groans against your skin as he feasts on you.

It’s all too much and not enough. Your hands claw at Seong-je’s back, needing more contact. “Jin…” you whimper, not even sure what you’re pleading for—maybe reassurance, maybe more.

Baek-jin’s response is to claim your mouth in a sudden, searing kiss of his own. You gasp into his lips, not having expected it. He hasn’t kissed you since this began; the shock of it now—right in front of Seong-je—sends your mind reeling. This kiss is different from Seong-je’s. Baek-jin’s lips move against yours with confidence and ownership, his tongue sweeping in to tangle with yours in a show of dominance. He tastes of copper from the cut on his lip and the familiar bitterness of black coffee that he downed earlier after the fight, and underlying it all, the taste that is uniquely him—intoxicating and addictive. You whine softly as he steals your breath, his fingers tightening in your hair.

Seong-je’s mouth stills at your neck as he realizes what’s happening. He pulls back just enough to watch. You can feel his panting breaths against the damp marks he left on your skin. The low curse he utters tells you he’s witnessing Baek-jin kiss you, and it’s turning him on. Baek-jin keeps kissing you deeply, almost as if reminding both of you that he is the one you belong to—this kiss a stark contrast to the ones you just shared with Seong-je. It leaves you lightheaded and clinging to the front of Baek-jin’s shirt with one hand to stay upright.

When Baek-jin finally pulls away, your lips are tingling, swollen from the combined force of two men’s passion. He runs a thumb over your bottom lip, smirking as it comes away red with the smear of your lipstick and a tiny dot of blood from where either Seong-je or he bit you. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, possessive satisfaction dripping from the word.

Seong-je’s hands flex on your waist, drawing your attention back to him. His eyes are half-lidded, fixated on your mouth and the string of saliva that briefly still connects you and Baek-jin. He looks utterly wrecked by the sight: the two people he most obsessively devotes himself to, kissing each other fiercely right in front of him. And now that same mouth—your mouth—is turned back toward him, inviting him to claim it once more.

You give him a sultry, reassuring look. The desire blazing in his expression has burned away any last hesitance. When you lean toward him, he meets you eagerly, crashing his lips to yours with a groan. The kiss is hungry and messy; he sucks on your tongue, then your lower lip, as if trying to consume you. A growl vibrates deep in his chest, the vibration transferring to you and making you whimper.

While he devours your mouth, Baek-jin’s hands start to wander. He slides the hand at your nape down along your spine, over the curve of your ass. With a swift motion, he gathers the fabric of your skirt—oh, when had your skirt ridden up so high? You only notice now that his fingers are skimming the bare skin of your upper thigh. He rucks the skirt up to your waist in the back, exposing your panties to the cool air. Instinctively, you tense, breaking the kiss with Seong-je in a gasp. You glance around in surprise—somehow it hadn’t fully registered that in all your teasing foreplay, you’re still largely clothed .

Baek-jin looks down at the expanse of your ass now on display and hums appreciatively. “These are cute,” he remarks, snapping the waistband of your black lace panties against your skin lightly. “But they’re in the way.”

Before you can respond, you hear the unmistakable sound of fabric tearing. Your heart stutters—he has hooked his fingers into the delicate lace and simply torn your panties apart at the seam with one harsh tug. The shredded remains fall from your hips, fluttering to the floor.

A shocked moan escapes you, both at the sudden exposure and at how blatantly filthy it was for him to rip them off. The slight sting of the elastic snapping against your skin only heightens your arousal. You’re naked under your skirt now, bare and wet and throbbing.

“Fuck,” Seong-je curses, voice thick as he stares down. He can’t see everything from the front, but he definitely saw Baek-jin toss aside the torn scrap of lace that was your underwear. The realization that only a thin skirt separates him from your most intimate parts has his eyes turning nearly black with lust.

You instinctively press your thighs together at the sudden exposure, but Baek-jin’s knee nudges between them from behind, forcing them slightly apart. “Don’t hide, babe,” he murmurs into your hair. “Not tonight.”

One of Seong-je’s large hands abandons your waist to slide down, fingers trembling as they brush the front hem of your skirt. Hesitantly, he lifts it, and your breath hitches as you permit him to see. A strangled noise tears from his throat when he realizes just how wet you are. The dim light catches the slick shine on your inner thighs. You flush with embarrassment and excitement—there’s no hiding how aroused this has made you.

He drags his fingertips up your thigh, tracing through the moisture there in awe. “She’s… soaking,” he reports in a ragged whisper, as if Baek-jin might not believe it without confirmation.

Your boyfriend groans softly behind you. “I can see that.” He slides his hand around your hip, then down between your legs from behind, cupping your sex possessively. Two of his fingers slip between your folds, spreading them. You jolt, a gasp catching in your chest as he deliberately exposes your most sensitive flesh to the cool air—and to Seong-je’s ravenous eyes. “Look how ready she is for you,” he practically purrs, running his fingers through your slick without mercy. He doesn’t enter you—just glides them back and forth, gathering your arousal and presenting it. “This all for him, baby?” he asks, nipping lightly at your earlobe.

You choke on a moan as his fingertips circle your clit teasingly. “I—it’s f-for both of you,” you manage to whimper. “I… I can’t help it.”

Seong-je looks like a man on the verge of losing any shred of sanity. Watching Baek-jin touch you so intimately, hearing the wet sounds of your arousal on his fingers—he’s transfixed. His own hand has moved of its own accord to join Baek-jin’s. Tentatively, Seong-je brushes the backs of his fingers over your bared mound, feeling the slickness there. When he makes contact with your swollen clit, you keen, thighs trembling.

Baek-jin withdraws his hand, leaving you to Seong-je’s touch. “Go on,” he urges lowly. “Make her feel good. She’s yours to please tonight.”

If his words are meant to encourage Seong-je, they succeed. Seong-je slides off the table to kneel on the floor in front of you in one swift movement, ignoring any pain it causes his battered body. Suddenly, you have the Union’s most feared member on his knees, face level with your hips—and the sight is utterly intoxicating to all three of you.

You can hardly breathe as Seong-je’s hands firmly grip the backs of your thighs, just below your ass. He nudges your legs further apart, eyes flicking upward to meet yours briefly. His pupils are blown, face flushed; he looks almost worshipful and utterly depraved at once. “Tell me if… if I go too far,” he says, voice rough and trembling with restraint. It’s clear he’s on the brink of devouring you alive.

You bite your lip and nod, sliding a hand into his hair without realizing. His hair is damp with sweat, silky between your fingers. You tug gently, and the last thread of his resolve snaps.

With a guttural groan, he buries his face between your thighs. His broad shoulders push your legs further open as he presses in. The first hot swipe of his tongue against your cunt has you crying out, hips jerking forward. He licks a broad stripe through your folds, tasting you properly, and the feral noise he makes against your flesh sends vibrations thrumming into you.

“Oh God—” you gasp, hand tightening in his hair. The sensation is overwhelming; he’s licking and sucking with no hesitation now, as though he can’t get enough of your taste. He closes his lips around your clit and suckles, and your knees nearly give out. Only his strong grip on your thighs (and Baek-jin’s steadying arm that quickly circles your waist from behind) keeps you upright.

Baek-jin curses softly near your ear. “That’s it… eat her pussy good.” he encourages filthily. His crude words make you moan louder. His lips find your neck, kissing and nibbling at the marks Seong-je left earlier. All the while, his arm around your middle holds you firm, like an anchor in this tempest of sensation.

Seong-je devours you like a starved man. He alternates between plunging his tongue into your entrance—fucking you with it with sloppy eagerness—and sucking your sensitive clit between his lips until you’re seeing stars. The room echoes with the wet, obscene sounds of him lapping at you, slurping up every drop of your arousal as if it’s ambrosia.

Heat coils and tightens low in your belly at a breakneck pace. You realize with a thrill of disbelief that you’re hurtling toward orgasm embarrassingly fast—his raw enthusiasm and skill (however unpolished) are undoing you. It’s never been this quick for you normally, but the cocktail of circumstances—his mouth, Baek-jin’s voice and hands, the sheer depravity of being shared—has your body hurtling to the edge.

Baek-jin seems to notice, because he releases your neck and moves that hand down to join the fray. His fingers find your clit just as Seong-je’s tongue spears deep inside you, and he rubs in tight, knowing circles, effectively teaming up to destroy you. “Go on, baby,” he murmurs in your ear. “Come on his tongue. Let him taste how sweet it is when you cum.”

His words push you over the precipice. With a wail, you shatter. Pleasure detonates, radiating out from your core in violent, ecstatic waves. Your thighs clamp around Seong-je’s head as you buck against his face, your hand fisting in his hair. He growls in delight and holds you in place, latching onto your clit to prolong your climax, licking and sucking frantically as you writhe.

White-hot ecstasy surges through every nerve. Your vision whites out; you’d collapse completely if not for Baek-jin supporting you against him. You hear him whispering praise—“That’s my girl… so fucking gorgeous when you cum…”—his voice thick with arousal. And beneath that, Seong-je’s labored groans as he drinks you down, evidently in heaven as you soak his mouth and chin with your release.

It feels endless and all too brief at once. Gradually, the convulsions subside. You slump back against Baek-jin’s chest, panting, little aftershocks making your muscles twitch. Seong-je finally eases up, releasing your oversensitive flesh from his relentless mouth. He rests his forehead against your lower belly, still holding your trembling thighs. Both of you are catching your breath.

He’s panting as hard as if he ran miles, and when he pulls back enough for you to see him, the sight is downright debauched: his face is glistening with your arousal, lips swollen and chin wet. His eyes are heavy-lidded, utterly drunk on you. “So good…” he mumbles hoarsely, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, almost in gratitude. “You taste… fuck.”

His unabashed reverence sends a flush of pleasure through you. Instinctually, you stroke his hair, brushing damp strands back from his forehead. He leans into your touch, closing his eyes briefly as if starved for that affection.

“Enjoying yourself?” Baek-jin asks, voice laced with dark humor. You feel the hard evidence of his own enjoyment pressing against your back—he’s rock solid beneath his slacks. The fact that he got fully hard just from orchestrating this, from watching his friend ravish you, makes you clench with renewed need.

Seong-je tilts his head up to look at Baek-jin. Some of the nervousness returns to his expression as he wipes the back of his hand across his wet mouth. “Yes, boss,” he says quietly, respectfully, though his voice still shakes with lingering hunger. “Thank you… that was…” He trails off, apparently unable to find words for what that meant to him.

Baek-jin’s hand pets over your belly, then lower, making you jolt as he cups your still-sensitive sex possessively. “She’s delicious, isn’t she?” he says, almost conversationally, but there’s an unmistakable pride there—as if he deserves credit for how good you taste.

Seong-je’s gaze drops to where Baek-jin’s fingers are now lightly playing through your soaked folds once more. His tongue peeks out to lick his lips, as though he can’t get enough of your flavor. “Yes,” he admits roughly. “She is.” The way he says it—almost reverently—makes you keen in embarrassment and arousal.

His chest vibrates with a pleased growl behind you. “Stand up, Seong-je,” he orders, a hint of anticipation in his tone. “You’ve earned a bit more than just a taste, haven’t you?”

Seong-je obeys instantly. He rises from his knees, wiping his slick chin with the back of his hand. As he stands to full height, you’re suddenly very aware of how imposing he is—broad shoulders and lean muscle, his chest heaving beneath that open school shirt speckled with blood. There’s something wild in his eyes, even as he stands awaiting further instruction. And then there’s the not-so-small matter of the straining tent at the front of his trousers.

Your eyes drop almost involuntarily, and your breath catches. The outline of his erection presses hard against the dark fabric, looking almost painfully constrained. A rush of heat floods you at the realization that you’re about to feel that inside you.

Your boyfriend follows your gaze and clicks his tongue. “That looks uncomfortable.” The teasing lilt in his voice makes your cheeks burn. “Why don’t you help him out, darling?” He releases you from his supporting arm and steps aside, allowing you to move freely. “On your knees,” he adds, a razor’s edge of command under the smooth words.

Your stomach flips at what he’s suggesting. You drop to your knees on the carpet without hesitation, settling in front of Seong-je’s feet. He sucks in a breath, and his hands flex at his sides as if unsure where to put them. Eye level with his hips now, you reach up with trembling fingers to unbuckle his belt. The metal clasp is sticky with half-dried blood, and it takes a moment to undo with how your own hands are shaking in anticipation.

He looks down at you with astonishment and raw desire. “You don’t have to, doll.” he begins, voice strangled, but Baek-jin cuts him off.

“She wants to,” Baek-jin drawls, confidence in every syllable. He slides to sit on the edge of the armchair directly to your right, clearly deciding to enjoy the show from a more comfortable position. “Don’t you, baby?”

You glance to him. He’s leaning back, one hand lightly massaging the obvious bulge in his slacks as he watches you and his right hand. The sight of Baek-jin palming himself through his pants while he observes you preparing to suck another man’s cock—at his own command, no less—makes you whimper aloud. Your thighs rub together unconsciously. Turning back to Seong-je, you unzip his trousers with a slow, deliberate pull. “I do,” you answer finally, looking up at Seong-je from under your lashes. “I want to taste you.”

Seong-je curses under his breath, hips instinctively canting forward. You tug his pants and underwear down in one go, and his cock springs free, nearly smacking your cheek. You gasp softly, eyes widening at the sight before you. He’s… big. Not that you hadn’t expected it—he is built like a brawler after all, tall and muscular—but the rigid length in front of you exceeds what you’d guessed from touch alone. Long, thick, curving slightly toward his stomach, flushed dark at the swollen tip and already leaking a bead of moisture. A subtle musky scent hits your nose, masculine and intoxicating.

“Holy shit,” you breathe in awe, your tongue instinctively wetting your lips. You hear Baek-jin chuckle softly at your reaction.

Seong-je looks almost bashful for a split second, as if he’d apologize for his size, but any words die as you reach up and wrap your small hand around the base of his cock. His girth strains your fingers; he’s like heated steel wrapped in velvet. He groans, a deep animalistic sound, as your hand gives a gentle experimental stroke upward. The slick of his precum helps glide your hand, and his cock twitches in your grasp.

“Is it to your liking?” Baek-jin asks, mocking politeness, as if asking about a dish he suggested you try. You turn your head to respond and find his gaze laser-focused on the sight of you kneeling with Seong-je’s cock in hand. He looks ravenous, lips parted slightly as he breathes a little faster.

In response, you lean forward and swirl your tongue over the bead of precum on Seong-je’s tip, collecting it into your mouth. It’s salty, male, not unpleasant. You hum at Baek-jin, “Mmm.” Then you flash him a wicked little smirk and say, “Delicious.”

His eyes darken further. “What a polite girl,” he muses, voice thick with arousal. “Showing your gratitude so sweetly.”

Seong-je can barely stand still. His hands hover near your head, as if itching to grab your hair but not daring to without permission. “P-please…” he whispers, directing it to either you or your lover or both, you’re not sure. His thighs tremble with the effort not to thrust into your fist.

You decide to put him out of his misery. Maintaining eye contact with Baek-jin for a bold moment—because you know it drives him wild—you finally turn fully to the task and take Seong-je’s cock into your mouth.

You start slow, wrapping your lips around the sensitive head and sucking gently. The taste of him floods your tongue. He chokes out a broken moan, his hips jerking involuntarily. Encouraged, you bob a little further, taking more of him inch by inch. Your jaw stretches wide to accommodate his girth, but you relish the slight ache. One hand pumps the base that you can’t fit yet, and your tongue presses along the underside of his shaft on each forward motion.

“Fuck, fuck…” he chants under his breath. Unable to resist, he entangles one hand in your hair, not pushing, just holding on as if to ground himself from the pleasure. His other hand grips the arm of the couch beside him, knuckles white.

Baek-jin’s voice slides over you like silk. “How does her mouth feel?”

Seong-je groans, eyes squeezed shut as if he might lose control just from the memory of not speaking dirty. “So warm… so fucking good. So—ah—tight and wet.” His breathing is ragged. “Better than I—fuck—ever imagined.”

A rush of pride courses through you at his babbling. Hollowing your cheeks, you take him deeper, swallowing around his tip as it nudges the back of your throat. He outright curses, his fingers tightening in your hair. Tears prick your eyes from the effort, but you don’t let up. You begin a steady rhythm: suck, swirl your tongue around the head, then slide down as far as you can manage before pulling back. Saliva gathers at the corners of your mouth, dripping down to your hand and his shaft, slicking your strokes. The lewd, wet sounds of your slurping fill the room along with his uncontrolled grunts.

“Look at you,” Baek-jin murmurs appreciatively. You flick your eyes up to see him palming himself harder through his pants, clearly restraining his own needs while he watches. “Taking his cock like a good little slut.” The degradation in his tone is deliberate and it makes you whine around Seong-je’s length, the vibration drawing a strangled cry from above. You love when he talks to you like that, and he knows it. It sends a pulse of arousal straight to your core.

“S-shit—she is,” Seong-je gasps, echoing Baek-jin’s words without thinking. “Such a slutty mouth… so perfect…” He looks down then, meeting your gaze, his eyes blown wide with lust and adoration. “Your mouth is perfect,” he says more softly, brushing a thumb over your cheek where a tear of effort escaped. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this.” The raw sincerity in his tone melts you, and you reward him by taking him even deeper, straining your throat until you gag lightly around him.

“Christ!” he snarls, head falling back. “I-I’m close—”

“Stop.” Baek-jin’s command cuts through the haze immediately. You and Seong-je both react on instinct; you freeze, and he stills his hips, though every muscle in his body is taut and quivering with the need for release.

You slowly, reluctantly ease your mouth off his cock, releasing it with a lewd pop. You’re panting hard, saliva trailing from your swollen lips to his slick length. He whimpers at the loss of your warmth. His cock is throbbing angry-red, so wet with your spit it gleams. A string of saliva still connects the tip to your lower lip, and you quickly lick it up, which makes his cock twitch again.

He looks wrecked, like he might cry with frustration. “B-Baek-jin,” he pleads, voice wrecked and desperate. “Please…”

Baek-jin merely smiles that wolfish smile. “Not yet. I didn’t say you could cum, did I?” His tone is almost playful, but holds steel underneath. Seong-je shakes his head, chest heaving, trying to regain control. He still hasn’t moved his hand from your hair, as though afraid letting go will mean this all ends.

“As hard as it is to believe,” Baek-jin continues wryly, “that was not the main event.” He stands up from the chair now, coming to stand beside you. With gentle but firm pressure on your shoulder, he urges you back to your feet. Your knees are a bit numb from the floor, and you wobble. Baek-jin steadies you, then pulls you flush against his side. “You did well,” he praises quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Seong-je watches the tender gesture with longing, chest still rising and falling rapidly. His cock juts out from his open pants, slick and quivering, neglected for the moment.

Baek-jin follows your gaze to Seong-je’s predicament and smirks. “Don’t worry. We’re not done.” He guides you back a step. Then, taking you by the shoulders, he turns you around to face the armchair. In one swift motion, he pushes you forward, bending you over the arm of the padded chair. You gasp, gripping the seat cushion to brace yourself.

You’re now bent at the waist, your ass facing Seong-je and your upper body supported by the chair. Your skirt, which was already rucked up around your waist, is no hindrance at all—your bare ass and soaked pussy are presented to the open air.

Baek-jin’s hand caresses down your spine soothingly. “Comfortable?” he asks, almost casually. The velvet of the armchair presses against your cheek as you nod. You wiggle your hips a little, silently begging for what’s next.

Seong-je makes a tortured sound somewhere behind you. “Oh, fuck me,” he groans at the sight of you bent over, practically dripping for him. “Please, Baek-jin… I—?”

Baek-jin cuts him off with a dark chuckle. “Yes, I think it’s time.” He steps aside then, allowing Seong-je a full, unobstructed view of you. “There you go, Seong-je. She’s all yours. One night only.”

You peer over your shoulder, desire making your limbs tremble with anticipation. Seong-je stands a couple feet away, looking almost afraid to approach, as if you’re some mirage that will disappear. His cock is still out, flushed and hard and so ready it almost hurts to look at.

Baek-jin notices his hesitance and adds in a low, warning tone, “This is what you wanted. Now take it.” A beat, and then, “Fuck her.” The vulgar command sends a thrill shooting through you straight to your core.

That does it. He surges forward with a growl, both hands coming to grip your waist from behind. His touch is rough and feverish, fingers digging into your flesh as if to assure himself you’re real. You push back against him instinctively, raising your hips a little higher, presenting yourself for the taking.

“God, you’re perfect,” Seong-je pants. His hands roam over your ass, squeezing, then sliding down to your soaked center. With one hand, he spreads your lips, groaning at the sight of your cunt clenching on nothing. “So wet… Was this all for me?” He sounds genuinely astonished.

You manage a breathless laugh. “Yes, … all for you.” Your voice comes out needy as hell. “Please, I need you. Inside me.”

“Fuck,” he swears softly. One of his fingers dips into your entrance, gliding in easily from how embarrassingly slick you are. He pumps it a few times, and you moan, pushing back, wanting more. He adds a second, stretching you, and the slight burn feels divine. “You’re so tight,” he rasps, as your walls grip around his fingers. “How are you this tight…?”

Baek-jin’s voice comes from somewhere to your right, tight with lust. “She can take it.” There’s a hint of a smirk in his tone. “Believe me, she can take it all.”

Your cheeks burn at the implication, but it only makes you more eager to prove him right. “I can,” you moan, echoing Baek-jin’s words. You twist to glance back at Seong-je. “I want you. Fuck me hard, Seong-je… I—I can take it, I promise.”

Whatever shred of control he had been clinging to snaps. He withdraws his fingers abruptly, grabbing your hips in both hands. You feel the hot, blunt tip of his cock prod against your entrance, sliding through your folds to coat itself in your arousal. The sensation makes your breath hitch. He’s shaking slightly; you can feel the tremor in his grip on you.

Baek-jin steps closer to the chair, wanting the best view. He places a hand on your upper back and presses you down a little more, arching your spine deeper. “Keep your eyes on me, love,” he tells you. You turn your head to the side, meeting his gaze as best you can from your bent position. His face is flushed, hair falling into his eyes. He looks utterly enthralled, chest rising and falling with quick breaths. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Eyes on me while he fucks you.”

You nod hazily, locking onto Baek-jin’s intense stare. This is the moment you’d all been building to, and your man doesn’t want to miss a flicker of your expression.

Behind you, Seong-je lines himself up, the tip pushing insistently at your entrance. “I’m gonna put it in now, okay?” His voice is a shaky whisper, as if asking your permission even now.

“Do it,” you breathe, needing him so badly it hurts. “Fuck me, Seong-je.”

With a strained groan, he presses forward, and the thick head of his cock breaches you. Even as wet and prepared as you are, the stretch is intense, bordering on pain. He’s larger than your body expected, and your walls protest the sudden intrusion with a burn that quickly melts into fierce pleasure.

Your mouth falls open in a silent cry; Baek-jin’s hand on your back soothes gently, but his eyes blaze with excitement at seeing you take Seong-je’s cock. He inches forward, sinking in slowly, inch by inch. His fingers tremble on your hips, sweat dripping from his brow onto your lower back. “Oh, fuck—” he grits out. “So… damn… tight.”

You feel every bit of him as he fills you, the pressure incredible. He pauses halfway, chest heaving. “Are you okay?” he manages, voice tight as a bowstring.

You nod frantically, pushing your hips back to encourage him further. “Yes… more… please…” The pain of the stretch has already transformed into a white-hot pleasure that radiates through your abdomen.

With a guttural moan, he thrusts the rest of the way in, bottoming out inside you. You both cry out as his hips smack against your ass. The feeling of fullness is overwhelming—you feel like you’re being split in two and yet you crave it desperately. He’s buried to the hilt, throbbing deep inside you.

“Shit!” His shout echoes as he stills, completely embedded. “You’re— I can’t— fuck, you’re squeezing me so much,” he gasps, voice wrecked. You can feel his thighs quivering against yours, the restraint it’s taking him not to cum immediately from the tight heat of your cunt enveloping him.

Your fingers claw at the cushion of the chair as you adjust to his size, nails digging into the fabric. “So… big,” you whimper, the fullness bordering on too much, but deliciously so. Your body flutters around him, trying to accommodate.

Baek-jin’s hand strokes down your hair, gentle in contrast to the feral act. “You’re doing so well,” he purrs. “Taking all of him. Such a good little slut for us, hm?”

His degrading praise sends a rush of arousal straight to your core, and you clench involuntarily around Seong-je.

“Jesus,” he chokes, his fingers flexing on your hips. “C-can I move? Please… I can’t—” His voice is strained, pleading.

“Yes,” you and Baek-jin say at the same time, though his tone carries the weight of permission. “Fuck her,” he reiterates, low and rough.

Seong-je pulls out halfway, the drag of his cock along your slick walls making you both moan, then he thrusts back in, harder this time. The force knocks a grunt from your lungs and shoves the armchair a couple inches forward on the floor. “Ohh—!” you cry out, pleasure and a sweet burn mixing as he sets a tentative rhythm.

He pumps in and out shallowly at first, each movement sending sparks of sensation dancing up your spine. With every thrust, a lewd squelch of your soaked pussy fills the air, evidence of just how absolutely drenched you are for him.

“Faster,” you beg, meeting his next thrust by rocking back. The initial ache has given way to pure bliss, your body craving more. “Fuck me harder, Seong-je… please…”

Groaning something unintelligible, Seong-je complies. His fingers dig in almost bruisingly and he begins to slam into you in earnest. The pace he sets is brutal and hungry—months of pent-up longing poured into every snap of his hips. He drives into you deep and rough, and it feels so damn good you think you might scream.

Your tits bounce against the armchair with each of his thrusts, the coarse fabric rubbing your hardened nipples through your tank top. The chair’s legs screech against the floor from the force of his pounding, but none of you care. Seong-je is panting like an animal, his breath coming in harsh grunts each time he plunges into your welcoming heat. “You feel… unreal,” he growls, voice ragged. “So fucking perfect on my cock—shit—”

The room echoes with the sharp slaps of skin on skin as he fucks you with abandon. You feel a droplet of sweat run down your temple; he’s working up a sweat too, the effort of restraining himself and pleasuring you making his body gleam.

Your boyfriend hasn’t looked away from your face. You hold his gaze as best you can, your own vision blurring with tears of ecstasy. He looks absolutely debauched, one hand rubbing the prominent bulge in his slacks in slow strokes, the other occasionally reaching out to caress your cheek or throat lovingly as you’re railed from behind.

“Does it feel good, baby?” he asks in a velvety murmur, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Getting fucked by our loyal dog?” His words are filthy, but the underlying tone is almost affectionate.

“So good—ah—so fucking good,” you babble, no longer caring what comes out of your mouth. “He’s so deep—” A sharp thrust steals your words, your eyes rolling back briefly.

He smirks, clearly satisfied by your answer and the wrecked look on your face. “Look at you. You love this, don’t you?” His thumb slips into your mouth and you instinctively suck on it, eyes fluttering. “Being filled by a cock other than mine, while I watch. Such a nasty little thing.” There’s a dangerous edge of delight in his voice.

You whimper around his thumb, nodding as tears slip down your cheeks from the intensity of it all. Maybe you never consciously admitted it before, but yes—you love this. The depravity, the intensity, the way Baek-jin’s presence and Seong-je’s desperate passion combine to leave you utterly limp with ecstasy. It’s overwhelming in the best way.

Seong-je changes the angle slightly, hooking one of his hands around the front of your thigh to pull your leg up a bit, opening you even further. The next plunge hits a spot inside you that makes you see stars. You scream, fingers scrambling for purchase on the chair.

“There, huh?” he pants, having felt your reaction. He pistons his hips, now aiming for that spot with each stroke, and your screams turn to incoherent moans. Your entire body feels like it’s glowing, nerves lit up from head to toe.

Baek-jin withdraws his thumb from your mouth and instead grips your chin, keeping you facing him. “Don’t close your eyes,” he orders softly. “I want to see everything.” His own composure is fraying; you can see his chest rising faster, the way he’s pressing down harder on his own erection as he watches his friend pound into you.

You force your heavy lids to stay open, focusing on his face as a grounding point. It’s utterly erotic—the contrast of his relatively calm upper body and the frantic movement happening behind you. His eyes flick to something behind you for a moment and his lips curl.

He addresses Seong-je, voice dropping to that commanding register that could make grown men soil themselves. “Don’t you dare close your eyes either. Watch her.”

Seong-je’s growl of affirmation indicates he’s complying. He was likely already watching your body intently—where you’re joined, the bounce of your ass with each impact, the arch of your back. But at Baek-jin’s command, perhaps he lifts his gaze to your face.

“She’s so fucking beautiful, isn’t she?” He continues, a possessive pride coloring his tone. “Look at her. Look at what you do to her.”

Seong-je lets out a guttural groan in response. “Y-yes… she’s… ah—amazing.” His pace falters just a half-second, the emotional weight hitting him, but then he recovers and keeps driving into you, albeit with a new layer of reverence amid the roughness.

Your heart twists at his words even as your body is being used for pleasure. There’s so much love in what he said, in how he’s orchestrating this not just as a show of power but as a deeply perverse gift he enjoys giving. It makes you love him even more, impossibly.

Between the intense physical stimulation and the emotional high of this whole scenario, you feel another climax swiftly building. Each brutal thrust from Seong-je’s cock pushes you closer to that edge. Your toes curl against the floor, thighs quaking. The chair arm creaks under your grip.

“Ah—I’m—” you sob, eyes locked on Baek-jin’s through a haze of tears. “Jin, I’m gonna—oh—”

His eyes burn into yours. “Do it,” he encourages darkly. “Cum for us. Cum on his cock.” His hand slides down to grasp your throat lightly, not cutting off air but making you feel his hold. That small choke of pressure is the final catalyst.

With a wailing moan, you come undone. Your walls clamp around Seong-je like a vise, milking him. You convulse under him, vision whiting out as a tidal wave of ecstasy crashes over you. It’s even more powerful than the first orgasm, amplified by the feeling of utter fullness and the depravity of the act.

You scream his name—“Seong-je!—” and a string of incoherent profanities as pleasure wracks you. Your whole body shudders, knees nearly giving out. Hot gushes of fluid flood around his cock as your release splashes out; you’re dimly aware that you’re likely making a mess of both of you, but in the moment it only registers as toe-curling bliss.

“F-Fuck, she’s cumming—she’s—” his voice is wild, awed and desperate. Your orgasmic spasms clearly push him to the brink. He fights to keep pumping into you through your climax, but his thrusts turn erratic as your vice-like grip around him triggers his own end.

Baek-jin tightens his hold on your throat just a touch, forcing your eyes open through your overwhelming pleasure. “Look at me,” he commands. You do, your gaze bleary and fervent on his face as tears of pleasure stream down. He nods in satisfaction. “Good girl. Now, Seong-je,” he barks sharply, turning his attention to the man still pistoning into your trembling body. “Cum inside her. Now.”

At those words, Seong-je lets out something between a roar and a sob. He slams into you one final time, burying himself as deep as humanly possible. His entire body goes taut and you feel it—the hot rush of his release flooding your insides. He comes with shuddering, violent intensity, ropes of cum pulsing against your cervix, filling you to the brim. Seong-je’s fingers dig into your hips almost painfully as he holds you flush against him, as if trying to meld into you.

A guttural groan tears from his throat, seemingly endless, as he empties everything he has into your welcoming heat. You moan at the sensation—the wet warmth coating your insides, each pulse of his cock like a heartbeat against your sensitive walls. It’s obscene and utterly satisfying.

Baek-jin watches, chest rising and falling rapidly. His hand slowly releases your throat as Seong-je collapses over your back, spent. “That’s it…” he says in a low, soothing voice, almost cooing at the both of you. “Fill her up. Good job.”

Seong-je is practically whimpering as the last spurts of his orgasm taper off. “T-thank you… thank you…” he rasps brokenly, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his body trembling with aftershocks. You’re not even sure if he knows what he’s saying, if he’s thanking Baek-jin or you or some deity of fortune—maybe all of the above.

You breathe in ragged gasps, your body limp and utterly wrecked, pinned beneath Seong-je who still hasn’t moved. You feel completely at peace in that hazy, blissed-out way, even as your cunt aches from the stretch and your combined juices trickle warm and sticky down your thighs.

The room is silent except for the heavy breathing of all three of you. Finally, Baek-jin breaks the quiet with a gentle clearing of his throat. “Seong-je,” he says, not unkindly.

He stirs as if waking from a dream. He realizes he’s practically draped over you and quickly straightens with a murmured apology. Carefully, he withdraws from you, and all three of you groan softly at the sensation—your oversensitive walls twitch at the drag, and his softening cock slips free with a lewd wet sound. A gush of his creamy spend immediately follows, spilling out of you and dripping viscously down your inner thighs.

He makes a strangled noise as he sees it. Even Baek-jin’s eyes flare at the sight of your thoroughly fucked pussy leaking with another man’s cum. You flush, instinctively moving to close your legs, but his hand on your ass cheek stops you.

“Don’t,” he says. He kneels down slightly behind you to inspect the decadent mess. You can feel his gaze like a physical touch. With one finger, he swipes up a droplet of the fluid that’s running down your thigh. Between your utterly used state, his dominant care, and your lingering high, you can only whine softly at the sensation.

He chuckles and then—to both yours and Seong-je’s astonishment—he brings that finger to your mouth. Gently, he taps it on your lower lip. “Open,” he murmurs.

You obey, parting your lips. He slips the finger inside, and you taste it: a mix of Seong-je’s salty seed and your own tangy essence. It’s filthy and intimate and so arousing even in your exhaustion that you moan around his finger, dutifully licking it clean without being asked twice.

“Good girl,” Baek-jin whispers, eyes heavy-lidded. He withdraws his finger once satisfied and stands upright again.

Seong-je looks like he can’t believe his eyes, clearly aroused by the sight despite having just cum. But as reality seeps back in, he also looks uncertain, concerned even. His gaze flits between you and Baek-jin, trying to gauge the aftermath. His pants are still around his thighs, his cock now soft but still slick with your combined fluids.

The atmosphere shifts slightly—still warm, but the raw lust is ebbing, making space for other emotions. Satisfaction, relief, a hint of awkwardness perhaps.

You gingerly push yourself upright from the armchair. Your legs protest, wobbly from exertion, and you have to grab the chair back to steady yourself. Immediately, Seong-je steps forward, zipping up his pants hurriedly and reaching as if to help you stand, concern etched on his face.

Baek-jin is quicker. He loops an arm around your waist, pulling your spent body against his solid frame. “Careful,” he murmurs, brushing damp hair from your face. His other hand slides down to tug your rumpled skirt back over your hips, a gesture of modesty now that the deed is done.

You lean into him, melting into his familiar scent and hold. He’s always run hot, and right now his body heat and steady heartbeat against your side feel like home. A sudden wave of emotion wells in you—love, reassurance, an almost delirious giddiness that the three of you came through that intense encounter intact.

Seong-je stands a foot away, hands twitching at his sides, unsure where he’s allowed to touch or if he should even speak. His gaze lingers on you with naked tenderness and worry. “Are you… alright?” he asks softly. “Did I hurt you?”

His earnestness tugs at your heart. You manage a tired smile. “I’m okay, Seong-je. Just… a little sore.” You let out a breathy chuckle. “In a good way.”

He exhales, relief evident. “Good. I— I’m glad.” He rubs the back of his neck, clearly still processing everything that just happened, the post-nut clarity perhaps bringing a dose of nerves. “That was… I mean… thank you,” he stammers, directing the gratitude to the both of you. “I don’t even… I can’t express—”

Baek-jin holds up a hand, stopping his babbling. There’s a faint smile on his lips, almost fond. “Consider your reward accepted, then,” he says lightly. His arm around you tightens a fraction, a subtle signal: we’re returning to normalcy now.

Seong-je straightens, nodding. The dynamic is shifting back; Baek-jin is clearly reasserting his usual authority in the aftermath. But there’s a newfound respect and camaraderie in his eyes as he regards his leader—and also a lingering awe when he glances at you.

You feel Baek-jin’s lips press to your temple in a gentle kiss. “You were amazing,” he whispers just for you, low and full of love. “So perfect for me.”

Your chest swells with affection. Exhausted and sex-drunk, you turn in his arm and wrap your own around his torso, nuzzling into him. The slight stickiness of sweat and the faint copper smell of blood from his earlier wounds are still there, but none of it bothers you. He’s yours.

He strokes your back soothingly, then eyes Seong-je, who still waits as if unsure what to do now. “Go get a towel, will you?” He says, nodding toward the small bathroom attached to the living space. “Wet it with warm water.”

Seong-je blinks, then immediately moves to obey. He disappears into the bathroom, leaving you and your boyfriend briefly alone.

As soon as he’s out of sight, Baek-jin tilts your face up to his. His expression is tender in a way he rarely shows outside of private moments. “How do you feel?” he asks softly, searching your eyes.

A wave of emotion washes through you. How do you even articulate how you feel? Physically, you’re deliciously sore, every muscle relaxed and boneless. Emotionally, you’re absolutely sated and maybe a bit overwhelmed. But most of all, you feel loved. Loved and known in a way that’s staggering.

“I feel…” you bite your lip, giving him a warm, tired smile. “Incredible. Loved. And very, very tired.” You chuckle weakly.

His face lights with a small genuine smile—one of those rare smiles that reach his eyes. “You are loved,” he says quietly, brushing your lower lip with his thumb where you worried it. He then glances down, and his smile turns into a faint grimace as he takes in the state of you: your inner thighs sticky with evidence of what transpired, bruises already starting to form on your hips where Seong-je held you, the smear of mascara from your tears. He runs his thumb gently under one of your eyes, wiping a smudge away. “My poor girl,” he murmurs affectionately. “What a mess you are.”

You huff a soft laugh, leaning into his hand. “Worth it,” you whisper.

His eyes darken with something akin to reverence. He dips his head and captures your lips in a sweet, lingering kiss—so different from the hungry ones earlier. It’s full of love and gratitude. You sigh into it, kissing him back tenderly.

When you part, Seong-je is just emerging with a damp towel. He averts his eyes slightly, as if worried he’s intruding on an intimate moment. Baek-jin doesn’t seem bothered; he beckons Seong-je over with a slight tilt of his head.

The boy approaches, holding out the warm, wet towel uncertainly. Baek-jin takes it from him, then crouches down in front of you. To your surprise, he himself gently spreads your thighs. You flush with embarrassment as he carefully wipes the mess from your skin, cleaning the stickiness of cum and arousal smeared there. He’s uncharacteristically tender with the motion, businesslike yet caring.

Seong-je watches, shifting on his feet. “I-I can do that—” he offers hesitantly, perhaps feeling awkward that his boss is cleaning up his spend.

“I’ve got her,” Baek-jin replies calmly, not unkindly but with finality. He finishes wiping between your thighs, then tosses the towel onto the coffee table. His hand caresses your outer thigh reassuringly as he stands back up.

That simple statement—I’ve got her—speaks volumes. Seong-je seems to understand. He nods, stepping back a respectful pace. The reality of the roles re-establishing themselves is almost palpable in the air. He is the right-hand man again, loyal and content, and Baek-jin is the one who holds you.

A heavy silence lingers for a moment. He clears his throat, a bit nervously. “Thank you,” he says again, quietly earnest. His gaze flickers between you two. “To both of you. I… I won’t ever forget this.”

You give him a soft, reassuring smile. “Neither will we.”

Baek-jin inclines his head. “You’ve earned it.” There’s a subtle finality in his tone, like closing a chapter. He then must notice Seong-je’s busted lip again and the dried blood on his face from earlier, because he gestures. “Now, go wash up properly. Get some rest. We’ll debrief tomorrow.”

It’s a gentle dismissal. Seong-je hesitates, eyes lingering on you one last time. There’s a flicker of emotion there—gratitude, affection, perhaps even love in its own way—but he tamps it down and offers a small bow of respect to Baek-jin, then to you. “Goodnight… boss. Goodnight… and thank you,” he says again softly to you.

“Goodnight, Seong-je,” you reply warmly.

With that, he gathers his jacket from the floor and quietly slips out of the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

Silence settles in his absence. Only the hum of the refrigerator and the muffled sounds of the city night beyond the window remain.

Baek-jin exhales, the tension of performance leaving his body. He turns to you, and immediately his hands are on you—one cupping your cheek, the other resting on your hip. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks, brow furrowed slightly in concern now that no one else is around.

You lean into his palm, covering it with your own. “I promise. A little sore, a little exhausted, but I’m more than okay.” You grin cheekily despite your fatigue. “That was… well, it was insane. But in the best way.”

He chuckles, relief evident in the way he presses his forehead to yours. “Yes, it was certainly that.” He closes his eyes, and you stay like that for a moment, simply sharing breath, absorbing each other’s presence.

After a beat, he pulls back and his gaze flits downward. “I should get you cleaned up more and into bed. You need rest.” Ever the caretaker beneath his rough exterior, at least for you.

You hum in agreement. Every bone in your body feels like jelly. A hot shower and curling up with him in bed sounds like heaven.

As he guides you towards the bathroom, you limp slightly, wincing at the ache between your legs. He notices and gently scoops you up into his arms without warning. You yelp in surprise and wrap your arms around his neck. “I can walk!” you protest weakly, though truthfully you relish being babied by him.

“Shh,” he chastises softly, carrying you bridal-style with ease despite having fought earlier and indulged in strenuous extracurriculars. “Let me take care of my girl.”

My girl. Those two words are a balm, erasing any lingering doubt or insecurity that might have tried to creep in post-encounter. You rest your head against his shoulder as he carries you into the bathroom.

He sets you down on the closed toilet seat carefully. As he turns to start the shower and adjust the water temperature, you watch him with a content smile. He catches you staring and arches a brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say softly. “Just… I love you.” The words come out quietly but firmly.

His expression gentles. He steps back over and tilts your chin up. “I love you,” he replies, and in his voice you hear the depth of his devotion, obsessive and profound. It makes your heart flutter. He kisses you once more—slow, languid, reassuring.

The shower steam begins to billow around you, warm and inviting. He helps you undress fully, peeling off your rumpled tank top and unclasping your bra with practiced ease. As he slides the straps down your arms, he pauses to press tender kisses to the marks on your shoulder and neck—some from Seong-je’s earlier fervor, some older from Baek-jin himself. Each brush of his lips seems to silently say mine, mine, mine.

He peels your skirt off, and what’s left of your shredded panties falls to the tile floor. He huffs a faint laugh, picking the ruined lace up with a finger. “I liked these,” he comments idly.

You giggle, feeling a blush warm your cheeks. “You would be sentimental about the underwear you tore off me like a caveman.”

He smirks, tossing the scrap aside. “I’ll buy you a new pair.” Then he cups your bare sex gently, making you jolt. He’s just feeling the heat there, the tenderness. “Maybe I’ll keep these as a souvenir,” he adds wickedly.

You swat at his arm half-heartedly, laughing, and he finally stops teasing, helping you into the shower. The hot water cascading over sore muscles is pure bliss. He steps in behind you after shedding his own clothes, and pulls you back against his chest under the spray.

For a while, you both just stand there under the water, arms wrapped around each other. The heat soothes the aches, and being enclosed in Baek-jin’s embrace soothes everything else.

He washes your body with gentle thoroughness, massaging shampoo into your hair, lathering soap over every inch of your skin with his strong hands. It’s not sexual; it’s intimate care. Occasionally you both steal soft kisses or share a quiet chuckle when he notes a particularly dramatic bruise or love bite. When he finds a clear imprint of teeth at the crook of your neck, courtesy of Seong-je, his eyes darken and he nips next to it, overlaying his own mark right beside as if reclaiming territory. You squeal at the sharpness but then melt as he soothes it with his tongue.

After you’re clean and warm, he dries you off tenderly with a fluffy towel, then dries himself quickly. You slip on one of his oversized t-shirts, too tired for anything else, and he pulls on a pair of sweatpants, foregoing a shirt.

Finally, he lifts you again and carries you to bed. The moment you lie down on the cool sheets with Baek-jin sliding in beside you, a deep sigh of relief escapes you. Your body is heavy and deliciously sated.

He switches off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into soft darkness. The faint glow of the city through the curtains outlines his profile as he turns toward you, gathering you into his arms. You happily curl into him, head on his chest, one leg thrown over his hip.

For a time, you just listen to the steady beating of his heart. It’s a comforting rhythm, lulling you toward sleep. His fingers trace idle patterns on your back.

Just as you’re about to drift off, his quiet voice rumbles under your ear. “Was it really okay? Truly?” There’s a vulnerability in the question—almost imperceptible, but you know him too well to miss it.

You prop yourself up on your elbow so you can look at him through the dim light. He’s staring at the ceiling, jaw tight, as if worried now in the aftermath that he might have pushed you too far or… hurt something between you.

Tenderly, you reach out and run your fingers through his damp hair. He finally meets your gaze, and you see it: the flicker of fear that perhaps you’ll think differently of him or of yourself now.

“It was more than okay, my love,” you whisper, leaning down to kiss the spot over his heart. “You were right there with me the whole time. I never felt for a second that I wasn’t yours.” The words spill softly but surely. “I loved every second of it… because it was what you wanted, what we wanted. And because you were in control, I felt safe.”

He exhales, tension bleeding out of him. His arm around you tightens, hugging you close. “Good,” he murmurs. “I— I wouldn’t have done it if I thought it would hurt you. You know that, right?”

“I know,” you say without hesitation. “I trust you completely.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, looking immeasurably relieved. When he opens them, some of the usual sly confidence is creeping back in. “And… if I said I enjoyed it too?” he asks quietly, a bit of wryness in his tone.

You grin. “I think that was pretty obvious.”

He huffs a soft laugh and nudges you. “Bold of you, little minx.” A comfortable silence, then, “It was definitely a one-time thing. I don’t intend on sharing you like that again.”

Surprise flickers through you at his sudden seriousness, but it’s a comforting kind of serious. “No?”

He shakes his head. “No. This was… special circumstances. A reward for a very loyal ally. And a bit of a test.” His thumb strokes your arm.

“A test?”

He smirks slightly. “Of my own restraint, perhaps. Of trust. And… maybe a gift to you as well, since you clearly enjoyed teasing him all this time.” His tone carries a teasing accusation.

You bite your lip, not denying it. “Well… it certainly was one hell of a gift,” you admit with a soft laugh. “But you’re right. This isn’t something I need to repeat. I only need you, Baek-jin.”

He seems pleased with that answer. He rolls you both so that you’re on your side facing each other under the covers, noses nearly touching. “And I only need you,” he replies, voice a low murmur in the dark.

You snuggle into him, tangling your legs together. “I’m glad we did it, though,” you add, trailing your fingertips across his bare chest. “In a strange way, I feel even closer to you now. Is that silly?”

He tilts your chin up to place a gentle kiss on your lips. “Not silly. I feel it too.” His dark eyes bore into yours, sincere and unguarded in the privacy of night. “Watching you, trusting you… it only made me love you more. You’re everything to me.”

Your heart swells so much you think it might burst. You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, hugging him fiercely. “I love you, Na Baek-jin,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion.

He holds you just as tight. “And I love you. Always.”

With that final reassurance, you both let the exhaustion take over. Your breathing slows; his does too. Safe in each other’s arms, the world fades.

As you drift off, one last image floats through your mind: Baek-jin’s intense eyes locked on yours while Seong-je moved inside you, the feeling of being utterly possessed and yet completely cherished in the same moment. A shiver of remembered pleasure and emotion runs through you.

One night only. One night that was more than enough.

Before sleep claims you, you press a soft kiss to his throat and whisper a silent thank you into his skin—for his trust, for his love, for everything. He murmurs in his sleep, pulling you even closer.

Your eyes close, and you slip into dreams filled with gentle darkness and the steady heartbeat of the man who owns you—body, heart, and soul. The man who, even in sharing you, never let you forget that you are, and always will be, his.

#na baek jin x reader #na baekjin #weak hero class fanfic #weak hero x reader #weak hero smut #na baek jin smut #geum seong je x reader #geum seong je #geum seong je smut

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hrtwayne · 2 months ago

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Just The Way You Are || Leah Williamson

Pairing: Leah Williamson x Surgeon!Wife!Reader

Summary: Leah’s wife finally manages to take time off to watch one of her games.

Note: English is not my first language!

Warnings: Mentions of Mutual Longing & Lots of Comfort!

Masterlist | Women's Football Masterlist

The room in Leuven, located in a relatively quieter part of Belgium, was bathed in a faint yellowish light. The walls, painted in soft tones, housed a king-size bed and a small table where a few belongings could be placed.

You were exhausted. The routine of traveling between England and Spain, the grueling shifts, and the constant pressure to perform your best at the hospital had worn you down more than you could have imagined. But that week, what weighed on you the most wasn’t physical fatigue—it was longing. It had been exactly two months since you’d last seen Leah, your wife of nearly three years, and the distance seemed to be affecting both of you more than you’d expected.

The time zone differences and your hectic schedule made it difficult, but the two of you always found a way to squeeze in quick calls and conversations between matches and surgeries.

That afternoon, you decided it was the perfect time to reunite with the blonde-haired woman you loved. You had just landed in Leuven, still feeling the weight of exhaustion from a long shift, but you knew you couldn’t put this off any longer. You were used to receiving calls from Leah before her matches, but today, you had come up with a convenient excuse to throw her off.

The sound of cheers and chants was deafening at The King Power at Den Dreef Stadium. Leah was on the pitch, illuminated by the floodlights and the electrifying energy only a game could bring. Behind that confident smile of hers, there was a hidden ache—a longing she couldn’t shake.

As the match neared its end, Leah noticed something unusual in the stands. Near the field, next to her mother, was a face that seemed to shine brighter than anything else. It was you.

Leah blinked a few times, as if making sure her tired mind wasn’t playing tricks on her. But there you were—her wife—with a wide, proud smile, your eyes filled with love and longing. Leah’s heart raced, and her legs trembled slightly. She took a deep breath, knowing that in just a few more minutes, she could finally hold you again.

When the game ended, you waited a few moments before being led to the locker room entrance. You hugged a few players and staff, exchanged words with the team doctor—anything to ease the nervous pounding in your chest. The moment you spotted Leah, who looked just as anxious as you, you cleared your throat. Leah’s eyes widened, and she sprinted toward you.

You opened your arms in a loving gesture. Without hesitation, Leah crashed into you, wrapping you in a tight embrace. The noticeable height difference made her lift her feet off the ground, burying her face in the crook of your neck.

"You came," Leah breathed out, almost speechless. "I can’t believe you’re here."

You smiled, running your fingers through her slightly messy blonde strands.

"I wouldn’t miss this for anything, love. You were amazing out there."

Leah’s eyes welled up with tears. It wasn’t just the end of the match that moved her—it was the fact that despite your impossible schedule and chaotic life as a surgeon, you had found a way to be by her side when it truly mattered.

"I missed you so much," Leah confessed, her voice soft and trembling.

"I know, my love. I missed you too," you replied, cradling her face tenderly. "But I’m here now, and I’ll make up for every second I was away."

At that moment, the world around you seemed to fade. There were no more fans, no floodlights, no cameras. It was just you and Leah—two souls in love who had found their way back to each other.

#leah williamson x you #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson imagine #leah williamson #woso imagine #gxg #fem reader #woso x reader #woso fanfics #arsenal women #imagine

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aquaholicsanonymousworld · 27 days ago

Note

Can something with Lewis Pullman? Maybe they’ve been married for years (man LOVES his wife) and are doing press tour for the Thunderbolts. Feel free to do whatever you want for it!!

So funny you mention that bc I wrote this the other day!!!!

Secondhand Smoke | Pairing: Lewis Pullman x CoStar!Reader

The smell of fog machine residue and secondhand smoke always clung to you after shows. Lewis knew that now, after the third time you’d walked off stage and collapsed next to him on the cheap backstage couch — glitter smudged on your cheek, voice raspy from the screaming fans and three encores you didn’t plan but always gave in to.

He wasn’t supposed to be here, technically. They had you both on a brutal schedule: morning press junket, afternoon photoshoot, evening late-night appearance. Thunderbolts was hitting its peak promo cycle, and every second was slotted for soundbites and smiles. But you’d squeezed in a last-minute performance at The Wiltern and casually said, "Come through if you’re not sick of me yet."

Lewis had been in the second row before your set even started.

Now, as you leaned back, sipping from a water bottle like it was a lifeline, he watched the way your chest rose and fell, your pulse still racing. The adrenaline was infectious — he could feel it in his own veins, like a shot of something dangerous.

“Show number... what? Six? Seven?” he asked, draping his arm over the back of the couch, trying to sound casual.

You turned your head to him, grinning through your exhaustion. “Nine, cowboy. Keep up.”

Cowboy. That nickname had stuck since week two of filming when you’d teased him about his Texas roots and the way he still called people "ma’am" without thinking. You made it sound like a joke, but every time you said it, something twisted low in his gut.

He had tried not to catch feelings. Really. There was the age thing — not a canyon-sized gap, but enough that he noticed when you referenced things that made him feel just a little old. And there was the chaos: you, with your sold-out tour, your new album that somehow made heartbreak sound like rebellion, your late nights and your neon-drenched, wild energy. And him, with his more measured pace, his method-actor discipline, his quiet corners.

But then he started watching your performances. Really watching. Not just clapping politely from side stage, but mouthing the words, feeling every beat. He’d gone home one night after watching you tear through "Cigarette Daydreams" and found his old drum kit in storage, dusted it off, and started teaching himself the rhythm of your songs. Like muscle memory he didn’t know he wanted.

Tonight, though — tonight something snapped. Maybe it was the way you looked under the stage lights, sweat making your skin glow, or the way the crowd screamed like they’d give you their hearts if you asked. Or maybe it was the fact that he couldn’t stop picturing you not on stage, but in his hoodie, in his bed, breathing against his throat.

So when you pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from your jacket and nodded toward the alley, he followed without thinking.

The cool night air hit like a slap. You lit up, exhaled, and tilted your head back against the brick wall, your eyes fluttering closed. Lewis watched the glow of the cigarette tip, the curve of your mouth.

“You know that shit’s gonna kill you, right?” he muttered, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

You cracked an eye open, smirking. “What, you gonna save me, cowboy?”

Something in him snapped in half right then and there.

He stepped in closer, so close the smoke from your exhale curled around his face. His voice dropped, rougher than he meant it to be. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your smirk faltered. “Lewis…”

“No — just let me get this out.” His eyes were burning into yours now, his pulse thundering. “I’ve been trying. God knows I’ve been trying. But every time you’re on that stage, it’s like the first time I’m seeing you. I know every damn word to your songs now. I know the drumlines. I catch myself playing them when I’m supposed to be sleeping. You’ve gotten under my skin, and I don’t think I can go back.”

The silence stretched. Your cigarette burned low between your fingers.

Then you laughed — soft, breathless, disbelieving. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

You stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the mix of perfume and smoke and sweat that was so you. Your voice dropped too, matching his low rasp. “Do you know how many times I caught you watching me? On stage. In interviews. Like you’re starving.”

Lewis’s breath hitched. “Yeah. I’m starving.”

Your lips parted, and for a second, the world narrowed to just this alley, this cigarette between your fingers, and the impossible gravity pulling you both together.

You dropped the cigarette, stomped it out, and looked up at him with a spark in your eyes that made his chest ache. “Well then, cowboy. What’re you gonna do about it?”

Lewis didn’t answer. He just closed the distance and kissed you — hard, desperate, tasting smoke and sugar and everything he’d been trying to deny.

And when you kissed him back, just as hungry, he knew there was no going back now.

#lewis pullman #lewis pullman imagine #lewis pullman x reader #lewis pullman fanfic

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scirelistener · 29 days ago

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IT’S YOU THAT I’M LOOKING FOR ALL MY LIFE

strawhat pirates / east blue gang (luffy, zoro, nami, ussop, sanji) x gn! reader

It was a tough week for everyone. Ranging from the small-time pirates to idiotically big navy ships, everyone exerted their limits to the point where there was at least one crewmate lying on the floor out of exhaustion. Even the ever so energetic captain seemed dimmed in radiance.

In times such as this, everyone gravitated towards a certain individual whose existence was like a solid boulder against the ruthless, crashing waves; you.

LUFFY

Aside from the slight fog, it was a generally pleasant day. Most of the crew, aside from Ussop and Franky who locked themselves in the sniper’s factory to discuss whatever mechanical ingenuities they’ve come up with and Jimbei who continued to meticulously manage as the helmsman, were lingering around the lawn deck.

The sun shyly peaked through translucent clouds, offering just the slightest of rays that warmed the grass just a little to be the perfect temperature.

Nami and Robin sat underneath one of the trees, basking in the good weather while also enjoying the natural shade offered by the branches. Next to Robin was the little reindeer who had his body slightly leaning against the archeologist but his head fully submerged into whatever book he was reading.

The three had drinks sitting around them which was no doubt given by Sanji who roamed around the boat with a tray filled with an assortment of drinks, begrudgingly handing one to the swordsman who had been dozing off against the wall.

Though the two started bantering as usual, their usual deafening voices were muted by Brook who sat on the swing while he gently played the violin in such a way that it echoed across the ship like the enchanting sound of a siren’s voice.

The ever melodious sounds of Brook’s song was beckoning you to fall asleep, especially since you were sitting right besides him with your back against the sturdy tree trunk. If it weren’t for the book in your hand that dominated your attention, you probably would’ve already been dead asleep.

As you were about to flip to the next page, a certain captain made his way towards you and announced his presence by whining out your name.

You looked up from the book just in time to receive the full body weight of your captain. “Oof-”

“I’m bored~” Luffy whined as he settled his head against your lap, looking up to you with an expression that resembled a puppy who’d been denied an extra treat. “Aren’t you bored?”

Picking up the book that was luckily not damaged nor had any of its pages folded, you showed it to Luffy with an endearing smile. “Nope. Only you, captain.”

Another whined drew out of Luffy before he decided to change position.

“Luffy?” Completely ignoring you, Luffy swung a leg over your thighs so that he was fully sat on your lap and he wrapped his arms around your neck, fully closing the distance between him and you with a content sigh.

Though your captain has always been touchy and affectionate with all the crew, it never failed to set your cheeks ablaze at his openness. Yet the way his body slowly relaxed against you with his steady breathing fanning the side of your neck, your lips twitched upwards into an unbidden smile.

As you were about to open the book once more, Luffy mumbled against your skin, “You’re always so warm, like a really warm soup..”

“…Did you just compare me to food?” You couldn’t help the spontaneous bark of laughter that bubbled out, somewhat impressed at Luffy’s ability to correlate anything with food.

When you received no response from the captain other than a snore, it drew another laugh out of you. A small chuckle could be heard from beside you, the owner of the chuckle being Brook who was watching the scene unfold all the while playing his instrument without a pause.

You gently leaned your head against the captain’s before submerging yourself back into the book; only this time, you were accompanied by the grounding presence sitting atop of you.

In Luffy’s dream, he dreamt of the crew as he always did. It was an endless field, endlessly decorated with flowers that scattered its petals into the air. If he squinted, there were two figures far far away from his reach yet he didn’t feel sad about the distance between them.

Instead, his attention was drawn to his fellow pirates who surrounded him with their presences, all beaming with joy.

As he looked down, he saw his hand interlocked with another. When he tilted his head back up, Luffy felt blinded by the sheer brightness from your smile.

“C’mon, Luffy!” You tugged at his hand, pulling him towards the crew.

Luffy, who could never deny you, felt his own smile ripping through and nodded before running towards the crew with your hand tightly held in his, never letting go.

ZORO

With all the windows wide open, cool breeze flowed through the crow’s nest relentlessly yet it wasn’t unwelcome. It felt nice despite the shiver it sent down your spine and the way you could visibly see the condensed breathes coming outing your mouth.

Perhaps opening all the windows was not the smartest move, you noted as you pulled the blanket around your shoulders to cover you more, but as you gazed up at the night sky, the coldness became nothing but a passing sensation.

The stars were shining in ways that couldn’t be captured in a photograph or drawing. They were shining in ways that had to be appreciated through the naked eye, by those who waited for their stars arrival. With a keen eye, one could even see the constellations that flickered with stories of their past.

One small detail that you cherished from being a pirate was the access to such scenery. Of course, stargazing was accessible even on land, but the view from the crow’s nest could never be beaten.

As you were about to blow against your chilled hands in hopes of warming them up, you heard shuffling from near the ladder.

As you wondered who could it be, a familiar patch of green hair emerged from the ladder which caused you to smile knowingly.

“Why is it so cold up here?” Zoro grumbled as he brought himself up onto the crow’s nest, a heavy thud echoing as his boots made contact with the floor.

You turned to face him fully, leaning your back against the railing as you took in the swordsman’s rather sluggish form with a smile. Besides the three swords that he, for some reason, brought along with him, the swordsman still looked as though he had the remnants of sleep lingering in his body. His coat wasn’t even tied probably, instead just hanging off his shoulders.

“And why are you up here? You should go back to sleep.” You said, rolling your eyes as the swordsman grumbled something unintelligible before walking up to stand besides you, leaning his elbows against the railing.

Seeing as you weren’t going to get an answer from him, you turned around to face the stars, mimicking his stance.

However, before you could go back to admiring the sea of stars, Zoro gently pushed your body to face him.

Wordlessly, the swordsman adjusted the blanket around you as if making sure the cold wasn’t getting to you. The warmth emanating from the small contacts of his fingers to your skin seemed capable of warming you up entirely.

When you looked up at him, the warmth in the endless depth of his brown eye made you forget the seeping cold air that continued to flow through the crow’s nest.

You smiled at his heartfelt action, gently pulling his hand away from the hem of the blanket to hold in yours. “Worried about ‘lil old me?” You couldn’t help but tease, feeling a little victorious when Zoro let out a chortle.

“Someone has to make sure you aren’t gonna freeze to death.” Zoro quipped back, but the way he squeezed your hand was all the reply you needed.

Like a natural instinct, he lifted one arm as an invitation and you, following natural instinct as well, easily slotted yourself against his side and found comfort in leaning against Zoro’s sturdy form. The swordsman wrapped an arm around your shoulder, providing extra insulation along with the blanket.

“The stars are beautiful, aren’t they?” You muttered, sneaking an arm around Zoro’s waist to make sure he doesn’t get cold as well.

Zoro hummed, his chest reverberating the vibrations from the sound to you. He hooked his chin against the top of your head as the arm around your shoulder tightened.

“The moon is beautiful tonight too.”

NAMI

Aside from the faint sound of pencil grating against paper and the occasional satisfied hums from the navigator, the library was a quiet haven reserved for only Nami and you for now.

Though the circular sofa didn’t provide the best structure for laying horizontally, the plush structure of it made up for the slightly uncomfortable posture you had curled your body into. Accompanied by the blanket Nami so graciously placed on top of you, you almost let your eyelids close operation for the day.

Yet you were drawn to the way Nami exuded ease and looked content as she worked on her maps, her glasses perched against her nose as she diligently swapped the pencil in her hand for a nearby compass.

There was no other way to describe it other than Nami being in her element.

“I’m going to start counting fees the more you stare at me.” You snapped out of your daydream, eyes averting to see Nami with her hands against her hips with a smile all too mischievous, but still beaming with fondness. The glasses were no longer there, instead placed on the table on top of her on going project.

You sat up, blanket draping down onto your lap as you gave her a sheepish smile. “You look cool when you’re working. I’m innocent, Your Honor.” You raised your arms up in mock surrender, making Nami let out a small chuckle before leaving her work station to sit next to you with a sigh that felt all too heavy.

You gently draped a part of the blanket over to her lap as Nami found comfort in placing her head against your shoulder, her face slightly smushed against your neck.

“I’m so tired..” It was a mix of groaning and grumbling, the way the navigator muttered. You let out a small giggle before raising an arm up to push away some of the hair blocking her face. As you softly tucked it behind her hair, a faint of a smile could be felt against your skin.

With the help of her arm slithering around your waist, the navigator pulled you in closer and impossibly further pressed her face into the crook of your neck as if she was hell bent on making that place her new home.

You laughed at the slight ticklish sensation, but not without wrapping an arm around her in reciprocal.

“You’re touchy today.” You grinned at the pinch Nami gave to your waist as you said it, but noted how she didn’t attempt to pull away.

“It’s been a long week, I deserve it.”

“You do.” You replied without a beat of hesitation. (And if Nami felt her heart stutter, it was just her imagination.)

After that, you two didn’t share another word. Instead, what you did share was the comfortable silence that welcomed itself into the library and the warmth from the embrace you two would prolong for the rest of the day.

As you felt yourself being drawn by the tendrils of sleep, you almost missed the way a certain navigator got hold of your hand and gently squeezed it.

Before you succumbed to dreamland, you made sure to squeeze her hand back in return.

USSOP

Even with the exhaustion that waved over many of the crew mates, including Ussop himself, it didn’t seem to stop his brain from coming up with new innovations and seeing as he had been stuck in his little factory for a good few hours now, it seemed as though his body still had enough energy to comply.

As you handed over the tray of food Sanji made specially for him despite putting an indifferent facade, you made yourself a seat by cautiously pushing aside tools and other metal junks that clattered the space.

“How you keep going is beyond my comprehension, Ussop. Even Zoro’s up there snoring up a storm.” You said with a fond smile, taking note of the presence of seemingly newly made equipments that hid itself amongst the various other objects that invade Ussop’s factory.

The sniper choked on his drink for a bit before regaining himself, puffing his chest in pride and smiling widely. “Well, of course! Nothing this great warrior of the sea can’t handle!”

You laughed in return, nodding your head in agreement. “Of course, of course. How could I forget.” The two of you shared a knowing glance before letting out a small chuckle.

Whenever the two of you were together. Ussop was never as boisterous as he was around the others. Of course, he still joked and told tales as dramatic as poems written by a certain author from the old days yet there was a calmness that stabled the air between you two. A calmness that enabled Ussop to let go for a moment.

As Ussop slowly finished up his food, you noticed a cut you’ve never seen before on his left hand. Unbidden, you grabbed his left hand and raised it up to inspect it despite the slowly forming sound of Ussop’s flustered protest.

“Is this new? It doesn’t look deep.” You frowned, as you made sure to not make contact with the actual wound in the possible case of infection. “Have you treated this yet? Why haven’t you at least put a bandage on?”

“Ah, well.. I might’ve forgotten..?” You looked up to send a stern gaze to the sniper who pointedly looked to the other way, a sheepish smile adorning his features.

You let out a small sigh. “You should be glad Chopper didn’t see it first.” You said as you dug your fingers into your pant pockets until you grasped the bandaid you kept in your pockets just in case.

As you took out the bandaid and proceeded to carefully place it against the cut, you didn’t notice the way Ussop’s eyes soften at how gentle you were with his hands. The way you softly pressed the bandaid against his hand to ensure it doesn’t slip away, the way you caressed the surrounding calluses around the wound.

Before you could slide your hand away, Ussop gently but firmly held it in his making you avert your gaze to him once more. Yet all the sniper gave in return was a cheeky smile.

“Want to know what I’ve been making?”

While the factory was soon filled with the excited ramblings of the sniper’s explanation of each intricate factor and how it contributes to the usefulness of the equipment, his hand never let go of yours.

It was almost as if it tightened with every second passing by. At some point, your fingers ended up interlocked and never let go even as Ussop reached to grab some of the prototypes.

You basked in Ussop’s presence and words while you squeezed the hand that tightly held onto yours, knowing he wasn’t going to let go anytime soon. Neither were you anyways.

SANJI

There was never a day on the Thousand Sunny where the smell of food did not roam around the galley and the surrounding area. Even from outside of the galley, one would smell whatever dish the meticulous cook was preparing when passing by. The smell would always be noticed with the loud yet somewhat harmonious sounds of sizzling food, bowls clacking against each other and the faint sound of Sanji’s humming.

When the day later on dims to nights that were accompanied by the lonely cries of the sea waves crashing against the Thousand Sunny’s structure and the only source of light came from the wall lamps, the lingering smell of food is extinguished by the sickeningly rich aroma from expensive candles.

No longer were there the noisy sounds of sizzling, frying, clanking. Instead, the only noise that indicated the cook’s activity was the sound of boiling water that was then taken off from the stove to cool down before pouring it into the two mugs already ready with tea bags.

Once the colors from the tea leaves slowly infused into the water and faint smell of herbs rose into the air, Sanji took the two mugs and made his way to where you were sitting.

“For you, my dear.” Though his voice lacked the usual exuberance, the way his words glided with tenderness made your heart warm despite the slightly cold air.

Thanking him as you took it out of his hands, you felt your hands feel less numb as it made contact with the hot mug. You let out a comfortable sigh while Sanji took the seat next to you, leaving a strangely large distance that felt like a wide gap.

You decided not to comment on it, opting to take a sip of the tea that immediately soothed your body as soon as it entered the system. You couldn’t help but let out another content sigh, finally feeling some sort of warmth amidst the air that seemed to be getting more frigid.

You looked over to the cook who had his mug placed on the ground, his back fully against the backrest of the sofa, his head tilted upwards to the ceiling. Though you couldn’t see as clearly, his eye looked clouded with thought.

“ ..Are you alright, Sanji?” The gentle calling of his name must’ve snapped him out of his thoughts as he tilted his head down to give you a reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach his eye.

“I’m alright, dear. Just..” His hand fiddled with the unlit cigarette, grazing against the grainy paper. “Just a lot on my mind is all.”

You waited for him in case he said anything more yet the cook remained silent, so you only nodded in understanding.

Then out of the corner of your peripheral vision, you saw Sanji’s fingers that were resting on the sofa twitch as if it itched for something. You looked back at Sanji who seemed to have not notice that his own body was doing that.

In an act of confidence, you placed your mug on the ground and gently scooted towards the cook. Closing the distance just enough so that your shoulders were touching each other and your knees gently grazed one another.

Sanji’s shoulders tensed, but in a blink second, the tension washed away and you felt a wave of relief when the cook slightly leaned his shoulder against yours.

Despite his frequent outbursts against Zoro and his overly aggressive fawning for women, it seemed as though the cook was never one to express what he was truly feeling. You’ve only seen glimpses of sadness, nostalgia and yearning that would seldomly find its way into his gaze, his voice or his actions before it went away like it was never there.

Yet as the two of you sat together in silence, the way he gently placed his pinky against yours and hooked it together indicated a vulnerability he was willing to share to you to.

Without a word, you gently pulled his hand into yours and held it tightly, hoping that the words of comfort that were floating in your head right now was somehow transferred by the way you squeezed his hand.

“Dear,” You looked over to Sanji who looked both nervous and relieved, calling you in a tone that shook at the end of each syllable. “Could I be selfish, just this once, and ask something of you?”

“Of course.” Without a beat of hesitation, you answered.

With a shaky inhale, the cook nervously asked, “Could I rest my head on you for a while?”

Once more, you nodded and pulled away enough to make room for Sanji to lay down. You patted your lap and beckoned the cook to come closer with a smile.

Sanji slowly laid his head against your lap, letting out a small content sigh as he let his body rest against the sofa. His eyes closed shut when he felt your fingers run through his hair, a motion that oozed of affection and gentleness that it unknowingly brought tears into his eyes.

“Thank you.” The cook whispered into the air along with your name.

All he got in return was the gentlest kiss on the forehead and the resumed motion of your fingers running through his golden locks.

a/n : evil polycule, call that diabolycule

if there’s any errors, please look the other direction for i don’t think i even blinked once in the five hours i spent writing this blurb of a writing 😔 and if the characters seem ooc, please look the other direction also for i am very sleep deprived. the one piece brainrot is taking over and i had to output it somewhere and here we are! sanji is like a wet cat to me, hes so cute i want to punch vinsmoke judge for him

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x gn reader #luffy x gn reader #zoro x gn reader #roronoa zoro x reader #nami x gn reader #sanji x reader #sanji x gn reader #ussop x gn reader #luffy x reader #nami x reader

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prythianpages · 2 months ago

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How Did We Get Here? | Eris x Reader

Eris x Reader ft Azriel | Things get heated at the High Lord's meeting and Azriel accidentally lets something slip.

a/n: This is pt.6 to my recent Eris series and between 2-3K words. There is a lot from ACOWAR in this as this takes place during the High Lord's meeting but with focus on Azriel.

warnings: angst, reader is pregnant/ hidden pregnancy trope, scene where Azriel chokes Eris

Azriel found you on one of the palace's balconies, looking up at the moon. Your posture was rigid, a little too still and uncomfortable. Shadows whispered their findings into his ear. Nothing dangerous, no threat.

Just the familiar sense of unease that clung to you like a second skin.

“Not a fan of the warm weather?” he asked, his voice low, careful not to startle you.

He had visited Day Court a handful of times since your first encounter. Any excuse to return, to linger a little longer in the sun-drenched halls where you often wandered, and he took it. Sometimes it was under the guise of business, other times just an offer to deliver a message Rhysand could’ve easily sent another way. He thought he was subtle about it. But Rhys was starting to ask questions. Cassian, too.

Azriel told himself it was only because you were Eris’s mate. That it was strategic. A chance to understand the mess Eris had left behind, to get ahead of whatever damage might come next. But the more time he spent in your presence, the more that justification began to wear thin.

It hadn’t been easy at first.

You were wary—rightfully so. But slowly, you let him in. Not through grand gestures, but through small things such as the way you no longer flinched when his shadows crept close, the way your shoulders weren’t so tense around him.

One day, you even smiled at him. A small, fragile thing but it was a smile nonetheless. And Azriel had the distinct feeling that you hadn’t smiled in awhile. Not with how sorrow and exhaustion lingered in the depth of your eyes. You always looked like you were trying to disappear into the sun-lit marble walls.

You shifted to the side, just barely, and Azriel took that as permission. He stepped forward, settling beside you, his wings folding partway behind him as he leaned his forearms on the railing.

“I used to complain so much about the Autumn chill at night,” you murmured, a sad smile on your face. “But funny, how I’ve grown to miss it.”

He watched the way your fingers curled slightly over the marble ledge. The sadness in your tone didn’t surprise him. It was subtle but impossible to ignore if one listened long enough.

“Sometimes, we don’t appreciate what we have until it’s gone.”

Your nod came slowly, as if it took effort. He’d meant the words to be comforting, but watching the way your face shifted, he wondered if they had only deepened the ache you carried.

“How’s the food poisoning doing?” Azriel then asked gently.

He saw the hesitation in your eyes before you spoke, the way you weighed the moment like something might shatter if you weren’t careful.

“It’s–” You began but then stopped yourself. You glanced around, checking for eavesdroppers—though Azriel’s shadows already cloaked you both in silence. Only when you were certain no one else could hear did you continue.

“Actually, it’s not food poisoning.”

There was a long pause. And then you turned to him.

“I’m pregnant.”

You let out a breath, as if the weight of your confession had been pressing against your lungs for weeks, too heavy to carry on your own any longer.

Azriel blinked slowly. He already knew. Of course, he had. His shadows had told him the morning after your first meeting. They’d scented your bond to Eris, the new life blooming quietly within you, and heard the flutter of a tiny heartbeat tucked beneath your ribs. He only humored your excuse for your own sake.

He sensed your watchful gaze on him, sensed you wanted to say more. So he waited, gave you some space and let the silence stretch between you until you chose to fill it. Your gaze dropped from him. You blinked quickly, trying to hold back tears.

“…It’s Eris’s,” you said at last.

Azriel’s shadows—mischievous little things at times—snickered and swirled, clearly amused by his poor attempt at a surprised expression. His wings shifted in warning, silently urging them to settle down.

“You’re not surprised…”

“I can smell it,” he said before he could stop himself with a small shrug.

Your eyes widened, face flushing with mortification and instantly brought your arm in closer for a sniff. Azriel couldn’t help it. He chuckled. “Don’t worry. I doubt anyone else can at the moment. My shadows sense things before most people could. They’re nosy like that.”

His shadows danced in the air, pleased with the acknowledgment. You managed a small smile, muscles easing a bit. “How long have you known?”

Azriel glanced away, his turn to be sheepish now. “Since I helped you add your own flair to one of Helion’s antique vases.”

That earned a soft, breathy laugh from you. One hand came up to press against your chest. “Wow, it feels good to tell someone... even if you already knew.”

But then your expression faltered.

He caught it instantly. The way your gaze flickered downward. His eyes followed yours, dipping briefly toward your stomach before flicking back up. “What’s wrong?” He asked.

“I just… I always imagined saying those words under different circumstances…”

There it was again. That small echo of grief buried beneath the surface of your voice. He let the silence stretch, carefully weighing his next words.

“Is that why you’re so far from home?”

Azriel already knew the answer. However, this wasn’t about confirmation. This was a small offering. If you wanted to talk, you could. He’d listen.

“Yes,” you finally responded after a moment of hesitation.

He didn’t need his shadows to feel the invisible shift in the air. The conversation had started to drift too close to the edge of something you weren’t ready to let him hear. You retreated inward again, and he didn’t stop you. He knew that look. He’d worn it himself too many times.

So Azriel didn’t press further.

But his mind wouldn’t let it go.

There was a quiet sadness in your eyes, a guardedness in the way you kept to yourself. You were heartbroken and with the knowledge of the mating bond, it hadn’t been hard to figure out why.

Eris.

The thought of that male’s name alone sent a surge of fury twisting through Azriel’s gut. Eris had already left scars on someone Azriel cared for deeply. And though he sensed your story was different, you also bore a haunted look.

Another person Eris had broken.

Azriel’s hands curled into fists, his shadows silencing the way the leather of his gloves creaked with the motion so it wouldn’t startle you.

How many more lives would Eris scorch before someone stopped him?

“Can I ask you something?” your voice broke the silence, pulling him from his thoughts.

He nodded.

“Why have you been so… kind to me?”

Azriel didn’t answer right away. His gaze slipped past the balcony, into the distance. His shadows quieted, curling close to his shoulders.

“You remind me of someone I know,” he said finally.

He didn’t elaborate further and his tone made it clear he wouldn’t. Just as he hadn’t probed you for more, you granted him the same courtesy. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t empty. It felt… shared. A space where two people, both bruised by the past, could simply exist.

Though, Azriel’s mind was anything but quiet.

It was roaring with memories–memories of a woman with trembling hands and tired eyes. His mother. The one who had fled the male who hurt her, who raised her son alone in a world that did not offer her kindness. Who bore her scars in silence.

She probably looked like you do now.

And in the back of his mind, that hatred for Eris began to churn…like a storm gathering on the horizon, waiting for the right moment to break.

The High Lord meeting was already too tense for Azriel’s liking and it hadn’t even officially started yet.

He hated being boxed into a room with this many powerful, unpredictable people. It’s why Azriel sat with his back straight, wings slightly tense and shadows on high alert. Some had stayed close, winding around his ankles. Others had dispersed, trailing along the walls. Watching, listening.

They communicated to him on small movements such as the way Thesan’s captain patted his High Lord’s shoulder and the way Kallias’s fingers twitched against his mate’s.

But it was Eris who had Azriel the most tense.

The eldest son of Autumn shifted in his seat, instantly drawing Azriel’s attention to him. The way Eris’s mouth tugged at the corners at a sly comment one of his brothers made Azriel’s blood begin to simmer.

Smug, arrogant, unrepentant. His shadows echoed the sentiment, curling tighter around him.

For so many years, Eris had aligned with Keir, and even after the fallout of his engagement with Mor, the two still remained somewhat close. Neither had shown an ounce of remorse for what had happened.

Eris had stood by, indifferent, watching as Mor was shattered. He hadn’t lifted a finger to help her. The memory of the day he had found Mor, hurt and injured, was carved into his mind like a wound that refused to heal.

And now Rhysand wanted to bring Eris closer. To offer him an alliance of his own. Azriel couldn’t understand it or perhaps, he simply refused to. Especially now, after meeting you and finding out how the wretched male found his way into your story too.

He didn’t know the full details of what had happened between you and Eris. Though, he didn’t need them. The damage was evident. Eris had left his mark on you. He had seen it in your eyes—the betrayal, the lingering hurt—after you finally confessed you were carrying his child.

Azriel stared at Eris—really looked at him.

That same smug smirk. That same careless tilt of his head like he hadn’t a care in the world. Like he wasn’t the reason someone now sat awake at night, curled protectively around the life growing inside her.

Azriel's jaw clenched. His hands flexed against his thighs, shadows snaking across his knuckles.

The bastard didn’t care.

He didn’t deserve to sit at this table or be granted Rhys’s trust. And he sure as hell didn’t deserve you. Or the child you now carried.

Azriel’s shadows whispered against his ears, reading movements, breaths, the tiniest shift in tone or muscle. He had endured most of this meeting surprisingly, keeping composed. But all of that shattered when Eris turned his attention to Mor and finally spoke, like the first crack of thunder before a storm broke loose.

"Good to know that after five hundred years, you still dress like a slut."

One moment, Azriel was seated.

The next, he’d blasted through Eris’s shield with a flare of blue light.

His body was a blur, crashing through Eris’s and sending them both careening backward. Wood and glass exploded beneath them, chairs toppling.

“Shit,” Cassian barked, springing to his feet—

And slammed into a wall of blue.

Azriel had sealed them in. No way in. No way out. Not even Rhysand could pierce through it. Though Azriel felt his power rise, heard the warning echo of his High Lord through his shadows to stand down, he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Fury surged through, drowning out reason with the force of a raging storm. His scarred hands clamped around Eris’s throat, squeezing as the male thrashed beneath him. His knee then ground down into Eris’s gut with unrelenting force while Eris’s hands clawed at Azriel’s arms.

Azriel made sure his shadows cloaked his words from the others, before hissing out with bared teeth:

“I found your mate.”

Eris choked beneath him, face reddening. As the weight of Azriel’s words sank in, his eyebrows furrowed and something flashed in his amber eyes that had Azriel briefly freezing. Was that…fear? He didn’t know what he had expected but fear was not it. Why fear?

Azriel shoved the thought aside as the storm in his veins continued to surged, growing stronger by the moment. Let him fear. Let him suffer. His hands tightened. He was ready to deliver the final blow.

But then—Feyre. His shadows hissed her name, and Azriel turned to look at her, her silhouette stepping through the darkness and hand extended toward him.

“Come sit beside me,” she said, her voice cool and casual, despite the hint of urgency in her eyes.

Azriel’s grip loosened, just enough for Eris to gasp a breath. His shadows were still writhing around him. He turned back to the pathetic excuse of the male beneath him.

Eris’s chest heaved, his eyes, wide and wild. He looked less like a future High Lord and more like a male on the verge of crumbling.

Azriel relished in it. But he still had one more blow to land. One he knew would do far more damage than his hands could at the moment. He leaned in, voice low and lethal.

“She carries a child you’ll never meet. And that’s mercy because no child deserves to grow up knowing you.”

Azriel finally released him. He stood slowly, shadows brushing over his skin like a steady hand, attempting to soothe the storm within. He cast one final glance toward Eris—and faltered.

It wasn’t the wheezing or the bruises that stopped him. It was the look on Eris’s face. The color had drained from Eris’s skin. His lips had parted, utter shock passing through his gaze.

Azriel’s shadows suddenly stilled, falling eerily silent, mirroring the breath that caught in his throat.

Eris hadn’t known about the baby.

a/n: I apologize for any errors. My eyes are too tired to properly do my last minute edits rn. If anything feels unclear, feel free to ask.

Click here for a sneak peak of the next part.

series taglist: @kodafics , @shinyghosteclipse, @marrass, @posierosie, @solanaaaaaaa

@tele86, @bubybubsters, @k-homosapien, @mariaxliliana, @kathren1sky-blog

@anainkandpaper, @icey--stars, @moonlovefairy, @hellohauntedturnstudent, @lucia-valentinaa,

@wrenisrad, @smol-grandpa, @sleepylunarwolf, @63angel, @anuttellaa

@anon1227 @paleidiot @thatacotargirl, @queenoffeysand , @slut4acotar @awkardnerd

@blueroseava , @lovetia , @historygeekqueen , @idk1027 ,@naturakaashi

@blightyblinders , @wolvesnravens

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits15, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith, @xadenswhore, @kod

#eris x reader #eris x you #eris x y/n #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra fanfiction #eris angst #azriel x reader #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction

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hometoursandotherstuff · 2 months ago

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One of my favorite handcrafted homes is off the market, but still listed. The 1993 "Tower House," in Saugerties, NY is so unique, I had to revisit it. 3bds, 4ba, 2,118sqft, $979,800.

The long entrance foyer has long built-in benches.

Then, you go thru 2 pony walls with large columned lamps.

There are little rooms and doors in the curved walls. They may either be closets or small baths.

The house is round, and so is mostly everything in it, especially the built-in features.

Even the floor boards are curved.

The whimsical kitchen is also curved. The lower cabinet doors have copper inserts and the uppers are glass front. Look at the interesting exhaust hood over the stove- it's kind of for decorative purposes b/c there's an old fashioned fan in the wall.

Continuing around, we come to a bedroom. Note that, unlike other round homes, it's not open in the middle- there's another round insert.

The bedroom has a cute little anteroom on the side.

Then you go up to the next level.

Where you'll find a colorful bathroom sink on the landing.

There's a nice family room up here.

That weird thing in the center of the ceiling kind of freaks me out.

The bathroom has an oddly placed toilet, but it looks like it may have been purposely placed there so you can look out of the window.

There's supposed to be a metal shop on the property, where they probably made the copper art panels.

Here's a patio.

This is a little strange.

It looks like a dentist's office, but they probably do facials or something, b/c there's no dental equipment.

And, there's this space, also. They do yoga here or something. The outer buildings can be converted to studios or guest houses.

This is a storage shed made from an old rail car.

That green building may be the metal studio.

There's a nice terrace around the top of the house.

The house is on a lovely 5 acre treed lot. Saugerties, NY is actually where the famous Woodstock concert took place and it's right next to the town of Woodstock.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/107-Fishcreek-Rd-Saugerties-NY-12477/32868055_zpid/

#unique homes #handcrafted homes #unusual homes #whimsical homes #houses #art houses #house tours #home tour

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4linos · 2 months ago

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crash and burn.

ot8 x ninth member male reader

synopsis: you thought silence made you strong. but when you collapse mid-song, your members show you what real strength looks like, being cared for.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fainting, malnutrition, burnout.

wc: 2150

The crowd roared like a tidal wave, deafening and unrelenting, but it sounded muffled in your ears.

You stood just offstage, the thick velvet curtain brushing against your shoulder as you waited for the cue. Your heart was hammering, not from nerves, but from sheer exertion. Your limbs felt leaden, your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and a faint, persistent buzz echoed in your head. You tilted slightly to one side, catching yourself before you stumbled.

It had been like this for days now. Maybe longer.

You'd chalked it up to the usual: exhaustion, long practices, late-night recordings. It wasn’t like this was new. Every idol lived like this, surviving on little sleep and even less food, constantly chasing perfection under the blinding spotlight. You weren’t special. So, when your stomach grumbled during practice, you told yourself you'd eat later. When your knees buckled slightly in the hallway, you grabbed the wall and laughed it off. And when your vision swam during warmups this morning, you blamed it on the heat and kept going.

Because if you stopped now, just for a break, just to rest, what if they thought you couldn’t handle it?

What if you proved them right?

“Y/N,” Chan’s voice came from your left, firm but kind. “You good?”

You blinked and nodded quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah. Just pumped.”

He held your gaze for a second longer than usual. Like he could see through the cracks. But then the opening VCR ended, and the stage lights flared to life.

And then you were running out into the crowd, smiling wide, waving, getting into position.

You weren’t good. Not even close.

The first song was a blur. Your body moved on muscle memory alone. The choreo was aggressive, as always, but tonight it felt like you were dragging your limbs through sludge. Every jump sent a spike of dizziness through your skull, every turn left you gasping for air.

By the second song, sweat poured down your face like rain. It stung your eyes. Your hair clung to your forehead. You bit the inside of your cheek to focus, to stay sharp, but your mind was getting foggy. Like someone was slowly turning the volume down on the world.

You glanced sideways during the bridge and caught Jisung watching you out of the corner of his eye, brows pinched. You forced a smile.

He didn’t smile back.

By the third song, your head was pounding so hard you thought your skull might crack open. The lights above seemed brighter than usual, searing into your eyes. Your ears rang. Your breath came short and fast. Your body was crying for fuel it hadn’t received in too long.

But it didn’t matter.

Because this was your part.

The music dipped into silence as the instrumental faded. The stage dimmed around you, leaving just the spotlight, blinding and white hot, on your figure.

You stepped forward, mic in hand, heart thudding wildly against your ribs.

You opened your mouth.

And nothing came out.

Your throat closed up. The words, lyrics you’d practiced a hundred times, bled over just… vanished. Your mind was blank. A second passed. Then two.

In the crowd, fans stopped waving their lightsticks. Silence rippled like static through the audience. It wasn’t long, but it was long enough, enough for Chan to glance back at you, eyes sharp with concern. Enough for Seungmin to pause mid-step. Enough for Felix to frown.

You stumbled.

Just barely.

But it was enough.

Because the moment you tried to speak again, the world tilted sideways and then everything went black.

You didn’t remember hitting the floor.

Didn’t remember the chaos, the crowd screaming, the music cutting off abruptly, the mics hissing as members rushed to you.

You didn’t remember the way Chan dropped to his knees, calling your name. The way Changbin held your head carefully to the side, checking your pulse with trembling fingers. Or how Jeongin was frozen in place, eyes wide and terrified.

All you knew was darkness.

Silence.

Weightlessness.

When you woke, the first thing you felt was cold, an air-conditioned chill brushing across your sweat-soaked skin.

The second was pain. A dull, heavy ache behind your eyes, like someone had cracked your skull open and poured concrete inside.

And then..

Voices.

Muffled at first. Then slowly sharpening.

“—you need to get him fluids immediately. He’s severely dehydrated.”

“Blood sugar’s way too low. Probably hasn’t eaten in. How long has it been?”

“Y/N. Come on, come back to us.”

Your lashes fluttered. You squinted against the harsh white lights overhead. Your vision was blurred, but slowly, faces began to take shape.

Chan hovered above you, his eyes rimmed red, his hands curled tightly around your wrist.

Felix sat just behind him, one hand pressed against his lips, the other curled around your ankle like it grounded him. His face was pale.

Hyunjin crouched nearby, his hands shaking slightly as he ran them over his pants. You could tell he’d been crying, even if he tried to hide it.

The rest of the members were there too, gathered in a semi-circle around the cot you’d been laid on backstage, with your manager and two medics standing nearby. Everyone looked like they’d aged ten years in twenty minutes.

“…Y/N?” Chan whispered again. “You with us?”

You nodded, barely. Your head felt too heavy to lift.

“I—I’m sorry,” you croaked. “I don’t know what happened…”

“You fainted,” Jeongin said, voice cracking. “On stage. In front of everyone.”

“It was like you shut off,” Seungmin added, not unkindly, but with a shake in his voice he couldn’t hide. “One second you were singing, the next, you just…”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, throat tight. “I just… I thought I could push through.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” Changbin snapped, more emotional than you’d ever seen him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You swallowed hard. The room felt smaller now, heavier.

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” you admitted. “I kept saying I’d eat later but then I’d fall asleep after practice, and I’d forget. And then it just… kept happening.”

Chan ran a hand over his face. “God, Y/N…”

“I thought I was just being weak,” you continued, voice raw. “I didn’t want you guys to worry. You’re already under so much pressure, I—”

“Stop,” Hyunjin said suddenly, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Don’t ever say that again.”

“You’re one of us,” Felix added, scooting closer. “That means we carry the weight together. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I just… I didn’t want to slow anyone down.”

Chan let out a long, shaky breath and sat back on his heels. “Y/N. We’d rather miss a hundred stages than lose you.”

“You scared the hell out of us,” Minho said from where he stood, arms crossed but face stricken. “You could’ve seriously hurt yourself.”

You turned your head slightly, feeling tears sting your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

There was a long pause.

Then Chan reached out and gripped your hand. “We’re not mad. Just scared. You don’t have to apologize for collapsing when your body couldn’t take it anymore. You just… need to let us help you before it gets to that point.”

“I will,” you promised, voice barely audible. “I swear.”

Felix offered a small, broken smile. “Good. Because we’re not letting you out of our sight now.”

You were taken to the hospital shortly after, just to be safe. The diagnosis was no surprise: dehydration, low blood sugar, over-exhaustion. A perfect storm of neglect.

The schedule was adjusted. Your next few events were cancelled, and the company released a statement citing “health precautions.” But behind the scenes, it wasn’t just protocol, it was care.

You weren’t alone for a second.

Changbin started keeping snacks in your bag. Jeongin set phone reminders for your meals. Hyunjin volunteered to split his vitamins with you. Minho started packing bento boxes after late-night practice “just in case.”

But it was Chan who hit the hardest.

It was late.

Past midnight, maybe closer to 2 a.m., when you wandered into the building alone.

The others had gone home hours ago, forced into rest by your manager’s insistence and the very real reminder that everyone was a little too close to the edge lately. But you couldn’t sleep. Not yet. Your body was still too wired, your head too full.

You thought being alone in the practice room might help. Just a few minutes of quiet.

But when you pushed open the door, you weren’t alone.

Chan was sitting on the floor, back against the mirror, hoodie pulled halfway over his face like it might shield him from the weight of the world. The dim overhead lights cast a long shadow behind him, and for a second, you almost didn’t recognize him like that, so still, so quiet.

Then you heard it.

A soft sniff. The sound of someone trying very, very hard to keep it together.

You hesitated. Your instinct told you to leave, to give him space. But another part of you, something deeper, something that knew him said to stay.

“Hyung?” you said quietly.

He jumped slightly, dragging a hand quickly across his face. “Ah, shit,” he muttered, blinking rapidly. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You took a slow step forward. “You okay?”

Chan let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a scoff. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” He wiped at his face again, gesturing vaguely to the room. “Just sweating. It’s hot in here.”

You gave him a look. “Sweating. While sitting completely still. In the dark.”

He sniffed again and chuckled weakly, the sound breaking halfway through. “Yep. That’s the story I’m going with.”

You didn’t call him out. You just walked over and sat down beside him, close enough that your arms touched. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was familiar. Grounding.

He exhaled slowly. “You really scared me, you know.”

You nodded. “I know.”

“I saw you go down and my brain just… stopped. I don’t even remember running to you. I just remember the sound. The way everything went quiet. Like the whole world paused.”

His voice cracked at the end, but he cleared his throat quickly and looked away.

“You’re always looking out for us,” you said. “And I get it. That pressure, that responsibility. You carry all of it. And when something slips through the cracks…”

He shook his head. “It shouldn’t have. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known. You weren’t okay, and I missed it.”

“Because I hid it,” you said firmly. “I’ve had practice. Smiling when I’m falling apart. Telling everyone I’m fine so they won’t worry.”

He was quiet again.

Then he said, softer this time, “But I still should’ve seen it. That’s the part that keeps hitting me. I was so focused on keeping everything running that I didn’t even realize one of my members was running on empty.”

You leaned your head back against the mirror. “You’re not a machine, Chan.”

He let out a weak laugh. “Try telling that to my reflection.”

You turned your head toward him. “You didn’t fail me. You didn’t let me down. I pushed myself too hard because I thought it was what I was supposed to do. I thought being strong meant never asking for help.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.

“I get it now,” you said. “And I don’t want to live like that anymore. I want to let you in. Let all of you in. Because if I’d said something earlier, even once…”

“We would’ve caught you,” he finished, voice thick. “Every damn time.”

You nodded. “So no more hiding. From either of us.”

He finally looked at you then, really looked, eyes glassy, tired, but softer now. There was a hint of a smile there, fragile but real.

“You know,” he said, nudging your arm, “I was gonna pretend I came in here to revise the setlist.”

You raised a brow. “With your hoodie over your face and tear streaks on your cheeks?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Sweat streaks.”

“Uh-huh.”

He let out a proper laugh this time. It was quiet, but genuine. Then his expression sobered again.

“Promise me something?” he asked.

“Anything.”

“If it ever starts to feel like too much again, even a little, you’ll tell me. No more toughing it out. No more pretending.”

“I promise,” you said, without hesitation.

“And I’ll do the same,” he added after a beat, voice softer. “Because you’re not the only one who’s been running on empty.”

You reached out and laced your fingers with his, grounding each other in the stillness of the room.

The pressure didn’t go away. The world outside was still spinning fast. But here, in this moment, you weren’t falling behind.

You were just… still.

Together.

masterlist.

[for #🐰 anon, sorry this took so long.. i hope u enjoy]

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kesujo · 3 months ago

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Compensation

Happy Birthday Taeyeon!! :D

Word count: 9k

The positives of being selected as Taeyeon’s partner for a two-person performance for her upcoming concert tour: you know your talent is being recognized, you get to perform in front of tens of thousands of people, you get to do a two-person performance with Taeyeon, and most of all, you get to have these one-on-one sessions with the beautiful, talented, sexy KPop star.

You don’t know why she chose to wear the shirt she was wearing, what essentially amounts to a normal white T-Shirt that comes up short on her right side, baring that half of her stomach, but you are thankful for the pleasant feast for your eyes. What makes the window into her abs an even more mouth-watering sight is when, occasionally, her pink sweatpants slide down her slim waist and reveal what look to be upper hem of the black underwear she’s wearing.

The negatives of being selected as Taeyeon’s partner for a two-person performance for her upcoming concert tour: an added amount of pressure to be perfect, potential for backlash and hate comments from obsessive jealous fans, additional nerves from having to perform such risqué moves with such an alluring woman, and worst of all, how terrible you feel for keeping Taeyeon so late because of all the mistakes you are making during this practice session. It’s eating at you so much that not even the sight of the top part of Taeyeon’s black underwear, even more visible than before, can rejuvenate you.

While you’re beating yourself up every time you have to stop and correct your mistakes, even the ones you’ve made already, Taeyeon remains patient. You honestly feel Taeyeon is completely justified in yelling at you; in fact, you are sure that if the choreographer for the dance was able to make it, she would be chewing you out. You can see the exhaustion on Taeyeon’s face, too: at the beginning of the session, she greeted you with a warm smile and a voice full of energy. Now, the rate of her breathing can be seen in the visible rise and fall of her chest, sweat from her forehead glistening off the pale light of the studio, her lips permanently parted to help her catch her breath.

The only credit you’ll give yourself is that this is the first time you’ve done a two-person performance with such a high-profile partner, and one that’s as damn attractive as Kim Taeyeon is. However soft her skin appears in pictures, however well-defined her curves have seemed to have developed in the last decade or so, it all is amplified by a thousand while in her presence, while your hands are tightly clasping her hands, her arms, or occasionally, her exposed waist. Normally, you might’ve thanked the Lord for giving you this chance to be so up-and-personal with an idol you’ve admired for so long, but today, it only serves as a distraction and further frustration towards yourself.

“Five-minute break?”

“I can keep going.”

“Well, I need a break.”

“Oh.” You feel yourself flush a little. “Er, yeah, sure.”

She offers you a small smile before turning around, heading to her bag leaning against the wall of the practice room. You try not to stare too hard at her retreating figure, but the view of her thin waist that curves outward to her rather shapely romp is so captivating that, when she reaches her bag, you’re barely able to snap your eyes back onto yourself.

There is no time to rest. Sure, Taeyeon still looks incredibly good despite being so clearly fatigued—in fact, she’s a different kind of attractive with her slightly disheveled appearance—but seeing it is what keeps you rooted in place. Taeyeon has earned the right to rest; you, on the other hand, have not.

As you begin practicing again, your attention fades away from Taeyeon and towards fighting against the sluggishness your limbs from hours of repetition and intense physical activity. By yourself, you feel better about nailing the steps and movements, but hearing the music in your head as you dance is different than dancing with the music actually playing which is different than dancing with the music and in tandem with Taeyeon.

Pound the movements into your muscles. Do them again and again and again until your limbs shift into place on their own after each step.

“Kaiser, you should take a break too.”

You shake your head. “It’s ok, I’m fine.”

She frowns, the beckoning motion of her hand catching the corners of your peripheral vision. “Come! Let’s watch the choreography video again together.”

Hearing that causes you to stop. “Yeah. Sure.”

You aren’t being lazy. Watching the choreography video again is a productive use of your time; maybe you can glean something from this viewing, or maybe Taeyeon can point out something that will help you.

Math, science, literature, English, all of them are subjects you never really understand. Dancing, however, is different. In school, even with tutoring, your test scores were never any good, but with dancing, everything makes sense. Learning choreographies, even the more intense, complex ones, has always come pretty naturally to you. No challenge you ever faced was something a night’s sleep couldn’t fix. You figured doing a two-person choreography wouldn’t be much of an issue, not that you were ever going to turn down a chance to be performing alongside Taeyeon.

What you hadn’t anticipated is how different two-person choreographies are compared to both group choreographies and solo ones: the important part of group choreographies is to flow with the entire group, and make sure the unit as a whole look as one, while solo choreographies allow for more freedom and freestyling but also greater attention to detail, as any mistake will be easily noticeable as the focal or sole performer. A two-person choreography seems to mix the most challenging parts of both types: it requires the attention to detail of a solo performance while also demanding the conformity of a group performance. Being one of two performers, not only will your mistakes be noticeable, but it will also mess up the flow of your partner; additionally, you needed to pay close attention to your partner, especially since the main attraction is Taeyeon, meaning it’s also on you if she decides to improvise a little bit or happens to make a mistake, meaning you need to know the choreography better than Taeyeon, and also, since she’s the singer and focal point for the audience, you need to make sure that everything you do makes her shine, and also…

“Are you ok? Do you need more water? I brought an extra, if you want it,” Taeyeon turns to the side, reaching into her bag and pulling out another plastic bottle.

You start to shake your head, but having her just about pushing the bottle in your hand gives you no choice but to accept it. “Thank you, Ms. Taeyeon.”

Hearing that, the idol lets out a chuckle. “Still insisting on using honorifics?”

You hang your head. “Sorry, I’m just … it doesn’t feel right to say … to do otherwise.”

“No, it’s ok! Try it. ‘Taeyeon’.”

You can feel her expectant gaze, and with how close she is to you, you can only hope the flush on your cheeks isn’t too obvious. “Um … er, ok, Taeyeon.”

Her face lights up. “Yeah! See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

This is just her being nice. She doesn’t mean anything further by it. You’ve read somewhere that people tend to overestimate how attracted someone is to you the more attractive you perceive the other person to be. You’ve heard stories from your dancer friends that Taeyeon is among the kinder idols in the industry, but experiencing it first hand, could you even be faulted for getting the wrong idea?

After watching the demo through, you’re ready to get back up, but Taeyeon motions for you to stay seated. Confused, thinking she perhaps wants to watch the video again, you sit back down, but instead, she says, “You’re still sweating so much, drink some more water, you hardly touched it.”

“Ah,” you feel like you can’t even drink water normally though, especially when she’s so close and when she’s watching you so intently. And, sure enough, the swig of water you take spills the water all around your mouth, down the sides of your face, and directly onto your shirt. “Mmm—!” you quickly put the water bottle down, using your free hand to wipe your face while you swallow the water, “—ah, sh—…”

Your embarrassment peaks higher when Taeyeon lets out a small giggle. “No need to rush, I’m not going to confiscate the water bottle I gave you.”

“Ah, right, sorry…”

Taeyeon silently lets you clean up and then stands up when you’re done. “Ok. Ready?”

You internally take a deep breath and nod. Get your shit together. There’s no time to be all shy and red-faced like some lovestruck maiden. You have work to do. A lot of work. “Yeah.”

The two more hours of practice you two manage to get in are a bit more productive, but it’s still mostly you making mistakes, you fumbling and missing the beat and incorrect hand placements and footwork. Taeyeon, with her infinite patience, doesn’t complain, remaining understanding up until she decides to call it, citing it being past midnight already.

As you pack up, you can still see how heavily Taeyeon is breathing, and from how sluggish her movements are as she packs up, your guilt starts to consume you even more than it already has.

“Get home quickly and get some good sleep, ok?”

It’s those well wishes, that you don’t even feel you deserve, that push you to say, “Taeyeon, um…” she turns around, a smile on her albeit weary face, “…I’m so sorry for today. I just kept messing up and wasting your time, and now, because of me, you’re going home so late…”

“Oh no! No need to apologize! I made a lot of mistakes too!”

It’s funny that she says that because you honestly can’t recall a single mistake that Taeyeon did. Is it because you were too consumed with your own mistakes to notice Taeyeon’s, or is she just saying that to be nice? In your mind, at least, the answer is pretty clear. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you? One of my friends works at a spa with really good reviews, I can ask them to give you a really nice discount, or maybe I can treat you to a meal, or…”

You trail off when you see Taeyeon pursing her lips, clearly pondering something. You let her think for a second, but the second becomes ten, which becomes thirty, which becomes a minute, and while you’re hesitant to interrupt her thought process, the silence is starting to eat at you. “…did you think of something?”

“Hm?” Taeyeon’s attention shifts back to you. “Oh! No, sorry. I was just … you really don’t need to think like that, Kaiser. It was good practice for me too, and a good workout! I’ve been staying at home too much these days.”

“What were you thinking about? I want to help, in any way possible.” Taeyeon seems a bit hesitant, so you push further. “Please. It’ll make me feel better.” Wait… “Sorry, that makes it sound like I’m being selfish, but I really do want to make it up to you.”

“It…” Taeyeon trails off again, but this time, the silence doesn’t last longer than ten seconds. “…if you really insist, then…”

“I do. I insist.”

“…then, maybe, there is something you can help me with?”

“Of course! Anything!”

Taeyeon sets her bag back down, and while you’re questioning what she’s doing, walking back to the center of the room, she indicates for you to follow her.

Well, it’s not like it matters what she wants me to help her with.

So, you also set your bag down and follow her, stopping a few steps short of the idol, who is situated in the middle of the room.

“These days, I’ve been so busy, I’ve hardly had any time to myself.”

“Oh…” You only become more confused. Does she want you to cheer her on? You, who is essentially a stranger to her? “…I’m sorry to hear that. That must be rough.” Does she want you to pay her back by being her friend? Because that’s ‘payment’ you are more than willing to offer.

“It’s ok. It’s maybe a good thing, since I’m usually at home, by myself, whenever I don’t have any work.”

Just when you think you’re starting to understand things, Taeyeon throws you this curveball that lands you squarely back on square one. “Oh. I see.” You’re absolutely stumped. You want to be empathetic, but it doesn’t seem like she is seeking it. You thought she might’ve been seeking companionship, but that doesn’t seem to be exactly right, either. Or maybe it still is? “Um, well, that’s…” it didn’t sound like that, though. Unless Taeyeon usually pokes fun at herself like this as a kind of coping mechanism for her loneliness? Should you play along? Is that too impolite?

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be so obtuse. What I’m trying to say, is that it’s usually hard for me to find time to meet people when I’m busy, and when I’m not, it’s hard to find motivation.”

Oh, so she is asking for companionship. But then … why not someone else? Namely, someone of her gender? “That sounds really lonely.” You don’t want to overstep your boundaries though. If it happens that you’re wrong and you offer to be friends with Taeyeon, whom you have only met sparingly over the last two weeks, the last thing you want to do is for her to be uncomfortable with your advances and start to have second thoughts about this partnership.

“It is…” her eyes slowly drift to you, and for some reason, a chill runs up your spine. Why that is, you’re unsure, “…so, I was hoping that you could help me with that.”

Was this real? Was Kim Taeyeon—the Kim Taeyeon, industry legend, globally famous, withstanding the test of time by routinely being noted as among the most popular female idols even now, asking for your companionship?

Wow … how jealous must her fans be? How jealous must your fellow dancer friends be? You’ve heard many stories, good and bad, from people in your industry about their interesting or unique interaction with various idols, but very rarely do you hear stories about idols seeking companionship from their backup dancers as Taeyeon is. All that hard work, all that—

“It’s been so long since I’ve had my pussy stretched out properly, after all.”

—hard work, years of practicing, years of dedication to your craft, making connections and climbing the lad—

Wait.

“Do you think you can do that for me?”

Wait.

“W—”

Taeyeon is looking at you through the mirror without a hint of irony. You don’t know what to feel; in fact, you don’t even know if you’re feeling anything. Your whole face is on fire, and there’s a painful tightness in your chest that you realize a few seconds into staring dumbly at Taeyeon is your heart beating at an unhealthily, unnaturally fast rate.

“—W-W-Wha—…um, u-uh, what did—what did you—”

“It’s ok, Kaiser.” The stage name you chose all those years ago has, regrettably, stuck, but too many people know you by the name. So, as much as the name invokes memories of your younger years, when you were obsessed with the German culture and aesthetic and thought it would be cool to be referred to as an ‘emperor’, as in an ‘emperor of dance’, you try to not let it bother you so much. All those years it pestered you, until now, when the name rolling of Taeyeon’s tongue sends another shiver up your spine. Why does it sound so fucking sexy when Taeyeon says it? “This isn’t a test. You were asking if you could help me in any way, right?”

Ok, now you truly can’t believe what’s happening.

Although rare, you have, in fact, heard of some dancers befriending idols, or at least getting on friendly terms with them. So, in a way, while you never would’ve ever expected it to happen to you, befriending an idol is something that is actually something that is possible to happen in reality.

This? Whatever this is. This—this, all of this, any, or, even the slightest bit, the slightest hint of this. None of this happens in real life.

“Unless … you don’t want to?”

“N-No!”

It’s because you’re a man of your word. You decided you would help Taeyeon in any way she wanted it, and aren’t one to turn away in the face of this … this unfathomable request. That’s what you want to tell yourself, but your cock straining against your boxers and your pants is telling you something else entirely.

“Great!” Taeyeon beams at you through the mirror, then turns to face you. You can barely bring yourself to meet her gaze though; one second your eyes are locked, and the next, it’s looking at your shoes. Her smile is too luminescent, her beauty too blinding, that you can’t even look her in the eye. You tell yourself this, trying to pretend like you aren’t some dumb, lovestruck maiden who was just serenaded a confession to by her long-time crush. “Then, do you want to start by stripping me?”

“…may I?”

This time, when you lift your gaze to meet Taeyeon’s, she smiles at you with a bewildered kind of smile that makes you feel dumb but is so pretty that you forget that shame real quick. “Yes. Please, by all means.”

She doesn’t flinch in the slightest as you approach, and in fact seems to welcome you by the way she starts lifting her arms as you close in on her.

This is really happening. She really does want me to strip her. She’s not reacting negatively, she’s not pulling away last second…

Every step you take towards her is another bit of confidence you receive, and when you’re situated right in front of her, you swear you can feel something change. Her breath feels ever so slightly heavier, her chest is heaving ever so slightly more, the corners of her lips curl further up—something, something about Taeyeon feels impatient, like a hungry hyena eyeing a lion feasting on its prey, waiting for it to finish so that it can devour the remains of the carcass.

When your fingers curl around the bottom hem of her shirt, your knuckles brush against her abs, but Taeyeon doesn’t flinch. In fact, she begins lifting her chin, in preparation for you to lift the piece of clothing off her head.

Fuck, her skin is so soft.

What is it gonna feel like against mine?

When it’s sticky and glimmering with sweat, how sexy is she gonna look?

Not wanting to keep her waiting, you pull the shirt over her head and let it gently fall to your side. She’s wearing a grey bra underneath, a fact that takes a whole minute to internalize, as your eyes are too busy taking something else in.

“Are my boobs that pretty?”

“Oh.” Busted. The good news is that Taeyeon doesn’t seem to care much. “Sorry.”

Taeyeon laughs. “What for?” She carries the same, bewildered smile on her face, one that is equally amused and intrigued. “Do you want to take this off too, or should—”

“I’ll do it.”

There’s something about the conviction in your voice that takes Taeyeon aback. Being in the industry for so long, having worked with so many people, and having been fairly well-known for as many years as she has, Taeyeon has of course had her fair share of experiences in which the people she’s working with are starstruck by her. While it’s quite cute to see someone so much bigger than her acting so reserved, like a lost little puppy, it’s only the actions that are cute; your body, on the other hand, is anything but. Being in such close proximity to you, being bathed in your body heat and, most of all, feeling your well-defined arms and chest in her hands is the ultimate reason why Taeyeon decided to overlook that small personality quirk. And, when you so deliciously offered yourself to her on a silver platter, Taeyeon really had no choice but to pounce. Would the starstruck, fanboyish behavior remain even when her body is pressed against yours, and your cock is buried deep inside her swelteringly hot cunt? Even if it is, Taeyeon figured she needed you enough that she wouldn’t mind it.

But now, seeing your confidence start to rise, Taeyeon can start to feel her knees becoming weak.

“Hmm…”

What you interpret as a hum of content, from finally being freed of the restrictive undergarment cupping her boobs, is actually an anticipatory hum of arousal. And, as you take a moment to marvel at the sight of Taeyeon’s bare breasts, supple and soft and somehow a shade paler than the rest of her skin, contrasted by the light almond color of her areola with a pair of gradually hardening nipples at the center, Taeyeon’s mind is racing with all sorts of possibilities.

When she proposed this, Taeyeon figured she would have to take the lead and was ultimately fine with that. While Taeyeon doesn’t love taking the lead, she’s so horny that she’s willing to do anything. The realization that, maybe, she can let herself just be dominated by you is dampening her panties with more than just sweat.

“Can I…?”

Taeyeon gives you an encouraging nod, and suddenly, your hands are all over them. As expected, your hands are just barely enough to cover its entire surface area, and as your fingers sink into the soft, plush texture of her tits, Taeyeon lets out a sigh.

“Ooh…”

Every passing moment, the smile and the nod and the pleased hum and now the contented sigh, everything is invigorating and emboldening you more, and as you feel Taeyeon respond positively to the massaging and kneading motions of your hands, you sink deeper into the phenomenon that is Kim Taeyeon.

“…god, it’s so soft…”

“Are you going to play with my boobs all day,” Taeyeon’s voice is notably deeper and huskier, and seeing her eyes clouded with lust sends a shiver down your spine, “or are you going to take off the rest of my clothes, babe?”

Taeyeon is seriously a work of art. It seems so effortless, the sexiness she oozes, and it’s so natural that you wonder how intentional it all is. The way she confidently bared her half-exposed midriff and the straightlaced expression that accompanied the filthy words that left her mouth, the unabashed way she sighs and how openly she indulges in your touch, it was all getting to your head already, but that word?

She says it so casually, too. Like, it’s an everyday occurrence, and, for a brief moment, you indulge in a fantasy in which you’re satisfying the needs of your insatiable girlfriend. It’s a comfortable dream, and the way she just melts at your touch, the wistful look in her eyes, the soft parting of her strawberry lips, her drawn-together eyebrows, you can almost believe that this is the tenth, twentieth time you’ve done this to her. But, in reality, you know that none of that is true.

Fuck, she’s going to be the death of me.

Taeyeon doesn’t even know it, but you’re already completely bound in her charm. Her endless patience, her bottomless kindness, paired together with the brazen nature of her proposal and the shameless way she expresses her enjoyment of your fingers, now circling her areola and lightly pinching her nipples, it’s simply inevitable. You’re trapped, but you don’t know if you even want to escape.

“Sorry, but, it’s just that, your boobs too beautiful, Taeyeon.”

“…and I’m glad you think that, but…” your eyes meet Taeyeon’s, and this time, her smile contains within it a considerably greater amount of lust, “…I was hoping you would be playing with another part of my body by now.”

It feels like Taeyeon must have some kind of mind-control over you, with how easily and freely manipulates your emotions. What’s more, you’re 100% sure Taeyeon doesn’t mean to do it either; all she’s doing is telling you what she’s feeling, what she wants from you, but that’s all it takes for you to fall head-over-heels in line with her demands, like a well-trained police dog. And, what’s more, hearing and seeing her growing lust in response to your hands and your skills and just you grows your confidence that much more.

“Then, let me grant your wish.”

Taeyeon broke out into a smile. “Oh, you’re quoting my own song to me?”

Your own lips curl into a smile. “Busted.” Your fingers curl around her pink sweatpants and black underwear and give them a firm, downward tug, sending them tumbling down her legs. Even before they pool at her feet, your eyes are magnetized onto the small patch of hair covering her privates; you can tell that it’s been perhaps a few days since she last shaved, but you can also tell she takes good care of her hair down there.

Her milky-white legs, her slim waist, her taut stomach, her supple breasts, and the thing that you can’t rip your eyes off is that small patch of pubic hair. Seeing Taeyeon’s tits and feeling it in your hands is more than enough to cause a tightness in your pants, but the thing is, Taeyeon has been no stranger to showing off her rather impressive rack. The number of people who have seen her full, bare boobs are probably not very many, especially those Taeyeon consider potential sexual partners, but form-hugging outfits, photos taken from certain angles, even her nipples are something that one can more or less make out from various pictures floating around on the internet. This, however: the little bit of slightly-unkempt pubic hair covering the intersection of her legs, does not fit into any of those categories. Unlike her tits, which she has given her fans many views of at least partially, this is something far more intimate, far more hidden away and thus, why you find yourself getting so, so incredibly turned on from the sight of.

So you tell yourself. It’s because of that, and definitely not because you’re some pervert.

“I hope you don’t mind a bit of hair.”

You can tell there’s some embarrassment in Taeyeon’s voice in the way it holds a bit of laughter, but you’re much too horny to care. “It’s sexy.”

“Is it?”

You nod, your right hand gently running over the hair. Taeyeon gasps at an almost imperceptibly quiet volume, that you might’ve otherwise missed if her lips weren’t so close to your ears. “Yeah…” Feeling her shiver at your touch emboldens your every move, and hearing a louder gasp as the pressure of your fingers against her crotch increases pushes you to finally say, “…and look, you’re so wet, too.”

“Ooh, god…”

Fuck. Everything about her, from the way she melts at your touch to her sexy groans to her svelte body screaming its desire—or rather, it’s need—for your touch, for you, turns you on more and more. Currently, you’re focused on the gradual movement of your hand, from the patch of pubic hair to further down south, but in the back of your mind, you’re fantasizing about ripping your pants off and shoving yourself all at once inside the idol’s tight core.

“God, you’re so sexy, Taeyeon.” When your fingers finally make it to her wet folds, your own anticipation also comes to a head when they make first contact with the damp, slightly sticky skin.

“Oo-Ooh!” Taeyeon’s moan drowns out yours, shuddering more noticeably and her legs wobbling a little at the contact. “Y-Yes, god, your fingers…”

Your fingers are now in full contact with her moist slit, each back-and-forth motion fueling the lust of both the idol and yourself. “And it’s even more wet down here.”

“Fffuuck, Kaiser…”

“Is this what you wanted?” You’re not even sure where this comes from, but feeling Taeyeon shudder as your breath tickles her ear empowers you to continue, “Is this the part of your body you were hoping I would be playing with by now?”

“Y-Yes, yes, your fingers feel so good, Kaiser.”

Hearing the glowing response is the final bit of confidence you need Taeyeon to give you to give you the reassurance that, in the moment, the two of you are equals. “You’re so desperate. What would your fans think if they saw you, mewling and whimpering like this?”

“Ff—ffuck, fuck,” Taeyeon’s breath hitches as your thumb brushes against the area surrounding her clit. “Th-They, they would be mortified.”

“Wouldn’t they? Then, why are you so wet?”

Taeyeon legs nearly give way when your thumb comes down onto her clit. It’s only thanks to your arms wrapped around her and your legs supporting her legs that she’s able to remain upright. The entire time, your eyes have been trained on Taeyeon, drinking in every bit of the salacious sight before you: just minutes ago, the two of you were practicing your two-person dance choreography, looking into the mirror at yourselves with the purpose of picking out mistakes. This very room, that you’ve seen in various other dance practice videos of Taeyeon and other SM artists, a beacon of dedication and hard work and the SM excellence that is the reason why their artists are always the most popular and in-demand, now serving witness to one of it’s most seasoned and experienced occupants fully naked, red-faced and panting at the work of your fingers buried between her creamy, snowy-white thighs.

“Who-Who’s, who’s fault is that?”

“Hmm?” There’s some mixture of a grin and a confused look on your face. Is she referring the to choreography? Sure, it’s somewhat sensual, but it’s nothing more than what an experienced performer like Taeyeon has done in the past. “Me? What have I done?”

“Y-Your, your body, pressing up against mine, god, it felt so good, I couldn’t help but start wondering what your sweaty, hot body would feel like against mine…”

Fuck.

Is Taeyeon telling the truth? Did she really get so turned on by you during the dance practice that she asked you to fuck her right here and now? Not even wanting to wait to go to somewhere safer and more private, like her apartment or his apartment, but instead asking you to strip her clothes in the very place she was hard at work just minutes ago?

Fuck.

Everything about the encounter thus far seems to be pointing towards Taeyeon telling the truth, and while Taeyeon’s repeated reassurance and reactions bolstered your confidence to the point that you no longer feel bound by the societal hierarchy Taeyeon’s status as an idol enforced upon you, this newly acquired knowledge revs your confidence up to dangerous levels.

“And then, you asked me if I you could help me with anything, and I really did try to hold it in, but when you insisted, I just couldn’t resist…”

So. She doesn’t just want to be fucked, she wants to be utterly and completely fucked, huh?

“The legendary Kim Taeyeon, loved by fans all around the world, and even loved amongst other idols.” By now, Taeyeon’s gasps have transformed into louder moans, her head leaning back into your chest as your fingers continue to work their magic on her hot sex. “Is it her that’s so fucking down bad that she’s asking the man she’s doing a two-person performance with to fuck her?”

“N-No, it’s, it’s just Taeyeon, who needs you so bad right now.”

You’ve done well to draw this out as long as you have, but hearing Taeyeon borderline begging for you is the last straw.

“Really?” Feeling you pull away from her causes Taeyeon to whine, but seeing you throw your shirt off shuts her up real quick. “Since you so nicely asked, why don’t I indulge you in all your dirtiest fantasies?”

“Would you?” Despite everything, Taeyeon still meets your eyes through the mirror and smiles widely at you. When you move to pull off your own sweatpants, her eyes flicker down and she turns around. “Wait.” You stop. “May I?”

Those big, pleading eyes, tilted upwards to meet your eyes, desperate, begging … how can you not oblige?

“Of course.” Taeyeon sinks to her knees, wasting no time in pulling your sweatpants off. “Although, I thought this was supposed to be me paying you back.”

“Oh don’t worry, you are paying me back.” Taeyeon leaves you no room to argue, seeing as she proceeds those words by palming the very noticeable bulge that had formed in your boxers. “You don’t know how much this thing has crossed my mind in the last couple of hours.”

“Fuck, Taeyeon…”

The low moan seems to echo about the spacious practice room, which is shortly joined by a sharp hiss when Taeyeon gives your boxers a firm downward tug, sending the undergarment sliding down your legs. A satisfied, lustful hum erupts from Taeyeon’s throat as her slim fingers wrap around your veinous girth, and when her palm comes into contact with it, you let out another moan. Your eyes stay trained on Taeyeon, who is laser-focused on the pulsating shaft mere inches from her face.

“Hmm, so warm…”

Her second hand comes into contact with your dick, and as it envelops it, her face draws ever closer.

There are so many sexy things about Taeyeon that it only now comes to your attention how alluring her lips are. And, as they naturally part while her hands being slowly pumping your shaft, inching ever closer to your cock, your mind begins to race with all sorts of lascivious thoughts. Those same lips, from which comes the perhaps the most beautiful music in all of K-Pop, soft, pink, luscious, hot, whose breath you can start feeling against your glans, filled not with a melodious sound but instead with your cock, you can’t even begin to fathom, is this really happening, is she really going to—

“Mmm.”

Taeyeon starts with a tentative lick, collecting the bit of precum that had leaked out of your tip. You let out a groan, and your dick pulsates painfully in Taeyeon’s vice grip. “You’re as big as I hoped you’d be.”

“I’m gla—ah, Taeyeon!” Taeyeon interrupts you mid-sentence, taking your glans into her lips and before you can even blink, half of your length has disappeared inside her mouth. You can feel her lips pressing against your shaft, and combined with the mind-blowingly sexy visual of those luscious, strawberry lips stretching around your girth and the feeling of her tongue running along the underside of your dick, you can’t help but let out a groan. “Fuck, god, so warm…”

She’s barely able to take two-thirds of your length, gripping the rest of it with both hands, and pauses to swirl her tongue around your dick before she starts pulling away. She doesn’t let your dick out of her mouth though; as her lips retreat, her hands take its place to smear the saliva her tongue so graciously deposited onto your shaft. Your eyes briefly flicker up to see the back-view of the kneeling Taeyeon before you, her back arched and her cute butt sitting atop her feet as she starts taking your length back into her mouth.

“God, your mouth is so good…”

This time, Taeyeon’s able to fit your entire length inside her mouth, and when she does, she tilts her head to allow her tongue a better angle to slather your length with saliva as she pulls away. Her tongue continues to run up and down your shaft as her head bobs back and forth along your cock, twisting and turning and, with the help of her hands, coats your member with a fine sheen of saliva. It’s only then that she releases you, giving your tip a firm lick for good measure before looking up at you. “How did that—”

You cut Taeyeon off, grabbing her by the arm and hoisting her to a standing position. “Turn around.” Wordlessly, Taeyeon obeys. “Bend over.”

Oh, fuck.

Your domineering commands causes a welling of excitement and arousal to bubble up inside her, and when your hands cup her ass, Taeyeon lets out a sharp gasp, arousal overflowing from every pore of her body. This is what she needs. This is exactly what she needs.

“God, please…”

Her softly muttered words don’t make it to your ears, or perhaps you just aren’t paying attention: your fingers are testing her labia, pushing them apart to see if you can peer deeper inside, but are just met with pitch-black darkness. In the corner of your eyes, you can see Taeyeon’s eyes trained on your reflection on the mirror, her hands resting on her knees to help stabilize them.

“Nice and wet for me?”

Taeyeon nods, smiling as you lift your eyes to meet the reflection of hers. “You have no idea.”

“Then, be a good girl and hold your cute little butt cheeks apart.”

Taeyeon, again, wordlessly obeys. With one hand on your dick and one on her waist, you find yourself needing to angle at a significant downward slope to meet her wet slit, but when it does, Taeyeon lets out another, sharp gasp.

“Fuck…” This time, she mutters at a louder volume, and when push yourself in, it transforms into a sharp, echoey moan. “Fffuck!” The sound of her pleasure bounces off the walls and smothers your own moan, and as your cock buries itself inside the inferno that is Taeyeon’s pussy, the moans from both of you grow louder. “Babe, fuck, it’s stretching me out so much!”

It’s so much hotter than you would’ve imagined, so much wetter than you could’ve thought, and most of all, so damn tight that you’re barely unable to push your entire length inside her before pulling out. That motion sends ripples and shivers down Taeyeon’s spine, and another moan erupts from her lips when you thrust into her again, this time fully hilting her, causing the crisp sound of her ass smacking against your hips to echo about the room with her moans.

“Fuck, so tight.”

“Yes, oh god, yes!” You reach out to grab her arms, pulling her arms backwards to use as handlebars to fuck her with. “Fuck me harder, babe!” You need to stand with considerable distance between your legs, but you barely even care about the slightly awkward stance; your mind is completely comprised of drilling into Taeyeon’s dripping wet cunt. “Yes, please, right there!” The more you drill into her, the more her juices sputter out onto your groin, the wetter the sounds of her ass smacking against you are.

“So much energy, especially after all that dancing.”

“I-I could say the same about you.”

Out of the corner of your eyes, you can see Taeyeon lifting her head, so you likewise rip your eyes away from the hypnotic, swaying motion of her tits to match her gaze. “Always have the energy to get plowed from behind, do you?”

“Only if you have the energy to do the plowing.”

It’s a wonder how Taeyeon can still look as gorgeous as she does, what with how violently you are rocking her body. In fact, her messy, tousled hair, her gently parted lips, her heaving chest, the visual the full-length mirror grants you is an exceedingly sexy version of Taeyeon that not her most salacious, thirst-trap Instagram pictures could hope to capture. Although the intense pressure of Taeyeon’s pussy seems to be working against you, feeling its fleshy, moist walls making way as it forces itself in and clings onto your shaft as you pull it out adds to your energy. Every satisfying smack!, every beautiful moan that tumbles out of Taeyeon’s lips, every time those juicy tits of hers shakes and sways to the rhythm of your hips, every second longer those alluring, lust-filled bed eyes bore into your soul, builds upon the lust filling every fiber of your being and tension building up in your nethers. It’s a hypnotically beautiful sight, watching Taeyeon’s tiny, but sturdy, frame shake as you continue to plow into her, but the more you sustain the awkward half-squatting position you’re doing, the more the burning in your quads takes the forefront of your mind.

“You like watching yourself being fucked like this?”

Taeyeon shamelessly nods. “Yes, it’s so fucking hot.”

“Why don’t we get closer to the mirror, then?”

Taeyeon nods, and you pull out of her. A slight shudder runs up Taeyeon’s spine as a bit more of her juices leak out of her sex, a steady trickling down her legs that you realize has left a tiny puddle on the floor. Taeyeon, seeing you look at the ground, turns around, her eyes also landing on the coalesced evidence of her lust. “Oh. Oops.” Taeyeon doesn’t seem the least bit worried, and in fact seems to be a bit turned on at the sight.

“Maybe the janitor will think it’s sweat.”

Taeyeon smiles. “Maybe.”

“Speaking of, when does the janitor usually come around to clean these rooms?”

Taeyeon shrugs. “In an hour or two, or maybe he’s making the round right now.”

The realization gives you pause, but seeing how flippantly Taeyeon turns around and begins walking to the mirror, you figure you shouldn’t care either. If the janitor happens upon the two of you fucking like wild animals, then you had better give him a damn good show.

You join Taeyeon, but quickly find yourself distracted by the soft swaying of Taeyeon’s cute, shapely ass. Again, you’re not sure how intentional it is, and you don’t end up getting to figure that out as, when Taeyeon reaches the mirror and turns around, catching you staring, she simply smiles softly. “I have an idea.”

“Oh?”

“I bet it was hard on your legs to fuck me like that, wasn’t it?”

You chuckle. “A little.”

“Then, why don’t I help you with that?” You look on with curiosity as Taeyeon plants both hands on the reflective surface and slowly starts lifting her left leg. “Help me?” Understanding what she’s trying to do, you quickly close the gap in two strides and catch her leg. “Thanks.” With your help, Taeyeon continues lifting her leg until it’s completely vertical. “That should be better for you.”

“Fuck…”

The impressive feat of flexibility is one thing, but the unobstructed sight of those pussy lips that were so tightly hugging your shaft moments ago causes your dick to twitch. Your lower half is screaming at you to hurry and bury yourself inside her already!, but your brain stops you, taking a moment to take in the beautiful sight, of Taeyeon’s flopping, glistening labia, her own cum trickling out of the pink lips and down her creamy white thighs.

“Do you like it?”

You nod. “It’s so fucking beautiful.”

Taeyeon giggles. “I never thought anyone would call that ‘beautiful’.”

“It is, though.”

“Do you think it’d look even more beautiful with that thick, veiny cock of yours wedged firmly between it?” You don’t need to be goaded any longer; with your left hand keeping Taeyeon’s left leg in place, your right hand guides your cock back into its sweltering abode, and the two of you groan in unison. “Fffuuck…”

“Hmm, yeah, it is quite beautiful like that.”

Your cheeky comment earns a giggle from Taeyeon. “I’m glad you think so.”

“And, I think you’re right.”

“Huh?” Taeyeon’s inquisitive expression quickly turns into shock which then turns into lustful as you pick up right where you left off, this time with renewed vigor. “Oh!”

“I think I can fuck you better like this.” If it weren’t for your legs bracing her right leg and now both hands holding her left leg in place, you’re sure Taeyeon would’ve fallen over already. It doesn’t take much for the faster and stronger strokes to start overwhelming her, every thrust pushing her face closer to the mirror until her cheek is flush with it.

“So much, oh god, so much…!”

“Leave it to Taeyeon, an idol with your caliber of experience, to think of ways to optimize things, including the most optimal way to be plowed into the dance practice room mirror.”

“Fuck, yes, give it to me!”

You find that even the feeling of the tensed calves of her left leg is turning you on. Every part of Taeyeon seems to be designed to arouse you, and the improved position channels that arousal: you still have to spread your legs slightly, but it’s not nearly as bad this time.

“This entire time, you were imagining being pounded into this mirror, taking in my fucking dick, weren’t you?”

“So much, you have no idea how much I needed this…”

“How can you even function as an idol when you’re surrounded so frequently by attractive men?”

Taeyeon shakes her head, or as much as she can with her face pressed against the cool, reflective material. “It-It’s not that, it’s just, it’s just you that made me so horny.”

You weren’t even fishing for compliments; you were just teasing her, saying anything that comes to mind, and hearing this from Taeyeon rebounds your ego from below the floor due to all those mistakes made during dance practice to now, where you’re not sure this room can contain it. With everything that had transpired in the last few minutes, you’re sure the synergy between the two of you has increased; if anything, this ‘compensation’ you’re giving to Taeyeon is going to make working with her easier, going forward.

But those thoughts are fleeting. Right now, you’re concentrated on drilling into Taeyeon, letting her leg rest on your shoulder and trapping it there with both hands, using it as leverage to piston into her faster and more fiercely by the second.

“It’s only my cock that you crave, is that what you’re saying?”

Taeyeon nods again. Her eyes are half-lidded, bits of drool staining the mirror; as an idol, one’s appearance is everything, but at that moment, that doesn’t seem to be a concern of hers. And, even still, Taeyeon still is drop-dead gorgeous, stunningly sexy, and it all makes you fuck her harder and faster.

“Yes! Only your cock, god, it’s so fucking hard inside me!”

“Fuck, Taeyeon…”

The longer your assault on Taeyeon’s pussy continues, the more tightly you hug her leg until you find your face pressed against it. You can also feel Taeyeon’s balance begin to falter, the overabundance of ecstasy turning her knees to jelly, but you can’t help it: your eyes have, once again, drifted to her tits, and seeing them jiggle in tandem with your thrusts causes your left hand to drift away from her legs and to her chest.

“Everything about you is so fucking sexy, I can’t believe it’s me who gets to enjoy this.”

Taeyeon lets out a sharper moan as she feels your fingers rubbing her areola. “F-F-Ffuck, you-you’re, it feels so good, I’m losing my mind, oh my god…” when your fingers close in on those delectable, swollen nipples, they give it a hard squeeze, eliciting a sharp squeal from the idol. “Oh!”

“You like that?”

Taeyeon nods. “Yes! Fffuck!” She lets out another squeal as you give the other nipple a pinch. “Fuck, oh my god, it’s so—nng!” Every time you pinch her nipples, it’s like an electric shock courses throughout her body. They’re so satisfying to squeeze, and the ecstatic reaction drives you even further, so you keep at it. “Fuck! God, I can’t—nng! It’s so much, it’s so much!”

It’s coming, and you’re desperately fighting against it. Just one more second, draw this out for just one more second, let me continue enjoying her pussy just one second longer…

“W-Wait!”

Your eyes snap to Taeyeon, who has opened hers and is looking at you, flustered but also somewhat panicked.

Fuck. What was I about to do? She’s an idol, and I don’t have a condom on. Was I about to—

“I don’t want to finish like this. Let’s go back there,” Taeyeon says, motioning to the pile of clothes in the middle of the room. You comply, pulling out and gently lowering her leg back onto the ground. You’re mostly relieved that Taeyeon intervened, and that it’s not quite over yet, but a small part of you wishes you could’ve came inside her. Taeyeon is an idol, after all, and as un-idol-like as she’s been acting so far, this is the one thing she’d probably always have to keep in her mind.

It doesn’t take a few steps before Taeyeon stumbles a little; you move quickly to grab onto her arms, helping back up, saying, “What’s wrong? Are you ok?”

Taeyeon smiles at you. “Yeah. I guess you just fucked me so hard, my legs feel a little wobbly.”

Your lust balloons inside you, and you can feel your cock twitching, rearing to bury itself back inside Taeyeon. Thinking about extending this for as long as possible is all you can do to stop yourself from grabbing Taeyeon, turning her around, and slamming your cock back inside her until you cum.

“Oh, ok.”

The way Taeyeon continues walking after saying something so fucking salacious, you again wonder if Taeyeon even knows how she’s affecting you.

“Let’s sit down. This way, it’s easy for us both.” You comply, sitting down on the hardwood floor with legs crossed, but before Taeyeon follows, she asks, “Is your phone in the pocket of your pants?” Curious, but too horny to ask why she needs to know, you simply nod, which is apparently all Taeyeon needs to turn around, and, before long, you’re hilting her again. “God, fuck, I can’t believe how much you’re stretching my fucking pussy out…”

“What kind of an idol uses such filthy language?”

“The type of idol that loves the feeling of her pussy being split apart by your nice, thick cock~”

You stretch your legs out, keeping Taeyeon’s legs spread apart with your knees while your feet dig into the hardwood floor of the practice room and your hands on her waist, lifting her up and slamming her back down repeated on your cock. “We should show your fans this performance.” Taeyeon lifts her head, momentarily meeting your eyes through the mirror before falling down onto your hot connection. Taeyeon lets out a whimper, leaning back against you, her hands resting on your upper thighs, trying to hold on as best she can while you buck her up and down your lap.

“G-God, please…”

“Do you think your fans would like that?”

Taeyeon shakes her head, her eyes never leaving the sight of your dick disappearing repeatedly into her sopping wet snatch. “N-No, I, I can’t…”

“But look how much you’re enjoying this.”

“It’s … I, I can’t, but … fuck, I can’t, you’re making me lose my mind…”

Before, all you were doing is holding Taeyeon back: mistake after mistake, fumbling and stumbling over yourself, complicating things for the ever-patient Taeyeon. Now, you two are engaged in a different kind of choreography, and this time, it’s you who is leading.

“God, you feel so good, I can’t believe it…”

“F-Fuck, Taeyeon…” As much as you try to fight it, it’s inevitable. The brief reprieve was just that: brief, and now, your orgasm is knocking at the door. “Taeyeon, I-I’m, I need to pull out—”

“No!”

The sharp tone of Taeyeon’s protest shocks you.

“Don’t you dare pull out!”

What? What if she gets pregnant? That kind of a scandal … am I going to have to father Taeyeon’s children? Or maybe she’s on the pill? Or maybe she would just get an abortion? Would she be able to do something like that privately?

As quickly as these thoughts enter your mind, so too do they exit.

“Fuck…”

In the end, this is what Taeyeon asked you for to compensate for all the extra time and effort your continual mistakes forced her to spend. It doesn’t matter what you think, all of this is for her. And, if she doesn’t want you to pull out, then—

“Fuck, cumming—!”

You repeatedly slam into the deepest parts of her pussy as stream after stream of your seed fills Taeyeon’s womb. “Yes! Fuck, more! Yes! Fill me up!” You swear you’re seeing stars, but your hips continue to ram into the tiny idol, as if on autopilot, the convulsing walls of Taeyeon’s pussy squeezing your cock with the desperation of a parched person squeezing the last drops of water from their water skin. “It’s—It’s so hot! Fffuck…” When your orgasm finally subsides, your grip of her waist loosens, and you lean back, planting your hands on the floor behind you.

“Oh, god…”

“T—…Tae, Taeyeon…”

“Hmm?”

Still trying to catch your breath, you meet Taeyeon’s eyes through the mirror, who you can tell is pretty close to spent as well. “Wh-Why, Why…”

“Oh. For this.” Grabbing sweatpants, she fishes out your iPhone and opens the camera with practiced ease. Before you can process what’s happening, she points your phone’s camera at the mirror, poses cutely for it, and snaps a picture.

“Wha—?!”

“There,” Taeyeon says proudly, opening up the gallery and showing the picture to you: while your shocked expression and her cute smile is visible in the picture, the clear focal point is the creampie that’s leaking out of her hole that’s still stuffed full with your cock, and, incidentally, the cute little patch of slightly damp pubic hair that’s sitting atop it. “Now, you have this for me.”

You stare dumbly at Taeyeon. “I … I don’t understand.”

Taeyeon dismounts you, not caring that your creampie is now leaking onto the floor, and sits facing you. “Remember how I said it was hard for me to meet people?”

“Um…” honestly, you’re still reeling from the mind-blowing orgasm that you have trouble recalling even minutes ago, right before when Taeyeon asked you to fuck her, “…right, yeah.”

“Well, now that you have that picture, if you ever want to meet up with me and I don’t feel like it, I’ll have a harder time saying ‘no’.”

“Wha…” there are so many things wrong with what Taeyeon just said, but chief among them being, “…why would you trust me with this?”

“You’re a good guy. Plus, I definitely don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” Taeyeon is absolutely radiating with beauty, and paired with that blinding smile, it’s hard to imaging this very woman is the same woman who insisted you creampie her just moments ago.

“…well…”

It still doesn’t make sense to you. Nothing about anything in the last however-many-minutes makes any sense to you: the fact that the Kim Taeyeon, adored and sought after by many, asked you to not only fuck her, but cum inside her, the fact that she just took a picture of that creampie on your phone, and that she’s insisting you use it to essentially blackmail her into … what? To fuck more? To just hang out? Was Taeyeon looking for companionship, in the end?

“You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. I just…”

“Yeah,” Hearing your response puts a smile back on Taeyeon’s face, “I’ll make sure to message you from time to time.”

“I would love that.”

The two of you clean up, and as you leave, you pass by a janitor who is suspiciously avoiding your gaze.

Is that something to worry about…? Surely not, right?

#kpop smut #smut #snsd #snsd smut #kim taeyeon #taeyeon #girls generation #taeyeon smut #public exposure #breeding k1nk

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cupofteatoyou · 2 months ago

Text

What if she chose me

You were seven years old when you first saw the crest.

Not on a wall or a shirt—but on a screen, late at night, tucked under your blanket with the sound low so your parents wouldn’t hear. It was a Barça match, blurry and fast-paced, the kind that didn’t need subtitles to understand. And even then, you knew. The way they passed, the way they moved, the way they belonged to something bigger.

You didn’t have the words for it, not then. But you remember whispering to yourself, “One day.”

You didn’t mean play for them. That seemed impossible.

You just meant… be good enough.

Now, you’re twenty, and you’re standing in the marble-lit hallway of Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, the crest you once saw through a screen now on the wall in front of you—taller than you, shining under soft lights.

It still doesn’t feel real.

You press your fingertips against the side of your thigh to ground yourself. You’re not here as a fan, not anymore. You’re here as a player. A loan deal, six months. No guarantees. Just a chance.

But for you? That’s everything.

You drag your suitcase further into the lobby, where a staff member greets you with a practiced smile and warm Spanish you mostly understand. They walk you through the entrance, past glass trophy cases and framed photos of legends—some still in the locker room, some now part of the club’s history.

Every step echoes a little louder than it should.

Stay calm. You earned this.

The locker room door opens with a soft click.

You hesitate for half a second before stepping in.

It’s quieter than you expected—spacious, sleek, the scent of liniment and fresh laundry in the air. Some of the girls are already inside, voices low in Catalan and Spanish, the occasional laugh echoing off the white tile. You feel like you’ve just walked into a room you’ve imagined a thousand times but never thought you’d actually enter.

Your boots feel too loud against the floor. Your duffel bag feels heavier than it is. You offer a small smile to no one in particular.

“Hi… I’m Y/N.”

A few heads turn.

Alexia Putellas looks up from tying her boots, offering a nod. Ingrid Syrstad Engen—familiar, Norwegian—gives you a kind smile. A few polite waves follow. Not cold. Not unwelcoming. Just… curious.

They’ve seen players come and go.

You’re not the first loan deal. Maybe not the last.

Still, a spot is pointed out to you near the end of the row. You sit down, quietly unpacking your gear, hands moving on autopilot while your mind races.

Then you feel it—a glance.

You look up and meet eyes with someone across the room.

Jana Fernández.

Sharp jawline, dark hair tied in a braid, eyes that hold more than they give away. She’s sitting two rows down, water bottle in hand, gaze steady. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away.

You hold the stare for a moment, unsure whether to nod or look down.

She makes the choice for you. Looks away, like you’re not worth thinking about.

You try not to take it personally. But the sting is there, soft and quiet.

Training is a blur.

The pace is wild. Intensity like you’ve never known. But still, the joy rises under the nerves. This is what you dreamed of. Running beside legends, defending in drills that test your instincts, hearing the whistle blow and your name shouted in thick accents. It’s overwhelming. It’s exhausting.

It’s everything.

After the final whistle, as the players gather in small groups to chat or head to the gym, you sit on the edge of the bench and breathe in slowly.

You made it through day one.

A hand appears in your periphery. A bottle of water.

Jana.

You glance up at her, surprised.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say anything.

Just places the bottle beside you and walks away.

But she noticed.

And somehow, that means more than any words could.

The moment you step back into the locker room, the energy is already different.

Music’s playing — someone connected a speaker — and the air’s loud with the rustle of jerseys, boots hitting tile, teammates joking in fast, effortless Spanish you’re only starting to understand.

You make your way to your spot, peel off your training bib, and sink onto the bench with a quiet breath. You’re sore in places you didn’t even know could be sore. But you feel… good. Solid. Like you didn’t mess it up today.

You're pulling off your boots when someone flops dramatically onto the bench beside you.

“Okay,” Vicky López says, already halfway through a protein bar, “you’re officially not bad.”

You blink at her, caught off guard. “Thanks?”

“No, like—legit. You didn’t fall over, didn’t panic under pressure. I’m impressed.”

“I’ll frame that,” you deadpan.

She grins. “You should. I don’t give those out lightly.”

Across the locker room, someone throws a towel at her. “You said that to the last girl who joined.”

“She fell during rondos!” Vicky fires back, then turns to you again, eyes gleaming. “Anyway. Important question. What are you doing tonight?”

You pause, confused. “Tonight?”

“Yeah. My place. Party. It’s chill—just some music, drinks, people. You should come.”

You glance around. A few girls are listening in now—Patri smirking from her locker, Ingrid giving you a subtle nod like you should. The air shifts a little.

“I don’t know,” you say slowly. “I don’t really know anyone yet…”

“You know me,” Vicky says proudly, like that solves everything. “That’s enough.”

“She doesn’t need to be dragged into things already,” Jana’s voice cuts through from a few lockers down.

She’s sitting with one leg pulled up, towel slung around her shoulders, tying her hair back in a tight ponytail. She hasn’t looked at you since you walked in.

“She just got here.”

You meet her gaze, your throat tightening just a little. Her tone isn’t mean, but it’s firm. Distant. Like she’s already made up her mind about you.

“I can decide for myself,” you say, not defensive—just even.

She blinks once. Holds your stare a second longer than necessary.

“Suit yourself,” she mutters, standing up.

She walks off toward the showers without waiting for a response.

Silence clings for a second after she disappears behind the tiled wall.

Patri exhales, low. “She’s been like that for a while now. Don’t take it personally.”

“She used to be fun,” Vicky adds. “Before…”

She trails off, eyes flicking toward where Jana just went.

You look back down at your hands, still gripping the wristband Vicky pressed into them. Bright blue, a little wrinkled, but something about it feels like a bridge.

You don’t know if you’ll go.

But something in you wants to.

Not to fit in.

Not to prove anything.

Just to remind a certain someone that you’re not here to hide.

You get back to the apartment later than you thought you would, muscles aching and head still spinning from the day. You toss your bag down, let yourself sink into the edge of the bed, and just breathe.

The wristband Vicky gave you is still tucked in your bag. You pull it out, turning the soft blue fabric between your fingers. It feels ridiculous to let one little thing mean so much. But somehow… it does. Like saying yes to the wristband means saying yes to being here. To trying.

You grab your phone.

|you: are you serious about the party?|

Vicky replies in under a minute.

|vicky: YES|

|vicky: i literally invited you in front of everyone|

|vicky: don’t make me regret being nice|

|vicky: want the address?|

You hesitate. Thumb hovering over the keyboard.

You think of Jana. The way she said “She just got here.” Like you weren’t ready. Like she already made her mind up about you.

You exhale through your nose and type:

|you: send it|

Three dots. Then…

|vicky: [location sent]|

|vicky: come around 9|

|vicky: dress normal, no weirdo scandi club fits please|

|vicky: i’m joking|

|vicky: kinda|

You shake your head, smile despite yourself, and drop your phone on the bed.

You’re going.

The apartment is already packed when you arrive.

Music pulses through the walls, bass heavy, something reggaeton mixed with pop. Laughter spills from the open windows, and inside, the air is warm with perfume, cologne, and the kind of energy that only comes from people who play hard and party harder.

You step in slowly, awkwardly adjusting your jacket, wristband snug around your wrist — Vicky’s mark of approval, apparently.

You recognize a few faces right away.

Patri’s dancing in the corner with Mapi, already half a drink in, both of them shouting lyrics way too loud. Ingrid waves when she spots you and points you toward the kitchen.

Vicky appears seconds later, bounding up like a golden retriever.

“She came!” she shouts over the music, grabbing your hand and pulling you inside. “I was this close to betting you’d ghost.”

“Guess I’m full of surprises.”

“You look nervous,” she teases, grabbing two plastic cups. “Here. Fix that.”

You take the drink, not asking what’s in it.

You sip slowly. The burn hits your throat, but it’s not bad.

She leans in, grinning. “If you want to impress everyone, don’t throw up on the floor. That’s like, step one.”

“Good to know.”

The longer you stand there, the more the nerves settle into the background hum of the party. A few girls nod at you as they pass. Someone compliments your sneakers. You laugh at something Mapi shouts from across the room.

You start to feel… okay.

“Enjoying yourself?” someone asks beside you.

You turn to find one of the younger Barça B players — pretty smile, warm eyes, clearly tipsy.

“Yeah,” you say cautiously.

“You’re the new defender, right? From Norway?”

“That obvious?”

She laughs. “Just the accent. And the fact that everyone keeps talking about how you’re not afraid to go in hard.”

You smile. “Guess that’s true.”

She steps closer. “I like that.”

And it’s subtle — not pushy — but there’s definitely a something in her tone. Flirty. Curious. Like she’s testing the waters.

She sips from her drink, then adds, “Also that you’re aggressive as hell. I like that in a defender.”

You laugh once under your breath. “I just like winning the ball.”

“I like the way you move,” she says, almost too casually — but it lands. Direct. Her eyes linger just a second longer than friendly. “You’ve got presence. That’s rare.”

It’s flattering. She’s cute. Charming, even.

But something inside you pulls — not toward her.

Away.

You glance across the room, toward the edge of the crowd, and feel your stomach drop slightly.

Jana’s there.

drink untouched in her hand, talking to no one. But now her eyes are locked on you.

Hard to read. Not angry. Not disinterested.

Just focused.

She sees the way this girl is standing close. Sees the way her hand brushes lightly against your arm mid-conversation. Sees everything.

And she doesn’t look away.

“You okay?” the girl asks, noticing your shift.

You turn back, force a small smile. “Yeah, just needed some air.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” You lift your cup. “I’ll be back.”

You leave before she can say anything else, weaving your way through the dancing bodies, past the music, the drinks, the heat of the room — until the door to the balcony swings open, and the night hits your skin like relief.

You lean on the railing. Exhale.

And before you’ve even fully breathed in the quiet—

The door opens again.

You glance over your shoulder just as Ingrid Engen steps outside, closing the door behind her gently.

Her brows lift slightly when she sees you. “Ah. I figured I saw you slip out.”

You straighten up a bit. “Needed a minute.”

She walks over, leaning against the railing beside you — not too close, not assuming, just familiar.

“Same,” she says. “Those parties get loud fast.”

You nod, letting the quiet stretch between you for a second.

“I’m Ingrid,” she says then, offering her hand out casually. “I know you probably know that already. Still—figured I should say hi properly.”

You shake her hand, and your smile comes easier than expected. “Yeah. I do. But hey.”

She smiles back. “You holding up alright?”

“I think so. It’s a lot, though.”

“Barça tends to be,” she says, laughing softly. “Especially when you’re new.”

You glance at her. “You had this too?”

“Oh, definitely. Even being from Norway didn’t help much at first. But you’ll find your rhythm.”

You shift, appreciating the weight in her tone — not fake or performative, just real.

“You were good today,” she adds. “Not just technically. You’ve got presence.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That a Norwegian compliment?”

“It’s a teammate compliment.”

You huff a laugh. “I’ll take it.”

She glances sideways at you. “If you ever need someone to talk to — about the team, adjusting, whatever… you don’t have to do it alone.”

You pause. Something about the way she says it makes you believe her.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

She nods once. “We take care of our own.”

You and Ingrid stay out there for a while, letting the party carry on without you. Inside, someone’s yelling along to Bad Bunny. Mapi’s laugh cuts through the noise like a firework. The bass thumps through the wall, but out here it’s all muted.

Comfortable.

“You’ve been here long enough to feel like part of the furniture yet?” Ingrid asks, resting her chin in one hand, her elbow on the railing.

You smile a little. “More like a borrowed lamp someone’s gonna return in a month.”

She snorts. “A very solid Norwegian lamp.”

You both laugh softly, and the quiet settles in again — familiar now. Easy.

But there’s something still twisting in your chest. Still caught between your ribs from earlier.

You sip from your drink, then say it before you can second-guess:

“What’s the deal with Jana?”

Ingrid’s brows lift just slightly, but there’s no judgment in it — just curiosity. Like she expected you to ask eventually.

“She say something to you?” she asks, voice gentler now.

“Not really. That’s kind of the point,” you reply. “I don’t know. She just—looked at me like I wasn’t supposed to be here. Since training.”

Ingrid breathes out through her nose. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“So what is it?” you ask, eyes on her. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she says immediately. “Not even close.”

You wait. Let her find the words.

“She’s… complicated,” Ingrid says finally. “Not in a dramatic way. Just—Jana doesn’t let people in easily. Especially not lately.”

“Something happen?”

Ingrid hesitates. “You didn’t hear about her and Jill?”

You blink. “Jill Roord?”

She nods. “Yeah. They were together. For a while.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. It didn’t end great.”

You can hear what she’s not saying in her tone. And something clicks in your mind: the guardedness, the cold stares, the way Jana’s jaw tightens when she sees you talking to someone else.

“She got hurt,” you say quietly.

“Bad,” Ingrid confirms. “Jill cheated. Jana didn’t tell many people. Just kind of… shut down.”

You look down at your cup, processing. “Makes sense now.”

“She’s not mean,” Ingrid says after a second. “But she’ll push you away before you even get close enough to matter.”

You nod slowly. “Too late for that, maybe.”

Ingrid tilts her head, smiling. “So she has gotten to you?”

You laugh softly. “Let’s just say I notice when someone’s looking at me like they want to set me on fire.”

“She’s probably just scared,” Ingrid says. “But if she keeps staring like that, maybe she should be the one explaining herself.”

You huff. “Yeah. I’ll hold my breath for that.”

Ingrid grins. “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

You both laugh softly, the kind of quiet laugh that feels like you’re sharing a secret — and maybe, in some way, you are.

Then—

The balcony door swings open with zero chill.

“Ingrid!”

Mapi’s voice slices through the calm like a drumroll. She’s halfway into the doorway, one hand braced against the frame like she’s been looking for Ingrid in every room and finally hit jackpot.

“There you are! Come inside, we’re doing shots and I need someone to stop Patri before she sings Dancing Queen in full German again.”

Ingrid groans dramatically. “She warned me she was learning the lyrics.”

Mapi takes a step forward — then spots you.

“Ohhh! You!” she says, eyes lighting up. “New kid!”

You blink. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Norway. Hair. Eyes like you’ve seen things. Let’s go.”

“I—what?”

“No thinking. Only chaos. Come on.”

Before you can argue, Mapi loops one arm through Ingrid’s and one through yours and starts pulling you both toward the door like you’ve known each other for years.

Ingrid just laughs. “Welcome to the real initiation.”

“Wait, what’s happening—”

“Tequila,” Mapi grins wickedly. “And maybe terrible karaoke. Definitely some regret.”

You barely have time to set your cup down on the balcony table before you’re pulled back inside — back into the heat, the noise, and the absolutely unhinged vibe of a full-blown Barça night out.

You barely make it two steps inside before Mapi has you halfway to the kitchen island — which now looks more like a war zone. Open bottles, empty glasses, limes scattered like casualties, someone’s jersey tossed over a chair for absolutely no reason.

“Alright, rookie,” Mapi says, releasing your arm to start aggressively preparing shots. “Tonight we erase whatever Scandinavian filter you’ve got on your soul.”

“I’m not good with this drink—”

“No,” she cuts you off immediately. “That’s not how this works. You came to our party, you play our game.”

Ingrid’s behind you now, leaning against the counter with a smirk like she’s seen this movie before.

“She doesn’t usually lose,” she murmurs.

“I’m not trying to win,” you say, laughing nervously.

“Exactly,” Mapi grins, pushing a shot glass into your hand. “So just don’t fight it.”

She knocks one back herself with zero hesitation, then waits — eyebrow raised, hand on hip.

You stare at your glass. Then at her.

Then throw it back.

It burns. God, it burns.

Mapi howls in triumph. “There she is! Now we’re cooking!”

“You didn’t even tell me what that was.”

“Tequila,” Ingrid says, not even pretending to hide her amusement. “Probably.”

“Probably?!”

“Next round!” Mapi shouts, already refilling the glasses.

You don’t know what time it is anymore. The kitchen clock is sideways, your shoes are gone, and Mapi is balancing a lime wedge on your head while shouting, “DON’T MOVE!”

You are crying laughing.

“I can’t hold still,” you wheeze. “You’re shaking!”

“I’m not shaking,” Mapi says, swaying slightly. “I’m dramatic. There’s a difference.”

“Pretty sure we passed ‘dramatic’ like three drinks ago.”

Someone takes a picture. Maybe Ingrid. Maybe Patri. You’re too gone to tell — all you know is you’re sitting on the floor in the middle of the living room, and Mapi has somehow convinced you to help her choreograph a girlband dance routine to a Spanish remix of “Barbie Girl.”

“Okay!” she shouts. “From the top! And this time, don’t miss the hair flip.”

“I’m Norwegian, we don’t flip things.”

“Well tonight, you’re Catalan!” she slurs dramatically, spinning in a circle and nearly taking down a lamp.

You double over in laughter.

At some point, she forces a pair of ridiculous sunglasses onto your face and declares, “You are now Beyoncé. Embrace it.”

You embrace it.

The music’s so loud now that your thoughts have rhythm, and your cheeks hurt from smiling, and someone hands you another drink and it’s too late to ask what’s in it.

Ingrid, who’s now sitting on the back of the couch like royalty, shouts over the music, “You two are menaces!”

“You’re just jealous we’re iconic!” Mapi yells, doing the worst cartwheel anyone has ever seen.

You cheer like she’s just landed a gold medal.

Then—suddenly—Mapi grabs your hand.

“Come with me,” she stage-whispers. “I have to show you the Important Secret.”

You stumble after her down the hallway, barely holding your balance, giggling like you’re sneaking out of class. She opens a random door dramatically.

It’s just the coat closet.

You both stare at it.

“This isn’t the kitchen,” Mapi mutters.

You burst out laughing again and slump against the wall.

She leans her head on your shoulder. “I like you, Norway. You’re fun when you’re not trying to impress everybody.”

“I was never trying,” you mumble.

“You were trying not to take up space,” she says, oddly soft for how drunk she is. “Now look at you. Life of the damn party.”

You smile.

Drunk, blurry, light-headed — but grateful.

You're barely recovering from Mapi’s failed cartwheel when Vicky appears out of nowhere with a tray full of Jell-O shots and a devilish smile.

“There she is,” she grins at you. “Noruega, how’s the liver holding up?”

You blink. “It’s… it’s hanging in there.”

“She’s thriving,” Mapi announces proudly, draping herself over your back like a dramatic scarf. “She did a whole hair flip choreography. She’s basically Shakira now.”

“I need proof,” Vicky smirks. “Do it again.”

“Absolutely not,” you laugh.

But then Patri strolls over, sunglasses on top of her head even though it’s well past midnight, and says, “If she doesn’t, I will.”

“She doesn’t even have hair to flip!” Mapi yells, scandalized.

Patri shrugs. “Then I’ll flip your hair.”

And suddenly she’s grabbing Mapi by the back of the head and violently whipping her hair around like a shampoo commercial gone wrong.

Everyone’s laughing. You almost choke on a lime.

Vicky sets the tray down in front of you with a wink. “Alright, team challenge. Pick a shot, any shot. One of them has double tequila.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

Mapi rubs her temples. “Vicky, you said you weren’t drinking tonight.”

“I lied,” she says sweetly.

You, Mapi, Patri, and Vicky all reach for different Jell-O shots and count down like it’s an Olympic final.

Three. Two. One.

Down they go.

You don’t know who got the double shot — but five seconds later, Patri lets out a scream-laugh and slams her hands on the table. “I GOT IT. I SEE TIME.”

“Time isn’t real!” Mapi yells back, flailing a towel in her direction.

Vicky leans into you, conspiratorial. “You might want to drink some water before you wake up in someone’s bathtub.”

You glance around. “That an option?”

She grins. “If Mapi has anything to say about it? Always.”

You laugh again, shoulders loose, heart light. when someone brushes past you a little too hard — not aggressive, but not an accident either.

You look up.

Jana.

She doesn’t stop, just walks past toward the kitchen — fast, tight-shouldered. Not like she’s in a hurry.

More like she’s pissed.

You hesitate for a second. Then follow.

She’s standing by the fridge when you catch up, pouring water like it’s the most intense thing anyone’s ever done. She won’t look at you.

“Hey,” you say carefully.

She glances at you — once, quick. “Shouldn’t you be doing shots with your new fan club?”

You blink, thrown. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Your stomach knots, alcohol buzz flickering.

“I was just having fun. Like… everyone else?”

Jana scoffs under her breath. “Right. The way you’re fitting in already, you’ll probably be on posters next week.”

You stare at her. “Where is this coming from?”

She slams the fridge shut harder than necessary and finally looks at you — really looks at you.

“You show up, all wide-eyed, pretending you’re just here to help. And one day in, you’ve already got Ingrid whispering in your ear and Mapi wrapped around your little finger.”

You blink, stunned. “You think I’m pretending?”

“I think you’re temporary,” she snaps. “So don’t act like this is your team.”

Silence.

Your chest tightens. Not from the words themselves — but how much they feel like a slap.

You take a slow breath. “You don’t know anything about me.”

She doesn't answer.

Just grabs a glass and turns away, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. Like she’s already decided this conversation’s over.

And maybe it should be.

But the alcohol’s still humming in your blood, your chest still tight from the way she looked at you like you were nothing but noise.

So you mumble it—more to yourself than her, voice barely above a whisper.

“No wonder she cheated on you.”

The second the words leave your mouth, your stomach drops. you know you can’t take them back.

Jana freezes.

The glass in her hand trembles, her knuckles turning white around it. She doesn’t turn, not at first — just stands there with her back to you, like she’s trying to decide whether to walk away or burn the entire room down.

Then, slowly, she turns.

Her eyes find yours.

And they are shaking with rage.

You barely whisper, “Jana—”

And then it happens.

The slap.

Quick. Sharp. The sting blooming across your cheek before you even register the movement.

The whole world holds its breath.

Even the bass from the speakers feels distant now — muffled, underwater. It’s like time has stalled, just long enough for the weight of what she’s done to settle between you.

Your hand slowly lifts to your cheek, the sting blooming hot beneath your skin.

You look at her.

Really look at her.

And for a second… you don’t recognize her at all.

Jana’s chest is heaving. Her jaw is locked. Her eyes aren’t just angry — they’re full of something uglier. Something sharp. Defensive. Desperate. Like she’s spent too long trying to keep people out, and now that someone’s gotten close, all she knows how to do is destroy.

“Don’t ever say that to me again,” she breathes, low and lethal.

“WHAT. THE ACTUAL. FUCK?!”

Mapi’s voice cuts through the air like a knife.

You both turn at the same time.

She’s standing in the kitchen doorway, eyeliner smudged, plastic tiara slightly askew, holding a bag of tortilla chips like she was just about to offer snacks and instead walked straight into a crime scene.

Her eyes go to your face.

Then to Jana.

Then back to your face.

She doesn’t even blink.

“Did she just hit you?”

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out.

Mapi drops the chips. “Nope. Uh-uh. Not tonight. No one touches my emotionally repressed Scandinavian daughter.”

Jana starts to speak. “It’s not—”

“Don’t.” Mapi holds up a finger like a furious teacher with a wine buzz. “Don’t even try. I don’t care how tragic your breakup was, you do not slap someone because your little ego got poked.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Jana says, jaw clenched.

“Oh really?” Mapi fires back. “Then what was it? Sparring practice? A friendly love tap? Because I watched you swing, and that wasn’t ‘pass the salt,’ that was assault.”

Your head is spinning. The slap, the adrenaline, now this.

“Mapi, it’s fine,” you try to say, voice shaky.

But she spins on you just as fast. “No, bebita, it’s not fine. I leave you alone for five minutes and someone tries to rearrange your face? Absolutely not.”

Jana’s arms cross. “She said something she shouldn’t have.”

Mapi lifts an eyebrow. “So you slap people when they say something you don’t like to hear? Interesting tactic.”

The room goes dead silent.

Even you flinch.

Jana looks like she might lunge.

But Mapi doesn’t move.

Just steps between you and her, eyes steel.

“You need to walk away, Fernández,” she says, voice low now. “Because if you don’t, I swear to god, I’m going to say something that’ll make whatever she said look like a love letter.”

Jana doesn’t respond.

She just stares at you for a beat longer — eyes cold, jaw locked — and then turns on her heel and storms out.

The door slams.

The music keeps playing, oblivious.

You finally exhale.

Mapi turns back to you, her expression softening. She cups your face gently with both hands, her thumbs brushing your cheek like she’s checking for damage.

“Mi vida,” she murmurs, dramatically. “Who do I have to fight in your honor next?”

You crack a tired, broken laugh.

And then you let her pull you into a hug so tight it almost knocks you over.

You’re sitting cross-legged on Mapi and Ingrid’s couch, wrapped in a giant hoodie that smells like Ingrid’s perfume and clinging to a half-full glass of something suspiciously red and definitely alcoholic.

Your cheek still stings.

Your heart still hurts.

Mapi is on her third drink. Possibly fourth. No one’s sure. She keeps calling it a “sip” but her glass has been refilled three times and she’s started monologuing about violence and heartbreak like she’s the lead in a telenovela.

“If I ever see her near you again, she’ll wake up in a locker. A real one. Not a metaphor.”

You blink.

Ingrid raises an eyebrow, slowly lowering her own glass.

“A locker?” you ask.

Mapi nods solemnly, like this is a deeply considered threat. “Full-sized. Metal. Cold. Like her soul.”

Ingrid snorts into her wine. “You’re not the mafia, Mapi.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mapi replies. “The mafia would never wear these boots.” She sticks out her leg dramatically — black platform stompers with rhinestones that spell "QUEEN" on the sides.

You try to stifle your laugh, fail miserably, and end up half-snorting into your drink. Ingrid meets your gaze across the couch and gives you the same look she’s probably used since day one: this is my life now. I stopped fighting it in 2019.

Mapi catches the silent exchange and narrows her eyes. “Are you two laughing at me?”

“No,” Ingrid says way too quickly.

You nod. “Definitely not. Just… admiring your commitment to organized crime cosplay.”

“I’m not cosplaying,” Mapi says, standing up like she’s about to make a formal speech. “I’m declaring war.”

“Is it a soft war?” Ingrid asks, deadpan. “Like one with glitter grenades and confetti knives?”

Mapi points at her. “Don’t tempt me.”

You’re still giggling when she sits back down, huffs dramatically, and leans her head against your shoulder.

“I’m serious,” she mutters. “She doesn’t get to do that to you. I don’t care if she’s broken. So are we. But we don’t hurt people.”

You glance at Ingrid, who gives you a small smile over the rim of her glass.

Mapi’s still draped across you, a little too heavy, a lot too warm, and absolutely unbothered by personal space as she refills your glass with unsteady hands.

“You know what?” she says suddenly, voice high with inspiration. “I’ve decided.”

Ingrid doesn’t even look up from where she’s scrolling on her phone. “God help us.”

“I’m adopting her,” Mapi declares, gesturing to you with flourish. “Officially. Emotionally. This is my daughter now.”

You choke on your wine.

“What?”

“She’s Norwegian. You’re Norwegian,” Mapi says, turning to Ingrid. “It’s meant to be. You’re the chill one. I’m the dramatic one. She’s like… the balanced product of our dysfunction.”

“I literally met you today,” you say, laughing.

“Exactly. And already I would kill for you. Or bake for you. Or both.” Mapi throws an arm around your shoulders like she’s claiming territory. “She’s tall, sad, and defensive. That’s our brand.”

Ingrid raises her glass with zero resistance. “Welcome to the family, I guess.”

“She’s a defender too,” Mapi adds proudly. “It’s fate. She came from the fjords to be ours.”

You’re full-on giggling now. “I don’t think that’s how adoption works.”

“Shh,” Mapi says, placing a dramatic finger to your lips. “You don’t need paperwork when there’s love. And trauma.”

Ingrid finally looks over, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Should we give her a spanish middle name? Or are you just going to start calling her ‘bebita’ like everyone else?”

Mapi gasps like she’s just remembered something life-changing.

“Oh my god. She needs a Spanish name. She can’t be fully adopted until she has one.”

You blink. “I—I don’t think that’s a requirement.”

“It is in this house,” she says, pointing dramatically to the ceiling like she's invoking the spirit of a very dramatic ancestor. “You are no longer just a Norwegian lone wolf defender. You are now…” She pauses, gears clearly turning in her wine-soaked brain.

Ingrid mutters, “Here we go.”

Mapi pauses, eyes lighting up like she’s cracked the code of the universe.

“Catalina María.”

You stare. “That’s not even close to my name.”

“It is now,” Mapi declares, grabbing a throw pillow like it’s a legal document. “Your full name is officially Y/N Catalina María León engen Y/L/N.”

Ingrid’s mouth twitches. “She’s got more names than most royalty.”

“Exactly.” Mapi beams, proud. “She deserves this. Look at her. Mysterious. Brooding. Dangerous in the box. Probably has a tragic backstory involving snow and betrayal.”

You sigh, dramatically sipping your wine. “You’ve read too much fanfiction.”

“She is fanfiction,” Mapi says. “And now she’s ours.”

Ingrid lifts her glass in your direction. “To Catalina María León engen. Defender. Daughter. Destroyer of attackers.”

You clink glasses, dazed but smiling.

It’s well past 5 a.m. now.

The wine’s gone. The lights are dimmed. And the chaos has finally calmed — mostly because Mapi is, at last, unconscious.

Sort of.

You and Ingrid are seated on the floor, backs against the couch, quietly nursing glasses of water. The room smells like wine and vanilla candles and warm furniture.

And on the couch?

Mapi.

Sprawled across it like a crime scene.

One arm slung off the edge. One leg kicked straight into the air, resting against the back of the couch like she was mid–karate move and then just… shut down. Her hoodie is halfway off one shoulder. She’s still wearing one boot. The other is missing.

She’s drooling.

You try not to laugh, but it bubbles out anyway.

“She looks like she died doing yoga,” you whisper.

Ingrid leans her head against yours, watching her girlfriend fondly. “She always sleeps like this after she declares war on someone.”

“Is this a normal thing?”

“Oh yeah,” Ingrid says. “She once threatened a ref and then passed out in the team bus with a tactical board on her chest. No one even questioned it.”

You blink.

She adds, “She also gets very clingy when she wakes up, so you might want to be gone before sunrise.”

“Noted.”

You both fall into a quiet silence, just watching Mapi snore softly with one sock halfway off and her arm twitching like she’s fighting someone in her dream.

Ingrid hums. “You okay?”

You take a second.

Then nod. “Yeah. I think I am.”

She squeezes your hand gently.

#ingrid engen #woso imagine #mapi leon #woso x reader #woso fanfics #jana fernandez #jana fernandez x reader #maria leon #barca femeni #barca women #barca femini x reader

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