#all those songs about their BFFs sound kind of awkward now huh?

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This is my regularly scheduled post to tell you I’m still REALLY MAD at Four Year Strong for fucking Josh over and becoming generic pap.

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Tough Love - Asahi

Tough Love - Asahi

Any music is fine <3

Pairing: producer!Asahi x internproducer! gn reader

Warnings: insecurities, shouting(?), anxiety (?), a mention of crying

Genre: Angst, Fluff (at the end)

Author’s Note: Hi! This is pure fiction! I just got any song for the story, so you’ll be seeing some random titles every now and then. I’m not a producer so there may be some inaccuracies. Anyway! Hope you enjoy this fic!! Keep reading under the cut! <33

The day is done, and the night is coming. I’ve been working hard for the past 12 hours at the studio for the upcoming evaluations. I’m here, working as an intern at YG Entertainment. Hoping to find a place here to make a career out of. My other friends are in the other rooms also working their heads off. Our assignment is to make a song, and it has to be perfect. This is our first evaluation. If I fail this, the judges will get the wrong impression of me.

Someone knocks on the door. “Y/N!! OPEN THE DOOR I NEED HELP!” “Yes Bora, what do you need?” I answered. “I can’t think of any lyrics!”, “well that happens sometimes, I don’t know what to do either. I mean, I have the melody down, but I can’t think of anything to write about.” “We are both going to fail, aren’t we” “HEY! Don’t say that. We got in for a reason. So, all we have to do is work our hardest.”, “You’re right, thanks. I’ll write about that!”. “Wait what?” Before she could hear me, she closed the door and ran to her studio. ‘Hmmm, everyone seems to be getting things right nowadays…. Can’t say the same for myself” I thought. Just go to keep on working I guess....

The next day..

Evaluation day. The most dreaded day of every intern and trainee. Everyone is panicking and it’s scaring me even more. “Interns, please come inside the practice room” Okay, it’s time. I have to be confident, or else I’ll be an easy target. “Hey, are you scared?” Bora asked. “Of course I am, these are professionals who are going to be judging us.” “You can do this bff, don’t be too scared.” “Thanks!” We sat down on the benches, and waited for the mentors to come in. A few minutes later, the door clicks and reveals our three mentors and two guests. “Omg they are the treasure members” “It’s Asahi and Choi Hyunsuk sunbae” “Omg they’re legends” as the amount of murmurs grew, our head mentor spoke up. “For our evaluations from now on, we’ll be having guest mentors, Asahi and Hyunsuk of Treasure, joining us. Please give them a hand.” After the applause ends, he speaks again. “Okay, let’s start the evaluations. Beware that we have the camera to record your progress. Thank you” As they go through all of our names, the more I get nervous. I’m panicking, help.. I can’t do this. As I was thinking to myself, I was cut off.

“L/N Y/N '' Okay it’s time. I stood up and went to the front. “Hello, I’m L/N Y/N.” “What’s the title of your song?” “It’s called BBIBBI (original by IU).” “What’s it about?” “It’s about the toxic society we live in and the standards put up by the media for artists” “Okay, let’s hear it” I clicked the play button. They all have blank faces, what are they thinking? Do they hate it? As a train of thoughts kept on running, I didn’t realize that the song ended until one of the mentors spoke up. “Okay, what do you think of the song?” he asks the panel of mentors. “It was enjoyable and the vibe was nice,” says the head mentor. “Thank you” As each of the judges give their comments, Asahi speaks up, “I didn’t really enjoy it, it’s not exactly my type and it was kind of a typical topic to write about” he says blatantly. Ouch, that hurt. Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing, the mentors must think I’m stupid or something. After an awkward silence, someone speaks up, “Okay thank you, next”

“Okay, thank you for attending. Results and rankings will be up in three days. Thank you.” As everyone starts to leave the room, Bora stands up and pulls me with her. “Come on, it’s not that bad.” “It's horrible Bora, I was completely embarrassed over there. I was put on spotlight and was given the worst comment a producer could get. TIMES 3! I just want to bury myself in a hole and disappear. You didn’t even see the way others were looking at me. They were looking at me with pity, PITY!” “Hey, don’t say bad things about yourself. Just move on and let’s keep on working harder.”

Three days pass and I rank at the bottom. God this hurts.

Months later…..

Months pass by, month after month, after month. Nothing but criticism. From him.

I feel like I’m not going anywhere. It’s starting to get to me. Am I not good enough? Am I really as bad as he says I am? This is killing me. There is another evaluation coming. I really want to disappear right now. I can’t do this. They don’t know the amount of times I had a breakdown in my studio. It hurts too much to still be here. Just one last evaluation. One more, if it goes wrong, that’s the last straw for me. I just have to give it everything, I guess.

This is my last song. This is it. Hopefully this will work.

Evaluations are on going. My name is called. “L/N Y/N” “Okay, what’s the title of your song and what is it about?” “The title is How You Like That and it’s about saying goodbye to a toxic and painful past, and leaving those who hurt you behind.” (this is just a version to match the story!) “Okay, play it for us then.”

I waited as their eyes were judging me, shaking their heads every now and then. Great, they hate it. As the song ends, they say, “Thank you, next”

To cool off some pressure, I went to a café to get a drink. As I sat down after ordering, someone approached me. I look up and I see a middle-aged man. He hands me a card and says, “Hello, I am Kim Myeong Jun and I’m the head of Music Production at SM Entertainment.” “Oh, hello! May I help you?” “I heard that you are an intern producer at YG. We heard a snippet of your work and we would like to offer you a position at our company as a producer, not an intern.” “Wow, that’s great…” “You don’t have to decide right now, we can give you a week to think about it. Hope you could consider our offer.” he smiles and says. “Thank you so much, I’ll think about this and I’ll call you about my decision.” I smile back. As he stands up and leaves, I think to myself, ‘This is great. Should I take it?’

After much thought, I decided to take it. It hurts too much to still be in a company that doesn’t appreciate my work.

The next morning, I walk to the office and ask for a resignation form. Although, I don’t understand why the woman at the desk looks at me with shock. Did something happen? Anyways, I have a day to move out and submit this. I have to hurry up. While walking in the hallway, I accidentally bump into somebody. “I’m so sorry!” I look up and I see him, Asahi… “Oh, hello sunbae.” He greets back and all of a sudden asks, “What’s that in your hand?”, “Oh, this is a resignation form.” “You are leaving the program?” he asks. “Yeah, I got a better deal somewhere else, so I have to resign. I’m sorry but I don’t have that much time. I’ll see you around.” I bow and turn around to leave. “Why are you leaving?!” he shouts. I huff and turn around. “It’s because of the treatment I get here. I get treated like trash and I get nothing but degrading comments from you and the other mentors.” “It’s for your own good!” “No it's not!! You aren’t teaching me anything but to feel bad about myself! You hate me just admit it!” “Hey! Nobody said I hated you” “Then why do you treat me that way? Huh? What did I ever do to you?!” I said. “You are a good producer. That’s what you are. Okay? You are good and I’m teaching you the way I was taught. With pressure. I don’t hate you. Your last song was very good, the best we’ve heard in months from any intern. But it was your choice to leave and quit.” he says. And he walks away. Leaving me in shock.

A few months later…

I’ve been doing great here. I really enjoy being here and making a contribution to artists’ music. I still keep in touch with Bora and everyone else and it sounds like it’s going great over there. I just feel kind of bad with how I left things with Asahi. I was so disrespectful. I still think about it every now and then. I wish I could apologize, but I can’t do anything about it.

Mr. Kim comes into the room and says, “Okay! We are having a collaboration with YG Entertainment so here is the list of people joining us for tomorrow’s meeting.” YG?! Oh my god. I take a look at the list, and I see my name. Of course it’s there, I think. “Hey Y/n, didn’t you work there before?” Yoojin, another producer, asks me. “Yeah, but I was only an intern.” “Oh, interesting. You’ll be having a blast from the past I guess!” “Yeah, I guess.”

The next day...

Wow. It feels different to be here again. I got out of the van and followed Mr. Kim into the building. They really upgraded their system, I thought. We are led to a room and I greet everyone. “We are just waiting for some people if you don’t mind waiting.” someone says and we just nod. “Hello, sorry for being late.” I look at who says that and I see someone who I never thought I would see again. Asahi and his members. Great. The universe is really not on my side, is it.

After the meeting, someone walks up to me. I look at who it is, and I see Asahi. “Hi. It’s been a while.” he says. “Oh hi, yeah. It has been a while.” A silence washes over, and I say, “Um, I just wanted to apologize for how I acted, you know, last time we met…” “No, it’s my fault. I was the one who was too harsh on you. I apologize.” “Oh, it’s alright. So, does this mean we’re okay?” “Yeah, we’re good,” he says and smiles. “Would you like to help me out with something?” he asks. “Sure, why not?” I said and smiled as he led me to a studio. ‘He’s not as bad as I thought he was,’ I think to myself.

What they didn’t know about those bad experiences was that it was the start to a blooming friendship.

The End

[copias-thrall]

Why Not?

Mary and Suey need to use their words

(Start at the beginning)

*angst; face fucking*

Sometimes you wonder if Mary’s attraction to you stems from the fact that you had no idea who he was when the two of you met at Mickey’s. Sure, there’s some Venn Diagram-like overlap between your crowd and his—but your exploits and his had never touched. You have a few mutual friends-of-friends that everyone always seems to know—but no substantial connections.

Mary’s never made his past sexploits a secret—even if he’s demurred on the gritty details—so you know his other forays into relationships have mostly been from people already in his orbit from the neighborhood or from his “fan” pool.

Basically: all people who already knew his music.

It doesn’t keep you up at night, but occasionally—when there’s a prolonged, awkward silence, or the two of you get into a heated debate that proceeds slammed doors—you can’t help but wonder. It doesn’t help that Mary seems reticent to bring you to shows—big or small. 

And, ok—maybe at first you didn’t really care: everyone and their sister knows a guy who’s “in a band” that never actualizes, and you two are oil and water on your best days, so why invest energy into a band you’re going to be compelled to dislike after the breakup? Once you guys had passed the 3mo mark, however, you knew you had to get serious about it if you wanted to be serious about Mary.

You would have thought it would’ve made Mary happy—you taking a marked interest in his first love—but he’d honestly seemed ambivalent about it. You talking about his songs and asking him questions only seemed to irritate him to no end … so you’d dropped it.

When he’d told you about another Saturday gig—that wasn’t closing Mickey’s—you’d once again offered to come … and he’d been a dick about it, prompting one of your worst fights to date.

“Why do you even wanna be there?” he’d huffed.

“I’m your fucking girlfriend,” you’d retorted.

“So you just want to piss on me and mark your territory, is that it?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I thought I’d support your fucking passion is all.”

“You never cared before.”

“Oh—I’m sorry! Was I supposed to know everything that mattered to you two fucking seconds in?”

“I just think it’s fucking suspect that all of sudden you wanna be around.”

“So the other girlfriends are fine. It’s just me who’s a fame whore?”

“They’re all into the scene.”

“And what the fuck does that mean? I’m not a bandophile so I couldn’t possibly be interested?”

“It means I’m fucking done with that shit. The switching? The bed hopping? If that’s what you want, fucking tell me right now.”

“Where are you even getting this shit from?”

He’d looked you dead in the eyes.

“You have a reputation, Suey.

At first, you hadn’t even understood enough to be insulted.

“For fucking what? I barely follow the local music scene.”

“You think I didn’t ask around about you? The ‘Ice Queen’? Likes to fuck, but will eat you up and spit you out?”

You’d felt hot and cold all at once—your face flushing then draining of color.

“Are you fucking … are you fucking slut shaming me?!” you’d hissed as you’d jabbed a finger at him.

He hadn’t backed down. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable to wonder if a girl who’ll fuck anything that moves wouldn’t be looking to take her act elsewhere. The guys might dislike you, but you know they’d never pass up free pussy.”

You’d been trembling with anger at that point and scrubbing tears from your eyes.

“I’ve never … I’ve never hidden the fact that I like to fuck. I can’t believe you with your … your orgies and partner swapping have any fucking thing to say to me about my one-night stands.”

“How do I know you’re not using me for easy access, huh? I can barely even tell if you like me instead of my dick sometimes, and now all of sudden you’re interested in my band?”

You’d screamed and knocked a bowl off your counter, not even caring when the ceramic had shattered into shards.

“I’M SHOWING YOU I LIKE YOU BY BEING INTERESTED IN YOUR FUCKING BAND, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE.”

Then you’d grabbed a mug and thrown it in the ground for good measure. It hadn’t shattered, but the handle had broken off. Dissatisfied, you’d turned to your dish rack, but before you could start breaking dishes, Mary had had his arms wound around you.

“Hey, hey … it’s ok. Shh, c’mere.”

You’d screamed again and struggled against him.

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. Suey, calm down.”

Mary had managed to pick you up slightly, transferring you from the mess in the kitchen area to the living space, where he’d pulled you both down to the floor against the couch. You’d struggled some more, but only in an obligatory sense.

“Fuck. I’m sorry. Fuck,” Mary had breathed.

You’d only wailed in response, tears now flowing freely.

“I didn’t mean … fuck. I don’t think …” he’d babbled.

“You didn’t think,” you’d blubbered. “All those dudes, and you’re the one with a fucking drawer. How fucking dare you.”

Mary’s hold had tightened, but it wasn't to restrain you.

“Fuck, I know. I’m sorry. I just … it wouldn’t be the first time I thought some girl liked me, when all they wanted was to fuck the band. It’s a fucking sore spot, ok?”

“I’m supposed to be ok with you thinking I’ve been playing you?”

“I just fucking panicked, ok? I—I really fucking like you.”

“Don’t be gross.”

“Fuck off.”

You’d both chuckled.

“I just really fucking like you, and sometimes I just get too far into my own fucking head.”

You’d leaned back into his chest.

“You’re a fucking asshole and what you said was trashy. You said it to hurt me, and that’s not ok, Mary.”

He’d sighed and rested his forehead onto your shoulder.

“I just needed to hear you say it wasn’t true.”

“That’s still fucking insulting, but—” you’d tilted your head toward his, “Mary, I’m not dating you to fuck your bandmates. Now, fucking apologize.”

“I’m sorry I … that I was … my—”

“—that you were fucking cruel.”

“I’m sorry I was fucking cruel.”

“Thank you.”

The two of you had sat like that for a while until Mary had broken the silence.

“You scare me when you react like that.”

“I know,” you’d sighed. “I just … got overwhelmed. I’m … I am working on it, you know?”

“How?”

You’d curled a little into yourself.

“I do go to therapy, you know. It’s been—it is—a process.”

“K.”

“K?”

“Um, ‘ok, I acknowledge your effort and support it and won’t push as long as you’re getting help’?”

“Thanks.” You’d waited for a beat then had said, “Now you have to give me one. One personal thing.”

You’d waited patiently as Mary had considered.

“I was on my own at 19, so the guys are like my brothers—I love them, but they’re fucking annoying, and I hate them sometimes too. I’d give any one of them a kidney, but not my girl.”

You’d sighed. “I’m not going to fuck your brothers, Mare.”

“Yeah, I know. But thanks for saying.”

After that he’d helped you clean up the broken bowl. A week later you’d found your mug back in the cabinet—the handle was out of line with the break, but somehow still firmly secured back into place. You’d also stopped asking about attending his shows.

Thanksgiving came—he’d spent the day with his extended band family; you’d traveled out of state to spend it with your best friend—as you’d been doing since college. She knows a little about you and Mary, and you were happy to stay up drinking contraband wine with her on the trundle bed in her room as you’d scrolled through the handful of personal g-rated pictures you had.

It’s Saturday (your bus back home is at 6am the next day), and your bff and you are downtown just hanging out. You fucking love the energy of South Street, especially Crash Bang Boom, formally Zipperhead. One of the stops on your itinerary is a record store, and on a lark you go to see if Mary’s record is here. You know from one of Mary’s rants that they’ve been struggling to get wider distribution without a formal label, but that there’s a pretty good trade network amongst some of the indie places, and Philly isn’t so far away. You have to do more than a cursory search but!

It’s here!

You pull it out, intent on calling your friend over, when two guys who’d been browsing near you accost you.

“I hear they’re hot right now!” Boy 1 says.

“They used to be so hard to find,” says Boy 2.

You beam. “I know, right? They’re great.”

“You a big fan?” asks Boy 2.

What you mean to say is, I think their sound is very unique, but what you say when you open your mouth is, “I’m dating the lead guitarist.”

The two guys look at each other and snigger slightly.

“Yeah, ok,” says Boy 2.

You scrunch your face at them.

“I am.”

“Ok, maybe online you can peddle that crap, but c’mon,” says Boy 1.

You know not to feed the trolls … but these guys are kind of pissing you off. You tuck the DIY CD under your arm as you fish out your phone; it takes you a few seconds of poking, but you bring up the g-rated pics of you and Mary—most of which are slightly-blurry selfies. You think they’re endearing. Boy 1 and Boy 2 aren’t impressed.

“Are you serious?” sneers Boy 1. “These are clearly post-show selfies.”

“Fucking sad,” says Boy 2, shaking his head.

You’re at a loss because the majority of these are from your couch, so you toss your hair at them.

“Whatever. I don’t need a bunch of fake music boys to validate me. Krissy! Let’s bounce.”

You do end up buying the CD for her—which she promises to listen to in full and then report back.

When you get back to your place Sunday night—cranky and bleary-eyed—you’re surprised to find Mary asleep on your couch, cocooned in your afghan, even though it’s barely early evening. You divest yourself of your outside clothes and backpack before crawling over him.

“Mmph,” he grumbles.

“Hey,” you say, draped over him. “Why’re you on the couch?”

He manages to turn his head toward you slightly.

“You weren’t here.”

“Mare. You can sleep in my bed.”

He wiggles around so you’re both face to face.

“Yeah, I know. Wanted to know when you got back.”

“I still don’t see—”

He kisses you and manages to get his arms free to wrap around you.

“You’d’ve let me sleep if I was in your bed,” he says as he breaks the kiss.

“Yeah, maybe. Only because you’d need it.”

There’s some making out that begins to border on foreplay before your stomach rumbles unhappily. Mary laughs.

“You’re fucking great.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you grumble. “I think I last ate over 12hrs ago.”

Mary shifts to a sitting position. “I’m about to become your best friend.” He wiggles free and makes his way into your kitchen. You wrap the afghan around you as you shuffle after him. He beams at you before opening your fridge and doing his best impression of Vanna White. You peer in to see that there are multiple Tupperware containers jigsawed into your fridge.

“Oh!” you exclaim. “Is this …?”

Mary’s grin is almost a rictus.

“You don’t think I look out for my baby doll? Friendsgiving leftovers, just for you!”

You crowd into his space.

“I don’t know what I should eat first: this bounty or your dick!”

Mary wraps his arms around you, but says, “Lady’s choice.”

Despite how hungry you are, you drop to your knees—afghan pooling around you—and mouth at his zipper. He caresses your head and shoulders, but when he doesn’t insist, you take matters into your own hands; you pet at his semi before unzipping his jeans and taking out his cock and balls.

“You don’t—” he gasps even as his hands are cupped around the back of your head.

“Shut the fuck up,” you say right before you take the tip of him into your mouth to suckle.

Mary likes it fast and sloppy, but tonight you suck him at your own pace—one hand rolling his balls and giving sporadic presses to his perineum. He’s trembling and whimpering, his hands clenching and unclenching in your hair. After one particularly hard suck he cries out, “Oh fuck, please.”

You shuffle around so that your back is against a bottom cabinet, and you make a soft grunt so that he looks down at you. His lips are wet and his eyes are glazed as you widen your mouth and moan encouragingly at him. His hands grip into your hair as he begins to fuck your face.

“Oh shit, oh fuck,” he breathes. “So sweet. Your fucking mouth.”

Usually you do your best to deep throat Mary, but today he seems to sense not to choke you. He’s still fucking your mouth, though—thrusting as deep as he dares, undeterred by the saliva dripping down your chin.

“I fucking missed you—missed this.”

You make sure to lock your gaze with his.

“Fuck.”

You bring your hand back up to his balls.

“OhpleaseOhshitOhfuckOhplease,” he chants, eyes now closed.

You slap your cunt a few times before you slip a hand into your tights to work at your clit in time to Mary fucking your mouth.

“Oh fuck, yeah—that’s right. My cock makes you so hot.”

You let the hand fondling him fall away so you can brace yourself against the counter, and Mary starts fucking your mouth faster. He’s still staring down at you, but now he’s only chanting Fuck over and over again as he pummels your mouth. You think he’ll probably cum first, but it’s actually you—your own adept fingers pushing you over the edge—and it’s only after you moan in time that he shoves you down on his cock as it kicks and shoots its load down your throat.

He lets go of your hair well before you’d even consider tapping out, so you make sure you suck up and down the length of him before he grunts and pulls away from oversensitivity. He looks down at you with hooded eyes as you continue to gently massage your own climax out.

“You’re too fucking good to me,” he says as he recombobulates himself.

You’re just easing the waves of your orgasm at this point.

“So fucking make me a plate,” you purr, knees splayed as you continue to finger yourself.

Mary grunts at you as if he’d like nothing better than to squash you into the floor and fuck the shit out of you—but by the time you’re done massaging the throbs out of your clit and and standing up, he’s got the food containers out and is constructing your plate.

Mary feeds you from the full plate in his lap—quite a departure from the norm (you love feeding him at your feet)—and the two of your talk about your holiday. He tells you about their mashed potato food fight. You tell him all about Krissy’s drama—which mostly entails her parents thinking that her living at home means she’ll be a nun—but you offhandedly mention Boy 1 & Boy 2 in context of your day out. 

Mary tenses.

“What?” you ask as you catch his eye. You’re not going to bring up seeing his band if you can help it.

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

Mary sighs.

“You just. I hate that they didn’t believe you. You are my girl.”

You wriggle up and shrug.

“They’re not wrong. A few close up selfies don’t prove anything.”

“It still fucking sucks, and I hate it. Can we go to bed when you’re done?”

You snort. “You just want to snuggle.”

“So what if I fucking do? I brought you candied sweet potatoes at great cost to my life and limb. You owe me.”

You huff in laughter. “All right, dude. Fine. Let me brush my teeth and then we can … snuggle.”

“Damn straight.”

It’s maybe two weeks later when Mary’s on your couch watching the WWE, your feet in his lap as you play a game on your phone (no way was him being here is going to make you miss your chance at getting a high placing on this week’s special challenge). During the commercial break he plucks at your alumni sleep pants.

“Hey. Have you noticed you haven't worn anything nice in a while?” he says to your leg.

You look up at him over your phone, incredulous.

“Um, ok. First of all: rude. Second: Dude. Half your shirts are from high school and half of those are covered in blood. What the fuck.”

His hand sneaks under your pant leg to stroke at your calf. When you shy away—shaving a long-forgotten routine now that the weather has chilled—he firmly pulls you back to continue his exploration.

“Yeah. I don’t own anything nice—you have all these cute as fuck clothes just chilling on your curtain rod collecting dust.” 

You heave a sigh.

“Well. You work most nights, Mary. You know I try to be here if you’re going to be around, and what?—I’m gonna dress up in my own home?”

He squeezes your calf muscle.

“Christ, you’re defensive. Let me fucking finish my lead in, woman. I just mean we should get out.”

You creep the foot of your free leg under his t-shirt to press into his boney ribs.

“Ok, but when? Your schedule’s not very conducive to that, you know.”

He looks at you, searching your face, before insinuating himself between your legs and rubbing his hands up your thighs. 

“We’re playing at Regency in a few weeks,” he says as he leans down to kiss your belly. He looks up at you. “You could put on one those ‘fuck me’ numbers you got.” 

Kiss. 

“Come see me play.” 

Kiss. 

“I could fuck you in the bathroom.” 

Kiss.

He takes the hem of your pants between his teeth and begins to tug it down.

“Mary! My ranking!”

“Fuck your ranking,” he says as he yoinks your phone out of your hand and shoves it down the front of his pants. You gasp as he yanks your bottoms the rest of the way free, and then proceeds to run his tongue through your folds. Your hands grip his hair tight as he worms his tongue around and over your clit, sparking your arousal. You let your head fall back, moaning, as he tongues you.

He breaks away suddenly. “So will you think about it?”

You look down at him through hazy vision. “Wha—what?”

“The show. Will you think about coming to it?”

The only thing you’re thinking about right now is his tongue back on you.

“Fuck. C’mon, Mary.”

“The. Gig,” he continues, before giving you one, long lap. “Wanna show you off,” he says, growling into your labia.

Christ he should make up his mind. As if it was your reticence from attending. 

“Yeah!” you gasp, encouraging him, as you grind yourself into his waiting mouth. “Wanna be shown off!”

He yanks you down prone, hoisting your legs over his shoulders so he has better access to suck your clit between his plump lips. The sensation is heavenly, and you make pleased noises.

“Gonna show off my hot girlfriend,” he pants as he comes up for air. “Make everyone know you’re mine, rub it in their faces.”

You grab the back of his head and rub his face into your pussy.

“Shut the fuck up and get on with it for chrissake’s!”

He eats you out in earnest then—his tongue and lips adeptly coaxing you toward climax—the sound of the snarling wrestlers and cheering crowd the soundtrack to your orgasm; he licks you steadily as you squirm and thrash through it. Once you're thoroughly spent, he divests you of your top and crawls up your torso while unbuckling his jeans—your phone plopping onto your stomach and sliding down into the cushions. 

“Hold your tits together,” he rumbles before thrusting between them a handful of times, head thrown back. Then he leans over you—guiding his cock to your mouth with his hips, before he’s fucking your face into the couch—unashamedly moaning when he hears you gag. He pulls out in time to cum all over your face and neck, hand flying between his legs—too intent with his art to even grunt out his pleasure.

Looking down at you, he bites his lip and says, “Fuck you’re beautiful. Can I take a picture?”

(This was something you’d gotten used to—Mary always wanting to take pictures of the oddest things with his ancient, digital HP camera.)

When you hesitate, he says, “No, you’re right. It’s …” He begins to climb off you, but you put a hand on his thigh.

“You … you can,” you stutter “but … I’ll keep it for you. Just … transfer it to me and delete it immediately.”

He rolls his eyes. “Big help you having it when I’m lonely and want to jerk off,” he says—but he's already off the couch, tucking himself back in, and rummaging through his worn backpack.

The two of you had done a little photoshoot then, trying to get the best angles, the best shine, your sexiest pout—and a few with his fingers in your mouth. When he’s satisfied, he hands you your shirt so you can wipe off—which you promptly rejected in favor of cleaning off in the bathroom sink (“Gross.” “What? I don’t understand.” “I wear this shirt!” “My jizz is literally on you right now!”).

When you come back out, Mary already has his memory card in the USB convertor and is attached to your laptop.

“Don’t I get to help choose?” you ask as you sit down next to him.

“My pictures.”

“My face!” you retort.

“My pictures for my use.”

You lean in to see which he’s chosen.

“Oh, not that one! I look like Jaba the Hutt with that chin!”

Mary squints at it, shrugs, then turns to grin at you.

“I won’t be looking at your chin.”

“Fine,” you grumble flopping back. “But I want my complaint filed on the record.”

“Ok,” he says and kisses the tip of your nose.

You push him away and wipe at your face. “Gross, Mary. Don’t be all mushy and shit.”

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, Suey,” he says into the computer.

When he finishes—4 photos now living in a folder on your desktop entitled “MarysSecretJackoffMaterial”—he lets you drive. You promptly drag all the smutty images of you into your trash and delete them immediately.

He has to leave for work not long after that, and you’ve gotten sucked into the WWE storyline. It isn’t until you’re ready to go to bed that you realize your phone is still in the depths of the couch. Once retrieved, you text him.

Me [12:37am]: Goddamnit, Mary! My RANKING.

Mary [2:28am]: XD

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